by Meara Platt
“It isn’t merely a gesture. The offer is real,” he said, allowing instinct to guide him. He didn’t want to think about what he was saying or what he was offering. He’d been running from marriage for most of his life. As Dillie had said, he was one of the unhappiest men she’d ever met. “Take all the time you need.” To emphasize his point, he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Softest cheek. “I’ll be here for you whenever you’re ready. I’ll always be here for you, Dillie.”
There it was. He’d said it again. Always. Forever. These strange words kept tripping from his tongue as though they were the only ones he knew. As though they were the only words that could be said to Dillie. These sensations—affection, sharing, concern—were strange to him. In truth, they frightened him. He was opening up his damn turtle shell and inviting her in. There was a risk to it. She might not like what she found buried deep within.
His brother had died because of what he’d done. He could never take it back. “Always.”
The magic would end once she found out about James, and her affection would turn to disgust. He’d still protect and take care of her, of course. He owed her that. He’d provide all the advantages that came with the title of duchess, for she deserved the best.
As for him, he’d go back to being alone.
It was the only way of life he’d ever known.
CHAPTER 10
DILLIE SIGHED and tossed in bed, unable to sleep, as sunrise neared. She finally gave up, throwing off her covers to walk to the window. She hoped to find Ian standing in the garden below, his handsome frame outlined in the gray wisps of dawn. But he wasn’t Romeo and she wasn’t Juliet. He wasn’t standing beneath her window with a love-struck expression on his face, eager to spout sonnets to her beauty. He’d gone home... or possibly elsewhere to seek the comfort of another woman.
She knew he had a mistress.
She knew his mistress was exquisitely beautiful.
Oh, she would turn into a watering pot if she didn’t stop crying over Ian. Or wondering where he was. Or whether he had his arms wrapped around another woman.
She turned away from the window and settled on the bench beside it, her head swirling with the one decision to be made, the most important of her life. It should have been easy. Any other young lady would have been waltzing about her room after receiving an offer of marriage from a duke. Even if that duke were Ian.
Especially if that duke were Ian.
Dillie sighed, knowing she was different for wanting love and fidelity. No one else would have demanded it of him. No other would care about Ian’s discreet amours. Indeed, most young ladies would have been delighted at the prospect of acquiring a noble title and the riches certain to accompany said title. As for sharing Ian’s bed, most would have been shocked if he required it, for everyone knew that dukes and duchesses retired to their separate quarters. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but simply done that way.
Dillie had never been very good at following rules. She wanted to share Ian’s bed, wanted his strong arms about her on cold winter nights. Any other young woman would have been content to wrap her arms around her newly gained title, allowing it—and not the man—to keep her warm and cozy.
Indeed, Dillie knew she was different. She needed Ian beside her not only on those wintery nights but on warm summer nights, too. And cool spring nights. Also on mild autumn nights. She wanted him. Not his wealth. Not his title.
Had she just made the most idiotic decision of her life in rejecting his proposal? He’d spoken to her father before leaving, probably repeated what he’d said about waiting for her consent. His offer was still open. Always. For Ian, “always” meant about two weeks.
Her heart tightened. She was going to cry again. “You can’t spend the entire season in tears,” she muttered to herself. The sun would soon rise, giving way to a bright new day, and she had accomplished nothing. Not that she had much to accomplish, now that she was temporarily ruined. At least she hoped it was temporary. In any event, this season was over for her. She wouldn’t be invited into any respectable salons while scandal swirled about her. If she were by chance invited, it would certainly be to be put on display and mocked for the amusement of others.
No doubt she’d lose her composure and poke some old biddy in the nose, making matters worse. Then she’d be considered not only loose with her morals but violent to boot. Not that she cared. However, her parents would be heartbroken.
There was no help for it. She had to return to Coniston, for how could one think amid the mad London whirl? There, she could immerse herself in peaceful isolation, take long walks down country lanes, and gaze for hours at Coniston’s scenic splendor. Indeed, she needed to be alone and away from her meddling, although well-intentioned, family. Away from Ian, for she couldn’t hold a thought when he was near. He overwhelmed her senses.
She’d give herself two weeks to come to a decision. In that time, Ian might lose interest and effectively make the decision for her. No, she realized at once. He was determined to protect her, and a determined Ian was not easy to overcome. He’d be ruthless in getting his way, using his considerable powers of seduction to lure her into accepting his proposal.
She was so close to surrendering. The butterflies in her stomach were already flitting about inside her, cheering and shouting, Yes, my love! My dearest! Yes, yes, yes! By tomorrow, they’d be dancing to the tune of a wedding waltz.
The only holdout was her heart.
She sniffled, realizing she was still holding Ian’s handkerchief and had held on to it all night. Crumpets, she was a pathetic creature for needing a piece of Ian beside her, even something as inconsequential as a small square of cloth. Ian, I wish you loved me.
Her tears began to flow again, confirming that she had officially turned into a watering pot. She was misty eyed, red nosed, and a blubbering, sputtering mess. She cried until morning. She cried until the sun shone brightly through her window. Then she dried her tears, dressed, and rang for Gladys. “Pack my trunks.”
The sweet girl’s eyes popped wide. “Where will you go?”
“I’m returning to Coniston.”
She announced her plan to her parents when they came down to breakfast later that morning. Dillie had been waiting for them and was already seated at the dining table, an untouched glass of milk in front of her. She hadn’t eaten any food. She hadn’t the appetite, for her stomach was twisted in a painful knot. “I don’t want anyone to accompany me. I’m going alone.”
Her father, who had just filled his plate with sausage and kippers and then sat down beside her, threw his napkin onto the table and rose. “Sophie,” he said, pushing back his chair, “our daughter is determined to put us into an early grave. Alone, Dillie? Are you jesting? Isn’t it what got you into this scrape in the first place?”
Dillie’s mother left her plate on the sideboard and hurried to his side. She patted him on the shoulder. “Now, John, you know none of this is Dillie’s fault. The duke was hurt. Dillie and George saved his life. I’m quite proud of her. You ought to be as well.”
Dillie smiled for the first time in what felt like centuries. “Thank you, Mama.”
“And the duke is willing to marry her. He could offer nothing less, of course. After all, she did save him.” She nibbled her lower lip as she turned to Dillie. “So why won’t you marry him? Is there something you aren’t telling us?”
“No. I simply don’t wish to be the only Farthingale trapped in a loveless marriage.”
Her mother shook her head. “I still don’t see the problem. I’ve noticed the way you look at him, child.”
Of course, because she didn’t know how to hide her feelings. Especially about Ian. She turned into a tongue-dragging, stumbling, bumbling idiot whenever he was near. “It isn’t that simple.”
Her mother cast her the gentlest smile. “Yes, it is.”
Perhaps for her mother. She glanced from one parent to the other. Her mother had always had her father’s loyalty and aff
ection. He’d loved her from the moment he’d set eyes on her. Not on Chipping Way. He’d met her in Coniston. She hadn’t needed the Chipping Way curse to catch a husband.
“I just need time alone to think, time without everyone looking over my shoulder and commenting on everything I do or say. Abner can drive me up in one of our carriages. Or I’ll take a hired coach.”
Her father slapped his palms on the table. Dillie jumped at the resounding thwack. “The devil you will! You’ll take a Farthingale carriage. And your aunt Imogen will accompany you.”
“Aunt Imogen?” Dillie groaned. “Oh, not her! Anyone but her. She reeks of rosewater and never stops talking.”
Her mother let out a small gasp. “That isn’t a nice thing to say.” But she was pursing her lips and trying her best to hold back a grin.
Dillie raised her chin in indignation. “But it’s true.”
“John,” her mother said softly, “perhaps Rupert can escort Dillie most of the way. Didn’t you just tell me that he must go to Carlisle on family business?”
He nodded. “An important meeting on Wednesday. He won’t have time to drop her off and still make the meeting.”
“He would if we went straight to Carlisle and dropped him there first,” Dillie said. “Abner can then take me down to Coniston. It’s an easy day’s ride from Carlisle, and even if we’re delayed, we know the area well. If we have any difficulty, I’ll take a room at the Black Sail Inn in Penrith. It’s a respectable establishment. You’ve often said so yourself.”
“What do you think, John?” Her mother was still at his side, soothing him as no one else ever could. “It sounds like a workable plan.”
He shook his head and sighed. “I think,” he said, sighing again, “that I ought to have thrown each of my daughters into a dark dungeon and not let them out until I had betrothal contracts firmly in hand.”
Her mother reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Your daughters managed quite well on their own. Even Dillie. She has an offer of marriage from a duke. A young and handsome one at that.”
But one who doesn’t love me.
“Very well. I’ll give you a week. Abner brings you back to London by the following Wednesday.”
Which was an enormous concession, and Dillie knew better than to press her luck, but she tried anyway. “I need two weeks. Not a day less.”
Her father now had a stubborn set to his jaw. “One.”
They settled on two weeks, but her father would spend the second week with her in Coniston. It was a workable compromise. By late morning, she and Uncle Rupert were passing through the Farthingale gate in the carriage, drawn by a pair of sturdy horses in the capable hands of Abner Mayhew, their longtime coachman.
Abner was a most pleasant fellow, older than her father by a good ten years. He had a full cap of white hair and round, ruddy cheeks. The Mayhews had worked for the Farthingales for generations. Mrs. Mayhew was their long-time cook. Abner was their coachman. Amos, the youngest, who was about Dillie’s age, was one of their footmen. Various Mayhew nieces had worked in the Farthingale household in the positions of nanny, maid, and governess.
Which was perhaps why Abner felt it was his place to comment on her situation when they stopped near Northampton. The carriage clattered to a halt in the courtyard of the Hawkshead Inn just as the sun faded over the glistening rooftops. Rupert descended and strode ahead to arrange for their quarters while Abner grabbed his step stool and set it in front of the carriage door. “Let me help you down, Miss Dillie.”
She smiled her thanks.
She could see that he was simply bursting to tell her what was on his mind. “Are ye sure ye want ta be runnin’ from a duke, Miss Dillie?”
“No, Abner. I’m not sure at all.”
“Then why are ye runnin’? Is it because of them ugly rumors?” he asked, releasing her hand and taking a step back.
“My supposed scandal? It’s utterly ridiculous. The duke always behaved as a gentleman—”
“Ech! I never believed that stuff and nonsense about you and him. Ye’re a good girl. We all know that.” He nodded to emphasize his point. “I meant those other nasty rumors. The ones about him.”
Her heart suddenly beat a little faster. “Tell me, Abner. Please. No one else will talk to me about his past. What have you heard? Is it something important?”
“I think so, Miss Dillie.” He paused and swallowed hard. “They say he murdered his own brother.”
***
Ian rode for Swineshead the morning after the disastrous Cummerfield ball. Of course, he hadn’t actually attended the ball, just been tossed into a Farthingale carriage and beaten into submission by his own best friends. He supposed he deserved it. After all, he’d run down Chipping Way the night he was attacked, ignoring the Chipping Way curse, and now he was suffering the consequences.
The sky was overcast and threatening rain, but he hoped to get in several hours of hard riding before the skies opened up. No matter the weather, he needed to leave town. It wasn’t for his sake, but for Dillie’s. She needed time to calm down and think, time to realize that her prospects were dim unless she married him. She would come around in time. He just needed to keep away and give her that time alone to consider all the possibilities.
In this, he was a patient man.
He wasn’t in any hurry to be leg shackled. Truth be told, he hadn’t planned on ever taking a wife. He certainly wasn’t about to offer for anyone other than Dillie, for he wasn’t fit husband material for any woman. He’d try his best for Dillie’s sake, though. It might work. She had a way of easing the pain he carried in his heart, of making him laugh, and she never bored him.
That counted for something, didn’t it?
He was not expecting miracles. Dillie could never completely heal his wounds or bring back the brother he’d loved deeply. He’d been scarred by that one bad moment and had never felt good about himself since. Indeed, he would never forget what he had done to James, nor would his detestable family ever allow him to forget, making certain to twist their verbal knives deep into his heart each and every time they met.
Hence that turtle shell he’d built around his heart.
As he rode off, he considered another problem. Once he and Dillie were married, it would be difficult to keep her and his family apart. Having been raised in a close and loving household, Dillie would feel duty bound to bring him and his relations together, just as her twin, Lily, had done with her husband’s family. That effort had ended happily, but any effort on Dillie’s part to reconcile him with his family would not. The Markhams were different. His mother and cousins would do their best to poison the marriage.
He wouldn’t allow it, but what if he weren’t around to protect Dillie? She’d chased off a pair of base ruffians and saved his sorry life. Still, his wretched family would not hesitate to tear her to pieces if given the opportunity. Damn them. Celestia and her toadies could say or do what they wished to him, but he’d hunt them down and kill them in cold blood if they ever attempted to harm Dillie.
He shook his head and sighed, wondering whether he was fretting needlessly.
What if Dillie refused him?
Hell, she’d be better off.
He rode on, ignoring the biting wind against his cheeks and wanting to get as far away from London as possible. This gave him the perfect opportunity to visit Felicity in Swineshead, for he needed to make certain she was being treated well. He also needed to tend to several Edgeware matters he’d put off because he’d tarried too long in London.
Until a few months ago, he’d used Swineshead as a hunting lodge. The land, with its abundant forests and well-stocked streams, was a perfect hunter’s retreat. The ponds, lakes, and streams attracted all manner of freshwater fish and game, and the dense forests provided shelter for birds, deer, and wild boar.
Felicity’s arrival at Swineshead had changed everything. He’d ordered improvements made to the lodge since she was to reside there, and he wanted her to be comfortable and
happy. He was now eager to see the changes.
He released the breath he’d been holding and let out a wry laugh. Within the month, his life might never be the same, a fast descent from rakehell to married family man. He’d made the necessary arrangements with Dillie’s father. The only thing lacking was Dillie’s consent.
She would give it. She had to. He owed her for saving his life and he always repaid his debts. It could work. Dillie would make it work, for her kisses were delectable and she had a sunshine smile that always warmed his cold heart. Felicity would love her, for she had a gentle way with the Farthingale children that made him ache every time he watched her play with them.
No one had ever been gentle with him. Not once in his life.
It rained steadily on and off for the first three days of the journey. Ian finished his business in Coventry with surprising ease and continued north toward Swineshead, but he was hindered on the fourth day by a brutally cold rain that began to fall hard as he approached the market town of Penrith.
All of a sudden, the skies opened up with a vengeance and buckets of fat raindrops quickly muddied the roadway. It was early evening and the sun had yet to set, but thunderous black clouds covered the sky so that it appeared as ink-dark as a starless night. “This looks to be a bad one. We had better find shelter,” he muttered to Prometheus, the handsome gelding he’d acquired at Tattersalls.
He wasn’t far from the Black Sail Inn, a decent establishment situated on the outskirts of Penrith. Since he often stayed there while attending to business in Carlisle or across the border in Scotland, he headed for the inn, resigned to continuing his journey the next day once the weather cleared. He wasn’t about to risk injury to Prometheus.
The horse suddenly grew skittish, forcing Ian to concentrate on the road. He drew lightly on the reins, easing him from a canter to a walk across a particularly slick patch. The temperature had taken a swift dip, and sleet now mingled with the rain that fell with torrential force. Bloody English weather.