What to Do with a Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

“And your other brothers and sisters? What of them?”

  She glared at him.

  He raised his ducal brows and looked down his nose at her. Even Lady Dunlee was cowed by this expression.

  As he suspected, Miss Hutting was made of sterner stuff. Her eyes narrowed, her glare becoming more pronounced.

  “The others?” he asked again. He was not going to discuss Emmett and the castle.

  She blew out a short breath. “Oh, very well.” She started walking again. “After Mary comes Henry—he’s fifteen—and Walter, thirteen, both of whom you just met. And then there’s Prudence, who’s ten, Sybil, who’s six, and Thomas and Michael, the four-year-old twins.”

  He glanced back at the vicarage. It was not a large building. “It must get rather crowded.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  They’d reached the graveyard, and Miss Hutting stopped again, this time by a weathered headstone. Were they never going to reach Wilkinson’s office?

  She looked up at him as if she had something important to say, her wide green eyes, flecked with gold and framed by long, red-gold eyelashes—

  He jerked his gaze away. There was nothing special about Miss Hutting’s eyes, for God’s sake.

  His eyes dropped to the gray stone marker.

  “Zeus!” He blinked, but he’d read the stone correctly. He ran his fingers over the worn lettering.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “This has Isabelle Dorring’s name on it. I thought she’d drowned herself and her body had never been recovered.” He looked more closely.

  Rest in Eternal Peace, 1593–1617.

  So Isabelle had been twenty-four when she’d died. He’d thought she’d been much younger. Surely a mature woman would know better than to allow a man any liberties with her person before getting his ring on her finger. Perhaps, as Alex had suggested, she had meant to trap the third duke into marriage.

  Her intentions were immaterial. He very much doubted the duke had been dragged kicking and screaming into her bed. He should have exercised some self-control or, failing that, discovered if his actions had had permanent consequences before marrying another woman.

  “I imagine since Isabelle’s father donated the funds to expand the church and paid for much of its upkeep”—she glanced at him—“the duke being a bit stingy, the vicar was easily persuaded that Isabelle must have slipped into Loves Water by accident. A wall memorial would have been more appropriate since there was indeed no body, but her family wanted the gravestone.”

  “Her family?” This was news. “I thought Isabelle was the last of her line.”

  “Oh, no.” She smiled at him, and his heart lurched.

  Bloody indigestion.

  “Her father had an older sister who married a man in Whiting Cross about twenty miles to the south.”

  Ah. So Isabelle had had someone she could have turned to.

  Well, no. Likely the aunt would not have welcomed a pregnant but unmarried niece.

  “After Isabelle died, some of her cousins moved back to Loves Bridge, though not into the Spinster House, of course. Isabelle had already made arrangements for that.” Miss Hutting gave him a significant look.

  He nodded. They both knew he was well aware of Miss Dorring’s arrangements.

  Miss Hutting smiled. “My mother’s descended from that branch.”

  “What?” He suddenly had an odd, disorienting feeling almost as if he’d been here before. Ridiculous. “Your mother is related to Isabelle Dorring?”

  “Yes, but don’t ask me to draw the family tree. There’s an Isabelle in every generation. My mother and I are both Isabelle, which is why I go by my middle name.”

  “Ah.” And the third duke’s given name had been Marcus. If he was a superstitious sort, he’d be feeling chills up and down his spine right now.

  Fortunately he was not superstitious.

  “Merrow.”

  A large black, orange, and white cat appeared from behind another headstone and picked its way carefully through the grass to Miss Hutting, glaring at him before rubbing up against Miss Hutting’s legs.

  “A friend of yours?”

  She laughed as she bent to stroke the animal. “Sometimes. Poppy likes me better when the twins aren’t around. They are a bit too exuberant for her tastes.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “At the Spinster House.”

  “Does she?” He stooped and extended his hand. “I’m surprised Miss Franklin left her behind. She’s a very handsome animal.”

  The cat ignored him.

  “Oh, Poppy doesn’t belong to Miss Franklin. She doesn’t belong to anyone.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose that’s true of most cats.”

  “Yes, but Poppy is more independent than most. No one knows where she came from. She just appeared about a year ago and made herself at home.”

  He kept his hand still, waiting, and finally the cat decided to acknowledge his presence, delicately sniffing his fingers. Finding nothing to disqualify him from her acquaintance, she bumped her head against his hand. He rubbed her behind her ears, eliciting a low rumbling purr.

  Miss Hutting’s eyebrows rose. “She doesn’t usually care for men.”

  “Then I feel quite fortunate to have met with her approval.”

  He concentrated on Poppy, but he could feel Miss Hutting’s gaze studying him. Oh, damnation. She wasn’t going to raise the issue of Emmett again, was she?

  He gave Poppy one last stroke and straightened. “Shall we proceed to Mr. Wilkinson’s office? I do wish to conclude my business with him as soon as possible.” He watched the cat run off, and then glanced at Miss Hutting.

  Her face had hardened with resolution. Blast.

  “Your Grace, I have a proposal for you.”

  A proposal? Good God, now that was something he’d not anticipated. Perhaps he should have. He must be a better catch than the despised Mr. Barker.

  He held up his hand. There was no point in beating around the bush. “Miss Hutting, I am not going to marry you.”

  Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped like a rock.

  Perhaps that had not been the proposal she’d had in mind.

  “Marry me?” She snapped her mouth shut and swallowed, grabbing on to Isabelle Dorring’s headstone as if she were in danger of losing her balance—or, more likely, of popping him in the nose. “Marry me?”

  He made a small bow being careful to keep his nose out of her reach. “My apologies. I thought—”

  “You thought I wanted you to marry me!” She was shouting now.

  “Er, clearly I was mistaken.”

  “You certainly were mistaken, you”—she jabbed her finger at him—“you—”

  She balled her hand into a fist, pressing her lips firmly together. This time he’d swear the air vibrated as she struggled to control her temper.

  He stepped back involuntarily. Not that he was afraid of her. Of course not. She was tall, but not as tall as he, and a woman. He had no doubt he could seduce her if necessary—

  Blast it. Subdue. He could subdue her if necessary.

  Her eyes were still shooting daggers at him, but her lips had turned up into the same tight smile she’d managed in her father’s study. He was amazed—and a little disappointed—at her restraint. He’d like to see her lose control.

  No, he wouldn’t. He hated scenes.

  “As it happens,” she said, “marriage does figure into what I wish to say to you.”

  “Oh?” Now what was she up to?

  “Yes.” She rested her hands back on the headstone and looked him in the eye. “Your Grace, not only do I not wish to marry you, I don’t wish to marry anyone.”

  “Perhaps not at the moment—”

  “Not at any moment.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” He’d never met a female who didn’t want to drag some poor fellow up the church aisle.

  Miss Hutting’s eyes narrowed. “Believe it. I do not wish to be subservient to any man—”


  She could hardly have put more disgust into that word.

  “—to be at his beck and call and bear his children, one after another, year after year like my mother did.”

  Completely inappropriate lust slammed into his . . . chest.

  Miss Hutting raised her chin. “I wish to write novels. I assure you a husband and children would be very much in the way.”

  Madness. This beautiful, vibrant woman wished to lock herself away with a quill and paper and live in her imagination? She was made for the bedchamber—though not his bedchamber, of course.

  “Your Grace, I wish to be the new Spinster House spinster.” She nodded at the grave marker. “Isabelle is my ancestor. I have some claim to the position.”

  This was insane. Ridiculous. Totally wrong-headed—

  And it would get him out of Loves Bridge by this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest.

  Who was he to argue with the next great English novelist?

  “Very well. If you will finally take me to Mr. Wilkinson’s office, I shall make the necessary arrangements.”

  Chapter Four

  April 15, 1617—I have made a study of the duke’s habits and contrive to be where I think he might pass so I can catch a glimpse of him and perhaps walk with him. My heart leaps when I see him—literally leaps in my breast—and I have difficulty breathing.

  —from Isabelle Dorring’s diary

  The duke was going to let her have the Spinster House. Her dream was about to come true. Cat almost skipped up through the graveyard and around to the back of the church.

  “I wonder why Randolph—that is, Mr. Wilkinson—didn’t say anything about the Spinster House being empty and swore my father to secrecy as well,” she said as they approached the back gate.

  “I believe you exaggerate. Your father merely said Wilkinson had suggested he not mention the vacancy. The man is a solicitor. He must be discreet. Allow me.” The duke lifted the latch and held the gate open for her.

  “I assure you Papa would not keep something from my mother if he wasn’t strongly encouraged to do so. And it is most odd that Randolph didn’t tell Jane. She runs his office. Randolph wouldn’t be able to function without her.”

  “Perhaps he did tell her and she was simply busy when the letter needed to be written.”

  “Perhaps.” But it was highly unlikely. What would Jane be busy doing? She spent all her time working for her brother. Yes, she came to church every Sunday, and she was on the fair planning committee, but that was about it. Cat and their friend Anne, Baron Davenport’s daughter, had often taken her to task for it.

  But then what did Cat do but tend to her brothers and sisters? It wasn’t as though she had any time for herself—which was why the Spinster House opportunity was so exciting. She hurried down the narrow, tree-shrouded path that led away from the churchyard. The sooner they reached Randolph’s office, the sooner she’d have the key to the house and her independence in hand.

  “I would think Wilkinson would do better to have his office closer to the village green,” the duke said as he latched the gate and followed her.

  She did like his voice. It was nothing like Mr. Barker’s thin, nasally tones. It was deep, though not exceptionally so, and . . . well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on what was so appealing about it, but something was. Even when she’d been arguing with him, she’d thought so.

  Silly. It wasn’t the duke’s voice that was making it hard to keep her feet from dancing, it was his promise to let her live in the Spinster House.

  She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Yes, but his office is in his house. So much more convenient for him and Jane.” Wait until I tell Jane that I’m going to be the next spinster! Jane will be so excited for me. “And everyone in the village knows where he—oh!”

  Her ankle twisted. Bloody tree roots! She threw out her hands to catch her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going to end in a heap—

  A muscled arm caught her, hauling her up against a rock-hard chest.

  She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of the duke’s coat and struggled to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding with . . . surprise. It must be surprise.

  Mmm. He smelled of citrus and soap, linen and starch. There wasn’t the slightest whiff of the barnyard about him. And his shoulders were definitely broader than Mr. Barker’s, as was his chest, but then he was taller than Mr. Barker as well. She had to lean her head back to look up past his strong, clean-shaven chin and firm lips.

  His brown eyes were shadowed with concern.

  “Are you all right, Miss Hutting?”

  And warmth? Was there warmth in his eyes, too? Warmth, turning to heat—

  She pushed herself back, and he let her go at once. “Yes, yes, of course I’m all right.” She lifted her dress slightly and wiggled her foot. “See? No damage done.”

  He was staring....

  Oh, God, he could see her ankle. She dropped her skirt as if it had caught fire. He must think her a complete hoyden.

  “It—it was my own fault.” It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I know b-better than to walk here without w-watching my step. As you can see, there are tree roots everywhere.”

  “Indeed there are. Take my arm.”

  She took a step away from him. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”

  “Please. I insist. I would hate for you to fall.”

  She looked at his arm attired in expensive blue wool. It would be rude—and more than a little silly—to refuse his assistance. Not that she needed it, of course, but if she were to take a false step again, she would feel very foolish.

  He leaned closer and whispered, “I don’t bite.”

  There was an undercurrent of something dark and seductive in his words.

  Ridiculous. She was acting like a complete widgeon. “I didn’t imagine you did.” She laid her hand on his sleeve.

  His arm was so solid. And her head came only to his shoulder. She felt small, delicate.

  There was absolutely nothing small or delicate about her. She was as tall as all the men in Loves Bridge, Papa included, except for Mr. Barker. She—

  She twisted her ankle again and fell against the duke’s side, but this time she was able to recover immediately. “Pardon me! I assure you I’m not usually this clumsy.”

  He laid his hand over hers before she could snatch it off his sleeve. “The footing is quite treacherous.”

  Yes, but he wasn’t stumbling.

  The weight of his hand on hers was doing very odd things to her breathing. She swallowed something that felt uncomfortably like panic.

  “I don’t need your assistance. I come this way by myself all the time.” Her tone sounded rude even to her own ears.

  But he didn’t take offense. Instead, the right corner of his mouth turned up. “Then I apologize. It must be my presence that is causing you to stumble.”

  Oh, no. That wasn’t it. Of course it wasn’t. What? Did he think her some silly young virgin alone with a man for the first time and afraid for her virtue? Preposterous!

  “I just wasn’t looking where I was going. It won’t happen again.”

  He was overwhelming—so close, so big, so . . . male. She hadn’t been affected by him in the churchyard, but now they were on this secluded, shady path....

  He’d be horrified if he could read her thoughts. He’d run screaming back to the churchyard. No, he’d run all the way back to London.

  That thought made her feel better, and she managed to smile. She only had to make it to the end of the path, which they were fast approaching. Then they would be on the lane where there were no tree roots. She could put some distance between them.

  She lengthened her stride, keeping her eyes on her feet, and turned her thoughts to the business at hand.

  “How soon can I move into the Spinster House?”

  The duke’s stride lengthened easily to match hers. “I would think immediately, but I assume Mr. Wilkinson will know.”

  “So you don�
�t have a document of some sort that tells you how everything is managed?”

  “No. Wilkinson has all that.” His mouth tightened. “All I know is that I must be physically present when the spinster is selected, and I must sign the agreement.”

  “You had to do that even when you were ten years old?”

  He nodded.

  She’d grown up with the story of the Cursed Duke. It had been her favorite fairy tale, and the arrival of the horses and traveling carriage when she was four had only added to its appeal. Isabelle, the tragic heroine seduced and abandoned by the evil nobleman, was family, albeit a cousin many, many times removed. The curse was Isabelle’s victory from the grave and a source of pride, but she’d never thought about its effect on the duke’s descendants. In truth, she’d never thought of them as real people—just as fairy-tale villains.

  This man was very real and didn’t seem at all evil.

  “What if you’d been an infant? Surely then you would have been excused. It would be impossible for a baby to fulfill those duties.”

  “My great-grandfather was three months old when the Spinster House became vacant. His guardian and his nurse brought him to Loves Bridge and had him in the room when the spinster was chosen. The earl signed the agreement for him, but affixed the baby’s handprint as well.”

  Superstitious nonsense. Did grown men truly think something terrible would happen if they didn’t follow the letter of this ancient document? If she’d been there—

  Wait a moment . . .

  “You mentioned the baby’s nurse, but not his mother.” Certainly an intelligent woman would have introduced some sense into the proceedings.

  “Because his mother wasn’t there.” His mouth twisted. “The Duchesses of Hart are not known for their maternal feelings.”

  Oh, the poor baby! She didn’t wish to be a mother herself, but she couldn’t imagine a woman sending her infant off on such an errand with only a nurse and a stuffy old guardian in attendance. Mama would never have done so.

  “But your mother came with you, didn’t she, when you were here as a child?” Had she seen a woman that day? She didn’t remember. Her attention had been all for the horses.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. Now that she thought more about it, she did remember a boy. Two boys, but she’d only focused on one. He’d been tall and thin and his back had been very straight and stiff. She’d thought him too serious and proud, and she’d felt a little sorry for him even though he’d got to ride in the beautiful carriage with the lovely horses. Had that been the duke?