“I will say Clara loved him—that was clear. And she didn’t believe in the curse, not having grown up in the village, so she was quite shocked and rather brokenhearted when he died, though you must know that, Your Grace.” She smiled. “How is your dear mother?”
A muscle jumped in the duke’s cheek. His nostrils flared. “I have no idea. If you’ll excuse me, madam?” He turned on his heel and strode off across the green.
“Well.” Mrs. Barker rose to her full height. “That was rather rude.”
Cat opened her mouth to tell the old harridan exactly what she thought of her behavior, but for once Mr. Barker spoke first.
“You were the one who was rude, Mama. I thought the duke showed admirable restraint.”
“Harold!”
He ignored her to bow briefly to Cat. “Please extend my apologies to His Grace, Miss Hutting.” Then he frowned down at his mother. “I think we’d best do your shopping another day.”
“But I wish to do it today.”
“I, however, do not wish to spend any more time in your company. We shall return home, if you please.”
“Harold! How can you speak to me that way?” Mrs. Barker sputtered and argued as her son led her away.
Cat had to almost run to catch up to the duke. She would not have caught him at all if he hadn’t stopped at the far edge of the green.
She put a tentative hand on his arm. “Do you really not know how your mother goes on?” She knew she shouldn’t ask. She hadn’t intended to—the words just tumbled out.
She might wish for some privacy and distance from her parents and siblings, but she couldn’t imagine not having any contact with them at all.
At first she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was staring across the road at the inn—he’d barely glanced at her when she’d come up—and the arm under her fingers was as hard as granite. She bit her lip and waited.
“I do not,” he finally said. “I told you my mother gave me up when I was an infant.”
Dear heavens, how terribly sad. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Instead she grasped her hands tightly together.
“I see.” She knew he didn’t want her sympathy, but she couldn’t keep from giving it to him anyway. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her then and smiled, though his eyes were bleak. “Don’t be. It doesn’t matter.”
He was wrong. It did matter. She might not wish to be a mother herself, but she knew how important a mother’s love was to a child. Mama had been a constant presence in her life—too constant lately with her talk of marriage, but her heart was in the right place. She truly thought a woman couldn’t be happy without a husband and children.
The duke looked back at the inn. “I must post this last notice. My friends must be wondering what has become of me.” He smiled with some good humor finally. “More likely they’ll have drained the tap dry, and I shall have to haul them back to the castle in a wheelbarrow. Shall we go?”
He offered her his arm, and they crossed the road.
That Barker woman is intolerable.
Marcus tried to rein in his temper as he opened the inn door for Miss Hutting. “Is there a specific place I should hang this paper?”
And her son is the biggest lobcock it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. No wonder Miss Hutting has sworn off marriage, if that fellow is the best the village has to offer her.
“Mrs. Tweedon—the innkeeper’s wife—will know the best spot.”
And to say with a straight face that my mother had loved my father—
No, he could not think about that now.
“I imagine I should ask her permission before daring to hang something in her husband’s hostelry, shouldn’t I?”
Miss Hutting laughed. “Yes, indeed.”
The inn was as old as the castle, but it looked far more inviting. The furnishings, while worn, had clearly been purchased within his lifetime.
Blast it, he’d like to haul every stick of furniture and every depressing painting out of the castle and have a huge bonfire. He’d invite all the villagers to come dance round it, and he would lead the steps.
“And here she is,” Miss Hutting said. “Good morning, Mrs. Tweedon. I’ve brought the Duke of Hart with me, as you can see.”
A stout woman with graying brown hair had emerged from another room, balancing a teacup and a plate of assorted cakes and biscuits in her hands. In age and shape, she was not unlike Mrs. Barker, but Mrs. Tweedon’s face had deep smile lines by her mouth and eyes.
She put down her burden and curtseyed. “Welcome to Cupid’s Inn, Your Grace. Your friends are in the taproom.” Her smile broadened. “You must know that news of your presence has spread like wildfire through the village.” She studied him intently.
Oh, God. Did she sleep with my father as well?
Now he was going to wonder that every time he met a woman of a certain age.
He bowed. “I hope I am not too much of a disappointment, Mrs. Tweedon.”
“Not at all.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m delighted to say you have your father’s formidable good looks and your mother’s sweetness of expression.”
Bloody hell.
It hadn’t occurred to him that at every turn he’d encounter villagers who’d known his parents.
“Ah, I see I shouldn’t have said that. I am so sorry, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Tweedon looked as if she’d like to give him a hug. He braced himself, but fortunately she thought better of the notion. Instead, she shook her head and frowned.
“That terrible curse. I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but it isn’t as if Isabelle Dorring didn’t bear some responsibility for the situation she found herself in.”
“Exactly what I told His Grace, Mrs. Tweedon. And even if the entire blame could be laid on that duke’s doorstep, this duke is not at fault.” Miss Hutting did go so far as to try to put her hand on his shoulder.
He stepped slightly to the side to avoid her touch. He didn’t wish to snub the girl, but he couldn’t allow such familiarity to continue. There was no future in it.
Unfortunately.
“Yes, well, that is neither here nor there, is it?” He held up the last notice. “Mrs. Tweedon, Isabelle Dorring’s instructions say I must post this announcement concerning the Spinster House opening at the inn. Where do you suggest I put it?”
“Let’s see, when Miss Franklin was selected, we posted it in the red room. I suppose that will do again.” Mrs. Tweedon chuckled. “There are several spinsters there now.”
“Splendid.” He would finally get this last notice up and start the clock running. In three days, the new Spinster House spinster would be chosen, and he’d be free to leave Loves Bridge for another twenty years.
No, forever. He’d be dead long before there was another Spinster House vacancy.
“Come along, Your Grace,” Miss Hutting said. “This way.”
He followed Miss Hutting through several rooms, closer and closer to a hubbub of female voices. When they finally reached the aptly named red room, however, silence descended like a door had been slammed shut. Six pairs of female eyes—and one infant’s—turned to regard him.
Miss Hutting made the introductions. “You know Jane—I mean, Miss Wilkinson,” she said. “May I make known to you the Misses Boltwood”—two white-haired ladies smiled, ogled his person, and then leaned toward each other to giggle behind their hands like schoolgirls—“Mrs. Latham and Mrs. Simmons”—two young matrons, Mrs. Latham being the one with the baby on her lap—“and Miss Davenport.” The last woman looked to be close in age to Miss Wilkinson and Miss Hutting.
His eyes drifted back to the child, who gave him a wide, toothless grin. His heart clenched.
The sooner he got out of Loves Bridge, the better.
“Ladies,” Miss Hutting said, “this is the Duke of Hart. He is here to post the notice advertising the Spinster House opening.”
Marcus bowed to the assembled females. “My pleasure.”<
br />
“Oh, no, it is our pleasure, Your Grace.” One of the Misses Boltwood waggled her eyebrows at him.
“Behave yourself, Cordelia,” her sister said, cuffing her playfully on the shoulder. “What will His Grace think of you?”
His Grace smiled and hoped he would not be compelled to say what he was thinking.
“There’s the notice board,” Miss Hutting said, gesturing. Did she sound annoyed?
“Thank you, Miss Hutting.” She looked annoyed. “I’ll just tack up this paper, then, and leave you ladies to your meeting.”
He turned to the board. The sooner he posted this, the sooner he could find Nate and Alex and have a well-earned glass of ale.
“I’m not surprised Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles—that is, the new Duke of Benton—made a match of it,” he heard one of the Misses Boltwood say. “My word, how the temperature rose whenever they were in a room together. I almost had to pull out my fan to keep from roasting.”
“And the way they looked at each other when they thought they weren’t being observed.” That was the other Miss Boltwood. “It was very, er, stimulating.”
The two ladies giggled again.
“I didn’t notice anything,” Miss Hutting said.
“You wouldn’t.”
The sooner he got out of here, the better.
“At least they didn’t take to rolling in the bushes.”
Good God, they can’t know about Miss Rathbone, can they?
He made the mistake of looking at the sisters. They were staring at him, their eyebrows now waggling simultaneously.
Blast. They do know.
He had to leave. Immediately. “Thank you, Miss Hutting, for your help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I shall—”
“A moment, Your Grace,” Miss Davenport said. “I can’t read the paper from here. Would you mind telling us the gist of it?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Latham laughed. “Perhaps Miss Cordelia or Miss Gertrude would like to apply.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Cordelia said. She looked at Marcus with what he feared was intended to be a coy expression. “We’re still looking for the perfect mates.” Her eyes examined him from his head to his, er, hips.
Dear God, don’t let me blush.
He felt his face turn red.
Of course the Almighty would not suddenly concern Himself with the Cursed Duke.
Gertrude elbowed her sister. “Now you’ve embarrassed the poor boy, Cordelia.”
Miss Davenport frowned at the sisters. “Neither of you may be interested in the Spinster House, but I am.” She looked at Marcus. “Extremely interested.”
Miss Hutting sucked in her breath. “Anne! Your father’s a baron. You have no need to live in the Spinster House.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” Miss Davenport said, her eyes narrowing. She looked fully as determined to win the position as Miss Hutting and Miss Wilkinson.
Damnation.
Chapter Nine
May 10, 1617—I encountered the duchess on the village green today. I wished her a good morning very pleasantly, and she walked right past me, refusing even to look at me, the witch. Just wait until I marry her son. Then she’ll be sorry.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
The duke left as soon as he’d answered Anne’s questions. Of course it also came out that Cat and Jane were interested in the position as well.
“I don’t understand why you girls don’t want to marry,” Miss Gertrude said as she watched the duke depart. “Men can be quite, er, entertaining.”
Cat would swear the duke suddenly picked up his pace, darting through the door and out of sight.
“You aren’t married.” Anne sounded uncharacteristically mulish.
Why did Anne want to live in the Spinster House? She’d never said anything about wishing to be a spinster before.
Well, yes, she’d never said anything about wanting to marry, either. In fact, she’d been rather reluctant to attend many of the ton parties she’d been invited to. But she was a baron’s daughter, for goodness’ sakes. Of course she would marry and marry well. She wouldn’t be stuck in Loves Bridge for the rest of her life, producing baby after squalling baby, hearing the same gossip, seeing the same people, doing the same thing day after day after day until she died and got buried next to all her ancestors.
“I may not have a man in my life at the moment,” Gertrude said, “but—”
“But I think we had better get on with planning the fair,” Viola Latham said quickly. “Malcolm won’t be quiet forever.” To underline her point, Malcolm began to fuss, likely the result of a surreptitious poke administered by his mother. “He’s teething, you know.”
Malcolm had been teething for the last two months—as long as they’d been having meetings. He’d yet to produce a single tooth, but he could be counted on to provide a well-timed squawk when the discussion meandered too far afield.
Gertrude sniffed and gave Cat a pointed look. “We’d be much further along if everyone had arrived on time.”
Everyone turned to look at her, varying degrees of speculation in their gazes.
“I was just helping His Grace put up the Spinster House notices. He didn’t know where best to post them.”
“How very kind of you,” Viola said, exchanging an annoyingly speaking look with Helena Simmons.
“Yes. You’ve certainly taken the duke under your wing,” Helena said. Helena’s husband and Cat’s sister Tory’s husband were brothers, and Helena and Tory were as thick as inkle-weavers. “I understand you also helped the poor fellow find Mr. Wilkinson’s office the other day.”
“Yes, she did.” Jane’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was there, of course. I saw them, and I’d say they were on very good terms.”
“You’ll also recall I had almost convinced the duke to give me the keys to the Spinster House.” Good Lord, what was the matter with these women? They knew she had no interest in marriage.
Gertrude snickered. “I didn’t know you were so clever, lulling the fellow into thinking you’re no threat to his comfortable bachelor existence.”
“I’m not a threat.”
Cordelia ignored her. “When are you going to let him know he’d better make room for you at the castle”—she winked—“and in his bed?”
“Just don’t venture into any bushes with him,” Gertrude said. “Make him wait for his fun until he’s paid for it with a wedding ring.”
Good God.
“This duke is not about to follow in his ancestor’s footsteps.”
The Boltwoods exchanged a glance. “Tell that to Miss Rathbone.”
Who in God’s name is Miss Rathbone?
She didn’t want to know.
“And I would never allow the man—any man—such liberties.”
If Poppy hadn’t distracted us in Isabelle Dorring’s bedchamber . . .
Nothing would have happened.
“I assure you I’m no threat to the duke’s unmarried state.” She shouldn’t have to justify her actions, but perhaps that would stop this ridiculous speculation. “My father told me to help the man find Mr. Wilkinson’s office when he stopped by the vicarage for directions. And I just happened to encounter him this morning. It would have been rude not to offer my assistance.”
Helena chuckled. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”
Cat looked at Malcolm. Squawk, why don’t you?
Malcolm smiled at her around the fingers he was contentedly sucking. There would be no help from that quarter.
“Could we get on with planning the fair?”
Viola raised a brow at Cat’s rather desperate tone, but did take pity on her. “Of course. Just before you arrived, Miss Cordelia suggested we include a treasure hunt this year.”
Cordelia suggested they include a treasure hunt every year, and every year Miss Gertrude was the only other committee member to support the notion. Everyone knew the sisters only wanted an invitation to snoop through people’s houses.
“Yes.” Cordel
ia grinned at Cat. “And since you are so, ahem, friendly with the duke, you can persuade him to include the castle in the hunt!”
“I. Am. Not. Friendly. With. The. Bloody. Duke!”
The ladies inhaled sharply.
She must not lose her temper. “Pardon me.” She turned toward Cordelia. “You know Mr. Emmett will give you a tour anytime you like and let you poke your nose into every blast—I mean every last cabinet and corner.”
Gertrude elbowed her sister. “Shows great passion, eh? The duke is a lucky man.”
“The duke is not a lucky man!”
“No need to get snappish, Miss Hutting,” Cordelia said.
Deep breath. “Even if I was interested in marriage, which I am not”—another deep breath—“the duke would not wed me. Remember the curse.”
Helena laughed. “Nobody believes in the curse anymore.”
“The duke does.”
Viola’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? So you’re familiar with the duke’s thoughts on the matter, are you, Cat?” She looked at Helena. “Perhaps there is something between them.”
“There is nothing between us.” How could she convince them? She looked around the room—oh, right. “Jane knows the duke believes in the curse, too. It was quite clear when we were in her brother’s office discussing how the Spinster House opening needed to be announced. Isn’t that right, Jane?”
Jane was too honest to lie. “He did seem very anxious to follow the rules precisely.”
“See?” Cat let out a long breath. “Now let’s drop this foolish subject and—”
“The curse didn’t keep his father from marrying Clara O’Reilly,” Gertrude said.
“No, indeed it didn’t.” Cordelia sighed. “That courtship—if one could call it a courtship—was almost painful to watch.”
Gertrude nodded. “The duke—this duke’s father—was so very handsome. He could have had anyone he wanted—except Clara. She wouldn’t let him under her skirts without a ring on her finger.”
“He tried,” Cordelia said. “He gave her lavish gifts.”
“Which she refused.”
“And he invited her to glittering parties at the castle.”
“Which she would not attend.”
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