Who Wants to Marry a Duke

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Damn, he should have paid better attention. They’d set up the entire evening without consulting him.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Thorn said. “But I’m a bit worried about Miss Norley.” He stared hard at Olivia. “Are you sure you’re not too tired for dinner? We do have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Either she was enjoying tormenting him or she seriously didn’t care what he said on the matter, because she shook her head. “I’m not tired at all. I could use a relaxing dinner with a lively discussion among friends.”

  Friends. Wonderful. Thorn had already been relegated to the category of “friend.” He’d rather hoped for a chance at a kiss and a caress or two this evening, if they could break away from Gwyn. Clearly, that would not happen.

  It was just as well. Because if he didn’t watch it, he would end up traveling down the road to ruining her, which was unacceptable.

  * * *

  Olivia hadn’t laughed so hard since the last time she’d attended a production of Mr. Juncker’s plays. It made sense, since the man would need quite the sense of humor to write such funny characters and situations. But oddly enough, it was Mr. Juncker and Gwyn together who kept her amused throughout dinner, while Thorn vacillated between scowling at her and scowling at Mr. Juncker.

  Now she was sure Thorn was jealous. But she was growing less sure it was Mr. Juncker’s success in writing that made Thorn jealous. Because every time Mr. Juncker’s gaze fell on her silk bodice, which did show more of her bosom than her other dinner gowns, Thorn made a sort of growling noise deep in his throat that only she seemed to hear. It was rather intriguing.

  They’d finished dessert when Gwyn started a funny story about a visit the king of Prussia had paid to the residence of her stepfather, the ambassador, which His Majesty had apparently done from time to time.

  Gwyn leaned forward in her chair. “Then the king asked Thorn, as my brother was dashing through the parlor, ‘Where are you running to in such a hurry, young man?’ And after performing a perfect bow, Thorn answered the king in German, with all the formality of a diplomat’s stepson, ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must find an acceptable place wherein to deposit my excrement.’ He was serious, too.”

  Thorn groaned.

  “He didn’t really say that word, though, did he?” Olivia asked, torn between laughter and shock.

  “I’m afraid he did,” Gwyn said.

  “The word is the same in German as in English,” Mr. Juncker explained.

  “And Thorn is nothing if not honest about his needs, even his unsavory ones,” Gwyn added.

  Mr. Juncker snorted. “Ah, yes, scrupulously honest. That’s our Thorn.”

  Thorn glared at both him and Gwyn. “This is hardly appropriate dinner table conversation.”

  “We’re done with dinner,” Gwyn said.

  “Then you and Miss Norley should repair to the drawing room so Juncker and I can have our brandy,” Thorn said.

  “Not on your life,” Mr. Juncker said. “No one is leaving until I hear the rest of this story. Actually, if anyone is repairing to the drawing room, it should be all of us.” He shot Thorn a taunting look. “I’m enjoying the company of the ladies.” Then Mr. Juncker turned to Gwyn. “Do go on, madam.”

  “You must consider the fact that Thorn was only six at the time,” Gwyn said. “And since we were all in the garden, it was easy for him to slip away from our nursemaid when she was dealing with three other children—two of whom were still in swaddling.”

  “Three other children? Not four?” Olivia asked.

  “Grey had a tutor by then.” Gwyn looked pensive. “Or perhaps that was after he’d returned to England. I can’t remember. I was only six, too, you know.”

  “Well, don’t leave us hanging,” Olivia said. “How did the king respond?”

  “He laughed heartily, thank heavens,” Gwyn said, “or I daresay Papa would have punished Thorn for it. From then on, our nursemaid was ordered to take us for a long walk during any visit from the royalty of Prussia. Frederick the Great died a couple of years later, I believe. And Thorn cried when he heard of it. The king did seem like a nice man.”

  “He certainly always treated me better than I deserved,” Thorn said, and the look of affection that passed between him and his twin made Olivia envious. She would so have enjoyed having a brother or sister.

  “The stories you and your siblings must have about growing up in Prussia in a large family,” Olivia said. “My childhood was so dull by comparison. It was just Mama and I most of the time. Indeed, since this is the longest I’ve ever been away from Mama, I worry she might get lonely while I’m gone.”

  “Your mother is a widow?” Mr. Juncker asked.

  Olivia could feel Thorn’s gaze on her. “She might as well be. Papa is always in London for some reason or another, it seems. Except during hunting season, when he tramps the woods every day. And even when we’re in the city with him, he’s at his club or Parliament or . . . who knows where else.” She didn’t want to know, honestly. The possibility that her father might have a mistress always bothered her.

  “Yet you enjoy plays about men who get into trouble in the city,” Thorn pointed out.

  “Not men,” Olivia said. “Bachelors. Mr. Juncker’s plays are all about unmarried men and the scrapes they get into. But the plays mock those married men who act like bachelors.”

  “Do they?” Mr. Juncker asked, with a glance at Thorn.

  “Don’t look at me,” Thorn drawled. “You’re the one who writes the things.”

  “Yes, but I don’t recall any part about mocking married men,” Mr. Juncker said.

  Olivia frowned. “Like when Felix and his friend try to steal the mistresses of the married men? Or joke about the husbands’ big paunches? Or use the latest slang to poke fun at the men because they’re too old to know what the words mean?”

  “Ah, right,” Mr. Juncker said. “Those parts.”

  “So those scenes aren’t based on your experiences as a bachelor?” Olivia asked.

  “A few are,” Mr. Juncker said. “Not as many as people think.”

  Olivia stared at him. “Then where did you get your comic characters, like Lady Slyboots and Lady Grasping?”

  Mr. Juncker tapped his head. “From here, my dear. They came from right up here. The best writers don’t work from real life, you see. They get their ideas from dreams and fancies and the merest whispers of the universe in their ears.”

  “What rot,” Thorn muttered. “You only blather such nonsense when you’re trying to impress the ladies.”

  “Someone must, since you’re making no effort to do so yourself,” Mr. Juncker said.

  “I don’t need to make an effort,” Thorn snapped. “They already know me.”

  “And what they know of you doesn’t seem to impress them,” Mr. Juncker said.

  Olivia stifled a gasp. There was decided tension between the two gentlemen, and Mr. Juncker was definitely fanning the flames of it. But why?

  “To be fair, Mr. Juncker,” Gwyn said, “Thorn sees no need to impress me because I’m his sister. Which is fine because I don’t feel a need to impress him, either.”

  “And I prefer that gentlemen be themselves around me,” Olivia said. “I don’t need to have gentlemen flattering me. Not to mention that there’s nothing more worrisome than a gentleman who is obviously keeping secrets.”

  “So you’d rather have the plain truth always, even if it might hurt your feelings?” Thorn asked.

  Thinking of her father, Olivia met his gaze evenly. “I would.”

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” Gwyn said. “No woman really wants to hear from her husband that she talks too loudly or her eyes look puffy first thing in the morning.”

  “That’s a brother’s task, not a husband’s,” Thorn said with a smirk. “I do my best to tell my sister the unvarnished truth.”

  Gwyn thrust her tongue out at him before turning to Olivia. “Trust me, there are some things a husband should keep
secret from his wife for all time.”

  “If you say so,” Olivia said. “As an unmarried lady I don’t know about that. But Mama would probably prefer that Papa be more honest with her about where he spends his evenings.”

  “Oh, in such a case as that, I agree,” Gwyn said. “Joshua knows if I caught him doing anything he shouldn’t with his evenings, I would hand him his head on a platter.”

  Thorn chuckled. “The only person Major Wolfe is afraid of in this world is my sister. Actually, she’s the only person I’m afraid of.”

  Mr. Juncker shuddered. “Precisely why I’m still unwed.”

  “As am I.” Thorn met Olivia’s gaze. “Although I begin to see the advantages of having a wife.”

  “Do you?” Mr. Juncker said. “You never did before.”

  He’d taken the words right out of Olivia’s mouth.

  Thorn eyed his friend askance. “Feel free to leave whenever you please, Juncker.”

  “Thorn!” Gwyn said. “You’re being very rude.”

  “It’s all right, Lady Gwyn.” Mr. Juncker stood. “I’m used to your brother’s unfeeling treatment.”

  He struck a dramatic woe-is-me pose, making both Gwyn and Olivia laugh, although Thorn only raised an eyebrow.

  “But honestly,” Mr. Juncker continued, “I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome. Besides, there are women to be wooed, cards to be dealt, and brandy to be drunk. The night is young, and I intend to suck the very marrow from its bones.” He stared at Thorn. “Feel free to join me.”

  “No, thank you,” Thorn drawled. “I have several matters to attend to before we leave for Berkshire tomorrow, and marrow-sucking isn’t one of them. But I assume I’ll see you next time I’m in London?”

  “Certainly.” Mr. Juncker gave an elaborate bow to Olivia and Gwyn. “‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow / That I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”

  “I hope not,” Thorn said. “We’re leaving on the morrow. So I’ll show you out.”

  “Good Lord, I will show him out,” Gwyn said. “It’s my home, after all.”

  “Forgive me, sis,” Thorn said. “I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds.”

  “Of course you did. It’s what you do.” Gwyn rose and headed for the door with Mr. Juncker. But as she reached it, she turned and made a face at her brother before she and Mr. Juncker walked out.

  Olivia laughed.

  Thorn merely rolled his eyes. “You’d think she was five.”

  “I’d think you were five.” Olivia sniffed. “You were so rude to Mr. Juncker, baiting him all night.”

  Leaning forward, Thorn fixed her with a dark look. “You seem terribly concerned about Juncker’s feelings. Were you hoping he might stay longer? Shall I call him back so you can flirt with him some more?”

  “What? I wasn’t flirting, for pity’s sake. Clearly your jealousy is overriding your common sense.”

  “I am not jealous of that . . . that buffoon!” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who claimed I couldn’t be because I’m a duke.”

  “I was talking about you being jealous of his playwriting. But tonight you’re showing yourself to be jealous of his interest in me, too, although why that should be the case, I have no idea. You’ve always made it clear I’m good for only one thing . . . and it isn’t marriage.”

  Thorn raked his fingers through his hair, mussing it thoroughly. “I never said that. I never even implied it.”

  “Right.” She rose and tossed down her napkin. “I’m going to bed. Would you please let your sister know I’ve retired?”

  She rounded the table, but she wasn’t quick enough to avoid Thorn, who met her at the end to catch her by the arm.

  He scoured her attire with blatant impudence. “Did you wear that gown to tempt Juncker? Or to torment me?”

  “I wore this gown because I like it,” she said sweetly. “The fact that it makes you jealous is merely icing on the cake.” Then she added, just to see how he would react, “And apparently Mr. Juncker likes it as well. He certainly stared at it enough.”

  Thorn’s thunderous expression gave her pause. “He wasn’t staring at the gown; he was staring at you in it.” Checking to be sure he was blocking the footman’s view, Thorn took one finger and dragged it down from her neck to between the swells of her bosom, then dropped his voice. “He was wondering how these taste, and what the nipples would feel like in his mouth. He was wondering if he dared get you alone to find out.”

  Despite the delicious shivers his words and caress were provoking in her, she managed to sound marginally calm. “So now you can read Mr. Juncker’s mind, can you?”

  “Oh, yes.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Because I can promise he was thinking the same things I was throughout dinner. That he wanted to engage in very wicked acts with you. Repeatedly. Often.”

  Struggling not to let his words turn her to jelly, she moved his finger away from her bodice. “You seem to have gleaned a great many naughty ideas from one look. But not everyone has your predilection for . . . sordid behavior.”

  “I can assure you that Juncker does.”

  “By the way you speak of him, I’d never have guessed you two were as good friends as Grey said you were, Your Grace.”

  He shook his head. “You’re the only person I know who can make ‘Your Grace’ sound like an insult.”

  “And you’re the only one who takes insult from a perfectly appropriate honorific.”

  “Because you use it to put me in my place,” he said.

  “Now you can read my mind? Perhaps you should join the mesmerizers, sir. I’m sure they would love to have a man as brilliant as you.”

  “Ah, but would you love to have me?”

  She took a sharp breath. “As what? Entertainment?”

  “Olivia,” he said softly. “That’s not what I—”

  A new voice sounded from the door. “Is my brother bothering you?” Gwyn asked. “Because he too has overstayed his welcome.” Gwyn approached them as they took a step back from each other. “Come, Thorn, you have your own house. You should probably go stay in it. Especially with our ‘long journey’ ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Thorn said, though his eyes were still on Olivia. “Very well, I’ll be here at ten in the morning. Make sure you’re both ready and packed.”

  “Fine.” Gwyn pushed him. “Now go. Unless you want to hear me snoring in the carriage tomorrow, you must allow me and Olivia to get some sleep. So ‘good night, sweet prince.’”

  Thorn lifted an eyebrow. “You do realize that line is spoken by Horatio to a dead Hamlet, right?”

  “Is it?” Gwyn remarked, a decided glint in her eye. “I had no idea.”

  “I’m merely saying I hope you’re not wishing me dead.”

  “Certainly not.” Gwyn winked at Olivia. “I’m just wishing you gone so Olivia and I can have some peace at last.”

  “Hmm.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Then he bowed to Olivia. “Unlike Juncker, I won’t say good night until it’s morrow. But I will wish you a good sleep, ‘perchance to dream.’”

  As he walked out, she sighed heavily. She’d rather not dream tonight. If she did, it would be of him. And she couldn’t let him keep playing with her emotions. On the one hand, he seemed to have softened toward her a great deal. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to have changed his feelings about marrying, and he’d told her very firmly at Gwyn’s ball that he would never propose marriage again. So she should step carefully if she didn’t want to end up walking off a cliff into ruin.

  Because this time he clearly had no intention of making even a cursory attempt to rescue her.

  Chapter Eleven

  They left London at a decent hour the next morning. But although Thorn had hoped to have a pleasant chat with Olivia on the way, she and Gwyn had made that impossible. Endless discussion about Gwyn’s upcoming confinement had lulled him into sleeping much of the way
, especially since they’d ignored his attempts to change the subject.

  Once they’d arrived at Rosethorn, he’d shown Olivia around the building he’d selected as the best location for her laboratory. But she’d insisted on having a footman—rather than him—help her set everything up.

  Over the next three days, she’d also refused to let him enter the place while she was working, and when he’d protested, she’d reminded him of what had happened the last time he’d “invaded the sanctuary of my laboratory.” It was hard to argue with that, especially now that he’d seen how much damage could truly be done if one behaved heedlessly in a chemistry laboratory.

  Besides, he had plenty of work to do himself—meeting with tenants, consulting with his estate manager, and, at night, trying to finish his play. He’d also attempted to meet with the constable about his father’s accident, but the man’s wife had said he was in London and wouldn’t return for a few days.

  Yet, despite how Thorn filled his time, he still wished for dinners with Olivia. Or cozy meetings with her in his study or the library.

  Obviously, after he’d acted like a jealous fool at Gwyn’s, Olivia was determined to make him reap the consequences of his actions. Although honestly, he couldn’t be sure if she was avoiding him or just thoroughly absorbed in her work. Whichever it was, he didn’t like it.

  So when he entered the breakfast room on their fourth day at Rosethorn to find no sign of Olivia yet again, he’d had enough.

  “Aren’t you up a bit early for you?” he growled at his sister.

  Gwyn sipped her coffee and continued to read the newspaper. “Aren’t you up a bit late for you?”

  “I suppose. It took me a while to fall asleep.” But only because he’d been trying to write. He nearly had his play done—it was only that pesky last scene that eluded him.

  He filled his plate with toast and bacon, then took a seat opposite her. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen our guest this morning.”

  “No,” Gwyn said. “Nor have I been overly concerned about it. Last I checked, Rosethorn is a fairly safe place.”