Hannah vaguely recalled overhearing a rumor about Wycliffe a few seasons back, but having never been one to pay attention to gossip it had gone in one ear and out the other. Now, as the driver came around the side of the hackney and opened the door, she wished she had paid closer attention.
“Wait.” Elsbeth, her lady’s maid – and the only person aside from Cadence who knew that she wasn’t really visiting Great Aunt Martha in Surrey – placed a restraining hand on Hannah’s arm when she started to stand up. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Hannah smiled wryly at her maid, a tiny slip of a thing whose blonde hair and blue eyes revealed her German ancestry. “I’m not sure of anything, except that if this doesn’t work you are soon to be without a job and my father will be sent to debtor’s prison.”
“But what will happen if he turns us away?” Elsbeth fretted.
“Truth be told, I am more afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.” With a strained smile that was as much for her own benefit as the maid’s, Hannah stepped down from the hackney and squared her shoulders.
It had taken them two full days and half of another to reach the duke’s isolated estate and the sun was already heavy in the sky, touching everything with a golden glow that helped to soften the manor’s harsh lines and crumbling edges.
With a bit of imagination it wasn’t hard to picture what the grand old house must have looked like before time and neglect had taken their toll, and Hannah couldn’t help but wonder if the duke was in a similar state of dishevelment. She supposed at this point there was nothing else to do but find out for herself.
Holding fast to what little courage she still possessed after traveling halfway across England on some of the most treacherous roads she’d ever had the misfortune of encountering, Hannah walked up to the front door, raised her gloved hand – which, despite the thunderous beat of her heart, was impressively steady – and knocked.
When there was no response, she bit the inside of her cheek and knocked again.
“Perhaps the butler is off today?” Elsbeth suggested, although she didn’t sound very convinced. “Or maybe the duke is not in residence. We should return home.”
Hannah frowned at the maid over her shoulder. “We are not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “And we certainly did not come all this way just to return home before I even meet him. Chin up, Elsbeth. No harm will befall us.”
“That’s precisely what people say right before harm does befall them,” Elsbeth muttered under her breath. She visibly jumped when the hackney suddenly pulled away, and Hannah couldn’t help but feel a twinge of apprehension deep in her gut as she watched the team of matching grays trot off down the drive.
There was no turning back now. Not with the nearest inn a full day’s walk and nightfall rapidly approaching. Turning back towards the door, she knocked with renewed vigor. “I am sure there is a perfectly good explanation as to why no one...oh,” she gasped as the door was abruptly yanked open to reveal a man standing on the other side of it, his towering frame draped in shadow and his mouth curled in a sneer.
“What do you want?” he growled, his voice as rough as the roads they’d travelled to get here.
“I…” As her carefully crafted speech – the one she’d spent the past two days rehearsing over and over again until every word was burned into her mind – vanished in a puff of proverbial smoke, Hannah could only gape at the stranger in stunned silence. And pray, as she’d never prayed before, that he was the butler. Or the footman. Or even the cook. Anyone, anyone, but the Duke of Wycliffe. “I…”
“Are you deaf?” he said, black eyes glittering with thinly veiled fury as his gaze swept across her. “I asked you a question and I expect an answer. What do you want?”
Elsbeth squeaked and scurried to the edge of the fountain.
Coward, Hannah thought silently.
The man started to shut the door. Without thinking, Hannah stuck her foot out.
“Wait!” she cried. “I – I should very much like to speak to the Duke of Wycliffe.”
His black eyes narrowed. “There’s no duke here.”
“Are – are you certain?” Her gaze slid to the gold buttons on his waistcoat. “Because–”
“I’m positive,” he snapped and Hannah barely had time to yank her worn ankle boot out of the way before he slammed the door with so much force the windows rattled. Jaw sagging, she stared at the door in stunned disbelief. Was that whom she’d come all this way to marry? If so, Cadence had quite a bit of explaining to do!
“Well you heard him,” Elsbeth piped up. “The duke isn’t in. If we leave now, maybe we could catch up with the hackney.”
“Elsbeth, that was the duke.” Raising her fist, Hannah began to pummel the door with renewed vigor, unable to believe anyone – least of all a duke! – could be so unforgivably rude. “Excuse me!” she called out, raising her voice to a near shout. “Excuse me, but I was not done speaking. If you would be so kind as to open the door–”
“Will you stop that incessant pounding? You’re giving me a bloody headache.” Yanking the door open, the duke glared down at Hannah. Fisting her hands on her hips, Hannah glared up at the duke. When it became clear that neither one was willing to back down, Wycliffe muttered something indecipherable under his breath and stepped out into the muted sunlight.
“Who are you?” he demanded, folding his arms across his chest. Tall and rangy, he towered over her by at least six inches, forcing her to tilt her head all the way back in order to look him in the eye.
“Who are you?” she countered. “I’ve come to speak to the Duke of Wycliffe, and–”
“You’re speaking to him.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, inadvertently drawing her gaze to a large puckered knot of flesh on the right side of his face. She hadn’t seen the scar before when he’d been standing in the shadows. Stark white against his golden complexion, it began at the top of his ear and extended all the way down to the edge of his chin. Seeing the direction of her stare, the duke’s expression grew shuttered. “Should I bend down so you can get a closer look?” he said caustically.
“No. No, I…” Finding herself at a loss of words, she bit her lip. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His shoulder jerked, shrugging away the scar as it were nothing more than a papercut instead of something that must have caused him immense physical and emotional pain. “It happened a long time ago.”
“Does it still hurt?” she asked without thinking.
Looking slightly taken aback at the personal question, the duke frowned and gave a curt shake of his head. A wavy lock of hair as black as his eyes tumbled over his brow and he pushed it aside with an impatient flick of his wrist. “No. It doesn’t.”
“That – that’s good.” He had strong features, Hannah noted. Not handsome. The angles of his cheekbones and the prominent cut of his nose were far too sharp to be handsome. Then there was the scar to contend with. But what was beauty, if not imperfect?
“What do you want?” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. A grimace passed over his countenance as though the small movement had caused him discomfort, but his fierce gaze never wavered. “I will not ask again.”
“I…” Her chest rose and fell beneath the heavy fabric of her traveling habit as she took a deep, bracing breath. “I have a – a proposal for you.”
“A proposal?” Thick brows gathered over the bridge of his nose. “What sort of proposal?”
There was a part of Hannah that wanted to turn around and run all the way back to London. To jump into bed and pull the covers over her head and pretend everything was going to magically sort itself out. After all, she hadn’t been running willy-nilly around town buying everything that caught her eye, nor had she been ignoring their mounting debt hoping it would simply disappear. Her parents were responsible for the mess they found themselves in. A mess they both still refused to acknowledge, as if it really was going to go away on its own.
Someone had to do something. A
nd that someone, it seemed, was her.
Whether she liked it or not.
Not, Hannah thought silently as she eyed the duke. Definitely not. Wycliffe wasn’t at all like Cadence had painted him to be: a lonely, somewhat awkward bachelor who preferred the company of books to people.
That duke she could relate to. That duke she had something in common with. But this duke, with his flashing eyes and contemptuous sneer, was – to put it mildly – quite out of her league.
“Well?” he growled. “Out with it.”
Hannah blinked. “I...er...well…”
She thought of when she was a young girl and she’d accidentally knocked over one of her mother’s beloved Davenport vases. In her haste to pick up the broken pieces she’d cut herself on the palm of her hand. Not wanting to tell her mother what had happened, she’d invoked Cadence’s help in wrapping the wound. All had gone well...until she’d attempted to remove the bandage later that day only to discover it had adhered itself to the cut.
Inch by excruciating inch she’d pried the fabric back, until Cadence – with her usual aplomb – had marched up, grabbed hold of the bandage, and yanked the entire thing off in one fell swoop.
How it had hurt! The sting had been like a hundred tiny hornets attacking her palm at once. But as quickly as the pain appeared it faded away, and Hannah had learned a valuable lesson: sometimes you just needed to rip the bandage off.
“My proposal is an actual proposal.” Lifting her chin, she stared steadily into the cold, fathomless depths of the duke’s menacing gaze. “My name is Miss Hannah Fairchild, and I should very much like to marry you.”
Chapter Three
If Evan didn’t think the girl was completely daft before, he did now.
He stared at her in astonishment, searching in vain for some sign that she was jesting with him. A twinkle in those arresting gray eyes. A tiny smirk curling the corner of that delectable pink mouth. Instead he saw nothing but quiet sincerity which was how he knew she was dicked in the nob. Although she didn’t look crazy. Truth be told, she looked...well, she looked rather beautiful in a disheveled sort of way, like a wildflower that had accidentally been placed in the middle of an elegant bouquet of roses.
Her clothes were dusty and travel worn, her hat scrunched up on one side as if she’d accidentally sat on it. Her hair, the same color as the leaves still clinging to the branches of the large red maple at the end of the drive, had come partially undone from its chignon and framed the sides of her face in a tangled spill of auburn silk. A dusting of freckles and a nose that was ever-so-slightly off center kept her from true beauty. That, and the smudge of purple – jam, perhaps? – on the edge of her chin.
The muscles in Evan’s abdomen inadvertently tightened as he imagined drawing Miss Hannah Fairchild in close, lowering his head, and licking that little spot of sticky sweetness away. Then his eyes narrowed, and his shoulders drew back, and he looked at her with renewed suspicion as an unpleasant thought suddenly dampened his ardor.
“Colebrook put you up to this, didn’t he? Bastard,” Evan cursed under his breath. A neighboring landowner, the Duke of Colebrook enjoyed fast horses, loose women, and being a general pain in the arse. He was supposed to be in London, but Evan wouldn’t put it past him to have arranged for a little parting gift before he left. Colebrook did love his pranks, and he never passed up an opportunity to get under Evan’s skin.
Two weeks ago he’d been woken in the middle of the night by a trio of drunken sailors singing in the foyer. How Colebrook had managed that small feat he hadn’t the bloodiest idea, as the nearest port was a good fifty miles away. It had taken him the better part of an hour and his second best bottle of brandy to coax them out of the house.
Then there’d been the time Colebrook had replaced all of the horses in his barn with milking goats. Compared to that, hiring a woman to show up on his doorstep and propose marriage was child’s play. But judging by the puzzlement on Hannah’s face she was either a very good actress or she had absolutely no idea who Evan was talking about.
“Colebrook?” She bit down on her bottom lip. “I – I am afraid I don’t know a Mr. Colebrook.”
“Never mind,” Evan said curtly. His gaze shifted to the dark-haired woman standing by the fountain. She was staring intently at the ground, her stiff posture indicating she’d rather be anywhere else than where she currently was.
That made two of them.
“Your traveling companion, I presume?” he asked.
“My lady’s maid, yes. Your Grace–”
“Where is your carriage?” he interrupted.
Gray eyes peeked up at him beneath a thick curtain of dark red lashes. “I – I sent it away.”
“You sent it away?” Evan stared down at her incredulously. “Why the devil would you do that? Have you any idea how far you are from the nearest village?”
“I do, yes, but–”
“I suppose you thought you’d just avail yourself of my carriage and driver, did you?” His leg was beginning to ache from standing so long in one spot, but he clenched his jaw and pushed the pain to the back of his mind. “I am sorry to say my driver is indisposed at the moment.” A tiny white lie to cover up the fact that he’d let the man go months ago, having no reason to employ him given that he never left the estate.
“I did not travel all this way just to use your carriage and driver, Your Grace.” The corners of Hannah’s mouth tucked into a frown. “That would be absurd.”
Evan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh that would be absurd, would it? But I suppose arriving unannounced on a stranger’s doorstep and proposing marriage is perfectly normal?”
“It’s not as farfetched as you make it seem. If you would just let me explain–”
“No.”
Her hands unfolding from her chest to settle on her hips, Hannah lifted her chin and scowled up at him. “Has anyone ever told you how rude it is to interrupt someone when they’re speaking?”
“Has anyone ever told you how rude it is to show up uninvited?” he countered.
“I told you, if you would let me–”
“Let you explain. Yes, I heard you the first time.” And though he was loathe to admit it out loud, part of him wanted very much to hear that explanation. Almost as much as he wanted to kiss that impertinent little mouth. Evan’s brow furrowed. Where had that thought come from? Yes, the chit was pleasing to look at, but there was also the distinct possibility that she was completely insane and the last thing he wanted – the last thing he needed – was a troublesome female in his life. Troublesome females were the reason he’d left London in the first place. And yet…
“Are you certain Colebrook did not send you?”
“No one sent me. I came of my own accord.”
“To propose marriage.”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Precisely.”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the jam that still clung to the edge of her chin before jerking back up to meet her eyes. They were the soft gray of a sky after a heavy rain; that quiet moment of solace between the storm and the sunshine. He’d never seen a shade quite like it before. “All right, Miss Fairchild.” Stepping stiffly to the side, he gestured her into the dimly lit foyer with a mocking sweep of his arm. “Let’s hear this explanation of yours.”
Finally, Hannah thought as she walked past Wycliffe. She’d started to fear he was going to leave her standing on the doorstep all night. Although truthfully she didn’t know which was worse: being left to face the elements or strolling blindly into the proverbial lion’s den.
She supposed she was about to find out.
“Please, have a seat.” The duke led her into an adjoining parlor and nodded towards a velvet chaise lounge that looked as though it hadn’t been used for a very long time. Her suspicions were confirmed when she sat down and a plume of dust flew up, causing her to sneeze.
“I do not get many visitors,” Wycliffe said as he sat across from her in a high backed wood
en chair. Elsbeth remained discreetly in the hallway, having declined Hannah’s invitation to join them in the parlor.
“I cannot imagine why,” Hannah muttered, her stomach rolling queasily when she spied what looked like mouse droppings on the armrest. Creditors or no creditors, if a rodent dashed across the floor she was leaving. Having been bitten by a rat as a young child, she positively loathed anything with whiskers and a long skinny tail.
“What was that?” Wycliffe asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. Glancing around the room, she discovered it to be in the same sad state of neglect as the exterior of the manor. The curtains were dark and dingy, the floorboards were badly in need of a polish, and the furniture– what there was of it – was covered in a thick coating of dust.
“Is your housekeeper indisposed as well?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“No.” He followed her gaze to the dormant fireplace which was overflowing with soot. “As I said, I do not get many visitors. Which begs the question as to why you are here.”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “About that…”
“I am waiting, Miss Fairchild.” He drummed his fingers on the slender armrests of his chair. “Albeit not very patiently.”
“As I said when I first arrived I have, ah, a proposal.” What to do with her hands, Hannah wondered? She’d never had a problem with them before, but now they did not want to sit quietly on her lap, nor did she dare put them on the lounge. As a result they fluttered restlessly in midair, fingers curling and uncurling as she desperately tried to act natural. Or at least as natural as one could act while sitting across from a duke with the demeanor of an angry bear.
An angry bear who has just been roused from his den and poked with a sharp stick, she added silently when Wycliffe’s eyebrows lowered and his mouth tightened, pulling his scar taut.
“I believe we’ve established that, Miss Fairchild. The question is no longer what you are doing here, but why you are here. What could have possibly possessed you to travel untold miles across some of the worst roads England has to offer in hopes of marrying a man you’ve never met?”
A Duchess for all Seasons: The Collection Page 28