An Unlikely Duchess (6 page)

So much for adventures. He would never, never again crave anything beyond the ordinary. The ordinary was blessedly safe and familiar. How long would it take him to cover ten miles tomorrow morning, he wondered, if he sprang his horses?

He could feel beads of perspiration on his forehead. He wondered if it would be worth trying to turn onto one side. Probably not. He stayed on his back.

And then a flushed and anxious little face was leaning over him from the bed again and the duke found himself wishing that he could drop through the uneven floor to the room below.

“By the way,” she said, “I am Josephine Middleton, sir. My family mid friends call me Jo.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Middleton,” he said with all the formality he would have used if she were being presented to him at court. “Paul Villiers at your service, ma’am.

She smiled at him. “Good night, Mr. Villiers,” she said. “You are a very kind man. Shall I blow out the candle?”

“The candle?” he said. “Oh, the candle. Yes, do so, ma’am, if you do not need it any longer.”

And then the room was plunged into darkness and the shufflings and rustlings from the bed began again.

The duke pushed the blanket to his knees.

There was a riotous burst of laughter from the taproom below, and the company gathered there swung into collective song.

* * *

Bartholomew Middleton was up very early the following morning, as was ins frequent habit, in order to go riding. He walked through the stables, whistling, as a groom saddled his horse for him. It was something he could just as easily do himself, but as his grandfather had explained to him on one occasion, servants did not like to be made to feel useless. It was their task to wait upon the gentry. It was the task of the gentry to have the courtesy to be waited upon.

It was not a long wait. Bartholomew strode out into the stableyard, eager to be on his way. He always liked the autumn air more than the air at any other season. He set one booted foot in the stirrup and prepared to mount.

And then he paused in his action and frowned. He returned his foot to the ground and strode back into the stables again. Yes, it was as he had thought. He looked deliberately down one row of stalls and back along the other.

A minute later he was striding bade toward the house, having instructed the groom to walk his horse for him until he came back.

“Sukey.” He was shaking his sister by the shoulder just a few minutes after that. She was fast asleep at such an early hour. The bed at the other side of the room—Josephine’s bed—had not been slept in. “Wake up.”

“Mmmm,” she protested irritably and burrowed her face into her pillow. “Go away, Bart. Ask Jo.”

“Sukey, wake up,” he said, shaking her by the shoulder again. “There is something wrong.”

“Go away,” she said.

“Listen,” he said, “do I have to shake you good and proper? There’s something wrong. Jo rode to Aunt Winifred’s yesterday, yet the only horses missing from the stables are the ones Papa took.”

Susanna groaned. “Perhaps she is back,” she said, opening one eye and peering at the very empty bed at the other side of the room.

“No, she is not,” Bartholomew said. “And what is more, Sukey, if she went to Aunt Winifred’s, she must have walked.”

Susanna rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes.

“Look,” he said, “Jo left here yesterday, saying she was going to Aunt Winifred’s. But she made very sure Papa would not get her note until late in the day. How else could she have got there if she did not take her horse or anyone else’s and if she did not walk?”

Susanna thought a moment and regarded her brother fearfully.

“She went with someone else, that’s what,” her brother said. “Look, Sukey, was Porterhouse planning to leave the Winthrops’ yesterday? I mean, did you hear of it in advance?”

“No,” she said. “He had to leave in a hurry. His sister is very sick.”

“Devil take it,” Bartholomew said, “I’ll wager Jo went with him. I’ll wring her neck off her shoulders.”

Susanna was sitting up suddenly, blue eyes wide, golden hair in a halo about her face. “She has eloped with Mr. Porterhouse?” she cried. “Oh, surely not, Bart. Jo would not do such a thing. She is frequently thoughtless and impulsive, but she would not elope. Certainly not with Mr. Porterhouse.”

“Isn’t he the one who told her all those things about Mitford?” Bartholomew said. “And got her into the royal jitters?”

“Do you think they were untrue?” she asked. “Has he got Jo so frightened that she has run off with him? Oh, surely not, Bart. Not Jo. But whatever are we going to do?”

“Just let me think for one minute,” her brother said, his brows knit together in a deep frown. “Jo would not elope. She isn’t that lost to all conduct. But she is the most brainless little female it has ever been my misfortune to be related to. She probably went off with him to Aunt Winifred’s.
He
is probably the one who is eloping. It is just sheer lunacy for someone like Jo to have such a huge dowry, you know. Men like Porterhouse can spot women like Jo from five miles away without spectacles.”

Susanna kneeled up on the bed. “You think he has abducted her, then?” she asked.

Bartholomew slammed one fist into the other palm. “He’ll do it, too,” he said. “Even if he doesn’t get her to Gretna, she will be ruined. She already will be, in fact. Devil take it, but I’ll kill him with my bare hands. And then I’ll throttle Jo. I have to go and get her back, Sukey. This will kill Papa and Grandpapa.”

“You are going after them?” she said, catching at his sleeve.

“But what if it is already too late? Oh, Jo. Poor Jo. She would not even have realized what a trap she was being led into.”

“Get dressed,” he said, “and fast You can see me on my way and think of some story to tell Grandpapa and the girls when they get up. Not the truth—definitely not that. Tell them it was such a lovely day that I decided to ride over to Aunt Winifred’s too.”

“You are not going without me,” Susanna said. “Poor Jo. I am coming too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bartholomew said. “You know you can’t travel, Sukey. You would be bilious after two miles.”

“I’m coming,” she announced resolutely, throwing the blankets from her, both cheeks flushing. “It will look far more the thing if we all return together, the three of us. I will help smooth things over, Bart. Oh, poor Jo.”

“Poor Jo!” Bartholomew said in exasperation. “Wait until I get my hands about her neck, that’s all. I’ll poor Jo her, all right. Get dressed then, Sukey. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. And not a word of complaint, mind, when we are on our way. I’ll write a quick note to Grandpapa.”

“We will ride?” Susanna asked, gazing valiantly at her brother’s back. “Will you choose a horse for me that will not rear up, Bart?”

He looked up at the ceiling and clucked his tongue. “We will have to take that old traveling carriage of Grandpapa’s,” he said. “There’s no other choice. I wish you would stay, Suke. I could travel much faster without you.”

“I’m coming,” she said, jumping out of bed even before her brother had closed the door behind him.

Chapter 4

Josephine yawned widely and stretched. Where was Betty this morning? Betty always had a subtle way of waking her. Nothing as obvious as taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, as Bart sometimes did if he wanted a riding companion; or peeling off the blankets and leaving her to freeze as Sukey did when she wanted someone to pay morning calls with her; or yelling peevishly in her ear and tapping none too gently at her cheeks as Penny and Gussie did when they wanted her to go bird watching or picking wild flowers with them.

Betty was her maid. She had to be subtle. She merely threw back the heavy velvet curtains from the window each morning, bathing Josephine’s face in instant sunshine. Not that the sun was always shining, of course. But even instant daylight usually had the effect of waking her.

She often felt envy for those fabled ladies in London who were allowed to sleep until noon and occupy half the afternoon with making themselves beautiful. What a delightful life they must lead. It would drive her crazy within a week!

Morning at Rutland Park had always been considered a valuable commodity. Everyone was always up for breakfast by nine o’clock, and anyone who was not at least ten minutes early was frowned upon by Grandpapa and called a lazy sleepyhead by Papa. It was a myth that breakfast began at nine. It would be more accurate to say that it ended at nine.

Where was Betty? Josephine wrinkled her nose but could detect no noticeable aroma of chocolate.

Her pillow was hard. The blankets on her were so light that they might as well not be there at all. She was feeling chilly.

Her eyes snapped open.

Oh, goodness gracious. There had been all that silliness over the Duke of Mitford, and Papa and Grandpapa trying to marry her off to a man she had never set eyes on. And a man who, it seemed, was tall and blond and blue-eyed—all the dungs she dreaded in a husband because she was so small and insignificant herself. And toplofty. And a rake.

And there had been all her reluctance at the proposed match and all her inability to disappoint either Papa or Grandpapa. And her stupid, stupid decision to flee to Aunt Winifred’s with Mr. Porterhouse. Would she never learn?

Mr. Porterhouse! Josephine closed her eyes again. Oh, dear!

There was a rustling from beside the bed and a muffled groan. Josephine’s eyes opened once more and came to rest on the crack across the comer of the ceiling. Oh dear. There was Mr. Villiers, too, that great Hercules of a gentleman who was also very kind. And Papa still at the inn, as like as not, contemplating murder and searching the place for the couple who had occupied that wrecked and reeking room next door.

Oh, goodness. What had she got herself into now? Bart always said, and Gussie and Penny always agreed with him, that she was quite incapable of using her head.

“Of course,” Bart added as often as not, “Jo doesn’t have a brain, so she starts off with a disadvantage.”

She always hotly denied the charges—usually with some weapon hurled at her brother’s head.

“It is a good thing Jo can’t throw straight either,” Bart always said with that imbecilic grin.

But sometimes—oh, just sometimes in the strict privacy of her own mind—she had to agree with the judgment of her brother and sisters. However had she got into this dreadful coil? It surely would not have happened if she had just used her head from the start.

Poor Mr. Villiers. He was going to have to delay his journey to wherever he was going in order to accompany her to Aunt Winifred’s. He would doubtless be dreadfully inconvenienced. Yet she would have to accept his escort. Ladies just did not travel about the country alone. She was not always a stickler for proper conduct, but even she knew that much. Of course, it was equally improper to travel about with gentlemen who were not one’s father or brother.

But she had no choice. Even if she wanted to travel alone, she had nothing to travel in, and ten miles sounded rather a long way to walk, especially with a valise.

Mr. Villiers was a very kind man. She must remember to tell him so when he woke up. And so strong. Mr. Porterhouse’s knees had buckled under those two punches. And his teeth had snapped together so loudly that she would not have been at all surprised to find them showering down about her head. And Mr. Villiers had come through the door without opening it.

She wondered where Mr. Porterhouse was. She hoped he had had to stop his carriage every mile along the road to retch again. Horrid man. She had been totally deceived by him. The memory of his words and his face and his touch the evening before after he had locked the door to her room was quite sufficient to give her the shudders.

Josephine turned onto her side and leaned cautiously over the edge of the bed. Mr. Villiers was lying facing her, asleep by some miracle. He certainly did not look comfortable. His bag looked as if it were a far more lumpy pillow than her own. His greatcoat and the blanket were bunched around him, leaving him largely uncovered. He must be cold, poor man.

But she was surprised as she continued to gaze downward. In the light of day he did not look so very large after all, certainly not the Hercules he had appeared to be when he flew into the room next door. Indeed, he was not at all as she remembered him.

She propped herself on one elbow and regarded her savior critically. He looked—nice. Oh dear, what a weak choice of word. But it was better than any other she could think of. He did look nice. He had a rather thin face. He needed a shave. He had a good-humored mouth. It seemed to be curved into a smile even in sleep. There was nothing else remarkable about his face. It was just nice.

She liked his curls. They were rather long and riotous. The sort of curls a mother’s fingers would itch to smooth back from his face. She wondered if they would look less attractive when he combed them.

Well, perhaps he was not a giant of a man after all, but she liked him. He was a very kind man, and she must remember to tell him so. Anyway, he really was a strong man. She could not have imagined what he had done to Mr. Porterhouse. Besides, she had done more than merely see his strength in action. Oh dear, there had been that episode when she had seen Papa at the top of the stairs and he would have seen her just one second after. She had thrown herself against Mr. Villiers. And kissed him. Oh, gracious.

Grandpapa would look very sorrowful while scolding her for that one. She had never been kissed before. And finally it had happened twice in one day. First Mr. Porterhouse and his wet lips—surprising really. One would have thought that such a very handsome man would kiss beautifully. But then perhaps he did—perhaps other, more experienced ladies would enjoy being kissed like that. Her opinion had been rather clouded, too, by the fact that she had known he had ravishment in mind.

And then Mr. Villiers. It was rather unfair, of course, to say that he had kissed her, when it was perfectly obvious that it was she who had kissed him. But that was an academic point. She could make no judgment on the kiss since all her thoughts had been on Papa and preventing him from seeing her and killing Mr. Villiers, which would have been very unfair under the circumstances.