What a Duke Wants (4 page)

He laughed then and swung his leg back down, taking a seat beside her.

“I’ve not made a girl blush like that in many months—and certainly not without words.”

She didn’t know how to reply. The temptation grew to tell him she was a woman, not a girl, but she could imagine too many replies to that. And if she made a comment about his abilities to do things without words—well, the answers to that were even worse.

He turned his face and stared toward the inn. “I am not sure how much redder you can grow. I overheard one of my sisters once discussing that redheads shouldn’t wear pink, but I must say I find it a most becoming color for your skin. I am not looking, but I imagine you’re glowing even more now.”

“Don’t you have anything else to do besides pick on me? Surely the duke needs you to help prepare for the journey.”

He chuckled again. “No, the duke is delighted to have me right where I am.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She knew she sounded prickly, but could not help herself. Something about the man set her nerves on edge this morning—and that was even before she started to think about his fingers and her garters. At least he distracted her from her thoughts.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

That brought her face around to him. “For what?”

“I seem to have somehow gotten off on the wrong foot and I am not sure why. I only meant to sit beside you for a moment and be sure that young Master Joseph had let you sleep through the rest of the night. He seemed to settle well into his cradle, but I could not be sure.”

“No, it must be me. I don’t know quite what bothered me.” She looked down at her hand, still holding Joey’s bottle. Sometimes it was best to admit the truth. “I think I must have been embarrassed and I did not even realize it myself until I took affront. I’ve never had a man remove my stockings before.”

“Never? No footman or young gentleman?”

“Never. Although some have tried.”

She could sense he wanted to ask more, but didn’t have the words. She slanted a look out of the corner of her eye. There was something between them—something more than a now drowsing baby and the smell of freshly cut hay.

Chapter 4

D
amnation. It wasn’t bad enough he was thinking of seducing the servants, now they were virginal servants. When he’d first seen her he’d even wondered if she was the same woman he’d talked with last night. She’d looked far different in the morning light, her dark gray gown pulling the color from her face and that fabulous hair bound tightly back, all the life and vitality of the night before missing.

And then she’d blushed and smiled—that bewitching beauty filling her again.

He was tempted to ask if a man had ever removed anything besides her stockings—and he wasn’t thinking about her gloves. There were a great multitude of things that could be done without removing stockings. In fact there were very few activities that did require their removal. His mind filled with an image of her for a moment, standing before a fire, smiling, dressed in nothing but her stockings.

It was no wonder Douglas had sensed something different.

Mark shifted away from Miss Smith; his thoughts were affecting parts of his anatomy that had no business rising up on a sunny morning—at least not in a public inn yard. And not in front of an innocent, although that glance from the corner of her eye wasn’t innocent at all. Even when she looked pinched and gray she looked as if she’d seen a piece of the world.

He crossed his ankles and stared firmly at his boots.

“Does the duke give you his castoffs?”

Her question startled him. “What? Why?”

“Your boots. I’ve rarely seen finer.”

He kept his eyes locked on his feet. She was right. He should have considered the matter. Not that he had a lesser pair here. He could have asked Divers to procure another pair, but that would have raised questions he didn’t want to answer—not even to himself. His breeches and shirt were undoubtedly too fine also. At least he’d slipped out without his brocade jacket. He glanced at his sleeve. He paid little attention to such things, but snowy linen of such tight weave was not something he imagined his grooms had access to. “Yes, sometimes—I take what I am given.” He sounded far gruffer than he meant to.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense. I sometimes speak without thinking. I thought I cured the habit over the last few years. I am afraid I was quite dreadful as a girl.”

“I can’t imagine that.” Although, in truth, he could. He found it charming. It was good to have somebody besides Douglas—and occasionally Divers—speak their mind to him. In the scant time since he’d inherited the duchy nobody ever said anything they didn’t think he wanted to hear. At least they didn’t say it with words. Both Divers and his porter were more than able to give him a look that let him know he was getting it all wrong. And he wasn’t even going to think about the house steward.

He felt himself with her, his real self, not the duke—there was no need for pretense.

Miss Smith didn’t answer his statement, but stared toward the stable where the owner’s wife was trying to lead a milk cow toward the trough.

“Do you think she’s getting more milk for the child?” he asked. “Will he need to eat again soon?”

She smiled briefly, her cheeks rounding. “They had quite a bucket of milk in the kitchen. I can’t imagine they’ll need more soon. But I gather cows need to be milked when they need to be milked. And as for Joey, it’s hard to say. He often takes a good long nap after his morning feed and then wakes hungry and unsettled. In the afternoon he’s more likely to play and smile for a while.”

What was he doing sitting here discussing milk cows and infants? He had to admit little interest in either. He should have left the moment she told him that she’d never had a man untie her stockings. She was trouble he clearly didn’t need. “Do you know where you’re stopping tonight?”

She hesitated. “I believe we’re traveling to The Three Feathers in Ripon.”

“That’s not far. I am surprised that you don’t go on to Boroughbridge.”

“Mrs. Wattington doesn’t like to journey too far in one day. She finds travel tiring.”

Mark looked up toward the sky. “It’s strange. I am realizing the duke may have said he was planning to stop in Ripon.”

“Really?”

“Why so surprised? Perhaps the duke does not like travel either.” It was true, his uncle had never left London unless forced.

“It’s just that Mrs. Wattington was complaining that The Three Feathers was not the type of place she felt was up to her standards—not a true coaching inn. Apparently there were no other choices. I would not have expected the duke to be willing to stop there.”

His uncle would never have stopped in such a place, that was certain. His uncle had traveled with his own bed linens and mattress, his own silver and china, and more staff than most London town houses. He could have camped in a cave and still lived like a prince, but it would have offended his dignity. Mark had no such qualms. He’d spent years traveling with the army. Nothing could be as bad as those years. “The duke assumes that everything will be rearranged to his standards.”

Miss Smith glanced down at her hands, twisting her fingers. “So I might see you again this evening.”

“You might.” He leaned slightly toward her. She smelled of lavender soap. “You just might.”

Her eyes flitted back up, and her tongue wet her lower lip. Then her eyes fell again.

His glance could not leave that glistening lip. He waited.

Her eyes rose again to meet his.

He could feel her breath against his neck, his chin, his mouth. He leaned closer.

She didn’t move toward him, but neither did she retreat.

Her gaze did not waver. He could see a million questions in her eyes—and a million answers.

All the trouble might be worth it.

Was her mouth as soft as it looked? Did she taste as sweet he dreamed?

He bent forward that final inch, parted his lips slightly.

Joey chose that moment to open his eyes fully. He looked from one to the other, his fists waving frantically.

Mark found his glance forced down to the wiggling child. He saw that nose wrinkle, watched the tiny lips open as his whole face grew into one loud wail.

Miss Smith was on her feet with the child bobbing on her hip before Mark could even close his mouth.

Bloody hell. He’d been wrong. This was definitely not worth the trouble.

Dukes should stick with ladies of title, or opera dancers—not pretty nursery maids.

He turned to stomp off toward his coach.

He paused to turn back only once. She was entering the inn’s kitchen, walking with that magic sway.

“I’ll see you tonight, then,” he barked, stepping out of sight behind the coach and doing his best to ignore Divers’s glare from the doorway.

H
ow many times could one child spit up? Isabella longed to lean against the corner of the carriage and close her eyes to the whole mess. Mrs. Wattington was doing just that in the opposite corner. She’d made one comment to the effect that Isabella must have fed the boy something offensive and then she’d turned her face to the wall and closed her eyes. Loud snores had been her only contribution since.

Poor little Joey had finally fallen asleep himself and now lay cradled in his basket on the bench beside Isabella. A pail of stinking rags lay at her feet.

It felt like the worries of the last days had taken physical form, everything striving to defeat her. Since the moment she’d left Mr. Smythe in the stable yard that morning, nothing had gone right.

Oh, needles and pins.

Isabella wasn’t even sure whom she was cursing. She’d learned a few more explicit expletives while in service, but had long ago decided it was far better not to voice them—or even think them. Her habit of speaking without thought might be mostly cured—except when
he
was around—but she could just imagine Mrs. Wattington’s face if Isabella ever released even a quiet
damnation
after dropping something on her foot. No, it was far better to avoid actual curses altogether.

Oh, dogs and cats.

This time she knew exactly what she was cursing. She was cursing little Joey for being so difficult and so lovable. She didn’t know how she was ever going to manage to leave him—only that she was. She cursed Mrs. Wattington for not showing more interest in caring for her own baby. She cursed
him
, she cursed Mr. Smythe, for appearing now—now, when he was the last thing she needed. And she cursed life itself for being so unfair. She cursed the life of her past when she’d had everything and not known it. She cursed the brother who’d forced her to flee from that life. She cursed Colonel Foxworthy, whose death had been the final reason for her flight, whose death still haunted— No, she refused to think about that.

She cursed the man in the blue coat—whoever he might be. And she cursed her new life. Cursed that she’d never appreciated how hard it was to work. Cursed early mornings and late nights. Cursed cold baths in well-used water. Cursed the pail of smelly rags. She was so tempted to kick the thing over with her foot.

But mostly she cursed London, wonderful, horrible, stinking, lovely city. She had spent most of her girlhood longing to be there, longing for balls, and gowns, and stylish bonnets, and titled young lords who would fall instantly in love with her beauty and ask for her hand in marriage.

She closed her eyes and remembered the dream, the wonder, the enchantment and hope.

Then she opened them wide and stared about the slightly worn carriage, breathed in the smell of baby spit.

She knew the difference between fantasy and reality.

This was reality.

Reality was that she was speeding toward London and with every mile that passed she became more convinced she could not return, more sure that somehow she had to escape.

“W
hy don’t you just tell her who you really are?” Douglas asked as he glanced through the pile of correspondence that had just been delivered. They’d been at The Three Feathers for barely a quarter of an hour and Douglas already appeared as if he’d been working for days.

“Why don’t you give that to my secretary or whoever in that bunch of dour-faced gentlemen that follow wherever I go is responsible for it?” Mark answered, trying to shrug out of his jacket, the stiff embroidered brocade fighting his every move. He didn’t even want to consider how many people were actually in his traveling party.

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business? You should know by now that is a hopeless cause. And I will be passing this all on to Mr. Downs, but it never hurts to have a good look first, keeps everybody on their toes.”

“How did I end up with the only batman in the whole army whose real goal is to be a barrister’s clerk?”

“You’re still avoiding my question. Why don’t you just tell her who you really are?”

“I haven’t said there’s a
her
and even if I had, what makes you think I am hiding anything?”

“The
her
is tall, but slight, and has red-gold hair. You should stick to the shadows more if you don’t want to be seen. And you haven’t told her who you are because you’re taking off your coat instead of adding another ring. If she knew you were the duke you’d be putting on the finery, not taking it off.”

Mark gave up the battle of the coat and sank into a chair—as well as he could sink with his cravat still tied tight and the blasted coat stuck halfway down one arm. “You always did see too much. I would dismiss you if I weren’t afraid I was going to be begging you to rescue me from my coat within minutes.”

“You could call for Divers. It is his job.”

“Then he’d want to know why I wanted it off—even if he’d never actually ask. He’d bring up marriage, as well. I swear the man thinks marriageable virgins are just waiting to throw themselves at me if only I wear the right coat.” Mark shot Douglas a piercing glance. “And he’d probably have me dressed in something even worse before I knew what was happening. I swear that man wants to starch and iron my nightshirts.”

“That calls for some comment on stiffness, but I’ll pass until you answer my question.”

“Get this coat off me and I’ll answer you anything,” Mark answered.

Douglas moved behind him and with a few quick yanks the coat was gone.

Mark dropped his head and stared at the floor. “I don’t really know. I certainly didn’t plan to hide who I am, but she didn’t realize and then it would have embarrassed her to find out—and then—”

“You like having somebody who treats you like you used to be—”

“Yes. Even you act differently now—at least some of the time. Owning half of England wasn’t supposed to be so bloody unpleasant.”

“Don’t know why you thought that. Ownership is always a burden. It’s why I am happy the way I am with only myself to care for.”

Mark had always rather thought that Douglas also cared for him, but he made no comment. “You are right, I am afraid.” He nodded at the pile of correspondence. “I suppose I am going to have to deal with all of that.”

“I would reckon only about half of it will need replying to and of that Mr. Downs will take care of most and only ask for your signature—but . . .”

Mark rubbed his temple. He knew that
but
all too well. He waited.

“But I rather think you should ask him about the leases on the properties in Wales. There is something not quite right.”

And of course Douglas would be correct. Douglas was always right when it came to those little
but
s.

It would be one more headache that the duke would have to deal with—if he wanted to be a good duke. And he did.

He stood and walked to the mirror, mussing his hair as he went. He stared at himself and yanked his cravat free.

“So are you off to see her?” Douglas asked as he went to sift through the papers again.

“I am simply planning on a walk.”

“If you say so—Your Grace.” Douglas let the last words linger in the air.