What a Duke Wants (9 page)

Chapter 9

“Y
ou careless tramp.” Mrs. Wattington’s words echoed through the interior of the carriage. Isabella didn’t know what she’d done to deserve the
tramp
, but the slap that turned her head with its force was very clear indeed.

Isabella could only stare and blink, her body shivering with the shock of what had happened.

Mrs. Wattington had hit her, hit her.

The thought echoed through her mind.

The perfection of the previous night—and now this. Touching her cheek gently, she winced. Mrs. Wattington was much stronger than she looked.

They stared at each other for a second, and then without another word Mrs. Wattington turned her face back to the wall. Isabella wanted to say something, to retaliate in some fashion, but knew she mustn’t.

She dropped her hands to her lap, squeezing them tight. Then, with a deep inhale, she turned to Joey, comforting the small, screaming boy. He ceased the yell immediately, smiling sleepily up at her.

His belly felt better and that was his only concern. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

Leaving her with a mess of stinking baby vomit and an employer who wouldn’t even look at her, although perhaps that was for the best.

Isabella pulled some damp rags from the pile at her feet and started to dab at the cloth-covered seat. She hardly dared look at Mrs. Wattington’s skirts. They were more than dabbled with sour-milk baby spit-up. They would smell for days, even with a proper cleaning. Did she dare try to clean the sodden dress?

The decision was taken from her. Mrs. Wattington rapped hard on the roof and the carriage stopped.

“Out.” The woman’s command was clear. Isabella was obviously not needed if Joey was asleep. She stepped out, and Mrs. Wattington’s personal maid replaced her.

The fresh air was wonderful and Isabella tried to hide her relief as she climbed up on the box beside the driver. He stared at her cheek for a moment before starting the team. She could only wonder how red it glowed from the slap.

She’d never been struck before, not by her older and very strict brother, not by any of her previous employers, not even by Foxworthy—and she’d killed him for what he’d tried to do to her. She wished she could say that to Mrs. Wattington. Picturing the woman’s face as Isabella said the words was almost worth the slap.

Of course she could never say such a thing—not that she’d really have meant it. What had happened with Foxworthy had been an accident.

Again she forced the picture of him lying on the floor from her mind, forced herself not to think of the men who now chased her, who threatened her.

Staying with Mrs. Wattington was fast becoming even more of an impossibility. She’d never known of an employer to become kinder over time. One bad thing always led to another.

Which left Mark. The time they had actually spent together could be measured in hours, not days, but she felt as if she’d known him her entire life.

She could even imagine marrying him, being his wife—and wouldn’t that be the answer to her problems. She could marry him and disappear, become a proper matron far from those who sought her.

There would be no need to flee, no need to leave him. She would simply become someone else.

When she’d first had the barest thought of the possibility flit at the edge of her mind last night she’d dismissed it, but it kept coming back, growing.

If they were so happy together after less than a week, think how happy they would be after months, after years.

Only they didn’t have years, or months, or even weeks. They only had now.

They had no time for anything.

Unless she risked it all.

Could she do it?

She was convinced he would want to marry her if only they had time—but they didn’t. She would need to persuade him—fast.

They were made to be together. Everything she knew about him drew her, even if she didn’t know that much.

They belonged together.

Swallowing, she put the thought into words.

She wanted to marry Mark.

Now all she needed was to do what was necessary.

She’d watched her older sister charm enough men to know how it was done, to know how much a glance from under lowered lashes could do, how the simple sway of a hip or brush of a breast could entice beyond reason.

It was the only way.

It was a great gamble.

How much risk was she willing to take? Her hand stroked her swollen cheek as she looked out over the fields they sped by, the carriage racing toward London.

She was almost sure that Mark would wed her if they made love.

But almost was only almost.

W
as she going to come? Mark stood on an almost identical set of steps to the ones where he’d first kissed her, and stared into the twilight. This inn could have been built on the same plan as that one, heavy stone walls on an all-too-squat square frame, shutters half closed with peeling paint, thirty paces to the stable—dry now, but probably terribly muddy in the spring. The straw had been fresher at the last place. That he knew.

Damnation.

What was he going to do about her? He couldn’t keep acting like a courting boy. Even if he kept his needs in check she’d head off in her own direction once they reached London and then what would he have accomplished?

Did he need to accomplish anything more than a few stolen kisses?

Should he not just look at this as a couple of days of foolishness? He’d amused himself while he traveled and that was surely an accomplishment in itself. The only thing lost was a few extra days in Town before the coronation. The king might not be pleased, but he also might not even notice. What was one duke more or less? It wasn’t like they were even acquainted.

Double damnation.

He knew better. King George would be very aware that his newest duke was missing. The note that Mark had received from the king made it clear that he was expected to be there. The king made no allowance for Mark’s mourning period and he certainly wouldn’t so that Mark could have a few days of flirtation along the road.

A few days of flirtation, a little play, that was all he wanted.

Wasn’t it?

I
sabella rubbed again at the red mark across her cheek, succeeding only in making it redder. The sting of the blow still caused her hand to shake. She dipped a cloth in cold water and held it to her skin, hoping the mark would fade.

Pressing the cloth tighter she tried not to think, not to remember.

She would forget the whole day if she could, Joey’s illness, the slap, and Mrs. Wattington’s quiet fury, the constant threat from her pursuers. No. She was not going to dwell on things she could not change.

Mark was the only answer.

She tried to focus on the kisses of the night before, to remember the pleasure of that moment, the anticipation. It had been a moment full of danger for her, the danger of discovery, but when she was with Mark it seemed unimportant. She trusted he would keep her safe. It might be naïve. In fact she was sure it was, but she could not shake the feeling.

He clearly wanted her. Those kisses and the physical reactions of his body were very clear.

She pulled the cloth away from her cheek. It could go either way right now, either fade completely or turn to purple and yellow.

It was redder than ever.

She had prayed for fading. Too often she’d seen the victim held responsible for her own misfortune.

And it was hard to imagine trying to seduce Mark when her face was swollen and red.

Glancing out the dark window, she made her decision.

It was now or never.

M
ark heard a rustle behind him. She was here.

He turned as she eased out of the half-open door. “I am sorry I am late. Joey didn’t want to settle and I didn’t dare leave until he did. I’ll need to go back shortly. He’s not feeling well and the scullery maid who agreed to sit with him is very young. I’ve told her to find me quickly if there is any trouble. I wouldn’t have come at all except that I didn’t want you to worry.”

She kept her face turned from him the whole time, almost as if she were looking back into the inn.

“What’s upset you? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

Her shoulders drew back, tight, and then she gave herself a little shake. “It will sound silly, but I’ve been certain that something awful is about to happen. Rather like that chill you get when somebody is supposed to have walked across your grave.”

Mark knew that feeling well. He also knew that it was accurate far more often than one might suppose. “Do you think Mrs. Wattington suspects us? Is there something else that you worry about?” If Mrs. Wattington knew, he would need to protect Isabella even if it meant telling her the truth, losing her forever. Once she knew his station, then he would be the duke and she only the maid. Everything would change.

Isabella glanced at him quickly and then turned away, her posture still. She was clearly considering his words with care. “No, I don’t think she knows. I would know if she did. She is not a subtle woman. If she suspected she would not hide it. This is more like the feeling when you catch a movement out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn you can’t see anything. I am probably just imagining it.”

“Then why does it have you so upset? Why won’t you look at me? What aren’t you telling me? Have I done something? Are you worried about our kiss? Worried I’ll want more? Of course I want more, but I would never push.”

“No, it’s not that.” She still didn’t look directly at him. Instead she walked past him into the shadows of the yard.

He turned and followed her. Even when she wasn’t carrying Joey her hips had a delicious sway.

She stopped in the middle of the yard and turned her face up to the sky. She twirled once, her skirts billowing wide.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Remembering.”

“What?”

Stopping, she turned to him, her face hidden in the dark. “A few years ago, when I ran away, I went through a great unpleasantness. I felt that everything was going wrong. It seemed that things only got worse. My life was not at all what I had wanted and I believed I was truly trapped. I felt like I would pay forever for the mistakes that I had made.”

“I’ve had days like that—weeks like that.”

“And then one day I looked out the window at the falling snow, big fat, heavy flakes. They were so beautiful and the world looked so new. I felt like I could begin again. It might not be the life I had planned, but it would be as good a life as I could make it. I promised that I would take joy in every minute that I could. But more than that I promised to remember that every minute is fresh, different than the one before. There is always a chance to start again. Indeed we have no choice but to start again every minute of every day. I look up at the moon now and remember that nobody has ever seen it look just the way it does at this moment.”

“I’ve never thought about that. But what has you feeling the need to remember that right now?”

“Do feelings need reasons?” She started to step away.

Damnation. He reached out and caught her beneath the chin. “Who did that to you?”

It was easy to guess the answer. Something caught in his chest as he examined the deep purple mark marring one cheek. He didn’t know whether to pull her to his chest or to go and find whoever had hit her and pound him into the ground.

She blinked and he knew she debated what to say, that she wanted to deny the bruise that marked her cheek, to pretend it did not exist.

“What does it matter? It is nothing. A bruise is a tiny thing in this world.”

He took her hand and pulled her back toward the inn. “Come, let me see it in the light. It does not look a little thing to me.”

Trying to stop, she dug her heels in. “No, it is nothing.”

“Then come and let me see.” He paused as they reached the door. “Nobody will see us, if that is what worries you. Everybody is down in the taproom. Come.”

Her lips were pulled tight, but she allowed him to lead her up the stairs and through the door.

She stopped as they crossed the threshold and stared about. “This must be the best room in the inn.”

“I imagine it is.”

“Then it must be the duke’s room. I can’t imagine he’s in the taproom.” She started to pull back through the door. “I’ll go back and check on Joey. I can put another cool cloth on my cheek. There really is nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“Don’t worry about the duke. He’s not of concern right now.” And oh, how he meant that. Nothing mattered except Isabella and the fact that somebody had dared to hit her.

“How can you say that? This is his room. We could be discovered at any moment.”

Mark wished he could explain that he’d sent all the servants away an hour earlier, saying he wished to be alone. He’d done that each night since meeting Isabella, and while they might still find it strange, they no longer found it surprising that His Grace wished to put himself to bed. He had not been disturbed once in the past week. It seemed unlikely that he would be tonight. “Come, let me light another candle and look at that.”

She started to speak, but then her shoulders sagged and she came toward the table obediently. He lit an extra candle and stared at her cheek. It was starting to yellow just across the top of the bone.

He ran a finger over it softly.

She cringed at the contact.

“Tell me what happened. And don’t lie. I will know if you do,” he commanded, like the duke that he was.

“I don’t see how.” She sounded like a belligerent child. “Mrs. Wattington did it. I don’t think she meant to, though.”

He had been right. “I fail to see how she did that by mistake. I can almost see the fingerprints. Do not even try to tell me that the carriage hit a bump or came to a sudden stop.” He remembered the fury with which Mrs. Wattington had gripped the maid’s collar. Isabella could not continue to work for such a woman. It was unthinkable.

Turning to stare directly at him, she reached up and placed a hand over his where it rested against her cheek. “No, she hit me, but I think it was more instinct than intent. Joey spit up all over her quite suddenly and she just swung. I should have been more careful, positioned him better.”