The Duke's Disaster (R) (2 page)

“I have a position in mind.” Corbett leaned in, pushing Thea up against the wall. “On your back, for starters. It pays well.”

“Let me go, Corbett.” Corbett, several years Thea’s junior and only a few inches taller than she, shouldn’t be posing such a threat—again. She’d kept her voice steady, but her heart was galloping, and panic beat through her veins. Jesus save her, Corbett’s breath held a foul whiff of last night’s spirits.

Scream
, she ordered herself.
Pray
later, scream NOW.

“I like a little fight in a female.” Corbett swooped in as if to plant his lips on Thea’s mouth, but missed—thank God—and landed closer to her ear as she began to struggle in earnest.

“I like a lot of fight in a man,” said a cool baritone, “except those worthy of the name are in such short supply.”

Corbett’s head came up, and then he was gone. One moment he was all pinching fingers, fetid breath, and slobbery lips, the next, he was flung against the opposite wall, trying to look indignant but mostly looking scared.

“If you must prey on your dependents,” Anselm said, “you’d best do it where you can’t be seen, overheard, or held to account. You may apologize or choose weapons. My advice would be something unconventional—whips, knives maybe—because pistols and swords no longer pose much challenge—for me, that is.”

The duke spoke casually, shooting his cuffs, then winging his arm at Thea. She accepted His Grace’s escort but spared Corbett a perusal as well. He was gratifyingly pale and still darting glances up and down the stairs.

“My apologies, Lady Thea.” Corbett found the strength to stand up straight and nod curtly. “Your charms—”

“Tut-tut,” Anselm interrupted mildly.

“Are not for me to take advantage of,” Corbett finished.

“Adequate,” Anselm said. “Be off with you.”

Corbett left, but turned on the third stair up and shot a murderous look over his shoulder, timed so Thea caught it, and the duke, in his towering calm, did not.

“Tiresome,” Anselm said, “but my apologies as well, on behalf of my gender. I gather we’ll have more privacy out-of-doors, unless you need your hartshorn, or a tisane, or some such?”

“A bit of fresh air in the gardens will do,” Thea said, though a stout punch directed at Corbett’s nose would have been a fine restorative too.

The duke had the decency to accompany Thea outside in silence, while her emotions rocketed between gratitude that Anselm had come along, disgust that Corbett had waylaid her again, and the sinking certainty that if Anselm’s offer of marriage had been only reluctantly appealing before—despite his sweet kiss—it looked un-turn-downable now.

But how on God’s earth was Thea to be honest with him?

“Does he importune you often?” Anselm asked, as if he were inquiring as to where Thea had acquired her watch pin.

“Me, the tweenie, the scullery maid. Corbett’s papa dotes on him, and he’s at that age between university and marriage, where he has no responsibilities, and all his friends are similarly situated.”

“You make excuses for him?” Anselm’s tone was thoughtful, not quite chiding as he steered Thea away from the pansies.

“Of necessity, I understand him,” she said. “He’s no worse than most of his kind.”

“Meaning he’s not the first to pester you,” Anselm concluded, sounding displeased. “Shall we sit?” He’d drawn Thea into the shade at the back of the property, where they’d have privacy, at least until Marliss appeared. He chose a bench for them, then came down beside her.

“I was planning to refuse you,” Thea said. “But your generosity toward my sister, and the inevitability of scenes such as the one you just interrupted have persuaded me toward acceptance, Your Grace.”

“Noah,” he replied, sounding no more thrilled to hear her acceptance than she was to tender it. “If we’re to be married, you should know my name.”

“Shall I use it?”

“You are welcome to,” he said. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why accept my proposal?”

“I will never know material want,” she quoted him, when she should have been blurting out the blunt details of her past. “I will not be cast on my brother’s dubious charity. I’ll have independence once certain matters are tended to.” She was too much a lady to refer to the settlements directly, but they were impressive.

His Grace’s expression suggested he did not like hearing his reasoning cast back at him, and Thea’s resolve faltered.

“My sister will be safer under your protection than the indifferent efforts of my brother,” she said, marshalling her scruples. “As your duchess, I can see to her come-out.”

“And you’ll be away from Corbett’s charming importuning,” Anselm concluded. “You know, I would find you another situation, did you ask it of me.”

Thea hadn’t known that, but more glorified governessing would do nothing to assure Nonie’s future.

“I will not ask it.”

His Grace’s features showed fleeting amusement. Thea knew what he was thinking:
She’ll take my name, my coin, my protection for life provided I get breeding rights, but she’ll not be beholden to me for a simple act of consideration. Women.

“A special license, then?” he asked.

Thea nodded, as anxiety chewed at her nerves. The moment when she might be honest with the duke and suffer only his quiet disdain was passing. He would get children on her, and he had a right to know the truth of her situation.

“Shall I see to the details?” he asked in the same tone Thea used to inquire whether a guest at tea preferred one lump of sugar or two.

“Marliss will be wed fairly soon,” Thea said. “I assume I’m welcome here until then.”

“And leave you where Corbett can follow up on his apology?” the duke scoffed. “Not blessed likely. You will bide with my sister Patience. How soon can you be packed?”

Anselm—Noah—wasn’t stupid. Maybe not nice, but singularly capable of grasping the unpleasant realities of a woman’s life in service. A lady’s life in service. Thea opened her mouth to speak the words that would have him retracting his proposal.

“This afternoon,” she heard herself say. Anxiety rose higher, even as leaving Endmon’s household also sparked relief.

“I’ll send a coach at three. We’ll no doubt be interrupted soon, so you’d best apprise me of any changes you’d like to make to the settlements.”

Thea waved a hand as if batting away an insect. “The settlements are fine, more than fine, generous, and I thank you.”
In for a penny…
“When can I collect Nonie?”

“
We
can collect your sister tomorrow. I assume you’ll want her underfoot as you prepare for the wedding?”

“Of course,” Thea murmured, while vividly recalling the one time she’d been on a runaway horse. The memory was unpleasant, and the sensations—stupefying panic, primarily—were reasserting themselves.

“How long will it take to locate your brother and get him into wedding attire?” Anselm asked.

His Grace was appallingly blunt, though Thea liked that about him. “A few days,” she said. “The Season is reaching its apex, and he’ll be about somewhere.”

“I’ll see to it. Anything else?”

Thea’s gaze traveled to the back of the house, where all was still, not a sign of life.

“Yes.” She was to become Anselm’s wife, a far more daunting prospect than simply swanning about as his duchess. “It’s not about the settlements.”

His Grace sat back, regarding her with a banked impatience that suggested for the duke, Thea had become a piece of work in the Concluded Business category. A last-minute request was merely an irritant for her prospective husband.

Husband
, gads.
Tell
him.
“I need time, Your Grace.”

“For?”

“I barely know you.” Though twenty years into marriage with this man, Thea might still barely know him, and not mind that a bit.

“You’ve been sharing carriages and walking with me and Marliss for weeks,” he shot back. “I’ve kissed you.”

“Once. I’m not asking for a lot of time, and we can be married whenever you please, but after that…”

“You want me to woo you?” Anselm made it sound as if Thea’s request were peculiar—eccentric. Interesting, in an abstract, slightly absurd way.

“Not woo, precisely.” Most people would call Anselm handsome, for all his expression was usually sardonic. Dark hair, unnaturally vivid blue eyes, aristocratic features, and a nose and chin suggesting he held to his convictions. But he was too big, too robust, too
male
.

“I am marrying to beget heirs, Lady Thea,” he reminded her.

“You’ve had years to do that,” she reminded him right back. “A few weeks or months one way or another won’t matter. Your proposal was unexpected. I’ve not been assessing you as a potential mate, though you apparently had that luxury with me all the while you were courting Marliss.”

The duke’s lips compressed into a line, and Thea could see him weighing the desire to argue against the constraints of a gentleman’s manners.

“The vows will be consummated on our wedding night, but after that, we’ll take it slowly,” he allowed, his delicacy relieving a little of Thea’s worry. “Not as slowly as you’d like, more slowly than I’d like. And I have a request, also not in the settlements.”

More than that, Thea sensed, he would not give her, but his concession was enough, because she’d find some way to tell him the whole of the bargain before vows were spoken. She waited for his additional request—that she call on his sisters, limit her spending, let him speak with Endmon.

Men took odd notions.

“Kiss me,” he said, something flashing through his eyes that might have been humor.

Odd, unexpected notions. “I’ve already kissed you once, Your Grace. That was quite enough.”

“No, it was not.” Anselm laced his fingers with Thea’s. “I kissed you. Now you kiss me.”

His hand was big, brown, and callused, hers graceful, pale, and smooth. Pretty, but ultimately useless, those hands of hers.

“What sort of kiss, Your Grace?” For kisses apparently had their own taxonomy.

“Any kind of kiss you like, provided it’s wifely and not some cowardly little peck on the cheek.”

The duke was challenging her, and Thea silently thanked him. Her worries and fears and second guesses were getting the better of her, but a challenge restored her balance.

Anselm had approached their previous kiss with a casual élan Thea could never carry off, though she could imitate his ducal imperiousness.

“Close your eyes, Your Grace.”

The duke sat beside Thea, eyes obediently closed as she rose and balanced with one knee on the bench, one foot on the ground. She purposely put herself higher than him, trying to create the fiction that his size didn’t intimidate. Her experience was limited though, so she had to aim her kiss by cradling his jaw in her hand before she pressed her lips to his. His skin was surprisingly smooth, indicating he’d shaved just before calling on her, and his scent was…

Lovely. As Thea settled her mouth over his, she inhaled lavender and roses, an odd fragrance for a man but fitting somehow. Anselm’s mouth moved under hers, and his hand cupped her elbow. Thea let her fingers trail back through his dark hair, which was as thick and silky as it looked, and beguilingly soft, while his features were so rugged.

As his tongue seamed Thea’s lips, her hand went still, her breathing seized, and she paused, listening with her mouth for him to repeat the caress.

“Now you,” he whispered, before joining his mouth to hers again.

He wanted her to
taste
him?

Tentatively, Thea complied, the texture of the duke’s lips against her tongue soft, plush, and…enticing. She did it again, and Anselm leaned closer, his arms looping around her waist. With her last shred of sanity, Thea grasped that kneeling over him like this put his
face
at bodice level.

She lifted her mouth from his and tried to step back, though Anselm’s arms around her waist prevented her retreat.

“None of that,” he chided, drawing her down beside him. “We’ll bide here a moment, while you gather your wits.”

“My wits?”

“It’s not every day a lady accepts a marriage proposal.”

“Oh, yes.” Thea touched her lips with her index finger. Was the buzzing sensation from her lips or her finger or her entire body? “That.”

Anselm’s gaze warmed again with that fleeting suggestion of humor.

“That.” He slipped his fingers through hers, and a silence stretched between them.

Unnerved on Thea’s part. No doubt pleased on the duke’s.

Two

“Why now?” Lord Earnest Meecham Winters Dunholm, as Noah’s only surviving adult male family member, could safely ask that question. “You’ve had years to find a filly, Noah, and you’ve not troubled yourself to do so. I had my doubts about you, you know.”

“They were hardly secret,” Noah said as Meech handed him a glass of very fine spirits. “And, yes, if you’re interested, I sent Henrietta her parting piece before the Season even started. You’re welcome to console her on my departure.”

Meech’s countenance brightened. “Henny Whitlow? She won’t hold a little snow on the roof against a fellow. Might drop by and see what her terms are these days.”

Noah took a sip of the drink for which he himself had paid.

“Her terms are expensive,” Noah said. “Too expensive for you, Uncle, so don’t think of taking her on exclusively.”

In fact, the entire elegant apartment on an elegant Mayfair side street was billed to Noah, as were the servants’ wages and tradesmen’s deliveries. Meech had tried for a time to live off the proceeds of his gambling, with notable, if elegant, lack of success.

“From one Winters to another, it pains me to say it, young man”—Meech settled into a wing chair—“but while the spirit is enthusiastically willing, the flesh is not what it once was. Though mark me, experience can compensate for a great deal of what passes for youthful vigor. Besides, with a bit of charm and guile, a man needn’t be writing bank drafts.”

Meech had been the dashing, blond, blue-eyed ducal spare in his youth, and he’d aged handsomely, considering how dissipated his lifestyle had been.

“Henny’s easy to please, as long as your credit is good on Ludgate Hill,” Noah said, which was no compliment to himself and no insult to dear Henny.

Meech took a parsimonious sip of his drink. “In my day, we were neither so mercenary about these things nor so sentimental. We understood sweetness without turning it into a business transaction, and we understood our place in life.”

Which was, apparently, to lecture all and sundry at the least provocation. Noah rose, for Meech was merciless when he had a captive, well-heeled nephew for an audience.

“Now comes the speech about great-nephews being sadly absent from your golden years. Or did I leave out the part about respecting one’s elders by increasing their stipends?”

“Elder,” Meech corrected him with a pained smile. “Singular. But because you’re putting your shoulder to the marital plow, so to speak, I’ll forgo that particular homily. Do I know the lady?”

“One hopes not biblically,” Noah said, almost meaning it. Meech had married once, quite young, and mercenarily enough that he was still sporting the lady’s surname as a condition of the settlements. Having buried his young bride decades ago, Meech claimed he’d be doing the women of England an injustice to limit his favors again to only one wife—of his own.

The portrait over the mantel was of two men and a single woman, all three stylishly mounted, enjoying a visit under a venerable oak. Every time Noah saw the painting, he wondered where the lady’s groom had got off to.

“My intended is the daughter of the Earl of Grantley,” Noah said, for Meech would pester him until he delivered up the details. Meech knew everybody, being in great demand among the hostesses to even the numbers and keep morale up among the widows and wallflowers.

“A sturdy, sensible lady fallen on hard times?” Meech asked, downing the rest of the drink.

“Pretty enough,” Noah conceded, though Thea was quietly lovely, “and her brother is a twit who’s bankrupting the earldom at a tidy gallop.”

“There’s another sister, isn’t there, not so long in the tooth?”

“Lady Antoinette.” The bargaining chip that had likely decided the matter for Lady Araminthea. “She’ll dwell with us, and yes, I know I would have had a few more breeding seasons out of the younger sister, but she and I haven’t met.”

Even Noah would not marry a woman sight unseen.

“So why are you marrying now, and why this Lady Thea?”

Lady Thea had something to do with the why now.

“When both my father and my junior uncle did not live to see fifty,” Noah replied, “I promised Grandfather on his deathbed that I’d meet a marital deadline. As for Lady Thea, she’s an earl’s daughter serving out her days as a companion. Given the reputation of you lot”—he waved a hand to indicate his father and uncles before him—“I want a respectable duchess. Ladies come no more respectable than the companions at the edges of the ballrooms. Then too, I like Lady Thea.” Which Noah probably should not have admitted in present company. “But not too much.”

“That’s promising.” Meech topped up his own drink, his tolerance for spirits being legendary among the college boys. “Does she like you?”

“She’s willing to tolerate me,” Noah said, opening a gold snuffbox on the mantel and catching a whiff of cinnamon, of all the nancy affectations. “The female who likes me has yet to be born to the human species.”

“Take after your grandfather, you do. None of my charm, though I was a late bloomer too.”

“Very late,” Noah rejoined, for sober maturity had yet to entirely settle upon Meech. “Will you fetch Harlan from school?”

“A note will fetch him from school. He hasn’t your penchant for the books, Noah. God knows who that boy takes after.”

A subject even Meech should not have raised.

Noah set his drink on the mantel next to the snuffbox. “Just get him to the wedding in proper attire. Breakfast will be at Anselm House immediately after, family only, and my thanks for the brandy.”

“Do you suppose Henny would like that snuffbox?” Meech asked.

Henny had better taste than that, but she was kind. “You should ask her, but please, for the love of heaven, do not bring her up at the wedding breakfast.”

Meech poured the remains of Noah’s drink into his own glass, something he likely would not have done had a servant been present.

“If you’re intent on seeing this wedding accomplished forthwith, I will not be in evidence, Noah. Pemberton and I have accepted Deirdre Harting’s invitation to a house party out in Surrey, and she would be most disappointed did we let her down. I’ll give Henny your regards before I go, though.”

For a man in his late forties, Meech was handsome, trim, and charming by most hostesses’ standards. He and his bosom bow, Pemberton, could have passed for twins, right down to a shared distaste for weddings.

“Far be it from me to expect my nuptials would take precedence over your socializing,” Noah said, though he was disappointed—or he should have been.

Meech walked with him toward the front door. “You’re sure you won’t take up with Henny again once the wife is settled?”

“I’m sure.” Almost sure.

“Best keep your options open. Wives can be the very devil.”

“You would know, Uncle. You’ve had so many.”

“Disrespectful pup. If you’re lucky, you’ll grow up to be just like me.”

“I could do worse,” Noah graciously allowed—Meech had at least avoided diseases of vice and tiresome addictions.

Noah accepted his hat, cane, and gloves from a footman, and saw himself out, stopping by his own establishment only long enough to send the requisite note to his younger brother—half brother, in truth—then choose a ring for his bride from among those presented for his perusal.

“And for the morning gift, Your Grace?” the dapper little gentleman inquired. “Perhaps you’d like to see some bracelets, necklaces, earbobs?”

“No, thank you.” Noah had forgotten this detail, but Thea Collins did not strike him as a jewelry-acquiring sort of female. She’d want independence, not ornamentation. “The lady will choose most of her own jewelry, but I will certainly recommend your shop to her.”

“Our sincere thanks, Your Grace.” The man bowed and took his leave with a blessed absence of further obsequies.

When Noah’s town coach rolled up to the Endmon establishment, his intended was ready, her belongings stowed in one pathetically battered and small trunk. Her luggage was lashed to the boot, and amid a teary send-off from Marliss—and only Marliss—Noah collected his bride.

“Are you sorry to leave your charge?” Noah settled into the carriage while his future duchess sat across from him, cradling a small maple-wood box on her lap.

“I will miss her,” her ladyship conceded, “but Marliss is destined for her own household now, so my task was complete.”

“Lady Thea, does my person offend you?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“I’m a frequent bather, and a devoted slave to my tooth powder,” Noah went on, “and I will wear only clean linen, so I must wonder why my affianced bride has left me to myself on the forward-facing seat.”

She clutched her wooden box, her expression genuinely abashed. “I meant no offense, Your Grace. Habit only, I assure you.”

Her ladyship didn’t move until Noah held out a hand, steadying her in the moving carriage as she switched benches. He took her box from her and kept her hand in his.

“You’ve met my sister Lady Patience?”

“She called this morning. A very amiable woman.”

“My sisters are all amiable,” Noah replied. “All three of them, until they fix on some objective, and then they amiably ride roughshod over all in their path to achieve it.” Including their ducal brother.

“They are each wed, are they not?”

“Thanks to a merciful God and the pudding that passes for brains in the heads of most young Englishmen, they are. Have you considered a wedding trip?”

“I have not,” Lady Thea said, her gaze on their joined hands. “A journey seems inappropriate, as our union is not…”

“Not…?” Noah wouldn’t rescue her from the windowless corner she’d painted herself into.

“Not sentimental in nature, Your Grace. You’ve assured me we’ll have time to become acquainted, and you’re busy enough without having to create the appearance of doting on your broodmare.”

Lady Thea would have had ample opportunity to draw that conclusion. During her weeks of chaperoning Marliss, she’d seen that a duke worth his title must needs go through life at the speed of a particularly fierce whirlwind. A duchy did not run itself.

“I do dote on my broodmares,” Noah informed her. “They’re more likely to catch that way, and I enjoy it.”

“Doting will not be necessary.” Lady Thea injected enough frost into her tone that a lesser man might dread his wedding night.

“We’ll see.” Noah rubbed his thumb over her wrist, which was the only inch of skin exposed below her pretty neck. “In case you’re interested, I might enjoy being doted on a little myself.”

“How would one go about that?”

“You’ll think of something,” he assured her, “but we arrive to your brother’s residence. I hope you sent a note?”

“Of course. One to Tim, one to Nonie. You may leave my music box here.”

Though Noah did not want to encourage his bride’s tendency to issue orders, he put her box under the seat.

The coachman set them down in the porte cochere, where no footman or butler appeared at the door to greet them. Noah looked askance at her ladyship, but her chin was held high as she opened the door and admitted them herself.

“Lady Thea!” A plump older woman in apron and cap came scampering up the hallway. “It’s that glad we are to see you. Lady Nonie will be down directly now you’re here, and you’ve brought a caller.”

“Hello, Mrs. Wren.” Thea bent so the lady could kiss her cheek. “Is my brother home?”

“Oh, he’s
home
, my lady.” Mrs. Wren’s expression suggested the greatest of her earthly burdens lay one floor above. “Whether he’s
at
home, I surely couldn’t say. Perhaps you and the gentleman would like to greet Lady Nonie in the morning room?”

“We’ll see ourselves up,” Thea replied. “If you could please send along some tea, once you’ve let Nonie know we’re here?”

“Thea!” A younger, merrier version of Thea came skipping down the stairs, dark curls bouncing with each step.

“Thea, you’ve come, oh, thank the saints.” Lady Nonie threw herself against her sister and held tight. “Is it true? Is this your fellow?” The girl tossed a barely recognizable curtsy at Noah, and proceeded to obliterate the protocol for introductions. “You’re the Duke of Anselm?”

“I have that honor,” Noah replied.

“Lady Antoinette,” Thea interjected, “may I make known to you my betrothed, Noah, Duke of Anselm. Your Grace, Lady Antoinette Collins, my younger sister.”

“My lady.” Noah bowed over the younger woman’s hand, and saw a smaller replica of Thea, one not so plagued by life’s injustices and realities. “It will be my pleasure to offer you a place in our home for so long as you care to join us.”

Or until some pudding-headed swain came along sporting a ring.

Nonie blushed and slipped her hand into a pocket. “He even talks like a duke.”

“I take tea like one too,” Noah said, seeing smitten lordlings by the half dozen lounging about his parlors several years hence. “If that’s the plan?”

“Of course,” Lady Thea said. “The parlor is this way, and bother it, Nonie, have we not a single footman to take His Grace’s hat and gloves?”

“Not a one,” Nonie replied blithely. “They work until the pay runs out, then find other positions until the next quarter’s funds show up. I can take His Grace’s hat and gloves.”

“I’ll hold on to them for now,” Noah said. When the party reached the morning parlor, he set his accessories on a sideboard. The curtains hung the merest inch askew, the rug needed a sound beating, and the andirons hadn’t been blacked in a week.

Shabby in the details, but not yet desperate.

The sisters were desperate to spend time together, though, based on the speed with which Nonie chattered on about some cat and the boot boy, and a bird loose in the pantry.

“Are you packed, Lady Antoinette?” Noah asked when the girl had paused to take a breath.

“I am.” She spared Noah a smile that was no doubt already turning heads when she walked in the park. “I’ll fetch my trunk down before we go.”

“You,” Noah shot back, “will sit right there and sip your tea, while I see to your trunks.”

He left the ladies in the morning room and found his way to the corridor housing the family bedrooms. A passing maid—cap askew, apron stained—pointed him to Lady Nonie’s room and gave him directions to Lord Grantley’s quarters.