What A Gentleman Wants (6 page)

“Yes, the park should be safe at this time of day. Go ask Walters how to get there, Molly.” She slid off her chair and bolted from the room, ignoring Hannah’s caution to walk. His merriment fading, David turned back to her. “Hannah. I have some business. Unfortunately, it will take me out of London.”

“So soon?” Hannah was surprised. David had stayed in Middleborough for weeks with no sign of contact with anyone, and hadn’t seemed to care about getting back in any rush. Although, perhaps that explained this urgency now. “When will you return?”

“I’ll be gone several days at least. I’m sorry. I hate to leave you alone on your first day in town, but it can’t wait any longer. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Well, if you have to go, you have to go, and it can’t be helped,” she said practically. “I hope it won’t take overlong.” Sudden uneasiness clouded his face.

“I’m doing this for you and Molly. I want to provide you a comfortable life.”

“Good heavens, David, I understand,” she said. “We shall miss you, but I won’t keep you from your responsibilities.”

“I might have known you would say that.” He grinned in relief, and she smiled. After breakfast he bade Molly good-bye and told her to be good for her mother. As he mounted his horse, a splendid gray gelding, Hannah fidgeted. It seemed unnatural to say farewell with just a wave; he was her husband, after all. He leaned down. “Good-bye,” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “I shall hope you still smile at me when I come back.”

“Of course I will,” she said, glad that he had made it easy for her. She stood back with Molly and watched him ride away.

The rest of that day they explored the house. The cook was Mrs. Walters, and she took a liking to Molly immediately. Molly asked to help with the baking, which seemed to surprise and delight the cook, and by the end of the day they were fast friends.

While Molly made bread, Mr. Walters showed Hannah the rest of the house. He appeared recovered from his shock of the night before, and Hannah told herself she was being silly for imagining things. David had hardly left them in cruel circumstances, and even if they eventually settled in less elegant quarters, he had taken care of them this far. The house verged on opulent, to Hannah’s eyes, and the Walterses were very helpful.

Over the next few days, they explored the neighborhood. They went to the park every day, and walked along streets lined with shops boasting the most beautiful things in the windows, and crowded with carriages the likes of which Hannah had only seen passing through Middleborough. The ladies dressed in splendid clothes, as did the gentlemen, and Hannah couldn’t help thinking that David’s attire, which had seemed so fine in Middleborough, was actually unremarkable here. London was a far cry from home.

Mrs. Walters volunteered that there was a market several streets away, and Hannah decided to take Molly. They borrowed a basket from the kitchen, Hannah made certain she had some money in her pocket, and they set out. They watched a puppet show, three times at Molly’s insistence, and then wandered through the stalls piled with vegetables and flowers and fruits. For the first time in years, Hannah didn’t have to shop for dinner; Mrs. Walters had already done it. It was rather nice to walk slowly and aimlessly through the market, and to hold Molly’s hand without having to scold her daughter to hurry. In the end they bought some strawberries from a fat woman near the opera house. The walk home was slow, because Molly was tired and dragged her feet, but finally Hannah cajoled her with the promise of tea and biscuits.

Molly dropped her shawl on the floor and began pulling at her bonnet the instant they were home. “I’m so hungry, Mama!” she declared, lifting the straw bonnet straight up with both hands. The bow caught under her chin, forcing it up.

“Be patient,” said Hannah, setting down her basket and pulling the bow loose. “There, you may go ask Mrs. Walters for your tea.”

“Thank you, Mama!” Molly flew toward the kitchen.

“Walking, Molly!” Without looking back, her daughter skidded to a halt and began taking tiny mincing steps. She rounded the corner and Hannah just shook her head with a smile as the tapping of Molly’s shoes accelerated to a run again. She hung up her shawl and

Molly’s, and was removing her own bonnet when Mr. Walters appeared, looking very uncertain. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon, ma’am, there’s someone to see you.”

“Oh?” Hannah didn’t know anyone in London. Could it be someone from home? “Thank you, Mr. Walters. Would you please take these to Mrs. Walters?” She touched her hair, smoothing down any windblown curls.

He took the basket of berries. “Yes, ma’am.” He cleared his throat again.

“Is your throat sore?” Hannah asked, concerned. His voice sounded very scratchy, too. “A cup of chamomile tea might help.” His smile looked sick and weak.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured. Hannah twitched her skirt into place, and went to the drawing room.

At her entrance, a tall man turned from the window. “Oh!” she said in pleased surprise. “I didn’t expect you back today.” She started toward him. He didn’t move. Hannah stopped, and took a closer look.

At first glance, he was the very image of David. A second glance revealed differences, though slight. His mouth was firmer, with none of the devilish grin that always curved David’s. His posture was straighter, his figure leaner, his hair shorter. And when he moved a step toward her, it was with a pantherlike grace, and not with David’s easy, ambling gait.

“Forgive me, sir,” apologized Hannah as his eyes narrowed on her. “I mistook you for someone else.” She hesitated, then moved forward. “I am Mrs. Pr—” Old habits died hard; she corrected herself, awkwardly, “Reece.”

He stared at her for a long moment, one hand behind his back, the other tapping a leather-bound book against his thigh. “David, I suppose,” he said at last. It was a frosty voice, smoother than David’s but more forceful. Hannah put up her chin.

“Yes,” she said. “You know him, then?”

A dry smile flickered, leaving his eyes unchanged. “Not as well as I once thought, but still better than you, I imagine.”

Hannah stiffened. “He’s not at home. I would be glad to tell him you called.”

The man tilted his head, scrutinizing her. “Are you still a virgin?” he asked abruptly.

Hannah would have gasped, had she not been so shocked. Her mouth fell open and she could only look at him in dumbfounded outrage.

“Never mind,” he sighed, casting his eyes upward. “It doesn’t matter. What has David promised you?”

She felt fully absolved of any obligation to be polite. “I think I must ask you to leave my house.”

He seemed amused by this. Another smile crooked his mouth. “Your house,” he repeated. “Indeed.”

“I’ll have Mr. Walters show you out.” Hannah turned her back on him and marched toward the door.

“I am Exeter,” he announced, as if this would explain everything. Hannah stopped, slowly turning back to face him.

“Shall I have Mr. Walters summon your carriage, Mr. Exeter?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes. “Not Mr. Exeter, girl, the duke of Exeter.”

“What do you want?” she snapped. No one had called her a girl for years. She was a woman of twenty-six, after all, and a wife and mother. This man must have some reason for calling on her, and while she couldn’t bring herself to be nice to him, she didn’t want to anger David by throwing out a duke, especially one who looked enough like him to be his brother.

“I wanted to see you. We shall have some dealings together, may God grant they be brief. What, precisely, did David tell you?”

“He told me nothing of you,” she retorted. “And I’m not surprised, based on what I’ve seen of your conduct and character.”

Something flared in his dark eyes. “My conduct and character?” he repeated. “You assault
my
conduct and character. That, madam, is the best joke I have heard all day.” He flipped open the book he held, his piercing gaze making her suddenly wary.

“Who are you?” She retreated a step as he started toward her, paging through the book, his eyes never leaving her.

“I,” he said with terrible precision, “am Marcus Edward Fitzwilliam Reece, duke of Exeter and elder brother, by ten minutes, to David Charles Fitzwilliam Reece.” He turned the book around and thrust it forward so she could see it.

Her mouth went dry as Hannah recognized the register from the Middleborough parish church. She saw her own name, Hannah Jane Preston, halfway down the page, just as she had signed it five days previously. But the signature beside it…

“And according to the register of this parish of Middleborough, and therefore, according to the Church of England…”

Not the name David Charles Fitzwilliam Reece, but written in a precise, sharp hand… the name Marcus Edward Fitzwilliam Reece.

“I am your husband.”

She stared at it for a moment in shock. Then she pushed the book aside and met his hard gaze. “That’s impossible. Just because your name is there—you are not!”

He closed the book with a loud snap. “But it complicates things enormously, and will cause me a great deal of trouble to correct. So I ask you again, what did David promise you? Tell me now so we can settle and you can go back to wherever you came from.”

Hannah couldn’t decide whom she was more furious with, David or his insufferable brother. “Please leave,” she said through her teeth. “I will not stand here and be insulted in my own house.” She remembered too late it wasn’t actually her house.

He smiled sardonically. “Ah, yes, your house.
Your
house, as you like to call it, belongs to me. The last woman who lived here and called it her own was my mistress. Are you sleeping in her room, madam? How do you like Monique’s taste? I never cared much for all that pink myself.”

Hannah’s mouth dropped open again, in shock and rage that David had put her child to sleep on sheets last used by this arrogant, pompous, fornicating beast. Never in her life had she wanted so much to hit someone. Another thin smile crossed his face. “David didn’t tell you that, either? Pity.”

“If you won’t leave, I will.” Hannah whirled and stormed toward the door. She didn’t stop when he spoke, but she couldn’t help but hear his sharp command.

“I expect your trunks packed and ready to leave at dawn.” Hannah paused, hand on the knob.

“David’s country home,” she said to the door. “Is that also yours?”

“David’s hunting box? No, that’s all his. Is that where he seduced you?” Hannah opened the door and slammed it behind her with a satisfying crash. She went to the kitchen, shaking with anger. Molly, standing on a chair in front of the table, looked over and her eyes lit up.

“Mama! I’ve made a loaf!” She patted a mound of bread dough in front of her. “It’s got cinnamon in it!” she whispered with a smile. “Mrs. Walters says it will taste so good with butter on!”

Hannah forced her mouth to turn up. The cook took one look at her face and turned away. “That’s lovely, dear. Mrs. Walters, may I speak to you for a moment?” The woman nodded, wiping her hands with great care on her apron. Hannah beckoned her over to the corner, away from Molly’s curious ears. “Who owns this house?”

Mrs. Walters cleared her throat. “Well, His Grace does. But once Lord David returns and explains, every-thing will be fine. Don’t worry your head about it.”

Hannah controlled herself with difficulty. She had a feeling none of them would see David anytime soon. “And your last—” She stopped, shying away from the word
mistress
. “Who lived here last?”

Mrs. Walters grimaced. “A Frenchwoman. Impossible to please and vain as Lucifer. Glad to see the back of her, I was.”

Hannah nodded. Enough of it was true that the fine points didn’t matter. David had lied to her and played her for a fool. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have walked into this?

“Ma’am, don’t despair, truly. His Grace is a gruff one, sure he is, but he’s a fair man. And he’s right devoted to his family.” Mrs. Walters’s round face creased with concern.

Hannah let out her breath carefully. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to call David a very rude name to his face. She wanted to scream and cry in humiliation and anger. Instead she met Molly’s wide brown eyes over the cook’s shoulder, and swallowed her fury. “Thank you, Mrs. Walters.”

“Pleased as plum pudding I was, to meet you,” whispered the now-beaming woman. “A sensible woman is just what every rogue needs. Chin up, dear; Lord David was wrong to leave you here to face the duke, but he’ll set things right when he returns.”

Hannah forced another smile. Mrs. Walters patted her hand, and bustled back to her baking.

Hannah left Molly in the kitchen and went up the stairs to the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and covered her face with both hands. What was she to do now? How could David have tricked her so? How could she have allowed herself be tricked? What has seemed too good to be true was, of course, not true at all. A handsome, well-to-do gentleman crashing into her life to sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his elegant London town house? She should have known better.

But why, she wanted to scream. Why would David do such a thing? What had it gained him? She hadn’t tumbled into his bed, or brought him anything like a dowry. She pressed the heels of her trembling hands into her eyes. The only thing David had done was turn her life upside down. And anger his brother, she supposed, which must have been his intent all along.

She uncovered her face and swiped at her eyes. There was nothing to do but return home. She was a passable seamstress and cook; perhaps she could find employment and take a room somewhere. She would tell everyone David had died, she decided in a spurt of malice, died very violently. She would have no trouble thinking of some terrible fate for him.

She went to the wardrobe and began pulling out her things. The sooner she and Molly left London, the better.

Marcus tossed the register on the carriage seat beside him, wishing it were his wretched brother’s head. David would pay dearly for this. The woman had looked shocked to see him, and she hadn’t taken the bait when he offered to settle the accounts, but she would. He wouldn’t give her a choice. The sooner she left London, the better.