How to Deceive a Duke (20 page)

Chapter 45

“H
ector!”

At Flora’s panicked scream, he dropped his pen and ran from his study to the breakfast room. Flora’s sobs were loud enough to be heard all over the house. He passed a footman in the hall.

“I swear, sir, all I did was take Her Ladyship the post!”

“Never mind. Summon her maid, and fetch the hartshorn.”

He burst into the breakfast room to find Flora holding a letter. She waved it at him like a flag.

“It’s a letter from Rose! She’s in Scotland of all places. She’s married herself to a sailor and now she wants to come home.”

“A sailor?” Hector took the letter and scanned it.

“My daughters will be the death of me yet, Hector. My poor nerves cannot stand much more of this, and I still have two at home to marry off. A sailor! It couldn’t be worse. He’s a cabin boy or something. How can he hope to support her, an earl’s daughter, the family beauty? Now he’s abandoned her and taken ship for who knows where.”

Hector finished the letter and set it on the table. “It’s not as bad as all that, Flora.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured her a small sherry. “He’s hardly a cabin boy. He’s just made lieutenant, and his father is an admiral. Admiral Winters.”

Flora blinked. “An admiral?” She swallowed the sherry at a gulp.

“It says his family has an estate near Glasgow. Rose is there with Edward’s mother and sisters, but they’re planning to come south for a visit. Won’t that be nice?”

“Edward?” Flora asked. “Is that his name?” She folded her hands. “She married without me there. My eldest child. And Marguerite’s marriage is a disaster, one scandal after the other. My nerves are worn out. Perhaps I should go home to the peace and quiet of Wycliffe Park.”

“Probably a very good idea. You can get some rest,” he said sympathetically, hoping he didn’t sound eager.

“But that would be cowardice, wouldn’t it?” she mused. “Leaving you to face the scandals alone. Marguerite and Rose will need me nearby.” She refilled her sherry. “No, I cannot leave. We must face this together. Lady Emerson’s musicale is tonight, and I know she invited me in hopes of winkling out the latest details of Nicholas and Meg’s marriage, and if we don’t attend the musicale, any tales that
are
told would be all the worse. Do you see?”

“Not at all,” he murmured. “Why don’t I send Lady Emerson your regrets, and arrange for you to leave for Wycliffe this afternoon?”

The footman entered with another note on a tray. “It’s another note for Her Ladyship,” he whispered nervously.

Flora put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, Hector, you read it. I cannot stand the shock of more news of any kind today.”

Hector opened the letter and scanned it. “Good God!” He shot to his feet.

“What now?” Flora cried.

Hector took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “It’s from Meg. She drugged Nicholas with the laudanum you gave her and carried him off to Wycliffe. According to her letter, she intends to keep him prisoner until he does his husbandly duty and gets her with ch—”

“Does this mean an annulment is a possibility yet again?” Flora asked. “Only now he could annul her, and the scandal would be ours once again, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t think Temberlay will take kindly to being kidnapped. Meg may have gone too far.”

Flora folded her arms. “Yet if he did such a thing, drugged her and carried her off, it would be viewed as romantic and quite acceptable! If not for that actress—”

“The fact remains that polite people do not kidnap their spouses and carry them off at all.” Hector interrupted what promised to be a long tirade. “Especially ladies.”

“Why?” Flora demanded.

“Because ladies are meek and gentle and—”

“I meant why did Marguerite kidnap Temberlay?”

“The letter says she wishes to be rid of him for good.”

“Rid of him? No she doesn’t. If she wanted to be rid of him she should have drugged him, locked him in a trunk, and sent him to sea. But to take him to Wycliffe?” She rose from her seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do.”

“Do you wish to go home after all?” he asked. “Shall I order the coach?”

“And invade a honeymoon? Of course not! I must remain in London. I’ll need to see the modiste at once, order a new wardrobe if Rose is coming to visit. I can’t have her relatives thinking I’m a bumpkin!”

She sailed out and Hector sighed. Rose was back, Meg had abducted her husband, and Flora was planning a new wardrobe to meet the results of both in style.

The Lynton ladies never ceased to surprise him.

Chapter 46

“H
is Grace and I will be breakfasting alone,” Meg announced, entering the dining room moments behind Nicholas. She looked every inch a duchess to be reckoned with, but he noted that she avoided looking at him as she issued instructions. He took a seat at the head of the table and waited.

“Amy, you may leave the food on the sideboard and take the girls into the kitchen for their meal.”

“But Meg, they’ve been looking forward to eating with Nick, and I—”

She sent the housekeeper a quelling look. “You will call him Your Grace.”

“He said not to,” John said. Everyone turned to look at Nicholas, awaiting confirmation, but he held his tongue, kept his eyes on his wife.

“He is a guest here. I am in charge,” she said calmly.

He gave her a disarming smile, watched her color, though her firm expression didn’t change.”

“John, you have my word I won’t try to escape. And Amy, I promise to eat every bite on my plate.”

“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” John grumbled as he closed the door.

“Who do you think he was talking to, you or me?” Nicholas asked. The chair creaked under him, in need of glue. The room was spotless, but nearly bare of furnishings and decoration. She crossed to the sideboard and began to fill two plates. In her London finery, she was as out of place here as he was. Looking around, he realized he might have done exactly the same thing she had to stop the slow and dreadful slide into poverty.

“Yes, everyone is on your side,” Meg said bitterly. Her hands were shaking as she set the plates down.

“This is hardly about sides, Maggie. You look lovely this morning, by the way,” he complimented her.

To his surprise she set her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned down to kiss him. He drew a sharp breath and met her lips. She was tentative, careful, as she let her tongue dart in to touch his, before she backed away.

“That’s not how I taught you to kiss. I know you can do better than that.” He caressed her cheek, and she turned her face into his palm, let her eyes drift shut.

“Show me again,” she said, her voice husky. He dragged her into his lap, ignoring the groan of protest from the chair. He tangled his hand in her hair, loosened the careful coiffure, intent on giving her the kind of kiss that she’d never, ever forget. One that proved to her that she was beautiful, desirable, his.

It wasn’t that he was any more willing to play her game now than he was last night, but what could possibly happen here in the dining room?

But he was as intoxicated as she was. He groaned at the sweetness of her mouth, her eagerness. He nipped at her lips, sucked them, tickled the sensitive inner surfaces with his tongue. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed closer, her hands in his hair, on his face, sliding into his shirt.

He wanted to shove the breakfast dishes off the table and lay her down, devour her like one of those damned sweet rolls, tease her, taste her, and sate the insatiable desire he felt for this stubborn, difficult, incomparable woman. She wriggled in his lap, and he felt her hands on the buttons of his breeches.

His resolve cracked. He began to work at the delicate shell buttons that closed the bodice of her gown. He slipped his hand in to cup the heat of her breast, and she sighed.

But then she shifted again, trying to put her leg over the arm of the chair. The old joints squealed a warning, bringing him back to his senses.

“Maggie, what are you doing?” he asked. She was panting, but only because her foot was tangled in the chair.

“The book showed a man sitting and a woman on top,” she muttered. “How does—”

He untangled her foot, lifted her, and set her on her feet. He rose himself and stepped away from her. She stared at him, her lips kiss swollen, her bodice open, her hair in loose curls around her face. He clenched his hands behind his back to keep from reaching for her.

“The chair has arms, sweetheart. It wouldn’t be impossible, of course, but difficult for a novice like you. It was a very nice try, though, but may I suggest you start with something simpler, like apologizing and coming back to London with me?”

She lifted her chin. “To watch you with other women?”

He buttoned his breeches and went to the door. John was waiting outside.

“Lock me up, my friend,” he said.

M
eg slumped into the chair he’d just vacated. She’d almost had him. It hadn’t been difficult at all. Her body had been on fire for him the moment she’d walked into the room and set eyes on him, handsome, freshly shaved, devastating to her firm determination to insist that he follow her upstairs as soon as he’d eaten and do his duty. She remembered how it felt to wake up next to him in bed, touching him.

Mortification prickled her skin. She was a fool. He didn’t love her, could never love her, and still she wanted him. Her desire for him went beyond the dowager’s ultimatum, though she couldn’t afford to ignore that.

She knew what would happen if they returned to London. He’d proven he could charm anyone. Unfortunately, it didn’t include her, and she could not stand by and watch him . . . She fought back tears. Her mind whirled with thoughts, erotic, naughty, petty, jealous little thoughts.

Things she’d never felt before. But she’d imagined them, when she’d looked at the caricatures of his handsome face. But this wasn’t love. It was supposed to be a business arrangement. Had she truly thought this marriage would be that easy?

She had to think of another way, and start again.

Chapter 47

“I
hate to have to lock you up, Nick—Your Grace—but Meg will have my guts for stockings if I don’t,” John said as he led Nicholas back upstairs. “If you left her in a temper, then she’ll probably clean the whole house this morning, if I know our Meg.”

Nicholas glanced at him. “Meg does the housework?”

“She does everything since His Lordship died. She calmed the rest of ’em, dried their tears, buried her da, and took over running the place, and under the circumstances, you might have expected her to fall to grief first, and harder than the others. She’s a strong lass, and a smart one—”

“Under what circumstances? Nicholas asked, pausing on the landing where the three wings of the house joined.

John frowned. “She found him. The day after His Lordship sold the horses. She went out to the stable to talk to him, and there he was. He hanged himself in one of the stalls.”

Nicholas felt his stomach cave in.

“She cut him down, even though she was just a lass. I found her trying to revive him.” He wiped away a tear. “Saddest thing I ever saw. She told me not to let the others see him, not to tell what had happened. She told her mother that he’d fallen, hit his head.” He sighed. “She was different after that, not a girl anymore. She grew up overnight, took charge, got the rest of ’em through it, with no one at all to comfort her.”

He looked fiercely at Nicholas. “Ye’ll take good care of her, won’t you? God knows she needs someone to do it, and ye seem like a good man. Don’t let her down, Nick. The others are silly, vain creatures, but Meg is the best of ’em.”

Numb with shock, Nicholas climbed the rest of the stairs. He let John unlock the door to the earl’s bedchamber, and walked in. He stood in the center of the room and stared at the empty walls, at the last miserable vestiges of Wycliffe’s life.

“I swear she’ll never want for anything, John.”

“She doesn’t need pretty gowns or money or rings, Nick. She needs someone to love her. The earl was a fool, if you’ll forgive my being so bold—she’d never let me say such a thing about him—but he never saw the worth in her, called her his ugly duck while he petted the others.”

How could any man alive think Meg was worthless or ugly?

“She’s safe with me, John.”

John got out the key. “I’d better lock you in, Nick. No doubt the lasses and Amy will be up to see you before long. You’ve given a bit of life to the old place again. It’s a nice thing to see.”

The key turned in the lock, leaving him in silence.

Chapter 48

N
icholas cursed Wycliffe. How could a man do such a thing to his family, to Meg? He preached the sanctity of womanhood, the need for women to be protected and honored, and he’d ruined Meg’s young life, left his burdens on her shoulders, with no training, no knowledge of the world.

And she had borne it.

He shut his eyes, ashamed of himself. She didn’t need him to teach her lessons. She could teach him a thing or two.

His wedding day had been the luckiest day of his life.

He crossed to the bookshelves, glanced at the titles, thinking of what he’d say to her when next she came to him.

Every book on the shelf was about morality, manners, and self-denial. He pulled out the only book that didn’t make him feel ill at the man’s hypocrisy, a folio of paintings of Thoroughbred horses.

The watercolors were magnificent. The Wycliffe Arabian was a stallion with rolling eyes, pulling against the groom who held him. Another portrait titled
Lady Arabella and Foal
showed a beautiful mare with soft dark eyes, her face maternal. A young girl in pink held the foal’s bridle, her hair a mass of blond curls. Another child held the mare, and he could see that the artist had changed the hair, painted over the russet locks, tried to make them as golden as her sister’s. He cursed Wycliffe again.

A sheet of paper fluttered from between the leaves of the book, landed at his feet. He picked it up.

It was a bill of sale for the three horses, describing them as prime Arab hot bloods. Such horses were usually worth a king’s ransom, and the price they should have fetched would have made Wycliffe rich, but he’d sold them for a pittance, a quarter of their true worth.

Nicholas looked at the signatures at the bottom of the page.

Wycliffe’s was a shaky scrawl.

The buyer’s signature was crisp, clear, and purposeful.

Lord Charles Wilton.

N
icholas used a fork he’d purloined from last night’s dinner to pull the nails out of the shutters, rage burning in his chest. Did Meg know? Was Hector Bryant aware that his stepbrother had been cheated by Wilton? The answers lay in London, along with the chance to revenge yet another sin Wilton was guilty of.

He pulled open the shutters, stared out at the facade of Wycliffe as he donned a riding cloak before climbing out the window. He tossed his hat down to the lawn and followed it, descending by windowsills and broad lips of stone to the ground.

He peered around the edge of the building, wondering where the stables were, and followed a low stone wall to a kitchen garden and a small orchard. From there, a gravel path led to the stables.

The stables were in better condition than the house itself and more modern. The earl’s pride in his horses was evident.

He hoped they’d stabled Hannibal inside, and he wasn’t out in some distant pasture, filling his belly with country clover.

He was also concerned he’d meet John out here somewhere and have to explain himself, but there wasn’t a soul in the garden, not even a dog to bark a warning as he entered the cool dimness of the stable.

He imagined Meg coming through this door and finding her father. He could see the scars on the oak beam above one of the stalls where the rope had bitten into the wood. An engraved brass plaque labeled the stall as the former home of the Wycliffe Arabian.

Hannibal stood in the luxurious space now.

His stallion was ignoring him, his eyes on the mare across the cobbles. She was a healthy, well-kept bay meant for ordinary duty. She regarded Nicholas with cool suspicion. Another mare was stabled next to her.

At the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, he ducked into the stall next to Hannibal’s and crouched.

“Hello, my beauties,” Meg greeted the horses softly. “And Hannibal too of course. I’m sure you’ve got the girls all a-twitter like your master, don’t you?”

He heard the crunch of an apple. Hannibal liked apples.

She crossed and took a saddle off the wall, and opened the first mare’s stall. “You like him, don’t you? He
is
a handsome devil,” she whispered to the mare, and Hannibal snorted proudly. “But he’s not for the likes of you. He’s used to a finer type of lass.” She sighed. “Only a London beauty—or two or three—will do for him.”

Nicholas shut his eyes, his stomach sinking at the bitterness in her voice. How could she honestly believe he didn’t want her? He stared up at the scarred beam.

He’d never told her.

He couldn’t now. Not until he could right some of the wrongs in her life, prove himself worthy of her.

He waited while she saddled the mare, and led her out to the yard. He watched as she swung up onto the horse and rode out.

He saddled Hannibal quickly. The stallion didn’t need coaxing. As soon as Nicholas mounted, he set off at a gallop after Meg and the mare.

The road to London lay on his right. He only needed to point Hannibal in that direction, leap the hedge and be gone.

But Meg had taken the path to the left, toward the woods. He could see her galloping across an open field, riding low over the horse’s neck. She slipped her leg astride the mare, and the wind caught her hair, unfurled it like a battle flag. Desire caught him in the chest, made him gasp.

He turned Hannibal to chase her.