What A Gentleman Wants (11 page)

Hannah sighed. “He’s gone away. I don’t know when he’ll be back, or if we’ll be here when he returns.”

“But I thought we were going to live with him now, and he would be my new papa.”

Hannah felt a fresh burst of anger. “I was wrong. He’s changed his mind.” She kissed Molly on the forehead. “Now, close your eyes and rest. You’ll have plenty of time to explore when you wake.”

“We aren’t leaving tomorrow, are we, Mama?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Hannah got up and headed for the door. That was another good reason to leave as soon as possible; the longer she stayed, the harder it would be on her daughter when they left. Molly’s sleepy voice made her pause with her hand on the knob.

“I hope we stay. I like it here.” with another yawn, she closed her eyes and put her finger in her mouth. Hannah opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Her gaze flitted over the painted ceiling, the carved furniture, the yards of silk on the walls. A very small part of her also liked it here, just a little. Who wouldn’t like to live like a queen—or a duchess—even for just a little while?

She shook off the thought. She couldn’t indulge in such nonsense. No matter how nice the house was, no matter how kind Rosalind and Celia were, she didn’t belong here, and it would be better for them all if she didn’t stay. The very luxury of this life drove home the point: it was best not to get too accustomed to things she couldn’t have. She looked down at herself, not surprised to see cake crumbs and jam smeared on her plain wool traveling dress. That was her life, not this silk-covered, marble cool existence.

Someone had unpacked her things, the gray and black dresses discreedy moved to the back of a large wardrobe in the corner. She only had two other dresses, her best blue muslin and a warm winter one of red wool. She changed into the blue one, feeling a little bit better once she was clean and neat once again. She took a quick peek in the mirror, tucking a stray curl behind one ear, then slipped quietly from the room and went in search of the duke.

The duke of Exeter spent every day the same way: working at his desk. He ate his breakfast there while he read the freshly ironed papers. After breakfast, his secretary brought the post, sorted according to urgency and nature, and Marcus dictated his replies. While his secretary withdrew to copy the correspondence, he met with his estate agents, solicitors, bankers, or any other employees as necessary. Then the secretary would return with his correspondence to sign, after which the buder served luncheon, also at his desk. Discipline and order were the hallmarks of a responsible man, after all, and Marcus made a point of being disciplined and orderly.

Or rather, he tried to make it a point.

The sudden illness of his secretary, the efficient Mr. Cole, had turned Marcus’s well-ordered days on their head. Instead of Mr. Cole, he now had young Roger Adams, who was a cousin of Mr. Cole’s. Mr. Adams wrote a fine hand and was eager to please, but these appeared to be his sole qualifications for the position. Adams sorted invitations to musicales and
soirees
with truly important letters. Adams lost track of which bills

Marcus supported in Parliament, and presented any and all petitions in favor of opposing bills. Adams always seemed to have more things in his hands than he could handle, tended to clear his throat too much, and, most damning, he had neglected to notify Marcus immediately when David’s letter had arrived, despite explicit instructions to do just that

Today, of course, order had been flung out the window, and he’d lost the entire morning with the to-do over the vicar’s wife, but there was still work to be done and Marcus was doing his best to proceed as usual. Adams was as well; once again he was stumbling over an apology, this time for accepting an invitation to Lady Morley’s hunt, which Marcus had no intention of attending. Marcus stared at him in stony silence until the secretary finally stammered himself out and just sat there, ears red.

“Mr. Adams.”

“
Yes
, Your Grace?” The young man breathed like a cornered fox.

“You may send Lady Morley a regretful note informing her that an unexpected obligation will prevent me from attending the hunt.”

Adams bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. I shall make clear it was my mistake—”

“No.” Marcus wished intensely that Cole would come back to work. “It would be rude to imply that I only accepted her invitation in error. Make no mention of it. Just send my regrets.” The last came out rather harshly, and Adams paled. Marcus wanted to throw up his hands in despair. No doubt Adams would botch the whole thing more than he already had, and Marcus would have to write the damn note himself. What was really the point of having a secretary if he had to do everything himself?

Adams nodded again, shuffling his pile of papers.

Some of them slid to the floor, and Adams ducked to get them, knocking more off in the process. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he murmured. “Your pardon…”

There was a faint tap at the door. “Enter,” Marcus snapped as the hapless Adams lost his hold on more papers. He rubbed his forehead wearily, debating whether to sack his secretary on the spot or wait until he had finished the day’s correspondence. A soft throat clearing broke his thoughts.

His supposed wife stood just inside the door. Thank God she’d left off wearing that drab gray. Marcus disliked women in dull colors, particularly if they had any looks at all, and this one, surprisingly, did. Her deep blue dress was simple but flattering, and played up the warm tones of her skin. Her dark curls were pulled back, emphasizing the graceful lines of her neck and shoulders, even bare as they were of jewelry. Sadly, her eyes remained unchanged; if anything, she looked more ready than ever to defy him.

“Might I have a word, sir?” she asked. Adams leaped to his feet, trampling letters and invitations without care. He goggled at her for a moment before sweeping a bow that wouldn’t be seen even in court. Marcus closed his eyes in disgust.

“Of course. Adams, stand up.”

“Madam, pray forgive me,” babbled his incompetent secretary, bowing and scraping, strewing papers all over the rug. He sent a desperate glance his employer’s way. Marcus let him suffer. They were working, or trying to, and whatever she had to say could wait

“Perhaps in a few minutes,” he said to her. “I’ll attend you soon in the library.”

Her posture stiffened. “Of course,” she said, dipping into a subservient curtsey. “Pray forgive my intrusion, my lord.” She curtseyed again, and this time Adams looked at him curiously. Marcus cursed under his breath. She had to go out of her way to show him up, did she?

“Stay,” he barked as she turned to leave. “Adams, a moment.” With a nervous smile at her, the secretary fled, closing the door with a bang. The man could not remember the simplest directions. Marcus turned a frigid gaze on the intruder.

“What must you say that simply could not wait?” he drawled, leaning back and lacing his fingers together across his stomach.

Hannah glared right back. The duke’s secretary might be afraid of him, but she wasn’t, not after the day she’d had already. It had taken her a long time to track him down, after being waylaid by Rosalind about the dressmaker yet again, Molly waking up bursting with energy, then luncheon served in a cathedral-like dining room by a regiment of silent servants. Thankfully Celia had taken Molly off to explore the house yet again, and Hannah had finally appealed to Rosalind for help in locating the duke, help Rosalind was all too happy to give. Hannah could see the woman was thoroughly over the moon about her stepson being married. Too bad it wouldn’t be for long.

“If you cannot be appealed to with reason,” she began briskly, “perhaps money will work. Your step-mother intends to start shopping for a wardrobe befitting a duchess. Immediately. Unless you tell her differently, or allow me to, she is going to spend a great deal of your money.
Hundreds
of pounds.” The amount was a wild guess, but Hannah had no idea how much a silk ball gown would cost, let alone the fur-trimmed cloaks and satin slippers Rosalind had mentioned with such enuiusiasm.

“And you object?” His expression didn’t change in the least.

“Surely
you
do,” she exclaimed. “It will be a waste of money!”

He lifted one shoulder. “Not yours. Is it your concern at all?”

“It most certainly is! How can I deceive her like this? She already wants to discuss plans for a ball—here! If you let her buy the clothes, next she’ll be ordering orchids! And that doesn’t even approach what she’s contemplating for a wedding. A legal one this time!” Hannah wanted to shake the man, she was so angry.

He sighed, watching her as if she sorely tried his patience. “Let Rosalind and Celia do what they will,” he said in a voice one would use on a slow-witted child. “It is my money, my house, and my family. Pretend you enjoy it, or sulk about it, I don’t care. I warn you, though, I don’t want them to learn the truth, and if you think to force it from me, you should reconsider. Push me, and I will push back, harder than you expect.”

“You are asking too much,” she said, her voice shaking. His flat gaze didn’t waver.

“All I ask is that you keep one fact to yourself. So long as you act moderately like a duchess, everyone will treat you as such. I would rather not have to make a display of husbandly discipline.”

Hannah’s lips parted, then clamped together in outrage. Husbandly discipline! Of all the nerve! “As you wish, my lord,” she said through her teeth, whirling to go.

“Your Grace,” he said distinctly. Hannah froze. What did that mean? She turned, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “One addresses a duke, or a duchess, as ‘Your Grace,”“ he said. ”Never ’my lord‘ or ’my lady.“”

Hannah’s temper started a slow burn at the reprimand. She had never known, nor expected to know, a duke. She did not even want to know this one. She turned all the way around again, raising her chin. “I was accustomed to calling my husband by his given name.”

He made a small motion of impatience. “Very well. I give you leave to call me Exeter.”

“That is your title, not your name,” she said.

“That is who I am,” he said, his voice even colder than before. “I will not permit anything more intimate.”

Hannah cocked her head. “Very well. The next time Rosalind comments on our distant address, I shall tell her it’s because we’re not intimate.”

He came to his feet in the blink of an eye. “You will
not
discuss our relations with her.”

“Why not? That’s all she wants to talk about. How did we meet, how did you win my heart, when did I first know I loved you?” Hannah began to enjoy taunting him. She widened her eyes innocently and smiled a little. “Besides, won’t it make her more understanding when I leave, if she believes our marriage devoid of intimacy?” That should take some starch out of his arrogance, and wouldn’t he be the better for it.

Marcus couldn’t believe her nerve. Not only asking to call him by his given name—something no one save his family dared—but threatening him with this! She had no dowry, no property, no name, no breeding, no standing at all; the only possible reason for a man in his position to wed someone in her position was love, or desire. He had no problem with people thinking him incapable of the first, but no man in town would believe him innocent of the last, especially not with that sly, coquettish look on her face.

He circled her, studying her with new attention. Her figure, though not extravagant, was pleasing— quite pleasing, to tell the truth. When she wasn’t glaring at him, her eyes were fine, and he remembered the smile that had lit her face the first moment he saw her. She was a reasonably attractive woman, and Marcus wasn’t about to suffer the ton’s amusement at the news that he would marry her and then not bed her.

He stopped behind her, so close her skirt brushed his boots. She had endured his perusal without a word, but when she started to turn, he laid his hand on the back of her neck to stop her, his thumb brushing the soft wisps of dark curls. Her skin was soft and warm, touched with golden color. “What else were you accustomed to doing with your husband?” he murmured in her ear. She felt surprisingly nice under his hands, and Marcus smoothed his other palm over her shoulder before he could think better of it. “Perhaps it would be more natural for you to call me by my given name if we were more… intimate.”

Hannah jerked away, appalled at the way her skin tingled where he had touched her. He had lovely hands, large and strong, and capable of shocking gen-deness. If only he had any similar gentleness in his character… Then what? What would it matter, if he were kinder? Nothing, that’s what, especially since it was a fancy anyway. He had just suggested—“How dare you!”

His eyes smoldered, with anger, she assumed. “You were the one who broached our intimate relations.”

“We do not have intimate relations!” she hissed. “Nor will we! You are not my husband.”

“What has that got to do with intimate relations?” He stepped forward, meaning to intimidate her, but she stayed where she was, chin high, eyes blazing with defiance.

“You’re right,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t invite you to my bed even if you were my husband.”

“But if I were your husband,” he said in a soft growl, “it would be my duty to seduce you, wouldn’t it?” And the look he gave her, as if he might be contemplating it right now, sparked an awful feeling in her stomach— not outrage, but worse:
curiosity
.

As Hannah stood there, just as appalled by her reaction as she was by his suggestion, salvation came. There was a soft scratch at the door.

“Come,” said the duke. Flushed, Hannah stepped back, turning to hide her burning face from whomever was at the door. The door opened, then the butler’s calm, quiet voice said, “Mr. Joseph Braden to see you, Your Grace.”

The duke frowned. Hannah gasped. They both stared at the butler, then the duke said sharply, “Who?”

“Mr. Joseph Braden,” repeated Harper. His eyes flickered toward Hannah for a split second. “He claims to be Her Grace’s father.”

That frosty gaze turned on her. She moistened her lips nervously. “Yes,” she said. “He is.” The duke’s eyebrow went up slightly as he looked at her suspiciously. She took a step toward the door. “I—I’ll see him.”