What a Duke Wants (13 page)

The knot in her belly grew larger, filling her chest. It was hard to breathe.

There was so little she could do.

Hooves sounded again. There was another horse coming down the road.

She tried to shrink herself even farther behind the hedge.

Her fears that it was her mystery pursuer grew as she realized that the rider was coming from the direction of the inn.

It was not the man in blue returning.

She couldn’t see much beyond the fact that it was a single rider in a dark coat. As with the man in blue, he paused on the rise and looked about. He muttered to himself, the words almost indistinguishable. “Slut . . . duke . . . have my head . . . London . . .”

Had Mark sent him to find her? She held her breath until he pounded off down the road.

No, it was more probable that he’d heard about her and Strattington. The whole inn had been abuzz when she’d left. Several men had made her offers as she’d crept out into the night. She pushed that thought away, as she had so many others.

Her last pursuer was the whisperer. She was sure of it.

Tightening her fists until nails ground into flesh she tried to breathe, tried to make the knot loosen enough to pull in a single gulp of air. And then another. And another.

One breath at a time, she would survive.

Finally, when she was sure he was gone, she gave herself a shake and stood. She was being silly again. Well, not so silly given that she was clearly being pursued by not one but two groups and at least one of them knew about Foxworthy.

Brushing at the mud on her skirts, she told herself to be sensible. She had no money and no place to go, more immediate worries at this moment than whether she might be sought in Foxworthy’s death.

She didn’t even know which direction to head—to continue away from London and risk running into Blue Coat or to turn around and head toward Town? Looking one way and then the other, she hesitated.

There was no right answer.

Maybe if she just sat here for an hour or two an answer would come.

As if her thoughts were heard, the pound and rattle of a carriage echoed in her ears. Her knees ached as she tucked back down, heart pounding. She peered through the leaves.

Her heart missed a full beat; the knot eased—slightly.

It was the duke’s. Mark had come.

No, not Mark. Strattington.

Even before she finished the thought she stood and began to walk back toward the road.

It was the sensible thing to do, the only possible choice, she told herself. The duke you knew was better than the stranger you didn’t.

M
ark sighed with relief as he saw Isabella suddenly emerge from the brush and walk down the ridge to the road. She had been hiding from something, but apparently it was not he.

So why had she left without telling him? Did she not trust him? He had told her he would care for her.

She had found out that he was Strattington. He could see it in her unforgiving posture; her rigid shoulders and drawn lips spoke of great anger.

Damn, he should have told her. He would have told her if they had not been interrupted.

What woman would not be happy to find her lover was a duke?

Judging by the way she was stomping down the hill he had found the one.

Fury rose off her in almost visible waves.

Stopping about ten feet from the carriage Isabella waited, glaring at the open window. It was dark in the carriage and he doubted she could see in clearly, but she knew he was here.

The bruise still marked her cheek. He should not have let Mrs. Wattington off so easily.

Mark ran his fingers through his hair, messing the neatly combed waves. Divers would have a fit. He stared back at Isabella as she stood there waiting. She was not coming any closer.

He pushed the door open. She did not move.

With a sigh, he swung out of the carriage.

Still, she came no closer. She stared at him, measured him. He could feel her considering him as a duke and not merely a man.

He stepped forward. “Are you coming?”

Startled at the abruptness of his question. Her lips drew tight, but she nodded. “I have no choice, do I?”

Did she? He didn’t know. He could give her money, but that would not assure her safety—and he needed her safe almost as much as he needed her.

She took a step forward, coming nearer. “You came back. This is not the way to London and the king.”

It was his time to purse his lip, unsure how to respond to her hostility. “No, it is not. Come.”

He stepped back, placing a foot on the step to the carriage. He waved her forward.

She looked straight into his face, but he could see her judge his whole appearance. “I’ll ride on the box with the driver. It is more fitting.”

Chapter 13

I
t was a lovely day. Lush green fields sped by on either side. Lazy cows strolled up to stone fences, their mooing lost beneath the rattle of the wheels. The sun was bright, but not too hot. Sitting on top of the speeding carriage, Isabella found the breeze most refreshing. She raised her face into the wind and let it whip by her.

It kept her from crying—or screaming. It was hard to be sure which emotion would win out.

She’d turned her fear to anger when she’d faced Strattington before getting on the carriage, but now. . .

Now she felt like she’d put her whole self in a basket and set it upon the waters only to have it sink.

And it was all his fault.

Her eyes began to water again, and she turned even more directly into the wind. If her eyes teared it was only because there was grit from the road. It had nothing to do with Mark—Strattington. Nothing to do with her fears for the future.

Damn him. Damn him. She would not be reduced to acting like this. She searched for the fury again, and wrapped it about herself like a cloak. Anger was strength—and she would be strong.

Not that anyone would care anyway, not the driver, not Divers, and not—not Strattington. It was all too clear what they thought. If Douglas had been here he might at least have given her a smile. He’d seemed to like her.

That sounded like self-pity. She pulled in one deep breath, and then another. It was time to show him just what she was made of.

A sudden knock from below startled her. Without so much as a glance in her direction, the driver slowed the horses and pulled to the side of the road. The door swung wide before the groom could climb down and open it.

Strattington stepped into the sunlight. He blinked as the bright light hit his face, but then stared straight up at her.

She stared back, letting the anger build within her, preparing to show him just how she felt.

Strattington pointed into the carriage. “Divers, out,” he addressed the interior.

Then he pointed up at Isabella. “You, get down and get in. We need to talk.” Without saying another word he stepped away and waited. He really was a duke.

Divers was out of the coach and climbing up to the seat before Isabella could even blink. “Don’t think too highly of yourself,” the valet whispered as he slipped beside her.

Damn Strattington. Did Mark think he could order her about this way? Yes, he did, and the problem was that he could. And they did need to talk, to settle things between them.

She suppressed her feelings of powerlessness and somewhat slowly, being clear that she was unwilling, she climbed down. She did not immediately get into the carriage but walked back and forth stretching her legs. She did not look at Strattington. He would see that two could play these silly games.

He coughed but she paid no attention.

Snorting his understanding of her actions, he climbed back in himself—and waited.

It would have been nice to make him wait all afternoon, but she needed this settled before they reached Town.

With some reluctance she climbed into the carriage and sat carefully across from him, facing backward. He sprawled on his bench, legs wide, arms relaxed. He appeared not to have a care in the world. She gritted her teeth.

Silence held until the coach began to move. The world passed by quickly outside the window. At least he didn’t insist on riding in total darkness like Mrs. Wattington. But there was no Joey to distract her either. Oh, how she missed him.

No. That was self-pity again. She would not think of Joey or her ruined life; her only thoughts would be of Mark’s deceit. None of this would have happened if he had been honest.

None of it.

A discreet cough drew her attention and she turned her face to Strattington, willing herself to an icy calm.

“I think you must become my mistress,” he said without an ounce of emotion.

D
amn it all. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but warmth, or even civility, was difficult with her looking so murderous. Half of Mark’s day had been spent working out the perfect words, the way to make her understand that he was not doing this just because he had to. He really wanted her to be his mistress.

Ouch. He could tell by her face she’d throw something if she could. She’d looked as if she might have been crying when he’d called her into the carriage, but now—now she looked like she wanted to chew off his ears.

He moved his legs out of the way. He wouldn’t put a good kick past her.

“You want what?” was all she said.

“I think it’s a fine idea.” Oh, he was sure she could tell how long he’d spent figuring out this speech.

She didn’t even answer, just glared.

He tried again. “I think you’d suit me very well.”

She sputtered. At least he would take it as a sputter and not a spit. “You think I’d suit you very well. You ruin my life and you think I’d suit you?”

“Well, yes.” His conversational skills were clearly on the rise.

“And you think I should just agree?”

“Well, yes.” Now he was repetitive.

“Oh.”

He hoped she was thinking about it. Her face turned to the window so he could not make out her full expression. He wished her body would relax. She looked like she was sitting on hot coals rather than the soft plush of the carriage benches.

The bruise was beginning to fade, if you called turning yellow fading.

Her chest rose and fell, expansively, as she pulled in one deep breath after another. That was good, it must mean she was thinking about his proposition.

“No.” She did not turn back to him.

“No, what?”

“No, I will not be your mistress. I am insulted by the very suggestion.”

Insulted? That he had not expected. She hadn’t been insulted to be his lover when he’d been only an estate agent. Why would she not want to be the mistress to a duke?
Marriage
. The word whispered guiltily into his thoughts. She had wanted marriage. Guilt touched him and made his tone harsher than he’d intended. “I told you I’d take care of you and you did not protest before. What the hell did you think I was talking about? I think you should think again.”

“I
thought you spoke of marriage. I thought that was what ‘take care of me’ meant.” The words were out before she could hold them back.

His body stiffened further, if that was even possible—but he did not look surprised. If anything he merely looked tired, very tired. “Dukes do not marry baby nurses, or even companions.”

“But I didn’t know you were a duke. You should have told me.”

“Yes, I should have.” He looked away from her.

She was shocked by this admission. “Then why didn’t you?”

He relaxed slightly, his back actually touching the cushion behind him. “I liked not being the duke for a while. With you I could relax. You always made me see the joy in the moment.”

“You still should have told me.”

“Yes.” He did not say more.

“I would not have dallied with you if I’d known you were the duke.”

“Would you not have?”

The worst of it was that he was probably right. If she had known who he was then she—she might have decided to become his mistress anyway. “I don’t know.” She answered his honesty with her own.

They were silent for a moment.

“I cannot marry you, you know.”

“Dukes do not marry baby nurses.” She repeated his words. But did they marry slightly scandalous gentlewomen? What if she told him the truth? But murder was more than slightly scandalous.

“No, they don’t. I tried to tell you at the inn before we were discovered. I was afraid I heard you mention marriage in your cries.”

“I didn’t.”
Please, don’t add that shame to this
.

“I am rather afraid you did.”

“And then everything happened.”

“Yes. I realize that I led you on and I am prepared to do what is right.”

“By making me your mistress?” He had a strange idea of making things right. Then again, it was a testament to how far she had fallen since that night in Foxworthy’s rooms.

“Yes.” He turned toward her. His voice softened, but she heard the command in it. “Just say yes.”

He was still every inch the duke, even if she had seen a glimmer of Mark in his honesty.

It was anger that had made her say no before. With no money in her pocket and no prospect of employment, no other options presented themselves to her. She could beg. She could walk the streets and deal with multiple men—or—

Or. . .

Could she really do it? Could she be his mistress?

She kept her face turned to the window so that he could not see her temptation. What were her choices, really?

She could return to her brother. Would Masters take her in even after she had defied him for so long? The fact that he still pursued her rather indicated he would, but it would not be without cost. Masters might make her marry a man even worse than Foxworthy. Was it not better to stay with Mark; at least she wasn’t disgusted by him. She might deep down confess to even liking him. She’d certainly liked kissing him. It would be a gamble. But then so was her life.

Could she turn to her sister, Violet? Violet had demonstrated that she would give up anything for Isabella—including the man she loved. Before Isabella had run away she had found herself engaged, if only for a matter of hours, to Lord Peter, Violet’s true love. She hoped they were married by now, but regardless, Isabella could not see any way in which asking Violet for help would not hurt her sister. It was Isabella’s turn to be selfless. She would not do anything that might cause her sister distress.

What of Lady Smythe-Burke? She had already done enough. Isabella didn’t even know why she had helped her flee in the first place. Their relationship was not such that Isabella could impose further. It would be awful if Lady Smythe-Burke was involved and someone called in the authorities.

She did have a friend, Annie Westers, who had helped her out before, but that had always been with covering for small things—not murder. She doubted there was much that Annie could do about this, even assuming she was in Town. Annie might even feel compelled to turn her in.

With some trepidation she turned and looked at Strattington. Looking at him now it was hard to see how she had ever not recognized him as the duke; his every sinew and line cried out authority. He sat looking straight ahead again, not deigning her with further attention as he awaited her response.

He wore full black again today. He must still be in mourning for the uncle Mrs. Wattington had mentioned. The coat was a heavy brocade, black upon black. She could not make out the pattern in the dimness of the carriage. His linens almost glowed they were so white. And the boots, they were polished enough for her to see the reflection of her own half boots.

It was not his clothing, however, that spoke of who he was. He turned to her, his voice soft but his face unmoving. “Surely you see there is no other choice.”

Choice.

She remembered her sister yelling at Masters about women and choices, how they had the right to make their own even if they made mistakes. It was not until later that Isabella had truly appreciated her sister’s words.

Did she have a choice now?

She needed to understand. “What will you give me if I become your mistress?”

“Excuse me?” His voice lost its softness, its warmth.

“Oh, I don’t mean it like that—or at least not quite like that. I guess the more accurate question would be what can I expect?”

“I would think the usual.” He sounded slightly unsure. Could a duke be unsure?

“But I have no idea what the usual is. Do you pay for an apartment? A house? Do I get a staff? Do all my bills get sent to you? How often do you, do you—visit? Do you have other lovers?”

“A house, I imagine, some discreet neighborhood. Divers mentioned that my uncle owned such a house near St. James. I am sure Divers knows how all this is handled.”

Divers—she could hardly bear to think of that conversation. She had to turn and face the window again. “You wish to put me in your uncle’s house?”

He coughed, slightly, but she did not look.

“Only if it is what you wish,” he answered.

What she wished? Since when was this about what she wished? “I do not think I would care for it.”

“I will get you a new house then. I imagine the ducal coffers will survive.”

“And the rest?”

“Why are you being difficult? It will all be worked out.”

Where was Mark? The man who spoke to her like this was not the man she had kissed and certainly not the man she had almost . . . Why, going to bed with him would be like going to bed with a stranger. She might be better off walking the streets. “Why would you want me as your mistress? Surely there are beauties in London who would tempt you more?”

“It is the right thing. I misled you. Therefore it makes sense.”

Oh, weren’t those the words every woman wanted to hear.

Her eyes were watering and she couldn’t blame it on the wind. The sun, maybe? It was bright out. If only the sun were shining in her side of the carriage instead of the other, that might have been believable. “I think I need the details worked out now. If I do this there is no going back. My life will be changed—forever.”

“I shall consider the matter.”

“Let me know when you are done considering and we can speak again. I will ride with the driver again.” It was so hard sitting next to him when her body said one thing and her mind another.

“No.” That, at least, was clear—and very ducal.

W
hy could she simply not cooperate? Mark wished he could kick the bench he sat on. Of course dukes did not kick.

He knew he was not acting well. He even knew why. It had taken a moment for him to realize that he cared about her answer. It would have been much easier if he had not. Caring made him nervous, made his stomach clench up. And that was not even considering the guilt that he felt. It made him all the more defensive.

The problem was he could not even imagine what he would do if she said no. He’d never needed anything as much as he needed her, her smile, her warmth. And the more it mattered, the more he acted the duke. He could not let her know the power she had.