How to Manage a Marquess (32 page)

He paused as he reached the walk to Wilkinson's office. What
had
happened to her?

“May I help you, sir?”

He looked up to see a man of medium height in the process of shutting the front door.

“Are you Mr. Wilkinson?”

The man nodded. “Yes.”

William didn't wish to have this conversation where any passerby could overhear. He walked closer. “I'm sorry to come upon you unannounced, sir, but if you have a few minutes to spare, I have some matters I'd like to discuss”—he dropped his voice—“privately.”

Wilkinson regarded him for a moment and then bowed and turned back to reopen the door. “I was only going out for my luncheon. It can wait.” He gestured for William to precede him.

“Thank you. I promise I won't take much of your time.”

The man was too polite to say he certainly hoped not.

A large desk, covered with papers, sat to William's right. Wilkinson led him past that and into another room with a larger, even more cluttered desk.

“My sister, Jane, acts as my secretary, but she is off with some village ladies at the moment,” Wilkinson said as he closed the door. “Please, have a seat. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Lord William Wattles.”

Wilkinson's eyebrows shot up.

Ah, so at least some denizens of Loves Bridge read the London gossip columns.

“Quite so,” William said, taking one of the chairs in front of Wilkinson's desk.

Wilkinson blushed faintly as he, too, sat. “I'm afraid it has been in all the papers, my lord.”

Yes, it had been. Hortense's escapades had become more and more outrageous with each passing year. This one, however, had outdone all the others, involving an orgy and a naked game of blind man's bluff. He'd not been able to go anywhere in Town without encountering whispers and sniggers and pitying looks. His father had called him down to Benton again to ring a peal over his head, going on and on about how Hortense was sullying the family name.

As if that was news to him.

And then to top it all off, his brothers, the insufferable prigs, had had the effrontery to read him a scold as well. Being many years older than he, they treated him as if he were still in leading strings.

“Then perhaps you can understand my desire to disappear from London society for a while.”

Wilkinson nodded. “Well, er, yes. But why Loves Bridge?”

“My secretary, Mr. Morton, suggested it. I believe you are acquainted with him?”

The man grinned. “John Morton? Of course. We were at university together. How does he go on?”

“Quite well.” William shrugged. “Though he'd go on better if my wife saw fit to behave with even a modicum of respectability.”

Wilkinson wisely held his tongue.

“John pointed out that Loves Bridge is quiet, close to London in case he has need of me, and completely overlooked by the
ton
. Even the Duke of Hart never comes to his castle. It's the perfect place to vanish for a while.”
More perfect with Belle here.
“He assured me you could find me a suitable place to let.”

Wilkinson frowned. “And your wife?”

“Will be remaining in London, of course. In fact, I wish to arrange matters so discreetly that she—that no one—knows where I am.”

Wilkinson's frown deepened.

“Don't worry. She won't miss me.”

“That's not what I'm concerned about, my lord.” Wilkinson hesitated, moistening his lips. “I merely wondered if perhaps your presence in Town might keep her from further, er, unfortunate activities.”

God! If only that were the case.
“It hasn't yet.”

“Yes, I see. But you will let your family know your whereabouts? I've heard your father's not well.”

His father had been well enough to bellow at him for close to an hour just four days earlier. “The duke has returned from death's door too many times to count. It's not as if I'm the heir, after all.”

In fact, his arrival had been an unwelcome accident. Father got Albert and Oliver within two years of marrying the duchess. William came along ten years later, and his birth had caused the duchess's death. No one had ever forgiven him for that.

“Both my brothers are hale and hearty. I expect they'll live another twenty or thirty years.”

“Still, you will wish to be able to be found quickly should anything happen to the duke.”

Spoken like a bloody solicitor. “I merely propose to leave London, Mr. Wilkinson. Not the earth—or even England.” He forced himself to smile. No need to get sharp with the man. “John will know how to reach me. Now tell me,
is
there anything for let in the village? Nothing ostentatious. A small place will do very well.”

“Yes, of course. I know you can rely on John. Now as to a place . . .” Wilkinson shook his head, picking up his quill and twirling it between his fingers. “There's really nothing suitable.”

“Nothing at all?” There
had
to be something.

Wilkinson shifted in his seat. “Well, Charles Luntley, the village music teacher, will be leaving for a while. His mother has taken ill, so he's going home to oversee her care.”

“Perfect! I can even cover his lessons for him while he's gone, if he'd like.”

Wilkinson's eyes widened. “You're a musician?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that, but I'm competent with the pianoforte.” He'd learned the basics as a boy, and in recent years he'd found that music took his mind off his disastrous marriage.

“But, Lord William, Luntley rents only a small room from the Widow Appleton. There's barely enough space for a bed and a chair.”

“I don't need more than that.”

“And the widow is old and almost blind.”

“That's fine. Good, in fact. I assume Mrs. Appleton's not one to ask prying questions?”

“Lord, no. She's deaf as a post. As long as you pay your rent on time, my lord, she'll leave you alone.”

“Splendid.” He started to rise, and then paused. “Oh, and since I'm trying to drop out of sight, I think it best if I'm simply Mr. Wattles from now on.” Hopefully Belle would not spread his title about. “The fewer people who know my identity, the better. Indeed, I'm afraid I must ask you to keep it secret even from your sister.”

“Jane is very discreet, but—” Wilkinson shrugged. “Women sometimes do talk. I see no reason why I need to involve her in this.”

“Excellent. So may I ask you to arrange matters?” William took out his card. “Here is my direction in London. If it meets with your approval, once I have moved into Luntley's place, I will tell Morton to contact you if he has need of me. That way he can truthfully tell anyone who asks that he has no notion of my whereabouts.”

Wilkinson blew out a long breath, clearly not enamored of the plan. “Very well, my lo—I mean, sir.”

“Thank you.” William stood, and Wilkinson walked with him to the door. “Oh, and one more thing.”

I shouldn't say anything. I
know
I shouldn't say anything.

His stupid mouth was forming the words quite independent of his brain.

“I stopped at the lending library to ask directions, and I swear the librarian—I believe she said her name was Miss Franklin—looked familiar, but I've never been to Loves Bridge before. Is she from the village?”

“No, not originally, but she's been here about twenty years.”

“She's the Spinster House spinster.” Wilkinson opened the front door for him.

William stopped on the threshold. “Pardon?”

“Oh, right. You wouldn't know.” Wilkinson shrugged. “The story is rather complicated, but the gist is the village has a house—the Spinster House—that is provided to one dedicated spinster for her lifetime. Or until she marries, I suppose, but as far as I know that has never happened. There is a stipend that comes with the tenancy, so the ladies are quite secure.”

“I see. And you don't know where Miss, er, Franklin came from?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't. I was only a boy when she arrived. My father handled the affair.” He suddenly frowned. “I do remember there was talk, though, when she first came to the village. She stayed with the Widow Conklin, who has”—he flushed—“an unfortunate reputation. But I assure you, no hint of scandal has ever touched Miss Franklin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilkinson. Please send me word once Luntley's room is available.” William bowed and set off down the walk. He needed to get back to London and let Morton know his plans.

He grinned. It looked as if he would have the opportunity to discover Belle's secrets—and maybe give her a few more.

Chapter Two

 

She was going to die of lust.

Belle sprawled on her back naked in bed, her legs spread, one arm flung over her eyes. It had been almost a month since William had appeared in the lending library. Whatever his business had been, he must have concluded it to his satisfaction because she'd not seen him since—except in her dreams.

Every bloody night she dreamed of him. And every morning she woke hot and needy. She wanted him in her bed, between her legs, thrusting deep—

She bit her lip, swallowing a moan. Her breasts ached; her nipples were hard and tight.

Father was right. I
am
a wanton.

She'd had only a few weeks with William twenty years ago, but she remembered everything so clearly: his broad shoulders and chest, his narrow hips, his muscled arms, his hard—

It hadn't looked soft. Oh, no. Not at all. It had looked hard and strong and quite capable of pleasuring her again.

And again.

There was only one way to relieve this madness. She'd learned the trick when William had gone back to Oxford, though she hadn't used it since she'd come to Loves Bridge. There'd been no need. That part of her had died—or she'd thought it had died.

William's appearance had resurrected it.

She slid her hand down over her heated flesh to the damp, aching spot between her legs. Her fingers found the slick, wet—

“Merrow.”

“Aiee!”
She bolted upright, jerking the coverlet high to hide her nakedness.

A black, orange, and white cat stared calmly back at her from the chest of drawers.

“What are you doing here?”

Not surprisingly, the cat did not reply. It turned to grooming his—or her—fur.

“How'd you get in?”

The animal lifted its leg to concentrate its attentions to its nether regions.

Had she left a window open downstairs?

No.

Perhaps there was a hole somewhere in the house.

Ugh. Any manner of vermin might get in.

She climbed out of bed and glared at the cat. “You have to go. I don't want a pet.”

This did not seem to disturb her visitor. It kept licking its private parts.

“That's quite disgusting, you know.” She kept an eye on the animal as she splashed water on her face and pulled on her clothes. Then she approached it cautiously. Somehow she had to persuade it to leave.

It
was
very pretty.

“Do you bite or scratch?”

Was its fur as soft as it looked?

The cat interrupted its ablutions to blink at her. It didn't hiss or give any other threatening sign. Perhaps she could touch it . . .

Slowly, she extended her hand. Her fingers sank into its fur. Mmm. She stroked all the way from its head to its tail and felt its body vibrate.

She snatched her hand back.

“Merrow.”

It sounded annoyed. Perhaps it wanted more stroking. She extended her hand again and the cat butted against it. Now she heard a rumbling sound. Purring.

“You like that, do you?”

The purring got louder.

She had no experience with animals. Neither her mother nor her father had approved of pets. But running her fingers through the cat's soft fur felt very pleasant. Calming. Almost peaceful.

Something hard and tight began to loosen in her chest.

“I suppose if you're staying, I'll have to give you a name. Are you a girl or a boy?”

She probably didn't have a choice. If she put the cat out, it would just come back in unless she could find and close off its entrance.

“If you do stay, you'll have to fend for yourself. Make no mistake about that. I'm not going to be feeding you.”

The cat looked quite healthy, so it must have been managing perfectly well on its own. It didn't belong to anyone in the village. She'd remember if she'd seen it before. Its markings were very distinctive.

Well, it couldn't hurt to have a good mouser around, she thought as she pinned her watch to her bodice. She—

“Good heavens, it's half past eight. I'll be late opening the lending library if I stay here any longer.”

The cat seemed to agree. It jumped down and ran out of the room and down the stairs. Belle followed at a slightly more sedate pace. She'd grab a bit of bread and cheese in the kitchen. She'd dearly love a cup of tea, but there was no time for that.

Most days not a soul stopped by the library. She went from rising in the morning to retiring at night without uttering a single word.

That must be why she'd been talking to a cat.

She almost tripped over the animal when she got to the kitchen. It was lying in a patch of sun in the middle of the floor.

“
Could
you be more in the way? Watch your tail.”

The cat yawned, stretched to take up even more room, and stared at her.

“I do have to get to the library, you know. Someone might wish to borrow a copy of
Paradise Lost
or one of Mr. Shakespeare's plays.” Yes, and pigs might fly. Her rare visitor was more likely to be in search of something far less erudite. She sighed. “Or he—well, she might wish to read one of Mrs. Radcliffe's horrid novels.”

The cat sneezed.

“Well, yes, they might not be edifying, but many people find them entertaining.” She looked around the kitchen. “If I were a writer, I might write a horrid novel about this house. It's sufficiently dark and gloomy and decrepit—and it comes with a curse.”

The cat's ears twitched, and it sat up, as if interested.

“You didn't know that, did you? Yes, indeed. The story is chilling enough to raise gooseflesh.” Though cats probably didn't get gooseflesh. “Almost two hundred years ago, the Duke of Hart got the owner of this house, Isabelle Dorring, with child and then married someone else. Isabelle was distraught, as you might imagine.”

The cat licked its flank. Of course it couldn't imagine anything. Belle snorted. If it was male, it likely sided with the duke. Cats weren't known for their morality.

“I assure you, it's a very tragic tale. Isabelle cursed the duke and all his heirs forever and ever. And then she drowned herself and her unborn baby in Loves Water.”

She'd always felt sorry for poor Isabelle. She knew all too well the panic and despair she must have felt. If she hadn't lost her own—

She checked her watch once more. She had no time to waste, particularly in talking to a cat of all things! “I must be off.”

Apparently the cat wished to leave, too. It followed her to the door and shot out as soon as she'd opened it wide enough for a feline body to fit through.

“Don't feel the need to hurry back,” she said to the cat's retreating tail. “In fact, don't feel the need to come back at all.”

The cat didn't acknowledge her words.

Ha! Good riddance. Tonight she'd see if she could discover how the animal had got in and close up the opening.

She shut the door behind her more forcefully than necessary, locked it, and set off down the walk. She was
not
going to miss the cat. Of course not. How could she? She'd only just made its acquaintance.

Clearly she was lonelier than she'd realized if she found the brief companionship of a stray animal comforting. She needed to make more of an effort to get out. Perhaps—

The bloody cat had been hiding in the bushes. It darted out, running right under her feet. She hopped and skipped and flung her arms out, but she lost her battle with gravity. The ground rushed toward her—

And a strong arm snaked around her waist, hauling her up against a rock-hard chest.

“Belle! Are you all right?”

William.
She recognized his voice and his smell and even the feel of his body.

Excitement and dread and dark need swirled low in her belly.

And despair. Why the
hell
was he here? She'd managed to remain aloof for those few minutes she'd spent with him in the lending library, but she'd never be able to maintain her distance if he stayed in Loves Bridge. Just look at how he'd taken over her dreams.

She
must
keep him at arm's length. He was a married man—that news had been the last thing she'd ever read in the London gossip columns. She was not going to take up Mrs. Conklin's trade and start inviting married men into her bedchamber.

She stiffened and jerked away from him. “Lord William.” She turned to face him, and her jaw dropped. “What are you wearing?”

“A wig”—he touched the mousy brown peruke with its side curls and its tail hanging down his back—“spectacle frames, and some old clothes.”

“
Old
clothes? Those are from the last century.” Though even in this peculiar attire, William made her heart do a breathless little jig.
Why
did he have to be so bloody handsome?

Her heart would just have to behave. She was the Spinster House spinster. She was immune to the male of the species.

All males but William, apparently.

“Are you off to a masquerade?” she said far too sharply. Though no one in the village would hold a masquerade, and no one anywhere would do so in the morning.

Oh, of course. He wasn't going out, he was coming back.

“Or have you been to some London bacchanal?” Though William didn't look drunk or even disheveled.

Disgust colored his voice. “Of course not. I'm disguising myself.”

“Disguising yourself in Loves Bridge? Whatever for?”

He hadn't come back thinking to conduct a secret affair with her, had he? Secret from his wife, that was. There were no secrets in a small village like Loves Bridge. Her reputation would be ruined.

And why was she surprised? He was a rake, after all. A heartless despoiler of young women—

No. She'd tried to tell herself that when he'd gone back to Oxford and she'd been faced with the consequences of their actions. But even then she'd known it wasn't true. She'd wanted everything they'd done together.

If anything, she'd despoiled him.

But she was older now, and wiser, and more importantly, her will was stronger. Her treasonous body might wish to sin, but she was not about to let it.

His right brow had risen. “I might ask you the same question, Belle. It seems you've been living under an assumed name for twenty years.”

Oh, Lord, she did not want to have this conversation.

“You can dress as a chimpanzee for all I care. Now I must be off. I'm late opening the lending library.”

William nodded. “Yes, let us not continue to stand here like posts. Take my arm. We have a few things to discuss.”

Every muscle in her body stiffened. “We have nothing to discuss, my lord. Now I—”

“Merrow.”

Oh, hell. The blasted cat was weaving around her ankles, making it impossible for her to escape.

“Hey, now.” William bent to rub the animal's ears. “Come to ask forgiveness, have you, madam? You almost sent poor Miss Fro—Miss Franklin tumbling to the ground.”

The cat closed its—or apparently her—eyes. She looked to be in feline heaven.

William
did
have magical fingers—

She would not allow herself to remember how his fingers had felt. She would think instead of how those same fingers had never taken a moment to write her. Yes, she'd been a willing participant in everything they'd done, but so had he. He must have known such activities sometimes had consequences, yet he'd never written to ask how she went on.

And what would have been the point of his writing? It would have set the Dornham gossips to buzzing that the duke's son would write to the vicar's daughter. Father would have beaten her.

He'd beaten her anyway.

“How do you know it's a female?”

He probably knew because the animal was responding to him with such mindless pleasure.

William looked up, his fingers still deep in the cat's fur, and grinned. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

She suddenly remembered precisely how William's body differed from hers. His male organ, especially after they had exchanged a few kisses and other, ah, liberties, had been impossible to miss. It had felt—

“No! No, thank you. I will take your word for it.”

He laughed and straightened up. “While something is definitely missing from this lady's anatomy, that's not what told me her gender. Cats with this one's distinctive coloring are always female—or at least all the ones I've ever seen are.” His brow flew up again. “I would have thought you'd know whether she was a boy or a girl. She came out of your house. Isn't she your pet?”