The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (14 page)

Ugh!
He wasn’t.

Dillie turned a few corners and came upon the fountain. It was surprisingly dark here, no moonlight glistening on the water, for the moon was presently shrouded in a passing cloud. The terrace was no longer in view.

The strains of a waltz filtered through the gently rustling lilac leaves, and Dillie suddenly realized that the music from the ballroom would drown out any noise from the garden. The guests taking air on the terrace wouldn’t hear her if she cried out.

But why would she? She was in no danger.

“This way,” Charles urged, suddenly coming up behind her. “I think I see her sitting alone on a bench.”

Dillie gasped.

She didn’t see any bench, or anything remotely resembling the outline of a woman. “I told you not to follow me.” She curled her hands into fists.

Charles frowned. “You took too long. I was worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He took a step closer, seemingly offended. “How was I to know that? Don’t you trust me?”

“I had better go. My family will be worried about me.” She tried to step around him, but he grabbed her hand and forced her up against him, his breath now unpleasantly hot against her neck.

“Not yet. Stay with me, country girl. No need for pretense.” He emitted a silly laugh that nonetheless felt dangerous. “You’ve been playing coy with me all evening. I know what you really want. Mary told me so. She said I ought to do something about it. Are you hot for me, Dillie? Shall I do something about it?”

She tried to push him away, but he was heavier than she’d realized. “Actually,” she said with a grunt, shoving at him with all her might, “Mary’s wrong. I don’t find you pleasant at all. You’re disgusting and I’d like you to go away.”

He seemed surprised, but not at all deterred. He bent to kiss her and managed to land his tongue in her ear. “I don’t believe you.” He tried to kiss her again, and this time his wet mouth landed half on her eyelid and half on her nose.
Ew!

“Let go of me. Now!” She drew her hand back, and then swung it forward with all her strength, resulting in a resounding slap across his face.

Perhaps not the best idea.

He was on her again, this time angry. His hands clamped around her back and moved downward to cup her buttocks. “No need to play hard to get. I know how you like—” She slapped him again. Hard. Too bad she didn’t have a decent stick to use as a club to pound him over the head or shove up his—
Ow!

His grip tightened painfully on her arms. “Did you expect me to believe your innocent act? I know I’m not your first.”

“What?”

He laughed. “How many before me? Mary said you were no virgin. In truth, I don’t care. You’ll find me most accommodating.”

“You’re attics-to-let if you believe your cousin’s drivel. Why would she say such a wicked thing about me?”

He jerked her backward, pinning her against a tree. She felt the painful prickle of rough bark against her skin. She tried to escape, but he had her trapped between his arms. “And now to claim what’s mine.”

“No!” She poked him in the eye, and was about to raise her knee to kick him in his male parts when he suddenly peeled away with a shriek. She heard a splash, and then heard him sputter. He must have landed in the fountain. How?

“I believe the lady said no.”
Ian! Crumpets, I’ll be in for a lecture now. From him of all people!
“I suggest you go home and dry off, Ealing. Don’t let me catch you near Miss Farthingale again.”

Charles staggered to his feet, soaked from head to toe. “So that’s how it is? You and Edgeware? Mary warned me. I ought to have listened.” He turned to Ian. “You can have the deceitful bitch. She’s good for nothing but her dowry.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that.” Ian left Dillie’s side. She heard his fist slam against Charles’ jaw and heard Charles yowl in response. Then she heard another splash as Ian tossed him back into the fountain. More sputtering as he staggered out of it.

“I’ll get you for this, Edgeware! You’ll be sorry.”

“Get in line,” Ian snapped back. “There are others ahead of you.”

Charles, soaking wet and angry, started back toward them. Ian nudged her behind him and took a step forward, fists raised. “You really want to do this, Ealing?”

Dillie heard the snap of twigs and rustle of bushes as Charles came to his senses and ran off.

“Odious man,” Dillie muttered after him.

Ian turned to face her. It was too dark to see his rage, but she sensed it. “Damn it, Dillie,” he said, the words coming out as more of a groan than a shout. In truth, he wasn’t shouting at her at all. “What were you doing out here alone with Ealing?”

She cast him a weak smile, though she doubted he could see it in the darkness. “Obviously, I was doing my best to fight him off. He lured me out here on the pretense of searching for Lady Mary. I don’t suppose she was ever out here. I feel so stupid.” She heard the gentle trickle of water in the fountain and the soft breeze dancing through the leaves. She heard Ian’s quiet breaths as he brushed a stray curl behind her ear.

“Did he hurt you?” There was something achingly sweet in the way Ian touched her. Then the moon slipped out from behind a cloud and she saw the concern etched in his handsome face.

She felt her eyes well with tears and knew she was about to cry. She struggled to keep those tears from streaming down her cheeks. “Only with his words. I’m fine. Truly. I ought to have realized that he only wanted me for my trust fund.”

Ian took her trembling hands in his, holding them gently against his chest. His heart was beating calmly, not pounding or racing as hers was. “He didn’t mean it, Dillie. He was hurt and not expecting to be rebuffed. Now that Mary’s free to marry again, she’s taken a closer look at the Ealing fortune that Charles will soon inherit. Probably didn’t like that he was interested in you, so she did her best to undermine your courtship. He might have seen through her lies had he been sober.”

“He’s horrid. He ought to have known better. How could he believe her? How could he think I was that sort of girl? I’m going to hit him again when I see him.”

Ian let out a soft laugh. “You’ll only break your hand. He isn’t worth the effort.”

“I suppose not. Still, he made me feel dirty.” She shuddered. “But you were wonderful. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“You would have managed to extricate yourself,” he said, his manner still gentle. He smelled of sandalwood and a hint of spice, not at all stale or pungent. “I just made certain it happened sooner.”

She eased away to sit on the stone rim of the fountain. She was still trembling and needed to hold onto something hard and firm. Just not Ian. He felt too good. She wasn’t certain she’d ever let go of him. She wanted to breathe him in. She wanted to feel his warm skin against her palms. Instead, she gripped the hard stone. “This has been an awful night for you. I’m sorry I made it worse.”

He eased his large frame beside her. “You didn’t. I felt like hitting something. You gave me the opportunity. I ought to be thanking you.”

She shook her head and laughed.

He took her hands back in his and held them loosely. “You’re cold. I’ll walk you back inside.”

She took a deep breath. “I think I need another moment. Do you mind?”

“Take as long as you wish.”

He kept hold of her hands, lightly rubbing them to keep them warm. However, he maintained a loose grip. It was his way of showing her that she could pull away at any time. Unlike Charles, he had no intention of forcing her to do anything she didn’t wish to do.

He was being Good Ian again.

Good Ian was dangerous.

Good Ian made her want to be very, very bad. Only with Ian, of course. It wouldn’t be fun to be bad with anyone else.

“Charles is bigger and stronger than I realized, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I was thinking of Lily and how she must have felt when she was abducted, carried out of London, and held captive by a man she’d always considered a friend. Her ordeal lasted for several days. Mine lasted less than a minute, yet I’m still shaking.”

Her eyes began to water again. “Lily kept her wits about her, escaped some very dangerous ruffians.” She took a ragged breath. “I know it happened almost a year ago, but it feels like yesterday. She was the one in danger, but look at me. An inebriated lout tries to kiss me, and I can’t stop trembling. I think I’m about to cry. I’m such a ninny.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then what am I? Other than a bank account to be courted by an amiable clunch who, it turns out, is not so amiable after all?” She drew another ragged breath. “I ought to be disappointed, but in truth, I’m relieved. I’ve never felt anything for him. Try as I might, I couldn’t summon up the least bit of excitement.” She rested her head against Ian’s shoulder. He felt warm and inviting. “I think I’m doomed to be a spinster.”

Ian let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Dillie, there’ll be a dozen young men at your doorstep by tomorrow, all of them eager to court you. They’ll want you, not your trust fund.”

They sat side by side a little while longer, Ian gently holding her hands and she still leaning her head against his shoulder. She liked this. Felt safe beside him. His arms were hard and strong.

He cleared his throat. “Ready to go back inside?”

“No. This is nice. I could sit like this for the rest of the evening. Perhaps forever.”

“Forever,” he repeated softly. “That word seems to come up often around you.”

She turned to him, confused by his comment.

He cleared his throat again. “We had better go inside.”

DILLIE AWOKE LATE
the following morning, nursing a headache. She was still out of sorts and dreading the arrival of friends and acquaintances who would call upon the Farthingale family within a few hours. The day was cool and overcast, but the guests would come even if the skies threatened a hard, wind-driven rain. There was too much juicy gossip to be discussed, dissected, and distorted around the fashionable salons of London.

Horrid weather was no impediment when the peccadillos and scandalous perversions of the nobility were involved.

Dillie joined her mother and Aunt Julia in the breakfast room. The pair sat at the table, enjoying a late breakfast of sausage and kippers, their quiet chatter punctuated with the occasional gasp, soon followed by “no, you don’t say!”

Dillie managed a cheerful greeting, though she felt certain dragons had slept in her mouth last night, their flames aimed at the back of her throat. She walked to the sideboard and stared at the smoked fish resting on the silver salver. Its lone eyeball ghoulishly stared back.
Oh, I feel ill.

Her stomach voiced protest as she was about to spoon a hefty serving of that fish onto her plate. She reconsidered her breakfast strategy, set down the spoon, and grabbed a delicate teacup, though she wasn’t certain she could hold down even that gentle liquid this morning.

Since she had to eat something to stop the angry rumbles gurgling inside her, she decided to nibble on a scone, take it slow, and pray she was able to hold it down.

“Sophie, you must tell her before she hears it from anyone else,” Julia said, exchanging a woeful glance with her mother.

“I know. I know.” Her mother sighed softly, and then motioned for Dillie to take the seat beside her.

Dillie obeyed, dragging a raisin scone and cup of tea along with her. Once seated, she waited for the news that her mother so obviously dreaded having to tell her. “Is everything all right? Father? My sisters?”

“They’re fine. No, this isn’t about our family.” She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “He isn’t for you. In truth, I’ve never liked him.”

“Nor did I,” Julia chimed in because, no doubt, her opinion mattered as well.

Her mother nodded. “But we didn’t know how to tell you. Nor did we think it right to interfere—”

Dillie choked on her tea.
You always interfere!
Of course, she wasn’t going to accuse them of it since she was just as determined to meddle in Ian’s affairs. For his own good, of course. Someone had to save him. He’d thank her for it later. Meddling? Yes, Farthingale curse. “Who are we talking about?”

“Oh, dear.” Her mother batted her long, dark eyelashes over expressively sad eyes.

Dillie had always loved her mother, even those times when she was so overwhelmed with the never-ending parade of visiting relatives that she forgot she’d ever given birth to her five daughters. “You! I think you’re one of mine,” she’d sometimes call out in her dizzier moments, struggling to recall that her name was Dillie, or that yes, she’d popped out of her mother with the other daughter whose name she also couldn’t recall.

Not that Dillie ever blamed her. How could she? Her mother managed a household constantly filled to the rafters with family from all parts of England single-handed, made them all feel loved and welcomed, tolerated the horde of young cousins who constantly crawled underfoot, and took care of their father—Dillie loved him dearly as well—who was always calling out to her for help in finding one object or another that he’d just set down and that was obviously still in front of him.

This morning it had been his mustache clippers.

It was to be expected. Apparently, male eyeballs didn’t know how to look down, unless it was to stare—with eyes bulging—down a woman’s bosom. Her father, to his credit, never looked down anyone’s bosom but her mother’s. He was wildly in love with her, came alive whenever he caught sight of her even after thirty-five years of marriage, even though her dark hair was now dappled with gray and tiny lines were etched at the corners of her gentle blue eyes.

“Who are we talking about?” Dillie repeated when neither her mother nor her aunt seemed able to find her voice.

“Lord Ealing,” her mother said, letting out another long breath.

“Charles?”
Crumpets!
What had they heard about the incident at the fountain? Did they know she was the girl involved? Dillie’s instinct was to panic. Had Lady Withnall seen her and Charles by the fountain last night? Had she seen Ian tossing Charles into the fountain? Or seen Ian comforting her?