What a Duke Wants (28 page)

Isabella tried to put it all together in her mind. It was such a tangle. How could simple feelings end in such tragedy? “So you blame yourself because Foxworthy found the letters at your home.”

“I was careless. I will not be so careless again. Where are they?”

It took great effort to keep her eyes from wandering to the desk. She didn’t know why she hesitated to give them to him, he certainly had a right to them. “I do not have them with me.”

“You lie.”

Her gaze shot up to his. She could feel his breath upon her cheek. “I don’t know why you would say that.”

Hargrove reached out and grabbed her arm, painfully. “I am an expert on lies. I tell so many of them myself.”

“That is not reason—”

He cut her off. “Before, when you said you did not have the letters, you spoke the truth—but now—now it is different. You know just where they are. Give them to me.”

“Let go of me.” She glanced down at his hand. “Then we will talk.”

“I think you misunderstand the structure of power between us.” His fingers tightened further.

“And what will happen if I do give them to you?”

“Then there will be no need for us to ever speak again. You can run off to whatever bolt-hole you have in mind this time. I am sure you already know where you plan to run—probably to my sister-in-law. I don’t even care as long as you stay far from me. I will go on simply being Hargrove. That will be the end of it.”

Why did she not feel convinced? “There will never be any mention of Foxworthy again?”

“Why would there be?”

He was lying. She didn’t know why she thought so, but she did. She could discern no reason for him to lie. What he said made sense, but . . . “I don’t know, but you make it all seem so easy.”

“It is.”

“A man died. That should never be easy.”

“Two men died. Do not forget William.” His eyes lost their focus.

“And you do not forgive me for that?” It made no sense. She had not known either man at the time.

“I do not forgive you for killing Foxworthy.” His voice grew hard.

“And you want me to pay for it?” She had already paid, lost years of her life, lost Mark. Would there still have been magic between them if they had met for the first time at a ball before the coronation? She rather thought so.

Hargrove released her suddenly and stepped back. His body twitched with emotion. “Give me my letters. Give me something to remember him by.”

Chapter 28

H
is words moved her. With firm, decisive steps Isabella walked to the desk and opened the box. Lifting out a packet of papers tied with a satin ribbon, she turned and held it out to Hargrove.

Hargrove grabbed it with unnecessary haste, paging through the letters quickly. “It looks like they are all here.”

“I did not take any out. I do not know if I took them all at the beginning.”

Hargrove skewered her with his gaze. “I would hope they are all here, if I were you.”

“How quickly your tone changes now that you have what you want.” She should have been surprised, but she was not. “I am probably foolish to have given them all to you, but I will not play your game—your game and Foxworthy’s. You want to believe that you are different and yet you did everything you could to bend me to your will.”

“I did only what was necessary.”

“So we are done.” She tried to sound strong.

“As long as you disappear again. I do not wish to see you and remember. If you do go with my sister-in-law, I suggest you stay in the country when she comes to Town.”

“And if I choose not to go? My brother and sister have indicated they wish me to stay here, to reintroduce me into society.” She had not really considered the option until now, but Hargrove’s dismissiveness had her dander up.

“You are good at running. I cannot imagine why you would stop now. Society is no place for one such as you.”

“One such as me. I am so tired of being described in such ways. I will do as I please.”

Hargrove tucked the letters into his pocket. “I think not. I could still start whispers about Foxworthy.”

“And I could start whispers about how you know.”

“Nobody would believe you.” Hargrove stepped toward her.

“Not to your face they wouldn’t, but behind your back? Are you sure there are no rumors already? I have always found that very few things stay hidden forever.”

“I cannot believe that you are unwise enough to threaten me. Do you really think that anyone would choose to believe you over me?”

“But I do not need to win. That is the glory of rumor and gossip, once it is started people never stop questioning.”

“I would not try it, girl. I might be damaged by rumor, but you could hang if I decide to meddle.”

That stopped her, but only for a moment. She was so tired of running. “I believe sodomy is also a hanging offense.”

Hargrove turned as purple as the bedroom. “Do you really seek to test me? There is no proof. Even the letters were not really proof. No matter how you spread rumor nobody would hang a duke without proof. Hell, nobody would hang a duke with proof.”

“And yet you chased me for three years for a packet of letters.”

Hargrove did not answer. He glared at her again with his cold eyes. “What do you want, Miss Masters? I would think you would be happy to flee this city and society. I cannot imagine you will have a warm welcome even without my help.”

“I merely wish to be free to make my own choices.” She walked to the settee and sat, back straight.

“Do you hope Strattington will come to you? He’d never marry you now that he’s had you. He’s already looking for a bride to enhance his standing. You would only drag him into the dirt. And that’s without him knowing your secret. How do you think he would react if he knew you had killed a man?”

“I already told him.” And she was glad she had. Mark might not know the details, but he would not be surprised if Hargrove spoke with him. Who was she kidding? He’d still be shocked, deeply shocked, if he knew the whole truth.

“Did you? Is that why he threw you out? How you ended up in my brother’s house?”

“No.” She was not going to explain to him why she had left, let him know that he had been a large part of the cause.

Hargrove smiled and it was not pleasant. “I am not even going to begin to guess at what you are not saying. Just know that you will be very sorry if you cross me. Scurry away like the mouse you are.”

He walked to the door, leaving her staring after him.

Just before exiting he added, “And you never did call for my tea. One would think you lacked all manners.”

“I
hear they’ve chosen your bride already. The Earl of Sangdorn’s daughter, although it was a little unclear which one,” Brisbane said as Mark entered his library. “The poor man does have seven of them. I do hope it’s not the youngest. I believe she’s only ten.”

“Who is ‘they’ and why are they choosing my bride?” Mark asked as he took a seat across from Brisbane’s desk.

“I’ve never been clear on exactly who they are, but they do seem to try and control everything.” Brisbane took a cheroot from a box on his desk and offered one to Mark.

Mark shook his head. “I may never marry anyone—and certainly not one of the Earl of Sangdorn’s daughters.”

Brisbane sat up in his chair. “I am not sure you have a choice—the duchy and all.”

Running his fingers through his hair, Mark stared down at the floor. “Damnation. Ever since I became a duke I do nothing but what people tell me I must. I am so tired of doing what others say.”

A deep laugh filled the room. Brisbane stood and walked around the desk, leaning against its edge. “This is going to sound contradictory, given what I have just said, but I think you’ve missed the point of being a duke.”

Mark lifted his head. “I am not sure what you mean.”

Brisbane leaned back, crossing his booted ankles. “A duke does what a duke wants. It really is as simple as that.”

Shaking his head, Mark stared at the high shelves of books. “I am so determined to do this right. I’ve never had any difficulty with doing things well. Everything I’ve turned my hand to has come with ease. But this, being a duke, I think I’d rather be back in the army taking cannon fire.”

“I’ve never known anything else, so it is hard for me to sympathize. From the day of my birth this is all I have known. Even before my father’s death my whole life was spent knowing that this was my fate. Still, I have a difficult time seeing that it could be that troublesome—unless you mean running the estates. That can take time to manage. The rest, though, that is just window dressing.”

“The estates I do not find difficult. The principles are the same as they were for my father’s much smaller holdings. But everything else—since I have become Strattington all I have heard are rules on how to be a duke. My valet, for example, is always telling me what I need to do and how I need to dress while doing it. And he is only one of many.”

“I believe I have already told you that the only thing you listen to your valet about is the tying of your cravat. I cannot imagine why you would care what he thinks of anything else.”

“He was with my uncle for years. He knows how everything is done.”

“That was your uncle. You are you.”

“Everyone says my uncle was the perfect duke.”

“And what do they say about me?” Brisbane stood up fully as he spoke, drawing an invisible mantle of authority about his shoulders.

Mark could only stare at the subtle changes in the man. “I believe a drawing of you is posted next to the definition of
duke
. I don’t even hear the usual rumors about opera singers. I believe Hargrove made some unsavory comments about your politics, but given the man’s own views I assume that is a compliment.”

“And am I the same as your uncle?”

“It would be hard to imagine two more different men, except you both have the ability to make it seem like everyone within hearing should do as you say.”

Brisbane sat back down on the edge of the desk. “And do you know why that is?”

“That is what I have been trying to learn.”

“It is because we are dukes.”

“And that is supposed to be helpful?”

“Being a duke means knowing you are always right. Even if you are wrong you are right because you are a duke.”

Mark stared up at the ceiling, considering. “I thought being a duke was about being proper, being better, above it all. Everyone has told me how to act, how to behave. I wanted to be sure I did not disgrace myself.”

“Being a duke is about not worrying what others think. Their thoughts are not as valid as your own.”

“You almost have me believing you are serious.”

“That’s because I am serious. You are a duke. Society will always think that an opinion you speak is more valid than any other’s. I do not say if it is right or wrong, but it is true.”

“And yet you say I must marry.”

“Even that is not an absolute. I should not encourage such a stance. It does cause turmoil when there is not a true heir, but even that can be overcome. Just be sure that it is what you truly want.”

Mark lowered his head and stared straight at Brisbane. “I cannot have what I do want if I marry as I should.”

“You speak in riddles, but I imagine I have some idea what you are talking about. Marriage does complicate many things. It can be even worse than leaving a purse in the morning. Is she really worth it?”

“She is what I want. There are other problems to be solved, but I am not happy without her.”

“Then go and get her—and marriage be damned.”

“That is actually why I came to see you. I had decided to do that already, but I need to find our mutual aunt, Lady Smythe-Burke, first. I was told you might know where she has taken herself off to.”

“You had decided that already,” Brisbane repeated, smiling. “You might figure out how to be a duke yet.”

“Y
ou have decided to stay in London, to stay with us?” Violet clapped her hands in joy, a very uncharacteristic gesture.

Had she really just said that? Isabella had come into the dining room ready to announce that she was going to Annie’s country estate for a while, that she would wait for Annie to join her, and instead she had said she was staying in London. It had only taken one look at her gathered family to know that she could not leave again.

She was tired of running, of hiding. She would risk whatever was necessary to stay.

“Yes, I don’t know quite what my plans are yet, but I am not ready to leave.” She pushed aside the image of Mark that suddenly filled her mind. She was sure he had left London already. Such thoughts could not be allowed to interfere.

She would have done almost anything to stay with him, to be with him, but she could not bear the thought of living with him as his mistress, watching him take a wife, father children. No, she would stay here with her family and then perhaps— She didn’t even know what
perhaps
was, but it was not running again.

“We will have to have a ball, to reintroduce you to society.” Violet turned to her husband. “Do you think Wimberley would host it? If he does then everybody will come.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant. I thought I could just live here quietly. I certainly don’t need—”

“What nonsense. Of course you do,” Masters’s wife, Clara, spoke up. “And I am sure Wimberley will do it. His wife does love a good ball.”

Isabella drew in a deep breath. She would have to tell her family about Hargrove, tell them about his threats. She could not let them do this unknowingly. If they still gave her their support, then she would be willing to risk it all to stay here, to stay with them—to let them throw this ridiculous party and be done with it.

Masters smiled. “Yes, there is no better way to find a husband than at a ball.”

Isabella was relieved that she owned only one of the three sets of feminine eyes that turned on him and glared.

“S
o who is she?” Mark asked, staring across at his aunt. She had finally returned to Town and he had braved the lioness’s den to speak with her. It was a rare man who willingly entered her parlor. He’d heard rumors that they too often left with brides. For having no children of her own, his aunt was a well-known matchmaker.

“Who is who?” Lady Smythe-Burke asked as she took a seat in her normal straight-backed fashion. “I am glad to hear you are getting along with Brisbane. I do sometimes worry that boy is too alone.”

Mark was so stunned by the concept of calling Brisbane a boy that it took him a moment to remember his question. “Miss Smith. Who is Miss Smith?”

“Miss Smythe? I don’t believe there are any Smythe girls, not for several generations, aside from your sisters, that is. And I assume you do not mean them.”

“No, Miss Smith. Miss Isabella Smith?”

Lady Smythe-Burke turned to him with sudden interest. “Oh, I had forgotten about that. Is she back in Town? How delightful. She must be, what? About twenty?”

“Twenty-one, I believe, and that does not answer my question.”

Picking up her embroidery and staring at it as if she’d never seen it before, Lady Smythe-Burke avoided his gaze. “And why do you think I know anything about Miss Smith?”

“You did write her a reference.”

“It could be a forgery.”

“That does not seem likely. Are you saying that you did not write it?”

“No. I wrote it. The girl needed help and I gave it.”

“So who is she?”

“I did rather promise not to say. It was the only condition on which she’d accept my help. That family has always been stubborn.”

“What family?”

Lady Smythe-Burke set the embroidery back down and stared straight at him, making him feel he had crumbs about his mouth. “I told you, that is secret. Isabella has her reasons for wishing to remain unknown, although if she is back in Town . . .”

Mark leaned forward. “Reasons having to do with the man she murdered?”

He had expected shock, his aunt showed none. “You know about that? Now that is surprising. I didn’t think anybody knew about Foxworthy’s death besides her family.”

“Foxworthy? Who is he? Or perhaps I should ask who was he?”

“A vile little man. And I should not have said even that. Except . . .”

“Except that you actually want to give me enough clues to find her? I am beginning to understand how you work, my dearest of aunts.”

“I don’t know why you would think that. I am a master at keeping secrets. I shall say no more on the subject.” She picked up her needlework again. “I can’t even recall starting this piece. Who would decide that all the flowers should be pink? I have always disliked pink. It is a color for silly young chits—and even when I was young I was never silly. I always wore blue. I think blue looks much better on most girls than pink. Pink tends to make one’s cheeks look ruddy. What do you think? Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re a young man and I am sure you’ve noticed girls and what they wear. Not the details, mind you, I do understand the male mind. But surely you must have an opinion. I’ve chosen the most delightful turquoise blue silk to wear to the Wimberleys’ ball this Friday. I may even wear a turban with it. Do you think a feather would be too much? Clearly you do. What a shame. I was rather expecting you to escort me. In fact I think I shall insist that both you and Brisbane escort me. I will be quite the most popular of matrons with an eligible duke on each arm.”