Page 8 of Her Passionate Duke

“My fault?”

Linnet rose in her seat indignantly. It was stiflingly hot in the carriage and she was beginning to wish that she had walked home, no matter how utterly improper, or exhausting, such a thing would have been.

“Yes, your fault.” There was no trace of jollity in Lady Caroline’s voice now. “Because you’ve never been very good at standing up for yourself and if you don’t work out how to, you’re going to be pushed into marrying someone you detest. I thought I was helping you!”

“You could help me by leaving me alone.”

They were silent the rest of the way back to the house.

Her one consolation was that she had won the Duchess of Grantsham’s approval — and her mother’s. For when Lady Chelmstone learned that she had volunteered to speak at the charity dinner, she set down her embroidery and hugged Linnet close to her chest.

“I know that we haven’t always rubbed along all that well together,” she said, “especially lately, but I want you to know how proud of you I am. Not every mother has the privilege of raising such a kind, conscientious daughter.”

Linnet wanted to protest — she hadn’t really volunteered; and she was going to make a fool of herself, just like last time.

But she hardly ever got hugged by her mother, so in the end she stopped resisting and submitted to it. There was no backing out of the speech now, not when her mother was so happy.

“I…. ummm…”

“And one more thing, dear,” Lady Chelmstone added as they broke apart. “Lord Theodore is coming by in a few days’ time to get rid of the mouse in your dresser. Please be kind to him and offer him some madeira — you know how he loves madeira.”

“I’ll be civil,” said Linnet, “but I’m not looking forward to having him pawing around in my unmentionables.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped. Just ask Emily to move everything out of those drawers, if you must – if she’s not too afraid of the mouse too? The mouse should have chosen a better hiding place — as it will learn when it gets flung into the river or fed to a cat.”

Linnet nearly choked on her coffee.

“He’s not thinking of bringing a cat over here, is he?”

Although Linnet loved cats, she loved them from a distance – for the presence of one in the house invariably caused itchy rashes to break out all over her body.

“Lord Theodore hasn’t explained his methods to me,” said her mother, picking up her embroidery. “Apparently some things he likes to leave a mystery. But if it bothers you that much you can spend the day with Lady Caroline or visit the orphanage as the Duchess of Grantsham suggested.”

Linnet had considered this.

But the thought of Lord Theodore Pottinger in her room accidentally knocking over her precious vases and fogging up her mirror with his rancid breath made her stomach queasy.

She wasn’t going to let him out of her sight even for a moment – unless, of course, he actually did arrive with a cat....

***

Jeremy was walking down Bond Street, carefully observing the men ahead of him, and wishing that he could hear what they were saying. They were not, in any way, men who should have known each other. One was Monsieur Fournier, and the other was the son of a Viscount, who had a reputation for hot-headed foolishness, so much so that he was not generally welcome in polite society.

Something so out of place was exactly the sort of thing that Jeremy looked for. Being a Duke, with a reputation as a rakehell, meant that he could go anywhere, and not be questioned by anyone – which suited his purposes admirably. Unfortunately, being a Duke, he was also noticed, wherever he went, unless he committed enormous effort to be inconspicuous.

He passed a modiste’s, just as the door began to open – glancing sideways, he was shocked to see one of his footmen waiting on the doorstep, and his mother about to emerge. Quickly, he shook his head at the footman, indicating that he should ‘fail to notice’ Jeremy’s presence, and quickly ducked into the doorway of the gentleman’s outfitters next door.

He studied the window display, but in reality, watched the reflection of his mother exiting the shop.

She handed her footman a parcel, and they set off down the street, to where he could see one of his own carriages approaching. Just as he was about to move on, the modiste’s door opened again, and two young women came out, followed by their maids, and collected their footman from where he waited.

Curious, he watched them. One had rich auburn hair, piled up on her head under her bonnet, and escaping its pins a little, to curl down around her bonnet strings.

When she lifted her head to speak to the dark-haired young woman beside her, he felt suddenly frozen in place. She was stunningly beautiful, with the late afternoon sun sparking bright lights in that wealth of silken hair, and catching glints in her hazel eyes. Her skin was perfect – pale, yet not pallid, with a soft blush to her cheeks, and her lips were that dark pinkish gold colour which made him think of raspberry treacle tarts. He wanted to taste them.

He had seen her before -he thought… at his mother’s dinner last night, perhaps, amongst those oh so shocked faces at the dinner table. He was chagrined to realise that he had been too foxed to remember clearly. If he had not been foxed, he knew that he could never have forgotten a face like that, never.

They moved off, trailed by the maids and a footman, towards a carriage which was just drawing up to wait for them, and suddenly the sounds and sights of the street rushed back into his awareness. He turned away, and set off down the street again – but the men he had been following were nowhere in sight.