Page 13 of Lusting for the Duke's Kiss
His eyes lit up with hope. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “I hope that your headache eases soon. I will be waiting for you …”
She nodded quickly, turning on her heel, and almost fleeing to her chamber. She could barely grip the door handle. Once inside, she slammed it shut, leaning against it, her heart hammering as if she had just escaped the clutches of a wolf.
What was wrong with her? This physical response to him was almost overwhelming. So very shocking that it was shameful.
She didn’t want to be married again, even if they could procure a divorce for her, which was unlikely in the extreme. She didn’t want to be with any man. They were all liars. Had this man not proved that he was one, already? He was not to be trusted, any more than Frank could be. He had claimed that his lie about his identity was a one-off joke, but how did she know that?
He probably did it at all the engagements he went to, out of his district, hoping to charm any lady, then leave her for dust, with no consequences. Any lady would be searching for Vincent Cassidy, not the Duke of Warwick. A cad, through and through.
The sooner she could get to a convent and put all of this behind her, the better. Only then would she be safe.
***
She was almost going to send down her excuses for dinner, that her headache still raged, and she could not possibly attend, when something stopped her. She didn’t know what it was. Curiosity? A desire to understand why this man had shockingly arrived on her doorstep, determined to marry her, after such a brief encounter years ago.
She didn’t take any extra care with her toilette, that evening, before she drifted down the stairs again to the dining room. She didn’t even bother to change her gown. She was not going to dress up to please him or her parents.
But his eyes still widened in admiration as she swept into the room, taking her usual seat. He was seated opposite her, a wine glass already in front of him, filled with her father’s best claret. Papa and Mamahadgone to an effort for him. The table was covered with the best tablecloth, white and pristine, and Hetty noted that they were using the best silver, as well. Lord only knew what paroxysms her mother had gone into when deciding upon the menu for the evening.
Mama was wearing one of her very best gowns, a peacock blue silk dress, normally reserved for fine dinner parties. And Papa had made a very big effort, too, slicking back his hair into a sleek silver cap, rather than the usual slightly wild curls. Nobody spoke as she unfolded her napkin, placing it on her lap. The butler filled up her empty wine glass, and she took it, drinking deeply.
“I hope that your headache is better,” said the Duke, clearing his throat as he gazed at her.
“Much better, I thank you,” she replied, putting down her wine glass.
There was an awkward silence.
Her father rushed in. “His Grace was telling me this afternoon about his ancestral home, Hetty,” he said quickly. “One hundred acres, on the border of our county and Hampshire.”
“Hampshire?” She raised a quizzical eyebrow at the man, sitting across from her. “So, you told the truth about where you reside, at any rate, when we last met. I suppose I should be very grateful for that.”
He didn’t look ashamed. He didn’t colour, or slide his eyes away, towards the floor. Instead, he looked at her almost challengingly, his green eyes speculative.
“No, I did not lie about that,” he replied slowly. “Warwick Manor is located just over the county border, as your father said.” A pause. “It has been in my family for centuries. We acquired the land just after Henry Tudor defeated the Plantagenets at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485.”
She nodded. “Your family benefited, then, from the change of monarchy,” she said in a crisp voice. “I assume they were Lancastrians, then? Henry Tudor would hardly have allowed one hundred acres to be given to his enemy. The War of the Roses was bitter, and allegiances were fierce.”
He looked surprised. She felt a sharp stab of triumph. He obviously thought that she was a vacant headed woman, who only knew about embroidery and pressing flowers into books. Usually, she never talked about her love of history in company. And never to gentlemen. Her mother had told her long ago that gentlemen did not like ladies to be knowledgeable, in case they were contradicted. Best to stick to safe subjects when speaking to them.
But she did not care about any of that, now. She was not out to impress him; in fact, it was the very opposite. Maybe he would be discouraged by her tongue. Maybe he would think her too clever a woman, and back right away. Most gentlemen preferred a docile, vacuous lady, who looked pretty but who didn’t speak out of turn. A painted doll, to prop on their arm.
“You surprise me,” he said eventually, picking up his wine glass and sipping it thoughtfully. “Is English history a passion of yours?”
She nodded, staring at him steadily. “It is. I also like French history. Mama is always scolding me for having my head in a book. She tells me that I shall ruin my eyesight and that no man likes a learned woman.”
“Hetty,” said her mother, colouring. “I have said no such thing …”
The Duke smiled, turning to her mother. “Do not be alarmed, Mrs Arnold. It is only what most mothers tell their daughters, after all.” He turned back to Hetty. “It is true, for the most part. Most gentlemen do not like learned women. But I have always marched to the beat of a different drum. My own mother, God rest her soul, was a passionate reader, and highly educated. My sister, Catherine, took after her, and we often have spirited debates about various topics.”
Hetty took a deep gulp of wine to hide her surprise. He was probably only saying such things to try and impress her, now that he knew that she liked learning. It was probably another lie.
“English history is also a passion of mine,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and fixing her with an intense gaze. “I have an extensive library at Warwick Manor, and a large section of it is devoted to English history. I have many rare books, on the War of the Roses, and some dating back to William the Conqueror.”
She gazed at him, not knowing what to say, as she felt a quick stab of excitement. What she wouldn’t give to be able to peruse such a library. What treasures would be stored in there? It would be like being in Aladdin’s cave, finding a trunk load of rare and preciousjewels.
“Warwick Manor is almost like going back in time,” he continued. “As things were so unstable when it was built, my ancestor, the third Duke of Warwick, made sure that many hidden passageways were constructed within it. In case any within needed to flee quickly, or hide, if there was an overthrow of power, and we were on the wrong side of it.”
“You have hidden passages?” asked Hetty, unable to stop herself. “I have heard of them but never been into a house that has them. Does it also have a secret room, where mass could be heard, after the Reformation?”
