Chapter Seven
Tempus fugit.
The Duke of Rakecombe really didn’t have time for this.
After last night’s little rumpus, he’d headed out for a pre-arranged meeting with his resourceful informant Bluey, but he hadn’t been able to uncover the merest trace of Stafford.
Bluey would continue to ferret away though, and today, he himself was supposed to be scouring coffee shops for gossip.
Instead, he was winding the lengthy way around Grosvenor Square with his grandmother’s ring in his pocket.
For once, he hadn’t wholly formulated a plan yet. He often did his best thinking in bed, but restless memories of that deuced kiss had occupied his thoughts.
Wandering onto South Audley Street, he decided to take the long-cut and head for Berkeley Square.
If he wished to be an utterly ruthless bastard, there were still a number of ways he could get out of this mess a bachelor.
Essentially there were only three witnesses, all bribable in differing ways – they could be made to forget that he’d ever uttered the word “wife”, although that debutante had most likely blathered to all and sundry.
He’d since learned from Mother that she’d been angling for the vacant position of duchess. He didn’t enjoy being cold-hearted – well, actually that was a falsehood – but God forbid, she chewed her hair.
So…to his current problem.
Obviously, he could bundle Aideen off to Ireland with a quantity of money, enough for a cosy house and servants. Or, as a duke, find a cash-strapped lesser noble to leg shackle the girl to. He could, in fact, do nothing and leave the wench ruined, deny he ever mentioned marrying. Everyone would understand – she was so far beneath his station in life they never should have even met.
It might yet enhance his callous reputation.
But beneath the rational, down below the wise logic, he felt a stirring animal growl its rage.
How revoltingly primitive.
Rakecombe coughed as he realised he’d strolled twice around Berkeley Gardens and so exited the next corner, which unfortunately meant he was further away from Conduit Street than when he’d first entered the blasted square.
He really didn’t have time for this.
Or, of course, he could marry…
Last night, faced with that threesome of witnesses, all he’d wanted to do was protect Aideen’s reputation, and his mouth had spoken without consulting anyone.
But could he marry?
He’d vowed he never would or at least wait until he was too old to continue in his work, his reflexes too slow. But he reckoned he had at least another ten years within him.
Could he marry and yet continue with his work for the Crown?
As he wandered onto Hay Hill – was this the quickest route? – he thought of his sister Gwen. They’d been so close, shared everything, and that had been the cause of her death. So maybe if he did marry but kept his wife…at a distance, all would be well.
Indeed, if he was never seen with his wife, and surely that was how half the haut ton existed anyway, there would never be any trouble. He could hire guards as he did for his mother – dear Mama had never once noticed the man who’d consistently trailed her for ten years.
A faint tremor slunk down his spine, raising the issue that Aideen could never be kept at a distance, but he was a duke, and a miserable malcontented one at that. She would fall into line.
“Excuse me, good sir, do you know the way to Old Bond Street?”
Rakecombe glared at the bacon-fed fellow who’d dared to intrude.
Did the lackwit not see the hurry he held? “I no live ’ere,” he scorned in his best Parisian accent, and without waiting for the fellow’s fatuous answer, he ambled on.
Now which was quicker? Grafton Street or cut across South Bruton Mews? He’d try both.
Briefly, very briefly, he wished Winterbourne was around as he was always overflowing with hopeless advice, but then again, it would cost him his pride, so perhaps it was best the man was still up north.
Looking up, he realised this was Clifford Street, and so he hummed and hawed.
How did one get to Conduit from here? Could he take a detour and cut across another mews? He didn’t have time to piddle around the streets of London.
Deliberating, his legs set off down Saville Street, so he followed, wielding his cane every so often on a stray song sheet littering the ground, and adding up all the reasons to marry.
He did need an heir. The current beneficiary was cousin Matthew, who had unfortunately inherited the calamitous family trait of gambling.
Sapskull Matthew was kept on a thrifty stipend and Rakecombe had made sure that even if he did inherit, the estate and monies were bound up tighter than a strumpet’s corset.
Grandfather Thomas, another with the ill-fated gambling habit, had nearly bankrupted the Rakecombe name with his reckless wagering on ducks in a wild goose race.
Fortunately, he’d been trampled by a frisky mare and Father had managed to claw back the monies, instilling in his own son the need for sobriety.
So, an heir. Useful.
A wife would also keep away any marriage-minded misses and their devious mothers. Although he’d always been successful enough on that count.
Any other reasons?
An innate sense of honour? Mayhap. Not that he minded his reputation gaining a dash more heartlessness, but he had been raised with a sense of integrity, and if he reneged on his words it was likely his mother would cause his ears to ring.
Were there any more reasons?
“Oy, watch where yer going, cork brain,” a grubby little urchin yelled as Rakecombe ambled into his bundle of newspapers.
He really didn’t have time for all this dilly-dallying.
Perhaps he ought to mull it over in The Coach and Horses on Burlington, but consulting his fob watch, it was nigh eleven and he was never late.
Putting on some haste, he wandered down Swallow Street and came to the wrong end of Conduit.
Damn.
Of course, what he kept ruthlessly suppressing was this odd…need he felt for Miss Quinlan. That aching want as she’d touched his eye last night. The overwhelming desire to have her beneath him. No doubt lust played a part, but he’d felt that before.
This appeared to be deeper, but he purposefully shied away from probing further.
There was no time.
If he married Aideen Quinlan, she would belong to him. And only him. No woolly crowned Sherburn drooling over her, soft hands pawing.
With mind made up, he strode down the street that the Beckfords inhabited, glad after all that he’d taken the time to remove his grandmother’s ring from the safe this morning.
Aideen sipped the now cold chocolate and willed her heart to stop thumping so stridently.
The duke had arrived well after the appointed hour of eleven, but he’d immediately demanded to speak with Mr Beckford. She knew this was proper but couldn’t help feel a tinge of resentment.
They were discussing her life, her future, and she wasn’t even there. At least she could rely on Mr Beckford not to be cowed, but even so…
“Aideen? The duke has requested to speak with you privately, and I have agreed you may converse on the terrace with the door open. But Edwina or a maid can stay if you so wish?”
Pivoting, she found Mr Beckford with a looming black shadow at his heels. Devil’s minions, the duke resembled the Grim Reaper some days – he need only swap his ubiquitous cane for a scythe.
“That is acceptable, sir.”
“Good. Remember my words this morning, dearest.”
Nodding, she led the duke through the drawing room and onto the small terrace. The birds cheerfully chirped, and an audacious russet-red squirrel ran along the oak tree, all utterly unaware of the life-defining scene about to take place.
Aideen waited for him to speak. For once, she was going to let someone else do the talking.
“I apologise for last night,” he finally said.
“Which bit?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which bit are you apologising for? The kiss? For being discovered? Or for stating that you’ve found a wife in such a pompous way.” Bah. She never could hold her tongue – it was like trying to gag a rooster at dawn.
He stalked closer, and she had to admit to a frisson of excitement. His stride was meant to intimidate, to make a person step back, but as a child she’d loved to be pushed high on the swing, so high she’d squealed in fright and exhilaration. She might fall. She might be hurt.
The feeling was the same.
“I apologise for putting us both in this intolerable situation.”
Ah, so he was regretting it.
Over the course of the morning, she had convinced herself that maybe a long engagement would be best. To see if they would suit, see if they could sit in the same room together for one whole hour without provoking or…kissing.
It was true she could retreat to Ireland, but gossip travelled faster than the four-in-hand club at full tilt, and no doubt Da would hassle some squinting squire into marrying her. One with sweaty hands and fetid breath, and in that company the duke emerged a better option, even putting aside his verdant gaze and firm thighs.
So, the duke then…but with an extended engagement.
Perchance, they could attend the theatre and take rides in Hyde Park. Talk sensibly and find what else they had in common. And when the Season ended, if they were still contrary, they could part amicably, the gossip having died down. A little.
But it seemed he had changed his mind. Well, no matter, she would weather the ruination.
“’Tis fine,” she agreed. “I do not wish to marry a duke.”
“I beg your pardon?” He peered with incredulous eyes. She’d always thought the colour akin to spinach, but they were lighter in the day, almost like lichen in an Irish forest. “Everybody wishes to marry a duke,” he said somewhat arrogantly.
“I don’t. All that prancing around and sniffing at people.”
“I do not prance…ever.” He took another step forward, although he glanced at the open terrace door with narrowed gaze.
“Oh, ’tis well for a duke,” Aideen continued, feeling quite roused. “You prowl around and appear haughty, and all the women throw their skirts up and–”
“I have not perceived your skirts sailing skywards.”
She was about to say he never would either when he took another step, leaned close and inhaled.
“I didn’t mean sniffing quite so literally,” she whispered.
“You drank chocolate this morning.”
“Yes.”
Green eyes gleamed before he started to sink downwards.
Appalled, excited and utterly bewildered, she followed his broad shoulders as he kneeled before her, his nose practically in her gown. She could even make out the dark auburn strands in his harshly restrained hair.
“Miss Quinlan, become my wife.”
“Erm. Why?”
The duke’s shoulder twitched, and she realised he was laughing. With face now raised, she could see the mirth, lips curving and little lines crinkling to the side of his eyes.
He appeared younger, warmer.
He appeared suave, virile, aristocratic and awfully difficult to refuse.
“Only you would ask me that,” he said. “But I believe we’d deal well together.”
“We vex one another.”
“Not all the time,” he drawled from the ground. “Do you need me to point out the advantages? Or are you avenging yourself on my knees.” He shuffled. “Aideen,” he said seriously. “I am a duke, and I do not ruin young women. I am sure we can put aside our vexations and pass a pleasant life together. And we do have a certain…attraction.”
Pleasant sounded most dull but he was correct about the attraction. She hesitated for the briefest of moments.
“I… Yes, I will marry you.” There, it was said, and she would ask for a long engagement in just one moment.
She’d thought resignation would be the overriding expression on his handsome visage, but it was more possessive as he rose to his full height once more, looming close.
Oh, lawks, what had she done?
Would he kiss her? To seal the agreement? They’d never kissed with forethought…at least not on her part.
“Mr Beckford informed me you were raised in your mother’s religion which makes the process easier. Despite your voluble curses and praises of the saints, you are not in fact Catholic. Did your father not protest?”
“It was my mother’s wish, and I don’t believe Da much cared.”
An imperious eyebrow raised in query but she so hated explaining herself. At least they had that in common.
“My mother fell ill after my birth and never recovered. Da was too distracted.”
“I hope you do not require your father to attend the wedding? You are of age, and Mr Beckford stated that he held guardianship whilst you are in England.”
Aideen frowned. That was true but surely ’twas too soon to be worrying about guest lists. “I assumed a long engagement to be certain we can–”
“Three days.”
“What?”
“We will be married in St George’s, three days hence.”
“But…but… That church will be unavailable for months. There’s a waiting list.” Curiously, that was the sole argument which came to mind.
“I am a duke and lists do not apply,” he proclaimed.
Tapping that damnable cane and dislodging a flagstone, he continued, “Directly after this meeting, I will approach the Archbishop for a special licence. He attended dinner last month, so there should be no problem as we had a different chef then. I shall also inform Prinny this afternoon. He owes me a mint so won’t kick up a storm.”
Aideen’s mind addled. Dining with the Archbishop. Meeting? Four days. Prinny! “I don’t think–”
But her thoughts were ignored as her upper arms were grasped and a firm mouth pressed itself against hers.
He briefly pulled away. “I want you, my chocolate-coated cherry…and soon,” he muttered, before hauling her close again.
The polite clearing of a throat made itself known from the house and she was instantly released.
“Three days,” he growled and strode off without looking back – a rather bad habit of his.
Grumbling at his high-handed tyrannical manner, Aideen glared at the retreating upright spine.
She supposed she ought to be flattered he wanted her, despite her lowly status, but that wasn’t why she was marrying him.
It was because she desired the damn man as well…and soon.
Aideen sighed. No carriage rides in Hyde Park then.