Chapter 11

Cordy had to admire the dowager’s efficient skill, even if she did think the old battle axe was as the Arabs would say, a flea infested pit of a camel married to a donkey’s carbuncle. She sat, dressed in a frilly frock, abducted from Gemma’s room. The lace itched at her neck and it was all she could do not to rip the stuff off.

All signs of her own promised wardrobe had yet to appear and her predicament was so incredible even she was having trouble accepting how quickly that seemingly helpful old woman had turned into a mad old bag, locking her in an upstairs room. A nice room, but with a lock on it nonetheless.

Apparently, bread and water was on her menu until she saw sense and agreed to be Jack’s duchess. Which was all so bizarre considering the facts had led her to believe the Eversleigh family all, except Gemma, wished her as far from England as possible. Darkest Africa had seemed the preference. But now. . . Now? The old harridan had taken into account Cordelia’s skills at leading archeological expeditions, not to mention her diplomacy with aging and impossible aristocrats, and decided that such a pedigree along with her blue though somewhat tainted blood meant she was the perfect woman to inherit the dowager’s control of London Town.

Some would have been honored. Cordy wasn’t some. She was furious. She’d been held captive before and it was always an exasperating and occasionally terrifying experience. And she highly doubted she’d be able to wheedle the Dowager Duchess the way she had wheedled the Sheik. Her Grace, the dowager duchess of every one will dance to my tune, seemed wheedle proof.

A squat little toad of a woman sat across from Cordy, glaring. Quite belligerently, a single hair protruded out of a mole from her sharply angled, slightly grey bearded chin. One almost expected the woman’s name to be Helga the Horrible.

It wasn’t. Her name was Mrs. Alice Rose.

It seemed a cruel twist of fate that such a hideous crone of a woman should have such a delicate name.

Mrs. Rose sat in almost granite like silence and lack of movement that hid a remarkable agility and surprising speed which Cordy had encountered whilst attempting to bolt some five minutes ago.

She had accepted that the older woman was as tough as a Tar Tar and now was contemplating her next best opportunity of escape. It had seemed like a most logical conclusion to take the dowager’s offer. One did not deny such power out of hand. But it had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. And she couldn’t wait to leave all the positively mad people of London, the Eversleighs the maddest of all.

Escape now seemed a most appealing option. She had not fought for her independence so long to give it up so entirely and without respect in a few short hours. Her bloody dowager grace had another thing coming if she thought she would take such treatment without retaliation. There were some battles that surely even that tyrannical woman couldn’t win.

Cordy eyed her keeper then smiled, her winning smile. The smile which had worked on everyone except Jack’s dratted grandmother She hoped she hadn’t lost her touch. Still, needs must. “I assure you Mrs. Rose, you are guarding me quite illegally.”

The old woman sniffed and folded her old hands together, the gnarled fingers as tough as oak. “Don’t matter none.”

“That you imprison a fellow female?” Perhaps she could reason with the creature. “After all, we are both women oppressed by society. Should we not unite in the bonds of sisterhood?”

Mrs. Rose looked away, nose in the air. “Say what you will, I shan’t be moved.”

Cordy scooted to the edge of her seat. “But Mrs. Rose—”

“No, missy.”

Missy?

Giving a terse nod, the old woman nodded once. “Her Grace wishes you to stay here until you come to your senses. So, here you shall stay.”

“And is Her Grace God, that I should be locked up and judged so?”

The woman gave her such an incredulous shrug that the only possible thing to discern from it was that, yes, the dowager was indeed God almighty.

It was a most intriguing predicament. She supposed she could overpower the old woman, but it just seemed so unsporting. . . Then again, Mrs. Rose had proved remarkably fast and strong and she might end up being squashed like a bug under the woman’s muscly girth.

A loud thud whacked against the window.

Cordelia’s gaze jerked to the clear panes, exposing a rather grey morning and the tall, winding limbs of an oak frothing with lime green leaves.

Mrs. Rose also shifted her attention toward the window.

And then much to her exceedingly disbelieving eyes, in primate fashion, Jack Eversleigh, the Duke of Hunt, most frustratingly handsome and vexing man of the ton, popped into view, dangling from one of the oak’s impressive limbs. He gave her a grin so impossibly cheeky a shocked laugh burst from her lips.

Despite her astonishment, Cordy sprang to her feet and darted for the window.

Apparently winded from her earlier pursuit, Mrs. Rose lumbered after her.

Still, that didn’t stop Cordelia from throwing the window open and asking with all attempt at seriousness, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

His dark brows lifted towards his boyishly uncoiffed jet hair. “Does one need such a thing to rescue one’s wife?”

She nearly tumbled out the window as her heart slammed in her chest. The word wife should have sounded dreadfully wrong. It didn’t.

He extended a lightly calloused, granite looking hand. “Come on then,” he dared. “Show me the wild Duchess Cordelia.”

She quickly peered down at the three stories of open space beneath her, the expanse between the windowsill, and the trunk of the tree. Without looking back towards her advancing jailor and her beautifully appointed prison, she grabbed Jack’s extended hand.

Mrs. Rose’s footsteps thundered across the room. As Jack spotted her, his eyes widened with chagrined horror. In one quick move, he latched his fingers firmly about Cordy’s then yanked in a fast, hard jerk. . .

Leaving her dangling from the very strong arm of one mad member of the ton. . . above a pristinely groomed lawn wondering if she’d traveled thousands of miles to die skewered upon one of the elephant shaped shrubberies below. Drawing in a steadying breath, she lifted her eyes to his and ordered, “Swing me over!”

And much to her amazement, he did exactly as she said, swinging her up through the cool air and in towards the ancient tree. She hit the scratchy bark with a hard thud and her breath omphed out of her, but not before she clung to the trunk with her legs and free arm. ‘Twas a good thing her thighs were in such splendid condition, otherwise she would never would have been able to grip the large and rigid wood with such dexterity.

A strange look crossed over her husband’s face as she squeezed her legs before he shook his head in what could only be declared as wonder.

Even with her suitably fit person, clinging was remarkably difficult sans her sensible clothing. Gemma’s borrowed clothes were simply not meant for an aerial escape. Her legs wouldn’t part quite far enough to allow her groin to meet the tree. So, she dug her toes into the bark and glanced up at her would be rescuer. “Make haste. I shan’t be able to hold on long.”

A definite dose of admiration lit his face. “Unbelievable.”

She flashed a grin then said practically, “Thank you. Now let go my hand.”

“I hardly think that advisable.”

“Jack,” she warned, carefully, for she did truly appreciate his assistance in her escape, “Let go.”

“But—”

Cordy let out a sigh. Men. They were such ninnies.

With one swift move, she pulled her fingers from his, grabbed the tree, then scaled down the bark in quick slides. Her slippers landed on the lawn with a solid thud and she peered up, staring at two faces which were gaping down at her as if she’d grown a second head.

Jack was still far up in the tree, his mouth open.

Mrs. Rose on the other hand fairly shook with fury. She let out an unintelligible curse then whisked away from the window.

“Are you coming down?” Cordelia called.

There was a pause then the reply, “Indeed, madam.”

“If you could be quick about it?” She brushed her dirty hands against the fluffy frock and grimaced. “I do believe we are in a trifle hurry.”

And just as said words passed her lips, the door to the rear of the house cracked open.

With far less grace than her own descent, Jack scrambled down out of the tree, his muscled arms working with beautiful precision. It really was quite miraculous the strength and grace of the male form. . . Jack’s body moved with such power that she was sure she could learn a great deal anthropologically speaking from his movements. But just for good measure and so that he wouldn’t realize how much she admired him as an ideal specimen of the male species, she commanded, “Get a move on, Your Grace.”

He pounced to the earth and his black eyes narrowed as he rose from his crouched position. His hand reached out and engulfed hers. Without a word, he started running across the slightly damp grass towards the street, tugging her along behind him.

Luckily, she’d done her own fair share of running and kept up with him. Even so, her stays (something she was still adjusting too) nearly had her gasping for breath and her constrictive skirts caught on her shoes, threatening a much closer acquaintance with the lawn than her descent form the tree had done.

As they rounded to the cobbled street in front of the town house, she spotted a black coach, hitched with four chestnut horses and a driver sitting at the ready.

The front door flew open and shouts filled the air as liveried footmen bounded down the limestone stairs, their white wigs bobbing like fluffed cream.

“Run faster!” Jack shouted.

She attempted to kick out her feet to match his long stride and promptly caught her pointy shoe in a flounce. She flew forward, her limbs completely out of control.

Bracing herself, Cordelia cursed the men who made women’s gowns to be so imprisoning, but before her body could collide with the earth a pair of brazenly muscled arms latched around her middle then tossed her up into the air until her stomach landed with quite a distressing whump upon an exceptionally broad male shoulder.

Jack’s shoulder.

Though padded with sinew, it still jarred her middle. He made no apologies about his Neanderthal movement. “Down!” she ordered, rapping firmly against his back.

“Never mind your shrillness,” he returned.

“I am not shrill,” she huffed as best she may, middle thwacking against him. “I am authoritative. Now put me down!”

“In a moment.”

Her eyes fixed firmly on his rock hard buttocks flexing with each forward thrust of his thighs and she felt herself flush. She rammed a hand against his back. “This bleeding instant!”

“When we’re good and away, woman.”

Woman? Woman!

Just as she was about to deliver a blistering reply, she caught the movement of legs covered in white breeches out of the corner of her eye and realized they were being pursued quite determinedly to the coach. “Faster!” she bellowed.

“I am going faster. You weigh a surprising amount.”

And just as she was sure, said running breeches were about to reach out and seize her, she sailed through the air and bounced against a cushioned seat.

Jack’s large frame plummeted against her, landing with a hard and immobilizing crush. She thrashed under him to no avail, and she gasped for breath as the coach rushed into motion, rocking both of them in an undignified rhythm which was somehow quite physically provoking. Her already red cheeks burned prodigiously and she felt the most alarming things in the most alarming places. . . Undoubtedly due to the inappropriate placement of his thigh betwixt her legs and his chiseled chest pressed against her own considerably softer one.

At last, as the coach rumbled over the cobblestone, his hard frame eased against hers, and he lifted himself, but only ever so slightly. Only enough to allow her to breath and to make his weight a strangely pleasant sensation.

Pleasant or not, she had no intention of allowing him to linger upon her person. “Are you somehow incapacitated?”

“Only by your glorious body,” he purred.

She snorted. “Glorious, indeed. Remove yourself.”

“In a moment, I’m exhausted.”

She rolled her eyes, though since his face was pressed quite distractingly into the crook of her shoulder, his breath causing the most delicious sensations against her neck, the look was lost on him. “I had no idea you’d such little stamina.”

“It is the shock of having absconded with my own wife.” The warm words caressed against the soft skin of her neck and ear. “Give me a moment, and I shall rally.”

His lips were so close she nearly arched towards him, in a bizarre experience of her body attempting to act without regard to her brain.

“History has set a precedent for such happenings, and given circumstances,” she gritted, attempting to squirm away from his doubtlessly hypnotizing lips, “you can hardly call me your wife.”

Slowly, he lifted his head and gazed down at her with eyes as hot as the glittering sands of Egypt. “And yet you are.”

Her insides jellied and she glanced away. “Harrumph.”

He tsked. “Show a bit of gratitude.”

Such a ridiculous instruction sent her gaze reeling back towards his. “Whatever for?”

His eyes widened innocently, as innocently as his eyes could ever possibly ever attempt. “Rescuing you from whatever machinations my grand mother had in store for you. ”

She squirmed again under his broad frame, attempting to dislodge him. “I would have rescued myself eventually.”

He remained solidly atop her. “But not until after several days—”

“Hours,” she pointed out quickly. She would not inflame his clearly already engorged ego.

“Days of hideous lecture,” he droned on, no consideration to her correction, “and attempts at reforming your already ideal character.”

That gave her pause. She stopped shifting about beneath him firstly to stop the strangely increasingly pleasant feelings such activity was inducing in her rebellious body and out of blatant curiosity. “Ideal?”

“Without doubt.”

She narrowed her eyes, deeply suspicious that any man, let alone such man as himself could find her in any way ideal. “How so?”

“You have an independent mind and an adventurous spirit,” he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the entirety of the world.

“Most men do not consider me ideal. They consider me a catastrophe,” she found herself saying with a degree of softness that might make her sound vulnerable so she added acerbically, “Idiots that they are.”

“Yes,” he acceded just as softly with a highly different intention. Those hot eyes of his were wandering over her face as if he had discovered a highly prized artifact. “Most men would and are.”

“But you are not most men?”

He said nothing, only smiled slightly, a ridiculously charming smile.

“No.” She made every attempt to glare at him, but he was so endearing what with his black hair brushing over his forehead, and that ludicrously admiring expression upon his far too handsome features. “I suppose you are not.”

“And you are not most women.”

“I do believe that goes without saying.” She hesitated, wondering what the devil was happening here in the coach rattling through London. “Is that why you rescued me from your grandmother?”

“Pardon?” He seemed quite distracted by some aspect of her face.

She ignored his strangely compelling gaze. “Because you think I am unique?”

“No.” He blinked as if shaking his own supercilious thoughts away. “I rescued you, because my grandmother, love her as I do, has a will of iron and whatever she wants she gets and well, I wouldn’t leave a dog with her that didn’t wish to be.”

“Well, thank you.”

He pulled back form her a little, the weight of his chest lifting away from hers as he propped himself on twin rock hard arms. “I didn’t mean—”

She took the opportunity to scramble away, and attempted not to think on how very strange her breasts felt and how they ached at his sudden withdrawal. “I am not interested in what you meant.”

He lifted his hand and carefully brushed one of her errant locks aside. “Are you not?”

“No. And why didn’t you just order her to let me go. You are the duke after all. Why the theatrics?”

He looked askance. “I run the ducal estates in name only, you see.”

“I don’t understand,” she said softly.

“I show up to ceremonies, suit on, coronet in place, but I do not have the ability to be a good duke. So, my grandmother agreed to take care of the estates and everything else for me. She ensures that I can’t ruin generations of Hunt rule.”

His words were quick, emotionless and she could hardly believe he meant them. “I hardly think that you seem incapable.”

His eyes hardened. “I am. Leave it at that. My only skills are with women, wine and song. Make no mistake. Any other belief in me would be quite inadvisable.”

A strange sort of sadness tugged at her heart. He had a very dark view of himself. Still, she wasn’t going to be a fool and try to change him. Her parents had constantly tried to change each other and the only thing they’d gained was misery. Besides she was leaving. Yes. Leaving. Cordy cleared her throat. “Will you send my things to whatever dock you are escorting me to? I’ll be glad to see the backside of this dratted country.”

“Whatever for? And why in god’s name should I take you to the docks?”

A strange, suspicious feeling took root in her stomach. “Why, to leave this ridiculous country. You rescued me to help me escape!”

All that mischievousness which had been there just moments ago, was fast slipping away. “You are staying.”

The air whooshed out of her but she managed to inquire, “Why is that?”

“Because I wish it,” he replied with the same sort of surety as the sovereign might have declared to his ridiculously unpaid tailors upon the request for a new suit.

“Your whims are most disconcerting.”

“I said was bad duke. I didn’t say I wasn’t a duke at all. What I desire, I usually get. And I don’t wish you to leave. Not yet.”

“But I can now arrange for our annulment abroad,” she pointed out. . . as though he wasn’t already aware. Surely, he couldn’t possibly be serious! “The medical exam is done and frankly, it was foolish of me to come here. London is the devil.”

He seemed to listen, but his reply, “You are staying,” suggested he hadn’t heard a word she said.

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you suddenly deaf?”

“No.”

“Then why do you repeat yourself?”

He shrugged and then took a seat beside her in such a luxuriously sprawled position one might have assumed he was a sultan. “You are not leaving England,” he said simply.

She scrambled up into a decidedly flummoxed half seated position. “Then what is it that I am doing?”

He stared back at her as if she were mad. “You are coming with me, of course.”

She swallowed, barely daring to believe the horrifying nonsense coming from his beautiful mouth. “That seems hardly advisable.”

“We shall travel north. I know a marvelous hunting lodge,” he enthused, ignoring her.

“I do not think so,” she gritted.

“Though I adore your mousetrap of a mind, thinking is not required of you at present.”

She goggled at him, wondering if she’d left her head behind or if this could truly be befalling her. “Are you mad?” she exclaimed.

“No.”

“Did you bash your head in your rapid descent from that old oak?” Dear God, she hoped so.

“No.” He continued to stare impassively at her, like an unyielding wall.

“Are you drunk?” she asked hopefully.

“Not at present. Would you care for a drink?”

“No!” she yelled, her blood slowly boiling until she was sure she was going to reach out and biff him.

His brows drew together in mock shock at her tone. “Then stop asking silly questions.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits so small, she could barely see his infuriating countenance. “I will if you take me to the docks.”

He paused for a long moment, apparently giving her command consideration. “No.”

She flung herself on the seat opposite him, determined to be as far away from him as possible. “You are repeating yourself again.”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“Look here,” she began in what she believed to be a way in which one reasons with such an oaf. “I will not be bullied nor told what to do.”

“Yes, you will.” He folded his arms across his chest, causing muscles she barely even knew existed to move in a most fascinating succession of ways.

“Why do you believe I shall do such a thing?” she demanded, wishing that she had merely peeled off down the street on her own steam rather than waiting for him to crash down from that dratted tree.

“Because I am your husband,” he declared imperiously with such a degree of amusement, that one would have thought he were the Lord Wellington himself.

“No,” she growled, fighting the urge to grind her teeth together. “You are not.”

He waggled his finger at her, his eyes alight with a terribly pleased glow. “The law disagrees with you.”

“Only for the moment,” she hissed, knowing full well that she had jumped from the pan to the fire. But who could have possibly thought imprisonment by that demented grandmother would be more reasonable than escape with a husband who had seemed quite unwilling to have a wife?

“The moment is all that matters.”

“Ooooh! You do realize your grandmother will be furious.”

His grin blossomed into a full and ecstatic grin. “I know. Isn’t it marvelous?”

“My God,” she groaned, burying her face in her hands, willing him, the carriage, and quite frankly, all of London to disappear.

“You don’t believe in God,” he corrected blithely. “Rocks perhaps but—”

“Never mind that now.” Cordy groaned again lest she begin a tirade of swearing. A sense of indignation that she had indeed been kidnapped by her own husband growing within her.

“What would you like me to mind? Hmm. Your mouth? I adore your mouth, even when it is speaking the most contrary of—”

She flung her hands down to her sides and attempted to pin him with a glare so frosty his entire being should have crystalized on the spot. A sudden and infuriating thought came to her. “That’s why you’ve done this!”

He glanced from side to side, his face relaxed and oh so innocent. “Done what?”

“Rescued me, you dolt.”

“There is no need for name calling. It is beneath you, a woman of your intelligence.”

Dread rippled through her. Yes. Dread, because with each passing moment, the truth of his erratic behavior dawned on her. “You’ve rescued me because it will anger your grandmother.”

There was that silence again.

“That’s all this is,” she pushed, waiting for him to deny it, but certain he would not. “An opportunity to prove your lack of worth.”

His joie de vivre simmered to a low boil and his innocent expression petered away. “That is not entirely correct.”

“Then what? Please do elucidate.”

He cleared his throat and leaned forward, bracing his forearms against his muscled thighs. “There is a much larger picture here.”

“Would you care to paint it for me?”

He cocked his head to the side, eyeing her carefully before replying, “No.”

“I will not sit idly—”

“All you need know is that you are my wife. You will do as I say. And what I say is that you are staying.”

Did the entire Eversleigh clan suddenly wish her to stay in London? It certainly seemed so. How had everything changed so quickly, so horribly, in just a few hours? She was in a carriage with what had to be a mad man. Yes. A mad man. Mad as his grandmother. And as impetuous as his sister. The entire Eversleigh family was crack brained. It was the only explanation for her situation. If they were all mad, he was not to be reasoned with.

And that was when she decided screaming, though exceptionally female, was the only answer to this insane circumstance. . . And scream she did.