Romancing the Duke (8 page)

Good heavens. Even vicar’s daughters were throwing themselves at him? Izzy didn’t find it hard to believe, but she found it a bit disappointing.

Oh, listen to her. It wasn’t as though she had some claim on the man. One kiss in the dark, and she’d become a jealous harpy. She pushed the envy aside.

Then a young woman entered the great hall, and the envy pushed right back.

Izzy had been to Court, many parties, and even a London ball or two. She could honestly say this was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Golden hair, with little ringlets placed artfully about her face. Ribbons streaming from her blue muslin frock. Pleasing figure. Practiced smile. Immaculate lace gloves.

“Your Grace?” The young woman breathed the words as a sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her chest. “You’re well. Thank the Lord. I expected to find you prostrate and delirious from fever, after the tale I heard from Mr. Duncan. It simply can’t be true. Surely you haven’t recently received a visitor by the name of—” Then her eyes landed on Izzy, and she halted abruptly. “Oh it is true. She
is
here.”

The basket Miss Pelham carried dropped to the floor, and she clapped both hands to her cheeks. “You’re Izzy Goodnight?”

Izzy dropped a slight curtsy.

“The
Izzy Goodnight?”

“Yes. That’s me.”

The young woman gave a small cry of excitement. “Forgive me. I just can’t believe you’re here. Really here, so close to my own home. Oh, please say you’ll call at the vicarage.”

“I . . . I’m sure I’d like that very much, Miss Pelham.”

“What an honor, truly. But I can’t imagine what brings you to Northumberland.”

“It’s this.” Izzy gestured about them. “Gostley Castle. I have inherited the property from the late Earl of Lynforth.”

“Inherited? This?” The young woman’s eyes flew wide. “I can’t believe it.”

Izzy smiled. “It was a shock to us all, I believe. His Grace and I have been negotiating our landlady-tenant relationship.”

Miss Pelham bounced in place, and her heels clicked on the stone floor. “I’m going to be neighbors with Izzy Goodnight.”

“Miss Pelham . . .” the duke interrupted.

“I’ve read all the
Tales,
you know. So many times. When I was younger, I cut each installment from the magazine and pasted the pages into a book. I brought it with me just in case the rumor was true.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a large, loosely bound volume. “I’d be ever so honored if you’d sign your name to it.”

“Miss Pelham.”

“Oh, I can’t help but ask,” she blurted out. “Can I have a lock of your hair, Miss Goodnight? For the book.”

“Miss
Pelham,
” he interrupted, jarring them both. “Miss Goodnight is under the mistaken impression that it would be safe for her to reside here at the castle until our property dispute is settled. Kindly help me persuade her that this is not the case.”

“Oh,” Miss Pelham said, drawing out the sound. “Oh, no.”

The young woman laid the folio aside. As she drew near, her scent was overpoweringly sweet. Izzy recognized vanilla and . . . gardenias?

Her white lace glove closed protectively on Izzy’s wrist. She whispered, “Miss Goodnight, you can’t live here alone with him. I’ve been visiting for months with no inroads. The man is the worst sort of rogue.”

Izzy stared at her with amusement. Did she think the duke couldn’t hear her whispers?

Rothbury went on, “Now tell her that most of the castle is barely habitable.”

“He’s right, Miss Goodnight. I’ve lived down the hill all my life, and it’s a shambles in places. Rotted timber, vermin. Most unsafe.”

“Good and good,” he said. “Now kindly explain that this is not London or York. This is the country, and people hold to traditional values. An unmarried woman cannot take up residence with an unmarried man.”

“It’s all true,” Miss Pelham confirmed. “There would be vicious gossip. The villagers wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”

Rothbury crossed his arms. “Well, then. It’s settled, Miss Goodnight. You cannot remain here, living alone with me. It simply can’t happen. I’m sure Miss Pelham will be glad to—”

“Stay with me?” Izzy interrupted.

“What?” His chin jerked in surprise.

Oh, this was good. She had all the advantage now.

“Miss Pelham could stay with me,” she explained. “As my companion, just for a few weeks. If she’d be so kind.”

“Stay? As companion to
the
Izzy Goodnight?” Miss Pelham squeezed Izzy’s arm to the point of inducing pain. “But I’d love nothing more than to help you with whatever you need.”

It was becoming evident that Miss Pelham was a very
helpful
sort of young lady. Even when her help wasn’t strictly needed or desired.

“I’d be most grateful, Miss Pelham,” Izzy said.

“I’m sure Father can spare me. What an excellent solution for all concerned.”

“We should thank the duke. I believe it was his suggestion.” He couldn’t see it, but just the same—Izzy cast a defiant smile in the direction of his scowl. “Isn’t he brilliant?”

Chapter Eight

W
ithin a matter of minutes, it was decided. Miss Pelham was overjoyed at the prospect. Duncan offered to accompany her to the vicarage to help fetch her things.

“There,” Izzy said, clapping her hands once the two had left. She turned to the duke. “That’s all settled. While they’re gone, the two of us can get to work.”

“What the devil was that?” the duke asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You. Your behavior, the moment Miss Pelham arrived. It was like you became an entirely different person.” He mimicked her girlish lilt. “ ‘Oh, yes, Miss Pelham.’ ‘I’d be so grateful, Miss Pelham.’ ”

She sighed. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about it.”

“I’m not concerned. I’m envious. Why does
she
get the compliant Miss Goodnight, and I get the weasel-wielding harridan?”

“Because she’s a Moranglian.”

“A what?”

“A Moranglian. My father’s stories took place in a fictional country called Moranglia. His most devoted admirers call themselves Moranglians. They have clubs and gatherings and circular letters. And they expect a certain wide-eyed innocence from Izzy Goodnight. I don’t want to disappoint them, that’s all.”

He tapped his fingers on the back of a chair. “So. If I read these stories of your father’s, does that mean you’ll be meek and docile with me?”

“
No.
”

She was never going to be meek or docile with him, and she was never going to let him read
The Goodnight Tales.
The possibility was out of the question. In fact, the possibility was so far out of the question, the possibility and the question were on separate continents.

“Even if you did read my father’s stories, I doubt you’d enjoy them. They require the reader to possess a certain amount of . . .”

“Gullibility?” he suggested. “Inexperience? Willful stupidity?”

“Heart. They require the reader to possess a heart.”

“Then you’re right. They’re not for me. And I’m certainly never going to style myself a Mordrangler.”

“Moranglian.”

“Really,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Not to you.” She moved to the table. “And we don’t have time to be reading stories anyhow. Not with all this correspondence to go through.”

She surveyed the snowdrifts of letters and packets, debating how best to proceed.

“It looks as though they’re somewhat chronological. The older letters are the ones nearest to me, and the newer ones spill toward the far end of the table. Do you want to begin with the old or the new?”

“The old,” he said without hesitation. “If I’m going to understand just what’s going on here, I need to start at the beginning.”

Going through every bit of this correspondence would likely take weeks, but Izzy wasn’t going to complain. More work meant more money for her fix-the-castle fund. And if she was being honest, as difficult as the Duke of Rothbury was to live with, she wasn’t terribly eager to be left alone in the place. Not until it had a good scrubbing. Perhaps an exorcism.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll start here at the beginning. As I read, we’ll sort papers into two piles: Significant, to be revisited later, and Insignificant, to be set aside. Does that plan meet with your approval?”

“Yes.” He reclined on the sofa, sprawling across the full length of it. It was a largish sofa, but he was an even more largish man. Magnus curled in a heap nearby.

“So while I read, you’re just going to lie there. Like a matron reclining on her chaise longue.”

“No. I’m going to lie here like a duke, reposed in his own castle.”

Hah. He ought to recline while he still could. This wouldn’t be his castle for long.

Making use of a nearby letter opener, Izzy started breaking seals and prying open old envelopes. She opened the first, and fattest, one her fingers could locate.

It would seem she’d chosen well. A long list of lines and figures and sums fell out.

“This one looks promising,” she said.

“Then don’t tease, Goodnight. Just read it.”

“ ‘May it please Your Grace,’ ” she began. “ ‘We were most distressed to hear news of your recent injury. Please accept our wishes for your speedy recovery and a return to good health. Per your request, we will forward all estate-related correspondence to your holding in Northumberland, Gostley Castle, until such time as we are given other notice. Enclosed, please find a list of all bills and payments drawn on estate accounts in the previous—”

The duke interrupted. “Are you aware that you’re doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Reading in voices.”

“I’m not doing any such thing.” Her cheeks warmed. “Am I?”

“Yes. You are. I never knew my accounting clerk sounded just like Father Christmas.”

Very well. She
had
been reading the letter in a puffed, clerkish baritone. What of it? Izzy didn’t believe he had any cause for complaint.

“Everything’s more amusing when read in voices.” With a mild shrug, she carried on. “ ‘Enclosed, please find a list of all bills and payments drawn on estate accounts in the previous fortnight.’ And then the list follows. One hundred fifteen pounds paid to the wine merchant. Horseflesh purchased at auction, eight hundred fifty. Monthly credit at the Dark Lion gaming club, three hundred.”

Wine, fast horses, gambling . . .

The further she scanned, the less favorable a portrait this list painted.

However, she perked with interest at the next line. “Charitable subscription to support the Ladies ‘Campaign for Temperance’ . . .” She looked over the page at him. “Ten whole guineas. What generosity.”

“Never let it be said I do nothing for charity.”

“There are lines for servants’ wages, the costermonger . . . Nothing strikes me as out of the ordinary.” Izzy squinted at a scribbled line. “Except this. One hundred forty paid to The Hidden Pearl. What’s that, a jeweler’s shop?”

“No.” That now-familiar smirk curved his lips. “But they do have lovely baubles on display.”

“Oh.”

The meaning behind his sly answer and devilish expression sank in. The Hidden Pearl was a bawdy house, of course. And she was a fool.

“You could
call
it a charitable establishment, if it helps,” he said. “Some of those poor women have hardly anything to wear.”

Izzy ignored him. She held up the letter. “Significant or Insignificant?”

“Significant,” he said. “Anything to do with money is significant.”

She set the letter on a clear patch of table, making it the base of what would become a small, yet steadily growing stack.

They worked through the envelopes, one by one. A few invitations for long-ago events went into the Insignificant heap, as did the months-old newspapers and charitable appeals. Estate reports and accounting tables went in the Significant pile.

Izzy pulled a thin envelope from the sea of unread letters. “Here’s something that was franked by a member of Parliament. It must be very important.”

“If you think every letter bearing an MP’s frank is important, you have fairy-tale notions of government, too. But by all means, read.”

As she opened the letter, a hint of stale, soured perfume assaulted her senses. The penmanship within was scrawling and florid—very feminine. It would seem the letter was not written by the MP himself. Most likely by his wife.

“ ‘Rothbury,’ ” Izzy began aloud.

Well, there was a remarkably familiar salutation. The letter must come from someone who knew him well.

She continued. “ ‘It will shock you to hear from me. It’s been months, and we are not the sort to exchange tender missives. But what is this news of you suffering a mysterious injury? In Northumberland, of all the godforsaken places. I hear a hundred rumors if I hear one. Some report you’ve lost an eye, your nose, or both. Others insist it was a hand. I, of course, care little which appendages you might lop off, so long as no harm comes to that marvelously wicked tongue of yours, and no inches disappear from your magnificent—”

Izzy froze, unable to read further.

“Do go on,” the duke said. “I was enjoying that one. And I’ve changed my mind—feel free to be creative with the voices. Something low and sultry would be excellent.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary for me to read on. Clearly this letter belongs in the Insignificant pile.”

“Oh, Miss Goodnight.” His unmarred eyebrow arched. “Weren’t you paying attention? There’s nothing insignificant about it.”

She burned with embarrassment.

“Don’t think you’ll shame me with your prim silence. I’m not ashamed in the least. Just because you make friends by acting as though you were found under a turnip leaf and raised by gnomes, it doesn’t mean everyone takes pleasure in being prudish.”

“Prudish?” she echoed. “I’m not a prude.”

“Of course not. The reason you stopped reading that letter had nothing to do with being England’s innocent sweetheart.”

He laced his hands behind his neck and propped his boots on the opposite arm of the sofa. If an artist were to capture this image, it would have been labeled,
Smugness: A Portrait.
She wanted to shake him.

“Cock.” She blurted it out. “There. I said it. Aloud. Here, I’ll say it again. Cock. Cock, cock, cock. And not just any cock.” She glanced at the paper and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “ ‘Your magnificent cock, which I long to feel deep inside me again.’ ”

He went quiet now.

She released her grip, letting the paper drop from her hand. “Satisfied?”

“Actually, Goodnight . . .” He sat up on the sofa, shifting awkwardly. “I am the furthest thing from satisfied. And heartily sorry I pressed the matter.”

“Good.”

Izzy huffed a breath, dislodging a stray curl from her forehead. Her whole body was hot and achy, and a low throb had settled between her thighs.

Worst of all, her mind was a buzzing hive of curiosity. When it came to a man’s organ, just what constituted “magnificence” anyhow? There were clues in the letter, she supposed. Something about precious inches and the ability to reach depths.

She propped her elbows on the table and extended one index finger into the air. How long was that, she mused? Perhaps four inches, at the most? Four inches didn’t strike her as a measurement one associated with magnificence.

She extended both index fingers toward one another, letting them touch at the tips. Their combined length was more impressive. But also a little bit frightening.

“Goodnight.”

Oh, Lord.

Her elbow slipped, sending a sheaf of papers cascading to the floor. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her. “Yes?”

“Do you intend to carry on with your work?”

“Yes. Yes, Your Grace. Of course. Yes.”

Enough with these missives from his former lovers.

Izzy searched through the letters, hoping to choose something dry and boring. A report on the state of his tenants’ barley crop. Something with absolutely no evidence of his career as a virile, unapologetic,
magnificent
libertine.

“Here’s something that was sent as an express,” she said, plucking a battered envelope from the bottom of the heap. “It was addressed to you in London, but your people must have forwarded it here.”

He sat up, giving her his full attention. “Read it.”

“ ‘Your Grace,’ ” she began.

But before she could read further, she lowered the letter. “So strange. I must have opened twenty of these now. Not one of them has begun with a warm salutation. Not a ‘My dear duke’ or ‘Dearest Rothbury’ in the bunch.”

“It’s not surprising,” he said flatly. “It’s the way things are.”

She laughed a little. “But not always, surely. Somewhere in these hundreds upon hundreds of letters, there’s got to be one that’s mildly affectionate.”

“Feel free to think so. I wouldn’t advise holding your breath.”

Truly? Not one?

Izzy bit her lip, feeling like a heel for bringing it up. But if no one dared to address him with warmth, it could only be because he forbade it with that stern demeanor. Surely someone, somewhere found him lovable—or least admirable. Hopefully, for a reason that had nothing to do with his financial or physical endowments.

She went back to the letter at hand. Within a few lines, she realized that this was a very different letter than any of the ones she’d read before.

“ ‘Your Grace. By now, you will know I have gone. Do not think I will have regrets. I am sorry—most heartily sorry—for only one thing, and that is that I lacked the courage to tell you directly.’ ”

The duke’s boots hit the floor with a thud. He rose to his feet. His expression was forbidding. But he didn’t tell her not to continue.

“ ‘I realize,’ ” Izzy read on, clearing her throat, “ ‘forgiveness will be beyond you in this moment, but I feel I must offer some explanation for my actions. The plain truth of it is, I could never lov—’ ”

The paper was ripped from her hands.

Rothbury crumpled it in one hand and tossed it in the grate. “Insignificant.”

Insignificant?

Balderdash.

Izzy knew the contents of that letter had been significant. So significant, he couldn’t even bear to confront them, so he’d snatched them from her grip and destroyed the truth.

But there was another significant fact to be dealt with, and it had nothing to do with correspondence at all.

She stared at him. “You deceitful rogue. You’re not blind.”