Chapter 8
8
S itting on a chair at Dunscaby’s bedside, Julia ran her hand across the duke’s forehead for the umpteenth time. He hadn’t developed a fever, thank the stars, but he was still unconscious.
“I would give my life to see you open your eyes,” she whispered, her face hovering above his. Up close, his features were more prominent. Etchings of crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of the evening’s beard along his jaw. How interesting that his whiskers were so much darker than the hair on his head. “I might even deign to share with you all of my secrets, which are more shocking that you’ll ever guess.”
The truth danced on the tip of her tongue as if it were a bird trying to escape its cage. But even though she had a captive audience who was oblivious to everything Julia said, she mustn’t utter a word to reveal her true identity.
Instead, she combed her fingers through the sun-kissed hair on his crown. “I cannot believe a man as robust as you possesses locks this soft.”
But she wasn’t stoking his forehead for her own enjoyment. With luck, Dunscaby would find it soothing somewhere in the depths of his mind.
“My mother died of consumption when I was on the verge of adolescence.” Continuing to swirl her fingers, Julia figured revealing tidbits of her past wouldn’t be too telling. “I was devastated. Of course, that’s where my nurturing stopped. My father took to the bottle and never returned. He passed away not long after, leaving me not only to fend for myself, but to manage the estate as best I could.”
The story she’d relayed about her fictional father was that he’d succumbed to jaundice, which she and Willaby had decided was similar enough to her father’s disease of biliousness—though Julia prayed Papa would fully recuperate.
“Truly, he wasn’t a bad man,” she continued. “Mama’s passing left him with a broken heart from which he never recovered. Except it wasn’t only drinking that led to his ruin. He developed an insatiable appetite for the card tables in some of the East End’s most unsavory gambling hells. I received and paid invoices for his innumerous losses, even some from ladies of the night. I even knew about a mistress he kept in a town house in Chelsea.”
Julia swirled her fingers over Dunscaby’s crown. “With the help of father’s solicitor, I dutifully took care of everything. But don’t think I didn’t try to pull him out of the mire. Several times I pleaded with him to return to his country estate and take his respite. As time passed, he grew more and more belligerent and more careless with his money, until there was nothing left aside from the furniture and household effects. By that time, most of the servants had been dismissed, the solicitor was long gone, and I was trying to make ends meet in a decaying manor staffed only with a butler and a cook who also served as a housekeeper.”
She stilled her hand and sighed. To her chagrin, everything she’d just uttered aside from the tidbit about her father dying was true to this day. Willaby and Mrs. May were the only two remaining servants at Huntly Manor.
“What did you do with the manor once your father died?” Dunscaby asked.
Startled, Julia yanked her hand away. Goodness, had she said too much? “Y-you’re awake?”
“Aye.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “I was dreaming a bonny woman was caressing my head. Imagine my dismay when I discovered it was my steward.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace.” She clapped a hand to her chest. “I-I thought rubbing your temples would bring you comfort.”
“Och, you’d best not tell a soul you comforted me thus, else there will be hell to pay. Especially if Gibb hears of it.”
“Of course not. I would never share any of our confidences.”
“That’s what I like about you, Smallwood. You are a good man.” The duke licked his lips. “Now answer my question. Do you still have the manor?”
“I do. And the coin I earn is put to use keeping it from complete ruin.”
“But what of your rents?”
“Unfortunately, my father saw fit to sell off most of his land.” Julia stopped herself from saying more. There were still some rents coming in, but Papa had used the estate as collateral to borrow money and, until his debts were repaid, there would be no rest.
She offered him a cup of water. “How are you feeling?”
“Aside from a torturous hammering in my skull, I’m ready to find another stag.” He pulled himself up, but not without a grunt of pain. “That fella was a beauty, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.” Julia urged the cup into his hand. “But I daresay you’ll need to stay abed for at least a day.”
“Good God, if I wanted to be mothered, I would have brought the Duchess along.” Dunscaby sipped, then spewed the drink across the bedclothes. “What the devil is this?”
“Water.”
He shoved the cup into her face. “How is a man supposed to recover from a blow to the head with water? Fill it with whisky.”
Julia took the cup, on one hand relieved to see His Grace sitting up and ornery, on the other, wishing he’d fall back to sleep and forgo cantankerousness. Instead, she chuckled and headed for the sideboard. “I have the feeling you’re a difficult patient.”
“Difficult? Me?” He slapped the pillow beside him. “Balderdash. And I’m not a patient.”
Removing the stopper from the decanter, she poured a dram and carried it across the floor. “Of course not, sir.”
Dunscaby took his drink and held it aloft. “I should thank you.”
“No need.” Julia sat. “It was an accident.”
“Aye and if you hadn’t been with me, I would be dead for certain.” His brow furrowed as he shook his head. “How the blazes did you get me on that horse?”
She took a sudden interest in the brass buttons on her waistcoat. After all, there was a great deal of detail hammered into the six small circles. “Ah…I required your help. Of course, a man of my stature cannot dream of lifting a man of yours.”
Leaning his head back, he snorted. “You slapped me across the face.”
“Oh dear, you remember that?”
His Grace rubbed his cheek, the same one she’d accosted. “Aye…and one more thing, Smallwood.”
Julia shrank. Good Lord, she’d struck a duke. She’d be dismissed or worse. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“You must work on that hideous shriek of yours. God’s blood, you’ll never attract a wife screaming like a bloody hyena.”
Cringing, she rubbed her finger over one of the button’s pattern of a sailor surrounded by frothy sea. “I say, have you ever heard a hyena?”
“I’ve read enough to have a good sense of what the beasts sound like. Regardless, you must practice restraint.”
“Very well sir.” She dropped the dratted button on a sigh. God save Dunscaby ever attempt to play matchmaker. What would she do then?
“Go on—get some rest.” He flicked his fingers her way. “You look like a bloodhound who hasna slept in a sennight.”
“But someone ought?—”
“Did you not hear me?” His Grace seemed to grow increasingly irritated. “I am perfectly well. Go find your bed before you force me to lead you to it.”
After Smallwood took his leave, Martin threw back the bedclothes, lumbered to the washstand, and proceeded to pour the entire contents of the ewer over his aching skull.
Damnation, had he completely lost his mind when he’d smacked his pate? The blasted steward had transfixed him with his ridiculous cosseting. It wasn’t until Martin sat up that he’d begun to regain his wits.
The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became.
This entire hunting expedition had turned into a disaster. Smallwood was a bloody impish steward who needed to keep his nose in the ledgers and out of Martin’s affairs. Aye, he was an affable enough sort, but Martin obviously had been spending too much time in the man’s company—first noticing Smallwood’s slender neck last eve, then languishing in his gentle touch this night.
He dabbed his face with a cloth. Then, wrapping it around his neck, he marched to the sideboard and poured himself another dram. Bless it all, he ought to dismiss the man.
No. I need to distance myself from him. I’m Dunscaby, dammit. I told Smallwood to stop shrieking like a wee lassie, and I’ll nay allow the man to tend my sickbed again. The next time, I’ll ring for a buxom alehouse wench afore I allow a man to fondle my bloody hair when I’m unconscious.
Martin threw back his whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and poured another as his head throbbed and the room spun.
He staggered toward the hearth and plopped into the wingback chair. Perhaps he needed to rethink his plans for the remainder of the Season.
After his father had passed away, he’d been immersed in grief. He’d naturally taken the family to Newhailes for a time of mourning—everyone except Gibb. The navy commander had only been given enough leave to attend the funeral. And, not long after, his younger brothers had returned to their studies while Martin had decided to winter at the wee cottage with his mother and sisters. Though on second thought, perhaps he should have returned to London.
Parliament was still in session—would be until summer. And he’d heard from more than one peer that his vote was sorely missed in the House of Lords.
Martin sipped. And London was the trading center of Great Britain. There he’d be able to make enquiries into the viability of milling cotton—discover if the whole idea was truly as lucrative as Smallwood had let on, Irish sharecroppers and all.
Of course, Mother would be elated to return to Town. Except the Duchess would meddle—endlessly needle him about finding a bloody suitable wife.
God’s stones, the idea of marriage to some simpering maiden made him shudder. Even after three years in London Martin had not met a single well-bred lady who’d caught his fancy. In truth, he hadn’t exactly tried when doing his damnedest to enjoy bachelorhood. If only he were residing in his bachelor’s town house now, enjoying cards with his friends at Whites. Such was the life—no cares, no distracting stewards, and no meddling mothers—at least not in his house.
Without a doubt, being a marquess with a courtesy title had been much more enjoyable than being a duke.
Martin slammed his glass onto the table. I aim to change this state of affairs at once. After all, what good is a dukedom unless said duke makes his own rules?