While the Duke Was Sleeping Page 5

The dowager and housekeeper nodded in unison. “Of course.”

  “And pray,” he added.

  Everyone nodded again, their expressions solemn. It reminded her of when Papa had died. Even weeks before his death, when he was just a wraith of himself and withering away, everyone tiptoed about her wearing expressions precisely like that.

  The physician backed away as the duke’s family gathered around his bedside. Poppy edged back a step, confident that this was her cue to cut a hasty retreat.

  She felt Struan Mackenzie watching her and sent him what she hoped was an indifferent glance. “Going somewhere, Miss Fairchurch?” he asked.

  His voice drew everyone’s attention back to her.

  She smiled tightly and froze. She hoped his blackening eye hurt like the devil. “Just leaving so that the duke can have some time with his family.”

  “Would that not include you? In a manner?” His eyes flashed with mockery.

  “What do you mean?” the dowager asked. She looked back at Poppy, her lush lips dipping into a frown. “What does he mean?”

  “I—I . . .” She shrugged helplessly, suddenly yearning to blacken Struan Mackenzie’s other eye.

  “Why, she’s his fiancée,” Mrs. Wakefield volunteered.

  “His fiancée!” the duchess declared, bright color flooding her face. “How can that be?”

  Voices erupted. Everyone started talking all at once, turning the room into a loud din.

  “Marcus is engaged?” the youngest girl squealed, clapping her hands and in that moment reminding Poppy a great deal of Bryony.

  “Why did Marcus not tell us of this?” Lady Enid demanded.

  Poppy attempted to speak, waving her hands and trying to correct everyone from the misapprehension that she was the Duke of Autenberry’s fiancée, but it was impossible to be heard over the clamor.

  “Where is Strickland? Does he know?” Lady Enid demanded.

  Poppy resisted the urge to ask who Strickland was. Her gaze slid to the chamber door that loomed open, eager to make an escape through it. When she looked back at the boisterous group, her gaze caught on Struan Mackenzie. He watched her knowingly, almost smiling, as though he knew she wanted nothing more than to make a hasty exit. As though he thought he had ensnared her.

  Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to appear comfortable among the duke’s blue-blooded family.

  “Have you met Strickland?” Suddenly the duchess was looking at her as though she held all the answers . . . as though she had any clue who this Strickland person was. “Does he know about you and Marcus?”

  Poppy opened her mouth and produced a long-drawn “IIIIII” sound.

  Really, she needed to work on her skills of speech. “No,” she finally managed. “I have not met him.” Whoever Strickland was.

  “He’s Marcus’s best friend,” the younger lady supplied, and Poppy began to suspect she would always supply the facts that others left out.

  “Of course she knows that, Clara.” Enid shot her little sister a long-suffering look.

  “Enough!” the duchess finally boomed in a shrill voice.

  Struan Mackenzie looked on, crossing his arms over his chest as though he had all the time in the world to witness her downfall.

  The duchess took several halting steps toward Poppy.

  Poppy sucked in a breath and waited, certain this would be the moment she would call for the Watch or, at the very least, have her tossed out of the house on her backside.

  “Our dear Marcus is alive because of you.” The elegant lady yanked Poppy into her arms in a cloud of rosewater perfume. Poppy opened her mouth, but only a croak emerged as the woman petted her back and wept noisily. “I always wanted him to find someone special, and you’re clearly that person. Everyone whispered when my late husband returned from abroad with me. Even though my family was an old one . . . my great-great-great-grandmother was a lady-in-waiting to the mad Queen Joanna.” She nodded as though this was a great attribute, and Poppy was certain it was. Even her gentrified mother could not claim to such lineage.

  The young dowager continued, “I wasn’t English. I wasn’t titled, but it didn’t matter because my husband loved me.”

  Lady Enid snorted slightly and looked her stepmother up and down, her gaze stopping on her impressive bosom. “What’s not to love?”

  The dowager ignored her and held Poppy’s gaze. “I know it must be the same for Marcus.” She cast the duke a soft look. “He must truly love you not to care what all those Society fusspots will say of him marrying outside his class. I’m so very happy. With you to live for, I know he will make it through this.”

  Poppy was surrounded then, the dowager and Clara exclaiming over her as though she were their long-lost relation and not some random individual claiming to be the Duke of Autenberry’s betrothed. Lady Enid held back, but there was no resentment on her face as her young stepmother and, presumably, half sister celebrated Poppy as though she were one of them—an actual member of their family.

  She longed for that—to be part of a family, to belong to others. She always had. Poppy felt a pang of guilt to feel that way when she had a sister, but sometimes she felt alone even with Bryony for company.

  Emotion churned in her belly and her heart warmed dangerously. These were good people and she was deceiving them.

  Still crushed in the surprisingly strong hold of Lady Autenberry, she glanced over the dowager’s shoulder. Her gaze locked on Struan Mackenzie.

  All except him.

  There was nothing good about the surly Scot—aside of his handsome face and form. She winced at the inappropriate thought and quickly gave herself a mental kick. She was not so shallow as to let that blind her to his true nature.

  He cast a very large shadow over the room, standing with legs braced apart like a pirate on the prow of a ship—a handsome, vigorous figure as featured in so many of her girlhood fantasies. Of course, in her fantasies, he wasn’t glaring at her with ill temper flashing in his eyes. She could practically feel his contempt radiating toward her.

  He was nothing like his brother.

  She sucked in a breath. And she would never forget that.

  Chapter 6

  Struan watched, enduring it as his newfound family rejoiced over his half brother’s lightskirt. It rankled. How easily they accepted her . . . how easily they even accepted him. It wasn’t right. His mother never had this. His mother had never been good enough. It rubbed him like a bur in his boot.

  He didn’t know what made his gut clench more. The idea that he had a family willing to accept him? Or that one of his brother’s lovers (he knew Autenberry wouldn’t limit himself to only one) had just been welcomed to the family? His family. The family he never wanted. Because you thought they would never want you.

  He shook off the insidious little whisper, watching as Miss Poppy Fairchurch extricated herself from the Autenberry clan, backing away to the door with promises to return even though her eyes screamed escape. Was it his imagination or did she appear eager to leave? Not about to let her depart without finishing their conversation, he made his excuses to step out.

  “You’re not leaving us, are you?” The dowager blinked those doe eyes of hers at him, reminding him of a wounded forest animal. Remarkable, really. She was decked out in finery and jewels enough to feed a small village for several years and yet she managed to look vulnerable.

  “I will be back,” he assured her, wondering where that promise had come from. He owed her and the others nothing. He wanted nothing from them. He should not become embroiled with this family.

  They were merely in shock and sought to cleave to him in this time of trouble. The golden son was gravely wounded. They would later regret inviting the black sheep into their fold. As soon as Autenberry awoke from his coma, he would make them see the error of their ways. Struan was not of their ilk. For all his money and aping of their manners, he was not one of them.

  Turning, he strode from the room. He wasn’t entirely certain of his intent, onl
y that the moment the shopgirl departed the bedchamber he was on his feet and after her, his blood pumping in a way that insisted he go, move, follow. He’d spent a lifetime trusting his instincts, so he didn’t question his need to pursue her.

  Her plain skirts whipped around her ankles. She was a quick little thing as she advanced on the front door, her hand reaching out for the latch. The valet stationed in the corner shifted on his feet, his eyes wide, clearly uncertain whether or not he should step forward to open the door for her as she charged ahead with all the doggedness of a rushing bull.

  She was the sort of female to dive in front of carriages and rescue dukes, after all. His chest clenched. He couldn’t say why, but the sudden thought irritated the hell out of him. Foolhardy chit.

  In any event, he beat the valet to the door, stepping around her and blocking her exit. “How do you intend to get home?” he asked.

  She blinked, her expression startled. It was a frequent look on her face. As was the flash of distaste that crossed her face as she looked him up and down. It was a look he’d experienced before—that expression of disdain. As though he were a bit of filth beneath her boot. As a boy, he had been treated to that expression frequently enough. He never cared for it. Not then. And he especially didn’t care for that look coming from her now.

  “I was blessed with two perfectly functioning legs. I can walk, sir,” she said stiffly as though he were somehow deficient of intelligence.

  He stared at her, looking her up and down in turn, not missing the shabby dress beneath her starched pinafore. If she was Autenberry’s fiancée he would eat his boot. “Do you live close?” He would wager she did not. Not in Mayfair or in any of the surrounding areas. Too rich for her blood.

  She hesitated, dipping her gaze and shaking her head. It was all the confirmation he needed.

  “Come,” he said brusquely. “I’ll hail a hack for the both of us.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  He took her by the elbow and led her out the front door, ignoring her protests. “Come now. We are family . . . or soon to be, are we not?”

  Family. He’d meant the words to be partly jesting, but as he stared down at the lass, the word reverberated through him with dishonesty and he faced the glaring and uncomfortable truth. He had no family, least of all her.

  He might have just exchanged civil words with a chamber full of people who he could rightfully call family, but they were far from kin to him. It took more than a blood connection to be family. His father had taught him that painful lesson well. No, he was quite alone in this world.

  Her lips pressed into a flat line. He expected to hear her resounding refusal, but she surprised him by agreeing. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

  The driver from earlier still waited at the edge of the drive. Struan was surprised the man hadn’t left yet to find other fares. He hopped from his perch as soon as he spotted them. Snatching his cap off his head, he bobbed a greeting. “Hallo, there.” He motioned to each of them. “I ’spected one of you might need to be conveyed elsewhere . . .”

  “That’s very good of you.” Struan nodded with approval.

  The driver hurried to open the door and drop the step for her to ascend. “I hope his lordship is faring well.”

  “His Grace has not yet woken,” she offered.

  The driver tsked his tongue. “I’ll be saying a prayer for him. Me and the missus will tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, and Struan could not help but notice she used a much gentler tone of voice when addressing the hackney driver than when she spoke to him.

  Unbidden, he wondered what tone of voice she used with his brother. Undoubtedly sweet. She probably even smiled—something he had yet to see her do. And why should she? The man she claimed to be her fiancé was in a false sleep as a result of their brawl in the streets. Naturally, she didn’t feel like smiling at him.

  She supplied her address and the driver shut the door.

  He settled across from her, watching her as the hack started rolling forward. “Will you return tomorrow?” he heard himself asking.

  She opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap, clearly uncertain how to reply.

  “Foolish question. I am certain you will,” he went on to answer for her. “You will be much too worried to stay away.”

  She turned to gaze out the window, dismissing him. He began to suspect she wouldn’t say anything at all when she suddenly declared, “He’ll mend, you know.” Defiance tinged her voice—as though she expected him to argue the point.

  “I do hope so,” he replied.

  She jerked her head around to look at him, her gaze narrowly sharply. “He will. He will wake. I know it.”

  “Do you now?” He folded his arms across his chest, arching an eyebrow at her. “Are you blessed with the sight?”

  She snorted. “I am no seer.”

  “Ah. Just burning conviction, then?”

  “It’s merely something I feel.” She pressed a hand against her heart. He casually surveyed the starched pinafore covering her chest. It was impossible to measure her assets hidden there, but it didn’t quell his curiosity to do so. He wanted to see. He wanted to peel back her layers. He wanted to know what his brother knew.

  She continued, “I can’t explain it.” She shook her head, disgusted with herself or him, he wasn’t certain. “I don’t need to explain it. Not to you as you sit there laughing at me.”

  He pointed a finger to the straight, unsmiling line of his lips. “Do you see a smile here?”

  She shook her head. “No. I see no smile. I’ve yet to see you smile at all.”

  “The same can be said of you,” he countered.

  She lifted her chin with a little sniff. “We’re simply two people who don’t rub well. It happens. Not everyone can like everyone.”

  “True,” he remarked, still assessing her, trying to read her, and wondering why it should bother him that she didn’t like him. Most women did. He wasn’t arrogant thinking so. It was simply truth. He’d always had a face and form women desired, even if he was rough about the edges. “How old are you?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to inquire a lady’s age?”

  “Five and twenty?” he baited, knowing she was younger.

  Her eyes flared wide. “I am twenty!”

  “So very young?” he mocked. “You seem older.”

  “Why? Do I look so very haggard?”

  “No. You merely act like it.”

  Her lips snapped shut, and he knew she was chewing that over, trying to decide whether or not she was offended.

  As they rolled to a stop, he glanced out the window at a four-storied house with a crooked sign out front that proclaimed Gibbons Lodgings.

  He opened the door and hopped down before the driver could disembark from his perch. Turning, he held a hand up for her.

  She hesitated before finally placing her hand in his. As soon as her feet touched down she snatched her hand back as though she feared he might wish to keep a grip on her. Was she so very assured of her allure? Had snaring his brother filled her with such confidence?

  No woman was so irresistible. Just as no single woman was irreplaceable.

  He addressed the coachman. “A moment, if you will.”

  The man nodded.

  Hot color bloomed in her cheeks. She gestured at the waiting hack. “I left my reticule back at the shop, but I should like to recompense you for the—”

  Annoyance shot through him . . . along with something else. He was intrigued. No woman of his acquaintance had ever offered to recompense him for anything. On the contrary, he was a man of considerable means that they wanted to squeeze for everything they could. He didn’t even begrudge them that. He well recalled what it felt like to go to bed hungry. There was a time when he was every bit as mercenary as any of them.

  She, however, annoyed him. Why couldn’t she be like every other female of his acquaintance? The more she mystified him,
the more irritated he felt with her—and, to some degree, with himself.

  Perhaps this is why Autenberry fancied her. For her very uniqueness? He snorted. There was no chance of that. His brother was much too shallow and concerned with position and rank to allow himself to do more than shag her a time or two. Whatever she was to Autenberry . . . she was not his future wife. He would wager his fortune on it.

  “That’s unnecessary,” he said. “I don’t need your money.”

  She looked on the verge of arguing and then inclined her head, clearly deciding not to dispute the point.

  “Well, then. I thank you.” She shifted awkwardly. “For escorting me home . . . for saving my life.” She looked like she was sucking lemons, clearly reluctant to voice her gratitude for that latter part. She blamed him for this day’s deeds and that much hadn’t changed in their short drive together.

  A wiggle of something that felt uncomfortably like guilt wormed through him. For all he felt toward Autenberry, he did not wish him dead, and he wondered if he could have done something differently. Something that did not result with the duke being unconscious in a bed right now.

  Damn her for thinking the worst of him. And damn him for caring one way or another.

  “I’m certain we will meet again,” he said, wondering why that rang ominously to his ears. What did he care if he ever saw his brother’s doxy again?

  She nodded once brusquely and then presented him with her back. He followed her up the path to the stoop of her lodging house with measured steps. She registered his steps and whirled around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Walking you to your door. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Certainly you are accustomed to such treatment from my brother.” He arched an eyebrow.

  She inhaled, lifting her slight chest. “You needn’t escort me.” She stood elevated two steps above him, which enabled her to look down her slim nose at him. “You may go.”

  She was a contrary female. She might be a shopgirl, but she had all the air of a queen. How had his brother ever managed to seduce someone so prickly?

  He was a duke.