The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) Read online

  THE DUKE I’M

  GOING TO MARRY

  MEARA PLATT

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 MYRA PLATT

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Greg Simanson

  Edited by Laurel Busch

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-670-4

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-671-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900950

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  EPILOGUE

  DEAR READER

  SNEAK PEEK OF RULES FOR REFORMING A RAKE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE FROM MEARA PLATT & BOOKTROPE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Neal, Brigitte (my fair Gigi), and Adam, the best husband and kids ever. I’m so lucky to have you as my family. To my intrepid first readers, Barbara Hassid, Lauren Cox, Megan Westfall, Rebecca Heller, and Maria Barlea. To my large and supportive extended family, who have shown me just why I love you all so much. Sincere appreciation to longtime friends and terrific authors in their own right: Pamela Burford, Patricia Ryan, Jeannie Moon, and Stevi Mittman. To my wonderful web designer, Willa Cline. Heartfelt gratitude to the best support team that any author can have: Laurel Busch, Samantha Williams, Jennifer Gracen, and Greg Simanson. They are my dream team and I look forward to working with them on many more projects. To the wonderful management at Booktrope: Kenneth Shear, Katherine Sears, Jesse James Freeman, Jennifer Gilbert, and everyone on their author support team.

  For Roger, always in our hearts

  CHAPTER 1

  Mayfair District, London

  November 1818

  WHEN DILLIE FARTHINGALE crossed to her bedroom window to draw the draperies before retiring to bed, she never expected to wind up in front of the Farthingale townhouse, elephant gun in hand, worried that she’d just shot the Duke of Edgeware. Not that this season’s most eligible bachelor and dangerously handsome rakehell didn’t deserve shooting. He most certainly did, but not by her.

  “Crumpets!” She fell backward after getting off a shot that merely startled the duke’s assailants. She aimed lower, getting off a second shot that almost ripped her shoulder out of its socket with its recoil. Scrambling to her feet, she reloaded and hurried out of the townhouse, shoving open the front gate that led onto Chipping Way, eager to inspect the damage and dreading what she might find.

  Her street was one of those charming, quiet streets, a most desired location in London. Eligible dukes did not die on such streets. “Ian, you idiot! Are you hurt? Who were those awful men, and why were they attacking you?”

  She knelt beside him, her heart firmly lodged in her throat. Her nightgown and thin wool shawl offered little protection from the midnight chill. Had Ian’s eyes been open, he would have been ogling her, for that’s what rakehells did best. Ian Markham, as the duke was known, was as rakish as they came, but he would never dare more with her. She was related to his best friend, and as disreputable as Ian was, he did have a code of honor. Of a sort.

  She had never considered Ian more than a mere nuisance deserving of a frown or indignant tip of her chin. Certainly not worth shooting, except for that one instance when he’d thoroughly surprised her by kissing her with enough passion to curl her toes. It had been their first and only kiss, a case of mistaken identity in a moonlit garden, for he’d expected another lady to be standing beside the lilac tree where Dillie happened to be hiding while she innocently spied on her neighbor’s dinner party.

  Dillie had been trying to forget that kiss for the past two years. No doubt the duke had put it out of his mind immediately.

  “Ian?” He appeared to be unconscious, his large, muscled body sprawled beneath the tree she’d practically splintered in half with the force of the elephant shot.

  She set down the gun and shook him lightly when he failed to respond. “Oh, please wake up.”

  He opened his eyes with noticeable difficulty, his gaze decidedly fuzzy as he cast her a pained grin. “Bloody blazes, it’s you. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here. You’re the one who’s out of place.”

  His eyes were still unfocused. He blinked them slowly in an attempt to regain his vision. “Oh. Right. Then I ought to be going.” But he made no attempt to rise. “I’ll be off now. Good evening, Daffy.”

  Dillie ground her teeth in irritation. “Don’t call me that.” In a moment of madness, her parents had named her Daffodil, but she’d managed to sail through most of her nineteen years avoiding that hideous appellation. Everyone called her Dillie. Everyone but Ian Markham, the arrogant, infuriating Duke of Edgeware, who took every opportunity to torture her with the use of her given name and every ridiculous variation of it that came to his fiendish mind. “The name is ‘Miss Farthingale’ to you.”

  “And I’m a duke. That’s Your Grace to you.”

  She fisted her hands, wanting to pound the feathers out of him, but those two blackguards who’d attacked him seemed to have done a wickedly good job of it already. They were hired ruffians, certainly paid by someone angry enough to want him dead. “Very well. Your Grace, you idiot! Whose wife did you seduce this time?”

  “That’s better. About time you showed proper respect for my title.” He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t and fell back with a gasped oath, struggling for breath as he clutched his side.

  Dillie shivered, not only from the wintery chill in the midnight air, but also from her concern that she truly might have shot him. She had been aiming for those awful men. To be precise, aiming a warning blast above their heads to frighten them off. She was sure she’d hit one of the larger branches of the sturdy oak tree standing by the front gate. It now lay splintered on the ground near Ian.

  She glanced around. His attackers had run off, frightened but unharmed. So why was Ian still on the ground, fumbling to rise and determined to hide his obvious agony? “Let me help you up.”

  He brushed her hand away when she reached out to steady him. “No, I can manage.”

  “Are you sure? Because you seem to be doing a spectacularly dismal job of it.” She couldn’t see him very well. The only light available was from the moon’s glow, a full, silver moon that shone brightly against the crisp, starry sky.

  “Are you stil
l here, Daffy? Why don’t you go away and leave me to my misery?” He sank onto the cool grass with another pained gasp, his head thumping against the hard trunk of the oak tree as he fell back.

  “I’m having far too much fun watching you struggle,” she said, though her heart was still in her throat and she was now seriously worried about him. Another shattered tree branch dangled precariously overhead, held up only by a small scrap of bark. It was in danger of falling atop him.

  She reached out again, determined to move him out of its path, but as she touched his jacket she felt something warm and liquid seep through her fingers. “Ian, you clunch! You’re bleeding. Oh, my goodness! Did I hit you?”

  She let out a sob, now worried that she truly had done him damage. The air released from her lips cooled and formed a vapor that swirled about her face. It was too cold for Ian to be left out here for very long, and he wasn’t in any condition to get up and walk on his own. “I didn’t mean to shoot you.”

  He took hold of her hand, gently stroking his thumb along her palm to calm her down. “You didn’t. I’ve been stabbed.”

  Dillie gasped. Was that supposed to calm her? “I’ll get help. Don’t move.” Even in the dim light, she could see the crimson stain now oozing through his fancy silk vest. As she scrambled to her feet, the Farthingale butler came running through the gate. “Oh, Pruitt! Thank goodness! Fetch Uncle George. He must come right away, and tell him to bring his medical bag.”

  Pruitt’s eyes rounded as wide as saucers the moment his gaze fell on Ian. “At once, Miss Dillie.” He hurried back into the house as fast as his old legs would carry him. She heard him shouting up the stairs for her uncle, something the staid butler had never, ever done before, even when faced with an army of boisterous Farthingale relatives and their unruly children. Pruitt never lost his composure. His voice never rose above an ordinary, conversational tone. Never.

  Until tonight.

  Dillie sank back to her knees beside Ian. His hands were now pressed against a spot just above the left side of his waist. “That’s it. Use your palms to press down hard on the wound,” she instructed while quickly removing her shawl. The clunch was bleeding everywhere, and that meant he’d been stabbed more than once. She folded her shawl and then, nudging his hands aside, firmly pressed it to his waist and secured it by tightly tying the ends about his body. Big body. More solid strength than she’d realized. “Where else hurts?”

  “Right thigh, just above my knee.”

  She ran her hand along his thigh, careful to avoid the hole in the fabric where he’d obviously been stabbed. He tensed and let out a laughing groan. “Better not touch me there.”

  No doubt to hide his extreme pain. She grabbed the velvet ribbon from her hair, ignoring the sudden cascade of long, dark strands about her shoulders and down her back. She used the ribbon to form a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, hoping it was tight enough to stem the flow of blood from his leg until her uncle arrived to properly treat him.

  Her hands were beginning to numb. It was freezing outside, the grass hard and crunching beneath her knees. A cloud of vapor formed with her every breath. She’d given up her shawl and was definitely underdressed. “Where else?”

  “My forearms are sliced up, but not too badly. My jacket sleeves absorbed most of the damage.” He studied her, as though noticing her for the first time. Really noticing her, a sign that he’d finally regained his full vision. He cast her a wickedly seductive grin. “There’s a hard ache between my legs.”

  More injuries? All her fault. “Oh, dear! How bad? Show me.”

  “Did I say that aloud?” He let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Gad, you’re innocent. Don’t look so stricken. The ache will disappear once you put on some clothes. Maybe.”

  “What?” She was in a panic, her heart pounding through her ears, and he was tossing jests?

  “Your nightgown hides very little,” he continued, as though needing to explain the meaning of his jest. “If you lean any closer, I’ll have a clear view down your—”

  She smacked him. Then smacked him again for good measure.

  “Bloody hell! Wounded duke here. Show a little mercy.”

  She wanted to smack him again, but as he said, he was seriously injured. The folded shawl she’d applied to his waist was already stained through with his blood. He took hold of her hand, no longer smiling. She stilled, unable to draw a breath, for the first time realizing that he might not survive into the morning. “I’m so sorry, Ian. Just keep your mouth shut and I’ll stop hitting you. Much as I hate to admit it, I don’t wish you to die.”

  He gave her hand a light squeeze. “Much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad it’s you by my side if I am to die.” He paused, the effort of speaking too much to manage. “I thought you’d returned... to Coniston with the rest of your family... all five thousand of them.” Those last words were spoken through shuddering pain.

  Oh, God! Not you, Ian. You’re invincible. She shook her head and tried to keep her voice steady. “They went on ahead.” But her voice faltered as she tried to hold back tears. “All five thousand of them, traveling north like a great horde of locusts, eating everything in their path. I stayed behind with Uncle George to help him close up the house and enjoy the blessed quiet.”

  “Guess I’ve foiled your plans.” He sounded weak, his words even more strained.

  She melted at his soft gaze. Ian, with his gorgeous gray-green eyes, had a way of melting female hearts. Good thing it was dark and she couldn’t clearly see the beautiful green of his eyes. That soft glance was devastating enough. “We were supposed to leave yesterday, but my uncle was called to a medical emergency. We had to delay our departure.”

  “Must thank the poor, sick blighter.” His voice was weaker still. “I mean it, Dillie. If I’m to die tonight, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have beside me than you.”

  There were times when Ian rankled her.

  In truth, he always rankled her.

  But not tonight.

  “Keep breathing, you clunch,” she said in a ragged whisper, keeping tight hold of his big, cold hand.

  ***

  Ian awoke in an unfamiliar room, uncertain how much time had elapsed since he’d been attacked. At least eight hours he guessed, for the morning sun was streaming in through the unshuttered window, glistening against the peach silk counterpane that covered the bed in which he lay. He recalled Dillie asking him about his assailants, but he didn’t know who had sent them, only that they’d done a good job of carving him up with their knives.

  Where was he? Somewhere safe, of that he was certain.

  He had to get word to the Prince Regent. He suspected those men were disgruntled agents of the now exiled Napoleon, seeking retribution for his dismantling of the French spy network that had flourished in England until recently. Ian and his friends, both of whom now happened to be married to Dillie’s sisters, had crushed the web of spies and exposed its leaders, some of whom had held prominent positions in the English government. Was this attack an act of revenge?

  Or part of a more sinister scheme?

  He tried to move his hand and realized someone was holding it. Someone with a soft, gentle touch. He glanced down and groaned. Dillie, primly dressed in a morning gown that hid all her good parts from view, was perched on a chair beside his bed, her slender body slumped over so that her head and shoulders rested on the mattress beside his thigh. Her dark hair was loosely bound, flowing down her back in a waterfall of waves. Her lips were partly open and she snored lightly.

  Hell. She looked adorable.

  What was she doing here? He glanced around and realized he must be in her bedchamber, the one she’d shared with her twin until last month. There were two beds, two bureaus. Matching sets of everything. Bloody hell. He had to get out of here fast. But how? His arms and legs felt as though they were weighed down by blocks of granite. He’d lost a lot of blood and knew he was as weak as a damn kitten.

  “Dillie,” he said in a whispe
r.

  She responded with a snore.

  “How long have I been here?”

  Not wishing to wake Dillie when she failed to answer, he tried to move his free arm. A mistake, he realized at once, suppressing a yelp as a lightning bolt of pain shot from his waist, straight up his arm, and into his head. His temples began to throb and his heart began to thunderously pound against his chest.

  It wasn’t only pain making his heart pound. Dillie was temptingly close. He had only to reach out and... better not.

  Why had he been settled in Dillie’s quarters? He recalled being carried into the Farthingale townhouse and up the stairs by a team of footmen. What had Dillie said shortly before he’d blacked out? “Put him in my room, Uncle George,” she’d insisted, explaining that the rest of the house had been closed up for the winter, the beds stripped of their linens and the mattresses put out to air.

  Her uncle would never have agreed to the arrangement otherwise.

  Ian let out a breath as the pain to his temples began to fade and then looked around the room again. The feminine, peach silk bedcovers and peach and white drapery suited Dillie. Sweet summer peaches was her scent, refreshingly light and fragrant.

  The furniture seemed a little young for a girl her age. Dillie was nineteen or twenty years old by now, and of marriageable age. He frowned. No doubt the family expected her to marry soon and leave the household. The other four Farthingale daughters were already wed and several had children. Dillie’s identical twin, Lily, had married only last month. Dillie wouldn’t last another season. She was too beautiful to remain unattached for very long. And clever. She’d marry well.

  Just not him.

  That was for damn sure.

  He wasn’t the marrying sort, didn’t want a woman in his life making demands on him. Cheating on him.

  Dillie let out another soft snore, revealing she was still soundly asleep. How long had she been sitting by his side? Clinging sweetly to his hand? He liked the gentle warmth of her hand and the way her fingers protectively curled about his.