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THE DOOR CLOSED, FOOTSTEPS padded away, and Genevieve was alone with the duke.
“It’s you,” Genevieve said dumbly.
“Most people refer to me as Your Grace.” The duke flashed a smug smile.
Genevieve pretended her heart wasn’t fluttering and narrowed the distance between them. “Please, leave.”
“Most people would be excited to have a duke visit.”
“Most people are foolish.” Genevieve gave him a stern look. “Especially you.”
“You wound me,” the duke said in mock distress.
“What are you doing here?” Genevieve whispered harshly.
“You’re in my cottage,” the duke explained.
Genevieve blinked. “I-I don’t understand.”
“A common predicament for you, no doubt. But this is my cottage.”
Nothing about the statement on its own should be fear-inducing. It was common for aristocrats to rent out cottages and buildings. They’d built so much of their wealth on doing just that. Most aristocrats owned more buildings than they could possibly live in.
And yet, Genevieve’s heart still beat more quickly, and her knees, despite her penchant for athleticism, a hobby honed while wandering the steep slopes prevalent in the Lake District, still trembled.
“We’re renting the cottage,” Genevieve said.
“You won’t be for longer.”
Genevieve blinked. “We paid in full. I don’t understand.”
Did the duke know something about her family’s circumstances that she didn’t know? Did he know Papa? She hadn’t remembered them speaking together, but had they perhaps developed a friendship?
“It was rented by mistake. Please find another cottage for your holiday. I shall be occupying this one immediately.”
“You want us to move?”
“Precisely.”
Genevieve stared.
The duke shifted his legs. The bare floorboards, unobscured by any carpet, creaked noisily, as if equally suspicious of him.
“That’s not easy,” Genevieve said finally.
“No?” The duke shrugged. “You can stay in the posting inn while you find something.”
Genevieve swallowed hard. Her mother had been able to rent the cottage for an excellent price. They couldn’t afford to search for a new cottage. They couldn’t even afford to stay at a posting inn.
“We won’t do it,” Genevieve said. “We refuse to do so.”
Bemusement spread on the duke’s face. “But why not?”
“We signed a contract,” Genevieve said obstinately.
The duke scrutinized her. “You can’t tell me it’s a financial issue.”
“Of course not,” Genevieve lied. “That would be...absurd.”
Genevieve laughed, certain the duke would be able to see through her lie, but instead, he narrowed his eyes.
“You’re just entitled,” he said. “You don’t want to move, just to be cruel. You were probably eager for a chance to use your pistol on a live target.”
“That’s nonsense,” Genevieve said softly, remembering the fear she’d felt that night, when the duke had waylaid her carriage, disguised as a highwayman.
“I don’t believe a word you say.”
“You don’t have to. My mother and brother are going to come through that door at any moment. You just have to leave. Otherwise, I will tell people you were posing as a highwayman.”
The duke drew in his breath, then scowled. “And I will tell them what a vile creature you are. I doubt your mother will be pleased you shot me.”
Genevieve shuddered, as if the duke had actually shaken her.
“It was an accident.”
“She might see things differently.”
“Nonsense,” Genevieve said. “She would be fully supportive.”
“Of you taking a carriage ride late at night? Unchaperoned?”
“I was with my best friend and a dear staff member.”
“A dear male staff member. One unable to appropriately protect you.”
“The only person causing damage was you.”
“In that instance. You were just lucky.” The duke shrugged, and sunlight settled in his blonde locks from the open window. The man glowed. He practically glittered.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Genevieve’s veins prickled, as if her blood resisted its normal path in his presence.
“If someone else with actual criminal intent had stopped my carriage, I would have shot him too. Now, please leave. I don’t like conversing with trespassers.”
“Are you insulting a duke?” Anger laced with something else—perhaps amusement, perhaps only wonder at her impertinence—rippled through his voice.
“Yes. You can leave me off your invitation list for your next ball,” Genevieve said impatiently. “You can imagine me being frightfully wounded.”
“You should be,” the duke drawled. “I give fabulous balls.”
“Yes, everything about you is fabulous. You’ve implied that before. The thing is—I don’t see it.”
The duke’s face stiffened, and it occurred to Genevieve that she may have been overly forceful in her dismissal of him. The man looked the same way as Billy looked before he burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” Genevieve apologized. “Perhaps that was uncalled for.”
Unlike Billy, the duke did not burst into tears. His lower lip didn’t wobble, and wetness didn’t glaze his eyes. His face didn’t even turn a puce shade.
Instead, his features grew more rigid, like an imperfectly put on mask. The duke decreased the distance between them, and Genevieve was conscious of an oddly pleasant scent of cedar and citrus. The scent was more masculine than the rose and other floral perfumes her mother had insisted on bringing from Cumberland, even though Sally had warned that the fragile glass containers might shatter on the journey. The scent was every bit as pleasant despite its dearth of floral notes.
“You will be sorry,” the duke said.
She stared at him. In the background, Billy and her mother were speaking. No doubt, Mama was realizing the difficulty of making tea and preparing a tray of sweets. Mama was accustomed to running a household with a fleet of servants.
“I’m going to take the cottage away from you,” the duke said.
“But why?”
“Because I want it. And because you don’t deserve it.” The duke spoke matter-of-factly. His eyes sparkled merrily, and sunlight shone from the tiny window, imbuing his blonde strands with a golden glow. He looked handsome, but Genevieve’s eyelashes didn’t flutter, and her heart didn’t quicken.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Genevieve raised her chin. “You’re going to steal this shabby run-down cottage from us?”
“You dare call it a shabby cottage?” The duke narrowed his eyes. “You can stay somewhere else. I know your family has money.”
Genevieve stiffened and decided not to counter that particular argument.
“Besides, you don’t even appreciate the place,” the duke continued.
“Does everything about you require constant compliments?” Genevieve asked. “Even homes you rent to others?”
He blinked. “I don’t require compliments—that would be absurd. Though, I will say, I absolutely deserve them.”
Genevieve fought an odd urge to laugh.
“This cottage has leaks in the roof.” She pointed to a large vase that sat in a corner of the room. “My mother is accustomed to filling her vases with flowers, not dirty water.”
“Cornish water is clean,” the duke said. “The best water you can find.”
“That’s absurd.” Genevieve frowned. “Everyone knows the best water comes from the Lake District. Besides, water is not enhanced by falling through the roof.”
“All my roofs are brilliant,” the duke argued.
Genevieve was handling this poorly. “Look. You don’t want the cottage. The rooms are small. You probably want a place with more space.”
“I don’t intend on staying here permanently,” the duke said. “I have my castle in Hampshire.”
“So, you just intend on taking it so we can’t use it?”
“Perhaps.” The duke gave a modest shrug. “It’s really not any of your concern.”
Anger moved through Genevieve’s veins, even though anger was a sensation she seldom experienced.
“My family just moved here all the way from the Lake District,” she said. “We’re tired and exhausted. And you want us to find someplace else? After we’ve paid rent?”
“Precisely,” the duke said. “Slowness isn’t one of your negative qualities. But then, you have so many others.”
Genevieve tightened her fists. She had an odd urge to lunge toward him. Slapping his face seemed an enviable occupation.
Still, she refrained from slapping him. She’d already shot him. She would simply have to take pleasure in that.
She only wished she hadn’t apologized for shooting him, and she certainly wished she hadn’t helped him recover from the shooting. “I wish Juliet and I had left you bleeding in that forest.”
“All you did was pour alcohol over me,” the duke said. “And bind my wound.”
“I made certain you didn’t get an infection,” Genevieve said. “I saved your life.”
The words were dramatic and distinctly in her favor, but for an odd reason, the duke beamed. “Ah, ha! You admit it! You might have killed me.”
She furrowed her brow.
“It’s true!” the duke exclaimed. “That is certainly a reason to expel you from my cottage, even if we did sign a contract. I’m sure any magistrate would see that it is quite reasonable that I do not want to have any criminals living in my abodes. Quite bad for the community, after all.”
“I am not a criminal,” Genevieve seethed.
“On the contrary,” the duke said. “You are the very worst kind. Killing people rather exceeds all the other sins one might do.”
“You’re impossible,” Genevieve said. “You know that was in self-defense.”
“Do I? Tell me, Miss Potter. Why are you going by an assumed name?”
“That’s not relevant,” Genevieve said finally. “But since you’re here, and since you own the cottage, you can fix that hole in the roof.”
“There’s no hole in the roof,” the duke said. “My roofs are immaculate.”
A crash sounded from the kitchen, and Genevieve stiffened.
Oh, dear.
Mama must be struggling in the kitchen.
She hoped the duke had not heard, but his brow furrowed, and he jerked his head toward the sound.
“What’s that?” the duke asked sharply.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Genevieve lied.
The duke was still for a moment, and Genevieve tensed, hoping no more odd sounds would come from the kitchen.
“It seems that impeccable hearing is another one of your qualities to be complimented on,” she said with a slight laugh. “You probably heard a teaspoon being placed on a tray.”
The duke stared at her. “I don’t think so.”
Another crash sounded, and Genevieve cringed.
“Did you hear that?” the duke asked.
She shook her head, waiting for the door to open and for Mama and Billy to enter the room, armed with a tray of tea and sweets.
Normally, Genevieve might look forward to seeing them.
Nothing, in Genevieve’s opinion, was quite as nice as having tea, and sweets were a lovely addition.
Still, it was odd Mama and Billy hadn’t appeared yet. Perhaps Mama was simply familiarizing herself with the kitchen. It wasn’t as if she’d used the kitchen in Cumberland. That had been the domain of Cook and kitchen maids, guarded by any servants on break who preferred to gossip unhampered by sudden appearances of their prime gossip subjects.
If Genevieve hadn’t played with some of the servants’ children as a child, she would not have visited the kitchen either. Though Mama discussed the household menu with the housekeeper, that was done in Mama’s personal room, amidst her sewing patterns and perpetually unfinished needlework. Efficiency wasn’t one of Mama’s strengths, even when indulging in her favorite hobby.
“Perhaps I should investigate,” the duke said.
“Nonsense,” Genevieve said with a laugh.
“Your mother and brother do have a maid to assist them?” the duke asked, drawing his forehead together in obvious suspicion.
“Naturally!” Genevieve lied.
No one should know the reason for their visit was anything but an absurd desire to see the sea.
People were prone to traveling vast distances to see the sea in Cornwall, even though England was surrounded by ocean, and even though most people lived nearer to the ocean than the particular stretch of water that bordered Cornwall.
Personally, Genevieve had always wondered at those people’s enthusiasm. Carriage rides were sufficiently uncomfortable when one had to travel nearby to see people and places one actually cared about. Traveling in carriages filled with luggage was not an improvement, nor was traveling vast distances. Her parents had shared her distaste for unnecessary travel. It was the reason why she hadn’t been to London until she’d had her season last year, and it was perhaps also the reason why she’d despised her season.
She could hardly look like a brilliant future hostess and worthy wife of a titled or even untitled member of the ton, if she stood quivering in the corner, marveling at all the gilded cornices and the carved wooden paneling, as if she’d been hauled from the servant’s chambers, and not simply Cumberland.
No.
London had not been a success.
She hadn’t realized at the time that it would be her only chance to obtain her husband. At the time, her parents never spoke ominously about finances. At the time, Genevieve supposed, her parents actually hadn’t had any problems.
Genevieve sighed.
Now her role was to be that of a dutiful daughter. Her mother only occasionally spoke about her marrying, in the sort of fanciful tone one might employ when speaking about visiting Rome or the French Riviera: technically, the experience was possible, but so many other things had to happen to achieve it, that it was best to dismiss it completely as a dream.
Certainly, if the Duke of Sandridge was any indication of the quality of men in Cornwall, Genevieve was most unimpressed. Her friend Juliet had recently wed the Duke of Ainsworth, the Duke of Sandridge’s best friend. Genevieve only realized now the vast stores of patience and angelic qualities her friend must possess.
An odd smell emitted from the kitchen. Was something...burning? Genevieve’s heart thudded.
It occurred to Genevieve they might not have any sweets to serve the duke. It also occurred to her that her mother and brother might have felt compelled to bake sweets themselves. After all, what household did not have access to sweets? And what household didn’t have a Cook to make such delicacies at a moment’s notice?
Only households with no money lacked those things, and Genevieve was certain her mother did not want to give the duke any reason to believe that the Devon—rather, Potter—family was remotely in that category.
Papa’s lack of money was a secret. If people knew he lacked money, they might not lend money. Genevieve didn’t like to consider what might happen in that situation: she was certain nothing good.
“Everything’s fine,” she said quickly.
After all, even if something were burning, surely her mother and brother would notice, right? And surely, they would know what to do?
No, everything was definitely going smoothly.
Genevieve could sense it.
“Perhaps I should investigate,” the duke said.
“Nonsense,” Genevieve blurted.
“You would miss my company, Miss Devon?” the duke asked with a sly grin on his face.
Heavens.
Most likely, all manner of women went weak if he went around speaking to them in such a manner. He seemed to have the ability to turn one’s knees to liquid. No doubt, it would have been a tactic useful during the war, though Genevieve had a faint suspicion his charm worked better on women than invading French soldiers.