Jillian Hunter: The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife

“‘Shall each man,’” he read aloud, “‘find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone?’”

He wondered how many times Harriet had lost herself in this tale of horror and unhappy romance. And what page had she deemed important enough to mark with a torn remnant of an old letter? He glanced at her sleeping form on the sofa. It could not be considered an invasion of privacy, surely, to read what she had written. After all, she had offered the book to him and Edlyn, and in all likelihood he would find nothing more revealing than one of Harriet’s lists dictated by his aunt.

The partial letter was not written in Harriet’s spidery scrawl. He smoothed the scrap of paper out on the desk, recognizing Edlyn’s script from one of her journal entries.

I met Rosalie Porter tonight at the ball. We were interrupted by my uncle, who would not have noticed had I been talking to a goat, and by that pretty companion who notices too…

That was all.

Was it enough? Did it mean anything?

At least now there was a name to investigate. Of course, the woman could be innocent of any wrongdoing, in which case she should be easily found. She might have been one of the guests at Grayson’s ball who had already been questioned. She might have a daughter Edlyn’s age, a student at the academy. He could not let his hopes soar. It was only a name. But it was something for Sir Daniel to go on.

Could Harriet have seen it, too?

He rose and strode to the sofa, shaking her gently by the shoulder. Her eyes flickered open. She gave him a groggy smile, muttered an incomprehensible greeting, and burrowed back between the cushions.

“Harriet, wake up, please.” He shook her again, to no avail. “I need to-”

“We can’t keep doing this sort of thing whenever you have the urge-” She stuck her hand up toward his face. “Be gone.”

He drew his jacket from her shoulders. “I need to ask you something about Frankenstein.”

She rolled over, one arm dangling off the chaise like deadweight. Her white cotton stockings were sagging, her plain brown muslin gown wrinkled and caught between her knees. He pushed back the curtain of softly curling hair from her face.

“I need you , Harriet.”

She half opened her eyes. “Here? Right this minute? I don’t-”

He pulled her upright, propping her against the back of the chaise. “I want to ask you about the name I found inside your book.”

She frowned. “Why am I wearing your jacket?” she whispered, her head dropping back. “I can’t keep my eyes…”

He slid his arm around her shoulders to support her weight. “What have you been drinking?” he asked urgently.

“Nothing. Oh, that-your aunt made me taste her medicine before she would take it.”

“Good God.”

“It wasn’t half bad, though.” “I’m going to put that woman out in the old priory when we get home,” he muttered. She laughed. “Stop teasing, duke. I’m tired out.”

“You are drugged, Harriet,” he said in annoyance. “And absolutely useless to converse with in your condition.”

“What did you say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You called me useless. I’ll try to remember that in the morning.”

He shook his head. “It is doubtful you will even remember that this conversation took place. I might as well take you up to bed.”

She gasped as he lifted her from the chaise. “What is it you wanted to talk about?” she whispered, pressing her cheek to the hollow of his throat.

He clasped her closer as he ascended the staircase. “Rosalie Porter. It was a name on a partial journal entry that Edlyn must have tucked inside your book.”

“Rosalie Porter?”

He kicked open her bedroom door, blinking in distaste at the Egyptian motif. She looked up at his face as he dropped her on the bed. He turned, then hesitated as her eyes opened again.

She pushed up on her elbow, in that hazy realm between wakefulness and sleep. “There’s no character of that name in Frankenstein.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his white silk waistcoat and pulling his boots off by the heels. “It is not a character in the book, for heaven’s sake. It is the name of a woman that Edlyn wrote in her journal.”

She subsided with a thoughtful sigh. “Porter. Rosalyn-”

“Rosalie.” He stretched out beside her, his shoulders propped against the hideous mahogany headboard. “Maybe when you’re not groggy it will ring a bell.”

“I’m waking up,” she whispered. “Give me a chance. What else did she write?”

He gave a deep sigh. “Something to the effect that I wouldn’t have noticed if she were talking to a goat. She hinted that you were more attentive. And pretty.”

“She said that I was pretty?”

He turned his head in surprise to stare at her. “Surely you know that.”

“How would I know?” She wriggled up beside him, her manner now completely alert. “Tell me what you mean.”

He laughed reluctantly. “There’s a looking glass somewhere in this lurid chamber. You only have to employ it to confirm your beauty.”

“Beauty now, am I?” She dropped her head on his shoulder. “If you think so, your grace.” She drew her fingers through her hair. “We have to let Sir Daniel know.”

He swallowed dryly. Her hair glinted in the dark, and he was in her bed. “I’m leaving any moment to tell him. Are my legs on the floor yet?”

“You’d better be careful you-know-who doesn’t catch you sneaking out of this room.”

His gaze wandered over her. She was brushing her fingers through her hair like a self-conscious siren. It was a common female act that aroused him. But when Harriet did it with that come-hither smile of hers, his blood came to a boil. “It’s the end of the week,” he mused. “Do you remember what was meant to happen?”

“Of course I do,” she whispered, her fingers falling still. “And I’ve found myself a position, by the way, so you don’t have to bother. I realize that you’ve been preoccupied, but I took the initiative.”

“What position?” he asked, bending over her.

“I thought I might go to Cornwall.”

“What?”

She managed a weak nod. “To a place called Lizard’s Point.”

“What in the name of God?”

“Well, it’s got stormy seas and shipwrecks. It seemed like an ideal place to recover from regret.”

He smiled slowly. “Perhaps we can both go there soon.”

“You don’t understand,” she said in hesitation, making most of it up as she went. “I am going to offer my services as a governess to some brooding widower. He-”

“-won’t live long, either.”

“-will be withdrawn and temperamental. He might leave me alone to raise his children. But then again, he might just sneak into my chamber one night and take advantage of my fallen status.”

He laughed. “He’ll have a hard time doing that with me in your bed.”

“Get out,” she said suddenly, pushing her hands against his chest.

“I was going to wait,” he said, catching her hands in his. “But now I’m persuaded that planning a wedding will be more of a pleasant distraction for Primrose than anything inappropriate.”

“Whose wedding?” she demanded, her face white in a veil of flowing flame-red hair.

“Frankenstein’s creation and his mate,” he answered dryly. “Give me some credit for scruples, Harriet. I would hardly be sitting in your bed with my aunt liable to burst in at any time. This room, as you know, has no lock. And you must also have known that I would never have held your hand in public had I not harbored honorable intentions.”

She glanced away.