In Bed with the Duke(55)

Now all those things he’d said about what she had been doing in his bed made perfect sense. He’d thought that Hugo was doing all in his power to make him lose whatever wager they had agreed upon.

‘This way,’ said Gregory, steering her across the hall with the grip he still had on her elbow.

She put up no resistance. She didn’t have the strength. It had all seeped out through what felt like a great crack, somewhere deep inside her, where once her trust in Gregory had resided. She hadn’t even felt this stunned when she’d discovered that Aunt Charity, who’d appeared to be a pillar of society, had turned into a criminal overnight. Into a person she didn’t really know at all.

Because she’d never actually liked Aunt Charity, try as hard as she might.

But she’d started to look upon this man who was ushering her across the hall as a bit of a hero.

Now it turned out he was someone else—something else—entirely. A duke. A duke who’d been so bored with his dull existence that he’d put on rough clothes and changed his name in order to win a bet.

The butler leaped ahead of them to open the door to a room that was flooded with sunshine. Three people were sitting there.

A young man, wearing clothes that were so plain and so coarse that he just had to be Mr Bodkin, was perched on the very edge of a hard-backed chair, his hands braced on his knees as though ready to take flight at the slightest alarm. There was also a bracket-faced woman at a table under the window, tucking into a plate of cakes and sandwiches, a teacup at her elbow. And on one of the sofas placed on either side of the fire sat a plump little woman wearing lavender satin and a frivolous lace cap of white.

The plump woman uttered a piercing shriek when she saw them, and clapped her hand to her ample bosom.

Mr Bodkin started to his feet, took half a pace in their direction, then halted, saying, ‘Mr Willingale...?’

The bracket-faced lady froze, a sandwich halfway to her mouth.

‘Mr Willingale!’ said the plainly dressed young man again, this time with more certainty. ‘It is you. Thank heaven. I was that worrit when I got here and you hadn’t arrived. I was sure summat bad must have happened to you.’

‘I told you there was no need to worry,’ said Hugo, sauntering into the room and closing the door firmly behind him. ‘I told you we weren’t expecting Halstead until the end of the week.’

‘Halstead?’ Mr Bodkin frowned. ‘Who’s Halstead?’

‘I am,’ said Gregory.

‘But you told me you was Mr Willingale,’ said Mr Bodkin, looking as bewildered as Prudence felt.

‘Well, he ain’t,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘He’s Halstead. Duke of.’

So she wasn’t the only person he’d lied to about his identity. It should have been of some consolation. Why wasn’t it?

The youth in homespun glowered at Hugo. ‘Beggin’ Yer Lordship’s pardon, but I know what he said.’

Hugo was a lordship? Well, naturally! If Gregory was a duke all his relatives were bound to be lords and ladies, too.

‘Never mind that for now,’ said Gregory firmly, as the two younger men squared up to each other. ‘Miss Carstairs is in dire need of tea and a seat by the fire. Miss Carstairs,’ he said, addressing the plump lady on the sofa, ‘is my fiancée, Lady Mixby.’

The lady in lavender uttered another little shriek, though this time she clapped both hands together instead of clasping her chest as though she’d suffered a severe shock.

‘Oh, how wonderful! You are going to marry again. At last! Come here, dear,’ she said to Prudence. ‘And tell me all about yourself.’

Gregory held up his hand repressively. ‘You are not to pelter her with questions. None of you. Miss Carstairs has been through a terrible ordeal.’

And it wasn’t over yet. This had all the hallmarks of being a continuation of the nightmare that had started when she’d woken stark naked in bed with a stranger. Since then nothing and nobody had been what they seemed.

‘Oh, my dear, how selfish of me,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘You do look somewhat...distrait,’ she said, kindly choosing the most tactful way to describe her dirty, dishevelled appearance. ‘Come and sit here on the sofa,’ she said patting the cushion beside her. ‘Benderby!’ She waved at the bracket-faced lady. ‘Ring for more hot water and cake.’

Benderby put down her sandwich, went to the bell-pull and tugged on it. Prudence collapsed onto the sofa opposite the one occupied by Lady Mixby. Gregory sat down beside her. And took her hand.

What with being in a room full of titled people—not to mention Mr Bodkin—all of whom were already shocked by her appearance, she didn’t have the nerve to create a scene by tugging it free. The only way to express her confusion and resentment was to let it lie limp and unresponsive in his.