How to Catch a Duke in Ten Days by Violet Hamers

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Antony,” Hermione said softly.

“No more,” Antony urged. He couldn’t bear to keep up this façade any longer. He pushed away from her, rising up on the bed, watching as she looked up to him with wide eyes. “Did you think you could lie to me for the rest of our lives?”

“Lie? What? No!” Hermione began to scramble on the bed, coming toward him.

He couldn’t bear it. When she came near, he capitulated to her touch. He’d only gone so far with her to torment her on this occasion, the way that she had tormented him. He had very nearly gone further, unable to stay away from her.

“No more lies, Hermione.” He snapped the words and grabbed the shirt that had been flattened beneath her. He threw the shirt over his head, as she pulled up her night-rail, hurrying to put it back on. “I cannot believe it. I didn’t want to believe it, but then suddenly everything made sense.”

“Antony, you’re not making any sense.” Hermione looked in pain as she reached out toward him. He stepped away, moving far out of her reach.

“Then let me explain myself,” he said, feeling the cruel expression take up a place in his face. He turned and walked to the far end of the room to a desk by the window where he had discarded the paper that he had found the day before. He snapped it up, walked back toward her and threw it at her. She grabbed it from the air.

As her eyes danced across the words, she turned pale and sat back down on the bed. She was reading her own guidelines on how to trap a man into marriage with her hands trembling.

“Well, props to you, Hermione,” he said drily. “You had me completely. What a fool I am. Do you know I actually believed you? I actually believed you were the first woman I have ever met who wasn’t interested in the fact that I am a Duke. I foolishly thought you didn’t care about the money. How could I actually believe that you liked me instead?”

“I do like you. I lo–”

“You want to insult my intelligence now?” he asked, gesturing down to the notes as she flinched at the loudness of his words, cutting her off. He didn’t think he’d ever been so angry. Not even when Dianne had left him. It was different this time. Somehow, even more gut-wrenching than before. “It’s there in black and white, written down, exactly what you did.”

“Antony, please listen to me.” She dropped the notes to the bed and clambered off the bed, hurrying toward him. He had to back away, further and further across the room. “There’s so much you should know. I tried to tell you before, but I didn’t try hard enough–”

“I cannot listen to this anymore,” he said loudly, shaking his head. “You conned me. Deceived me. Tricked me into marrying you. How could you do that?” he asked. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face. He wanted to see the expression of the woman he had fallen for. To see the real woman beneath the persona that she wore.

“I didn’t–”

“How can you even say that!?” The words echoed back off the wall at the two of them. Hermione covered her face with her hands, hiding the expression that Antony had been waiting to see. “You think I can ever accept what you have done? Ever forgive you for it?”

“Please, just let me explain. Let me tell you what happened,” she pleaded, looking up from her hands. There were tears in her eyes. The green color was beginning to glisten. Any other time he would feel an ache in his chest to see her cry, but things had changed now.

“I do not need to hear anymore,” he said, striding toward her, feeling the anger so strongly in his body that every muscle was taut. She backed up increasingly, until her legs hit the bed, and she fell back down on it. “If your little guidelines weren’t enough, I heard you speaking with your aunt.”

Her lips parted this time as a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. “Do you hate me?” she asked.

The words wrong-footed Antony completely. He had expected her to plead with him to listen to her again; he had not expected that question.

“What do you think?” he asked in reply. He couldn’t hate the Hermione he had fallen for. He loved that woman. “The woman I… cared for doesn’t exist, does she?” He backed away from her, heading toward the door.

“Wait, Antony, please.” She scrambled off the bed, hurrying after him.

“No more, Hemione.” He snapped up his other clothes, the waistcoat, the jacket, the shoes, everything, and hurried toward the door.

“Let me explain; I beg of you!”

“No!” His shout was so loud that she stepped back away from him, the tears coming stronger now. He had to look away from those tears. The longer he looked at them, the more he wanted to enfold her in his arms.

“This from now on is a marriage in name only.” He kept his voice calm as he stipulated the new rules. “We will be nothing more to each other than that, understand? There is no connection, no real understanding, and you will never come to visit me in my chamber again.”

Her cries turned harder as she covered her face with both hands again. He couldn’t stay there any longer. He turned with his clothes in his hands and walked out of the room, being certain to slam the door closed behind him.

* * *

Hermione had been crying for so long that her face was red and puffy. Over breakfast, Antony was absent, leaving Hermione to stare at her plate and fight off more tears.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” Phoebe whispered at her side. There was lively conversation around the table, between Officer Stenham, Rufus, Cordelia and the Dowager Duchess. Their conversation fortunately masked Phoebe’s words.

“It is difficult to explain,” Hermione whispered back. With these simple words, she felt Phoebe reach toward her under the cover of the dining table and take her hand. Hermione clung to it, needing the warmth of her sister’s grasp. With her other hand, she pushed her plate away, losing all interest in food for good.

“I have never seen you this way,” Phoebe continued on, still whispering. “Not even after what happened at the church.” Hermione winced at the recollection of that day.

To her mind, the two days were entirely different. At the church, she hadn’t been heartbroken. Her faith in the man she was to marry had been broken, her trust and hope all smashed to smithereens. Not on this occasion. Today it felt like someone had sliced a cut in her heart, and it could not stop bleeding.

What made it even worse was that she felt she deserved the cut. Had she not done exactly what Antony accused her of? She had tricked him into marriage.

“It’s best we do not talk about it, Phoebe,” Hermione said quietly. Phoebe still turned her body a little on the chair toward Hermione.

“How can I not when you are in this state?” she asked with pain in her voice. “There must be something I can do to help.”

“There is nothing anyone can do now, I fear,” Hermione swallowed as she said the words, holding back more tears. “The only thing I can do, I suppose, is to figure out what kind of life I will lead from this moment on.”

“You’re not making any sense to me, Hermione.”

“I know,” Hermione said miserably, offering a sad sort of smile. She now faced living a life in the shadows behind the man that she loved. How was she supposed to be happy with that life?

“Lady Phoebe,” Officer Stenham called for Phoebe’s attention. As Hermione felt her sister’s hand slip from her grasp, she felt very alone indeed. “What do you say to a walk into town later today?”

“I would be delighted,” Phoebe said excitedly, bouncing just once in her seat. Hermione didn’t miss the way that her assent had made a smile appear on Officer Stenham’s features.

“You will take a chaperone, dear,” the Dowager Duchess said from the head of the table.

“Mother,” Officer Stenham pleaded, wincing with the reminder.

“What? I’m your mother. It is my job to look out for you,” she said with a smile. There was something unsaid that made all around the table fall quiet. Hermione grimaced as she sat back in the chair, knowing what they were all thinking. The last time a Stenham man had been left alone in the company of one of the Rogers sisters, he’d ended up married because of it.

“Well, with the young ones going out, I wonder if I could beg a moment of your time later this morning, Your Grace?” Rufus said, turning his attention on the Duchess.

“Oh, how lovely. What for?” she said.

“A matter of business I would be grateful for your thoughts on.” He spoke with charm, but the words showed Hermione exactly what he intended to do. He is going to ask for money.

Hermione stiffened in her chair. She might not be able to talk to Antony about what had truly happened between them, but there was still one way in which she could protect him. She could keep her father far away from his money.

“Yes, of course,” the Duchess said with a smile. “Come to the drawing room at ten o’clock. I have to say, my brains are rarely picked on such occasions as these. For business! Makes me feel quite special.”

Hermione smiled a little at the Duchess’ innocence. It made her even more determined to stand between her and Rufus, who was now looking across the table like a cat staring at a mouse, ready to jump and make the mouse its prey.

* * *

“Do not do this,” Hermione pleaded with her father. She was standing at the bottom of the staircase as he descended, ready to go to his meeting with the Dowager Duchess.

“I am not having this conversation yet again,” Rufus said tiredly, casting a gaze to the sky in frustration.

“You have already seen that the Duchess likes to be spendthrift. She will not give away money easily.”

“You think I haven’t noticed that?” Rufus said in a harried whisper as he walked past Hermione. She hurried after him, following him through the corridor toward the drawing room. “I will simply have to be… innovative in the way I ask for the money.”

“Innovative? We’re talking about money, not a work of art here!”

“You think this plot doesn’t have art in it?” Rufus stopped walking, turned back to her and laughed. The sound of the laugh was surprisingly cruel and made Hermione lift her chin higher, determined not to be quelled by the rather frightening figure her father had become. “It took a long time to get you to this stage, Hermione.”

“Me? None of this was for me, was it?” she said, speaking so fast and quietly that her father appeared not to have heard her. He just raised a hand, cutting her off from saying any more words.

“I am nearly there,” he said harshly, shaking the hand with his statement. “One more conversation, and I will have the money in my grasp. No more debts. No more problems. I will be free.”

“And what makes you think you will not gamble all of this money away as well?” Hermione said tartly. Rufus took a step toward her, but she was prepared for it and jumped back two steps. She had already felt his grasp on her wrist more than once; she was not prepared to feel it again.

Before Rufus could come any nearer toward her, there was a sound in the corridor behind them. They both froze as Hermione saw out of the corner of her eye the butler walking across the space, heading to another room. His appearance had cut off their conversation for good. Hermione couldn’t plead with her father anymore now.

Rufus knew it for he offered one devilish smile before turning to the drawing room door and heading inside. As the door closed, Hermione pretended interest in a nearby vase of flowers, offering a distracted smile to the butler as though the flowers were the reason she was hovering there. Once the butler walked off into another room, she retreated to the drawing room door and pressed her ear against it, listening in.

“Oh, you are too kind, My Lord,” the Dowager Duchess giggled. Rufus was clearly opening his bid for money with some flattering niceties. “Now, please, sit down, and tell me all about this business that concerns you.”

“I am afraid I have a confession, Your Grace,” he said, affecting a pained voice. “I know I can trust you, though. You are a fine woman, and your opinion on this matter I would greatly appreciate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the sheer extent her father was going to in his flattery. He never paid her or Phoebe such compliments. She had to strain her memory to think of whether he ever paid their mother such compliments either, yet the father he had been back then was a different man. Since their mother’s death, he was altered, as though a new man walked in his shoes and wore his face.

“Do go ahead with your confession,” the Duchess said kindly from the other side of the door.

“I have made an investment that went foul,” Rufus said, putting upon a voice that was strained as though the confession were difficult to make. Hermione found herself clutching at the handle of the door, tempted to go in and break up the meeting before any more could be said. Yet what would that achieve? Probably more bruises to her wrist.

“What kind of investment?”

Gambling, Hermione thought.

“Business in the trades in London. It is my understanding that the naval exploits from this town are successful though. Your younger son in particular talks of them with great pride.”

“Indeed, they are hugely successful,” the Duchess said with joy. “If you chose to invest in their ventures, I do not doubt you would see a return from your decision.”

“I am glad you think so,” Rufus said, sounding more animated. “I was wondering, considering our family connection, whether you and your son could see to loaning me the money for the investment. Once the return comes in, I would of course pay you back.”

Silence followed these words. Hermione tensed on the other side of the door, pressing her face so flat to the door to listen that her ear hurt from the strain against the wood. “Your Grace?” Rufus prompted after a moment. “What are your thoughts?”

“Well, My Lord,” the Duchess’ voice had taken on a new tone, one that Hermione hadn’t heard her use before. It was much sterner than she usually adopted. “If you are looking for a sum of money from me and my son, then I am afraid you are yapping up the wrong tree.”

“Barking up the wrong tree,” Rufus corrected, making Hermione tense even more.

“Your comment is immaterial,” the Duchess said sharply. “I am deeply sorry to hear of your financial troubles, but I cannot countenance a loan that would be an investment. All investments are gambles, My Lord. What if something went wrong? What if one of the naval ventures’ ships sank? The stakes are too high. I sympathize with your situation, but to assist in this matter would be impossible.”

“Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider.” Even from the other side of the door, Hermione could hear the desperation in her father’s voice. There were footsteps too in the room, suggesting he was following the Duchess around the space. “I must be able to provide for my family.”

“Hermione is my daughter-in-law now; she is safe and perfectly provided for.” The Duchess’ words brought a small smile to Hermione’s lips, touched by the inference of protection there. “As for Lady Phoebe, if my younger son keeps escorting her to town every day as he does, it may not be long before she is provided for as well.”

“But…” Rufus trailed off, clearly struggling to come up with another argument.

“Our conversation is at an end, My Lord. Please, depart.” The words were sharp.

With footsteps approaching the door, Hermione scrambled back. As the door opened, she hid in the shadow behind it, so that the Duchess wouldn’t see her through the open doorway. Once the door was closed, and she was revealed to her father, Rufus jumped back, evidently startled to find her there.

“You heard?” he asked in a whisper.

“I did,” Hermione said with a small smile that she couldn’t resist. “It seems Her Grace is a more careful woman than you gave her credit for.”

“This is not good, not good, Hermione,” Rufus said, stepping away from the door.

“From where I am standing, this is excellent news,” Hermione said with triumph. “Your plan has failed, father, and I could dance of joy because of it!” Her words made him snap his head back around. The sheer anger in his eyes made any temptation to dance vanish.

“This isn’t over yet.”

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked tightly.

“I spoke to the Duke before about borrowing money, and he made it abundantly clear that he defers to his mother in such matters because she is so careful about such things. It means that if the Duchess is so intent on keeping such a tight hold on the purse strings, I must find another way to get the money.”

“What way?”