What to Do with a Duke Read Free Page B

lines, but even so, it was going to be a trick to decipher the message.
    He held it closer to the lamp. Ah, fortunately the man had printed his name under his signature.
    Randolph Wilkinson, solicitor.
    That sounded familiar....
    Oh, blast. Yes, it was familiar. Wilkinson, Wilkinson, and Wilkinson was the firm that oversaw the Spinster House. Getting a letter from Wilkinson could only mean one thing.
    There was a Spinster House vacancy.
    â€œIt appears I have a destination.” He let out a long breath and dropped the letter back to his desk. “I’ll be leaving in the morning for Loves Bridge.”

Chapter Two
    April 5, 1617—The duke smiled at me as we were leaving church this morning. He has the most attractive dimples.
    â€”from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
    Â 
    Â 
    Miss Isabelle Catherine Hutting—Cat to everyone in the little village of Loves Bridge—wedged herself into one of the children’s desks in the vicarage’s schoolroom. Prudence, her ten-year-old sister, was curled up in the only comfortable chair, reading. Sybil, age six, sat by the window with her watercolors, and the four-year-old twins sprawled on the floor, building a fort for their tin soldiers.
    A rare moment of peace.
    She looked down at the blank sheet of paper before her. She’d been trying to begin this book for months. The characters whispered to her when she was helping Sybil with her numbers or looking at ribbon in the village shop or falling asleep in the bed she shared with her eighteen-year-old sister, Mary, but the instant she had a quiet moment and some paper, they went silent.
    Well, she would force them to speak. She dipped her pen into the inkwell.
    Vicar Walker’s oldest daughter, Rebecca, smiled at the Duke of Worthing.
    No, that wasn’t quite right. She scratched out the words and started over.
    Miss Rebecca Walker, the vicar’s oldest daughter and the village beauty, smiled at the Duke of Worthing.
    Oh, fiddle, that sounded stupid. Who would wish to read a novel that began with a beautiful ninny grinning at an arrogant, persnickety duke? She should—
    No, she should not. How many times had Miss Franklin told her she needed to write the story before she started to pick it apart? She—
    Sybil screeched, and Cat’s hand jerked, spattering ink all over her paper and her bodice. Drat!
    â€œWhat is it, Sybil?”
    Not that she needed to ask. She could see what it was—or rather, who it was. Thomas and Michael had lost interest in their fort and come over to torture their sister. They’d managed to spill water all over Sybil’s painting.
    â€œLook what they’ve done,” Sybil wailed, picking up her soaking masterpiece and flourishing it for Cat’s inspection just as Cat reached her.
    The wet paint joined the ink on her bodice. It was a good thing this wasn’t one of her favorite dresses.
    She peeled the picture off her front and inspected it. It was impossible to discern its original subject. Something blue and green and white and black judging from the paint smears.
    â€œWe just wanted to see the sheep,” Thomas said, his eyes wide with innocence—until you looked more closely and noted the mischievous gleam. He was only four, but he was going to grow up to be a complete terror, worse even than fifteen-year-old Henry or thirteen-year-old Walter.
    How Papa, a vicar, had managed to beget so many wild boys was one of God’s many mysteries.
    â€œSheep?” Sybil screamed. “Those were clouds, you noddy.”
    Thomas put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes in an especially annoying way—a trick he’d learned from Pru. “Paint clouds? That’s m-mutton-headed.” He grinned, clearly pleased with the new word he’d learned, likely from his brothers.
    She should be happy he hadn’t learned any worse words . . . or at least hadn’t used them yet.
    Sybbie’s brows snapped down, and her jaw