Page 9 of How Not to Marry a Duke

It almost sounded like…like a snort.

Good God, was his headache causing hallucinations?

The snorting grew louder and then—to his complete shock—a pig entered his private domain.

No. Not just any pig.

Henry.

He’d be able to pick that spotted nose out of a pen full of pigs. Bloody hell!

Warwick pushed back his chair and stood. Henry approached and, as if in a daze, Warwick reached out to touch the top of the pig’s head. Sharp, intelligent eyes met his. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the pig greeted him.

“Nelson!” he bellowed.

The butler appeared in the doorway in seconds. “Your Grace?”

“Explain.” Warwick pointed to the pig. Henry had waddled to the sofa and begun nibbling one of the ruffles of a pillow. Soon, stuffing puffed out of the ripped seam.

Nelson’s eyes bulged in his pale face. If Warwick’s temples weren’t throbbing, he would almost consider his butler’s expression comical.

“How did a pig get inside my home?” Warwick’s voice sounded harsh to his own ears. He supposed being pressured to marry and a giant pig wandering into his study in the span of a few minutes would do that to a man.

“I must have left the front door ajar, Your Grace.”

“You must have indeed.”

Nelson hurried forward then stopped a foot away from the pig. It was clear the proper butler had no idea what to do. Henry dropped the ruined pillow and nudged the butler’s hand.

Nelson jumped back as if he’d been bit. “I have no idea where the pig came from, Your Grace. I shall look for its owner at once.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Nelson. I know the owner. I’ll deal with her. Meanwhile, help me get that pig out of my study.”

…

Warwick massaged his temple. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow. Even with Nelson’s help, attempting to shove a two-hundred-pound pig out of his study and his house had been unsuccessful. It had finally taken a good amount of bribery with lettuce, carrots, and apples to lure the blasted pig outside.

Taking matters immediately into his own hands, Warwick used the leftover apples to cajole Henry down the country lane.

“That’s it,” he spoke to the pig. “If you want more, keep coming along.” Good God, if his friend, the Earl of Drake, saw him now, he’d never let him live it down.

At last, his neighbor’s home came into view. Warwick halted long enough to rub the back of his neck again where his headache had settled. He needed to calm his temper before he saw the woman.

He’d been well on his way to a foul mood before the pig had paid him a visit. Despite Lady Heywood’s demands, marriage was far from his mind and not one of his imminent goals. He had much more pressing matters. When he did marry, it would be a business-minded choice. Not much would change in his life. He’d still work on his inventions, visit booksellers, and attend science meetings where he’d enjoy stimulating intellectual conversations. During this time, his wife could occupy herself with whatever nonsensical society events the ton devised. His godmother didn’t understand his reasoning, of course, and nothing would make her happier than if he were betrothed.

As Warwick got closer to the house, Henry spotted a bucket of slop in his pen and meandered to the food.

“All it takes is kitchen scraps to distract you and make you happy?” he asked the pig.

Henry looked up from his meal and snorted. Warwick shook his head as he approached to secure the pen when shouting sounded from the cottage. He turned to the sound, his pulse quickening. What the devil was going on?

“I said get out!” Warwick’s muscles tensed as he heard a woman’s voice, full of rage.

The front door was ajar, and a man’s angry response was clear as day. “No. You will do as you’re told. You shall marry Mr. Stan Slade before the end of this Season!”

“Perhaps you should marry the moneylender. It’s your debt that needs to be satisfied, not mine.”

“You ungrateful bitch!”