“She?”
“Mrs. Chatham. The woman you’ve been searching for all night like a bloodhound.”
“Why do you say that?”
George’s gaze raked him from head to toe. “Your sudden change of fashion gives you away. Men who don’t dress well sing a different tune when they want to catch a woman’s eye.”
His brother had him there.
He’d surprised Simms and called for the new black, superfine cutaway coat his tailor had delivered before the house party. An onyx silk waistcoat, ending at his waist (unlike the outdated one he’d worn today) added to the ensemble. Ink-black breeches covered his legs. Severe. Dramatic. He stood out in a crowd adorned in confectionary colors.
The same crowd with the power to crush unassuming widows.
Once the languor of their afternoon kiss had diminished, he’d been careful not to mention Mrs. Chatham to Simms. Protective even. He didn’t want to sully her reputation.
His mind was already set when it came to his neighbor. He was going to marry her though he hadn’t mentioned it to a soul. A minimum courtship was in order, then he’d ask her.
After today’s kiss, how could she say no?
George scrutinized him, humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps your torn breeches gave you away? Or the hair pins abandoned on your floor?”
He cursed under his breath.
George produced two wire hair pins and passed them discreetly over. “Your secret is safe with me. Simms was too busy fussing over your shoe buckles to notice me picking them up.”
“It’s not what you think,” he said, stuffing the pins into his coat pocket.
“There’s the rub. It doesn’t matter what I think.” George’s arm flung wide at the ball. “It doesn’t matter what they think. What matters is you. Your happiness.”
His happiness. A gift rarely bestowed on people of privilege. They enjoyed wealth and comfort, a fair trade for duty. But this sudden advice on happiness piqued him.
Was his brother encouraging a dalliance? George was highly attuned to who was duchess material and who wasn’t. London’s finer doors would never open for Mrs. Chatham, a widow from Kent. They would for a duchess. It didn’t matter. He liked her exactly as she was.
A baron and his wife passed by on their way to stroll through the gardens. Greetings were exchanged, pleasantries said, but he itched to pursue George’s unexpected admonition.
He swung around to face the lawn. “Why so concerned about my happiness?”
George matched him, bracing both hands on the stone balustrade. “Because you’ve never forgiven yourself for being the one to survive the accident.”
He tensed from head to toe, his mid-section clenching as if he’d taken a blow. The Richland family, while loving and good, were prone to weaving delicately around unpleasant topics. Dancing by. Skimming over. Treading on eggshells from time to time. Never hitting a problem head on.
“What makes you think that?” His voice was deceptively calm. A storm threatened to erupt inside him. He held onto the stone, needing its solidness.
“You’ve been irritable all year.”
He was aghast. “Our family suffered great loss.”
George nodded with small concession. “Yes. Father and Darius will forever be on our hearts, but we must move on.”
“I have.” Now he was defensive. “I honor them by fulfilling my duties, but I fail to see why you’re spewing balderdash about forgiveness or the lack thereof.”
“You’re alone far too much.”
“I prefer to keep to myself.”
“That’s true. You’re far too aloof.”
He flicked an unseen speck off his sleeve. “Reserved, thank you.”
“And you’ve given up architecture.”
He flinched. Now they were getting somewhere. George’s words pierced the marrow of his bone. Even he heard the misery in his voice when he said, “I built follies, not grand cathedrals.”
“But you loved building them all the same. I can tell you miss it. Don’t deny it.”
He wouldn’t.
George delivered another assault. “Don’t stop pursuing the things that give you pleasure.”
“There is being the Duke of Richland,” he said dryly.
“So? Be a duke and a builder of follies.” George paused before dropping his voice an octave. “Mrs. Chatham told the dowager you should take up more building projects. She’s convinced the work makes you happy.”
His head swiveled sharply to his brother.
George whistled softly. “Like a bloodhound at the mention of her name.”
He was baffled. The day had opened up a world of possibilities after his interlude with the widow. The night was proving to be a puzzle. He’d kissed Mrs. Chatham, or she’d kissed him (a distinction not worth splicing), yet she wasn’t at the ball.
Why was she hiding?
“Are you going to seek her out after your dance with Lady Jacintha?” George asked.
No need to clarify the woman he’d seek. His attention drifted to a dormer window on the third floor. He’d been astonished to learn the dowager had ensconced Mrs. Chatham in the east wing. That side of Richland Hall was for family alone.
Gentle light shined through the small square glass. The widow was on the other side of it, hiding away. Once or twice he thought a lonely soul looked down the festivities. He could go to Mrs. Chatham, coax her down from her uncharacteristic tower of solitude. She always did well at local routs. Villagers enjoyed her amiable conversation.
Perhaps she found the size of the ball off-putting? The swell of too much noise?
The orchestra was taking a break. The old fellows were mopping their brows and gulping down punch. They’d play again after a decent rest. His minuet with Lady Jacintha was coming due like a dreaded debt he didn’t want to pay.
A stream of people poured outside, but he would dive in and fish out a certain neighbor tucked quietly in his home. He was about to leave when George grabbed his sleeve.
“You’re going to her now, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“There will be consequences if you don’t come back.”
There would, but he was a duke. Excuses would be made and accepted. It was another thing to take in stride, no different than his stiff new shoes.
The crowd swelled around them. Several portly gentlemen ambled down the steps, heading to the striped canopy where the day’s refreshment tables served as nightly card tables. If he wanted to escape, now was the time, but George tugged his sleeve again.
His brother was earnest, dipping his head to impart a grave message. “Before you go, there is something you need to know about Mrs. Chatham.”
Chapter 6
The letter sat in her lap. She read it again, taking bittersweet delight in each wonderful word.
Richland Hall, Friday afternoon
May 23, 1788
* * *
Dear Mrs. Chatham,
I could wax on about our fine spring weather. I could offer effusive thanks for the oil of amber, but I won’t because my afternoon with you was transcendent. Wholly unexpected. One kiss can change a man. Yours did. You reset my fulcrum. I am balanced again, and the world is right because of you. Please accept my humble thanks for the gift of your time today. I can only hope to deserve more of it.
* * *
With kind regard,
Lord Nathaniel, Duke of Richland
She folded the foolscap and set it lovingly on the table beside her chair. Pandora’s box had been opened by a single kiss and a few choice words. They’d said aloud what had long simmered under the surface.
“How do I put this back inside the box?” she mused to her empty room.
They’d unleashed what could never be, and that was difficult to swallow.
She tucked one foot beneath her bottom and let the other leg dangle. An open book was in her lap. She’d tried to read it several times. The pages swam. The story eluded her.
This self-imposed exile
was awful. She’d return home tomorrow. Sneak out early, though it was cowardly. The duke would be busily dancing attendance on three fortunate young women. Really, they’d dance attendance on him. It’d be a race to win his heart.
Her face crumpled. The duke could share his lust with her, but never his love.
Twice she’d peeked out the window at the goings on below. The grounds swelled with merry-makers. Everyone celebrated the Richland family’s return into the blessed arms of society. A season of joy was upon them. She’d not interfere. This past year had seen her traipsing about Richland Hall far too much. Now she would extract her person and drown herself in her garden.
Inquiries about a cottage in Cornwall would be made. The sooner, the better.
A knock at her door startled her. Hair on her arms bristled. He was on the other side; she knew it with every fiber of her being.
Quiet as a mouse, she shut her book and set it carefully on a side table.
A bolder, louder knock sounded.
Drat! Too many candles blazed for her to feign sleep. Polite as Lord Nathaniel was, he could also be obstinate. She touched her cheeks and checked her face in a hand mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed. The duke would know she’d been crying.
Another knock came. Very insistent. The dragon wanted entry. Sighing, she put down the hand mirror.
“Come in.”
A door hinge creaked the tiniest noise. The duke filled her doorway. Masculine. Robust. Dressed in dangerous black. A cutaway coat fit his shoulders like a second skin. Light kissed his auburn hair. No strand was out of place. Lacy, snow white cuffs rested evenly on the back of his hands—his persuasive, passionate hands.
It was foolish, her visual devouring of the man, but even the best-intentioned women slipped.
“You’re quite dashing, Your Grace.”
“And you’re quite…comfortable.”
She laughed and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Is that a euphemism for my ugly day gown?”
“You would be beautiful in burlap, madame.”
She sighed softly. By the tender octave of his voice, she believed he truly thought such a foolish thing.
He sauntered into the low-ceilinged room, searching for a chair, finding a dainty one at the escritoire, and hefting it high to plunk it directly before her. The duke’s hand slid under the back of his coat, flaring the cloth tails while he took a seat. Spine straight, he was imposing. A man in the prime of his life, and he’d come to sit with her.
“You’ve been crying. Is that why you’re not at the ball?” His silver-gray eye was hawkish. He’d give no quarter.
Her gaze slid to his letter on the side table. “Because I decided it was in the best interest of all concerned that I not go.”
“You’re making decisions for me?” There was irritation in his tone.
She’d matched it.
“No. I made this decision for me. You might have the power to make me weak-kneed, Your Grace, but I possess a strong mind. It’s the benefit of having used it at least a decade longer than the women who’ve flung themselves at you all week.”
Taking a deep breath, he set both hands palms down on his thighs. He tried to bite back a smile and lost the battle. “Weak-kneed?”
He said it with the most unusual blend of seduction and humor. How was that possible? The effect was butterflies in her stomach. Parts of her hidden under yards of ugly brown wool were doing a jig, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.
“Is that the reason you’re in here?” he asked. “The difference in our ages?”
“Of course, a younger person would say that.” She squirmed on her seat. “Youth is its own armor. You feel invincible…until the day comes when you realize you’re not.”
A sober shadow fell over his face, dimming the light in his eye. “I am twenty-six years old. Not a stripling lad. I faced my lack of invincibility last year.”
She winced. “Forgive me. That was a thoughtless, impulsive retort.”
“No harm was done, madame, and it was a truthful thing you said. It’s one of the qualities I admire about you.”
He studied her in the same manner he pored over his architecture plans. Every detail was worth consideration. She was conscious of her sloppy braid, and the faint lines etched at the outer corners of both her eyes. Her maid said they were from smiling too much.
Wherever the duke’s gaze touched, her skin got warmer. He traced a visual trail down her leg and back to her foot peeking half out from under her skirt. A white stocking covered her, but he stared with such interest that her skin pebbled.
“I spent a good portion of my night waiting for you.” He tore his attention off her foot. “Then I wondered why would a woman kiss me passionately, elicit my emotions, and hide.”
She twisted the edges of her shawl. “I already told you.”
Arms crossing, he leaned back in his chair. “You’ve told me nothing. You’re a confident woman, Mrs. Chatham. I don’t believe this is about our ages, or station, or wealth.”
She mirrored him, mulishly crossing her arms. “You appear to be well-informed about us. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
“We finally admit to our attraction, and that, madame, scares you.”
Oh, it frightened her out of her wits. Marriage to Mr. Chatham had been a comfortable affair. Sexual congress had been enjoyable, the occasional tup, but no exploration, no sharing of secret desires. She’d mourned her husband’s passing. They’d had a good life. He was a friend, a partner, but passion failed to burn bright.
It took a dalliance with a rake to open her eyes. Then a dalliance with another man, and another after him. Widows were afforded certain freedoms if they were discreet. But, the excitement, the sense of exploration eventually faded in favor of a new want—love.
Was it too much to ask for love and bed-shaking, rope-creaking sex? She’d resigned herself that never the twain would meet. Hence, she’d purchased Butterfly Cottage in Kent and prepared to lose herself in vigorous gardening, but no woman could live by spade and dirt alone. That point was driven into her soul the day she’d spied an intelligent-looking, auburn-haired man with impossibly wide shoulders in a public house in her new home village.
The first time their eyes had met devastated her.
Hot, lustful seeds were planted that day. She couldn’t deny it.
After two agonizing years, they finally, finally acted on their mutual attraction. One kiss was all it took for her to know love and sex could live under one roof.
And that scared her most of all.
Because he was a duke, and she’d never be able to give him what men in his position needed most. An heir.
Chapter 7
Love was profound and unruly. He’d known versions of it with his family, but the emotion blossoming between him and Mrs. Chatham was a tempest. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, give her a good shaking, and make her tell him the truth about her difficult secret.
He already knew. George had told him.
His brother imparted the substance of a conversation he’d overheard months ago. In it, Mrs. Chatham had tearfully shared a confidence with the dowager. Now she needed to share it with him. That was how trust and respect worked. Love fed on those qualities.
He and Mrs. Chatham needed to entrust their worst pain, their harshest disappointments, and their greatest joys for love to grow. His good, affectionate family had struggled with this truth as well. This past year showed him that.
Today, he and Mrs. Chatham had a taste of honest words in his sitting room. It was their beginning. Now they must continue to feed their wildly chaotic, yet fledgling, emotions, but it couldn’t be forced.
She had to give him the deepest recesses of her heart.
Seeing this truth was no different than glimpsing a corner of a magnificent painting, knowing the beauty that was coming…and having to wait for it. And wait. And wait.
Gentleness helped. Thus, he unfolded his arms and leaned fo
rward. He brushed the back of his knuckles on her knee. She was wary, watching him like a curled-up cat unsure of being petted. Her gaze followed every stroke on her wool-covered knee, her leg, and her half-exposed foot.
Two candelabra lit the room. Flickering candles brightened her sherry-colored eyes. Their rich, liquid hue filled her face.
“Your Grace—”
“Nathan.”
Her eyes flared wider.
“When I’m alone with you, call me Nathan. It’s what my brothers called me as a boy.”
His voice was hoarse from intimacy twining between them. Mrs. Chatham might wish to slow the swirling changes going on between them, but she couldn’t deny their palpable presence.
She nibbled her lower lip as a puzzled dent camped between her eyebrows. Her breathing ebbed and flowed with greater tenacity. She fought something.
“Tell me what it is,” he coaxed.
Her soulful gaze met his. “We’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now we ought to close it.”
Careful strokes to her skirt-covered leg stopped. This was puzzling. And enlightening. He expected a garden metaphor or an outright confession of the heart, not a mythical reference.
“What do you mean?”
“Pandora, the first woman in Greek mythology,” she explained patiently.
“I know who she is. The gods bestowed their choicest gifts on her, and she married...” Perplexed, he searched the air.
“Epimetheus.” She supplied the name, looking at him as if comprehension would come. Seconds ticked on the Dutch clock tucked in the corner before she added, “He was warned not to marry her, but he did anyway, bringing him misery.”
He toyed with her hem. He had a good idea where she was going with the tale, but he had something to add of his own because art and precision were in his blood. “Some say the first translation wasn’t correct. Pandora had a jar, not a box. Another translation has misplaced curiosity at fault, while another—”
“I don’t need a lesson in the details of Greek mythology,” she huffed in frustration.
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