Deveric arched a brow at him. “The flock of ladies ever-present around you says differently.”
“Flirtation only. Even if a young miss were to take a true interest, her parents would not. You know ‘tis true. I will go back to Ireland someday. My estates are there.”
“And leave London?” Horror etched itself across Arthington’s face.
“Not everyone loves this dirty, loud, stinking city as much as you do, Arth. I do not get there often, I know, but I miss the greenness of my home.”
“Please don’t tell me you miss the sheep, or I shall start to worry about you,” Arth said.
“Haha. I miss the air. And the lassies, I’ll admit. They’re a bit freer than many an English woman.”
Deveric gave a derisive snort. “Freer? If some of the women around here were any freer, they’d be naked.” Several of the “respectable” ladies of the ton they’d come across had sported décolletages so low as to be practically non-existent, and had eyed the men in such a way that each was aware they need look no further for companionship that evening, should they wish it.
Deveric did not wish it. Oh, his pulse had quickened ever so slightly at a plump blonde who’d meandered down the lane, but upon approach, her rather dirty fair hair, lackluster brown eyes, and sallow complexion couldn’t hold a candle to Eliza. No one could.
“Not an admirer of the newer styles?” Arthington quipped. “Would you rather the women wear the gowns of forty years ago, as my grandmother still does? Great monstrosities, with panniers so wide one has to turn sideways to enter a room?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t appreciate a low-cut bodice. I merely noted that many an English lady is not as decorous as they make out to be.”
“I need to be meeting your ladies, then,” Emerlin said with a wink.
“It’s the Prince Regent.”
Deveric looked up at Arthington’s words, watching as Prince George shuffled through Watier’s front door and crossed over to a table of gentlemen involved in a raucous game of Macao. The Regent had never particularly impressed Claremont; he indulged too heavily in food, spending, and women for Dev’s taste.
“How much do you think he eats in a day?” Arthington asked.
“Shh,” Em chided. “Even a duke can’t get away with those kinds of comments.”
“Eh, possibly.” Arth shrugged his shoulders. “But it’s a fair question, don’t you think?”
Deveric’s attention wandered as he surveyed the room. Dandies of every variety indulged in drink, food, and cards, their faces registering either great excitement or boredom.
He didn’t want to be here. He wasn’t much of a gambler, not after dealing with his uncle and now his brother. Too many men lost their fortunes in houses like these.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be home, at Clarehaven. He’d concluded his uncle’s business; why hadn’t he headed back? Mother had said they were journeying to London in a week’s time. He could merely await their arrival. On the other hand, he could be home in a day. See his son. See Eliza.
The idea both elated and terrified him. It was the terror keeping him away. For what did he hope if he returned? Anything less than marriage wouldn’t do, not for a woman like Eliza. She deserved more. But marriage was the one thing he wouldn’t consider. He’d sworn never to marry again, never to endanger a woman in that way, never to relive the horror of losing a wife, and a child.
It was an impossible situation. Every inch of him ached for her. But lust was no reason, no excuse, to risk it all. Lust would pass. Wouldn’t it? No, Eliza James was not an option, no matter how tantalizing she was, no matter how much she called to him. It would never, could never work. He had to let this obsession go.
“Lady Gertrude Featherstone was paying you quite a bit of attention today,” he said to Arthington, desperate to distract himself. “She cuts a fine figure, comes from a respectable family, and, rumor has it, possesses an obscenely large dowry.”
Arth winced. “Yes, but her name is Gertrude.”
Emerlin let out a bark of laughter. “Seriously? You’d avoid a match because of a name you’d likely never call her, anyway? Duchess would do after marriage.”
Deveric took a swig from the tumbler of brandy in front of him. Nothing like the hair of the dog to cure his lingering headache. Cook’s remedy hadn’t worked nearly as well as he’d claimed, though he was loath to admit it. “Do you want to marry?”
Arthington grew uncharacteristically silent. “At thirty, I’m more than of age,” he finally said.
“That wasn’t the question.”
Arth shrugged. “I might as well. I need an heir. And I truly don’t wish to see the estates pass into my uncle’s family. Not that I would be alive to witness it if that happened, I suppose.” He sipped from his own tumbler. “I had hoped...”
“Hoped what?”
Arthington smiled again as if the question were inconsequential. “I had hoped to find someone with whom I truly belonged.”
“A love match?” Em raised an eyebrow.
“I know it’s silly,” Arthington said. “We know what this society is like. Few couples are faithful to each other. Even those who start out so, well, look at Lord and Lady Effingham. They persist in trying to outdo each other in the number of people they take into their bed.”
“Better not to marry at all,” Deveric grumbled.
“Do you truly feel that way?” Arth took a deep drink from his cup then beckoned a waiter for another bottle. “I know yours wasn’t a love match, but I always thought you and Mirabelle got along tolerably.”
Deveric had hidden his marital woes even from his friends; there was no sense in burdening others with his failings. Plus, there’d been the Claremont reputation to uphold, especially in the wake of poor Amara’s scandal.
“As long as I didn’t touch her, we got along tolerably well. And my insistence on touching her is what killed her.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could call them back. He’d been brooding about Eliza when he should have been guarding his tongue. His sin wasn’t something he’d confessed to anyone outside the family, outside Amara and Cecilia, actually. Ever.
Both friends stared at Deveric.
“Good God, is that what you think? That you killed her?” Arthington exclaimed. “Dev, you know as well as anyone that many women die giving birth. My own grandmother died birthing my father.”
“If I hadn’t touched her ...”
“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have Frederick,” Arthington reminded him. “At least your bloodlines aren’t in danger.”
A bitter laugh escaped Deveric. “Yes, because that makes up for causing a death?” He ran a finger along the edge of his glass. “I was ... I was too big for her, and yet I forced her.”
“You forced her?”
“No, no. I never raped her. I would never rape a woman. She said she was willing, that it was her wifely duty. But I knew. I knew she wasn’t interested. Knew she took no pleasure in it. I shouldn’t have.”
“My God, man, you can’t blame yourself. Have you been holding onto this all these years? You never said a word.” Arth clapped a hand on his friend’s back, his fingers pressing into Deveric’s shoulder.
Deveric ignored it. “If I had tried harder, found a way to please her ...”
Emerlin spoke up after a moment of silence. “Maybe it had nothing to do with you. Maybe she never would have liked that aspect of married life. Your duchess never struck me as the passionate sort.”
“You were thinking of my wife in that way?”
Em held his hands up. “Not like that. But I notice things. I can tell which women are of a lustful nature, and which are not.”
Deveric closed his eyes, exhaling. “And Eliza? What of her?” There. He’d admitted his attraction. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t deny it anymore.
“Eliza?” Arthington’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Who is—Oh, Mrs. James, your cousin? Wait, are you?”
“I’m noth
ing. Nothing. Never mind.”
“She looks at you. A lot.” Emerlin said, ignoring Deveric’s words. “And not in a familial way.” He smiled widely, those deep dimples showing on both cheeks. “And you don’t look at her as a cousin, either. Who is she, really, Dev?”
“I wish I knew.” Dev stared into the now-empty glass in front of him. “I wish I knew.”
Chapter 28
Eliza rolled over and stared morosely at the floor, pulling the coverlet up around her ears for a bit more warmth. England was freezing. Clarehaven was freezing. How did these people stand it? She longed to be sitting on the couch in the Treasure Trove in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot chocolate—really sweet hot chocolate—at her side and her laptop on her lap.
What had she been thinking? Who in their right mind would give up all they knew and travel back in time to a period where so much was different? Granted, she wasn’t in ancient Rome or medieval Germany, where she would have had no shot with the language, much less everything else. She wasn’t a beggar on the streets in India, nor a slave in the New World. She wasn’t among the working classes here in Regency England, much less the poor.
She shouldn’t be complaining. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted, as absolutely impossible as it had sounded, and should have been. She was in a duke’s home, living a life of relative luxury. Servants waited on her, meals were prepared for her, and the family was pleasant and friendly with her. Well, except Deveric’s mother, who, though not as harsh as she’d been at first, still reminded Eliza often of her position in the family: cousin or not, she was going to earn her keep as Harrington’s governess.
She was a servant, but not a servant. She was family, but not family. And she was lonely. Desperately lonely.
Deveric had been in London for nearly two weeks. Two weeks! How was she supposed to get him to fall in love with her if he wasn’t even in the same vicinity? How could she fall in love with him if he was nowhere to be found?
She’d asked Amara when he would return, but Amara had merely shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible he will remain in London until the family joins him.”
If that were the case, and the Mattersleys didn’t take her with them, then what? What was she supposed to do on her own in this cavernous house? Eliza was unused to the silence; there was little noise except for occasional sounds of servants cleaning, or the sisters talking.
She missed music. Thank God Grace played the piano every day; it soothed her. She wished now she’d learned to play when she was younger. She’d tinkered a bit one morning, but figured out only one line of Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, her favorite Wham! song. It’d take a long time for her to become remotely proficient; talent like Grace’s she was sure she didn’t have.
How much she had taken for granted the ability to flip on the radio and hear songs any time she chose! They’d always had music playing in the store—usually classical, but sometimes they’d switch it up with a day of ’80s music or ’50s rock and roll.
What she wouldn’t give to hear those songs now. She sang to herself often, but it wasn’t the same. She missed all the creature comforts of life she’d taken for granted in twenty-first century America. But even more than that, she missed Cat.
She’d spent several evenings in Amara’s company, whom she liked more and more. The woman was clever, with a biting wit, and keen observations of the people around her. But their interactions were more formal than Eliza was used to; no lounging about on the floor in pajamas, no snapping each other with dish towels, no giggling over kooky customers in the coffee shop.
Would she ever again have a friendship like she’d had with Cat?
She sighed as she hauled herself out of bed and over to the fireplace, coverlet firmly in place about her. The fire was blazing, thanks to Betsy. Eliza wasn’t sure where the maid was at the moment, but she didn’t mind the alone time. Sulking was always better in private.
She hummed the lively tune Grace had played yesterday while the dance teacher was there, trying to distract herself from the hopelessness creeping in. Because Becca was coming out this season—she’d turn eighteen in just over a week—Deveric’s mother had brought in a dance instructor from the City, and several afternoons, the sisters practiced their steps in the ballroom, with Grace on the piano.
The dowager allowed her to attend once when Freddy was napping. Eliza’d fumbled her way through a dance or two, the instructor almost comical in his over-the-top reactions to her ineptitude. She envied the grace the sisters displayed as they moved easily and familiarly through the steps.
Even Becca knew most of the dances by heart. She didn’t need an instructor anymore, really, but Eliza figured it gave the women something to do while the cold winds raged outside; they were all getting restless in the house. The dowager likely also wanted to ensure her youngest daughter was a diamond of the first water her first season out.
She certainly could be. With her ebony hair and stunning round blue eyes, Becca would turn heads wherever she went. All of the sisters would, actually. Their beauty would have intimidated Eliza more if they’d been more stand-offish and if, well, Eliza had been less attractive herself.
She knew, in spite of her complaints about her rounded hips and poofy stomach, men considered her beautiful. They’d told her so all her life. It was a bit harder to feel attractive here, however, without the mouthwash or daily hot showers she’d been used to.
She was growing accustomed to her face without makeup, at least. She actually looked younger—though Becca’s glowing, unblemished, unlined skin brought out her envy. Women thought aging in the twenty-first century was hard; try being twenty-nine in Regency England! She was far past the bloom of youth here.
“Over the hill, and I’m not even thirty yet. Great,” she muttered, as she clutched the blanket around her shoulders.
Betsy entered the room as quietly as usual, bustling around with efficiency, stirring up the fire, pulling out a borrowed dress, and setting fresh water on the washstand.
What if I didn’t want to get up at this time every day? What if I told Betsy to leave me alone so that I could stay in bed all morning, burrowed beneath these blankets? Could I get away with it?
Not that she’d ever be rude to Betsy. Eliza considered her a friend, though she doubted Betsy thought the same. Betsy still addressed her as Lady James half the time and was always eager to do whatever she could to please Eliza. At least she was willing to chat with her, and Eliza enjoyed hearing about Betsy’s family. Betsy’d also confided she was sweet on one of the footmen, although he didn’t pay any attention to her, much to Betsy’s chagrin.
Eliza could relate to that. Here she was, two hundred years away from her own life, trying to get a man to fall in love with her who was nowhere to be found.
She groaned. What her mother would have said about that.
“A relationship shouldn’t be the center of your life, Eliza,” she had chided often, especially when Eliza and Greg got so serious at such a young age. “You need other interests, something to do to give yourself your own identity.”
That had worked for Eliza’s mom. But was it so wrong if Eliza wanted to find her identity in her relationships with others? Her parents had found it in their work. She wanted it in people. Why was that so bad? Once upon a time, in this time, as a matter of fact, women were expected to center their lives on marriage and family. She was glad, of course, that women had far more choices in the twenty-first century, and no longer had to do that if they didn’t want to. But what about those women who still did? Did they have to be devalued for those goals?
Once upon a time. Eliza had wanted to come here for the fairytale, for the Cinderella story. But not for the rags to riches part. No, for the part about finding where she belonged. Of being the center of someone’s life in a way she never had been before. Of being able to make someone the center of hers, to devote herself to loving that person and building a relationship, a family, like she’d never had.
She grim
aced. That sounded so anti-feminist. Maybe it was if taken on the surface. But if feminism meant women had the same choices as men, shouldn’t they be able to choose marriage and family, if that was what was central to them, without being made to feel lesser?
It’s not that she didn’t prize her intellect. She certainly did. Frankly, maintaining a healthy family and marriage while running a household required a great amount of smarts. Especially a ducal household.
She covered her chilled ears with the blanket. She just wanted to be loved for who she was, like the heroines in romance novels. The heroes loved those women exactly as they were, often exactly because of how they were. Okay, maybe she wasn’t a Civil War spy or a duchess running a school for heiresses, or a viscount’s daughter masquerading as a pirate. She still deserved love, didn’t she?
And so did Deveric. So much pressure on him, as the leader of a great ducal family. A mother to deal with, sisters to help, a son to raise, estates to manage, duties to perform. He needed support, more than she was sure he ever got. Dukes were supposed to know exactly what to do at all times. But, come on, he was human. Surely he had doubts and worries and insecurities, too?
She could help him, could be there for him. She could be his touchstone. She could do that. If only he’d come home.
Eliza let out a large harrumph, blowing the hair out of her eyes. This wasn’t quite the fairytale she’d fantasized it would be. Though she’d not wanted the outcome guaranteed, she had to admit she’d wanted Deveric to fall madly, deeply, instantly in love with her. Guess I watched Cinderella one too many times. This feels more like Snow White, with an absentee prince and a wicked dowager mother.
Come home, Deveric.
It’d been a good day, after all. It really had. She’d loved her time with Frederick. They’d visited Pirate, who was growing by leaps and bounds, and then spent time reading stories and studying the globe. She was doing a decent job of covering for her geographical faux pas, she hoped, having forgotten Italy wasn’t wholly unified yet, and that places like Iowa weren’t yet part of the United States. Frederick was a bright young boy, and she was grateful for his natural curiosity—while still wondering how long she could pull off this governess charade.
The Magic of Love Series Page 48
