So instead she merely turned to him. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. Have my driver take you back to the club.”
“I could do with a walk.”
“It’s a good distance away.”
“I’ll run across a hansom somewhere. Don’t worry yourself over it. Will you come to the club tomorrow?”
She was grateful for the darkness that prevented him from seeing the blush she was fairly certain was creeping over her cheeks, if their sudden warmth were any indication of what was transpiring. “My mood will be much improved.”
“I’ll improve it even more. I had something special planned for this evening, but it’ll keep.” He tucked his forefinger beneath her chin, stroked his thumb over her lips. “Until tomorrow.”
Before she could respond, he was striding away. She’d been certain he was going to kiss her, had wanted him to. How was it that he always left her yearning for more even as he somehow managed to leave her satisfied?
Chapter 11
“. . . the property in Hertfordshire has been designated as your dower residence and as such will be placed in your name and become your property, although it may not be sold or passed on to another until your death. The exception, naturally, is that should you marry, it would go to your husband. In addition, your late husband created a trust for you that is to be overseen by Lord Kittridge. The yield in interest will be two thousand pounds per annum.”
Dazed by Lushing’s generosity, Selena stared at Mr. Beckwith, Lushing’s solicitor, as he sat incredibly still behind the duke’s desk in the library, having just read what he understood to be the most crucial part of her late husband’s will. He was no doubt waiting for a burst of grateful tears from her or—
“Why Kittridge and not me?” her brother blurted petulantly. “Why must he oversee this trust?”
Winslow, she, Kittridge, and her sisters were seated in front of the desk as though in a classroom. Glancing at her, Kit did little more than arch one eyebrow. He knew why, just as she did. The viscount was not in need of funds; her brother was. Her husband had feared Winslow might use her allotment to line his own pockets, whereas he had always given Kit his complete trust. How often had the two men stayed up late into the night talking, laughing, enjoying each other’s company? How often, when faced with a decision, had Lushing mused, “I’ll have to get Kit’s opinion on that”? How often had she been disappointed that he’d valued his friend’s opinion over hers? Not that it was unusual for one man to place more faith in another man’s judgment rather than in a woman’s. Still, it had sometimes hurt that her views were not more often sought.
“Because it is what Lushing thought best,” she said calmly, not really in the mood to have to deal with salvaging his pride.
“It’s not very much,” he stated sourly.
It was a princely sum, but it would not allow her to set aside dowries for her sisters or help Winslow get his crumbling estate back up to snuff. “Is there anything else of import, Mr. Beckwith?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He gazed down at the will and read, “‘To Lord Kittridge, who has always remained the firmest of friends, I leave my thoroughbreds and hounds.’”
Reaching over, she patted Kit’s arm. “He knew you would care for them as he did. They couldn’t be in better hands.”
“We could have sold them,” Winslow muttered.
“Which is the reason he left them to Kit,” she snapped. “He wanted to ensure they went to someone who would appreciate them.”
“Not to worry,” Kit said. “Your mare will remain with you. He did not mean for me to have her.”
Lushing had gifted her with the white Arabian shortly after they’d wed, and she adored the beast. “Thank you.” She gave her attention back to the solicitor. “Anything else, sir?”
“As you are no doubt aware, the terms of the entailment have not changed since they were agreed to centuries ago. The properties—other than the dower property—and all incomes, thereof, are to be inherited by a male of the body lawfully begotten. Should none exist, they could be settled on a female lawfully born who can trace her bloodline back to the first duke. Unfortunately, the Sheffields were a cursed lot, prone to bleeding disorders, which resulted in early deaths for many. Accidents or illness led to the demise of the others. The family history of births and deaths is well documented, and all evidence indicates your husband was the last of the line. In the absence of an heir or heiress, the entailed properties will go to Her Majesty’s Treasury, and the Crown will determine how they are to be dispensed. We can make an appeal for them to be given to you, but to be quite honest”—he sighed heavily—“based upon the extensive nature of the duke’s holdings, I believe it highly unlikely we would see a favorable outcome since you are not of his blood and were married for such a short span of time in the grand scheme of things.”
“Lushing held the same opinion.” He had talked of making additional arrangements for her but had never gotten around to it, no doubt believing he had more time.
“Because the detailed records prove the absence of an heir, I suspect the title will be deemed extinct. However, you will retain your title as Duchess of Lushing. All that said, I don’t wish to be indelicate, Your Grace, but is there any chance an heir might appear within the next few months?”
In her head, she did quick calculations. While the two thousand pounds was generous and would see her alone in good stead, if she were to divide her yearly income between herself and the girls—she sighed. Five hundred pounds per annum each was hardly a suitable dowry and would be an insufficient amount for maintaining her own property, servants, horses, and carriages. Nothing would remain to assist Winslow. The reality was that more drastic measures were called for.
She could sense breaths being held, tension becoming palpable as they all awaited her answer. Her lie. The words that would haunt her to the grave. “There is, sir.”
“Then I shall so inform the Crown and the College of Arms.”
“Although you hesitated before answering Beckwith’s inquiry regarding the possibility of an heir, you seemed a bit more confident in your condition than you were two days ago when we spoke about the possibility of you being with child,” Kit said as they strolled through the garden, her arm nestled within the crook of his.
“I didn’t want to give him cause to doubt”—to question the legitimacy of the child being Lushing’s—“but my hopes could still fail to come to fruition. I’ve had occasions before where I thought I was with child, only to be disappointed, so I shall wait before making any formal announcement.”
“Beckwith is known for his discretion. And I for my optimism. It would be grand indeed to have a little Arthur running around.”
Her stomach roiled. If anyone were capable of detecting that the child did not favor her late husband, it would be Kit.
“He would have made a remarkable father,” Kit continued. “Much more loving than his own. So I shall continue to pray fervently that you are with child. It would be a shame to have Sheffield Hall go on the market.”
“If I am incorrect in the assessment of my condition, perhaps you could purchase it.”
He gave a short laugh. “It will go for an exorbitant amount that is beyond the reach of my coffers.” Glancing over at her, he smiled. “You’ve been set up rather nicely.”
“Lushing was incredibly generous.” But her father had only set aside a dowry for one daughter, and it had been a modest one at that. A small cottage on a bit of land that brought in no income and would now serve as her dower house. He’d thought he’d had plenty of time to get his financial affairs in order with the help of the man she would marry and provide proper dowries for his other daughters. Under Winslow’s hand, Camberley was not even matching the income it had brought in when her father managed it. Tenants were moving to the cities to work in factories, crops from abroad were cheaper than what was grown at home. Even Lushing had lamented his fall in income.
“How are you holding up?” Kit asked.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I miss him dearly.”
“As do I.”
She touched the black armband he wore. “I want to thank you for handling all the funeral affairs.”
“It was my privilege to do so.”
“The photograph that the photographer took yesterday morning of Lushing in his casket . . . I don’t want to remember him like that. Would you like to have it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. It would be a great relief to be honest. I know it was important to him to have it taken, and I don’t think he would have been disappointed that it went to you.” She squeezed his arm. “I miss you as well, you know. You joined us for dinner so often. Please don’t be a stranger.”
“When we’ve both grieved a bit more, I shall plague you with visits.”
She smiled softly. “I look forward to it.”
“How long are you going to stay in London?”
That all depended on Aiden Trewlove. “A few more weeks, I should think.”
“If you’ve no objection, I’ll go to the estates and retrieve the hounds. But I’ll leave the horses, shall I? At least until we know the fate of the estates.”
“That would be lovely. The twins so enjoy riding, and the girls will be staying with me until everything is settled.”
“I do hope I’m not speaking out of turn here, but you are a young woman, Selena, and two years is a devil of a long time. While Lushing was fascinated by the rituals surrounding death, he didn’t approve of lengthy mourning periods. He wouldn’t fault you if you didn’t strictly observe them.”
She wanted to take comfort from his words, but she suspected what she was doing was not what Lushing had in mind when it came to not strictly observing a mourning period.
“I demand you forbid my daughter from entering this . . . this house of sin.”
It wasn’t the first time a mother had come to him to handle what she apparently couldn’t, but he did wish this one hadn’t stormed into his office near the hour that Selena would be arriving on his gaming floor—if the timing of her past appearances was any indication.
“Lady Fontaine, I assure you there is nothing a lady can do here that she cannot do elsewhere. At least here, I provide a safe environment for her explorations.”
“Her explorations? Sir, it is your explorations with which I find fault.”
“I do not involve myself with my clientele.” To do so would result in fathers arriving with shotguns in hand, waving special licenses. Instead he had mothers with heaving bosoms, lips set in a firm line, and cheeks of high color ignited by their wrath sitting before him.
Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a small leather-bound book and slammed it on the desk. “I submit proof to the contrary. Her journal in which she has catalogued your flirtation.”
“Handed that to you, did she?”
The woman’s shoulders quivered with her indignation, even as she averted her gaze while answering. “No. I found it in a drawer amongst her unmentionables.”
And yet, they were mentioned. “What precisely have I done that offends your sensibilities?”
She snatched up the book and opened it to a page marked with a purple ribbon. “‘Tonight A. T. complimented my eyes. The blue reminds him of the sky as the sun bids farewell to day.’ Such poppycock.”
The words were a bit too flowery to have been delivered by him. No doubt he’d merely told her she had pretty eyes. But everyone was entitled to their fantasies. This girl wrote hers in a journal. Aiden painted his on canvas. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his elbow on his chair, his chin in his hand. “Why? Why is it poppycock?”
“She is a plain girl, Mr. Trewlove. You fill her with hope.”
“Why shouldn’t she have hope?”
“Few gentlemen danced with her last Season. The balls will start up in earnest soon, and once again she will be a wallflower, and it will hurt all the more because within these walls you are making her forget what she is.”
“Or perhaps it won’t hurt as much because within these walls she can dance to her heart’s content.”
“And gamble. And drink.” She shook the journal at him. “She has smoked a cheroot!”
“Have you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Would you like to?”
Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened and closed several times as though she were a fish tossed onto a riverbank. “Most certainly not.”
Those words came with less conviction this time around. He leaned forward, clasped his hands on his desk, feeling the minutes ticking by, fearful he was going to miss Selena’s arrival. “What say you to this, Lady Fontaine? I will have one of my gents give you a tour and if you see something to which you heartily object, I’ll forbid entry to your daughter in the future.”
Reaching behind him, he pulled on a sash. A handsome young man soon appeared in the doorway. “Richard, give Lady Fontaine a tour. Be sure to stop in the relaxation room. I think she would benefit from having her feet rubbed.”
“By a strange man?” she asked indignantly.
Standing, ready to head down to the gaming floor, he winked at her. “Trust me. You’ll be ever so glad you did.”
Chapter 12
It was madness, his counting of the hours, minutes, seconds since he’d last seen her, the way his attention kept wandering to the doorway through which she should emerge at any time, the tension building within him as the hour neared ten. He knew where she resided. Perhaps he’d go to her. If for no other reason than to reassure himself that she was well—as well as she could be under the circumstances—to see her, to say something that might make her smile. To lift her burden just a tad. To let her know that he cared—
He brought that thought to a grinding halt as though he’d smacked into a brick wall. He didn’t care for her. She was a customer he wished to please, to ensure she returned and spent her coins here, even though she had yet to leave any at his tables. He wished he had a proper residence to which he could take her, but he kept rooms here. It was convenient. He worked long hours, late into the night, rising early in the morning. Hours were filled looking over his ledgers, striving to determine how he could increase business. He was of a single purpose: to make himself as wealthy as possible. No, not wealthy—successful. He wanted respect, wanted the circumstances of his birth to no longer matter.
Yes, the ladies here gave him shy looks, smiled at him, and spoke with him, but it was because they were seeking a sort of rebelliousness. And how better to do that than by flirting with a bastard? But only within these walls. Beyond them, they would snub him, cut him, ignore him. Turn their backs on him. He would not be invited into their parlors or ballrooms. He would not be allowed to dine at their tables. He would not be welcomed at hers.
She would keep him to the shadows of her life. While on the one hand it grated, on the other he was desperate enough to have her however she stipulated. He understood the terms of their relationship—it was based on the physical only. She wished to be bedded. He wished to bed her.
Beyond that he gave no further thought.
Still when he caught sight of her gliding through the doorway, he envisioned her doing so without the mask, walking into a library where he read, into a dining room where he ate, into a parlor where he lounged, into a bedchamber where he slept, into every room in a grand manor where he resided. He imagined her on his arm striding into shops and taverns and theaters. Strolling through parks. Riding in his barouche. Not that he presently owned one, but no matter what he envisioned himself doing, he imagined her there. Madness indeed.
He made short work of reaching her, aware of the pleasure coursing through him as she bestowed upon him a warm smile. No sadness tonight. No distractions. No unexpected journeys elsewhere. She was here to stay.
Taking her hand, he led her back into the foyer and down a narrow hallway to a set of stairs and didn’t hesitate to head up them.
“Where are we going?” she
asked.
“Someplace more private.”
At the top, he escorted her along a short corridor that on one side was open to the gaming floor. When he reached a door at the corner, he shoved it open and ushered her inside, closing out the world beyond. With his back against the hard wood, he watched as she reached up, undid the lacings on her mask, and removed it. It dangled between her fingers as she wandered around the room, taking in her surroundings. The sofa, the chairs before the fireplace, the low tables, the flames flickering on various candles spread sparingly around the room.
She stopped at the round white linen-covered table near the window where Gillie’s finest wine had already been poured, breathing, awaiting Selena’s arrival. Assorted cheeses and bread were also there. Along with—
“Strawberries.” Glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a gentle smile, one wreathed with pleasure. “They must have cost you a fortune.”
“You’re worth it.”
Slowly, she turned. “Is this the relaxation room?”
“No.”
She meandered to an open doorway and peered inside. Grew still, and he knew she recognized a bedchamber when she saw one, especially as this one contained a larger than normal four-poster bed. “Is this where the gents with red buttons bring ladies?”
“No.”
She faced him, a thousand questions reflected in her eyes, or perhaps it was merely the flames from all the candles. He crossed over to her, touched his fingers to her soft cheek. “These are my lodgings. I’ve never brought a woman here.” For some reason, he thought it important she know that.
“Why me?”
Because she was different, because she touched him in ways no other woman ever had. Because he wanted to walk in here and inhale her fragrance, wanted to sit in a chair and bring forth memories of her within these walls, wanted to lie in his bed and recall how it had felt to have her beneath him there. “Because you asked to be bedded, and I want you to have more than that. I intend to seduce you.”
The Duchess in His Bed Page 14
