My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

“I see the problem,” he said. “I must compete with Archimedes’s unsainted memory for your trust. You are no longer that lonely, unsteady girl, Theodosia. If another Archimedes bows over your hand at tonight’s entertainment, you will smile, curtsey, and dismiss him without a second thought. Please do not disrespect my honorable intentions by dismissing me similarly.”

  She patted his lapel. “I can dismiss whom I please, and there’s nothing you can say to it.”

  She’d dealt him an ace, bless her. “Would that young woman, the one smitten with a handsome bounder, have delivered such a stunning and accurate set-down without a second thought, as you just did?”

  Jonathan took her hand, put it on his arm, and led her in the direction of her garden gate. Her silence suggested a rearrangement of perspective, a crack in her mistrust through which the light of hope might shine.

  This game they’d initiated was a greater challenge than winning at cards, also far more important.

  “I am not that young woman,” Theodosia said slowly, coming to a halt in the alley. “I am also not your duchess. I’m impoverished and of no great lineage. The only child I produced in five years of marriage was a girl. I’m not young. I have no political connections. I’m not… a diamond in any sense.”

  Oh, but she was, and she was also, as predicted, listing excuses.

  “If I protest, you will bat aside my sincere compliments, so let us instead agree to disagree and to compromise.”

  Theodosia Haviland clearly did not like surprises, which was understandable when most of the surprises in her life had been nasty. A wolf in husband’s clothing, a will that had done nothing to provide for her child. So Jonathan would give her time to adjust to the notion of becoming his duchess and give himself time to earn her consent.

  A sound, logical plan.

  “One does not compromise regarding permission to court, Mr. Tresham. One says yes or no, and I am clearly, firmly, unequivocally saying…”

  She was clearly, firmly addressing the cobbles, not looking him in the eye, and that was not his Theo. He touched a finger to her lips.

  “One can say, ‘Not yet.’ One can say, ‘Let me think about it.’ One can say, ‘Sir, you have got above yourself, and a few weeks of torture on the rack of despair and hope—while I call the tune and you do the dancing—is the least a lady is owed.’ You can say that, Theo. You needn’t choose in this instant.”

  Now, she gazed at him, her expression at first unreadable, then breaking into a slow smile that gained certainty and joy as it rose to her eyes.

  “You will dance with the six ladies on that list, Mr. Tresham. You will engage them in conversation, all six of them. You will be agreeable and interested in them, and if—after you’ve given them fair and open-minded consideration—you still want to renew your request to me, we will discuss it further at that time.”

  He’d won. He’d won as surely as if she’d shown him the location of every other card in the deck.

  “I will dance with those ladies, exert myself to be polite with them, and even, if you insist, send them modest bouquets, but I won’t kiss them, Theo.” Wouldn’t be tempted to kiss them, in fact.

  “You must comport yourself as you see fit, Mr. Tresham.”

  She had regained her balance, as evidenced by her posture and by the flash of determination in her eyes.

  He leaned near, almost within kissing range. Her scent teased at his self-restraint, and when he realized she was also breathing through her nose, he nearly yielded to the urge to steal another kiss.

  But, no. The stakes were high. Concentration must not be broken.

  “Call me Jonathan,” he whispered, “when we are private.” He remained close to her for one more instant, long enough to know he’d tempted her, before he stepped back and bowed.

  She curtseyed. She did not smile, though as Jonathan strode up the alley, her laughter trailed after him.

  * * *

  The shopping expedition had to be put off until Cook and Williams returned from the market, because dragging an unwilling Diana from the glovemakers’ to the milliners’ would dim Theo’s joy in the day.

  She had stolen a kiss from Jonathan Tresham. He’d stolen her wits. The exchange, in the opinion of Theo’s foolish, impractical heart, had been worth the risk.

  She paced at the foot of the steps—paced!—waiting for Seraphina to come down. A knock on the front door nearly sent her preening to the mirror over the sideboard, like a young girl expecting her suitor to return on the pretext of having forgotten his walking stick.

  The person on Theo’s doorstep wasn’t Jonathan, wasn’t even male.

  “Mrs. Compton. Good day.”

  Mrs. Compton was an acquaintance only, though her husband and Archimedes had been friendly. She waited on the front step, no maid or daughter with her, though a groom stood by a gig in the street.

  “Mrs. Haviland.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  She stepped over the threshold with the air of one admitted to a den of vice during daylight hours. Her curiosity was apparent, as was her unwillingness to be caught gawking.

  “I won’t take up much of your time,” Mrs. Compton said. “This is a social call.”

  What else would it be? “The family parlor enjoys good afternoon sunlight,” Theo said. “The formal parlor is better suited for earlier in the day.”

  Mrs. Compton was the sort who might be offended by a choice of parlor, but then, her oldest daughter was rusticating in Italy and Dora Louise might well end up waltzing in her sister’s footsteps. An insistence on propriety was likely Mrs. Compton’s only means of maintaining sanity.

  “You are gracious to receive me,” Mrs. Compton said when Theo offered her a seat in the family parlor. “We are not friends, but I have discussed the matter with my sister, Lady Hopewell, and she agrees with my decision.”

  Lady Hopewell had married a viscount. This fact found its way into almost all of Mrs. Compton’s public conversations.

  “I am always glad to welcome good company under my roof, Mrs. Compton. Shall I ring for tea?” Hammet, Theo’s man-of-all-work, knew how to put together a tea tray.

  “Tea won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Compton sat on the very edge of her seat cushion. “I’ve come to apologize.”

  Clearly, apologies involved gall and wormwood. “I am unaware of any reason you might have to do so.”

  Mrs. Compton had been pretty once, in the preferred manner of the blond English rose. She was fading now, into anxiety, middle age, and very likely, marital neglect. Her bonnet, reticule, and parasol were awash in lace, as if she’d bring a tide of consequence with her instead of the graciousness and warmth she might have claimed as a younger woman.

  “When Clarice, my oldest, made her come out, Mr. Compton said you weren’t good ton. I wasn’t to encourage any connection between you and my daughter.”

  Jonathan had turned the morning into a delightful, if troubling, muddle. Mrs. Compton was threatening to ruin the day—if not Theo’s life.

  “Did you come here to insult me?”

  Mrs. Compton rose on a rustle of silk and lace. “Certainly not. Mr. Compton is no judge of Society, but he is my husband. I heeded his wishes, because my daughters did not need the good offices of a common widow when Lady Hopewell sponsored them.”

  Ever since Archie’s death, Theo had waited for scandal to find her. She’d waited for doors to close, whispers to start. How ironic that today, when she might have been courted by a ducal heir, Mrs. Compton should bring trouble to her door.

  “Mrs. Compton, if the sad day ever befalls you when you too become a common widow, you will realize that nobody needs us unless we’re willing to remarry and arrange our lives for another man’s comfort and convenience. I’ll see you out.”

  A hint of Dora Louise’s determination shone in her mother’s eyes as she resumed her seat. “Please hear me out. I came to thank you for preventing Dora from making an utter cake of herself at the Earl of Bellefonte’s ball. She takes
after her father in some regards—impulsive, convinced of her own genius. She’s young, Mrs. Haviland, and terrified that her sister’s circumstances will become known before Dora can secure a match.”

  As Theo was terrified for Seraphina and Diana.

  Her ire faded, and curiosity took its place. “The threat of scandal should frighten any young lady, but Clarice is merely seeing the Continental sights in the company of a dear and generous family friend. Nobody will hear any differently from me.”

  This conversation called for a glass of cordial, though the parlor was stocked only with Madeira. Theo poured two glasses and brought one to her guest.

  “Thank you.”

  Theo took the end of the sofa nearest Mrs. Compton’s chair. “What did you really come here to say, ma’am?”

  “You have held your tongue regarding Clarice’s idiocy. You intervened when Dora set herself up to be a laughingstock scorned by the best families or preyed upon by a cad as her sister was. You are a mother, you provide a home for your sister, and she will soon make her bow. I cannot openly defy my husband, Mrs. Haviland, but I can express my thanks for your kindness. You could ruin both of my daughters with an unkind word, and yet, you have not.”

  “Nor will I.”

  Mrs. Compton took a ladylike taste of her drink. “I don’t think I could be as decent as you have been. Mr. Compton enjoys wagering, you see, though not excessively. I know what a mess Mr. Haviland left behind, because Mortimer passes gossip on to me.”

  Theo waited with a sense of inevitability. Would today be the day that Archie’s death called in its remaining markers? Would today be the day that Theo wrote to Lord Penweather and insisted that he provide a home for Theo and her dependents?

  “My husband will likely die in debt as well,” Mrs. Compton said. “That is not my fault, just as Mr. Haviland’s situation was not your doing. Gentlemen must maintain standards, though nobody is very clear on how that’s to be accomplished.”

  So Mr. Compton’s not excessive wagering was a problem after all. Theo sipped her drink, though she would have preferred some of Bea’s cordial. Mrs. Compton did not know the whole of Archie’s disgrace. God willing, she never would.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So that you will know you aren’t alone, Mrs. Haviland. Perhaps so that I know the same thing. Intemperance, infidelity, wagering… I could forgive him all of it, but then I see my girls. One ruined, the other desperate… They did not ask to have a bumbler for a papa. The worst part is, I love him. I love that he tries to do better. I love that he’s never blamed me. I love so much about him, but he’s wrong about you, probably worried that you’ll spill some secret of his. After Mr. Haviland’s death, Mortimer avoided The Coventry Club for an entire year.”

  Theo hated the very name. “There are too many clubs just like it, unfortunately. I do thank you for calling on me. Nobody else has.”

  They shared a silence, one that spoke of loneliness, self-doubt, and weariness.

  “When I get Dora Louise situated, I’m going to Italy,” Mrs. Compton said, peering into her half-empty glass. “I haven’t told anybody that—not even Lady Hopewell—but Italy is much more affordable and very beautiful.”

  She had a grandchild in Italy, and with Mrs. Compton out of the country, her family could stop propping up an intemperate wastrel.

  “Mr. Compton could end up in debtors’ prison.” Theo well knew how that prospect could haunt a wife.

  “My brothers say the sponging houses have given many a man reason to stop squandering his coin and his life on drink.”

  “The people who say that have never been in the sponging houses, nor been addicted to drink. Have you anybody in mind for Dora Louise?”

  By halting degrees, over another serving of wine, Mrs. Compton shared her hopes for Dora Louise and agreed when Theo suggested Lord Lipscomb should not be encouraged to stand up with the girl. Mrs. Compton passed along the name of a modiste in Bloomsbury whose prices were reasonable and who wasn’t above adding some embroidery or a new underskirt to last year’s creations.

  The visit became almost pleasant and exceeded its polite allotment of minutes considerably. Theo saw her guest to the door, glad that Seraphina hadn’t intruded.

  “If you love Mr. Compton, you might suggest he accompany you to Italy.”

  “I have hinted,” Mrs. Compton said, undoing the bow that secured her parasol. “I fear he loves his wagering and drink more than I love him. My brothers say I must put the choice to Mortimer, for surely he’ll not disgrace his wife and daughters by drinking himself into penury.”

  Viscount Penweather had insisted on the same righteous reasoning, and Theo hoped Archie was haunting his lordship’s nightmares.

  “When the time comes, you’ll know better how to proceed. Come back whenever you please, and I’ll serve you a decent cup of tea.”

  “Tea grows tiresome,” Mrs. Compton said. “Gunpowder is all Lady Hopewell serves.” Resentment lurked at the edge of her smile, but so did a touch of self-deprecating humor.

  On impulse, Theo hugged her guest, a firm embrace. Mrs. Compton looked slightly dazed by that presumption, but she didn’t pull away. Theo felt as if she were hugging her former self, a woman doing the best she could with an impossible situation.

  A woman whose husband had left the seeds of scandal scattered in his wake, seeds that still might germinate into ruin.

  * * *

  Jonathan enjoyed music. He did not enjoy musicales. Part of the problem was the quality of entertainment on offer. Young people with no other talent to their name save marriageability were put on display early in the evening, warbling through a repertoire that was meant for trained voices.

  His usual strategy was to appear in time for the second half of the evening, but tonight he was prompt. Theo would be among the guests, and for her, he would endure Caro Mio Ben until his ears fell off.

  “Are you avoiding me?” a soft female voice asked.

  The first thought to spring to Jonathan’s mind was, Damnation, followed by: The only force of nature more determined than a debutante pursuing a tiara was a long-lost half-sister pursuing her brother.

  “Lady Della.” Jonathan bowed over her hand as any gentleman ought to. He did not know Della Haddonfield well, but he knew she was intent on forming some sort of association with him.

  “Answer the question. Are you avoiding me?” She smiled, though her eyes promised unending retribution if he answered honestly.

  “Shall we peruse the buffet? I’ve yet to partake.” He’d also yet to see Theo, who should have given up her buffet-prowling ways.

  Della tucked her hand around Jonathan’s arm lightly, as if contact with her might spook him into a dead gallop. Moira occasionally took his arm. The Duchess of Quimbey could hang on to a man more firmly than a barnacle affixed itself to a seagoing frigate.

  With Lady Della, this common courtesy made him uneasy. “How have you been keeping?” he asked, because small talk was safe.

  “Miserably. I have a brother who refuses to call on me, won’t acknowledge me in public, and can’t give me a reason why. You socialize with my siblings, but you won’t socialize with me. ”

  The buffet was lavish—Lady Westhaven was married to a ducal heir and entertained accordingly—and yet, no Theo appeared amid the throng circling the tables in his lordship’s library. No Lady Canmore either, though Casriel was standing guard over a table of sweets and looking like a lonely mastiff.

  “Are we not socializing at this very moment, my lady?”

  “You can be a brother when the task requires sarcasm, but not when it requires acknowledging me.”

  “I’ve given you the letters.” Jonathan kept his voice down, but he sensed Della was on the verge of making a scene. Perhaps she was always on the verge of making a scene. She put him in mind of Sycamore Dorning, prepared to engage in rash measures if necessary to achieve her ends.

  Reckless, like Jonathan’s father.

  But then,
his father was her father.

  “Are you well?” Lady Della asked, for Jonathan had come to a halt in the middle of the library.

  “Of course. What are you hungry for?”

  “An honest argument, such as I have with my other siblings on any given day. We snap and snarl, sometimes we sulk and pout, then we make up. We even laugh together and cry friends. The concept isn’t complicated, and you are rumored to be a well-educated man.”

  Rumored. She was listening to rumors about him. Annoyance laced with panic threatened to spoil Jonathan’s evening. “I attended Cambridge and managed reasonably well.”

  Lady Della wore a paisley silk shawl that brought out the blue of her eyes. She was a small woman and not yet twenty, but she carried herself like a veteran of many Seasons. Her confidence was subtle. She might not even describe herself as confident, but she enjoyed an ease in polite surrounds that Jonathan did not.

  “You were top wrangler,” she said. “Why wouldn’t you admit as much to me?”

  “Because our sainted father ridiculed that accomplishment, ridiculed my choice of university, and most of all, ridiculed me for being intrigued by numbers when my birthright was to be intrigued by loose women and cheap drink.”

  “My mother was not a loose woman.”

  They are all Dora Louise. Theo’s words came to Jonathan, and the retort he would have made died unspoken: If you insist on being difficult, this will be our last conversation. Papa had likely said as much to Mama, and she’d replied in kind, until half of Mayfair had been an audience to their farces.

  “I apologize,” Jonathan said. “I intended to state a fact about my late father and nobody else.”

  Della shoved a plate at him. “You need to work on your apologies. My other brothers have the knack, but then, they are married, all but Adolphus. You put me in mind of him.”

  “He also attended Cambridge?”

  “After you graduated. He’s a chemist. He likes to blow things up. I get on with him wonderfully.”

  I’m sure you do. Jonathan kept that observation to himself as well, because Della’s recitation implied not only a protectiveness toward her lone bachelor brother—her other bachelor brother—but pride in his explosions.