Jilting the Duke

by Rachael Miles

  In the middle of the room—across from the windows and in front of the fireplace—stood a low couch with tall curving sides. Ever considerate, Dodsley had moved three chairs from the wall to flank the couch, giving her several choices for seating depending on how the meeting was proceeding.

  At the far end of the room stood the enameled partner desk she had shared with Tom. On her side of the desk, looking toward the fireplace and Tom’s portrait, were her writing materials: a pot of ink, several tempered quills of different sizes, a penknife, blotting paper to absorb extra ink, and in the drawer, several sizes of writing paper.

  Behind Tom’s side of the pedestal desk, Sophia had arranged their scientific library. The bookcase to the right, under the bust of the Greek philosopher Hippocrates, held her husband’s books and translations: on the top shelf were her husband’s books as printed by his publishers—all neat quartos similarly bound in dark green morocco with gilt titles on their spines. As accompaniments to the printed books, the remaining shelves held bound copies of Tom’s manuscripts. Each time Tom had sent the fair copy of his book’s manuscript to the printer, she had gathered up the original manuscript pages and taken them to a bookbinder.

  In opposition to the crisply uniform printed books, the manuscript books varied in size and height, ranging from tall folios to squat octavos, depending on the paper that had been available when her husband had been writing. Each volume evoked a different place and time in their marriage. The folded foolscap paper reminded her of alpine plants and snow; the grape watermarked paper on which Tom had written in a messy brown ink reminded her of oak galls in Italy and of laughing over a scrofulous French novel in a monastery library.

  She ran her fingers across the raised bands on the spines. By touching Tom’s works, she imagined somehow she could still draw on his strength. The messy pages reminded her of the best part of their marriage: the hours of cooperation, discussing the best angle from which to draw the plant, the right way to describe its habitat. The manuscript books comforted her, suggesting that her life had not disappeared, but remained preserved in the leaves she had saved.

  At the end of one row, an open space waited for Tom’s last manuscript, now at the binder, and she placed her hand in the gap. If Tom had been like his printed books, even-tempered, clearly ruled, and unambiguous, then Sophia found in the bound manuscripts an image of her life: pages of disparate sizes all bound together with scribbles in the margins, marked out passages, and added leaves.

  The transformation from manuscript to printed books offered Sophia the hope that somehow meaning could still come from the disorder of her life. Perhaps she could yet become what she was meant to be. Perhaps some good could come from this co-guardianship.

  Sophia moved to stand in front of the long window nearest her easel. From there she could look into the garden, taking strength from the marigolds and forget-me-nots in Ian’s bed. She wished to be standing when Aidan arrived, to meet as equals: he was not a suitor to be greeted with an upward glance and a smile upon rising. Nor would she welcome him as a friend with a polite embrace or the offer of her cheek. No, she would nod gravely at his entrance, offer her hand, and gesture him to a seat.

  The door opened to admit him. As in the park, something in the air changed with his presence. She turned to face him.

  When she had last been this close to him, he had still been a gangly youth, all legs and arms, tall for his age, and thin. Now his height had become lean muscle, and his shoulders were broad in the form-fitting green jacket. She could understand why women speculated about who his next mistress might be. Once more she felt like the sixteen-year-old girl who had first looked into those deep blue eyes and felt her world shift.

  His movements reminded her of the panther at the Royal Menagerie, all pent energy. And like the panther, he seemed predatory, coolly assessing her vulnerabilities. She remembered suddenly and vividly the press of her body against his, the passion of his kisses. She could not allow herself the memories: if she remembered, if she trusted him again and told him their secrets, how would she survive when he left again? She breathed slowly and drew herself inward, forcing a pose of indifference.

  * * *

  When Aidan entered the room, Sophia was standing in the light of the window, and it took some time before he could make out her features. For a moment she was the ghostly Sophia who had met him in the park, and he felt the same elation and panic. Then she moved away from the light of the window and walked toward him, holding out her hand. The illusion of the ghostly Sophia was replaced, more disturbingly, by the actual woman. But emotion still clutched at the bottom of his stomach—not the pressing lust he had felt with other women, but the unfamiliar ache of desire.

  He’d forgotten the look of her, and he found himself—propriety be damned—indulging in a long, assessing gaze. Her nut-brown hair carried the same weight and luster as when he had last seen her. Her gray eyes, always large, seemed more pronounced now, and the line of her cheekbones more defined with age. She was, if anything, more striking. But her eyes looked as if laughter had not reached them in many years.

  He had not given much credence to Aldine’s description; Sophia had always hidden her passion behind a veil of reserve. But this was no veil. It was something else, an absence of engagement, as if she were not in the room beside him, but rather watching from a great distance. Had it not been for the blue vein pulsing beneath the alabaster skin of her neck or the warmth of her hand as he took it up in greeting, he could easily have imagined this woman as a statue of Carrara marble.

  “Lady Wilmot.” He brought her hand to his lips, offering the expected formal kiss, his lips barely brushing the back of her hand. But to test the limits of her reserve, he held her hand a moment longer than appropriate. She offered no response to the greater intimacy of his gesture, not even pulling her hand away in dismay or shock. She only looked at him, her eyes remote, before responding gravely, “Your grace.”

  “My condolences on the loss of your husband. He was a fine man.” Her reserve angered him, but he kept his voice placid.

  “Thank you. I have known few finer.” Her gaze shifted past him to the portrait of Tom over the fireplace. In it, Tom was seated beside a table filled with books and papers, his right hand resting on the table next to an inkwell and pen, his left hand holding a sheaf of papers in his lap. He was looking up at the viewer, as if he had been interrupted in the act of reading. But Tom’s smile and the hint of mischief about his eyes suggested the interruption was welcome. Aidan remembered with poignancy many times in their youth when Tom had used that same smile to smooth their paths. The artist had captured Tom’s spirit, but he had made no attempt to hide the thinness of Tom’s body or the unhealthy red on his cheek.

  “When was this painted?”

  “About six months before Tom’s death, when Frederick Buchanan visited us. I assume you know Buchanan from Harrow as well.”

  Aidan listened to her speak. Her voice carried no inflection, as if talking about her dead husband offered her no more pause than she might feel ordering afternoon tea. Further evidence she had not loved Tom at all. But of course Aidan could see that proof in her dress as well. Certainly, the details were black, but the blue was too vivid. At best, the dress only nodded at half-mourning. He tamped down his rising anger. Many widows had not loved their husbands, but Tom had deserved mourning. Sophia should have mourned.

  “Yes, I knew Buchanan; he was talented even then.” Aidan tucked the name away: a portrait painter who had spent hours observing minute details would be useful in learning more of Tom’s death. “Why did you let Tom be pictured so?” Aidan asked, without turning from the portrait.

  “So?” For a moment she sounded perplexed. “Oh, you mean dying? I don’t see the portrait in that way. That’s simply how Tom looked for much of our marriage and all of Ian’s childhood. You might prefer the portrait of Tom in the drawing room, painted before we left England. In it he is younger, healthier, more as you remember him.”
/>
  Aidan turned from the portrait to assess the room and its contents. He made his body, his tone, mirror her distance. “May I sit?” He took over the social pleasantries. He would not allow her to assert her place as hostess or as the boy’s mother.

  “Certainly.” Unruffled, she held her hand out to the seating facing the fireplace, and Aidan chose the sofa, leaving her one of the three chairs remaining. She chose for herself the middle chair, neither too close nor too far away. It was, Aidan noticed, the diplomatic choice, saying neither “I wish to be confidants” nor “I prefer to remain aloof.”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “After our discussion. I don’t think we’ll find this conversation too onerous?” His smile said “have confidence in me.” To emphasize his comfort, he leaned on the arm of the couch and stretched his legs out to the side. Such a pose, drawing attention to the leanness of his frame and his long, muscular legs, displayed his form to its best advantage. “I was surprised to receive Tom’s letter after so many years.”

  “No one would think ill of you if you wished to decline or to be guardian in name only.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “I’m sure this must be an unwelcome, and unexpected, obligation.”

  Aidan willed his expression to remain pleasantly inscrutable. “I was surprised. But, as you know, Tom and I grew up together. I’ve decided—in his memory—to fulfill his wishes toward his son. I’m not in town often, though I keep a house here. I will be traveling to my estate in a few weeks. I’d like to take the boy with me. I could return him to you before Michaelmas?”

  Aidan saw the almost imperceptible stop in her breath. But she didn’t refuse. Perhaps Aldine had misread Sophia’s attachment to her child.

  “Ian.” She spoke slowly. “His name is Ian.”

  “Ian,” Aidan repeated. “I would like to meet him.”

  “He’s in the nursery with his tutor.”

  Aidan offered her a smile, one he used at balls, pleasant without suggesting intimacy. “Should we call for him? Or surprise him in the nursery?”

  “We should call for him.” She stood to pull the bell hanging from the side of the fireplace. “Before you decide to take Ian to your estate for the summer, it might be best to see if you two suit.”

  He had gained little information thus far, except that Sophia’s reserve was so engrained that many might believe it her natural manner. Seducing this remote Sophia would offer him little satisfaction. This Sophia wouldn’t care if she lost her reputation. She was too far removed from society to feel its stings. But he was not deceived. He remembered the mischievous young woman who had once hidden a family of mice in a suit of armor to convince her cousins that the gallery was haunted. No, he would draw her out of her solitude, earn her trust, bring her back into society, make her care once more about living, then snatch it all away. He would make her regret Tom’s death.

  Dodsley arrived with such speed that the man was either curious or protective. As Sophia and Dodsley spoke at the door, Aidan wondered how much Sophia confided in her butler.

  Turning back to Aidan, Sophia offered a polite smile. “Ian should be down presently. I mentioned he might meet a friend of his father’s today, but I haven’t explained the guardianship. I saw no reason to broach the subject if you preferred to withdraw.”

  As she spoke, Aidan rose and stood before the portrait, positioning himself to watch her, unobserved, in the mirror. Was she only so controlled when she knew she was being watched? “I understand.... How old is Ian? Tom’s letter didn’t say.”

  She looked at her hands. “Nine.”

  “He’s lived abroad his whole life,” Aidan prompted. “His transition to English society may be difficult.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, with irritation, or something else. “Naples was home to a large community of expatriates and British military. Our house was often full of English children as well as Italian. Tom insisted that Ian feel at home among strangers.”

  “How is his Latin?” Aidan changed the topic, wishing to observe her responses to different topics.

  “Quite advanced, and his Greek studies have already begun.” Her pride was clear in the lift of her jaw.

  “That would place him in the fourth form.”

  “I know, but he will be younger than the other boys in fourth form.” She paused. “And Harrow is not known for its tenderness.”

  “Yet Harrow friendships will serve him a lifetime. He will lean on those relationships as he grows to manhood, chooses a wife, begins his own family. Had he been reared in England, I wouldn’t think this so vital. Michaelmas term begins in September, so we have almost six weeks to introduce him to other boys already there.”

  Her gray eyes widened.

  “He already knows—I assume—Ophelia’s Nathaniel and Malcolm’s wife’s boys. I can take care of the introductions to the other boys, if you will host an afternoon party.” Aidan turned to face her, expecting her agreement.

  “Since our return, Malcolm’s stepsons have not been much in London. And Nate is so boisterous that Ian often finds him overwhelming. Ian’s like Tom in that way.”

  “Then Toby and Jack will be more suited to his personality. They are both thoughtful boys, though mischievous.”

  “Some boys remain with a tutor until Cambridge or Oxford, so I’d hoped to delay Harrow a little longer, to give Ian more time to adjust,” she objected mildly. Aidan was pleased to see distress in her eyes.

  “You returned to England a year ago, am I right?”

  “Yes. After Tom’s funeral.”

  Aidan raised an eyebrow.

  “Tom was concerned that the Italian nationalists would make our situation dangerous,” she explained.

  “Ah, a wise man. But if you returned last summer, then Ian has already had ample time to adjust.” Aidan paused, wanting to see if she would lie to keep the boy with her. “If the problem is inadequate funds to cover his expenses, I will be happy to pay. As I am his guardian, that would only be reasonable.”

  “No, it’s not that.” She spoke deliberately. “Aldine can confirm that we have adequate funds. I have the accounts here if you wish to inspect them.” She gestured to a cabinet behind the desk. “Ian has already lost so much this year—his father, his home—that I hoped to avoid separating him from his remaining parent.”

  “Boys are resilient. And summers and holidays are more than adequate time for a boy to be with family.”

  She grew quiet and stared into the distance, her body completely still except for the movement of her chest as she breathed. It was easy to see why Aldine thought her a kind of living statue. But Aldine was wrong; there were signs of the woman behind the mask, just subtle ones. The tightening of a muscle in her hand or her jaw, the darkening of her eyes. Perhaps one had to have known her in her youth to notice the signs. Had this been some other woman Aidan had met on a diplomatic mission, he would have wondered what created such control. But he found that he lacked curiosity about what sorrows she had suffered since they had parted. No, the passionate Sophia he had loved would have stood against him with every fiber of her being. Was this a ploy? Did she believe she could circumvent him by appearing to accept his will?

  At that moment, the door opened. A boy, tall for his age but thin, walked into the library. Aidan was struck by how much Ian looked like Tom: the same dark hair, the same serious eyes, the same pensive look.

  Immediately, Sophia’s demeanor became expressive, and Aidan saw for himself the transformation Aldine had described. Her dark eyes, before so restrained, smiled. Rising, she held her hands out to the boy and drew him against her in a quick hug. “I mentioned that the Duke of Forster would be visiting us today.”

  The pair turned to him, Ian at Sophia’s side, her arm resting across his shoulders.

  Before Sophia could offer formal introductions, Aidan stepped into the space between them and offered Ian his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ian. Your father and I grew up together. I counted him as my closest friend
.” Aidan wanted to see if his assessment was accurate, or if the boy would shrink from the introduction.

  But Ian stepped from Sophia’s side without hesitation. Taking Aidan’s hand, Ian met his gaze. “I’m happy to meet you, your grace; my father often told me stories about you.”

  Aidan was right: Ian was self-possessed, even able to speak of his father with affection but not visible grief.

  “My father asked me”—Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, carved wooden soldier—“to give you this when we met.”

  The soldier was the banner-bearer from a set of soldiers Aidan’s father had given him. Aidan took the soldier carefully from the child’s hand.

  “My father said that he won it from you, but that I should return it.” Ian watched Aidan turn the small figure over in his hand. “He said you would understand.”

  “Yes, Ian, I do understand.” Aidan was once more in the tower of his childhood home, a room that he, his brothers, and Tom had claimed for their games. From the height of the tower, they had imagined themselves knights of the realm, protecting the land from invaders. Many afternoons they had enacted battles from history, using the set of soldiers from which the banner-bearer came. Benjamin on his university holidays had spent hours with his five younger brothers, reading from Malory or other medieval romances.

  Aidan found Tom reaching across the years to him. The banner-bearer had always been Tom’s favorite. Tom insisted he was the greatest hero because he entered the battle first and encouraged the others to remember their cause. Tom had been an idealist even then, believing that causes mattered. In contrast, Aidan had always known—perhaps because Aaron had been stronger and more cruel than his younger brothers—that the battle often went not to the strongest or the most faithful but to the most strategic.