Jilting the Duke

by Rachael Miles

  “One must stake a claim early for a piece of Cook’s cake. Between Ian and Dodsley, I barely get a crumb.”

  “Ah, unfair, my lady.” Aidan pretended to be hurt.

  Sophia laughed, relaxing against the seat. The conversation about servants gave him an opportunity to discover some of the information Walgrave needed.

  “Counting Cook, how many servants do you employ?”

  “Enough for the needs of our household,” Sophia answered obliquely.

  “Let me try: there’s Sally, a maid-of-all-work who serves as Ian’s nurse and helps you dress; Cook, Dodsley, Perkins, and a footman. . . . Have I missed anyone?” Aidan leaned back, as if counting her servants, but, in fact, using his motion to bring his legs once more against her calf. This time, when his leg brushed against hers, she had no room left to move away. She had to allow the subtle pressure or ask him to move. He was certain she wouldn’t openly acknowledge his touch, not when he pretended to be unaware of it.

  “Ian’s tutor, a Mr. Benedict Grange.”

  “No secretary?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’ll send you some servants in the morning.”

  “I don’t need more servants.”

  “You will.”

  He’d hoped that the constant pressure of his legs against hers would remind her of what they had been, of the passion they had shared in their youth. But by the time they arrived at Madame Elise’s, he had only succeeded in reminding himself. The scent of her hair, newly washed, with hints of lemon and rosemary, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the soft pressure of her calf through the layers of her walking dress against his leg, each one captured his senses.

  * * *

  At Madame Elise’s, Sophia’s dreary clothes and her wary reserve gave proof to Aidan’s words that she was not his new mistress—as did her insistence that the bill come to her. At first it had gratified her that Madame Elise had not assumed she was another of Forster’s mistresses, then she realized that Madame Elise knew all of Aidan’s mistresses and had identified Sophia as not one of them. At some level it disappointed her, creating a dull ache at the back of her chest, but she told herself, it was for the best.

  Even so, Aidan had resisted her choices of colors, insisting that, after a year, she did not have to limit herself to lavender and gray. When she would not be moved from half-mourning, Madame Elise had smiled and patted Aidan’s arm. “You will be très contente with my designs, your grace. I can do much with the materiel seul. She will still be sensa-tionelle, non?”

  After choosing patterns for a small wardrobe—two morning dresses, two evening dresses, a riding habit, and three walking dresses—Sophia and Aidan took their leave of Madame Elise. Aidan opened the door to Madame Elise’s shop and let Sophia pass before him into the street. It was just short of half past three. The streets were still lively with the sounds of vendors and children chasing one another up and down the sidewalks.

  She heard a commotion to her right, and a rough voice crying “thief.”

  A child of perhaps six ran past. Agile and small, the child ducked around her, and down the alley on the other side of Elise’s shop. A large broad man burst through the crowd. Sophia had no time to think, no room to move out of his way.

  Suddenly Aidan pulled her out of the way of the pursuit and against his chest. She could feel his breath against her neck. His arms held her tight, and she turned her face into his chest, listening to his heart beat fast. She knew she had to move, but now that she was in his embrace, she wanted only to remain in his arms.

  “I’m not hurt.” She tapped his arm. “You can let me go.”

  His arms released slowly. Stepping back, she followed his gaze. He was watching the crowd for the man who had almost run her down.

  “Yes, but you could have been. There’s no excuse.... It was obvious he couldn’t get through without knocking others down.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve kept me from being hurt. I must thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. I would have a hard time explaining to Ian how I allowed his mother to be mauled in the street.” Though Aidan appeared placid and at ease once more, his eyes continued to search the crowd as he escorted her into his carriage. Sophia wondered how much Aidan hid behind that bland composure.

  * * *

  Aidan settled himself into the carriage, feeling uneasy. Were the child and his pursuer just that, or was someone trying to harm Sophia? Had he seen a knife flash in the instant before he pulled her back off the sidewalk? He could not be sure. But if she were in danger, he was obligated to Ian and the Home Office to protect her. Now, though, having pulled her body tight against his and held her in his arms for the first time in a decade, he wanted to touch her again, to draw her into the dark of the carriage and kiss her senseless. Acutely aware of her nearness, he fixed his legs far from her own.

  The silence gave Sophia time to think. She’d been foolish not to bring a maid. She would have liked to believe that his legs brushing up against hers in the carriage had been an attempt to seduce her, but each time she looked at him, he was looking out of the window. Surely, if he had seduction in mind, he would at least look into her eyes. Or make a joke. But apparently he thought so little of her, he wasn’t even aware of how his legs felt against hers.

  And in the street, when he had swept her out of the way, he had not taken the opportunity to embrace her. No, his were only the natural reactions of a man brought up in polite society. He would behave in the same manner, she was sure, to any other woman of his class, and likely even to Madame Elise, with whom he seemed to have a long history. But Sophia found herself disappointed. She longed to feel his touch once more, and she wondered how he would respond if she were to move across the seat, and lift her lips to his. She waited some time before she spoke. “Madame Elise said one of the plainer dresses might be ready in time for the dinner party.”

  “Dinner party?”

  “I assumed you had seen the invitation. Wasn’t that the reason you insisted on a modiste?”

  Aidan laughed. “My lady, all invitations go into a pile for my secretary to refuse. I don’t even read them.”

  “I haven’t received a refusal.”

  “Yet. He sends them out seven days before the event. So what is this dinner party for?”

  “Phineas is sitting for parliament in a rotten borough, and he wishes to begin forming political alliances.”

  “And I’m invited?” Aidan sounded genuinely surprised. “Is he mad?”

  “Phineas wishes for people to know Tom made you Ian’s guardian, so that if they see us together, they won’t think . . .” She trailed off, wishing she had not begun that sentence.

  Aidan heard her hesitation. He needed little help to imagine what Phineas had said, but he couldn’t resist forcing her to finish the sentence. “Think what?”

  She looked down into her hands. “Phineas fears for my reputation.... Well, to be honest, he fears I will do something that will thwart his ambitions.”

  “Ah. So that’s how everyone at my club knows Ian is my ward.” There was nothing Sophia could say, nothing that wouldn’t tread on dangerous ground. She turned her attention to the streets passing outside the carriage window, and the silence lengthened.

  They had been driving long enough that they should be nearing her home, but none of the streets looked familiar. Instead, they drove through parts of London she had never seen: buildings farther and farther apart, interspersed with fields and crops. She shifted against the seat, beginning to feel ill at ease.

  “There’s somewhere I thought you might like to visit before returning home.”

  “Do you intend to tell me where?”

  “I’d prefer to surprise you, if you are willing. Dodsley knows we will be late returning.”

  Sophia nodded her assent and watched out the window, trying to imagine where Aidan might be taking her and even more why he would wish to surprise her. They were traveling south toward the river. She coul
d smell the water in the air.

  Only a few minutes later, the carriage turned down an alley, faced on one side by a long brick wall. The coachman opened the door. Aidan jumped down and held out his hand for her to join him. An inset door in the brick wall opened to a garden beyond. “If my memory serves me, you once said you wished to visit the Apothecaries’ Physic Garden in Chelsea. I hope that is still the case.”

  She was stunned. She didn’t ask how he had remembered; in some ways she didn’t dare. If he felt her marriage was a betrayal, then she didn’t dare open those old wounds. But if he had felt betrayed, why would he reveal that he remembered their conversations about what they would do together in London? It was a puzzle. At first she had been relieved not to have to address the question of their past, but in the last few weeks, she’d wished she could broach the subject. If it were true that he held no animosity for her decisions all those years ago, perhaps they could start anew—even if only as friends. Her heart lifted in a way she had thought no longer possible. Before she could answer, before she could thank him, he continued.

  “Ian told me you have met few other gardeners since your return to London. In about an hour, William Anderson, the curator here, will meet us for a tour. Until then, I thought you might like to wander. To our north are the greenhouses, the hothouses, and the library; to the south, from here to the Thames, open beds with specimen plants.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you. . . . Of all the places in London . . .”

  “Then don’t thank me. Whither will you go first, my lady?”

  She looked down one of the garden paths faced by perennial herbs of varying colors and textures. “I want to see everything. Let’s go that way.”

  The garden, though only four acres, was lush with plants. The first section—thirteen long beds ranged horizontally to one another—held the perennial plants and herbs, and after that lay a large section of twenty vertical rows of tender and annual plants. Each section was bordered by box and other edging plants. Between the annuals and perennials were glass cases that provided artificial heat to succulents and other tender exotics.

  As they walked down the rows, Sophia pointed out interesting plants or read to him the label of an unfamiliar one, interpreting the technical information into layman’s terms with ease. She frequently pointed to a plant she was considering for his garden and asked if he liked some aspect of it, its color, or leaves, or texture, or height.

  Surprising himself, Aidan grew increasingly interested in how she thought about the plants, what characteristics appealed to her. At the same time, his attention was repeatedly drawn to her, to the way she moved gracefully down the rows, to the scent of her hair, to the tapered length of her fingers as she pointed to one plant, then another. But it wasn’t just the physicality of her body. It was also the clarity of her expression as she talked about the plants, the extent of her knowledge. And he found he wanted to know more of her, of how she had changed since their youth, of who she had become as a woman. “Tell me what you see in the plants as we pass them.”

  “Do you really wish to know?” Sophia searched his face for an answer.

  “I would not have asked if I didn’t. . . . And how can I resist learning from such an authority?”

  Her soft smile pulled at his heart and his loins.

  “Designing a garden is both an art and a science. First you must think about how the color and texture of one plant’s leaves complement those of another. Then, you have to imagine the influence of time on the plants, how the plants will grow across the season and how one season of color will give way to another. This bed is arranged by family, showing the apprentices the various habits of the plant. See how these leaves are small with rounded edges. In my garden I’d want more contrast, so I’d put that next to a plant with a different leaf shape and texture, and if possible, a different color. And to give interest, I think about theme and variation, so I might put the same plant at each end of a bed, or at key points across the garden, to unify the garden, without being monotonous.”

  Halfway through the upper part of the garden, they sat to enjoy the prospect down to and out over the Thames. The seat was just large enough for two.

  “How are you liking the physic garden?” Aidan asked.

  “It’s lovely. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since . . .” She paused, pensive. “For a very long time.”

  “Since when?”

  “Tom wasn’t sick yet. He and I were collecting plants in the mountains, some beautiful native flowers I’d never seen in bloom. I had my chalk and watercolors, and I was trying to match the hues. This sort of luminescent white with a touch of pink at the center, very delicate. Ian was little, perhaps two; he’d just learned to walk. He was forever slipping away from his nurse to hide in my skirts. I kept having to stop and give him back to his nurse, until Tom came and caught Ian up in his arms, and turned him in circles over and over. Ian laughed and laughed. And I was able to match the colors. Then, Tom and Ian sat and watched me paint. Tom sitting cross-legged on the ground, with Ian standing in his lap, pulling on his face, as children do. The sky . . . the sky was a cornflower blue with almost no clouds.”

  “What happened?”

  Her face shuttered. “Tom fell ill, we made no more excursions, and Ian grew up.”

  “I hadn’t intended to bring up sad memories,” he offered, surprised to find he meant it.

  “It’s not your fault; it’s the day. That sky is almost the same color, and we’re sitting beside marigolds, such gaudy plants, but Tom’s favorites. Their acrid smell never fails to remind me of him. It wasn’t possible for me to come here and not think of Tom. But it’s still lovely. And I’ve always wanted to visit.”

  “I’m glad I remembered correctly then.”

  They had only examined the top half of the garden when a servant arrived to escort them to their meeting with Anderson and their tour of the greenhouses and library. Flanked on either end by greenhouses, the main building offered a symmetrical arrangement popular fifty years before. It rose three stories, and the ground floor was divided visually by three sets of three arched colonnades, with a triangular pediment over the middle three arches. “I’ve told him you are the illustrator of Lord Wilmot’s works and a botanist in your own right,” Aidan whispered as they approached the entrance where Anderson, a tall, burly Scotsman, stood waiting to meet them.

  Anderson’s generous heart compensated for his rough manners, and before five minutes had elapsed he and Sophia were chatting like old friends about gardens in London. “Do ye know ol’ Lord Whitney’s house, empty now? It’s within a block o’ two of ye. The caretaker could let ye see it. Give him my name. Before ye go today, I’ll show ye the plans of his great iron conservatory, built to entertain his guests. His wife Alisoun hated the guests to see the servants stoking the stoves during her parties, so the old lord put the stoves and woodsheds on the sides with their own servants’ entrances. Last thing he did afore he grew too frail to come to town was to install a giant statue of Flora atop all that plate glass and iron.”

  By the time the three took their tea by the sea gate, Sophia and Anderson had determined what plants they could trade, when she would visit again, and who in the community of plantsmen she would most enjoy meeting. Aidan’s servants had laid out a small feast—apples, oranges, and nectarines, lemon sponge cake, jam tarts, cheese, and bread—in the shade of one of the two Cedars of Lebanon, both over two-hundred years old. This Sophia was more like the girl Aidan had known, confident, assured, lively. Gone was her wary reserve, melted away by the rows of plants she had greeted as old friends and by the love of botany she shared with the gruff Scot. When the time came to return home, Sophia and Anderson parted with clear regret.

  * * *

  Aidan handed Sophia into the carriage, then went to speak with his driver. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall of the carriage. Something subtle had changed between them. Or perhaps she had simply decided to let their relationship play
out as it would. Thinking of Tom in the garden, she had realized he had been right to appoint a second guardian. If anything happened to her, Ian would be safe from Phineas, safe with Aidan. She was finding it harder and harder not to trust Aidan. Or, to be honest, it had always been too easy to trust him. When he was kind, he reminded her of his youthful self, and she found herself less and less able to maintain a cool reserve. Despite her reservations at the guardianship, things might still be well—if only she could forget her memories of his touch.

  At some point she would broach their past, apologize, if nothing else. But every day she seemed to find a reason to postpone the possible conflict. And this day, this companionable day, was one she wanted to remember untouched by recrimination.

  * * *

  When Aidan stepped into the carriage, Sophia was sitting with her eyes closed, breathing deeply. He watched her chest rise and fall, let his eye follow the line of her décolletage down across her chest, stomach, and legs. He wanted her. He’d felt it all day in his stomach and his loins, felt it when he’d seen her that morning wearing black, felt it in Elise’s shop when he’d imagined her in new dresses (and out of them). But their conversation in the garden had evoked the hottest part of his desire. Over the years he’d forced himself to forget her quick wit and the easy banter of their two agile minds. He’d forgotten the allure of her intellect. He would have to forget it again after their affair ended, but now he knew it would be difficult.

  He seated himself across from her once more, again taking the backwards seat, and settled in for a quiet drive, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the side of the carriage. But as soon as the carriage started moving, she leaned forward and reached out her hand to touch his. “This has been a marvelous day. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad finally to have been able to fulfill the promise I made you.”

  “I never expected you to remember. It was so long ago, and so insignificant.”

  “None of the promises we made were ever insignificant.”