by Eva Devon
“Our conversation will not be proper.”
“No?”
“No.” She held out the glass. “Please?”
Margaret stared at the rather full glass, agog.
“It will make me feel more comfortable,” Eleanor confessed.
Nodding, but clearly concerned her mistress had lost her wits, Margaret took the glass, sipped, then handed it back.
Eleanor cradled the glass in her hands and sat straight. “Now, we must discuss something quite delicate.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Eleanor fought the desire to fidget. “I fear I must ask you a personal question.”
“I see.”
There was nothing for it but to dive in. “Have you ever had a sweetheart, Margaret?”
A panicked look crossed Margaret’s round face. “Am I to be dismissed, Your Grace?”
“Of course not!” Eleanor stilled. “Why ask such a thing?”
Margaret looked askance. “I thought perhaps you’ve heard. . .”
“Heard?” Eleanor prompted quite surprised.
“I suppose I must confess now,” Margaret whispered. “But I have been meeting the blacksmith’s son.”
“Robert Stewart?” she asked, incredulous.
She nodded.
A smile tilted Eleanor’s lips as she brought the lad to mind. “He is a fine looking young man.”
“Aye, Your Grace.” Margaret blushed. “He is that.”
“And you quite like him, I see.”
“I do.”
“That is fortunate.” Eleanor grinned, feeling her first hint of relief all night. “For I am in a quandary.”
“How so?” Margaret asked, puzzled.
“Have you ever kissed Robert?” She swallowed, mortified again to ask something so private. “Please forgive my inquisitiveness but this is quite important.”
Margaret’s blush deepened but she nodded.
“And you enjoyed it?” Eleanor clarified.
A soft laugh escaped Margaret’s lips. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She frowned. “I dunna know why you say, of course.”
Margaret’s brow quirked. “Do you not enjoy kissing?”
She shifted on the wood chair. “It is acceptable.”
Margaret grew hesitant then asked gently, “Captain James was not a good kisser?”
“He was an exceptional man,” Eleanor defended.
“Of course, he was,” Margaret said immediately. “Perhaps he did not have a good deal of experience kissing, or had never asked a lady what she liked.”
Eleanor couldn’t quite fathom Margaret’s last words. “Does Robert ask you what you like?”
Margaret blushed again.
“He does then?” Eleanor breathed.
Nodding, Margaret began, “Robert has had a bit of a reputation in the past, Your Grace, but he is settling now. Even so, he does quite like to kiss. And I like to kiss him.”
“Hmmm.”
“Pardon, but dunna you wish to kiss His Grace?”
Eleanor shrugged. While she could not deny that he created the strangest sensations in her, she didn’t see how kissing would really amount to much. “Not particularly.”
“But he’s a bonnie, braw mon!” Margaret exclaimed as if this were the answer to the dilemma.
“He is. On both counts,” Eleanor agreed before she hedged, “but I dunna really wish to be. . . Too close to him.”
“I understand.”
She was fairly certain that Margaret did.
“Why do you think kissing is so important to men?” Eleanor asked. “Or at least someone like my husband?”
“Forgive me for saying, Your Grace, but he was a rake.”
“I dunna dispute it.”
“Well.” Margaret licked her lips then began, “Like my Robert, he no doubt enjoys the pleasure of ladies.”
Eleanor frowned. “But why must that be a necessity? Dunna many men not mind?”
“Far too many, Your Grace. But men like Robert, they feel a sort of achievement in pleasing their ladies. If their attraction is not returned, they have no wish to. . . Proceed.”
“I see.” Eleanor frowned into her glass. “How very inconvenient.”
Margaret smiled kindly.
An idea occurred to her and she clung to it. “Do you think I could kiss him and not feel an attachment?”
Margaret’s brows rose in shock. But then she replied, “Men do it all the time.”
“So they do.” A smile tilted her lips as a dawn of hope hit her. “So they do.”
Margaret smiled mischievously. “I’ve always thought you equal to any man, Your Grace.”
“Why, thank you, Margaret,” she said with genuine appreciation. “Now, I need you to tell me as much as you are able to about what you do with Robert—”
“Your Grace—”
“Nothing too untoward,” Eleanor rushed, “but I dunna understand my husband. He wasna born. . .”
“A gentleman?” finished Margaret.
She shook her head. “I think he was as wild as a person can be.”
Margaret grinned. “Then I think you are in for a very good time, Your Grace.”
A good time. What a very foreign concept. “Tell me, Margaret. Tell me at once.”
Margaret leaned forward and began to whisper.
Eleanor took another drink, for she knew she was going to need it.
Chapter 14
Tony plunked his coffee cup down and scowled over his paper. The coffee house was full to the brim with all sorts of people. And he was in an impossibly foul mood. That meant he had no idea what to do with himself.
It had been impossible to face his wife over breakfast. Cowardice, almost certainly, but last night. . . Last night had just been too terrible for words.
“Lad!”
He groaned.
His father wove through the crowded room. Doffing his big hat, the Duke of Aston threw himself enthusiastically into the chair across from Tony. He waved to a pot boy for a cup of coffee then clapped his hands together.
“Wedded bliss has begun, eh?” his father asked jovially.
Tony leveled his father with a hard look and arched a brow.
“That bad, eh?” his father observed, taking the steaming cup from the jaunty young serving boy.
“Hell. I tell you, I am in hell.”
“If this is hell, we should all go. Very pleasant, indeed.”
“Ha.” He snorted. “You’re married to Ros.”
“Now. Now.” The Duke of Aston took a long, deep drink of coffee then let out a blissful sound. “Eleanor seems quite a good sort.”
“Reserved. Like a glacier. I told you she was reserved.”
“Oh dear, lad.”
He pinned his father with a crushing stare. “You’ve no idea.”
Kindly, his father invited, “Would you like to tell me about it?”
He and his father had been remarkably close in these last years. There’d been nothing to hide but, now, this seemed a bit much to share. Surely, he should keep this to himself? But he couldn’t envision entrusting this to Lock or Ellesmere. And Charles’ advice had gone positively awry.
“She doesn’t wish to be kissed, Da.”
Aston took another drink, peering at him over the china rim. “Tell me more.”
“Let’s just say, I think she believes the marriage bed is for procreation and keeping me from running after any skirt that trots by.”
“It is! It is!” Aston enthused. Then he added quite seriously, “But it’s also for mutual comfort, love, and pleasure.”
Tony sank deeper into his chair. “She would not agree.”
Aston cocked his head to the side and said with no sign of dismay, “She simply does not know.”
“She seems to wish to stay distant from me.”
“There’s a reason, Tony.” His father leaned forward earnestly. “Women are not airy creatures running amok doing things on pure whim. You know that.”
T
ony sighed. He did. He’d never thought women to be mysterious goddesses, unknowable to men. They’d always been people to him. Positively lovely, interesting, and wonderful; for the most part, people.
“She’s not like other women,” Tony protested.
“Thank God for it. A husband has to feel that about his wife.”
“Not like that,” Tony corrected. “I don’t worship the ground where on she walks. Rather, I wonder what the devil is going on in her head.”
“Another good thing,” his father argued happily. “One wouldn’t wish to be bored.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “One doesn’t wish to be rejected either.”
“A new experience for you.”
Tony took a swallow of hot coffee and wished he could pop his father in the jaw. “Must you see the positive in my every complaint?”
“Why not?” His father waggled his brows. “It’s what you usually do.”
Was this how it felt being in his own optimistic presence? He was lucky he hadn’t been punched on a daily basis.
Tony folded his paper. “Yes, well, I’d like you to cease and desist.”
“No, thank you.” Aston lifted his coffee cup and grinned over the rim. “I’ve no wish to sink in the mire.”
“I’m excellent company, even in the depths,” Tony parried.
His father laughed his merry laugh. “In all seriousness, Tony, you’ve not given it time.”
“Time?” He blew out a derisive breath. “We are who we are, Da. I doubt she will change.”
“Now, I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“Why?” Tony demanded. “You’ve always been a good man. Wild, but good. I’ve always been optimistic and—”
“You aren’t right now,” his da had the temerity to point out.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I had a plan.”
“And she rejected it.”
Tony scowled. “I haven’t implemented it.”
“Then I fail to see why you’ve cast yourself into the depths of despair.”
Tony plunked his elbow on the table. “I’ve never met such a hardheaded woman.”
His da let out a bellow of a laugh. “I thought you knew Ros quite well.”
“Ros is not. . . Well, I suppose she is.” Tony groaned and wiped his face with his palm.
His father smiled slowly. “And what do you do with a hardheaded woman, Tony?”
“Admire her?”
“Yes, old boy. Yes. You and I can’t be bothered with silly women. Don’t wish Eleanor to be different.”
He grumbled into his coffee, but felt a trifle better. “Would it be so terrible if I wished for her to admire me, too?”
“Have you shown her something that she would admire?” Aston asked with surprising gentleness.
“I tried,” Tony said. He hated to have to admit his attempts had been so fruitless.
His father’s brows rose. “What was it?”
“A knowledge of plants,” Tony said dryly.
His father boomed with laughter so loud half the room turned to look.
“It’s not amusing.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Now, Son,” Aston said patiently, picking up a pressed bit of sugar and popping it into his mouth. “She admires plants. You admire plants. Surely, that’s a starting point. What else does she admire?”
“Pragmatism,” he drawled.
“You’re a realist,” his father encouraged, apparently unwilling to join Tony in doom and gloom. “She just thinks you’re a silly sod, no doubt because people confuse joviality with foolishness. You and I know better. Now you go and show her. You can’t expect this particular young woman to fawn over a pretty face.”
“Da.”
His father’s brows rose, challenging him. “Yes?”
Is that what he’d expected? He supposed it was. He’d expected Eleanor to succumb, eventually, to his charm. Like all other women. Damnation. Even his traditional ideals of how to woo a woman needed to be cast aside.
It was time to start from the very beginning.
*
Eleanor clutched the now crumpled note in her hand and peered out at the London street as they raced to the dressmaker’s shop. She had no idea what she’d expected to find, but it hadn’t been her husband already gone before eight o’clock in the morning. She was uncertain why, but she’d been certain he was a layabout. A fellow who slept past noon then rose languidly to ready himself for his evening engagements.
Instead, she’d been informed that he was out of the house every day well before nine and that no one was quite certain where he was. But he had left her a note.
The note had been kind and short.
Good morrow, dear wife,
As agreed, funds have been allocated for your pleasure. I’ve included the bank information and you must open whatever accounts you see fit. I shall see you at dinner.
Yours,
Tony
Yours, Tony.
Was he? Hers, that is. In all legality, yes. But for the rest, it all seemed so very strange the way he seemed determined to draw her to him. Most aristocratic men didn’t bother. At least, not in her experience.
She’d slept little. After conversing with Margaret, she’d headed back down to his room, peered in, and realized that he was still in her chamber. Doing what, she was uncertain, but she had not been prepared to begin anew at that particular moment.
It had been most strange, climbing into his bed, pulling the covers up over her. His scent, lemon and something spicy, had surrounded her.
It had been distressingly comforting.
All night, she had snuggled into his bed and, much to her absolute shock, she’d finally drifted off, experiencing some of the deepest sleep she’d ever experienced in her life.
When she’d unfolded the note, she’d been uncertain where to begin, another odd thing in her life. For, except that brief foray into adventure with James, her days had always been rather predictable.
Today, she could do exactly as she pleased. And she intended to. Finally, in pure defiance of her guardian and his control of her coin, she was going to buy as many gowns as she pleased and in the styles and colors she pleased. She could hardly wait.
Madame Sophie’s dress shop stood in a prominent place in an excellent lane of shops. She’d never been allowed to visit such an exclusive or popular establishment.
The coach pulled up and her footman helped her down.
As soon as she stepped out onto the pavement, she was encircled by a group of people, pointing and smiling. They were all pausing to take note of the new Duchess of Ayr.
She lifted her head and she smiled at them, stunned to find that she enjoyed the attention very much. For they all seemed disposed to approve of her.
She gave the crowd a wave of acknowledgement which garnered another astonishing cheer. Then she entered the beautiful salon of the renowned dressmaker.
A young girl in a simple but perfectly made yellow silk gown bustled forward, a smile upon her face. She curtsied. “Your Grace, bienvenu!”
“Merci, mademoiselle,” Eleanor replied effortlessly. “Comment allez-veus?”
“Tres bien!” the girl piped, delighted. “Your accent is magnificent.”
She doubted that very much but she had been drilled by her French teacher day in and day out for years. “That is most kind, but I shallna try my luck. I have come to order several new gowns.”
The young lady clapped her hands together. “Brava! You must call me Yvette. Madame Sophie is in the back with a client. I shall fetch her.”
Eleanor nodded, and as Yvette bustled through a set of soft blue velvet curtains, she turned and surveyed the beautifully-appointed shop with its striped silk walls hung with paintings of women in robes à l’anglaise and robes à la polonaise from the previous century.
It seemed Madame Sophie had loved that particular period a great deal. She couldn’t blame the woman. There had been something rather fun in the excess of it. Though
she could not imagine wearing a ship in her own hair.
It was a relief to have left wigs behind. She couldn’t quite imagine having to go through that ordeal, daily.
“Ah!” a voice trilled. “Your Grace, Duchess of Ayr!”
She turned, met by a small yet beautiful woman dressed in a green silk gown which was cut in the most modern of ways.
“You wish gowns, no?” she asked, her French accent pronounced.
“Yes,” Eleanor replied loving the French lilt to the woman’s voice.
“Ah. How marvelous. Let us examine the fashions you may choose from.” Madame Sophie smiled graciously. “Do sit. Would you like chocolate?”
Chocolate? It was a luxury she had not truly been encouraged to indulge in. What luxury had she been encouraged to know? None. But she was married now, and in charge of herself so she replied, “That would be most agreeable.”
A titter of voices came from the hall. As if a whirlwind had descended upon the premises, the Duchess of Aston whisked into the salon from the back rooms.
“Och! It is you.”
Eleanor blinked, stunned to be greeted with such enthusiasm.
“Now, I’m having a gown made for a ball we shall be hosting in a month’s time,” explained the duchess. “It’s a delight to see you choose such an estimable dressmaker.”
Madame had the good graces to blush but she merely clapped her hands and called. “Chocolate for the duchesses! Or champagne?”
“Och, yes.” The Duchess of Aston grinned. “We must celebrate your first visit as a duchess.”
Eleanor, quite overwhelmed, looked to the daylight outside then back to the excited ladies before her. “Champagne it is,” she agreed.
“Tout suite!” Madame Sophie called. “A bottle of the best champagne.”
Mademoiselle Yvette, who had lingered by the Duchess of Aston, jumped and quickly exited to another room.
“Now,” the Duchess of Aston began, linking her arm with Eleanor’s. “You have such a clean style, so very elegant.”
“So terribly boring,” Eleanor cut in, not making any attempt to hide her own dislike of her dress.
“Do you think so?” the Duchess of Aston asked.
From her earnest face, Eleanor felt certain she wasn’t teasing. But how could anyone think anything else of the serviceable gowns she possessed? They were plain, nicely cut, but nothing to be admired. Even she knew that, but gowns which were the height of fashion had not been deemed necessary, especially for a young lady who had nearly eloped. Or so her guardian had claimed.
