…Or—he warmed—lovers.
Thea Marie. He concentrated, but she remained a blank page. The inner nudge that told him how to proceed was missing. Every night he stood outside her door while his conscience warred with his need. There were worse things than being uncertain whether or not your wife would welcome you into her bed, but such uncertainty was enough to drive one mad.
Well—he folded his hands behind his back—absent direction, he would focus on the main…a united front. Their collective consequence restored.
But even as his duchess played—or in this case, danced—her part with precision, he knew restored consequence would not be enough.
He wanted more.
St. Swithin. Sentiment was not only a hungry panther, it was one of those irritating crank toys—crank the needs inside your heart and suddenly a white-faced devil bursts out to play. The partners changed and Thea Marie twirled in Harrison’s arms. Her smile in that moment was genuine—rare and precious. Another surge of jealousy, directed at the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a friend.
Then, at the start of the next dance, she joined Lord Randolph.
…And pop goes the weasel.
Air. He needed air. He started moving.
The mansion’s inner courtyard was a place of peace and beauty—even if the strains of music and conversation could be heard rising and falling in distant waves. The garden was not well-lit, but he knew his way. He wandered from plant to plant, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Absently, he wondered if Thea Marie had noticed the roses since her return. And if she had noticed, had she perceived their significance?
“You are not alone, Your Grace.”
Thea’s friend Lady Randolph spoke from a perched position on the bench. He was suddenly glad of the gray darkness—it hid the depth of his feeling.
“A duke is never alone, is he?” he mused. …and yet he is always so.
She made a sound he identified as feminine sympathy. “I imagine not—not a duke who employs a staff the size of yours, anyway. Is this where you come to escape?”
“An absurd question,” he said. “A duke is never away from his duties.”
“Master of ducal behavior, are you?” A smile thread through her voice.
He sensed a verbal quagmire. “I had better leave you to your reflections.”
“You need not go. I”—Lady Randolph paused—“I would enjoy a moment more of your company.”
The idea their meeting had been no accident took hold in his mind, and he had the fleeting sensation Lord and Lady Randolph were playing nursemaid to both himself and the duchess this evening—but why ever would that be?
“Com-pan-y,” she enunciated, “you do know the word, do you not? It refers to the pleasure of another’s conversation.”
Her silk skirts made the sound of leaves in a wind-gust as she stood. Her personal rose-scent joined that of the flowers as she stepped by his side.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she continued, “let us begin again.”
He eyed her at an angle. Moonlight lit a mischievous grin. “You would like the pleasure of my company.” He snorted. “No one has ever desired the pleasure of my company. An audience, yes. My company, no.”
“Perhaps if you worked on your conversational skill…?”
He turned away and ran his gloved fingers over the petals of a rose. Polite pleasantries he had mastered. In leadership, he thrived. But conversation? “Conversation is not this duke’s strength.”
“You are not without hope,” she said brightly. “Let us practice together.”
“You just said you found me tedious.”
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“Not in so many words…”
She made a frustrated sound through her teeth. He hid his smile.
“My,” she said, “you are stubborn. Then again, you are a Worthington. And every Worthington back to the Doomsday Book is known to have been a goat.”
“You wound me.” He raised his brow. “You’ve been speaking to my wife, yes?”
“No. Thea has words other than goat for you.” The impish grin. “I have, however, spoken to your stepmother. Now there is a woman who knows how to hold an entertaining conversation.”
The muscles in his neck tightened—a habitual response to the mention of the dowager duchess.
“I have said something wrong, I see,” Lady Randolph said quickly. “Emma is a friend and a fine woman, but perhaps we should seek a more amenable topic.”
He nearly gaped. Her Grace, Dowager Duchess was Emma to Lady Randolph? Of course, the Furies had lived for a time with the woman. A permission he’d granted while his head still swam with the after-effects of his duchess’s lips.
“Simplicity,” Lady Randolph continued, oblivious, “is best for practice. Why don’t we attempt the most tried-and-true of topics?” She angled herself away from the bush and touched his arm. When she spoke again her voice had the lacquered polish of a practiced flirt, “Good evening, Your Grace. The night is rather fine, don’t you agree?”
The duke glanced upward. “There’s a bit of a chill.”
She continued in the same shellacked manner. “You’ve a lovely garden.”
“I pay dearly for the privilege.”
Her shoulders dropped and she gave him a hard look. “What brings you joy, Wynchester?”
He gave her a frown that would have frightened most men. “You’ve overstepped, Lady Randolph.”
“Good gracious” she said in her own natural voice, shaking her head in admonishment. “I hope, for your sake, you never glower at Thea in such a way.” Her shawl fluttered in the night breeze as she placed a hand on her hip. “Soothe your hackles, grand duke. I was thinking, perhaps, that flowers brought you joy. Thea loves roses…”
“Yes,” he said stiffly, “she does.”
Her gaze moved far-too-knowingly between the roses and his person.
He cleared his throat. “I warned you I was not good at conversation.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “Let us continue.”
Truly? He considered summoning Bates…
“Ask me something polite,” she urged. “About the weather, perhaps?”
“We’ve already discussed the weather.”
“Then how about something concerning the monarch’s health?”
He gave her a warning look.
“Very well. Ask me about the arts, then.”
She was never going to go away unless he tried again. He sighed. His gaze traveled to the Broadfield, visible through the glass.
“Do you like music, Lady Randolph?”
“Why as a matter of fact, I do.” A brilliant smile lit her face.
He sent her an incredulous look. “Please stop. Just concede. I am hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless, Your Grace.”
“Indeed?”
She took his arm and turned him toward the window, where just beyond, Thea Marie was nodding graciously as an older woman spoke.
“Indeed,” she answered.
The Furies were trouble. They always had been. But, if he were not mistaken, Lady Randolph was trying to help him mend the rent with his wife. An unlikely ally, but he would take whatever he could get.
He glanced out the corner of his eye. “I hated you.”
“Now there’s conversation,” she said mockingly.
“You gave her a place to go.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I took Thea into my home. She was distraught.”
“I know.” A long, oscillating note of pain followed. “I am trying to thank you.”
“You are,” she paused, “thanking me for the thing that elicited your hatred?”
He studied the little vixen. “She is here now.”
“She is.” Lady Randolph cocked her head. “Is she so very changed?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Yet she remains everything she ever was.”
Lady Randolph sighed. “Your conversation improves.” She patted his arm. “
And be grateful, Your Grace. Conversation is the first step in courtship.”
Wynchester laughed aloud. “Then God help us both.”
She returned his laugh. He smiled awkwardly.
“I never knew you to be funny, Your Grace.”
“I am not.” He rubbed his chin. “But you are the second one tonight to call me so.”
“I profess myself much relieved,” she sighed. “And now I believe my husband is looking for me.”
“I appreciate the practice, Lady Randolph.”
“Practice is all it will take.” She turned, carefully stepping back into the bright lights of the soiree.
Conversation… He imagined sitting with Thea Marie on the bench and discussing…? Parliamentary votes? Planting schedules? The merits of a morning constitutional?
Good God, he’d become a dullard.
Practice. Very well, Lady Randolph. He would try.
What brought Thea Marie joy…besides sending him pointed quips? Music. But he’d already bought her the Broadfield. Roses. But he’d already cultivated this garden. He closed his eyes. He heard she’d been seen driving a high-perched Phaeton through the park. Perhaps a new gig? He frowned. In his experience, women did not find new gigs quite as exciting as men. So what else?
Books, perhaps. She’d come to the marriage with trunks of books. Poetry and novels and travel memoirs. Had they survived the riots? He’d have to consult Bates. He imagined them in the same spot, only this time, he was holding aloft a book and reading. She was leaning back with a small smile playing on her lips.
…Perhaps they could find a place between ruinous sentiment and polite distance, after all.
…
Thea jumped when she felt a touch to her arm outside the upstairs ladies retiring room.
“Sophia!” She would have thrown her arms around Sophia if her stays did not physically restrict such enthusiasm. “Where have you been?”
“You and Randolph were having such a lovely dance.” Sophia’s voice was just a bit too innocent. “So I thought I would take some air.”
Thea made an unduchess sound of annoyance. “I could have used some air.”
Sophia’s lip turned up. “Is my husband difficult to entertain?”
Thea shook her head no. “Randolph was every inch the gentleman, as was Mr. Harrison. I just grow weary of the crowd.”
Sophia leaned over the upper banister to peer down into the hall and the gallery beyond. “It is quite a crush down there.”
“And a failure all around,” Thea said.
“What do you mean?” Sophia asked.
“Each and every perfumed viper came to witness scandal. They have been terribly disappointed, excepting the appearance of Lady Scandal herself, of course.”
Sophia laughed. “The night is young.”
“The night is a grousing hag.” Thea’s eyes flashed. “I will not give it satisfaction.”
Sophia leaned back over the banister. “And what of your own satisfaction?”
Thea followed Sophia’s gaze to Wynchester, now speaking to a foreign princess from—oh, she could not recall. Papist, certainly. German, perhaps.
The princess was accompanied by the Marchioness of Hemingford and her utterly gorgeous daughter. Thea frowned. She’d forgotten the young lady’s name, too. Then again, the girl had not been out the last time Thea had attended Proper Society. She shrugged and abandoned the exercise of memory. Instead, she concentrated on the duke.
She imagined the kind of life he might have lived if he had been free to follow his inclination when he chose a wife. Even if they had not married so young, and if he had not acceded to the dukedom too soon after, he would never have had the carefree youth of a rake. Seeking pleasure for pleasure’s sake was simply not in his character.
He would have looked for a wife with sober intention and earnest concern…and the innocent, willowy blond with pale pink flowers woven into her hair would have been just the thing to stir his admiration.
She sighed. “Wynchester would have done better without me.”
“Maudlin nonsense.” Sophia tsked. “And absent your usual spirit.”
“True, none-the-less.”
“Do you really think so?” Sophia asked.
“I think he’d appreciate a young lady impressed with his consequence.”
“And I think you need to roughen up his awful white wig.”
Thea smothered a laugh.
“And,” Sophia continued, “I also think His Grace would like you to take note of his roses.”
“I was,” she quipped. “One perfect English rose.”
“Put out your hands, dearest.”
Sophia pulled a flower from her pocket and dropped it into Thea’s cupped hands. She lifted the petals until they tickled her nose. Ah. She knew that rich scent.
“Rosa Moschata,” she said with some surprise. “Musk rose.”
“Musk rose,” Sophia repeated. “Is that of any significance?”
“My father gave me plants from my mother’s garden when I married. They were trampled in the Gordon Riots.” She frowned down into her hands. “Where did you get this?”
“His Grace’s courtyard.”
Thea looked back down at Wynchester, her heart twirling like a girl in the sunshine. First the Broadfield, now this. Perhaps Eustace had distracted him during these past two weeks, but, for Wynchester, he had made astounding effort.
He bowed to his party and then turned to join another. The princess, the marchioness, and the young lady proceeded to the stairs. Not wanting to face anyone in her current state, Thea drew Sophia into the darkness of an open, adjacent room.
“A charming man,” the princess said with a heavy accent.
“Truly charming,” agreed the Marchioness.
“How lucky his is,” added the English rose, “to be matched with such a beautiful wife.”
The Marchioness clucked with disapproval. “Do not mention her name.”
“She is our hostess,” the daughter protested.
“You may greet her with civility—for the duke’s sake. But if she caught a fever, he would be much better off.”
“Mama!” Her exclamation sounded no less shocked for its whispered tone.
“Your kind heart does you justice, my dear,” the princess said. “The duchess seems amiable.”
“But of course she would, Princess. She is on her best behavior. But mark me well—she has shown her true color and true color is never long hid. Her wildness will not remain tamed. She will be the end of them both.”
Neither the princess nor the daughter commented.
“See there?” The marchioness continued. “There is Lord Eustace. Should he show you favor, Juliet, you will respond.”
Thea leaned as far as she dared and they came into shadowed view.
“I thought you wanted a title, Mother.”
The mother-to-daughter glance was withering. “This reconciliation cannot last long. Like as not, as Lord Eustace’s wife, you would be mother to the next Duke of Wynchester.”
Thea exchanged a furious glance with Sophia and then tucked the rose in her hair. Sophia placed a restraining hand on Thea’s arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“Watch me,” she fired back.
Thea waited until the trio had entered the retiring room and then she strode down the steps and toward the orchestra with confident grace. She had shown her true color, had she? The harpy had not seen anything yet.
“If I may,” she said to the maestro, “I would like to make a change.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” the conductor replied in French-accented deference.
“I require a dance. One which encourages,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “romance.”
The conductor thought for a moment and then broke into a smile.
“An Allemande, non?” He winked. “I know just the one. Allegro, of course.”
“Thank you.” She returned his smile. “I will return to the floor wi
th the duke.”
She and Wynchester had opened the first dance—a stiff, formal affair. Not this time.
She headed toward her husband while stoking her courage with memories, not of the cold duke who had reigned over their marriage, but of the other one—the one who’d clasped her in a desperate, hungry kiss. The one who’d growled when he’d drunkenly swept her off her feet. The one who’d touched his temple to hers with tears in his eyes.
…The one who’d grown hot with dazzled enchantment when he’d finally taken note of her dress.
That duke was, as men spoke of young ladies, ripe and ready to be picked. If she was wild, that duke was even more so.
“Wynchester,” she interrupted his conversation with Randolph and Harrison—she need not observe formalities in their presence, “this dance is mine.”
His right eyebrow lifted, but he displayed no further sign of surprise. He simply offered his arm and led them both to the floor while the dance was called. The musicians lifted their violins.
She locked eyes with her husband, diving without thought into their dark depth, willing away his cold, distant shell. Without shame or restraint, she let that untamed part of her the marchioness so derided call out to his hunger…but the wild in him, though aware and alert, remained cautious.
She could not blame him.
Curious stares fixed on them, radiating malice as strong as the heat from the hundreds of candles burning in the sparkling chandeliers. They wanted her to fail. They wanted her to slink back into the darkness, so their perfect duke could be absorbed into their numbers once again. They wanted to titter behind raised fans at the failed attempt of the disgraced duchess to capture her duke’s regard.
She would silence them. She would deny them their sneering triumph. She would. If she was a duchess good enough for Wynchester, she was a duchess good enough for them.
“Shall we, Wynchester?” she spoke in her huskiest voice—not the wife he had known but the woman the years of independence had forged—Duchess Decadence.
Wynchester wanted her to be good, did he? She’d be more than good. She’d be remarkable—in the very best sense.
The music, made faint by the noise of silk against silk and muffled whispers, began. They led the promenade, and she executed each step with grace. They did not speak. She danced, not as much with him as for him. Boldly, she seized every opportunity to meet his gaze.
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