Her Mystery Duke

by Blackthorne, Natasha

  “I know. Don’t worry. Mrs. Wilson will be here soon.”

  He kissed her then arose from the bed. She watched him dress then tie his cravat with little care. She knew he would shave and dress for the day at his own house. That little detail in the ritual of his day was an important one. It always reminded her that his life was forever separate from hers no matter how many nights he slept in her bed.

  He lived in his world. His life with her was part of his dreams, like sleep. She was a kept woman, a creature of the night. She ought to be glad of it. A man, a wonderful, caring man, loved her. And yet she had her independence. Time to devote to her writing.

  None of it was working according to plan.

  She couldn’t write. She felt shame at being classed with whores. Most of all, she felt pain every morning when she watched David leave for his own world.

  He wasn’t satisfied either. He wanted more from her. More than she would ever be able to give. Cold fear froze her right down to her bones.

  Suddenly, she wanted to feel something different. Something extraordinary. She wanted him to come back and to bind her body. To take her fiercely. A sigh escaped her, long and lingering. He looked up and met her eyes. He was staring back with his public face, aloof and slightly superior. She tried to communicate her need through her gaze.

  His expression warmed. The pupils of his eyes enlarged. He paused in the act of tying his cravat. She held her breath.

  He closed her out.

  She knew it the moment his gaze cooled and he resumed tying his cravat. He came to her and kissed her. Brief. Chaste. He already belonged to his other life.

  * * * *

  Jeanne sighed and arched her back, trying to stretch out the soreness in her muscles. After a late night out at the theatre, she had woken early with her mind full of ideas. She’d come to her desk without so much as a cup of tea and poured those ideas out into ink upon the paper.

  She’d been there all day.

  Now David was here. He’d come to her early. She hadn’t expected to see him until two in the morning. She had planned to take a long and refreshing nap before he arrived. She felt tired, drained, and at a disadvantage.

  David touched the pages. “May I read this?”

  “It will seem incoherent. They are just sketches to capture my ideas. It will take some work to shape them into something worth reading by others.”

  He picked the papers up and sat and read through them. Her throat drew tight. She hated moments like these. The moment of judgment.

  He looked up. “You write very well.”

  She shrugged. “Those are just sketches, as I said.”

  He studied her. “You’re not satisfied with them?”

  “It is not a question of satisfaction. I had to write them.”

  “But now that you have, are you going to seek publication for them?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  “In your stories that were published in that man’s newspaper—”

  “Mr. Ratherford?”

  “Yes, those stories. I noticed there is never a moral, a deeper message.”

  “Most fairy stories seem to me to be giving the message that the world is dangerous and children should behave or something terrible will happen to them. They present the moral of fear. I wanted to give children something to make them laugh, to make them wonder about the more pleasant possibilities in life. Childhood should be a time of fun and happiness.”

  His expression grew tender. “Because of your own troubled childhood?”

  “Perhaps. I mean, is it so wrong to want to give others pleasure?”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with it. But I don’t think it should be the sole focus of your talents.”

  His statement washed over her like icy rain. “David, my writing is my life apart from you. That’s my area of independence. You cannot judge me as an authoress. You cannot invade my privacy like that.”

  “Invade your privacy? Jeanne, we’re a little more than a duke and his mistress. We’re lovers. We should be able to talk about every part of each other’s lives. We should share our lives.”

  “I can’t believe you’d attack me in this way.”

  He raised his brows. “Attack you?”

  “Yes, I told you about Bernard. The things he said about my writing and how his words prevented me from writing for a time. It was very hard to share that humiliation with you. How could you turn around and do the same thing?”

  “This is different, Jeanne. I am not a rejected lover trying to attack and hurt you. I care deeply for you. I can’t help but think you could do so much more with your talents. It is hard for me not to think profoundly about what would further your development in all ways.”

  “You think profoundly about my development as a writer? Why?”

  “I think it is the path to your greatest happiness and satisfaction. Today is the first I have seen you writing since you came to live here.”

  “I couldn’t help it. The theatre filled my mind with ideas.”

  “But why did you stop before?”

  Her chest tightened. She caressed the feather on her quill, sliding her fingers over the texture. “I just did.”

  “You must have had a reason. Tell me.”

  It proved harder now to hide things from him, especially when he asked a direct question. That was the price of intimacy and one she’d made peace with. Still such moments could feel very uncomfortable, like having a tooth cracked open, exposing its inflamed core. “I suppose now I don’t need to write at all. I wrote before to earn money so I could get away from bedding men I didn’t care for. Now I have a man I care for very much who cares for me and provides me with a very nice life.”

  “But surely that’s not going to be enough for you.”

  He could be so relentless. She couldn’t look at him. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “You’ll want to write again.”

  “Yes, I wrote today.” She couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of her tone.

  “No, I mean you’ll want to be published again. And when you do, I think you should aim your sights higher and challenge yourself.”

  “Challenge myself?” Her tone sounded a little distracted in her own ears. She was weary, too tired for such emotional discussions. She was also feeling hunted and she wanted to hide.

  “Yes, you should write more complex stories suited for adults. You could choose to highlight a social cause.”

  “Such as?”

  “Better treatment for insane persons.”

  His words put a queasy feeling into her stomach. Her heart began to pound harder. “I can’t write complex, serious stories for adults.”

  “Why not?”

  He was so exacting lately. Every inch the commanding duke, he had closed himself to any sympathy for her. Just looking at his stern visage made her blood colder. She took the only position she could, one of self-defense. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Because I am just piece of fluff, a girl who couldn’t manage to keep a position as a servant and only found the way to survive by letting men bed her. I am not some bluestocking who wants to dabble in politics and change the world. I just want to entertain people.”

  * * * *

  Jeanne’s words were like a stab into David’s own heart. Her defiant expression didn’t help. “You are not a whore, you are my mine, so completely mine that I know you could never give yourself to anyone else again.”

  Her defiance softened. “Yes, of course, now.”

  “Now is all that matters.”

  “You don’t understand. I have nothing to offer people in the way of moral lessons on how to view the insane. I abandoned my own father to an asylum.”

  “I think the increased frequency of your nightmares is related to your dissatisfaction with your writing. It’s the guilt. I know. I had similar dreams after Thérèse’s illness became so terrible. You still blame yourself about your father and there is no need. Doing something real to help the insane will
help you lance that festering boil of guilt you carry around.”

  Her eyes were wide. She had taken hold of the edge of her chair. Her knuckles went stark white. “No, I can’t bear it, David. I don’t want to think about the insane any more than I have to.”

  “Hiding from the issue won’t help you. Not in the long term.”

  She turned away. “You probably don’t realize this, but I live in a dead fear, each day, that I will encounter some insane person. I constantly observe others for signs of madness and I avoid anyone questionable.”

  He could feel her tension as she waited for him to react in shock to her words. However, her declaration didn’t surprise him. He knew she hid. But he also believed she was capable of great strength, great courage.

  “Jeanne, sometimes our world appears to be nothing but shades and variations of insane persons to me. It is just the way of things. We have to accept people as they are. We have to try and be tolerant.”

  “Yes, this is why I avoid so many people. I don’t have your tolerance.”

  David’s heart contracted but being soft on her now wouldn’t help. “You cannot live like that. That’s like being shut away forever in your dreadful garret.”

  “Is it so terrible?” She flashed a defiant glance at him.

  “It is not a very compassionate view.”

  Her lip curled, slightly. “And you’re always compassionate?”

  “I try to be.”

  Her defiance crumpled, replaced by a more tender expression. “It must be exhausting. People are draining.”

  The sympathy in her voice made him feel awkward. He did his duty, nothing more, nothing less. It could be draining, yes, but there was no cause for sympathy.

  She studied him at length. “We’re very different, you and I. We’ll never understand each other.”

  “You really believe that we’ll never understand each other?”

  She stuck her chin out and her gaze became cooler. Distant. “No, we can’t. We come from different places. We think in different ways.”

  “That’s a very fatalistic view.”

  “I don’t mean to be fatalistic. I only want to keep a realistic view.”

  “A realistic view of what?”

  “Of us and what we can expect from each other. From the future.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her that could soften that hard little jut to her chin, the defensive look in her eye. He’d tried everything he knew to do. So he changed the subject. “I am taking a journey to Scotland, to tour a very progressive asylum. I want you to come with me. I think that, in doing so, you’ll come into greater contact with your own compassion once more.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I shall be with you every moment. And you won’t have to tour in the areas where the violent patients are kept. I would never do that to you. But I think it could help you to overcome some of what you feel about the past. Confronting a fear can often be the first step in alleviating it.” She drew herself into a tight ball by drawing her feet up and putting her knees to her chin. “No, I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t even consider it?”

  “I mean I cannot possibly consider it. You simply must understand. I really am that girl, that piece of fluff who writes fluffy fairy stories with no real purpose or moral. That’s who I am at my most basic level.”

  “I’ll never believe that.”

  “It is the truth. It is what you wanted, remember?”

  “It is no longer enough.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want a true partnership between us. I want you to support the work of my daily life, that’s what I want.”

  She glanced up, her expression stricken. “David, that sounds very much like the description of a wife.”

  “Does it? And does the prospect frighten you so much? Is that why you’re looking at me like that?”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we should not tempt fate.”

  “What nonsense, Jeanne.”

  “I would disappoint you. You would expect—”

  “Then meet my expectations. Be what I need you to be.”

  “I don’t want to be anything other than what I am. Who I am.”

  He couldn’t deny the immediate sense of disappointment. It certainly didn’t bode well that she didn’t even have the courage to face a mere discussion of marriage. How would she face the difficulties inherent in a marriage to a peer if she couldn’t even discuss it without blanching?

  Perhaps she didn’t wish to contemplate the issue. That was even more discouraging.

  She placed her hand to head. “I don’t feel so well. I think I’d like to be alone tonight.”

  Oh, he’d recognized the signs. The heavy flannel nightdress she wore. She hadn’t wanted to be intimate even before they quarreled. But he did find himself enjoying, more and more, those nights when they simply lay in her bed and cuddled. She would place her icy feet on the top of his own and chatter to him about daydreams and nonsense until they fell asleep.

  It appeared their lovemaking would be on hold until they sorted out the larger question of their future.

  Without a word, he left her chamber. He would use this free evening to visit his club and catch up on everything he’d neglected of late. But as he walked from her house to the mews, he wondered if this quarrel were the start of the end of them.

  * * * *

  Jeanne sat in the coffee shop on the corner, watching people and trying to clear the memories of last night from her mind. Two cups of steaming chocolate hadn’t helped. All she could think of was how David wouldn’t like her to be here.

  Ladies didn’t frequent public rooms.

  She wasn’t a lady, however.

  David said she was as good as any lady he knew and should treat herself accordingly. Still he hadn’t forbidden her to come here. He just made it known he didn’t like the idea. Maybe she came here to maintain some independence. She wasn’t sure.

  “Miss Darling.”

  She glanced up. Lord Toovey stood there. He smiled at her.

  She didn’t smile back. No gentleman should approach another gentleman’s mistress like this. It wasn’t proper. “David says I shouldn’t speak to you. He says you’re not to be trusted.”

  “I am not surprised. Of course he says that, Jeanne. He hates me over what happened with Thérèse.”

  “Is this a chance meeting, Lord Toovey?”

  “No, I stopped by your house and you were gone. And your housekeeper told me you’d come here.”

  Why would Mrs. Wilson tell a stranger something like that? Jeanne studied the lines of Toovey’s face. He was handsome in a boyish way. He was titled. Yes, of course he could have charmed her housekeeper. Well, Jeanne would have to have strong words with Mrs. Wilson about something like this. Her first chastisement of a house servant. Her stomach flipped with anxiety at the prospect. Goodness, she’d never imagined facing such a situation. What must it be like to have to manage a full staff in a house like David’s? She shrank from the mere thought. Right now, she had more pressing worries.

  “You’ve come here in vain. I am not going to speak with you.”

  Toovey’s expression sobered. “Please, don’t give me this coldness. I am sorry for any trouble I caused you over that silly cartoon.”

  She gave him a skeptical look.

  “It was something between me and David—our old foolish rivalry—and I feel terrible over it now. I didn’t think it would cause you any harm. I have heard it did.”

  Despite herself, Jeanne felt a softening towards him. Perhaps he did feel badly. Maybe he wasn’t the arch villain David had described him as. “Well, never mind. It all turned out for the best.”

  “I am glad to hear that. It was all politics. Nothing personal—or at least nothing personal against you.” He grinned.

  “I have to leave.” She stood.

  He reached for her hand and held it. “Please, I ask again, don’t give
me this coldness.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Please, Miss Darling, I’ve said that I feel badly about that cartoon. I had it made up simply to get under Hartley’s skin. He is so much the proper, dignified duke, he hates any kind of controversy or public jesting like that. He takes his political career far too seriously and spends far too little time simply enjoying the pleasures and privileges that are available to him as a duke. For Christ’s sake, he seems to believe he owes some kind of service to the public in exchange for the happy luck of being born to rank and wealth.”

  She gazed down at him coolly. “I’ve told you not to feel badly about the cartoon. It did create potential for great trouble and grief, but that didn’t come to pass.”

  “Only because Hartley is your lover, your protector, and he fixed things for you.”

  “Well, no matter how it happened, it’s over now. Please allow me to leave.”

  “Miss Darling, I want you to know that you can trust me. I would be a friend.”

  That was enough to raise her hackles. No one offered “friendship” without seeking something in return. “Why? Why should you be a friend to me, David’s mistress?”

  “Because I know how very taxing and lonely it is to be Hartley’s mistress. Thérèse told me. He gives everything to his work and he expects the woman in his life to somehow fill the emptiness that brings him.”

  “You don’t strike me as the sympathetic sort.”

  He chuckled. “No?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I do have an ulterior motive. Lady Somerville wanted me to ask you something.”

  “Of course, but why—”

  “She’s a grand lady. She’s not going to risk anyone catching her talking to Hartley’s mistress. Forgive me for saying it so bluntly but you come from the very lowest possible segment of society. You aren’t even a fashionable impure. You’re just impure.”

  Quite correct. She suppressed a wince. She should have accepted this with a practical shrug. And once, perhaps, she would have. But now it hurt. Deeply. Even if that hurt was illogical, it was real. “What is it she wants?”