Just now, that mouth was pursed in a suspicious frown. Miss Benton rose from her seat as the footman announced him. Miss Mukherjee did likewise, and they dropped gentle curtsies.
“We have been waiting all morning,” Miss Benton said reproachfully. “Do you mean to keep us in suspense, or will you tell us to what we owe this visit?”
“The pleasure,” he murmured. “To what do you owe the pleasure of this visit.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He grinned. Their sparring had not changed since the moment they had met three years ago at a London ball. He had been immediately taken with her beauty and wit; she had been unaccountably indifferent to his. They had made a bet that night: could he discover the thing she wanted most and make it hers before the ball ended? He had and he did—the thing she wanted most being a dance with another man. It was not the stuff of fairy tale love, but it was the stuff of enduring friendship.
“You like me most when I am ridiculous,” he said, because it was true and also because it annoyed her that it was true.
She pointedly ignored him and tugged a pair of black gloves over her ink-stained fingers with such force that a small pearl button popped off. She seemed not to notice as it rolled across the rose-patterned carpet and settled at his feet.
He knelt on one knee to retrieve it. “I have decided to marry.” He glanced up at her, button held out in the palm of his hand, and found her staring down at him with genuine horror in her wide blue eyes. “I did not mean you, oh dearest Sigrid,” he said crossly. Since she made no move toward him, he stood. “There, take your button.”
“Thank heavens.” She waved away his offering. “Place it on the table for the maid, if you please. Shall I ring for tea?”
“If you wish,” he said, still mildly perturbed at her reaction to his momentous announcement. Really, would becoming his duchess be so very distasteful? She needn’t have looked at him like a slug that had left slime on her silk slipper. To punish her, he slipped the pearl into his waistcoat. He hoped the gloves were her favorite, and the pearl impossible to match.
“Why did you call her Sigrid, Your Grace?” Miss Mukherjee asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.
“Sigrid was a Nordic queen,” Sebastian said. “Sweden or Poland or thereabouts, of an age when they hadn’t yet completely made up their minds to be decent Christians.”
Miss Mukherjee, a Hindu, arched a sardonic brow at him before turning her attention to Miss Benton. “So, he honors you, then.”
Miss Benton’s look was quelling. “They called her Sigrid the Haughty.”
Miss Mukherjee smothered a laugh behind a cough. “Oh. I see.”
The tea arrived. Miss Benton poured his dish first, strong and plain as he always requested. He accepted it with a nod and took a sip, masking his wince as the hot beverage touched his tongue.
“Now,” she said. “You wish to marry. And is this the matter for which you seek my advice?”
“It is. If you would be so kind as to draw up a list of three or four excellent women, I shall invite them to a house party and make my choice from among them.” He steeled his nerves for another taste of tea.
“You are absurd.” She set her own tea down with a faint clink. “I cannot choose your wife for you.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “I will choose my own wife. You will simply make the choice less overwhelming. England is full to the brim of marriageable ladies, each a paragon of everything that is good and praiseworthy, or so their mothers tell me. How is a man to choose? There are simply too many of them.”
Miss Benton would not be able to resist such an opportunity to manage his affairs, for she was quite certain of her superiority. He knew that. Still, he held his breath, waiting.
Her angelic head tilted. “What are your preferences in a lady?”
He looked at her before turning again to his tea. “Such as?”
“Such as hair, for example.”
“She should certainly have hair.”
The corners of her mouth trembled, but she did not yield to a smile. “Fair? Dark? Red?”
“I like them all,” he said after a moment of consideration.
She pursed her lips. “What of height?”
“Truly, I care not. Whatever a woman’s hair and height and shape, it is no matter to me. Short or tall. Slim, plump, and even more plump. I enjoy them all.” And why should he not? Women were such enjoyable creatures.
“Wicked man,” she murmured, but truly, he did not think he imagined the note of affection in her tone. “I should write this down.”
“Let me.” Miss Mukherjee glided to the writing desk and retrieved paper and pen. “You spent so much time writing this morning it is a wonder your fingers have not cramped into claws.”
To whom was Miss Benton writing? It gave Sebastian an odd, unsettled feeling not to know. Miss Benton was an unsettling woman. He was used to that. He pushed the feeling aside very easily, as though brushing away a buzzing gnat.
But did Sir John know of her correspondence? After all, Miss Benton corresponded with Sebastian regularly—in that she accepted his letters, though never returned any of her own—and he found it doubtful her brother knew anything about it. That suggested the receiver of her letters was likely female.
Not that he cared.
“She should be of good family,” Miss Benton said consideringly. “The daughter of a marquess or duke would be preferred. Nothing less than an earl, by any means. She will have been groomed for this marriage from birth and understand her duties as a duchess, and how to run a large household.”
Sebastian blinked. Miss Benton was the daughter—and now sister—of a baronet, a long three ranks beneath an earl. Of course, such things did matter; he just hadn’t thought they mattered to her.
“Yes, yes, a lady whose family is as old as England itself would be preferable, and she must be above reproach, to make up for my own flaws,” he said. “The usual things a duke needs in a wife. What else?”
“An intelligent woman of good humor, else you will drive her mad within a fortnight,” Miss Benton continued, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her chin.
Miss Mukherjee dutifully wrote this down, speaking the words softly as the pen scratched against the page. “Drive…her…mad.”
Sebastian glared. “Et tu, Miss Mukherjee?”
“Of course you are all that is amiable, Your Grace,” Riya said hastily.
“To what do you object, Duke?” Miss Benton interjected impatiently. “Would you prefer a stupid wife? Or do you wish for an ill temper?”
“No,” he said sullenly.
“Very good, then.” She leaned sideways over the armrest of her chair in order to get a better look at Miss Mukherjee’s list. Her breasts squeezed together into plump mounds.
How delightful. He took a sip of tea and enjoyed the view.
“What do you think of Lady Freesia?” Miss Benton asked all of a sudden.
He quickly lifted his gaze to her face. “Pardon?”
“Lady Freesia. She is the daughter of an earl, and the sister of your closest friend. Besides those excellent qualifications, she is a delightful girl. Have you considered courting her?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.” It would make his life agreeable to combine friendship with family, in some ways. Unfortunately, however, he had spent many an hour gleefully detailing his bed sport with this widow and that wench. How could he freely enjoy himself with his bride when Abingdon would know precisely all the ways in which he was debauching the man’s sister? “I decided it would be unwise.”
“Oh.” She frowned.
“Put her on the list for the house party, if you please, Miss Mukherjee,” he said. “I have plans for Lady Freesia, regardless.” He swallowed the last dregs of tea. There, now. That was done.
Miss Benton’s frown deepened. “Just what are you s
cheming now, Wessex?”
His eyes narrowed at her tone. “Do you imagine I would allow harm to come to Abingdon’s sister?” he asked frostily.
Her head tilted. He watched her consider the matter, weighing in her mind all the ways a man could harm a woman against the person she knew him to be. She gave a firm shake of her lovely head. “Not at all.”
He thawed. “Thank you.”
She held his gaze for a moment longer before glancing away. “Lady Margaret Gaither is the daughter of a marquess. And I believe she would be very happy with the match. She has sought your attentions at many a ball.”
Sebastian snorted. “Not Lady Margaret, if you please. She was very cutting to Mrs. Eastwood before her marriage. I don’t believe I like her.” A damning assessment, as he liked nearly everyone. It was seldom worth his time to engage in anything so absorbing as hate.
“Very well. I can’t say I am overly fond of her myself,” Miss Benton admitted.
“For heaven’s sake, woman!” He slapped his palm against his knee. “If you don’t like a lady, then don’t foist her on me! That’s hardly sporting of you. It should be the first question you ask yourself. Do I like this woman? If the answer is no, then scratch her right off.”
Miss Mukherjee wasted no time in putting pen to paper. “Friendly…with…Miss Benton. Well, then. Who does that leave us?” She looked expectantly at her friend.
Miss Benton’s brow furrowed with thought. Then it smoothed. “Lady Jane Tavistock, Lady Louisa Evans, and Lady Abigail Ainsworth. Will three suffice?”
How many wives did a man need? “An adequate start,” he drawled. “I’ll let you know if more are required.”
She released a puff of air that was almost a laugh. “See that you do. And when shall this party take place?”
“A month from now.” Although… What if he were to choke on his breakfast, or be thrown from a horse? “Better make it a fortnight.”
There. He would be married by Christmas.
Chapter Four
The sun had not yet risen in the sky when Eliza quietly entered the high-walled garden. The autumn chill bit through her woolen pelisse, but she paid it little notice. The same cold wind played with the hem of her night rail, and goose bumps formed on her bare calves. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she walked, and from somewhere close by came the sweet trill of a bird. All else was silence.
Eliza made a small hum of contentment. There was no greater luxury than this, to be mistress of one’s own time. To rise when one wished, to walk in one’s own garden wearing nothing but a night rail and pelisse if one wished, stockings and propriety be damned. And she did wish. She enjoyed balls and theater and dinners, but she also craved this stillness.
Since the Season had ended and her brother had departed, she’d spent many mornings thusly. Aunt Mabel never rose before ten of the clock, and Riya was a creature of the night—perhaps she, too, enjoyed being mistress of her own time and prowled the garden while Eliza slumbered. Therefore she was free to rise as early as she wished, to be alone with her thoughts. Some mornings the words sprang easily from her pen, but other times—like today—she paced the garden path, muttering to herself.
Eliza suspected that was why she and Riya got on so well, and lived together so easily. They spent a great deal of their days in each other’s company, but never imposed on each other’s privacy. Eliza suspected a great many marriages would be vastly improved if they functioned along the same principles. But alas, marriage was one-sided in that regard, and it was all to the husband’s benefit. Men had lives and private interests; women merely waited.
Eliza paused at a rosebush, frowning. The once-glossy green leaves were now a mottled red and yellow. What if…what if…and then… Ah, yes, she had it now!
She spun on her toes and rushed back to her study—John’s study, really, but as he had no current need for it, being absent, she had commandeered it for her own. The room was chilly, as the fire had not yet been lit, but a fresh pot of hot tea was waiting for her.
She settled into the flocked velvet chair and dipped her pen in ink. The words came readily, how wonderful!
And then came a scratch at the door.
“Not now,” Eliza said through gritted teeth.
“But, my lady,” Marie said anxiously. She hovered in the doorway.
“Yes, then, what is it?” Eliza hated to sound peevish when the girl was clearly distressed, but she couldn’t help it. The servants knew not to interrupt her work.
“Sir John sent word last night, after you were already abed. He will arrive this morning.”
Eliza stared at the maid in horror. “Today? My brother is coming today?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Eliza threw down her pen. “Help me,” she pleaded.
“Of course, my lady.”
When Eliza greeted her brother some two hours later, she was every inch the respectable maiden. Her morning dress was a pretty pale blue, her hair was neat and tidy, and doeskin gloves hid her ink-stained fingers. Her favorite pair was still missing a button, but these would suffice until the maid did the mending.
“John! I have missed you.” Which was true. Her brother was the stodgiest man in all London, but he was a dear, and she loved him. She was happy to see him again…so long as he did not stay too long. “But you left London not even a month ago. Why have you returned so soon?”
“Matters of business, nothing for you to worry about. Fortunately, the drive is only two hours, and I can return to Lady Benton tomorrow.” His gaze fell on the novel that sat on the tea table between two wingback chairs. “Lady Anonymous! Eliza, never say you are reading that drivel.”
Eliza opened her mouth, but Riya spoke first. “It’s mine, Sir John. Please do not think ill of me. It is very wicked, but I find it helps me better understand the customs of your land.”
“Ah.” Sir John rocked on his heels, and his frown cleared. “Well, then. That’s all right, I suppose. I must say, for a book of pure lies, it is very real. Why, Lady Anonymous could be writing about any one of us! I can’t point to any man or woman in particular as an exact copy, but the lives and flirtations all seem very familiar somehow. The feelings of it, I mean.”
Eliza twisted her gloved fingers together.
“I like the book for that,” Riya admitted. “Albert and Beatrice seem very real to me, as though they are truly my friends.”
“But that is what makes Lady Anonymous so unseemly,” John said. “She must attend the same balls, the same parties and dinners as we do. She is one of us. She is a lady, and a lady ought to spend her time seeing to her home and family and her husband’s interests, not writing for money.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “If her identity is ever discovered, her family will be shamed.”
“What of the lady who wrote Emma?” Eliza asked. “You liked that one, didn’t you?”
“Ah, but the author did not sign her true name, either,” John said darkly. “And her work is far more genteel.”
Eliza bristled. She took a calming breath, but her stays felt uncomfortably tight. “Then one must consider the likelihood that Lady Anonymous is really a man,” she suggested.
“All would be forgiven, in that case.”
Her brother looked at her expectantly. Ever the gentleman, he would not sit until she sat. Eliza rang for tea and then claimed one of the wingback chairs. Riya claimed the other, and John sat facing them on the sofa.
“How have you been, dear sister? Lady Benton sends her good wishes but hopes you will be persuaded to return with me.”
Eliza laughed. “I am afraid that is impossible, although I miss her company. But Duke Wessex has invited me to his house party in a fortnight’s time.”
“A house party? You know I don’t approve of house parties, Eliza.” John frowned. “Nor do I approve of Duke Wessex. Lord Whistall had some things to say about the du
ke’s behavior. Quite untoward, believe me.”
“Hmm,” Eliza murmured as she poured the tea. “I think it unsporting of Lord Whistall to speak so of Wessex when all of London knows he keeps Mrs. Worthier in an apartment near Hyde Park.”
“Eliza.”
She ignored the sharp rebuke in his tone. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black, you must admit.”
John admitted nothing, but he glowered as he accepted his dish of tea.
“Such an apt expression. I like it. I gather that Lord Whistall is the pot and the duke is the kettle?” Riya asked.
“Just so. It is especially apt in this case, because Wessex is so very much a kettle in all ways. Excessively loud and obnoxious when ignored.”
“Eliza,” John said again, his tone pained this time. “He might be a rake, but he is a duke, and second cousin to the Prince Regent. Show proper respect, if you please.”
Eliza sighed. “Then may I attend his house party, please? As you say yourself, he is a duke, and a powerful one at that. Aunt Mabel will be our chaperone.”
“You can be sure that I won’t let anything untoward happen to my niece,” Aunt Mabel piped up from her usual corner.
John startled badly. “Ah, Aunt Mabel. I did not see you there.”
“And yet, here I am. As always.” Aunt Mabel smiled calmly. “Do let her go, John. London is so dreary in winter.”
John made a sound that might have been agreement. He was very nearly there.
“Lord Abingdon will be there, and he will keep Wessex in line. You like Lord Abingdon,” Eliza added cajolingly.
“He is a good man.” John stirred a lump of sugar into his tea. “Will Colonel Kent be there, as well?”
Eliza furrowed her brow. The colonel had once asked her dear friend Alice—now Lady Abingdon—to marry him. Despite the tension this caused between Abingdon and Colonel Kent, Wessex continued to bring him around. Very likely he would be at the house party. Although, why should her brother care? “Yes, I believe so.”
“Good.” He gave a satisfied nod. “I like him. If he shows any sign of interest, you ought to encourage him.”
The Duke's Wicked Wife Page 2
