by Regina Darcy
“How would you describe it? You go off to Henton for the Christmas ball and come back engaged. You know very well that debutantes have been setting their cap for you for the past two decades or more and you’ve eluded them all. By God, man, you’ve dodged some of the era’s most renowned beauties. And then your heart is stolen by the charms of Lady Theodosia Patten, a woman so independent that not only does she live in rented rooms, but she does not even go by her title and is Miss Patten, if you please. I suppose it was the novelty of that to which you succumbed?”
He had not known, when he met her, that she was Miss Patten by choice and Lady Theodosia by birth. “There was novelty, to be sure, although not regarding her pedigree. I find that one title in a family is sufficient, don’t you? More is likely to be excessive.”
“I can’t say. Georgette is the daughter of an earl, and now she is a duchess. I don’t suppose it signifies to us. But what brought marriage on?”
David shrugged. “Why not marry?”
“You’ve been nagged by everyone from the bettors at White’s window to the Prince Regent himself—although the latter is hardly the best arbiter of who ought to join the married state—to wed. And then you do. I suppose someone must have made a fortune on the bet. Whatever transported you to that decision?’
“Why not?” David repeated.
Their lunches came and David, who had thought upon awakening that morning that he would not desire food for the rest of the day, found that his appetite had returned and he was, in fact, ravenous.
“Oh, I don’t know. There is usually a reason for any marriage and an especially urgent reason when the marriage is conducted in haste. But as not a word of gossip escaped before the wedding was published in the newspapers, I must assume that the speed of the occasion was not engineered by the customary pace of gestation.”
It was impossible to be annoyed with Summersby. He had a fresh and gleeful sense of humour which intended no harm to anyone and was quite delightful. The fact that he frequently utilised humour as a means of expressing what would otherwise have been unsuitable for comment was either intentional on his part or, perhaps, merely coincidental. Knowing the Duke as he did, David suspected that Summersby was entirely aware of the nature of his comments.
“I assure you,” David said, “there is no scandal attached to my marriage.”
“Ah, well, White’s window gamblers will be distraught. There’s a considerable amount of money riding on the prediction of when the little Marquess will arrive.”
David managed to keep his face impassive.
“They shall lose their money,” he said. “And so they should, for betting on matters which are none of their concern. It is one thing to impugn my character, I am no impressionable youth and I can withstand the assertions, but to label my wife with a scurrilous accusation of which she is entirely innocent, that is another matter entirely.”
“As you say,” Summersby said, “it is their money that will be lost to them. When do we get to behold the new Marchioness?”
“Not for a while,” David said. “She has gotten out of the habit of being in society and is in no hurry to return.”
Summersby nodded. “Georgette was the same when we first married. She had been taking care of her invalid mother and sought no outside company. Now that we have our son, of course, she is even more reluctant to be part of the ton. She prefers the countryside.”
“Theodosia is partial to the city, as am I, but she prefers to abstain from social engagements.”
“Are we never to meet her?”
“Eventually,” David promised. Sometime between now and five years from now, he thought.
What would Theodosia think, he wondered after leaving his club, if she knew that her virtue was a subject for betting wags at White’s? Especially since there was absolutely no chance that any of the betting men could ever collect on their wager. The Marchioness was not going to be producing an heir.
But still . . . she did not deserve such misrepresentation. She deserved far better and it was to his shame that he had, by his haste, unknowingly incubated this sorry state of affairs. There must be something he could do to atone for what he had, without intending, brought into being.
Jewellery, of course, he realised and redirected his driver accordingly. Men had been appeasing their consciences with jewellery for millennia. Even though Theodosia had no idea that there was speculation as to whether or not she was carrying an heir, David wanted to make it up to her.
“I’m looking for something in jade,” he informed the jeweller after entering the shop.
“Jade?” the jeweller repeated. “We don’t get much call for that.”
“No? A pity. For nothing else will do. It’s a present for my wife.”
“I’m sure we have something . . . let me look in the back and see what’s there.”
“Thank you, my good man,” David answered gravely, understanding that the jeweller’s answer was part of the ritual of salesmanship. He did not intend to leave without something made of jade.
The jeweller and the Marquess came to an agreement when the former produced a jade necklace set in gold filigree that David knew would perfectly suit Theodosia and complement the hue of her eyes.
David thanked the jeweller, paid him, and gave him to understand that, if another fine piece should come his way, it would be worth his while to contact the Marquess before offering the item to any other customers.
When he returned home, Abbot met him at the door and helped him off with his cloak and hat.
“Is the Marchioness about?” David asked.
“I believe she is in the music room, my lord. May I say, my lord, that it is very pleasant to hear music during the day.”
“I agree, Abbot. She is very talented.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
David went upstairs but did not go first to his own room. He stole silently into Theodosia’s room, where he left the wrapped package containing the necklace on the vanity, then left the room again. The exquisite sounds of the music followed him as he went back down the stairs to his study. Abbot was entirely correct in his observation.
Unaware that her music was being enjoyed by anyone but herself, Theodosia reluctantly rose from the bench and returned to her bedroom in order to dress for supper. She spotted the package on her vanity immediately. There was no name on the package, but it could only have come from David. Curious, she pulled the ribbons opened and opened the box. Then she gasped.
The necklace was beautiful. She took it out of the box and held it up to her neck, then looked in the mirror. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned. None of her garments, except for the dress she had worn on her wedding, did it justice and she did not feel that she could don that gown just to sit down to supper.
But the necklace demanded something more than her usual attire. She had no choice; she had to wear the dress.
David rose from the dining table as the door to the dining room opened to admit her. She could tell by the expression in his eyes that she had made the right decision.
“Theodosia . . . “
He waved Abbot away as he pulled her chair out so that she could be seated.
“I feel quite shabby next to you,” he said. His gaze lingered over the necklace resting upon her ivory skin, just above the swell of her bosom.
“Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes at the expression she saw in his. She tried to make light of the moment. “The necklace is lovely. Have I somehow mistaken my days and it is Christmas?”
David smiled. “Your calendar is correct. I saw the necklace and remarked upon the stone and the colour of your eyes. How could I pass it by?”
He began to carve the mutton, his motions smooth as they always were, offering her the platter to choose her portion before he served himself.
Mrs Morris emboldened to experiment with new recipes now that there was a mistress who encouraged such innovation, had created a dish of potatoes and walnuts which was particularly ta
sty, although David’s brows rose when he first beheld it. “And to think that I believed Mrs Morris lacking in imagination,” he murmured after Abbot had left the room. “I am almost sorry that I gave the staff the holiday off; I should marvel at what she might have prepared.”
“I think that we may assume that she will do you proud when you invite one of your explorers from the Royal Geographic Society to dine with us some time. I read in the newspaper that Captain Emory Vanderlight is giving a talk at the Society early in January, to discuss his voyages to the Pacific Islands. I wonder if we might invite him to dine with us?”
David was impressed that she had taken note of the article. “I think we might,” he said with a smile. “And perhaps a member or two from the Society as well? There is talk of launching another voyage next year or the year after. Such ventures require backers. A dinner might well be a way to initiate the project.”
“If you will invite Captain Vanderlight to join us for supper, I will alert Mrs Morris that we are to have guests in the new year. It will provide her with time to concoct new dishes.”
“Not too new,” David warned with mock alarm. “I am sure that even the most doughty of mariners must relish a substantial meal after months at sea eating what I am sure must be rather loathsome fare.”
“Mrs Morris is convinced that they are accustomed to shrunken heads and cannibalism.”
“I shall endeavour to ask the fellow,” David joked. “And you may relay the information to Mrs Morris. I must say, Theodosia, that you look ravishing. That dress . . .I noticed how lovely you looked when you first wore it,” he said quickly, lest she think he had been wool-gathering during the wedding. “But tonight, it is especially splendid. You really must waste no time in going to the shops. There is still time before Christmas to do so.”
Tabitha had been urging her to the same errand, but Theodosia had been spending much of her days in what was to become the music room, and her decorating efforts had been focused there.
“I shall see to it this week,” she promised.
“Excellent. It is our patriotic duty to instil in our British explorers an appreciation of the beauty of our English women,” he said, adopting a deliberately pompous tone.
Theodosia was unused to compliments and lowered her head. At first, David thought that he offended her, but then he detected the slow rise of a blush in her cheeks.
“My dear wife,” he said, “you are a beautiful woman. May I say that those callow youths who failed to appreciate your charms during your seasons have made me a lucky man?”
Why was he so generous in his praise, Theodosia wondered, when the ultimate plan was to have a marriage that was only a five-year business arrangement? It made no sense.
“David,” she said as she looked up, “I know why you have not married until now and why you have no wish to sire children.”
He was not expecting this revelation.
“Last night,” she went on.
“When I was in my cups,” David groaned. “I see.” He exhaled slowly, aware that this required an introduction into a level of candour which he had not expected to witness in his marriage.
“Yes, it’s true. It sounds rather pathetic, I suppose. A grown man, lamenting the indifference of his father, and vowing that he would never repeat the deed.”
“It doesn’t sound pathetic,” she replied, her eyes radiating compassion. “It must have been very hurtful.”
“It’s in the past,” he said smoothly. “We need speak no more of it. But as it has been brought up, you owe me a disclosure which matches it. Why, after Lord Bantry behaved so shamefully, did you not take your place again among society? You were entitled to be there; your breeding and your name were all that you required.”
“I thought it for the best,” she answered, looking uncomfortable, about whatever she was about to disclose.
“Why tempt myself with what I could not have and could not enjoy? I was sure my heart was broken. I know now that it was but my pride which was damaged. I ought to have known,” she admitted lowering her gaze.
“He kissed me once.” The admission was but a whisper and a delicate blush dusted her cheeks. David was entranced.
“Oh, I know it is not proper and I ought not to have allowed it, but I was five-and-twenty and I thought I ought to experience what young women, wives well upon the age that I was then, knew as a matter of course. So I let him kiss me.”
“And?” The question came out as more of growl.
For some unknown reason, David was overwhelmed with jealousy. He would have loved to be her first.
He held his breath as he waited for her answer.
“It was most unappealing,” she replied honestly.
“That memory can be easily remedied,” David said, speaking slowly because emotions and feelings which he had thought long since past were welling up inside him. He put down his knife and fork, pulled back his chair and strode towards her.
“Theodosia . . . ,” he whispered leaning forward.
He framed her face within his hands, brushing aside a lock of hair that was threatening to escape her chignon.
Her skin was marvellously soft and he ran his thumbs across her cheeks, delighting in the silken texture. Her breathing grew faster; the necklace at her throat rose and fell with the heightened pace.
To her surprise, he did not kiss her lips right away. He rubbed his nose against hers in a gesture of pure affection rather than passion. The act was disarming and as she opened her mouth in a smile, David leaned closer and pressed his lips upon hers. Startled, engaged, and attracted all at once in a flurry of bewildering sensations, Theodosia tilted her head and responded in a way she had not done when Lord Bantry had kissed her.
What she was feeling now had nothing to do with the disagreeableness that Lord Bantry’s clumsy kiss had inspired.
No, this kiss was breath-taking. The kind of kiss that could steal a woman’s heart.
NINE
David knew that he was courting emotional disaster. What had seemed, at first, to be no more than a reasonable, if unorthodox, solution to the matter of his prolonged bachelorhood was now becoming a tangled web of conflicting responses.
The kiss the night before left him as confused as if he were an innocent schoolgirl out for her first season, he told himself angrily. The kiss had been too perfect for a man who was accustomed to layering his feelings in a mask of insouciance. When their lips parted, he had forced himself to ask, in a jocular fashion, if this kiss had been successful in cancelling the memory of that other one.
Theodosia, equally shaken and uncertain, had replied that it had.
David had then gone on to talk of other things and the potential for trouble passed. After the meal, he excused himself, saying that he had business which he had neglected and he had gone to his study. Theodosia, in a swirl of uncertainty about what had happened, had returned to the music room for solace. As he sat in his study, staring into the candle flame but ignoring the brandy decanter on his desk, David could hear the music she played. No delicate, mournful strains this time, but rich and powerful notes that invaded his study and reminded him that he had very nearly succumbed to a passionate interlude with a wife he must not dare to love.
He left the next morning, as was his habit, lunching at his club, as always. Before leaving for the day, he had asked Abbot to extend his regrets that he must be off and could not share breakfast with the Marchioness. At his club, there were fewer members present, as more and more of London’s gentry were en route to their country estates in preparation for the Christmas season, and he was able to lunch in solitude. But that meant that instead of being diverted by conversation with anothers, he was tantalised by thoughts of Theodosia: the innocent seductive flavour of her skin against his, the sincere ardour of her kiss, the light, delicate scent of her perfume. Instead of going, as he had planned, to the Royal Geographic Society to meet with members to discuss the forthcoming year’s lectures, David found himself shopping. He went to a con
fectioner’s shop where he purchased exquisite looking French chocolates for her, then found his way to a bookseller and bought a biography of Mozart and a volume of sacred music. Inevitably, he ended up at the jeweller’s shop.
“I trust,” said the jeweller, eyeing his customer with a perplexed frown, “that your purchase met with the lady’s approval?”
“It did,” David said. “I am looking for something else.”
“She is a very fortunate lady.”
“She is my wife.”
“I see,” the jeweller said. He sounded surprised. Perhaps husbands bought jewellery for their mistresses rather than their wives. David didn’t know. He chose a pin; it was also gold, with a musical note crafted in onyx. It was fanciful, perhaps, but it caught his attention and he thought she would like it.
Even as he purchased these gifts, he was engaged in a monumental struggle to resist what he felt.
He returned to his club after he had finished shopping, determined to remain there until night. He would not be home to join her for supper and he would, somehow, overcome these rogue feelings. It was too much like a stage comedy, he thought miserably as he stared at the newspaper in front of him without reading a single word: the husband who falls in love with the wife he does not intend to keep. It was suitable for Sheridan or others of his ilk. To experience it in real life was absurd.
Theodosia was disappointed that her husband had not joined her for breakfast, but she was still buoyed by the episode of the night before, when their kiss indicated hope that they might enter a new phase of intimacy in their arrangement. An intimacy she now realised she would welcome with open arms.
What could she do, she wondered, to show her feelings for her husband without embarrassing him with an outpouring of sentiment?
She pondered the matter at some length and then it came to her. She could cook for him. When she told Mrs Morris that she wished to do so, at first the cook was concerned that the master and mistress didn’t like her latest offerings, but Theodosia convinced her that that was far from true; in fact, Theodosia elaborated, they were planning to invite members of the Royal Geographic Society in the New Year, thanks to the prowess she had displayed.
