“I’m going out,” Jeremiah said. “Maybe I’ll run into an heiress who has a use for a man who’s charming, witty, intelligent, handsome, kind to children and animals, and,”—he opened the door—“patient with the elderly.”
He closed the door just as a soft thud sounded against the other side, proving he was not a useless cipher after all. If Mama was back to throwing her slippers—a behavior she’d eschewed under Lady Edith’s watch—then Jeremiah had at least cheered up his mother.
Though if she were to hire another pretty, soft-spoken, endlessly agreeable companion, that would cheer Jeremiah up a bit too.
Edith’s afternoon had taken on the quality of a fairytale. She beheld an entirely naked, very well made lover in a frankly aroused state, and that lover was climbing into bed with her. While the part of her brought up to be a pattern card of feminine decorum admitted to a touch of consternation—His Grace of Emory could rebuke the sovereign with little more than a raised eyebrow—the rest of Edith rejoiced.
Poverty was lonely and uncomfortable. A lady fallen on hard times became invisible to those who could help her, and all too obvious to those who’d mock her. Thaddeus offered a respite, a place and time set apart from life’s frustrations, and he offered her the pleasure of his intimate company.
“Come here,” he said, settling on his back and raising an arm. “We must deal with the bow and curtsey.”
Edith snuggled against his side. “I beg your pardon?”
“The part where I admit I don’t know everything about pleasing a lady, though I have, through diligent study, learned that if a woman is asked, she will often tell me when I’m on the right path—and when I’m not. In the latter event, or even in the former, please don’t wait to be asked.”
If this bow and curtsey was part of intimate protocol, then Edith’s education in frolicking had heretofore been neglected. Her previous experiences hadn’t included much in the way of such consideration other than, “Hold still,” “Hush, for the love of God,” and, “Thanks, pet. Hope you don’t mind that I nodded off for a bit.”
“You are on the right path,” she said, tracing the muscles of Emory’s chest. “If I’m not batting at your hands, yanking on your hair, or telling you to for pity’s sake give me room to breathe, you’re on the right path.”
He drew a pin from her hair. “Somebody has not acquitted himself according to the standard to which you, or any female, is entitled.” More pins followed the first, forming a pile on the bedside table, until Edith’s braid came loose. “I have a theory,” Emory went on, “that decent women are kept in sexual ignorance so men might wallow in blissful selfishness, but my theory does not comport with available observations.”
Such talk, full of long, prosy sentences, and long, lofty words, inspired Edith to wrap her hand around another long, impressive display.
“What observations are those?” she asked.
“A moment, if you please. My speaking powers are overwhelmed by my gratitude. Do that again.”
She stroked him with a slow, loose grip. “About your observations?”
“I haven’t any, other than to observe that your touch is divine.”
“Focus, Emory. You believe a woman’s sexual ignorance allows men to be selfish, but something contradicts your theory.” What a delight, to talk in bed and tease a lover.
“If all I wanted was to spend,” he said, moving his hips in counterpoint to her hand, “I could and do afford myself that pleasure regularly. If what I want is more than simple animal gratification, then pleasing my lover can only… increase…. my own… satisfaction.”
In the next instant, Edith was on her back, a naked duke draped over her.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” His kisses began softly, a buss to her check, a ticklish nuzzle along her jaw. The Duke of Emory had a playful streak—and so did Edith. She kissed him back, until flirtatious fencing became dueling in earnest.
When he broke the kiss, they were both panting. “Edith, at the risk of being precipitous…”
She wrapped her hand around him again. “Now would be wonderful. Right here,”—she scooted her hips—“and right this very moment.”
Silence spread, the quiet all the more profound for the banter and wrestling that had preceded it. Emory moved slowly, his rhythm perfectly designed to shift the mood from lusty to intimately precious.
A thread of sadness wove its way past Edith’s growing desire. This interlude was stolen against loneliness, worry, and despair, and Edith would not have traded it for all the creature comforts in the world. Still, she could long for more. Emory spoke of being welcome in her bed again, but Edith could not afford to develop expectations where he was concerned.
“Why the sigh?” he whispered, pausing to kiss her brow.
“I’m happy.” Part of the truth.
“Let’s see if we can make you happier.”
He did, oh, he did. The diabolical wretch inspired such an explosion of pleasure that she cried out, clinging to him and wringing the last drop of satisfaction from him, only to lie spent as he withdrew and finished on her belly.
The bliss of gratification was all encompassing, chasing away every regret and doubt Edith had ever claimed. If she’d kept her post as a companion, she could not have had this moment, Emory drowsing in her arms while she sketched the petals of an iris on his back. If she had remained in his mother’s employ, the distance between her and Emory would have been unbridgeable, the swift currents of propriety and differing stations ever separating them.
“Being a well mannered mastodon,” Emory said, “I will make use of that handkerchief, if you’ll pass it to me.”
Edith obliged, resenting the intrusion of practicality even as she appreciated Emory’s lack of pretension. He was brisk and thorough about the tidying up, and when she expected him to be just as brisk about donning his clothing, he instead pitched the linen in the direction of his boots and rolled to his side.
“Let’s move on to the truly decadent portion of the program,” he said, pulling Edith into the curve of his body. “Let’s have a nap, shall we?”
He had the knack of cuddling without smothering, of being warm but not hot, of keeping a moment light without shading into frivolity. He was, in short, the fairytale lover of Edith’s dreams, and she was going to miss him for the rest of her life.
Thaddeus drifted off on a rose-scented breeze. For the rest of his life, the simple, profound, mysterious delight of making love with Edith Charbonneau, soon to be Edith, Her Grace of Emory, was to be his. That great gift made up for all the slanderous books anybody could ever write about him or his progeny.
Edith was a passionate, inventive, demanding lover, and Thaddeus was honestly, blissfully worn out. Withdrawing had been a habit, and thank God for that. If Edith wanted a lengthy engagement, Thaddeus would oblige with good grace, provided the engagement wasn’t celibate.
His nap was short and deep, as if his soul knew he’d at last found his way into the right bed. Edith, by contrast, slumbered on, allowing him the smug pleasure of concluding he’d loved her to exhaustion.
And, true to mastodon form, he was hungry again. They’d shared one meal on the back porch and another in the parlor. Why not bring his lady a snack in bed?
Thaddeus eased from the covers and donned shirt and breeches in silence. Edith stirred sleepily, a fetching picture amid the pillows. Her braid had come loose, a golden skein curling past her shoulder, and one rosy breast peeking from beneath the quilt.
“Food,” he muttered. “Sustenance. Allow the lady to keep up her strength. We aren’t all mastodons.”
The notion of rearing a herd of little mastodons and mastodonesses with Edith cheered him as he made his way to the kitchen and retrieved a glass of lemonade, an orange, and two pieces of shortbread. He passed Edith’s desk, where her work in progress had clearly occupied her prior to his arrival.
He didn’t think to peek, though she’d mentioned discussing the project with him. His intent was to
leave her a note, a small expression of fondness for her to find after he’d left, though fondness was putting the situation mildly. Thaddeus finally understood all the friends who’d become distracted, smiling, oddly quiet creatures upon the occasion of taking a spouse.
“They are happy, those fellows. I suspect their wives are too.” He set the food on the edge of the desk and took the chair. He was so far gone on newfound dreams of connubial joy that he was even pleased to be sitting in the very chair where Edith sat.
“Daft,” he said, taking a bite of a shortbread. “But happy. A fair trade.”
He reached for a sheet of foolscap, though Edith’s manuscript sat just to his left. Her penmanship was all that a lady’s should be, graceful, legible, and without a blot or correction.
He didn’t mean to peek, truly he didn’t, and yet…
Dear reader, if you assume the escapades of the Duke of Amorous were sufficient to fill only one volume, I must respectfully inform you that you are in error. His Grace’s peccadillos are more interesting and numerous than you have been led to believe. That revelation astounds the imagination, I know, but read on and be amazed….
The shortbread turned to ashes in Thaddeus’s mouth. He absolutely was astounded, at his own stupidity. His own gullibility. His own…
“The mastodon became extinct, probably because he was no smarter than I have been.”
Thaddeus could not bring himself to read on, and before he could retrieve the rest of his clothes from the bedroom he needed time to marshal his wits. He rose from the chair, feeling unclean, furious, and…
Determined, by God. The word took on new meaning, in fact. Perhaps Lady Edith had been determined to extract the last ounce of revenge upon his family for some slight from Mama, perhaps her ladyship was angry at all of polite society. Not by word or deed would Thaddeus gratify her petty maneuvers with an opportunity to fling her excuses in his face.
He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, to set aside hurt feelings and shame. He returned the rest of the food to the kitchen for his appetite had been replaced by nausea. Logic came to his aid, and a plan began to take shape. If Lady Edith thought she could destroy the reputation of a duke, well, she’d tilted at that windmill, and Thaddeus was still standing. She’d failed to account for the fact that, much more easily than a duke could be brought low by undeserved defamation, he could push an impoverished schemer into utter ruin merely by airing the truth.
First, he would depart the premises without disclosing what he’d learned.
Second, he would have a word with Mama, and through her vast network of gossips, he’d put the truth of Lady Edith’s perfidy before all of polite society.
Third, he’d offer her ladyship a small sum in exchange for the rights to her scribblings and a promise that she’d quit the metropolis, never to return.
Fourth, he’d get quietly drunk and try to forgive himself for having trusted her.
When he returned to the bedroom, he found the author of his troubles still asleep, the picture of feminine innocence. He tucked the covers up around her, because the sight of her dreaming so peacefully exacerbated his temper.
How dare she? He dressed quickly and quietly, seething all the while. He’d provided her a home and a livelihood for months, and she’d thanked him by turning her back on his family, then penning a pack of misrepresentations and exaggerations. The nerve, the unmitigated hubris, the sheer, unpardonable…
He’d just finished tying his cravat when he realized Edith watched him from the bed.
“Must you go?” she asked, sitting up. “I know better than to ask that. You’re a busy man, but I wish you could tarry longer.”
So she could snack on the remnants of his dignity? Thaddeus pulled the knot in his linen snug and smiled at her over his shoulder.
“Alas, I must leave, my lady. I wish I had no cause to abandon you, but I am compelled by the duties of my station to quit the premises. You needn’t see me out.” He didn’t want her hands on him, didn’t want to see her unclothed, didn’t want to acknowledge what a great, pathetic fool he’d been.
She fished her chemise from beneath the covers and slipped it over her head. Thaddeus fiddled with his sleeve buttons rather than gawk at what he should never have seen.
“I’ll at least kiss you farewell,” she said. “This interlude was an unexpected pleasure. I hope you have no regrets?”
Oh, he had regrets. He regretted not trusting his first instincts where she was concerned, he regretted that she was so much that he could esteem and everything he abhorred. He regretted ever welcoming her into his household.
“Regrets are so tedious,” he said, consulting his watch. “If you have regrets, I hope they won’t trouble you for long.” Three or four eternities should be sufficient, provided they were spent in a purgatory of unrelenting opprobrium.
She left the bed and drew on a dressing gown that had been draped over the footboard. “I have no regrets. None at all.”
She snuggled up against him, and he nearly embraced her out of… what? Stupidity? Reflex?
“I really must be going,” he said. “Duty calls and all that.” He sounded like Jeremiah, sidling away from responsibility while pretending to move briskly toward it, though getting free of Lady Edith’s company had become imperative. She wasn’t acting guilty, she wasn’t acting smug.
She seemed sad to him, but that had to be more of her deceptive nature on display.
“Then be off,” she said, smiling up at him. “I have work to do, and I’m sure you have appointments to keep.”
He braced himself to endure a kiss on the mouth, but she instead kissed his cheek and lingered near for a moment, then stepped back. His escape was apparently to be successful, no shouting, no accusations, no disclosing his intentions where she was concerned, no… anything.
“Good-bye,” she said, gathering the dressing gown around herself.
The bed was rumpled behind her, her feet were bare, and her braid was coming undone. Nonetheless, her bearing was dignified, and that—the quality of her silence, the calm in her gaze—vexed Thaddeus into nearly blurting out what he’d found.
He bowed without taking her hand. “Good-bye.” By sheer force of will, he made his way down the steps and out the front door, pausing only to collect his hat, gloves, and walking stick. He kept marching, no looking back, no last glance over his shoulder to see if the lady watched him depart.
He’d been a fool. Women had been making fools of men since the dawn of history. Perhaps somebody should write a book about that, about all the times men had been led astray by…
His steps slowed as he approached the corner. He did steal a glance at the tired, humble dwelling where he’d left a piece of his heart and all of his delusions. Lady Edith stood in the window of the upper story, a pale figure who didn’t look to be gloating. She dabbed at her cheek with the edge of a shawl, the quality of the gesture suggesting that Thaddeus had, in fact, left her in tears.
She moved away from the window, and he stepped off the walkway, nearly getting himself run over by a stylish phaeton pulled by matching bays.
“I have the best news, Edie!” Foster took her by the hand and waltzed with her around the parlor before he’d even removed his top hat. “The very, very best. Behold,”—he stopped mid-twirl and swooped a graceful bow—“the next playwright-in-residence at the Maloney Lane Theater.”
Joy made a good effort to push aside Edith’s sorrow. “Playwright-in-residence? They will produce your work?”
“My works—plural.” Foster doffed his hat and caught it on the handle of his walking stick. “Three plays a year for the next two years. I am to contribute farces and interludes for other major productions, and I have a say on what those productions might be. My duties will be endless. I’m to assist with casting, find sponsors, monitor the directors, consult on the costumes…” He executed a double pirouette and then dipped another bow.
“I have work for you, Edie. Stitching costumes, assisting wit
h stage direction, choosing the props, writing the playbills. I told the committee that my sister is my muse, and I must have your inspiration to call upon. They were shocked, you being a lady and all, but that bunch enjoys shaking things up. Witness,”—more twirling ending in a leap—“they hired me.”
He landed in a kneeling positions as lightly as a breeze-borne leaf in the center of the hearthrug. “Say you’re pleased, dearest Edie. I know the theater isn’t quite proper, and you’d rather I become a famous author, but my heart’s with the stage.”
He rose and dusted himself off, as Edith must dust herself off.
“I am so pleased, and so proud of you, Foster. I don’t know what to say. You have accomplished the impossible with nothing to aid you but determination and providence.”
“Not so.” He tossed his hat through the doorway, so his millinery came to rest on the sideboard. “I had your faith in me, I had your careful eye reading all of my rough drafts. I had you to cheer me on when the larger houses turned up their noses and told me my work was hopeless. I had the knowledge that you were proud of me simply because I’m too stubborn to give up. All those years of bouncing through the homes of cousins and aunties, you took up for me. You refused to be separated from me and I am gloriously happy to be able to repay a small portion of your loyalty now.”
He looked gloriously happy, and well he should. “I knew that if you knocked on the right doors with the right material, your talent would win the day. I am beyond elated for you.” Though the prospect of working in a theater… that was another step away from the expectations of a lady.
More like a grand leap in the opposite direction, but not necessarily in the wrong direction. A woman had to eat, though she did not live by bread alone.
“There’s more, Edie. I haven’t occupied myself entirely with peddling my plays, you know.”
If he announced that he was taking a wife, she would… be happy for him, right after she ran back upstairs and indulged in another bout of useless tears.
How to Ruin a Duke: A Novella Duet Page 22
