“This pamphlet makes for interesting reading. A treasonous diatribe is what I guess Roxton would brand it as it attacks all he holds dear in the world: King, country, the English sense of justice to its subjects, or to the writer of this pamphlet’s mind injustice, and not least the Duke’s exulted unquestioning position in society. What I think, and I am not going to shock you because I believe you have a logical and sharp mind inside that pretty shell of yours, that Common Sense has a point and the English have a case to answer. I mean how can you argue against the notion of no taxation without representation?” He glanced up the length of the monument on which he was reclining and then leaned in to Antonia to whisper, “Monseigneur would be none too happy to hear me challenge this well-ordered world of his, now would he?”
“Oh, do not worry, M’sieur,” Antonia said sweetly, the dimple reappearing. “Monseigneur he did not care a fig for one side or the other in any argument; there was only his side. That way there was never any disagreements, treasonous or otherwise. It is expedient, yes?”
Jonathon burst out laughing and it reverberated around the cavernous space. “Expedient? Damned insufferable belike! Egad! He and I would have had some interesting discussions!”
“And you, M’sieur, would have had to concede!” Antonia teased him.
Jonathon drank his wine. He smiled into her green eyes, so luminescent and enticing whenever she mentioned her Monseigneur, and nodded slowly. He was philosophical. “Yes, I believe I would have.”
They consumed the rest of their cold collation in companionable silence and when done, Jonathon tidied away the remainders into the satchel and put it aside, making space for them to bed down for the night under the plinth where the soft glow of the candles illuminated part of the marble frieze of grieving Greek Gods. While he fossicked about Antonia sat on the bench and combed her hair free of tangles. She started to braid but her wrists were too weak and she gave up the attempt just as Jonathon sat beside her. He turned her to face away from him and with permission pulled the weight of her curls over her shoulders and proceeded to quickly and deftly plait the thick hair into a long intricate braid. Having no riband he teased out several strands and with these made a very thin braid that he then used to secure the ends. Antonia inspected his handiwork and was so pleased with the result that she smiled up at him with genuine affection and squeezed his hand in thanks. It was all the encouragement he needed to raise her hand to his lips and kiss her fingers. He knew at once he had overstepped the mark when she blushed scarlet and turned away to fuss with the shawl. He could have cursed himself for dropping his guard.
As if to heavily underscore his impetuosity there was a great crack of thunder followed by a heavy downpour and a blast of icy wind that rattled the iron gates and flung wide one of the entrance doors. Jonathon secured the gates and the doors, thinking with a crooked smile that if he believed in ghosts he would reckon that the sudden display of violent weather, the rattling of gates and the swinging door was not a random weather event but M’sieur le Duc venting his fury in warning not to take liberties with his duchess. He did not believe in ghosts but was willing to respect M’sieur le Duc’s wishes here in this his final resting place. Beyond the mausoleum doors, however, he would disregard the Duke’s wishes, supernatural or otherwise, for he believed in fate and his fate was inexplicably entwined with this beautiful dainty creature he now coaxed to snuggle up to him or catch pneumonia.
“Here under the coat,” he stated placidly, back up against the marble plinth, the left panel of his frockcoat opened wide in invitation. “We will be doing each other a service ensuring the other does not spend the night frozen.” When she hesitated he patiently waited, expression neutral. “I am a walking hot brick. Sarah-Jane will tell you so.”
This made her smile and she accepted his invitation and tentatively sat beside him. He was not exaggerating. His body radiated warmth and she soon snuggled in, head against his chest, curves pressed to the hard long line of him, a hand clutched to the front of his white shirt as if needing anchorage. He closed the frockcoat over her, drew the woolen shawl across them both and put his arm about her as if it was the most natural and mundane activity in the world. He just prayed his increased heart rate did not give away the glaringly obvious truths that he was acutely aware of the softness of her, that the natural scent of her skin was all consuming, and falling asleep with her in his arms naked was the second most sought-after activity he was utterly determined to share with her.
“Tell me about India,” she said sleepily. “Tell me about your life there.”
“A bedtime story?”
“Yes. A bedtime story... About you and your long braid and swimming with Sarah-Jane under a hot sun...”
“It would be my very great pleasure, Mme la duchesse.”
“Shall we have nuncheon in the pavilion today?”
Antonia did not look up from the sheaf of papers in her lap.
Jonathon let her read on, content to watch. He decided he could watch her all day: how, when she giggled, she put a hand to her mouth; that a tendril of fair hair having escaped from the heavy knot coiled at her nape would, every so often, annoy her and she would brush it from her cheek or absently twirl it round a finger; that when she was greatly amused her shoulders shook with silent mirth; that in her company he felt supremely peaceful. Finally she glanced up, green eyes full of humor, as if his voice if not the question had finally registered and he quickly looked away, feeling the heat in his face for studying her so intently. But she was so caught up in her reading that his preoccupation went unnoticed and as he merely grinned idiotically and chomped into his apple, she returned to reading.
They were at opposite ends of a small rowing boat. A bamboo handled parasol of Chinese painted silk secured to the bow shaded Antonia from the sun. Her knees were drawn up slightly to provide a makeshift lectern for ease of reading, the layers of light Indian cotton petticoats spread about her, hiding her stockinged feet that rested on a tapestry cushion, mules kicked off long ago. Back supported by a scatter of cushions, Jonathon was likewise situated in the stern; left arm behind his head, resting on the cushion at his back, long legs sprawled out down the bowside, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. He was decidedly in undress, without cravat, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, waistcoat removed before the oar blades had touched water. His frockcoat was up at the pavilion.
He was enjoying being idle. He was enjoying more admiring Antonia against the backdrop of a pale blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds, sunshine sparkling through swaying willow branches and twinkling on the peaks of little ripples made by a family of ducks that paddled between the shore and the boat, the eight ducklings paddling in a higgledy-piggledy line as fast as their tiny feet would go to keep up with their parents. It was a perfect spring day and such a change from the formidable weather of a week ago.
Jonathon had nothing more pressing to do with his time than lie back and admire the view. There was no one to tell him what he should do, or must do, or what was expected of him or what he would be required to do once his ancient relative finally breathed his last. Here, with her, he was Jonathon Strang, East India merchant returned from the subcontinent. A self-made man who didn’t give a snap of his fingers for the societal dictates of the class into which he was being thrust. He was so nauseatingly wealthy that despite her father smelling of the shop, Sarah-Jane was accepted in every elegant drawing room and an unwanted consequence was the dowagers who tripped over their pampered pooches in their haste to have their unmarried daughters up before him for inspection. What was more startling, these young misses were more than willing to throw themselves at him in the hopes he would choose one of them to marry.
But with her, with Antonia, he could be himself and, regretfully, there seemed very little chance of her throwing herself at him.
So if you are being yourself, the merchant prince returned, what about the house? his business brain rudely reminded him. What about your plans to reacquire the Elizabethan ho
use she now occupies?
He caught glimpses of the second floor mullioned windows and quaintly turned chimneystacks through the swaying willow branches as they drifted on the lake and paused mid-chomp and frowned.
What of your great-grandfather Edmund Strang-Leven who was cheated out of his inheritance by this family? persisted his business brain. Isn’t that why you’re here and not in Buckinghamshire? Isn’t that the reason you’ve invested so much time in her? You’ve managed to retrieve part of your stolen inheritance: the mansion in Hanover Square. You’re almost there. Don’t lose sight of what’s important. What your father dreamed of regaining; remember your prime objective!
Don’t listen to him, what does he know? countered his heart. He’s helped you amass wealth, capitalize on a multitude of business opportunities, taken you all over the subcontinent to some fascinating places and to meet interesting people, but he didn’t bring you back here to this cold wet island. You’d not have come if you’d listened to him. You’d have stayed in India where you belong. It’s not objectives but family that made you leave your life behind. I brought you here, obligation and doing what’s right and good, not what’s profitable, that’s why you’re in England. And if you are truly honest with yourself, you’ve not listened to me since Emily died. I’ve been ignored and neglected for so long now that you don’t know love when it’s staring you between the eyes. And I’m not talking about the love you have for your daughter. That’s different. This is different. But you’re listening to me now, aren’t you, because two minutes in Antonia Roxton’s company and it was goodbye Business Brain!
But it was me who saw her first, argued his most vital organ. Those two minutes were mine, and every night since then has been sleepless for both of us, me waking him up, stiff as a board, wanting to make love to her, imagining her enjoying me, and then you had to get in the way, Heart. You took away my self-assurance, made me doubt myself, wonder if such a woman would be at all interested in me as a lover when she was married to an arrogant so-and-so who could get it up and keep it up in sub-arctic conditions if that’s what it took to satisfy her! And now I can’t make good on the promise with Business Brain to seduce her, take the house and move on. I’m the one suffering the most here! When was the last time I had any attention? India! That’s when.
As if you have anything to truly complain about, argued Heart. It’s been fifteen years in the wilderness for me!
What sentimental clap-trap, Heart! Business Brain said dismissively. And you, Vital Organ, you’re just having a panic attack because it’s been awhile since you’ve been inside a woman. Vital organs have crises of confidence from time to time. It’s perfectly natural. It’s nothing to do with this woman. There are plenty of beautiful women only too willing to pay you attention, straddle you, invite you in. What you need is a visit to that high-class bordello Tommy told you about; give yourself a good long work out between a pair of luscious thighs and you’ll be back to your confident self.
You just don’t grasp what’s going on here, do you, Business Brain? Heart and Vital Organ replied in unison. Listen. It’s different this time. She is different. We are different. Everything is different. None of us are ever going to be the same again.
Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’m hungry, growled Stomach. You’d think he’d know by now that one apple barely constitutes sustenance! And if we don’t eat soon I guarantee that all of us are going to suffer.
“Oh God,” Jonathon uttered, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, suddenly ill.
He pitched the apple core out across the glassy surface of the still lake and watched it go plonk and disappear, annoyed he had allowed his thoughts, or was it his organs, to take an unexpectedly melancholy and thoroughly introspective turn on such a glorious day and in the company of this most delightful companion. He slumped down in the boat, thinking that perhaps ten minutes shuteye might settle his organs and restore his equilibrium, but in so doing caught his stockinged foot in the layers of Antonia’s petticoats and disturbed her reading.
“Pardonnez-moi, Mme la duchesse,” he muttered and went to sit up but she stayed him with a hand to his foot tangled in her petticoats.
“I want to read on, but you must be hungry so we will have nuncheon first. In the pavilion, yes?” she said, the laughter still in her eyes, making Jonathon wonder if she had heard his tummy grumble and his thoughts as well. “I want to discuss this play with you very much, but perhaps I will wait until I have read the entire script.”
“What scene have you just finished reading?”
“Scene two of act four; it is where Sir Oliver he is chatting with Moses about Charles’ extravagance.”
“But he would not sell my picture!” quoted Jonathon, dramatically mimicking what he supposed would be a creditable Sir Oliver Surface. “Our young rake has parted with his ancestors like old tapestry, but he would not sell my picture!”
Antonia laughed at his paraphrasing. “And he was so impressed was he not, Sir Oliver, that he means to pay all Charles’ debts!” She straightened her legs, wiggled her toes and also slumped against the cushions, arms spread out across the sides of the boat, adding with a smile, “How did you manage to get M’sieur Sheridan to part with his script?”
“I didn’t. This is a copy. Had it transcribed while I was up in London. Dick Sheridan wasn’t too keen. And I understand his reticence. The play has yet to be performed and he still might make changes to it. But when I told him who I wanted the copy for, he couldn’t give his play to my scribe quick enough!”
“You told him it was for me?” Antonia was surprised and mystified.
Her puzzlement had Jonathon shaking his head in disbelief. “Now, Mme la duchesse, don’t pretend to be so taken aback. There must be hundreds if not many hundreds of would be playwrights, poets and novel hacks seeking the patronage of the Duchess of Roxton. One word from you would sell every copy of a book, all the seats in a theater; make a man’s fortune overnight!”
“Yes. But that one word from me could also ruin a hopeful scribbler, vous comprenez? Not that I would do such a wicked thing.”
Jonathon wiggled her toe playfully. “You could never be wicked...” He smiled crookedly. “Well, not in a bad way... I’m glad you approve of Dick’s School for Scandal,” he continued blandly when she looked away, out across the water, giving him a view of her lovely profile, before looking down at the script in her lap. “The lad has talent, and this play will prove it to the doubters once and for all time. I’ve not laughed so hard in a long while. I never did see The Rivals performed but reading the script and the antics of Sir Lucius O’Trigger and Sir Antony Absolute were enough for me to invest a considerable sum in his venture to manage Drury Lane theater. I’ve procured a box for opening night...” He wiggled her toe again and this time took hold of her foot, saying when she met his gaze, “He thinks there is only going to be an opening night and no nights to follow. I say that’s a great pile of elephant dung. He’s being over-modest and to prove him wrong I’ve given my word to underwrite the entire night’s takings should he have a repeat of the disastrous opening night of The Rivals. But that’s not going to happen. And for two good reasons...”
“Yes? I see that you are bursting to tell me,” Antonia playfully taunted him when he hesitated and looked suddenly serious. “What are these two good reasons?”
But he wasn’t bursting to tell her, he was unexpectedly nervous because he feared rejection when he revealed what he had promised the playwright. At the time it had been a boast, a moment of hubris, but now sitting across from her in a small boat, her foot comfortably in his hand, she smiling at him enquiringly, he felt a great big fool. God, how did she have the power to reduce him to frumenty? He decided to barge his way through the whole explanation and with as much bravado as possible so she wouldn’t be able to say no.
“Firstly, and most obviously, it’s a damn good play and, in my humble opinion, better written than The Rivals”.
“That is a very good f
irst reason,” Antonia agreed. “And the second?” she prompted when he hesitated.
“Secondly, I promised Dick Sheridan I’ll have a duchess sitting beside me when the curtain goes up on the first performance...”
Antonia waited for further explanation, all polite enquiry, as if he needed to supply her with the name of this duchess who was to sit beside him. He couldn’t believe she had no idea he was talking about her. He was dumbfounded and tongue-tied. His organs turned over and his stomach churned. He smiled weakly. And that made her sit up very straight. Her foot slipped from his grasp as she did so and she stared hard at him, a hand to her throat. He not only felt a fool, he knew he was one.
“You promised M’sieur Sheridan that me I would attend the opening night of his play with-with you?”
He decided to put on a brave face. He sat up in the boat too.
“Well, Mme la duchesse! I don’t know what upsets me more, that you will disappoint poor Dick Sheridan, who is so looking forward to you gracing one of his plays with your divine presence—after all you did not attend the opening night of The Rivals, despite the very nice invitation he sent you—or that you are amazed at the prospect of attending the theater with yours truly.”
“No! No! You are not to be offended in the least!” Antonia assured him. “It’s just that I have not attended the theater since... We—Monseigneur and I—of course we often went to the theater during the season. I love the theater, but since he left me, I have not thought about going at all. That is why I did not attend the opening night of The Rivals. I could not go without Monseigneur. For me to attend now, without him...” She smiled apologetically. “I do not believe it possible... I cannot attend, M’sieur.”
Jonathon nodded sadly, as if in agreement, and sighed. Antonia leaned forward, concerned, a hand out, as if to console him for his disappointment when suddenly he leapt to his feet, rocking the boat violently.
Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) Page 25