“Did you not find it hard to hear that said of your mother?”
He set a letter aside. “A little, but not much more than that. Percy was my mother’s favorite, of course. She had little time for me. I was the spare, not the heir.”
How sad that he said this with so little emotion, as if that distance were to be expected. What an unhappy family his must have been. It was a wonder he had not grown up malformed in character.
Then again, perhaps he had. His reputation in the county spoke of trouble and rebellion when he was a youth. And more recently.
“Mrs. Johnson rarely comes up to town,” he said. “I assume her visit has to do with the approaching birth of her grandchild. We will go. I would like to see her.”
That afternoon Marianne dressed in what she called her duchess clothes. When she went below, Aylesbury assessed the pale green wool dress. “You look lovely.”
“It is part of the excess Mama enjoyed inflicting on Uncle Horace’s purse. I am sure he is happy to be rid of the keep of at least one of us.”
“You will need to visit the dressmakers again soon,” he said as they settled in the coach. “Find several you trust. You will need a gown to be presented at court, and there will probably be a coronation before the year is out.”
“Are you commanding me to spend a fortune on new dresses? Such drudgery you require of me!”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Work your wiles artfully, and you can probably enjoy as much such drudgery as you want.”
That kiss reminded her of the first one he had given her, in that little boat, before Nora— She stopped her mind from traveling through that entire afternoon. More to the moment, she suspected that kiss meant he would come to her chamber again tonight. He had not since their wedding night.
Eva had suddenly entered that stage in pregnancy when a female appears uncomfortable. She sat in the drawing room with an older woman of impressive appearance. Mrs. Johnson’s dark eyes and hair and angular face marked her as handsome more than beautiful. Her son Gareth looked much like her in certain features. If one were critical, one might say the similarities enhanced him beyond fairness, while they gave her a vaguely strict visage.
Marianne could not deny that Mrs. Johnson looked very interesting, however. Also very distinctive. She could see how the old duke found a young Mrs. Johnson to his liking.
Eva introduced them, adding, lest Aylesbury had forgotten to explain, that Mrs. Johnson was Gareth’s mother.
“If you are thoroughly confused, my son was given a surname that reflected he was the bastard of a noble father,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Nor was I born Amanda Johnson. There was a very brief white marriage to Captain Johnson, so the duke did not take up with someone officially an innocent.”
“As you can see, my mother does not stand on ceremony regarding her history,” Gareth said, amused.
“To do so would be the worst hypocrisy,” his mother said.
“Do you plan to stay until the child is born?” Marianne asked.
“I have asked her to,” Eva said. “She declined. I think she believes she would be in the way. Don’t you, Amanda?”
Mrs. Johnson assumed a serene expression. “If I know one thing, it is that it is not good to have two mistresses of one house. You think I will not intrude or impose my views, Eva. In truth, I probably would.”
“Your advice would be welcomed.”
“Would it?” Mrs. Johnson stood, walked to a large footstool, brought it back, and set it down. “Then put your feet up, as I told you twice already.”
Eva glanced at Marianne, bit back a smile, and dutifully rested her feet on the footstool.
Then she took them right down. “I promise to use that as soon as I return. I want to take Marianne and show her something in the garden.” She stood, took Marianne’s hand, and urged her to follow.
“Put on your heavy wool pelisse,” Mrs. Johnson called after her. “And your half boots. Those shoes are little more than slippers.”
Eva ignored both bits of advice. She did grab a cloak and wrap herself before they stepped outside.
“I lied when I said I had something to show you,” Eva said while they walked down from the terrace. “Gareth wants his mother to talk with Aylesbury, and he with her. The conversation might be more forthcoming if we are not present.”
“He said he has known her most of his life. He would want some privacy for them.”
“Of more significance is she knew that household at Merrywood for most of her life. Her father was a butler there. She has kept in touch with some of the servants. And the whole time she was the duke’s mistress, she lived close to Merrywood, in Cheltenham. If Lance is determined to learn what really happened to his brother, he would do well to start by talking to her.”
He was determined to learn that? He was investigating? She tried not to show her surprise at hearing this.
“Now, let us talk about you.” Eva smiled slyly and slipped her arm through Marianne’s. “How do you like being married?”
* * *
“It has been a long time, Lance.” Mrs. Johnson took his measure. “You do not mind if I address you like that still, do you? Your Grace seems too formal for someone I scolded when he was a boy, and Aylesbury—well, to me, there will only be one Aylesbury.”
He sat beside her. “I do not mind. Is all well with you in Coventry? Do you have everything you need?” His father had provided well for Mrs. Johnson, in ways that Percy could not touch. Times were hard, however, and it might not be enough now.
“Is that an offer to improve my situation if I ask? That is kind of you. Percy would have been happy to see me starve.”
“I am not Percy.”
“No. You never were. You were a bad boy, and still are from what I hear, but I preferred your honest disobedience to his sly and false compliance. One knew where one stood with you. With Percy, one felt the need to cover one’s back.”
A more succinct and accurate depiction of Percy’s character as a boy would be hard to find. Mrs. Johnson did not seem to expect anyone to come to Percy’s defense.
“Mother, Lance is looking into the events of the night Percy died,” Gareth said. “I thought you might have some idea of who in the household can’t be trusted to be loyal, and perhaps even be the kind of person who might lie if the price were right.”
“I suppose if we are going to talk about this, it would also help to know if there was anyone there who hated Percy,” Lance said. “If he was indeed poisoned, someone had to do it.”
Mrs. Johnson frowned while she pondered. “To the first question, I cannot help you. Every person probably has a price, when one gets down to it. Not to commit murder or treason, perhaps, but a lie? If I were you, I would assume each one of them has potential.”
What she said was probably true, but not good news.
“However, you might speak with Stuart. He is the old footman. The lame one. He is given light duties now, and often sits by the door. He has been there forever, and knows them all personally.”
“Thank you. That is helpful.”
“As to the second question. Stuart wrote to me that Percy’s valet, Mr. Playne, was pensioned off. You should talk to him. He served Percy for years. He would know if Percy had been especially cruel to someone, or if a servant had taken serious offense for some action or words.”
“Would he not have come forward and said something if he suspected someone?” Gareth asked.
“You are assuming that he is loyal to his master even now, after that master is dead and he is no longer in service,” Lance said. “Your mother is right. Playne might know something he did not want to share with the justices. Perhaps he did not mourn Percy much either.”
“Then we must talk to him. Where is he?”
“He left before I even realized it. The pension was part of Percy’s testament. I have no idea wh
ere he went. Perhaps one of the other servants does.”
“Kent,” Mrs. Johnson said. “He went to live with his daughter in Kent. Stuart wrote and told me.” She held up her hands. “Beyond that, I do not think I am of much use to you.”
“You have been very helpful,” Lance said. “Are you sure there is nothing you need?”
“A new pair,” Gareth said. “One of her horses has gone lame.”
“Gareth, really.”
“Mother, really,” he mimicked. “It is a little late to be getting embarrassed about gifts from a Duke of Aylesbury.”
Mrs. Johnson thought about that. “He has a point.”
“Indeed he does,” Lance said.
“White,” she said. “I have always fancied a pure white pair for my carriage.”
* * *
Lance seemed subdued as they rode back to the house. He remained so through their dinner. Only after it did he come out of his thoughts. He looked at her in an odd way, as if wondering what she was still doing there.
“Mrs. Johnson is a lovely woman,” she said, lest they just look at each other in an awkward silence. “Very forthright too.”
“I expect it was one of her appeals. My mother, you see, never said what she meant or meant what she said.”
“What did you and Mrs. Johnson talk about? Old times?”
“Didn’t Eva tell you?”
He had caught her in her first attempt at dissembling with him. “She did say something about your looking into your brother’s death.”
“Gareth concluded his mother might be able to help. That is what we talked about.”
“After all this time, you think to discover what really happened? Why now, and not nine months ago?”
“Nine months ago, even six or four, I believed that by now this would all be in the past. The coroner would come to his senses and accept that Percy’s death was natural. Not only has that not happened, but recently a few things have transpired to make me realize, finally, that I cannot expect it to ever be in the past unless I find a way to put it there.”
“What kind of things?”
He contemplated that question as if it were far more complex than she thought it. “One thing will seem so small as to be ridiculous, but it has created new difficulties for me. A letter was published in the Times by one of its correspondents. It described my attendance at that assembly, and made oblique reference to the sword still hanging over my head. The author, a Mr. Tewkberry, no doubt thought his letter benign, but it revived all the gossip, all the speculation, here in town.”
Nothing in the way he spoke suggested he knew Tewkberry’s identity. She felt sick. She could not believe she had caused him trouble when she wrote that letter.
No, that was not true. Now she dissembled with herself. She had written it after he went too far in that garden. She had written it with Nora on her mind. She had known that repeating what the coroner had said about new developments could be taken two ways. She had not wanted to cause big trouble for him, but she had not cared too much if she caused a little.
At the time, she had no idea she would end up married to him, of course.
“Perhaps this time it will die down fast. Everyone has feasted on this before, and it can’t hold anyone’s interest for long again.”
“Normally I would agree. However, members of the government who have no love for me have now taken an interest like they did not before.” He took her hand. “You are not to worry, so stop frowning. The worst that will happen is I will be publicly embarrassed, and even that will be hard to manage with a duke.”
“How would you be embarrassed?”
He shrugged as if it mattered not to him, but his eyes held depths that made her wonder if it would in fact matter a good deal. “A trial in the House of Lords,” he said. “I do not think the other peers will allow it, when there is no evidence.”
Public embarrassment did not do justice to the kind of humiliation he described. She did not think any man could remain nonchalant about that prospect. Not even a duke.
Her astonishment gave way to more curiosity. Evidence made all the difference, of course, in any trial. If there was none, why was he investigating the whole business? Did he see more danger than he claimed?
Another thought slithered into the others. He proposed soon after he came up to town this time. A coincidence? Or did the one relate to the other—
He squeezed the hand he held, drawing her attention. His eyes no longer held shadowed depths, but bright ones. “You are recovered?”
“Recovered? Oh. Yes, I am . . . well recovered.”
“Then come with me.” He stood with her hand still in his. He led her out of the dining room and up the stairs.
A maid waited in her apartment to assist her when she retired. Aylesbury walked in with her in tow and, with a vague gesture, sent the maid scurrying out the door.
He turned and swung her into his embrace. Kisses and caresses submerged her under an onslaught of pleasure. She did not even realize he had her dress unfastened until the sleeves sagged on her shoulders.
She glanced askance at one of them. He took the opportunity to push it farther down.
“You do that with aplomb,” she said. “I expect practice helped you develop the skill.”
“Lots of it.” He eased his hold of her, so the whole bodice could drop. Then the whole dress, until it puddled at her feet. “I have my preferences. Short corsets like this one, that lace in front, for example.” His fingers deftly worked at unlacing that garment.
“My maid could have done this.”
“Only if I were prepared to wait a moment longer.” He displayed no impatience, but that corset abandoned her body with alarming speed.
“It was good of you. To allow me to . . . recover.”
“You should wait until the morning before you conclude I am good.” A deep kiss distracted her from thinking much on that veiled warning, but not from the way her chemise drifted down to join her dress.
His hands moved over her naked body, arousing her, claiming her. She thrilled at his possessive touch. Her vulnerability excited her. Her breasts turned heavy, and sly desire titillated where she had “recovered.”
When he set her back and looked at her, she was too immersed in pleasure to know much shame. She looked, too, down at her body’s pale skin and dark, hard nipples. She still wore her hose. She wondered if she was supposed to remove them herself.
He began untying his cravat. “Get on the bed, Marianne.”
She obeyed, climbing onto the huge bed, pushing aside the bedclothes. She lay there while he undressed. His gaze never left her. She turned her head when he stripped off his lower clothes.
“That will not do, Marianne.”
She glanced to see him standing right next to her.
“I am going to show you how to receive pleasure, and also how to give it. I do not want you merely willing but too shy to participate. So, look at me now.”
She turned her head at the tone of command. He stood naked, a mere arm’s length away. He was lean and muscular. His chest commanded most of her attention. His shoulders and arms reflected activity in their hard and taut lines.
He waited, and she knew why. Finally she lowered her gaze to his erection. It did not appear nearly as odd as she expected.
“That is because of you,” he said. “That is my desire for you.” He reached for her hand, and placed it on the evidence of that desire.
It did not feel how she expected either. It moved under her touch. Enlarged, unless she was mistaken. She drifted her fingertips along it, fascinated by the reaction she evoked.
“You like that,” she said. “It is why in the garden . . .”
“Yes.”
She looked up at him, but continued her light touch. “And if I had allowed it?”
“I would have ravished y
ou.”
“It is a good thing I punched you, then.”
“A firm no would have sufficed.” He gestured for her to move over, and joined her on the bed.
“Are you going to ravish me now?”
“It is not my intention.”
“But you are not sure?”
He spoke between kisses on her neck. “I thought to wait a few weeks for a true ravishment, but one never knows these things.”
“Will you warn me when you intend that?”
“I doubt it.”
She wondered if being ravished included the delicious way he now caressed her breast and the maddening fervor taking control of her.
He wove a sensual cloak over the bed, and she soon ached. Pleasure made her crave yet more pleasure. Her whole essence waited and urged and grasped for more.
His mouth closed on one breast. His fingers played at the other. The combined sensations sent her mind crying from the beauty of it, and from the urges building. She relinquished any pretense of restraint. Despite her dazed sense of time and place, she found one thread of sense and moved her arm so she could touch him again, to share the pleasure. To participate.
That changed their passion more than she expected. A new tension entered him. Their kisses turned frenzied and impatient. She vaguely realized they both expressed their arousals in that fervor, she as well as him.
He caressed lower, at first carefully, then less so. All of her consciousness lowered, too, until the need pulsing there dominated her body and mind.
“Now,” she gasped, the lesson from the last time coming to her in her anguish.
“Not yet.” With expert, ruthless touches he drove her further into her oblivion of need.
She could not bear it. She thought she would die. She released her painful frustration by clawing at his shoulder.
“Allow the release your body wants, Marianne. You have to permit it.”
That made no sense. Then it did. Something in her understood. She took a step without knowing she could. The tension that tortured her shattered in a glorious release of exquisite pleasure and fulfillment.
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