My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  “Mrs. Haviland… Theodosia, shall I write to Lord Penweather? He has neglected you, Diana, and Seraphina shamefully.”

  Anselm deserved a hard kick in his ducal derriere. “Please do not. His lordship and I correspond, and he knows my situation. He did as Archie’s will directed, and we cannot blame him for that. What did you come here to discuss?”

  Mr. Tresham took Theo’s hand. “How are you?”

  She sensed the gesture was casual, like patting a mastiff. She could not discern Mr. Tresham’s mood, though, as if he too had been disconcerted by the money that had changed hands.

  “I am well, sir, and you?”

  “I am furious at the way you’ve been treated, and I’m in no mood to be dangled before prospective duchesses. I spent half the night wondering if the most promising candidate for my bride isn’t sitting right here beside me.”

  Theo very nearly looked to her right to see if another woman had joined them. “She’s not. You are feeling protective, Mr. Tresham, and I esteem you for it, but we’ve come up with a list, and those are the ladies whom you ought to consider.”

  Motherhood had given Theo the gift of firm speech, though nothing would erase the sharp tug of despair Mr. Tresham’s wondering provoked. An affair could be conducted nearly at arm’s length. One needn’t become entangled with a lover, but a man and wife could have few secrets.

  Particularly if Mr. Tresham were the man and Theo the wife.

  Still, he kept hold of her hand. “My flirtation needs work,” he said. “My flowery speeches are a disaster, and my charm is nonexistent, but might I at least attempt to persuade you with a kiss?”

  “You come calling at an unheard of hour to… to kiss me?” Theo wanted to laugh, to turn the moment to humorous incredulity, but Mr. Tresham’s expression was serious.

  She had spent nearly all of the night reliving their one embrace, a moment of such unexpected, undemanding comfort and closeness, she’d carried the memory into her dreams.

  “I also stopped by to practice charming and flirting,” he said, “but we know that’s a lost cause where I’m concerned.”

  He’d charmed both Diana and Seraphina, and thus Theo as well. “I’m very much at sixes and sevens, Mr. Tresham. I was before you joined us for breakfast.” That was thanks to him too, him and his bank draft, and the feeling of being able to surrender all burdens when held in his embrace.

  “Tell me what has you upset, and call me Jonathan. If I’ve progressed to making a fool of myself in your garden, you should use my name when we are private.”

  “No, I should not.” Theo should retrieve her hand, walk him to the back gate, and tell him not to come around again until he’d recovered his wits.

  “What’s bothering you, Theodosia? Tell me.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, a tantalizing caress that a woman of mature years ought to be able to ignore. And to hear her name, spoken with such fierce assurance… Damn Archimedes for a selfish fool.

  “You have me upset,” she said. “You and your blasted money.”

  Mr. Tresham let go of her hand.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  “What are they saying?” Diana asked, peering down into the garden.

  “You needn’t whisper,” Seraphina replied. “They can’t hear us.” Theo and Mr. Tresham had likely also forgotten that every window on the back side of the house provided a view of the garden bench.

  “But he was holding her hand. Mama never holds hands with gentlemen.”

  Diana was too smart, which resulted in all manner of problems. She took keen notice of everything and everyone around her and worried about all of it.

  Losing a papa did that, as Seraphina well knew. “She holds hands with you, Di. We should come away from the window.”

  “I am not a gentleman, Fina. You go memorize some poem if you want to. I’m not letting Mama out of my sight.”

  “She and Mr. Tresham like each other. I think they are friends.” Or were they something else? Cook had gone to market three days in a row and come back each time with an enormous haul. Last night, they’d had a joint of beef for supper, when a beef roast had become a rare treat even on Sundays.

  At breakfast, before Mr. Tresham had arrived, Theo had mentioned buying fabric for new dresses. Diana’s hems had been let down, let down again, and lengthened with sewn-on borders, though she didn’t seem to care. Seraphina cared very much that, since they’d put off mourning, she’d had not a single new item of clothing other than a shawl she’d knitted herself.

  “Mama does not look very friendly. She looks like she’s had another letter from Cousin Viscount.”

  They referred to Diana’s only male relation by indirection. Never Cousin Fabianus, never Lord Penweather. He frightened Theo, and because Seraphina had read her sister’s private correspondence, he frightened Seraphina as well.

  Nasty man. “Your mama and Mr. Tresham are merely having a discussion, Diana. Let’s come away from the window.”

  Diana remained right where she was. “How will they cut irises without any scissors?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Tresham carries a penknife.”

  “We should bring them the scissors.”

  Diana’s suggestion was the result of knowing that Mr. Tresham brought with him the possibility of change. Seraphina hadn’t decided whether it was a good change or a bad change, or simply a difference in routine. A stocked larder was good, a guest at breakfast was certainly interesting, but another letter had arrived from Cousin Viscount, and Seraphina hadn’t found an opportunity to read it.

  “The scissors,” Seraphina said, “are in the locked parlor. If we retrieve them, then your mother will know we go where we ought not.”

  “Will Mr. Tresham go where he ought not?”

  “You are too young to even ask that.”

  “Papa did. He went all manner of places he ought not, and he made Mama cry.”

  Diana ought not to have recalled that—she’d been a mere toddler when her papa had gone to his reward—and Seraphina wished she’d forget it. “She doesn’t cry now, Diana.”

  Down in the garden, an earnest discussion was in progress, one Seraphina felt guilty for even watching. “We could bring your mother a basket to hold the flowers.” Though first they’d have to find such a basket, which would take at least twenty minutes.

  “A basket,” Diana said, bolting for the door. “Mr. Tresham can hold the basket while Mama cuts the flowers, and that way, he can’t hold her hand.”

  She was out the door, leaving Seraphina to take one last glance at the garden. The bench was empty, which was for the best. Seraphina had liked her late brother-in-law, until she’d realized that he wasn’t a very nice man to be married to. Jolly and handsome, but fundamentally selfish and wed to a woman who had no capacity for selfishness at all.

  If Mr. Tresham could teach Theo to be a little selfish, that would be a fine thing indeed.

  * * *

  Sometime while changing from evening attire into his riding clothes, Jonathan had taken to thinking of Mrs. Haviland as Theodosia. Morning light showed fatigue in her eyes, suggesting she had also passed a sleepless night.

  Why?

  “Show me your garden,” he said, rising from the bench and holding out a hand. The little yard was a horticultural curiosity cabinet, with pots positioned on top of the walls, hanging from the branches of the lone maple, and lining the gravel walk.

  The daffodils were fading along the east-facing wall, while the tulips were enjoying their finest moment and irises were only starting to bloom. Like Theodosia, the flowers weren’t fancy, but they were lovely nonetheless.

  “I’d rather show you to your horse,” she said.

  “I sent Roulette home with my groom.” Thank goodness. “Are you anxious to be rid of me because I asked to kiss you, or because of my blasted money?”

  She paused to twist off a potted hyacinth gone brown and droopy. “Let’s start with the money. I’ve never had any of my own.”

&nbs
p; Few women did. “You mean funds, not merely pin money.”

  “I mean any sort of money. Archie was to disburse my pin money weekly, but I’d been married less than a month before I realized that system would be problematic. I had to go to my husband like a supplicant and remind him that another week had begun. He never forgot a luncheon at the clubs, never missed a Wednesday night card party, never failed to attend one of his friend’s convivial evenings for men only.”

  She attacked another pot of fading hyacinths, casting the flowers onto a heap of dead leaves piled against the back wall. She had good aim.

  “I thought Wednesday night was for dancing at Almack’s.” And those convivial evenings for men only did not sound like the Lonely Husbands gatherings.

  “I thought Wednesday evening was for dancing as well. I learned otherwise. I eventually realized I needed to ask for a month’s money and to make the request in front of others immediately after Archie’s allowance arrived. Then he’d measure out the coin and make a great show of lecturing me about economies and prudent housewifery.”

  More dying flowers joined the heap of rotting leaves.

  “Your husband was a fool.”

  She rounded on Jonathan, her hands fisted against her skirts. “Was he a fool, Mr. Tresham? Archie married me, and in return for dressing up and appearing at the church one Tuesday morning, he got an unpaid housekeeper, intimate favors, the use of my competence, and an increase in his allowance. For a fool, he did quite well for himself.”

  This emotional tempest had apparently been brewing for years, a particularly dangerous storm for being well hidden.

  “Please tell me Haviland did not boast to you of his cleverness?”

  She went after the next pot of hyacinths, pink this time. “When in his cups, Mr. Haviland could be devilishly honest. Then he’d forget, or pretend to forget, the hurtful words he’d spoken. I lived in dread of Diana waking up with a nightmare and getting a dose of her father’s midnight demeanor. Bad enough that Seraphina saw more than her share. Then Archie would be his charming, handsome self come morning—or come noon.”

  Jonathan wrapped his hand round Theodosia’s just as she yanked a perfectly lovely bloom from the pot.

  “You are angry at yourself for failing to protect your sister, rather than proud of yourself for having protected your daughter, your domestics, your good name, and some of your memories of the man. His good name too, despite his every effort to the contrary.”

  She looked at the pink flower, which gave off a cloyingly sweet odor. “I must put this in water.”

  Jonathan took the hyacinth from her and propped it on the edge of the rain barrel in the corner of the garden next to the house. Theodosia watched him wending his way between her flowers, her expression suggesting he might make off with her blossom or crush it under his boots.

  “I was wrong,” Jonathan said, facing her squarely. “Your husband was not a fool, or not merely a fool. He was also a contemptible parasite. You might mourn his passing, I certainly cannot. He married you, knowing you had no family to speak for you or negotiate on your behalf. He betrayed your trust and failed to provide adequately. A man who lives off his expectations sometimes has little choice. A man who lives off his wife and child’s security isn’t a man.”

  The longer Jonathan considered Haviland’s venery, the angrier he became, while Theodosia seemed soothed by his tirade.

  “Contemptible sounds better when you say it,” she murmured. “I lost respect for my husband. I tried not to lose compassion for him. Many men cannot moderate their consumption of spirits.”

  She wanted, desperately, to make excuses for a man whom she’d clearly also wanted to throttle. Jonathan still wanted to kiss her, though he understood better why Theodosia could not undertake such an intimacy lightly.

  Nor should she.

  “Many men drink to excess, Theodosia, but they do it without imperiling the security of their dependents. Even my father never jeopardized my mother’s physical safety.” What an odd relief to be able to say something positive about the man. “You told me the former viscount was vigorous in old age. What if the previous titleholder had lived another five years?”

  She leaned against the tree, a venerable specimen that doubtless dropped leaves over the whole garden in autumn.

  “At first, I thought Archie would settle down once he held the title, but since his death, I’ve admitted he was bent on ruin. He drank, he wagered, he gambled, he had affairs. God be thanked he had no bastards that I know of. If he’d inherited the Hampshire estates and income, he would have lost them on the turn of a card or through an inane bet with one of his friends.”

  Another Viscount Lipscomb, in other words. Mayfair was full of them, though solicitors and family usually limited the damage one ne’er-do-well could inflict on the inherited wealth.

  “Instead, Haviland spent what you couldn’t hide from him, and now that you have funds of your own, you vacillate between fear that the money will be snatched away and the compulsion to spend it all at once, so that nobody can steal it from you.”

  He’d apparently surprised her with that insight. He’d surprised himself too. Deductions, logical conclusions, algebraic variables, those he could manage handily, though insight seldom befell him.

  “Exactly,” Theodosia said. “I must be the least sensible widow ever to come into money. I am tempted to buy out all the shops one moment—so very, exceedingly tempted—and then I want to tell my banker never to let me withdraw more than a single pound at once.”

  Jonathan longed to hug her, to reassure her physically that her worries were normal. Instead, he offered her his arm.

  “Let’s enjoy the alley for a moment. You have a pretty little lane back there, and if I’m not mistaken, we are being chaperoned from the windows.”

  She pushed away from the tree and wrapped her fingers around Jonathan’s elbow. “Oh, doubtless. Seraphina and Diana keep an eye on me, the way I used to watch Archie. If anything happens to me, life changes for them, probably not for the better. Have you ever been short of funds, Mr. Tresham? Ever wanted to fling money at every crossing sweeper until no more money remained to worry you?”

  Jonathan led her through the gate, latching it behind them. “I was raised on a very strict allowance provided by my uncle. I counted every penny twice and deliberated over every expenditure. While at university, I came into some money as a result of my mother’s passing, which I invested well. Some money became—by my standards at the time—a fortune. I grew obsessed not with money, but with figures, which was my salvation.”

  Theodosia took his arm again, this time without him having to pointedly offer. “So you are scandalously wealthy in your own right?”

  In her present mood, he didn’t dare name sums. “Afraid so. Does this bring us to the part about why you don’t care for my kisses?”

  They were ambling down the alley, a peaceful, sun-dappled strip of cobblestone shaded by tall maples and enveloped in the quiet of a placid neighborhood. Birds flitted overhead. The scent of horses came from the mews twenty yards on.

  “Your kisses are much like the money,” Theodosia said. “You are the first man to express a respectful interest in me since I put off mourning. I say this not to flatter you, Mr. Tresham. The prospect of your kisses strikes me rather like the prospect of buying out all the shops in Mayfair. Such a use of my resources would be unwise and unnecessary, and yet, I am sorely, sorely tempted.”

  Jonathan drew her into the shade of an oak. “If that’s not flattery, then what is it?”

  She looked up and down the alley, her expression stern. “That is a warning, Mr. Tresham.”

  Then she kissed him.

  * * *

  Theo dared not allow Jonathan Tresham to court her. Such a notion would be dangerous and absurd. But in what manual of bearable widowhood was it written that a woman could not enjoy a kiss with a willing swain?

  Where was it written that she must deny herself even a moment’s pleasure and
comfort? The alley was deserted, and Mr. Tresham had haunted what few dreams she’d stolen from the night.

  “Theo…”

  She allowed him those two syllables, in case he sought to demur. Instead, he imbued her name with tenderness and humor.

  Also with encouragement, so Theo looped her arms around his neck and dived into an exploration of the wonders of his kiss. Her first impression of Jonathan Tresham was his big, fit male body. Had her life depended on it, she could not have toppled him. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, long legs, and all of it pressed as close to her as clothing allowed.

  Bodily sensations confirmed that she was, truly, intimately embracing a man she ought not to be touching: The hard bone and taut muscle of his shoulders, the more subtle feel of his watch chain trailing across his abdomen to a buttonhole. Below that, irrefutable evidence of masculine desire.

  A bad moment ensued, when memories of Archie pushing himself against her without invitation tried to contaminate pleasure with anger. Mr. Tresh—Jonathan—must have sensed the intrusion, because he lifted his mouth from hers and cradled her cheek against his palm.

  If Theo gave him the least indication, he’d doubtless step back, drop his hands from her person, and maintain a gentlemanly silence while she sorted her thoughts. That reliable consideration, that attentiveness, had her turning her face into his caress and kissing him again.

  As a girl, she’d viewed kissing as a forbidden but safe pleasure. A stolen kiss seldom ruined a young lady, if it was a chaste stolen kiss.

  Chastity had been nothing more than Society’s window dressing on an ignorance that benefitted everybody but the young lady, and Theo was finished with honoring Society’s convenience above her own.

  She moved into Jonathan’s embrace, pulled him closer, and seamed his mouth with her tongue. His lips curved, a smile, then a welcome, and holy celestial bodies, he knew what he was about. His hand on the back of Theo’s head let her relax, giving him her weight and her balance. His arm about her waist was another assurance that all she need do is enjoy his kiss.