My Own True Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  I have you. That message came through in the curve of his body, his confident stance, the deft touch of his tongue at the corners of her mouth. He was aroused, more so with each moment, but such was the patience and curiosity of his kiss that Theo need not monitor his responses. She could instead revel in her own.

  To desire a man. To desire him, rather than endure marital pawing, dreading the possibility of conception. Oh, the years and years…

  How could joy and sadness be so exquisitely present in the same instant?

  Jonathan’s hand moved over Theo’s back in slow caresses as she eased away from the kiss. She needed his support to remain upright, so ambushed was she by sorrow.

  Not for Archie. His situation had been tragic, but she’d given him the mourning he was due. The sorrow was for herself, for her innocence and trust in the world, for all that might have been and could not be.

  “Do I take it,” Jonathan said, “that you would allow me to pay you my addresses?”

  His voice was rough, his breathing deep. How could any woman say no to such a question when she wanted to push the man who asked it against the nearest wall and resume kissing him?

  And yet, she must refuse.

  He brushed a lock of hair back from her brow and tucked it over her ear, the touch gentle and intimate, though not overtly seductive.

  Except that for Theo, small considerations and caring gestures could seduce her common sense right to Bedlam. She must refuse him firmly and soon.

  But not just yet.

  * * *

  “What on all of God’s good green earth necessitated a social call at this unspeakable hour?” Anselm used his Duke of the Underworld tone, the one that often inspired his duchess into tickling him if they were private.

  Sycamore Dorning was a bachelor, and for the most part, Anselm considered him a monument to youthful carelessness. Careless dress, careless speech, careless drinking, the same as many younger sons of titled families.

  Today, he was dressed in immaculate morning attire, an enormous dog panting at his heels. Anselm’s butler was ignoring the dog, which was nigh impossible for anybody but a duke’s upper servants.

  “This is when Samson takes his second walk of the day. I apologize for appearing with a canine in tow, but the pup takes his walks seriously.”

  And Sycamore, apparently, took the pup’s welfare seriously—the pup who weighed a good twelve stone.

  “Is it house-trained?” Anselm asked.

  Sycamore lifted an eyebrow. The gesture should have been comical—a youthful attempt at masculine posturing—but Sycamore was maturing. He’d grown tall before going up to university, and he was developing muscle as well.

  Perhaps he was even acquiring a scintilla of common sense.

  “Very well,” Anselm said, “come along and bring the beast. I warn you, if the children see him, they will demand to take him captive.”

  “He likes children, but then, he’s a dog. He likes anybody who deserves liking. He doesn’t judge people based on their youthful errors or common foibles.”

  Anselm attempted the same scowl that sometimes prevented him from laughing at his daughters’ misconduct in the nursery. “While you call on dukes who ought to still be abed. Are we swilling tea?”

  The click of dog toenails on the parquet floors was a comforting, domestic sound, and the beast seemed content to trot at Mr. Dorning’s heels. Dorning’s brother Willow was a highly respected dog trainer, though no power on earth had yet succeeded in devising a means of training unruly younger siblings.

  “If tea will assist one of your ancient years to remain awake,” Sycamore said, “then by all means, ring for tea. Perhaps a tisane might be in order as well, if you overtaxed yourself at ninepins.”

  Sycamore’s team had won, in part because of his deadly accurate right arm. Anselm’s team had… not won.

  “Wait until next month,” Anselm said, opening the door to the library. “We’ll have an exhibition of swordsmanship and see who needs a tisane the next day.”

  He’d chosen the library because it looked out over the back terrace and gardens rather than the street. A front parlor was a public space, the drapes usually drawn back so any passerby might note the identities of guests.

  The unusual hour of the call, the unusual nature of the caller, suggested privacy was in order.

  “Somebody likes books,” Sycamore said, twirling to take in the rows of shelves. “All manner of books. Have you many on mathematics?”

  What an odd question. “A few. My younger brother is something of a scholar.” Which was something of a surprise. “Why do you ask?”

  Sycamore gestured with his hand, and the dog settled before the hearth. The mastiff made an attractive picture, panting gently, enormous paws outstretched.

  “I have an interest in turning my few coins into many, the same as every other young man of imposing pedigree and unimpressive allowance. Casriel has his hands full with the earldom, and his resources are limited. I tell you this in confidence, of course, though the Dornings have long been known for having a wealth of good looks and poverty in every meaningful regard.”

  “Get to the point, man. I want you out of my house before my daughters learn I’ve allowed a dog on the premises.”

  Sycamore grinned, though his smile wasn’t as boyish as it had been last Season. “The ladies love him too. If ever your duchess takes you into dislike, a nice, soft puppy with big eyes and a happy little tail—”

  “I could toss you through a window and play fetch the twig with yonder mastodon. Your puppy would likely enjoy the game almost as much as I would.”

  “Insult me all you please, Anselm, but have the dignity not to insult a hapless creature. I have a problem.”

  The rebuke was deserved, the admission startling. “From all reports, you are a problem. You take stupid risks, drink to excess, refuse to attend university, and can’t keep a civil tongue in your head.” Though so far this Season, young Dorning had not been an object of talk.

  “We could not afford to send me to university, so refusing to go seemed a kindness all around. Willow has set me up for this year—marriage improved his fortunes—but I found a way to rent my rooms in Oxford for a small profit, and thus I’m here trying to nudge Casriel in the direction of the altar.”

  “Bowling your elders into submission. What is the nature of your problem?” Part of Sycamore’s problem was doubtless an abundance of siblings. Two sisters were happily married, but of his six brothers, only Willow had found a mate. The Earl of Casriel—Grey Birch Dorning, by name—Ash, Oak, Valerian, and Hawthorne were unwed and largely without independent means.

  “I pay attention,” Sycamore said, hands in pockets as he ambled along the French horticultural treatises.

  “Younger siblings have a tendency to nosiness. I have four, and the trait bred true.”

  Anselm’s guest took down a bound monograph on the propagation of tulips. The angle of the sunlight coming through the tall windows played a trick, making Sycamore Dorning look older than his years and scholarly. Contemplative, even.

  The lingering effects of a surfeit of Tresham’s good brandy were not to be underestimated.

  “Does Jonathan Tresham own The Coventry Club?” Sycamore asked, leafing through the treatise.

  He might just as well have asked if the French had invaded Yorkshire. “I beg your pardon?” Nobody knew of Tresham’s association with the club, and it was certainly no business of an impecunious younger son.

  “Tresham, our host last night,” Sycamore said. “You and he are friends, or as good as. You don’t have a private conversation that turns a man’s countenance murderous unless you’re either friends or enemies with him. Enemies are tedious. You have no patience for tedium. Therefore, you and he must be friends.”

  “You are blazingly confident in your syllogism.”

  “And you do not deny my conclusion. I mean the man no harm. In fact, I think he could use another friend. These illustrations are lovely.”


  “Tresham is a ducal heir. He must choose his friends carefully.”

  Sycamore reshelved the treatise where he’d found it. “Oh, right, of course, Your Grace. The rest of us can simply associate at will with all and sundry, no need for prudence or care. Swindlers and card sharps will do for us, while the likes of you lot must only associate with paragons and war heroes.”

  He wandered off in the direction of the biographies, the dog’s gaze following him.

  “Now that you’ve stuck out your figurative tongue at me,” Anselm said, “why are you here?” Sycamore Dorning— this version of Sycamore Dorning—would not have willingly called on a duke.

  “Tresham wears a particular fragrance, one that blends gardenia, tuberose, and jasmine. I came across it on him in Paris and assume it’s either proprietary or quite expensive. I’ve smelled it at The Coventry on occasion as I sip my champagne in the little nook beneath the screened stairway. Took me an age to place the fragrance, but then I realized that the tread on the stair was familiar to me as well.”

  “How in the hell can you distinguish a man’s footfalls?”

  Dorning took a seat uninvited, appropriating the reading chair next to his dog. “You know your duchess’s walk, Anselm.”

  “She is my duchess.” Anselm knew her walks, her sighs, her smiles, her silences, and she knew his.

  “When you begin life at the bottom of a large pile of siblings, you learn to pay attention to them. Who is home, who is out? Which brother is spoiling for a fight, which one needs a pounding? Which sister is prepared to deliver it to him? “One learns to pay attention,” Dorning went on, “because nothing is explained, nothing is rendered sensible by adult interpretation. I can tell you which of my brothers is coming up the steps and whether he’s sober, well-rested, exhausted, or furious based on his tread on the stairs—not that he’d admit any of that to me. This is why I like numbers. They behave rationally, except the ones that don’t, and even those enjoy a fixed definition.”

  Dorning shot his cuffs, the gesture curiously sophisticated. “Tresham pops up three steps, then pauses to look about, then three more, like a well-trained cavalry patrol in unfamiliar territory. When he escorts his guests above stairs, the rhythm is unmistakable.”

  A problem indeed. “Assuming your recitation is true,” Anselm said, “how is it relevant, and why present yourself and your hound on my doorstep before noon?”

  The hound turned a patient gaze on Anselm, as if the duke, rather than Dorning, were the presuming upstart.

  “I’m concerned somebody at The Coventry is cheating,” Dorning said. “Tresham seems a decent fellow. If he’s the owner, he needs to put a stop to it before harm results.”

  Another simple exercise in logic, with profound consequences. Anselm sank into the second reading chair, sorting and discarding possibilities.

  “We will discuss hypotheticals,” he said slowly, “and we will discuss them in confidence.”

  Dorning waved a hand. “Tresham is a decent sort, and he’s awash in money. He has no need to run a crooked house. Somebody wants to ruin The Coventry or ruin Tresham. The play is honest. I’ve watched closely, and when the house takes a cut from every pot, crooked tables would be errant stupidity.”

  Dorning was a hotheaded stripling, but his assurance was so absolute, almost casual, that Anselm believed him.

  “Explain yourself.” So that I might have time to think.

  “At The Coventry, the house keeps a percentage of every pot, which means a percentage of every bet placed, at every table, without exception. Revenue for the house is assured as long as the tables are busy. No need to create rules or break rules to keep the money coming in. The most imbecilic, irredeemable blunder the owner of the premises could make would be to allow rumors of crooked play to start.”

  Anselm knew this. He did not know what to do about such rumors. “You’re certain the owner has committed such a blunder?”

  Sycamore rose. The dog followed him with his gaze, but remained, chin on paws, before the hearth.

  “What sort of question is that for a duke to ask about his friend, Anselm? You disappoint me, and we callow youths need our good examples. I’m sure that Tresham has not committed such a blunder, but somebody has. A skilled player could do it, a team, an employee dealing at the tables working with a team. The place is busy. Many a sore loser would like to see it fail. I’ve watched for five straight nights and seen nothing beyond decks of cards reused more frequently than they should be, but then, I’m not a natural cheat.”

  “Keep watching, say nothing, and I’ll tell… I’ll let the owner know of your concerns. Why didn’t you simply approach Tresham yourself?”

  Dorning made a motion with his index finger, and the dog rose to sit beside him. “Tresham is reported to be hunting a bride. Having a brother in the same condition, I can tell you the hunt takes a toll on a man’s disposition. Then too, I trust the word of my friends over that of other people’s presuming younger brothers. Tresham needs to take the matter in hand immediately and silently. A rousing altercation with a noted young wastrel—regardless of the wastrel’s obvious reform—in the middle of the day would be hard for even ducal servants to keep quiet.”

  He bowed and started for the corridor.

  “Nobody considers you a wastrel,” Anselm said, retracing their steps to the front door.

  “Only because I haven’t any means to waste.”

  “A helpful limitation for some, but your reputation is merely that of a young man in the process of learning self-restraint. Most of the House of Lords has yet to master the same challenge. Your brothers know this. They will do their utmost to assist you.”

  When they reached the front door, he passed Dorning a high-crowned beaver and a plain oaken walking stick.

  “One doesn’t want their assistance,” Dorning said, setting his hat at a dapper angle. “One wants to be of assistance to them. I’m an uncle. Makes a man think. You’ll not let Tresham know we’ve spoken, or he’ll consider the source and ignore the message.”

  And that—knowing that a propensity for overimbibing and placing stupid wagers made one noncredible—also made a man think.

  “I’ll find a moment to tell him in the near future. My thanks for your concern.”

  Sycamore went on his way, the dog trotting at his side, while Anselm considered how to tell a very proud and private man that he had allowed a serpent to slither over his garden wall.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Being kissed by Theodosia Haviland brought a second dawn to Jonathan’s day, one even more glorious than Hyde Park on a sunny spring morning. Her kisses shot straight past flirtation to a ringing declaration of desire, of intent to share intimacies long denied.

  He stood in the alley, stroking his fingers along the resolute angle of her jaw, while the softness of her fragrance made him want to sniff every curve, hollow, and secret place on her body. A sense of having seized on a worthy ambition muted pure lust, for his dreams where Theo was concerned encompassed more than carnal appetites.

  But what of her dreams? “You have had years to indulge in a discreet affair, Theodosia. At least some part of you must be attracted to me, else you’d never allow me liberties in a sunny alley.”

  If the patronesses from Almack’s had burst through the nearest garden gate, she could not have leaped back more quickly.

  “I am losing my mind,” she muttered. “Perhaps senility has set in, despite being only halfway to my dotage. I’ve heard of such things.” She paced away, skirts swishing.

  “We kissed, Theo, and a marvelous kiss it was. Why castigate yourself for that?” Of all women, the widow alone was allowed to kiss whom she pleased with impunity, provided she was discreet.

  She glowered at him over her shoulder. “Marvelous, indeed. Magical. This is your fault.”

  Marriage to her would be a marvelous, magical puzzle. “I should hope so, though as I recall, you initiated the magic.”

  “Ver
y bad of me.”

  “Very wonderful of you.” He held out a hand. “You are trying to talk yourself into a case of guilt, because you are supposed to be my matchmaker, not my duchess. We haven’t executed a contract excluding you from consideration, and yet, I see you flagellating yourself with that nonsense.”

  She didn’t take his hand, but she took his arm, wrapping her fingers around his sleeve. “I woke up this morning, expecting to spend my day in the agreeable pursuit of purchasing fabric for Seraphina’s first ball gown.”

  Jonathan could buy the girl an entire shop full of ball gowns. If he said as much, he’d doubtless compound whatever muddle Theodosia was determined to visit upon herself.

  “My kisses pale compared to an expedition to the mercer’s?”

  Ah, finally. A small smile. Self-conscious but genuine. “Your kisses outshine a Beltane bonfire. You cannot marry me.”

  “Why not?” Jonathan did not expect an honest answer. Theodosia was flustered, meaning she’d be all the more cautious with her truths. “List the excuses, madam, for that’s all they’ll be. You like me, you find me attractive, and you have every quality I need in a duchess.”

  She dropped his arm. “While you lack the humility needed in a duke. Good heavens, Mr. Tresham. Do you suppose I’d marry any man simply because I fancy his kisses? Look how that ended with Archimedes.”

  She twitched at her fichu, a gauzy bit of lavender lace that brought out the blue of her eyes—and reminded Jonathan of the pleasure of her breasts pressed to his chest.

  Focus, man. Pay attention. Jonathan had taught himself to count cards, to keep as many as three decks straight in his head even in the midst of rapid play. He needed every bit of that concentration to deal with what troubled Theodosia.