“I want the contrast in the greenery too. Mr. Tresham has not in any regard presumed on my person.” Intimacies had been exchanged, though they’d been enthusiastically mutual.
Bea took the shears and knelt by the lavender border. “Mr. Tresham is an idiot if he hasn’t made romantic overtures. You’re smitten, and he’s asking to court you. Where is the sense in pretending you’re the last Puritan in Mayfair?”
Theo tried moving the tulip to the center of the arrangement. “Archie was no Puritan.”
“Archie is dead, and I, for one, am glad. He was ruining your health and happiness. He left a mess when he died, but at least he spared you greater scandal. Is this enough?” She held a half-dozen long, silvery fronds of foliage.
“One more, so we have an odd number. I have been considering Mr. Tresham’s request.”
Snick. “And?”
“He does not know the whole of my situation, Bea. Viscount Penweather blames me for Archie’s death. He said so to me directly. If I’d been a better wife, Archie would have moderated his vices.”
Bea put the shears aside and hugged Theo, the scent of lavender wafting from their embrace. “I had no idea his lordship was so awful. You don’t believe him, I hope? You cannot believe him.”
Theo eased away. “The discussion grew ugly, but then, his lordship had lost a cousin and an uncle in the space of a month. We were both in rather a state. I informed him that had Archie not been made to live on a schoolboy’s allowance, we might have been able to afford more children. We haven’t spoken since. We correspond, or I correspond with his secretary.”
The whole business sounded worse for being put into words. “Jonathan has no patience for family squabbles,” Theo went on. “He detests his father’s memory in part for all the gossip and scandal his parents caused.”
Bea began jabbing lavender fronds in among the flowers and ferns. “One of the things I hate most about being a widow—and my list is endless—is that one’s whole identity is tied up in a past event. I am the widow of a man who died years ago. His death defines me, not my life. I’m no longer my papa’s daughter, my sister’s sibling, or myself. I am only my late husband’s widow. If Quimbey’s duchess should predecease him, will we refer to the duke as Her Grace’s widower? No, we will not.”
Bea was in a passion about something, though she was also right.
“You put hock in the lemonade,” Theo said, passing over another pink tulip. “No wonder it’s delicious.”
“Theo, if you are that hesitant about your estrangement from Archie’s cousin, then put the matter to Mr. Tresham and let him decide. You are too wonderful a person to be held hostage to Archie’s death for all the rest of your days.”
Mr. Tresham thought Theo was wonderful. Wonderful enough to court. “I try not to think of myself, but if I were a duchess, Seraphina’s and Diana’s futures would be assured. Even if Mr. Tresham grew to hate me, he’d not treat them as cavalierly as the viscount has.”
As cavalierly as Archie had, in the end.
“Stop trying to hide a perfectly lovely décolletage beneath a plain lace fichu. You want Jonathan Tresham, and he’s worthy of your notice. Sample his charms, and if he can go on half adequately, then allow him to court you.”
Bea tucked the pink tulip into the center of the arrangement, where it listed at an angle that matched the white tulip. The result was a cascade of color, a variety of shapes, and a very pleasing bouquet.
“I have argued and reasoned and exhorted myself without ceasing, Bea, but I come to the same conclusion you do: I will alert Mr. Tresham to the ill will between me and the viscount, and if that does not dissuade my suitor, I will allow him to court me.”
Theo would do that much, and no more. The past was the past, and Archie’s memory should be allowed to rest in peace.
Bea took another sip of her lemonade. “A man can be instructed on some matters. Others are beyond help. Sample Mr. Tresham’s charms, Theo.”
“I believe I shall.” Theo raised her glass to her lips, though she was smiling so broadly, she felt like a whole bouquet of joy, and that had nothing to do with Bea’s excellent lemonade.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“Mrs. Haviland.” Jonathan bowed before the woman who’d haunted his dreams and followed him—metaphorically—into the bath, the dressing closet, and any other place a man could be private with himself.
“Mr. Tresham.”
“Might I have the honor of the next dance?” He’d ambushed her before the supper waltz, which she typically sat out with the dowagers or danced with some doddering colonel.
Not tonight. Tonight, Jonathan was determined to share some joy with her.
“The honor would be entirely mine.”
Her smile was so lovely, so intriguing and feminine, and personal, that Jonathan forgot to let go of her hand. When she smiled like that, she was beauty incarnate, and Jonathan was the luckiest man in London.
“You’ll waltz with me?” Jonathan pressed. “In front of all of Mayfair?”
The string quartet was still tuning up, so progress onto the dance floor could be leisurely. Jonathan wanted the whole gathering to see him dancing with Theo and to see her smiling at him.
“We will waltz with each other.”
She wore the blue velvet again and the single string of pearls in her hair, and yet, she could not have been more radiant. Something had pleased her mightily.
Or someone had. “What have I done to earn this boon, Mrs. Haviland?”
“You have driven out, hacked in the park, danced with, and otherwise exerted yourself to be charming to every young woman on the list I handed you several weeks ago.”
He bowed. She curtseyed, and Jonathan had the sense that something even lovelier than the waltz had begun.
“They have been the longest weeks of my life.” Dancing attendance on women he had no intention of marrying had been tedious at first, but surprisingly agreeable when he’d taken the time to enjoy their company. Still, they weren’t Theo.
“Lord Casriel said you are organizing the ducal finances. Surely you enjoy that undertaking?” She stepped into his arms, and for a moment, Jonathan lost the thread of the conversation.
Since kissing Theo in the alley, he had not presumed in the direction of any further liberties. He’d sent peaches and chocolates. He’d lurked in the park with the dogs in hopes of crossing paths with Theo and Diana. He’d lent Seraphina a book of French verse that used flowers for all manner of sentimental metaphors.
And he’d gone to bed restless and beset every night. The club was part of it. He’d changed out every deck of cards, for several had had random unevenness along the edges or odd smudges amid the pips. Not enough to call them marked, but a purposeful attempt to make them look marked.
He’d watched the kitchen staff from dim corners, dropped every casual question he could to Moira, and had found nothing. When worries for the club weren’t troubling his slumber, longing for Theo bothered him without ceasing.
All the botheration stilled when he took her in his arms. The other dancers murmuring and shuffling into position faded, and the moment became a turning point, when hope blossomed and joy took hold.
The music started, they moved off, and for the first time, Jonathan understood the waltz. He understood the delight of dancing with a lady, not merely executing steps in tandem with her. He grasped why numbers and formulae could never be enough. He saw, in a wildly generous corner of his heart, why his parents had searched relentlessly for even an illicit echo of the joy that dancing with a true partner engendered.
Theo twirled, she dipped, she gave herself over to his leading and inspired him to a grace that was entirely her doing. When the music ended, she sank into a curtsey amid billowing blue velvet, and Jonathan nearly shouted at the musicians, Again, damn you!
“My thanks,” Theo said, taking his arm. “You are a superb dancer.”
He was also flirting with arousal that was simply there, his bo
dy rejoicing in her proximity. “I am motivated by your example. Might we find some cooler air while the buffet line forms?”
“The terrace will be crowded.”
Oh, Theodosia. You didn’t just invite me to… But she had. “Let’s find some privacy.” Jonathan knew Lord Tottenham’s premises fairly well, because his lordship was one of Quimbey’s familiars. The formal parlor was the cardroom for the evening, the gallery was hosting the buffet, and the library and music room were shoulder-to-shoulder with matchmakers and fortune hunters.
“This way,” Jonathan said, opening a door concealed in the corridor’s paneling. The stairwell was blessedly cool and barely lit, and yet, he did not trust himself to steal a kiss. Theo took hold of his hand, and even that, even with gloves on, was enough to inspire greater desire.
“I intend for every guest present to see us sharing supper, Mrs. Haviland.”
“I do not care one blessed farthing about supper, Mr. Tresham.”
Theo cared very much about farthings, also about suppers, in the usual course. Jonathan opened the door on the next landing and crossed a quiet corridor into an unused game room. The sconces were turned down, casting a billiards table and gaming table into soft shadows.
“Privacy,” Jonathan said, closing the door. “At present, my first priority—”
Theo stepped into his embrace, and his arms came around her as naturally as waltzing. She settled against him, faint jasmine blending with sweetness. She had become dear to him. Smiling at him across ballrooms, kissing him in an alley, lecturing him about gentlemanly deportment.
She had become necessary to him, necessary to his happiness.
“We must talk,” she said, her forehead pressed to his chest. “The topic will not be cheerful, but it must be aired.”
We must kiss. “Tell me what troubles you.” And I’ll make it right. She’d box his ears for such presumption, and yet, to keep her safe, to ensure her happiness, Jonathan would do almost anything.
“I am troubled by a who rather than a what. You know Archie’s cousin inherited the title.”
“I know the blighter has left you and the girls to struggle along on a pittance. Say the word, Theo, and I’ll mend his manners posthaste.”
“So fierce,” she said, ruffling his hair. “So determined. I love that about you, but you needn’t take Lord Penweather to task. I simply want you to know that he regards me as responsible for Archie’s death.”
I love that about you. How casually she took possession of Jonathan’s heart.
Then the rest of what she’d said penetrated the rose-colored fog in his brain. He regards me as responsible for Archie’s death. Those words were so absurd that Jonathan waited for an explanation. Theo seemed to be waiting as well. Tension suffused her, the stillness of a small animal avoiding notice.
“The viscount is either evil or mentally imbalanced,” Jonathan said, gathering her closer. “You could no more cause your husband’s death than I could cause my parents to become pattern cards of decorum.”
He’d never said those words aloud, never admitted that all of his childhood longings were wrapped up in that very end: He’d wanted a mother who sent the occasional basket to school, a papa who penned boring letters full of advice aimed at his younger self rather than at his son. Parents who were allies with each other, even if they weren’t great friends.
“You can’t know how much your words mean to me,” Theo said, drawing back. “His lordship was scathing, though he’s since apologized by letter. I suspect Archie treated him to a version of our married life that was less than accurate.”
Jonathan took her hand and led her to the sofa by the fire. “Tell me the rest of it, for his lordship’s cruelty pains you still.”
Theo sank onto the cushions and removed her gloves. To Jonathan’s horror, she used them to dab at her eyes.
“Cruelty is the right word, the word I’ve been avoiding. Penweather was upset, he was grieving, he never expected to inherit… so many excuses for one man. But I’d lost my husband, and to be accused…”
Jonathan passed her his handkerchief. “I will ruin him, if you like. Wreck his social standing, go after his fortune. It might take years, and I might never succeed entirely, but I can leave him fretting over every groat, worried for his children. I would delight in laying his reputation at your feet, Theo.”
She tossed her gloves on the table and clutched the handkerchief into a ball. “You tempt me, but mostly you reassure me. I was concerned the enmity between his lordship and me would put you off.”
Jonathan put his gloves over hers. “You are not to blame for his swinish behavior, or for your husband’s death.”
Any more than I am to blame for my father’s behavior. The thought finished itself on a strange lift of emotion, despite the anger Theo’s disclosures caused.
Theo sat back and tucked herself against Jonathan’s side. “I told myself I hesitated to burden you with this story because a family rift would be distasteful to you. I think I knew better. You would not blame me for his lordship’s harsh words, but I could not trust that you would take my part.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I will always take your part, Theo. Even if you command me to stand up with every wallflower in Mayfair, I will take your part. You have taken my interests to heart, you scold me when I get above myself, you are courageous and dignified, and you kiss like my most fevered bachelor fantasies come to life.”
Oh, he should not have said that. The moment wasn’t right, not with Theo in a state over her idiot cousin-in-law’s nonsense.
“We’ll get to that part—about the kissing. I want to make very sure you know how it was when Archie died. He was drinking far more than was prudent. I suspect he was dabbling in opium and other intoxicants. He could not pass up a game of chance. He made ridiculous wagers.”
She seemed to grow smaller as she offered this recitation, while Jonathan’s anger expanded.
“He barely ate,” she went on. “He slept either for days at a time or not at all. He had stopped caring about the title, me, Diana, and himself. He was ruined in every sense. The current viscount admonished me by letter to exert some wifely control, to take whatever steps were necessary to make my husband happy.”
“And you did what you could,” Jonathan said, “but you also had to protect your daughter and sister, maintain a household, and keep your fool of a husband from debtors’ prison. Archie failed you, his daughter, and himself, Theo. The viscount was simply too ill-informed to see that.”
“Ill-informed.” She said the words as if tasting them and finding them disagreeable.
“People who have never been in the presence of rampant vice can’t fathom it,” Jonathan said. “If you’ve never seen a ragged child shivering on the steps of a great cathedral, then you can’t believe such hypocrisy exists. If you’ve never watched a duke’s son stumble from his coach and fall flat on his face amid the muck on the cobbles, then you don’t believe it happens. You are not responsible for a grown man throwing away his health, his life, his means, and his family. You aren’t.”
Jonathan would make sure the viscount understood the magnitude of the wrong he’d done with his accusations, for somebody had to.
“Penweather isn’t awful,” Theo said. “He’s principled in his way, just as Archie was unprincipled.”
“Put both of them from your mind, Theo. They have troubled you too much and for too long. Penweather in particular does not deserve your concern. Tell me why you danced with me tonight.”
As an attempt to change the subject, that gambit was clumsy, but Jonathan sensed Theo did not want to dwell on the past. Not now, not yet still more.
She slanted a considering look at him. “This takes us to the part about the kissing.”
Thank God. “Do go on, Mrs. Haviland. Anything you have to say on the subject of kisses has my devoted attention.”
“Enough talk,” Theo said, rising.
For one moment, Jonathan thought she was le
aving the room, concluding the discussion, a confidence shared, and a buffet not to be missed. He could content himself with that, if he had to. He could be her confidant, her waltzing partner, and assure himself that he was making progress in the desired direction.
Then she gathered her skirts and settled onto his lap, straddling his thighs, and every rational thought flew from Jonathan’s mind.
* * *
“You are friends with Jonathan Tresham.” Sycamore Dorning was being a gentleman, the most tedious and thankless undertaking ever to befall a feckless younger son. The buffet line would take until his next birthday to wind past the food, so Sycamore was hanging back, letting others go first, while he cornered his oldest brother.
“I am acquainted with him,” Lord Casriel replied. “What is that knot you’ve put in your cravat?”
“I call it the Sycamore Cascade. It looks best on a tall man with broad shoulders.”
“So why are you attempting it?”
Casriel stood perhaps an inch taller than Sycamore’s six feet, one and a half inches. Casriel was well built, but Sycamore had taken up rowing because it was cheap and could be done as a crew of one. Then too, he was not done growing. Dornings were late bloomers, witness five of his idiot brothers still stumbling around without wives.
“I do not attempt this sartorial wonder, I define it, while you hide amid the potted palms hoping no matchmaker has planted an heiress among them.”
“Or hoping I do find an heiress. The Season is both expensive and trying.”
That Casriel would complain about expenses was simply what happened when he opened his mouth under most circumstances. But to complain here, amid his peers, and to his younger brother…
“I’m investing my allowance,” Sycamore said. Though this was true only in a symbolic sense. “The Coventry has free food and drink after midnight, and you needn’t play a hand to partake. You might consider sending Thorne and Oak round of a night. They eat like horses.”
“You eat like a horse.”
“I have better manners than my elders because every single one of my brothers took a solemn vow to correct me when I erred at table, usually by a prolonged and zealous application of his fists. Such fraternal love has created a paragon.” Also a terror, in the words of Gentleman Jackson.
My Own True Duchess Page 17