Meryon was halfway to the door before he turned, bowed again, and spoke one last time. “When you are ready to take a lover, signora, do let me know.”
8
MERYON THOUGHT about Elena Verano all the way back to Penn House. His imagination played with wild fantasies of taking her then and there in her salon, of claiming her before any other man realized that her singing revealed only a little of the passion awaiting a lover.
Instead of ensuring her cooperation, he’d aggravated her, nearly driven her from the room.
He could still see her standing there, her elegant body calling to him as surely as her righteous anger ordered him to leave, then saying she did not want a lover, but insisting that he acknowledge the attraction.
Shifting on the seat, he pretended his arousal made him uncomfortable. But, if he thought honestly, he would have to credit Signora Verano with another truth that made him as restless as a schoolboy called to account.
He’d behaved without examing his reasons carefully, not even considering the propriety of such a late-night call. He’d acted on impulse, damn it. He thought he’d done with that when he left his twenties.
Penn Square was dark and quiet, though most of the houses were still alive with light. The Penn House night porter came out promptly, lowered the steps, and bowed to him with a comforting familiarity. Meryon nodded, still lost in thought.
He’d gone to her house without understanding the true reason why. Yes, he did need to protect his reputation, but he could have done that far more discreetly. He could have waited for a more opportune time.
Halfway across the great hall to the staircase, the porter’s cough distracted him.
“Your hat, Your Grace?”
“Oh, yes.” He took off his hat and greatcoat, handing them to the porter along with his cane. The servant looked mildly concerned.
“I am preoccupied, tonight.”
“But of course, Your Grace.”
The man was so surprised that Meryon wondered if he had ever spoken to the night porter before. Surely he had at some point.
The porter’s unquestioning acceptance reminded Meryon of Elena Verano’s diatribe: “No one questions you; you are never at fault.” And yes, here was his porter making excuses for him. He would have to note how often that happened.
The door to the formal salon remained open, reminding him of the days when he would invite friends back after a ball or some late-night gaming. He should tell the majordomo that there was no need to continue that tradition.
He stepped into the room. Rowena’s portrait hung over the fireplace and he looked up at it, his hands behind his back.
He had not taken time to look at it since he’d come back from France.
Studying it now, he understood why. It represented how well she had suited the role of duchess. In the blue satin gown, wearing pearls and tiara, she appeared elegant, gracious, calm, and charming, but the portrait had failed to capture her essence.
The artist had not captured Rowena’s naive sweetness, the natural friendliness that he thought of as her most delightful trait. That was what had endeared her to the ton.
Those qualities had balanced his sober formality perfectly. Their union had always been civil and almost always comfortable, and until tonight he would have said happy, but now he realized that one crucial element had kept them from true happiness.
Never once in eleven years had he forgotten to leave his hat at the front door. Rowena had never confused him or made him think or made him so angry he’d behaved stupidly.
There had been no passion in their marriage.
He had denied her that. Burdened with regret, he bowed to her portrait. It was time to move the painting to Derbyshire, to Pennford, where it would hang next to his. As someday he would lie beside her in the cemetery there. Meryon wiped the wet from his eyes and hoped that heaven gave her everything that she had not had in this life.
He left the salon, walking more slowly now, not hearing the two footmen who set about closing the grand salon for the night, not noticing the new statue that had arrived and been placed that day, so lost in thought he stood at the door to his study and stared at the panels as if it took all his energy to accept the truth.
Passion held the key to a well-lived life. Not just lust, but passion in so many other areas: music, sport, poetry, food. A passion for justice. That issue had consumed his life these past months. Until tonight.
He had allowed himself to be drawn into an argument with a woman who understood better than he did the attraction that simmered between them. Now lust shouted at him, and he knew that one kiss would never be enough.
ELENA, YOU MUST admit the duke had a very clever parting line.”
“He was not exiting a stage.” Elena stopped pulling the pins from her hair and let the chill show in her voice as she answered her ward. “Our conversation was private, Mia, or should have been. You are eighteen, old enough to understand that.”
“I could not help but hear.” The girl did not look or sound the slightest bit contrite. “I was in the small room next to the salon. You know it’s not possible to leave there except through the room you were in.” Her voice mixed apology and petulance.
“Tell me, how did you happen to be in there?” She was almost afraid to ask. “That room is no good for anything more than storage. And I thought no one could open the window.”
“To be honest,” Mia said, as though making a huge concession, “I was hiding from Tinotti. He and the Signora wanted me to help them inventory the wine.”
“At ten o’clock?”
“They insisted on waiting for you to come home and wanted to use the time sensibly. I told them it would burn too many candles. I did offer to teach them that game of cards we learned on the ship coming here. But they said no. They are always trying to make me do the things a servant does. They are the servants, not me.”
“Mia, you know better than that. They are much more than servants. Part of the family, as you are.”
“Yes,” she conceded grudgingly, “but you did not hire me. I am your ward now that both my father and Eduardo have died.”
“Yes, cara, and I realized quickly that you have a passion for mischief.” Elena pulled out the last pin and shook her hair free. Her headache disappeared almost completely. “I suppose it is too late to try to cure you of that.”
Elena could not help smiling at Mia’s prideful nod.
“So,” Mia said, circling back to her original question. “The duke is one of those quiet volcanoes the novels talk about. A man who is proper in public but not in private.”
Mia lay on top of the bed, her knees bent under her, in a position that would have been more than painful for anyone else. Her body was supple in a way that defied description. She proved it by moving to her knees in one graceful movement. Elena prayed that it never occurred to Mia how much money she could make as a dancer or in a circus.
“Would you consider taking him as a lover?”
“What is your governess letting you read, Mia? That is a totally inappropriate question.”
“Yes, I know. But would you?”
“Never.” She answered with as much conviction as she could muster. “I am here so you can have your Season, not to indulge in an affair of the heart. A happy marriage is all that your father ever wanted for you.” It was a convenient explanation and almost the truth.
“Or you could marry him, Elena. He is a duke. Think how many gorgeous jewels he would give you.”
He is a duke. That one word stood for all the reasons she should avoid him. “I have no need or desire to marry for jewels or money.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” The girl sighed.
“Your disdain is unbecoming in one so young.” The realization that this child did not begin to understand what was important, even after losing both her father and her much-loved guardian, pained Elena as much as the child’s cynicism.
Elena undid the pearl earrings that Edward had given her on the day they had k
nown each other for a year. “I do enjoy beauty in all its material forms but, Mia, do believe me when I say that jewels and clothes are not essential to happiness.”
“I believe that is true for you, Elena, but nothing would make me happier than someone who would give me a jewel or a clock or a coach or horses, and a duke could certainly afford all those and not even notice the money was gone.”
That gave Elena pause. Despite headache and fatigue this subject could not be dropped. “We have not talked about this before, but you must understand that there is a difference between taking a lover and being a kept woman.”
Elena tightened the sash of her robe and came to sit next to Mia. “As a widow, then and only then, it is socially acceptable for a woman to establish a liaison with a gentleman.”
She paused a moment. Yes, a lover could give her the physical fulfillment she missed, but she never thought to find the kind of understanding she and Edward had shared.
“Yes, I know that. Go on.”
At least the girl was listening. “To become a man’s mistress is the complete opposite. In exchange for money and gifts you allow a man to command all of your time and attention, whenever he wants. A mistress must be ready for him at his whim, have no thought but to please him, no matter what he asks for.” Elena shuddered at the thought. She went back to the dressing table and began to brush out her hair. “I feel depraved for even mentioning such subjects, but let us blame it on my years in Italy.”
“But of course, I meant a husband. Of course,” Mia insisted. “How wicked of you to think that I meant something else.”
“My apologies.” Elena meant it, really she did, but she did not believe that Mia’s thoughts were that pure.
“Now tell me, Elena, what instrument does he play?”
“The duke?”
“Yes, the duke.”
The long-suffering patience in Mia’s voice made Elena smile. “He plays no instrument that I know of. I do not think he is musical. Or that may be my pride talking. He left before I finished singing.”
“He did not!” Outrage filled her face. “How could he. The man must have the feelings of a goat.”
“Thank you, Mia, but not everyone hears the same way. Maybe he loves the sound of rain, the sounds of nature, and has no need for man-made music.”
“Are you sure that you’re not in love with him?”
“Not for a minute. Like all men of power he protects himself so that no one will take advantage of him.” She was thinking out loud, explaining it to herself as much as to Mia. “He does have sensibilities he tries to conceal. I saw those when we met.”
It would be entirely too much work to try to pierce that protection. And for her to have an affair of the heart, both hearts would have to be involved.
“I will ask Lord William about him, Elena. Lord William knows everyone.”
“Do not discuss it with him.” She almost dropped her brush and spoke with such sharpness that Mia stared at her.
“Why not?”
“For reasons I cannot begin to explain.” She went back to the bedside and took her ward’s hands. “Please, dearest, tell me you will be my confidante and not betray my secrets.”
“Oh, yes, yes I will, Elena. You can trust me to keep all your secrets.” She was wide-eyed at the request, as though being raised to the level of confidante was a rite of passage as meaningful as a first ball.
“Grazie, carissima.” Elena kissed her on the cheek and released her hands, hoping she had not asked too much. “Now let me tell you about the other men.”
Mia’s wide eyes almost popped out of her head until Elena could no longer keep her expression solemn.
“You are not serious!” Mia threw a bolster from the bed in her general direction. “You are trying to distract me so that I will forgive you for not taking me with you to dinner. I would have loved to see Edward’s violin again.”
“And William.”
Mia blushed prettily. Elena picked up the bolster and put it back on the bed, wondering if the girl was developing a tendre for him.
“Elena, I want to go to parties and enjoy myself.”
“In a few weeks when the Season starts, Mia.” So this was not about William at all. “I hope waiting for your first ball is the worst frustration you ever face.”
Mia folded her arms across her chest and turned her head.
“Listen to me. You will need time to buy clothes. By the time your gowns are ready my place in society will be more secure. I think vouchers to Almack’s is too much to hope for, but there will be more balls and fetes than you can count.”
“I do not want to wait. I want it now.”
“Yes, I know.” This would go on until dawn if she did not put a stop to it. Fatigue made Mia’s behavior more irritating than amusing this evening. “Mia, I know that cajoling, wheedling tone always worked with Edward. But I want you to think a minute, has it ever worked with me?”
“No.” Mia turned to face her again, her mouth set in an unattractive pout. “You are mean, Elena.”
“You are my ward. I am as responsible for you as a parent would be.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” The girl pulled the pins from her own hair, a ridiculous upsweep, much too old for her, that Elena had chosen to ignore.
“Mia, will you unlace my stays?” Elena slid the robe down her shoulder so the girl could reach the laces.
Mia complied and as she was unlacing the ribbons asked, “When are you going to find a maid?”
“Soon, but it is so difficult to find servants who do not mind us speaking Italian.”
Mia was silent a moment. “Why not hire Tina to be your maid and find a new housekeeper?”
“Do you think she would prefer that?” Elena looked over her shoulder at Mia.
“Yes,” Mia said, as the stays fell free. “Yes, Elena, I am sure of it.”
Mia spoke with such conviction Elena wondered if Tina and Mia had already discussed it.
“It may not be as important a position as housekeeper but it is a much more personal connection to you.”
Picking up her clothes, Elena folded them and left them on the closest chair. “All right, I’ll ask Tina, but you must promise me that she will not consider it an insult.”
“I am sure of it.”
Mia’s certainty convinced Elena that the subject had been thoroughly discussed. And decided. “Tomorrow. I will talk with her about it tomorrow.”
Elena settled herself in bed and quieted her mind. As she fell asleep an image of the duke popped into her head.
Would he call again? Probably not. Definitely not. Unless he had spoken seriously when he told her to let him know if she wanted a lover. How did one do that? Send him a letter? Dear Duke, please come to my bed at your earliest convenience. She smiled into the dark at her foolishness as she thought about his blue eyes. But not startlingly so. A blue that hinted at secrets that he was not ready to share.
What must his married life have been like? Had the duke and Rowena shared any of their thoughts, as she and Edward had? If they had, now that she was gone, with whom did he share his heart?
9
I THINK SHE wanted to slap me.” The duke sat in the chair closest to the fire.
Magda gave a soft “woof.” Meryon could not tell if that meant approval or censure. He took a sip of the wine Blix had left for him. Perfect valet that he was, Blix would show up in precisely five minutes to see if Meryon “would prefer to retire or have some more wine.”
Meryon leaned his head on the back of the chair, his memory sharp with the image of Elena’s golden brown eyes, the way she used her hands to emphasize her words.
She so totally embodied what he loved best about the women of Italy: their temper, yes, but also their warmth, their passion.
As she had said of her husband, she wore her heart for all to see. She needed someone to give her an outlet for all that passion. He drank the last of his wine and laughed at his self-indulgent generosity.
Magda slid o
ff the chair and ran from the room. A sign that his valet Blix was nearby. His dog and his valet detested each other. And Meryon had no intention of dismissing either of them. Blix excelled at all a valet’s most valued skills and Magda listened and never argued.
When Blix did not walk over to the table, pick up the bottle of wine, and offer him more, Meryon looked up.
“Your Grace, I beg your pardon. Your brother-in-law, Mr. Garrett, arrived an hour ago. He is in the library and asked to see you before you retired.”
Meryon tried not to race out of the room like a child whose best friend has just arrived. He stopped short, confused, when he found that Garrett was not alone. A boy was with him, on the floor wrestling playfully with Magda.
Both boy and dog sprang apart when he came in. The boy stood and smoothed his hair and shirt, clean but close to a rag.
Magda raced over to Meryon, alive with energy, something he had never seen before. He opened the door and Magda ran into the hall.
“Take her,” he said to one of the footmen, and closed the door before the footman answered.
“It’s not her fault. I made her play with me!”
“Yes, and the footman will take her out to the park to run off her energy.”
“You will not beat her for leaving hair everywhere.” The boy made it a statement and Meryon recognized the worry buried under the command.
“No. Though I will see that she spends more time in the park. I never realized she had that much energy.”
The boy nodded as if that was an acceptable arrangement, as if he were in charge.
Alan Wilson was about Rexton’s size, but far more world-weary than his son. Wilson stood without fidgeting, caution replacing confidence. He looked from one man to the other without moving his head. Meryon saw no trust in those eyes, but no fear either.
“Now let us go back to the beginning.” Meryon sat at his desk, leaning back in the chair.
“Good evening, Meryon,” Garrett began. “When I arrived, this young man was at the door, trying to convince the night porter that you had invited him to call. Why would he lie, I asked myself, and have kept him company for the last hour while we waited for you.”
Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] Page 7