by Eloisa James
It was clean. Honeydew would tolerate no dirt, but he had the feeling the butler worked to death the few housemaids his mother had kept in the household. He might as well get over the rough ground as quickly as possible. “My mother stopped paying bills a while ago. And she dismissed most of the household staff.”
Isidore had a strange look on her face and he knew just what she was thinking. The odor had begun drifting through the room like a fetid suitor.
“She didn’t have the water closets cleaned, the slates repaired, the house painted, the furniture upholstered, the servants paid, the cottages re-thatched…”
Isidore’s hand flew to her mouth, and over her nose as well. “Oh, dear!”
Simeon nodded. “That’s why I didn’t invite you to Revels House. When rain comes, and the wind shifts…”
She put down her hand and to his great relief, she was smiling. “You looked tired when I first met you,” she observed. “But now you look even worse.”
“There is a great deal of paperwork. Unpaid bills, solicitors’ letters…” He shrugged. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“I have a large estate, and you are my husband, Cosway. It’s yours. That is, it should have been yours long ago, but you never appeared to take charge of it so I have managed it.”
His heart lightened even further. “The truth is that I have a great deal of money as well. And mystifyingly, so does the duchy. I have no need of substance, though I thank you heartily for it.”
“Then why…”
He nodded. “Exactly. My mother has long been a mystery to me. Did you understand her during your sojourn here?”
Isidore picked up her gloves and carefully smoothed each finger. “I’m afraid that I was far too young and coarse. Your mother is a woman of great sensibility.”
He thought that was a nice way of saying the obvious: his mother was a raving lunatic, if not worse. “She didn’t used to be like this,” he offered. “I’m afraid the shock of my father’s death made things worse.”
“How can I help?”
“You can’t, but I do appreciate the offer.”
“Nonsense,” she said, standing up. “You can’t manage everything on your own, Simeon.” She looked around. “Have you even raised the question of redecorating with your mother?”
He rose, thinking about how casually she said his first name…finally. “My mother is having a difficult time adjusting to my presence. She is distressed by the fact that I am paying bills that she considers to have been presented by thieves. But after so much time has passed, I have no way of ascertaining whether the bills are fraudulent, so I am necessarily paying everything in full.”
She nodded. “Then I suppose my most pressing question is which bedchamber lies the farthest distance from a water closet?”
Of course she didn’t plan to stay in the master bedchamber. Of course not. He’d told her that he wanted to dissolve the marriage. What in the hell had he been thinking?
“I’ll ask the butler, shall I?” she said, turning away. The line of her back was straight and incredibly slender. And then her hoops…the way her skirt billowed as she walked made him long to follow the line of her back down to her hips with his hand. With a silent groan, he pushed open the door for Isidore and she swept through.
What would Honeydew make of the duchess’s request for a bedchamber far, far away? As it turned out, he was in entire sympathy.
“The dowager duchess has her own water closet, of course,” Simeon heard him telling Isidore. “And how she can abide the odor on damp days…”
“She’s probably used to it,” Isidore said, reasonably enough.
Back when Simeon was practicing meditation and first learning to control his body, it had been easy to maintain a manly discretion. When he arrived in Africa, and discovered running, he learned how to control bodily appetites such as hunger.
But England was endangering all his carefully erected barriers. His imperturbable, manly façade was shaken. He was enraged at his dead father for avoiding his obligations. He was irritated by his mother. And worst of all, he was riveted by lust for his wife. If the truth be told, lust was absorbing at least half of his cognitive powers at any given moment, even given that he’d had so little sleep.
He could hear Valamksepa in his mind’s ear, intoning that no man need be at the behest of his emotions, and certainly not of his body. The memory sounded like water running over pebbles a long way away.
Isidore put her hand on his sleeve and her touch sent a pulse of fire to his loin. “Simeon, is Godfrey away at school? He was just a toddler when I last saw him. He must be in long pants by now.”
Simeon gave her a wry smile. “He’s thirteen and nearly as tall as I am. You’ll meet him tonight.”
She gasped. “Thirteen?”
“I need to find him a tutor. My mother deemed Eton too expensive and yet she never hired a proper tutor. Luckily, he seems very bright and has taught himself, rather eclectically, from my father’s library.”
“Beaumont is sure to know an appropriate young man. Godfrey taught himself?”
Another pulse of shame. He should have been here, making certain that his brother was properly raised. But Simeon made sure his face was impassive. It was weakness to admit weakness. “He will quickly catch up to his peers.”
Isidore gave him a quizzical look, but turned away to speak to Honeydew. “I do not travel lightly,” she said. “Several carriages are following more slowly with my clothing.”
When Honeydew took her upstairs to explore the most palatable bedchamber—from an olfactory point of view—Simeon returned to his study.
The last thing he wanted to do was be in the same room with Isidore and a bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Revels House
February 29, 1784
Isidore had never selected a room on this basis before: she and Honeydew entered each room and then sniffed. But the stench was pervasive. It followed them from room to room like a friendly dog.
She was beginning to wonder if there was an inn within ready distance when Honeydew suddenly said, “Perhaps the Dower House, Your Grace. Would you consider it? I’m afraid it hasn’t been opened or aired, but it’s a lovely little house.”
“Honeydew, I will consider any place that was not refurbished to include a water closet.”
“The water closets in this house might be excellent,” Honeydew said, “if only I could have persuaded His Grace’s father, the late duke, to take proper care of the pipes.”
“When are they to be cleaned?” she asked.
Honeydew had a look of near agony on his face. “I’m afraid that the duke has encountered some difficulty finding appropriate help, but we should have men here within a day or two. It truly wasn’t as bad until this week…the damp weather.” He wrung his hands.
“I can see that there was little you could do.” They walked downstairs and out a side door, and though Isidore would never say so, the relief of walking into the fresh outdoor air, brisk though it might be, was considerable. She saw Honeydew take a lungful as well. “I suppose one gets used to it?” she asked.
“Some do,” Honeydew said. It was clear that he had not grown accustomed.
They followed a gravel path around the house. The shambles of a formal garden stretched before them.
She turned to Honeydew, mouth open, but he had the answer. “As of two days ago, His Grace instructed the estate’s remaining gardener to hire additional staff as expeditiously as possible. They will bring the gardens back into trim.”
The Dower House was not really a house; it was more of a cottage. But it was charming, with a rosebush climbing over the windows. It was like a doll’s house.
“What color will the roses be?” she asked.
“Pale pink,” the butler replied. “There are a great many of them. The vine hasn’t been pruned as it ought, but it puts out a quantity of roses all the same. There are lilac trees around the back, but they won’t bloom, of course, unti
l late April.”
He took out a huge circle of keys and finally managed to fit one to the lock. “There hasn’t been anyone living here since His Grace’s grandmother,” he said, over his shoulder. “We used to air it out and clean it thoroughly, but in the past few years…”
Of course, he hadn’t enough staff to spare.
After a small entryway, sunlight fell into a surprisingly large sitting room. The furniture was soft and covered with Holland cloths. There was no attempt at ducal elegance, quite the opposite. The walls were paneled in elmwood, painted a cream color with little pansies scattered here and there. The floor was flagstone, but a cheerful, if faded, rug hugged the middle. Best of all, the house smelled dusty but without even a whiff of sewage.
“How lovely!” Isidore exclaimed.
“The late duke’s mother disliked formality,” Honeydew said, bustling to pull open the curtains. “Phew! Look at this dust. I’ll summon all the housemaids immediately, Your Grace, and we’ll have it clean and aired in no time.”
Isidore had discovered a charming little bedchamber containing a large sleigh bed and one table stacked with worn, leather-bound books.
“The duke’s grandmother was a great reader by all accounts,” Honeydew said. “Her own life was quite a romantic tale.”
Isidore looked up from a small copy of Tales of the Nile that she’d discovered. It was falling apart, though she couldn’t tell whether that was due to age or over-reading. “Romantic?”
“Yes, you must ask His Grace to tell you about it,” Honeydew said, darting about to throw back the shutters. “There now, if you would be so kind as to accompany me back to the house, we’ll get the house tidy for you.”
Isidore shook her head. She supposed she would have to reenter the house for dinner. But she couldn’t face that yet. She tucked herself into a rocking chair, book in hand. “I am exactly like my husband’s grandmother,” she said. “A great reader. I shall be quite happy here. When the maids arrive, I’ll simply go for a little stroll.”
“Will your personal maid be arriving in the later carriages?”
“Yes, Lucille experiences stomach problems when she travels, so she generally follows me in a slow-moving carriage. If it were possible, I would love a bath. I’m quite dusty from the journey.”
“I’ll set up a hot bath as soon as the maids have finished. If you’re quite certain that you’re comfortable…” He lingered, obviously disturbed by the idea of leaving her.
But Isidore was already opening up a book. “I shall be perfectly happy here, Honeydew. Truly. Please send the dowager duchess my regrets that I cannot greet her due to the absence of my maid.”
She had a sudden thought. “Do you know, I believe that I am strangely fatigued by my journey.” She smiled at the butler, who had the discretion not to indicate that she seemed in the utter pink of health. “I shall dine here tonight.”
He bowed.
“I should be honored if the duke would disrupt his schedule and join me,” she added. “Quite informally, of course. He needn’t wear a cravat.”
Honeydew’s eyes were smiling, even if his face kept to a servantlike solemnity. “Just so, Your Grace. I shall inform him.” He bowed again. “May I add that your generosity as regards His Grace’s attire will be greatly appreciated?”
Chapter Fourteen
Revels House
February 29, 1784
“Her Grace is in the Dower House,” Honeydew informed the duke. “The maids have been to clean, and she seems quite comfortable. We started a fire in the grate. The walls are damp, and it should quickly take away the chill.”
The duke looked up from the letter he was writing and dragged a hand through his hair. “Really? Because of the stench? I think I must be getting used to it, Honeydew.”
“No, Your Grace. The air is somewhat drier than it was this morning and it’s not so obvious. But we are due for more rain tonight, or so Mr. Sumerall, the gardener, has told me.”
“She’s well out of it, then,” the duke said, looking exhausted.
“The duchess requests that you dine with her in the Dower House,” Honeydew said. In his estimation, the duchess wasn’t coming back into the main house until the water closets were cleaned. Even if Mr. Kinnaird managed to find cleaning men in London—and given the amount of money that the duke had given him, he ought to—Honeydew thought that they wouldn’t arrive for a day or two.
Besides, Honeydew was discovering he had alarmingly affectionate feelings toward the young duke who worked all day and half the night, and who was paying everyone, honest and true. The whole countryside was talking about it. A year ago he couldn’t find a ripe melon without ready money, but now offers were flowing from all sides.
“This Mr. Purfew who claims to have done great service for the late duke,” the duke said. “Do you have any idea who that might be, Honeydew?”
Honeydew pursed his lips. “It doesn’t ring a bell. There was a Pursloe—”
The duke turned to an enormous ledger that lay open to his right. “I’ve already noted a payment to Pursloe, made yesterday, for four wigs purchased by my father ten years ago, payment refused on the grounds that they were too old-fashioned.”
Honeydew judged it best to be silent.
But the duke smiled faintly. “I suspect my father was buried in one of those old-fashioned wigs?”
“I believe, sir, that there should be a letter thereabouts from a London wigmaker named Mr. Westby, who made the burial wig. It was His Grace’s favorite.”
The smile fell from the duke’s face and he looked to his ledger with a sigh. “I haven’t found Westby’s letter, Honeydew. But I attempted to take a nap at one point and discovered a great trove of letters propping up the leg of the sofa. When you get a moment, could you have the footmen remove that sofa? It’s beyond repair.”
Honeydew saw that the velvet, claw-footed sofa had lurched to the ground, minus a leg. Moreover a sprinkle of straw haloed the floor around it, showing that its innards were openly disintegrating. He felt a rush of embarrassment. “I am sorry that—your father wouldn’t—”
The duke held up his hand. “There’s no need,” he said wearily. “Truly. I am learning the depths of my father’s stubbornness letter by letter and I can only admire you for staying in your post. I have instructed Kinnaird to double your wages; consider it hardship pay.”
Honeydew drew himself upright. “I thank you, Your Grace.” Happy visions of retirement and a small cottage danced before his eyes. Then he returned to the subject at hand. It seemed to him quite odd that the duke and duchess were married, and yet not married. Not to mention sleeping, quite obviously, in different quarters.
What was needed was to create some good old-fashioned propinquity.
“Her Grace has requested supper to be served in the Dower House,” he said. “I shall set a cover for you.”
The duke nodded. But then, as Honeydew was leaving, he looked up from his desk and said, “Don’t forget to ask Godfrey to join us.”
Godfrey? A thirteen-year-old joining the intimate dinner between a barely married man and wife? Honeydew could not approve.
“I shall ascertain whether the young master is free to join you,” he said, vowing to make quite certain that Godfrey was occupied.
“Of course, I’m free,” piped up a voice from the other side of the room.
“Lord Godfrey!”
The boy’s brown curls popped up from the far side of yet another faded sofa. “I haven’t even met the duchess.”
“I didn’t know you were still there,” the duke said, smiling at his brother. “One hour more and I’m dragging you out on the roads for a run, Godfrey.”
Defeated, Honeydew bowed and departed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Dower House
February 29, 1784
Isidore prepared her cottage with great care. A small army of housemaids cleaned it from floor to rafters. Then she sent two of the most capable-looking ones searching all
over Revels House for bits of furniture.
By the end of the afternoon, she had her little dollhouse made up a trifle more comfortably. Candles shone all over the room. Upholstered chairs replaced the unpadded armchairs favored by the late dowager duchess. There was a vase of snowdrops that Isidore gathered in the garden, and the bed (large enough for two) was made up with snowy white linens and piled with pillows.
It was still a doll’s house, but polished to a high gleam and smelling deliciously of French lilacs (thanks to some very expensive parfum), it spoke of creature comforts.
And seduction.
The footmen arrived with a small dining room table and Isidore had them move it twice before she decided the best place for it was in the corner of the sitting room, where she and Simeon would eat in a mysterious, slightly shadowed intimacy.
She sent a suggested menu to Honeydew, including hot, spiced wine that she could prepare herself at fireside.
She could just picture it: the duke with his broad shoulders, his jacket thrown open and his hair tumbling to his shoulders. She would play the immaculate, utterly delicious wife. If what he wanted was English womanhood in all its delicate docility, she could do that.
It was like a favorite story that she had already read, and now got to enact. The Taming of the Wild Man…
Isidore started humming as she dropped into a steaming bath, delicately scented with jasmine. Jasmine had an innocent touch, she thought.
As she sat in the hot water, she refined her story to a trembling virginal bride facing a wild pirate king.
That sounded like just the sort of setting to appeal to Simeon. And he obviously wanted to believe it. Look how he’d leapt at the idea that she’d never pleasured herself.
She found herself smiling. This was going to be fun. She tried out a few sentences in her mind. Oh dear! It’s far too large!
Or would one say, You’re far too large?
The etiquette of it all…Maybe she could just shudder, throw a hand over her eye and squeak, No, no, no!