Page 1 of My Own True Duchess
Chapter One
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“Anselm, why the hell didn’t you warn me?” Jonathan Tresham spoke quietly, lest his ire be detected over the string quartet in the minstrel’s gallery.
Anselm—as in the Duke of Anselm—lifted his glass of punch in discreet greeting to his duchess, who was wafting down the ballroom’s main staircase. Dancers swirled and glided between duke and duchess, as if all of polite society were honoring the late-arriving lady.
“Warn you of what, Tresham? You are whiling away an evening in the most genteel of surrounds in the very best company—my own.”
The duchess paused on the next-to-last step and flourished a lacy pink fan, which caused Anselm to set down his drink. This was the bow-and-curtsey opening to an intricate quadrille. Her Grace of Anselm would greet friends, kiss cheeks, and appear to wander about the vast game preserve where matchmakers stalked spouses for the unmarried and unwary.
Anselm would prowl in Her Grace’s wake, making debutantes nervous, acknowledging acquaintances, indulging some dowager’s need to hold forth about the weather. At the end of five minutes, Their Graces of Anselm would meet behind a potted palm, and Tresham’s sworn ally would become utterly useless.
Again.
“You failed to warn me,” Jonathan said, “that I’m a hunted man. Your duchess has probably been colluding with the coven at Almack’s, reading tea leaves and forecasting my doom.”
Anselm came as close to smiling as he ever did. “Your bachelorhood was doomed from the day you were born, Tresham. Ducal heirs marry as surely as mud puddles follow rain. An intelligent man would enjoy the benefits of such a fate, while you fume and pout.”
Pout? Pout? “You liken my plight to a mud puddle? Marriage has destroyed the once formidable citadel of your reason, Anselm. Go pant at your duchess’s heels like a good duke.”
Anselm was a dark brute, every bit as tall as Jonathan and some years older. At public school, Anselm had been the bigger boy who’d occasionally intervened when Jonathan had been tempted to cross the line separating schoolyard justice from gratuitous—and gratifying—violence.
The duke arranged the lace at his cuffs and fluffed his cravat. “Tresham, you ridicule what you do not comprehend, and your ignorance alone excuses me from calling you out. My duchess has promised me her supper waltz.”
Anselm bowed, eyes dancing, and prowled off to the land of unapologetic marital bliss.
For now. Sooner or later, that land would turn to a battleground or, worse, an expanse of boredom so endless and airless as to suffocate both reason and dignity.
On that gloomy thought, Jonathan sidled behind a gaggle of matrons watching the dancers and ducked into a servants’ passage. He knew the Earl of Bellefonte’s town house well enough to take cover when necessary, and with the supper break approaching, a respite from the ballroom was imperative.
His lordship had a decent library, and connected to that library was a lovely little study. Jonathan was halfway to safety when a footman with a tray of clean glasses winked at him as if a ducal heir lurking under the stairs was a common sight.
Jonathan emerged from the passage, looked both ways, then listened for approaching footfalls over the muted strains of Mozart. He looked both ways again and crossed the corridor to the library. A sense of guilty triumph filled him as he softly, softly closed the library door and surveyed a treasury of books and a crackling fire.
Half a dozen sconces sent shadows dancing across the cherub-bedecked clouds painted on the ceiling. The peace of the room settled over him, easing his temper, calming him physically. He could not ignore every invitation, but he could limit himself to accepting invitations from peers with quiet libraries, cozy studies, and deserted parlors.
He considered locking the door, but no. Any other bachelor seeking asylum would conclude the worst—a tryst in progress—which would start exactly the wrong sort of talk.
“How did Uncle endure all those years of being an unmarried duke?” Jonathan asked the angels dancing above him.
A head popped up from the sofa facing the hearth. “Mr. Tresham, I knew you’d come!” This exclamation came from a female, which Jonathan deduced despite the gloom by virtue of the mad profusion of ringlets, braids, and wildlife passing for the woman’s coiffure.
Or the girl’s. Jonathan would not have put her age above seventeen, while the ambition in her eyes was ancient.
“Excuse me, miss. I did not know the room was occupied. I’ll leave you to enjoy his lordship’s books.” He bowed when he wanted to bolt for the door, though showing any hint of panic would hand the blighted female her victory.
“The other girls told me I was daft,” the medusa said, advancing on Jonathan, “but I’ve paid attention. You take to the cardroom, pretend to smoke on the terrace, or find the library when the supper waltz comes around.”
She manacled her fingers around Jonathan’s arm. “I knew if I was patient, I could make this happen.”
No. No, no, a thousand times no. History would not repeat itself, and Jonathan would not become a victim of twisted propriety.
“You mistake the matter,” Jonathan said. “You mistake me, in fact. I don’t know you and I have not behaved inappropriately with you, but I will leave you ruined if you so much as intimate that—”
The violins had gone silent to a soft smattering of applause. Voices sounded out in the corridor.
“Kiss me!” the young lady said, puckering her lips like a mackerel. “You must kiss me this instant.”
