Page 18 of My Own True Duchess
Again, she was disapproving. “I haven’t any commercial partners.”
“Then what makes you think you’ll succeed at having a marital partner?”
Late at night, when the club had closed its doors to patrons and opened its windows to let in fresh air, when Jonathan’s only company was the staff cleaning up after another night of aristocrats at play, that question haunted him.
“If nothing else,” Jonathan said, “I’ve seen a fine example of how not to be married. One can learn from a poor example.”
Mrs. Haviland sat back, leaving behind the posture of the proper widow. “That is a profound truth. What did you want to discuss?”
Archimedes had apparently been a rotter. Perhaps not in the same league with Jonathan’s father, but the late Mr. Haviland had dimmed the joy in his wife’s eyes and replaced it with grumpy honesty.
“I must find a bride,” Jonathan said, trying to keep all emotion—all resentment, all anger—from the words. “I undertake this search not because the ducal succession requires an heir, but because I owe my uncle.”
“Marrying for the sake of another is not well advised, Mr. Tresham.” She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve, tugging it down. She’d taken off her gloves to eat, meaning her arms were exposed. She had a fading bruise near her right elbow and wore not a single bracelet or ring.
“You speak from experience?”
“I married in part because my younger sister required a home. My father was significantly older than my mother, and Mama needed her widow’s mite for herself when Papa died.”
She rubbed her arms, and it occurred to Jonathan that she was cold. “Walk with me,” he said, rising and extending his hand.
“I cannot allow this food to go to waste.”
“It won’t go to waste. The kitchen staff will see that it’s used at the second table if it’s not consumed before dawn.”
Still, she remained seated.
“Madam, I’ll send you a cured ham, a joint of beef, fifty pounds of potatoes, and a damned pineapple, but I’d like to conclude this discussion in the next quarter hour.”
She picked up her gloves and drew the left one on slowly. “You needn’t mock me.”
“I am in complete earnest.”
The right glove went on. “Not a pineapple. You want something from me.”
“Nothing untoward.”
She rose without taking Jonathan’s hand. “Oranges and lemons, then. More peaches, next week. A loaf of sugar, cooking spices, a pound of gunpowder, and a pound of China black.”
With that recitation, she’d given him all the leverage he’d need to get what he wanted from her, and her list was pathetically easy to provide.
“Done,” he said. “Let’s find a parlor where you will not be chilled and I will not be overheard.”
She wrapped her hand around Jonathan’s arm, adopted a pleasant expression, and permitted him—he had no doubt about whose decision this had been—to escort her from the bench.
Chapter Four
* * *
Once upon a time, Theo had loved the lyricism and passion of the violin. Trumpets blared across battlefields, drums reverberated throughout a city, but violins signaled polite society enjoying itself. Violins were creatures of refinement and leisure, made for beautiful ballrooms and genteel gatherings.
“You are frowning,” Mr. Tresham said. “I can send the pineapple if you’ve changed your mind.”
“A pineapple would draw significant notice, Mr. Tresham. You’ll procure the peaches from your personal connections, and the rest are common luxuries.”
“This is why I wanted to speak to you.” He tapped softly on a closed door, waited a moment, then held it open.
The interior was warm, which mattered to Theo. Somebody had given orders that the fire was to be tended, though only one branch of candles had been lit. Portraits on the shadowed walls gave the little room the sense of having a gallery of ancestors eavesdropping on any conversations. The ancestors were a happy lot, ruddy-cheeked and smiling in their plumed and embroidered attire.
