Page 24 of My Own True Duchess
Theo took the bank draft from Mr. Tresham’s hand without glancing at the amount. She had that much pride left, if only barely.
“Shall I have a tea tray sent up?” she asked.
Her formal parlor was seldom used, but Williams, bless her, was conscientious about the dusting and polishing. All the cleaning in the world couldn’t hide a worn patch of carpet from the harsh morning light, or the fact that the candleholders on the mantel were empty.
“Tea won’t be necessary,” Mr. Tresham said. “Have you a discreet man of business to tend to that sum for you?”
She set the draft on the mantel facedown. “I’ll deposit it myself.”
He peered at a painting of doves Theo had done when she’d been about Seraphina’s age. “Might I ask where you’ll deposit that draft?”
Was he being concerned, nosy, or merely curious? “Why?”
“I wrote the draft out to ‘bearer,’ so that the recipient wouldn’t be obvious until you endorse the draft. If we bank at the same institution, then the clerks will notice that money is being transferred from me to you. If you endorse the draft illegibly, then your privacy remains assured at my bank as long as we do not do business with the same institution.”
What sort of ducal heir knew such stratagems? “I bank at Wentworth and Penrose.”
“An unusual choice.”
One her solicitor had disapproved of, though other widows patronized it. Wentworth’s was a newer establishment and had not attracted many titles among its clientele.
“I am unlikely to see the same people at my bank that I see in Mayfair’s ballrooms. Shall we sit, sir?”
Mr. Tresham bent closer to the bottom right corner of the painting. “Is that your signature?”
Theo had the same emotions now that she’d had upon accepting Archie’s proposal of marriage: hope and dread, relief and self-doubt, all swirling inside her at once. Over a few weeks’ worth of matchmaking?
And yet, her feelings were real and troubling, while Mr. Tresham was preoccupied with schoolgirl art. She took a place on the sofa, where the painting would not be in her line of sight.
“That is my signature. Have a seat, Mr. Tresham.”
In his elegant morning attire, he made Theo’s best parlor feel small and shabby. This was not his fault, of course, but she simply couldn’t muster any gratitude for the funds he’d brought.
He’d purchased her loyalty, which had apparently cost him most of her liking.
“You have artistic talent, madam. The painting is wistful, poignant even. Is it a recent work?”
Small talk now? “I was sixteen when I did that. Doves sound so peaceful, and that year was difficult. My father was ill, and Mama was torn between terror at becoming a widow—my sister was only four years old—and terror that Papa should linger, such that our mourning would delay my come out. We need to coordinate our schedules, Mr. Tresham.”
A tap sounded on the door. Theo mentally steeled herself to deal with a curious sister or daughter, but Williams appeared in a pristine apron, carrying a tea tray. The silver service, which Theo was on the point of selling.
“Thank you, Williams.” Theo had not ordered this tray and had not explained to anybody the nature of Mr. Tresham’s call.
Williams bobbed a curtsey and departed.
“Shall we close the door?” Mr. Tresham asked. “Talk of balls and breakfasts ought not to scandalize anybody, but I’m a guest under your roof. We must do as you see fit.”
No, they must not, or she’d be escorting Mr. Tresham from the premises. “I’m having second thoughts.”
“Ah.” He took the armchair, his expression amused, as if this was a predictable phase in training a horse or tutoring a child. “If you will share those second thoughts, I will allay them.”
Because of the angle of the sunshine slanting through the window, the worn patch of carpet was particularly obvious from the sofa. If Theo wanted to replace the carpet, she should lie to Mr. Tresham. If she wanted to buy the fabric she’d sew into a wardrobe for Seraphina’s come out, she’d at least dissemble.
But, no. She owed him loyalty, and loyalty was a stranger to falsehood. “I have considered who among the unmarried women of polite society would suit you, and I perceive a problem.”
“I’m not that choosy, Mrs. Haviland.” He shot his cuffs, his signet ring winking in the sunshine. “I seek a cordial union with a woman who understands her responsibilities. I will be cordial as well, and loyal and faith—”
Theo had done nothing more than smooth a hand over her skirts, but it was enough to silence him. “A successful marriage requires friendship, Mr. Tresham. You’ve referred to your duchess as a social ally, but her loyalty will not be for sale.”
