Page 26 of My Own True Duchess
“Send regrets at least one-third of the time,” Theo said, mentally considering his schedule. “Make your attendance a coveted possibility, not a foregone conclusion.”
She was invited to many of the same functions, though not all. A ducal heir moved in rarefied circles when it came to dinner parties. She named four entertainments she’d not been invited to, one of which caused her a small grief.
“I went to school with Lady Fulbright. She stopped inviting me to her home before I became a widow. I suspect my husband offended her husband.” Archie had failed to pay debts of honor toward the end, and Theo could only hope that explained the old friends who barely acknowledged her.
“You could come as my guest,” Mr. Tresham said.
“No, I cannot. If you are searching for a duchess, then you must not be seen to dally with a widow.”
“Does polite society think of nothing else but flirtation and dalliance?”
Theo lifted her tea cup, the better to enjoy the fragrance of a strong brew for a change. “Scandal enlivens otherwise boring lives, Mr. Tresham. That is human nature. If dalliances aren’t under consideration, then troubled finances make good grist for the gossip mill. I tread a delicate line avoiding both types of rumor.”
“Then I will send my regrets to Lord Fulbright. I’ll tell you something else that’s true about you, Mrs. Haviland.”
She wanted him to leave, so she could pace and curse and doubt herself in peace. She also needed to get that bank draft into her account before she changed her mind.
“Something positive?”
“Something true: Your late husband was a fool who didn’t deserve you.”
“You’re right,” Theo said. “Your flattery needs significant work. We will not discuss my late husband.” She took a sip of tea and scalded her tongue.
* * *
Jonathan had spent enough time on the Continent to know good art from the kind that merely covered a stain on the wall. Mrs. Haviland’s talent was significant, but she hadn’t been encouraged to develop it. She had both the amateur’s courage, where rules and conventions needed to be challenged, and the true artist’s skill.
The painting had been thoroughly dusted, as had the rest of the parlor, and yet no fresh flowers brought color to the sideboard, no beeswax candles stood in the gleaming brass candleholders. The parlor was a mausoleum, preserving the memory of a happier, more secure household. Like most mausoleums, it showed signs of neglect.
While Mrs. Haviland became more interesting.
“Shall I go on?” Jonathan asked. “You were a bright child, but nobody thought to get you a proper governess, one who might have developed your interest in faraway lands or interesting philosophies. If you understand a chessboard, it’s because your father taught you so that you might amuse him with the occasional game, but you soon learned to play at his level and to lose on purpose.”
She studied her tea, hands wrapped around a dainty porcelain cup. Her expression suggested she was trying to place a far-off melody. Her grip on the tea cup spoke of strangled emotion.
Apparently, he’d overstepped. “Forgive me,” Jonathan said. “Until my uncle intervened, I hadn’t a tutor or governor worth the name. Before Quimbey took the situation in hand, I learned to command attention by being precociously bad, which worked for a time, though I became well acquainted with my tutor’s birch rod. Once Quimbey involved himself, I had to be precociously intelligent, which wasn’t quite as effective.”
“And now you are precociously rude,” Mrs. Haviland said, finishing a syllogism rather than passing a sentence. “But you are quite bright, so we will educate you. Wasting your hostess’s tea is impolite.”
He took another sip of tea, feeling like a bully. “I am not rude on purpose, usually. I suspect I am ignorant.” The tea, now that he took the time to notice it, was a fine blend brewed to perfect strength. “I can talk about the weather if you like.”
Though she’d likely have insights to offer about how even that topic was pursued. Abruptly, Jonathan was uncomfortable with their bargain.
“The debutantes all learn a trick,” Mrs. Haviland said gently. “They learn to ask a gentleman questions and then listen to his answers. The trick is in the listening, in exerting enough effort in the conversation that a man feels important simply because he opens his mouth.”
Jonathan was full of questions: What the hell had Mrs. Haviland seen in her husband that she’d entrusted her whole future to him? What had that idiot done to make her so wary and serious? Why hadn’t she replaced the carpet by the door, where traffic had nearly worn the pattern away?
But then, he knew why.
“I’ll start,” Mrs. Haviland said. “Does the lovely weather tempt you to ride out on fine mornings, or are you more a man to read the newspaper page by page before embarking on your day? The question is personal without being intrusive, leaves you a choice of two perfectly gentlemanly pursuits, and allows you to ask about my mornings in return.”
I love to spend my mornings with the ledgers from my club, because the damned park is full of the same buffoons who just spent their evening losing obscene sums in my establishment.
“Hyde Park is confining when a good gallop is needed,” Jonathan said. “The paths are crowded on pretty days, even at dawn, and Roulette prefers to have room to stretch his legs. Compared to the freedom available at Quimbey Hall, hacking in the park feels like the briefest toddle. What of you? How does your day typically begin?”
Her gaze communicated humor, also approval and a certain friendliness. She wasn’t smiling outright, but she was no longer biting back a rebuke.
“Roulette is an interesting name for a horse.”
