Page 31 of My Own True Duchess
About twice a year, Moira was afflicted with paralyzing headaches. They were the only force Jonathan knew of that could honestly subdue her.
“A slight headache can turn into a megrim. Please have a seat.”
Mrs. Haviland’s expression said she wanted to argue, but now that Jonathan studied her, her gaze was less sharp than usual. Beneath her eyes, slight shadows showed against her cheeks.
“Please,” Jonathan said again, patting the back of the armchair. “Perhaps we can make three lists. Impossible, possible, and encouragingly probable.”
Mrs. Haviland sat, reminding Jonathan of a reluctant Comus. The mastiff did not obey him so much as he humored Jonathan’s suggestions more or less begrudgingly. Jonathan’s hostess would toss him from the premises if he aired that comparison, though the mastiff also had dignity and—when provoked—considerable ferocity.
She propped her elbow on the armrest and resumed rubbing her forehead. “What does probable mean to you?”
“The meaning of probable was the topic of a treatise I wrote at Cambridge. In many cases, probability can be predicted. In others, it can be narrowed to a discrete mathematical range, or so I theorized.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “Relax your arms.”
She sat up as straight as a new footman caught napping. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to prevent disaster.” He set his thumbs against the base of her neck and pressed in small, firm circles. “If you’ve never had a megrim, count yourself fortunate. I’ve seen them fell formidable parties for days.”
She was as taut as the shortest string on a harp. “I’ve endured my share. Your hands are warm.”
“My apologies. Next time, I’ll be sure to chill them prior to putting them on your person.”
Her skin was warm and smooth as only a woman’s flesh could be. Jonathan worked his way out across her shoulders and had a sudden image of Casriel touching the lady thus.
Which was absurd, of course. Mrs. Haviland was up to the weight of, say, the Duke of Anselm, a cantankerous, enormously wealthy, decent sort who, alas, already had a duchess. Casriel had younger brothers who weren’t as fascinated with sheep as the earl was, but they were younger sons. Mrs. Haviland didn’t need another genteelly impoverished dunderhead of a spouse.
“Do you ever think of remarrying?” Jonathan asked, beginning on the muscles that ran down either side of her hooks.
“All I can think about now is how irregular your behavior is.”
“Shall I stop?” He’d done this for Moira any number of times and Frannie too on several occasions.
“If your duchess is prone to headaches, you’ll need this skill. Dora Louise has been known to suffer headaches.”
Dora Louise was a megrim in muslin. Jonathan’s thumb found a knot of muscle beneath Mrs. Haviland’s right shoulder blade. He explored gently, ignoring the fact that she was more gracefully curved than Moira, slighter, more petite.
Also prettier, as doves were prettier than peacocks.
“Dora Louise is the last name on my possible list. And now you will permit me to change the subject: What sort of man would you consider, if we were to look for your next match?” Jonathan slid his hands up to grasp her neck, his fingers tunneling into the warmth of her hair.
“I will not remarry.”
“Bend your head forward. I’m not suggesting you remarry. I’m asking you about your own list in a hypothetical sense.”
She obeyed, much to his surprise, though the result was to create a slight gap in her fichu that drew Jonathan’s attention the way Comus’s gaze would rivet on a bag of cheese rinds.
I am not a hound. Theodosia Haviland is not a treat. He braced a palm on her forehead and slowly, firmly squeezed her neck. A whiff of jasmine came to him—her version of the fragrance, which put him in mind of summer gardens under a quarter moon.
“I became interested in my husband because he had a fine sense of humor. He could laugh at himself, at Society, at ducks splashing in a puddle. After my father’s illness, I longed for laughter.”
“A sense of humor can be attractive.” Jonathan lacked one, according to Moira. Anselm and Casriel laughed at him, though he was often at a loss to know why. “What else would you seek?”
“Archimedes’s sense of humor turned out to be a frivolous nature. I did not want to see that. He was affectionate,” she went on more softly. “He had a way of including little touches—a brush of his hand to my arm, an extra pat when draping my cloak over my shoulders. His nature was to touch who and what was around him. I hadn’t come across that in a man before.”
Mrs. Haviland’s neck was turning pink—kissably pink, which was ridiculous—but Jonathan could not see her expression because her head was bent forward.
And then she sat up, her expression conveying that she’d endured as much helpful presumption from Jonathan as she was able to.
He withdrew his hands. “You miss your husband, for all his faults.” Was it a relief to her, to be able to miss a man who’d disappointed her? A frustration? Jonathan shifted to take a seat on the sofa, and thus he and the lady were at eye level.
