Page 35 of My Own True Duchess
“I thought I was your dearest friend.”
Theo had taken only the requisite two sips of her cordial, but she was doing justice to the cake. “You are my best friend, Bea. Never doubt that. If you hadn’t watched over me after Archie’s death, I’d have been committed to Bedlam.”
“Have an affair with Tresham if you won’t put yourself on his list. It’s time, Theo. Our husbands died, we did not.”
Theo said nothing while she finished her half slice of cake, but Bea was encouraged. Never had Theo been tempted beyond the first serving of even her favorite treat. Jonathan Tresham was being a good influence, did he but know it.
Perhaps Casriel might have some ideas about how to aid the cause of romance—ideas best shared over a glass of cordial.
Chapter Seven
* * *
One night a month, Jonathan’s rooms at The Albany became what he called The Lonely Husbands Club, though a few bachelors also joined the orphaned spouses, probably to gloat at the spectacle. Anselm’s duchess held a Ladies Card Night—no husbands allowed—and the men congregated at The Albany rather than be seen haunting their clubs out of necessity instead of choice.
This month, Jonathan had invited his guests to join him at the Quimbey mansion, where the portrait gallery could serve as a makeshift bowling green.
“Makes one think,” Anselm said from beneath the portrait of Quimbey and his duchess. “All the places we prohibit the ladies from going—our clubs, the floor of Parliament, Angelo’s, Jackson’s… where do they prohibit us to go?”
“To paradise?” Casriel suggested, hefting his ball.
“If your lady is declining to offer you her favors,” Anselm replied, “then you aren’t offering your own persuasively enough.”
This provoked a snort from Hessian, Earl of Grampion, a connection of Casriel’s. “Or perhaps you were too persuasive eight months ago, and the dear woman needs her rest.”
He tossed his ball in the air and caught it amid good-natured laughter. Anselm and Grampion had children in their nurseries, as did several of the others. Of all the guests, the papas seemed the happiest. They were members of a fraternity of the not merely married, but the married and… something. Something that did not lend itself to words.
“Set the damned pins,” Casriel yelled to Grampion’s brother, Worth Kettering, who was ten yards away, near the portrait of the first Duke of Quimbey. “It’s not like Tresham will hit any of them.”
Jonathan never played cards with his acquaintances, unless the occasion was charitable, hence the evening was turned over to fencing, ninepins, chess, or—did the husbands admit this even to their spouses?—revisiting the repertoire of collegiate glee clubs.
And talking. Amid the bantering, drinking, and whining, interesting conversations ensued as the level of brandy in the decanters fell.
“I’ll have the pins down before Casriel has refilled his drink,” Jonathan called.
“Casriel never refills his drink,” Sycamore Dorning retorted. Young Sycamore was away from university on a self-declared holiday, or keeping an eye on his titled brother. University apparently bored Cam Dorning, which dangerous sentiment Jonathan had shared until he’d stumbled into his first class in trigonometry.
“You steal my drink,” Casriel said, firing his ball at Sycamore. “Hence it’s in constant need of refreshment.”
Sycamore caught the ball left-handed. “A thankless job, but I am nothing if not a dutiful younger brother. Let the play begin!”
Choosing teams was a ritual Jonathan didn’t understand, though he sensed its importance, like deciding who on a crew team sat at which pair of oars. The discussion itself created a sense of team spirit, regardless of the actual arrangement agreed upon.
“Why aren’t you off wooing some marquess’s daughter?” Anselm asked Jonathan as Sycamore and Kettering got into an argument about how many teams should be formed.
“Because they’re all silly.”
“My duchess frequently accuses me of silliness.”
Must Anselm sound so smug? “And to think I once admired your sense of decorum.”
“My duchess admires my—”
Jonathan passed Anselm a drink. “Young Sycamore will provoke Kettering to blows.”
“I tickle her,” Anselm went on with the imperturbable air of an uncle determined to recite inappropriate stories at a formal dinner party. “She tickles me. Will you tickle your duchess, Tresham?”
I’ll kiss her on that secret spot beneath her ear, where her flesh is tender and scented with jasmine. “I haven’t a duchess. Mrs. Theodosia Haviland is advising me on how I might address this sorry lack.” He should double her pay. Five hundred pounds to find a man’s mate for life wasn’t enough.
