Page 4 of My Own True Duchess
“Letting girls fresh from the schoolroom have at bachelors such as myself should be a crime. Dora Louise is taking risks she can’t fathom.”
A shadow passed across Mrs. Haviland’s eyes. She was blue-eyed and had doubtless chosen the color of her dress to emphasize that feature. More than the color, Jonathan noticed the intelligence of her gaze and a banked longing. She was eyeing the sweets on the plate, though cheese, ham, and spiced pears had yet to be consumed.
“I don’t fancy chocolates,” Jonathan said. “The French are wild for them, but I’ve never acquired the taste.” Two small chocolates sat on the tray, satiny brown in the candlelight. “I’ll leave you to finish this meal in private. I’m off to find Dora Louise.”
Mrs. Haviland held one of the chocolates beneath her nose. “Why?”
“Because if I show her some favor, then the other fellows will take notice of her, and her desperation might drop from view long enough for some dashing swain to turn her head.”
“A sound strategy.” Mrs. Haviland set down the chocolate. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Tresham. Best of luck with the rest of the Season.”
She offered him a smile, not a governess-smile or a widow-smile, but a friendly smile that suggested a timely rescue could be viewed as a lark rather than a brush with disaster.
Jonathan’s thespian skills weren’t equal to perpetuating such a miscarriage of truth. Dora Louise would have made him a terrible duchess, and he’d have made her a terrible husband.
He’d promised his uncle he’d find a wife this Season, though, so he bowed to Mrs. Haviland, listened for footsteps in the corridor, and withdrew.
* * *
Theo typically started her day with the comforting combination of tea served with buttered toast and jam, though those were scant fortification against Diana’s curiosity.
“But did you waltz?” the child asked. “Did you twirl around the room and make your skirts fly out so all the gentlemen could admire the turn of your ankle?” She gestured extravagantly with her spoon, sending a glob of porridge flying onto Theo’s plate.
“Di, you’re at table,” Seraphina wailed. “Please don’t discuss ankles at table.”
“And do try not to send your food sailing through the air,” Theo added, though she’d offered her daughter that suggestion on other occasions. “I danced one waltz and sat out another.” With a handsome gentleman, for once. Not with the wallflowers, widows, or trolling rakes.
“That was kind of you,” Seraphina said, “to allow the other ladies a chance on the dance floor.”
At sixteen, Seraphina believed fiercely in a world of propriety, civility, and graciousness, much as Diana, at seven, was devoted to dragons, unicorns, and magicians. They were equally fanciful worlds, but appropriate considering the ages involved.
Theo, by contrast, paid the trades, darned her stockings, and worried. “I learned something new last night,” she said, adding a dab of jam to Diana’s errant porridge and spooning it onto her toast.
“Something scandalous?” Diana asked. “Something appalling and horrifying?”
“Something delicious,” Theo countered. “The Countess of Bellefonte served sliced peaches from the fruit-and-cheese portion of the buffet. I’d never had a peach before.”
“What sort of name is peach?” Diana asked, swirling her spoon through her porridge. “Peach, reach, teach, screech, beach, each, leech… Peach doesn’t sound like a fruity word.”
Diana took after her late papa in more than his blond, blue-eyed good looks. She had a butterfly imagination that flitted about unpredictably. Alas, the quality Theo had first taken for charming whimsy in Archimedes Haviland had soon revealed itself to be lack of character. She was determined that Diana not take after her papa in that regard.
Seraphina aimed a look at her niece such as a mama cat turned on a kitten who certainly hadn’t been among her litter when she’d gone mousing twenty minutes ago.
“Leech, Diana? You go from speaking of ankles to screeches and leeches?”
“Diana has a wonderful ear for a rhyme,” Theo said, “and peaches are wonderful too. Sweet, juicy, spicy, and a lovely pink-orange color.”
Mr. Tresham’s attire had been severe by contrast, as all gentlemen’s must be. Offering Theo the bite of peach on the silver fork, he’d been the image of temptation. Serious blue eyes, a nearly grim mouth, not a hint of flirtation. He was attractive in precisely the forbidding, direct manner designed to earn Theo’s notice.
Her respect, even—possibly. Perhaps peaches were an intoxicant.
“Did you bring us a peach?” Diana asked. “Orange is my favorite color.”
“Yesterday,” Seraphina replied, “your favorite color was black.”
“Yesterday, I was a Knight of the Round Table. Today, I want a peach.”
Just like her father. “Peaches are very dear,” Theo said, “and somewhat messy. I did, though, happen to bring home two chocolates that I simply did not have room for.”
