Page 47 of My Own True Duchess
Focus, man. Pay attention. Jonathan had taught himself to count cards, to keep as many as three decks straight in his head even in the midst of rapid play. He needed every bit of that concentration to deal with what troubled Theodosia.
“I see the problem,” he said. “I must compete with Archimedes’s unsainted memory for your trust. You are no longer that lonely, unsteady girl, Theodosia. If another Archimedes bows over your hand at tonight’s entertainment, you will smile, curtsey, and dismiss him without a second thought. Please do not disrespect my honorable intentions by dismissing me similarly.”
She patted his lapel. “I can dismiss whom I please, and there’s nothing you can say to it.”
She’d dealt him an ace, bless her. “Would that young woman, the one smitten with a handsome bounder, have delivered such a stunning and accurate set-down without a second thought, as you just did?”
Jonathan took her hand, put it on his arm, and led her in the direction of her garden gate. Her silence suggested a rearrangement of perspective, a crack in her mistrust through which the light of hope might shine.
This game they’d initiated was a greater challenge than winning at cards, also far more important.
“I am not that young woman,” Theodosia said slowly, coming to a halt in the alley. “I am also not your duchess. I’m impoverished and of no great lineage. The only child I produced in five years of marriage was a girl. I’m not young. I have no political connections. I’m not… a diamond in any sense.”
Oh, but she was, and she was also, as predicted, listing excuses.
“If I protest, you will bat aside my sincere compliments, so let us instead agree to disagree and to compromise.”
Theodosia Haviland clearly did not like surprises, which was understandable when most of the surprises in her life had been nasty. A wolf in husband’s clothing, a will that had done nothing to provide for her child. So Jonathan would give her time to adjust to the notion of becoming his duchess and give himself time to earn her consent.
A sound, logical plan.
“One does not compromise regarding permission to court, Mr. Tresham. One says yes or no, and I am clearly, firmly, unequivocally saying…”
She was clearly, firmly addressing the cobbles, not looking him in the eye, and that was not his Theo. He touched a finger to her lips.
“One can say, ‘Not yet.’ One can say, ‘Let me think about it.’ One can say, ‘Sir, you have got above yourself, and a few weeks of torture on the rack of despair and hope—while I call the tune and you do the dancing—is the least a lady is owed.’ You can say that, Theo. You needn’t choose in this instant.”
Now, she gazed at him, her expression at first unreadable, then breaking into a slow smile that gained certainty and joy as it rose to her eyes.
“You will dance with the six ladies on that list, Mr. Tresham. You will engage them in conversation, all six of them. You will be agreeable and interested in them, and if—after you’ve given them fair and open-minded consideration—you still want to renew your request to me, we will discuss it further at that time.”
He’d won. He’d won as surely as if she’d shown him the location of every other card in the deck.
“I will dance with those ladies, exert myself to be polite with them, and even, if you insist, send them modest bouquets, but I won’t kiss them, Theo.” Wouldn’t be tempted to kiss them, in fact.
“You must comport yourself as you see fit, Mr. Tresham.”
She had regained her balance, as evidenced by her posture and by the flash of determination in her eyes.
He leaned near, almost within kissing range. Her scent teased at his self-restraint, and when he realized she was also breathing through her nose, he nearly yielded to the urge to steal another kiss.
But, no. The stakes were high. Concentration must not be broken.
“Call me Jonathan,” he whispered, “when we are private.” He remained close to her for one more instant, long enough to know he’d tempted her, before he stepped back and bowed.
She curtseyed. She did not smile, though as Jonathan strode up the alley, her laughter trailed after him.
* * *
The shopping expedition had to be put off until Cook and Williams returned from the market, because dragging an unwilling Diana from the glovemakers’ to the milliners’ would dim Theo’s joy in the day.
She had stolen a kiss from Jonathan Tresham. He’d stolen her wits. The exchange, in the opinion of Theo’s foolish, impractical heart, had been worth the risk.
She paced at the foot of the steps—paced!—waiting for Seraphina to come down. A knock on the front door nearly sent her preening to the mirror over the sideboard, like a young girl expecting her suitor to return on the pretext of having forgotten his walking stick.
The person on Theo’s doorstep wasn’t Jonathan, wasn’t even male.
“Mrs. Compton. Good day.”
