Page 54 of My Own True Duchess
Oh, ye gods. “Jonathan, you must not assume I will agree to be your duchess. I am the—"
He thumped his head back against the squabs and stared at the coach’s upholstered ceiling. “Penniless, aged spinster-widow, who bore only a girl child—though your daughter is a proper healthy terror—and who is so unattractive that mirrors crack when you pass before them. I know, Theo.”
He did not know. God willing, she’d never have to tell him. “I’m glad you see the problem. I suggest you present yourself in the park at the fashionable hour tomorrow and exert yourself to be charming to the other three ladies on your list.”
The coach slowed further, the coachman calling to the horses to halt.
“It’s your perishing list, Theo.”
“And my decision.”
“Don’t invite me in,” Jonathan said. “I’m expected elsewhere.”
At least he sounded unhappy about that. “I hadn’t planned to invite you in.”
The door remained closed, suggesting Jonathan’s footmen were well trained—also accustomed to their employer tarrying in coaches late at night.
He folded Theo’s hand between both of his. “I’ve told you my secrets, Theo. I have a sister I don’t know what to do with. I had a terrible temper as a boy. My father was a disgrace, and I left England for years to remove myself from his ambit. At least assure me you aren’t horrified.”
How could he possibly think…? “I am beyond horrified on your behalf. I want to pummel your father and break his nose at least three times, then I’d like to deliver a sound scolding to your mother. Why Quimbey took twelve years to intercede I do not know, and you’d best hope I never ask him.”
A great sigh escaped into the darkness. “I see.”
No, he did not. Theo kissed his cheek, wishing she could take him in her arms and make him forget all those disappointments and betrayals.
“I’ll bid you good night,” she said, “and hope to see you at the Swanson’s Venetian breakfast.”
“You hurry away,” he replied, trailing his fingers down her cheek. “I suspect I’m not the only person in this carriage with secrets, Theo. You might consider trusting me with yours.”
Never. “Here’s a secret. Seraphina waits up for me, so I must not linger conversing with you here, or she’ll ask what I found to discuss with the handsome, charming Mr. Tresham.”
He opened the door. “Handsome and charming. Now you dissemble when I’ve been nothing but honest. Sweet dreams, Theo.”
She took the footman’s hand and let him escort her to the door, then slipped inside the house lest any neighbors see an elegant town coach parked by her doorstep at such a late hour.
“You are handsome and charming,” she said, closing and locking the door behind her, “and I cannot be your duchess.”
* * *
“One generally rejoices to receive a duke on one’s doorstep.” Anselm handed Jonathan his hat and walking stick, as if Jonathan were the bloody butler. “You look like a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
Jonathan was a man not in the mood for His Grace’s games. The night had been long, the encounter with Theo unsettling. Then Moira had started fretting again.
“Which word? Duke? I’m learning more about that sorry reality every day. For example, being a duke means employing a staff who claim venerable years. Said staff is prone to rheumatism, catarrhs, hay fevers, gout, and all manner of ailments about which one must be regaled at length. I conclude that whatever other faculties fade with an abundance of years, verbal stamina only increases.”
Theo would scold him for whining, but the housekeeper, butler, and first footman were all laid low with one ailment or another.
“The word I referred to,” Anselm said, “was rejoice. A handy verb. To feel joy or delight. From the Latin gaudere. One rejoices to behold my splendiferous self on one’s doorstep.”
“Rejoice,” Jonathan said, leading his guest up to the estate office. “Rhymes with no choice and Miss Annabelle Boyce of the contralto voice. If I should become a duke—not that I wish for the day—will I also enjoy your handsome complement of humility?”
Anselm had the good sense to wait until he was behind a closed door. “Tresham, are you well?”
Had Jonathan indulged in even two hours more rest over the past few days, had Moira not been in such a mood last night, had the discussion with Theo not been so puzzling, had any of the various ledgers he was wrestling with balanced, he might have conjured up an appropriately witty reply.
“Why must women be so complicated, Anselm?”
“Because men are so thickheaded?” Anselm’s answer sounded tentative, like a working theory developed after much thought, which made Jonathan feel marginally better.
