Page 58 of My Own True Duchess
Snick. “And?”
“He does not know the whole of my situation, Bea. Viscount Penweather blames me for Archie’s death. He said so to me directly. If I’d been a better wife, Archie would have moderated his vices.”
Bea put the shears aside and hugged Theo, the scent of lavender wafting from their embrace. “I had no idea his lordship was so awful. You don’t believe him, I hope? You cannot believe him.”
Theo eased away. “The discussion grew ugly, but then, his lordship had lost a cousin and an uncle in the space of a month. We were both in rather a state. I informed him that had Archie not been made to live on a schoolboy’s allowance, we might have been able to afford more children. We haven’t spoken since. We correspond, or I correspond with his secretary.”
The whole business sounded worse for being put into words. “Jonathan has no patience for family squabbles,” Theo went on. “He detests his father’s memory in part for all the gossip and scandal his parents caused.”
Bea began jabbing lavender fronds in among the flowers and ferns. “One of the things I hate most about being a widow—and my list is endless—is that one’s whole identity is tied up in a past event. I am the widow of a man who died years ago. His death defines me, not my life. I’m no longer my papa’s daughter, my sister’s sibling, or myself. I am only my late husband’s widow. If Quimbey’s duchess should predecease him, will we refer to the duke as Her Grace’s widower? No, we will not.”
Bea was in a passion about something, though she was also right.
“You put hock in the lemonade,” Theo said, passing over another pink tulip. “No wonder it’s delicious.”
“Theo, if you are that hesitant about your estrangement from Archie’s cousin, then put the matter to Mr. Tresham and let him decide. You are too wonderful a person to be held hostage to Archie’s death for all the rest of your days.”
Mr. Tresham thought Theo was wonderful. Wonderful enough to court. “I try not to think of myself, but if I were a duchess, Seraphina’s and Diana’s futures would be assured. Even if Mr. Tresham grew to hate me, he’d not treat them as cavalierly as the viscount has.”
As cavalierly as Archie had, in the end.
“Stop trying to hide a perfectly lovely décolletage beneath a plain lace fichu. You want Jonathan Tresham, and he’s worthy of your notice. Sample his charms, and if he can go on half adequately, then allow him to court you.”
Bea tucked the pink tulip into the center of the arrangement, where it listed at an angle that matched the white tulip. The result was a cascade of color, a variety of shapes, and a very pleasing bouquet.
“I have argued and reasoned and exhorted myself without ceasing, Bea, but I come to the same conclusion you do: I will alert Mr. Tresham to the ill will between me and the viscount, and if that does not dissuade my suitor, I will allow him to court me.”
Theo would do that much, and no more. The past was the past, and Archie’s memory should be allowed to rest in peace.
Bea took another sip of her lemonade. “A man can be instructed on some matters. Others are beyond help. Sample Mr. Tresham’s charms, Theo.”
“I believe I shall.” Theo raised her glass to her lips, though she was smiling so broadly, she felt like a whole bouquet of joy, and that had nothing to do with Bea’s excellent lemonade.
Chapter Eleven
* * *
“Mrs. Haviland.” Jonathan bowed before the woman who’d haunted his dreams and followed him—metaphorically—into the bath, the dressing closet, and any other place a man could be private with himself.
“Mr. Tresham.”
“Might I have the honor of the next dance?” He’d ambushed her before the supper waltz, which she typically sat out with the dowagers or danced with some doddering colonel.
Not tonight. Tonight, Jonathan was determined to share some joy with her.
“The honor would be entirely mine.”
Her smile was so lovely, so intriguing and feminine, and personal, that Jonathan forgot to let go of her hand. When she smiled like that, she was beauty incarnate, and Jonathan was the luckiest man in London.
“You’ll waltz with me?” Jonathan pressed. “In front of all of Mayfair?”
The string quartet was still tuning up, so progress onto the dance floor could be leisurely. Jonathan wanted the whole gathering to see him dancing with Theo and to see her smiling at him.
“We will waltz with each other.”
She wore the blue velvet again and the single string of pearls in her hair, and yet, she could not have been more radiant. Something had pleased her mightily.
Or someone had. “What have I done to earn this boon, Mrs. Haviland?”
