Page 62 of My Own True Duchess
How could Casriel play the harp and conduct a conversation? What sort of mind could do that?
“Somebody to assist a cheat by signaling the cards an opponent elsewhere on the table has in his or her hand.” To speak when music like this was filling the air was blasphemy.
“Say something to Tresham. Try to use a bit of finesse. Drop questions, hints, suggestions, and stay out of punching range. I hope we taught you that much at least.”
Sycamore’s brothers had taught him to hit harder and faster than he’d been hit, though Casriel was leaving this challenge to Sycamore, which was a compliment.
Fancy that. “Shall I bring you a plate?”
“I’ll drop by The Coventry later. This is a gorgeous instrument. It wants playing.”
If the ladies of Mayfair could see the impoverished, staid earl romancing that harp, they’d beg him to strum and pluck any part of their persons he pleased to touch.
“And you do that instrument justice,” Sycamore said, heading for the door. He left it open, the better to entice the ladies away from the buffet.
The Countess of Canmore was the only female in the corridor. “Who is playing?” she asked.
She was pretty, canny, and had a sly sense of humor. Sycamore liked her, but then, he liked most women.
“Lord Casriel. He sounds lonely to me, but that’s just a baby brother’s opinion. I do believe he’s in want of an audience, poor lad. Playing all by himself seems a waste of his talent.”
She wafted down the corridor and slipped into the music room, pausing only long enough to blow Sycamore a kiss. He caught it and tucked it into his breast pocket, then bowed and went in search of his hostess.
A goodnight was in order. The food was better at The Coventry than at Lady Tottenham’s buffet. Then too, Jonathan Tresham had no younger brothers to look out for him, had no siblings at all, in fact, and even inheriting a dukedom could not redress that sad poverty.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
A great weight had fallen from Theo’s shoulders. She hadn’t told Jonathan every last appalling detail of Archie’s passing, but she’d told him enough, and he’d vindicated her trust.
She kissed him with all the relief and rejoicing in her, with all the hope and delight.
“Do I take it,” he asked, framing her face in warm hands, “that I have permission to court you, Mrs. Haviland?”
“If you stop at simply courting me, I will be disappointed.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, tucking his nose against her cleavage. “I have been disappointed before. I don’t care for it.”
He laughed, his breath warm against her skin. “We’ll miss the buffet.”
How she loved his laughter. “We’ll share a menu of rare and special pleasures, while the other guests content themselves with mere truffles and champagne.” Joy made her reckless, as she’d never been reckless with her husband. The few times Theo had attempted some creativity in the bedroom, Archie had scolded her for having a naughty imagination.
“You’re sure, Theo? I cannot guarantee much finesse in my current state. You’ve haunted me day and night.”
He was aroused and growing more so. How she reveled in the unmistakable intensity of his desire. How many times had Arche’s arousal been unequal to anything but hurry and frustration?
“That I should haunt your dreams is only just,” she said, nuzzling his ear. “I’ve stabbed myself with an embroidery needle more than once because some look you sent me across a ballroom intruded into my thoughts. I want you naked, do you hear me? Not a stitch on you, broad daylight, a bed to ourselves—”
He kissed her, and the rest of Theo’s long list of plans for him flew from her head.
“We’ll have all of that,” he said, settling a hand over her breast. “For now, let us have a consummation of desire too long denied.”
He spoke a greater truth than he knew, for celibacy had befallen Theo months before Archie’s death. They’d stopped arguing. They’d stopped even speaking for the most part. Occasionally, he’d reach for her in the darkest hours, but his abilities often weren’t commensurate with his aims. The sadness of that, for him and for herself, had driven Theo to keeping her hands to herself no matter how much she might miss marital intimacies.
“I can’t guarantee you finesse,” Theo said, arching into his hand. “I can promise you passion.”
Jonathan wrapped his hand around the back of her head, the gesture both possessive and protective. For a moment, they remained thus, a tableau of desire that Theo could for once simply enjoy. Jonathan would not leave her unsatisfied, embarrassed, ashamed, and alone. They would share intimate, mutually gratifying pleasure, and as a couple, develop an even greater vocabulary of connubial joys.
Theo untucked her fichu from her bodice and let her sleeves fall far enough that she could wiggle her stays down. She was intent on untying the bow of her chemise when Jonathan’s hands covered hers.
