Page 80 of My Own True Duchess
Jonathan sat upon Diana’s desk. “The north is actually quite beautiful. Perhaps we can all travel to the Lakes some summer, and you’ll see for yourself. Maybe you’d prefer a jaunt over to Paris, though the Channel crossing can be a challenge.”
Still, Diana’s regard was searching. “You’ve been to Paris?”
“I lived there for years. Nobody will ever replace your father, Diana. He was your papa, and you will always love him, but I hope you can love other people too.”
“I could love Comus.”
“That’s a start. He’s very sweet.”
“Rhymes with bleat, treat, and neat,” Theo said.
“Rhymes with meet, wheat, and complete.” Diana twirled, her skirts billowing, her braids flying up.
“And balance sheet,” Jonathan added. “Mrs. Haviland, are you ready for our outing?”
“And greet,” Diana said, bending into a curtsey. “Also conceit.”
“I am,” Theo said, though in Diana’s foolishness, she saw a hint of grace. “Diana, please have your sums finished before supper.”
“You’ll be gone until supper?”
If I’m lucky. “Perhaps. Mr. Tresham, shall we be on our way?”
He offered his arm, Theo took it, and they made a decorous progress down to the coach, Diana calling rhymes after them. The horses had not been given leave to walk on before Jonathan’s mouth covered Theo’s, and she’d wrapped her arms about him. His kiss tasted of humor and desire, but also a little bit of grief.
* * *
The past week had been among the most difficult of Jonathan’s adult life. By night, he’d spent hours at the club, watching from his hidden locations, looking for a pattern, a formula, a detail out of place.
When that endeavor had proven fruitless, he’d taken to wandering the tables, though he hadn’t gone so far as to play a hand in his own establishment. Sycamore Dorning was frequently in evidence, and Jonathan had ruled him out as a spotter or a cheat.
By day, Jonathan combed the club’s ledgers and wage books for irregularities when he wasn’t dealing with his other business ventures. Frannie’s vigilance had doubtless prevented much harm, though Moira had clearly colluded with the trades to inflate invoices or generate bills for goods never delivered.
All the while, she’d smiled at the guests, flirted with those at the tables, and reminded Jonathan that a duke ought not to involve himself in illegal activities.
To which he’d replied, “I’m not a duke.” Yet.
Nor was he yet Theo’s husband, but the prospect filled him with such a sense of rightness that showing her around the ducal residence was a treat, a reward for the past days’ labors.
“I’ve missed you,” Theo said, as Jonathan’s coach rolled past stately Mayfair homes.
“I’ve missed you too.” An understatement, given the kiss they’d shared for the duration of the past two streets. “We should have the special license any day, but Quimbey and his duchess won’t be back to Town until next week.”
“We’ll wait. Lord Penweather might want to attend.”
Jonathan looped an arm around Theo’s shoulders. “I wrote to him. No reply yet. If you don’t want him at the ceremony, say the word, and he’ll rusticate among the sheep until my duchess summons him.”
Theo had the most delightful ability to snuggle in a moving coach. “I won’t be that sort of duchess. Cousin Fabianus is old-fashioned and never sought the title. He’s… difficult, but not dishonorable. Tell me about the staff.”
“Speak to them loudly and slowly. They smile a lot. I’m not sure half of them can hear at all.”
To Jonathan’s confoundment, what staff was on hand demonstrated miraculously acute hearing in Theo’s presence. She asked questions, she listened, she solicited suggestions, and she showed no sign of needing to drag Jonathan into a linen closet to have her way with him.
He, by contrast, was in a state simply from being near her. She aggravated his condition by taking his arm, leaning close, wearing that infernal jasmine scent, and coaxing a smile from Lear, the tall, white-haired African butler who’d served the household since the previous duke’s time.
“I cannot recall seeing Lear smile in all the years I’ve known him,” Jonathan said. “You have made a spectacular first impression.”
They were taking tea—damned, wretched, useless tea—in the library, a room with enough windows to be considered public, though it faced the garden. With Theo on the premises, Jonathan noticed the haphazardly shelved books and the dingy fringe of the carpet near the hearth.
