Page 82 of My Own True Duchess
“Must we? I’d rather have you to myself for a few more minutes. The challenge of gentlemanly deportment in your company taxes me sorely.”
Theo smiled and took the place beside him on the sofa. “I like taxing you sorely. I’m a bit taxed myself when you look so grave and handsome. You will make a very convincing duke, not that I wish your uncle a premature reward.”
This nearly qualified as chatter. Jonathan reviewed the encounter, which had begun with greeting Theo and Diana in the schoolroom and noticing a resemblance about their features he hadn’t seen before. They had the same eyes, the same way of smoothing their hands over their skirts.
“I hope I will not become duke for some time,” he said. “I’d like to enjoy being your husband before less appealing duties befall me.”
She smoothed her skirts again, which struck Jonathan as a tell. Gamblers gave away their motivations and plans with small, idiosyncratic gestures or turns of speech. Lipscomb read his cards, then arranged them, then cleared his throat if his hand was poor. If the hand was good, he’d sit up and smile.
Theo had something on her mind. Something other than Jonathan’s winning smiles and lovemaking.
“Being a duke should have some appeal,” she said. “Though I understand Quimbey will bequeath you problems as well as privileges. Are those problems the reason you’ve not been much in evidence socially?”
Such a casual question, though her gaze reminded him again of Diana, intent on unearthing sensible answers to thorny questions.
“I’ve been busy,” Jonathan said, resisting the urge to wrap an arm about Theo’s shoulders. “The dukedom is a tangled mess, and I suspect when Quimbey returns, he’ll attempt to stop me from straightening it out. He’ll be ashamed, he’ll not want me meddling, and he’ll fume and fuss and put wrong all I’m trying to put right.”
This was true, and part of the reason Jonathan’s days had become long and his fingers ink-stained. He was also reviewing finances for three other organizations, a task he took in his capacity as a director or governor.
“Do your responsibilities to the dukedom also prevent you from attending balls, suppers, and musicales?” Theo was off again, returning to the window. “I still have your list, Jonathan. You’ve given up any pretense of maintaining your social obligations. I ask myself, what could possibly detain you in the evening? What could keep you so busy, you haven’t time to share a waltz with me, or take in a string quartet that does full justice to Herr Beethoven?”
Theo stopped short of asking the real question: Why aren’t you courting me?
Guilt welled, because Jonathan himself had declared that Theo deserved to be courted. He’d seen how the attentions of a ducal heir raised a woman in Society’s esteem, how a single dance merited notice.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rising and taking Theo’s hand. “I have been remiss. You shall have all the waltzes and promenades and formal dinners of me you please, but a problem at my club requires my immediate attention.”
She withdrew her hand. “Your club? Your gentlemen’s club?”
Her tone had acquired an edge, either worry or annoyance.
“A gentlemen’s club, yes. In a manner of speaking.” Though The Coventry was so much more, the situation was much larger than a mere problem, and the need for significant revenue beyond pressing.
“You are a suitor paying his addresses,” Theo said, gaze on the garden. “Can’t somebody else deal with this problem for the nonce?”
“Letting others handle the situation is how the problem arose, Theo. I apologize for the timing, but I assure you the difficulties are urgently in need of resolution.”
Another look—skeptical, full of strategy and unspoken discontent. The look put Jonathan in mind of his own late mother working up to a tirade.
“Clubs have staff and managers,” Theo said. “They have directors or some other managing body. What could possibly require your attention at a club, where gambling and wagering are of much greater significance than rare beefsteaks and overpriced libations?”
Too late, Jonathan realized that he’d misread Theo’s mood. She’d been distracted and worried rather than intent on a slow joining. She’d been upset—with him. A hundred family meals from Jonathan’s youth came back to him, with Mama muttering aspersions from one end of the table and Papa replying in veiled insults, while the servants pretended a marital brawl wasn’t taking place in the formal dining parlor.
If Theo was intent on brawling, then she’d find herself without a suitor. “I expect your trust on matters relating to our finances, madam. If I tell you the problem is mine to solve, then it’s mine to solve.”
She faced him from her post at the window and damned if her eyes weren’t sheened with tears.
Tears from his sensible, steady Theo? He hated tears, hated them especially from women with little to cry about. He hated even more that he’d provoked her to tears.
“I cannot attach myself to another wastrel, Jonathan. Archie’s club and the wagers and cards available there were more of a threat to my marriage than any courtesan. You’ve secured my affections, and then I don’t see you for days. Now you tell me you must sit night after night at some club that will doubtless claim half your affections after we’re married. What am I to think?”
The question was chilling for its logic. He’d done exactly as she’d said: secured her affections, then neglected her utterly while wrestling with the problems at The Coventry. Hadn’t sent a basket, hadn’t sent flowers or a note. Hadn’t dropped by for breakfast or brought Comus around to inspect the garden.
Hadn’t explained his absence.
“You have no answer,” Theo said, crossing the short distance to the spiral stairs. “I am determined that my first marriage will not haunt my second, but I truly do miss you, Jonathan. I want to know who your witnesses at the ceremony will be, and will you mind if I invite Lady Canmore. Should Seraphina and Diana attend? What if Penweather becomes difficult, and what are we to do about the settlements?”
An image came to Jonathan’s mind, of his father stumbling as he climbed down from a coach, the footman staring straight ahead rather than presume to assist a lord far gone with drink.
