Page 87 of My Own True Duchess
Did Theo want common ground? Had her love for Jonathan been scorched to cinders by disdain for his club?
Anselm crossed an ankle over his knee. “Don’t suppose you’ve tried begging?”
This was proffered as a helpful suggestion, which implied Anselm had considered the same maneuver at some point.
“I all but did. I explained that I need the income from the club, that turning my back on The Coventry now would be a betrayal of everybody who has given me their loyalty over the years.”
Jonathan was pacing, the habit of a man in want of self-possession. He made himself lean against the mantel, though the temptation to leave his guests and march over to the club—by way of Theo’s street—was an itch in his boots.
“You mumbled a few vague words about needing funds,” Anselm said. “Fine speeches elude us in the face of heartbreak.”
“Did I not know you speak from experience, I’d take my fists to you for your presumption, Your Grace.”
Anselm glanced about the parlor. “Lord Harlan used to indulge me in the occasional bout of fisticuffs. Even he has outgrown the need for horseplay.”
A pouting duke ought to have been a gratifying sight, but Jonathan was too upset to enjoy Anselm’s complaining.
Too heartbroken. “I refused to argue with her,” Jonathan said. “I will not raise my voice to a woman, and I will not have her filling my house with strife.”
Anselm rose. “Then do I take it that you seek to marry a well-trained spaniel?”
“Of course not. Theodosia is the furthest thing from—why would you say such a thing?”
“Couples argue, Tresham. Couples who love each other madly argue and disagree and even—I tell you this in confidence—raise their voices at each other. They also make up.”
From across the corridor, a gust of laughter sounded.
“Your duchess hollers at you?”
Anselm’s smile was stunningly sweet. “Her Grace counts it a victory when I am so far gone in a passion that I holler back. She says I’m too impressed with my own consequence most of the time and that I’ve learned too well to be the duke at the expense of being the man. You can see why I’m mad for the woman.”
Mad for her and obnoxiously happy to admit it. “I cannot abide shouting.”
“Then don’t have children. Let the succession lapse or go to some fishmonger from East Anglia. Best thing, if you can’t countenance a little volume in a discussion, is to avoid children altogether.”
A little volume in a discussion? “Anselm, my parents shrieked at each other for days, then maintained weeks of cold silence, even at table.”
Anselm snapped off a rose from a bouquet on the sideboard. “I’m not suggesting you hire the Hessian guard to tussle over who gets the Society pages at breakfast, Tresham.” He tucked the rose into his lapel. “I’m merely pointing out that if you run from conflict when the first shot is fired, you’ll never win the important battles. I thought every lordling learned this from his papa.”
Anselm should have looked silly with the crooked little rose drooping from his lapel. He was a duke. His order in the royal succession had been established the day he’d ascended to the title.
He looked dear and wistful. Missing his duchess, no doubt, and she was probably missing him, drat the woman. Duke and duchess would cuddle up in the same bed in a few hours, tired and happy, and make tired, happy love while sharing gossip and inane pet names.
I miss my Theodosia. Jonathan missed her more than he missed the damned club, more than he’d missed anything ever.
“The problem, Anselm, is that even if I wanted to sell the club, I can’t do that while Moira is poisoning the well.” And Jonathan most assuredly did not want to sell the club, could not afford to sell the club, in fact.
“Then get rid of Moira Jones. Pack her off to Paris.”
“If I do that, then the next manager can effect the same rig she’s running. I hardly know most of the kitchen staff anymore, and some of the dealers were hired without my approval. Anybody who’s in on her crooked game could start the whole business over again when she leaves.”
Anselm brushed a finger over his rose. “Conflicting loyalties are always a problem. The peerage seems to understand that too well and always looks after their own. We’d do better to take the interests of John Bull to heart on more occasions.”
Theo might say something like that. “No politics, Anselm, please. I have enough thorny conundrums on my plate.”
Anselm admired himself in the mirror over the sideboard, then smiled, a ferocious expression featuring a quantity of teeth and self-satisfaction.
“Word of advice, not that you’ll take it,” the duke said.
