The Duke's Disaster (R) (14 page)

“Tell me about the girls’ mothers.”

A queer start, but something Noah could work with.

“I barely knew them,” he said. “Both women enjoy tidy stipends, and are even passing acquaintances somewhere in Dorset. I’m legal guardian to both girls, and Winters is the name they’ll be known by.”

“You’re their guardian?”

“Somebody had to see to it.” Noah grazed his nose along Thea’s hairline, because this—this physical closeness, this conversation in the dark—was part of what he’d missed while in London. “Evvie and Nini do not enjoy legitimacy, so their mamas could have cast them off anywhere, and had the legal authority to do so. Children are trying, and I could not have their mothers’ whims dictate their futures.”

“I don’t know whether to hit you or commend you. Did you love them even a little?”

“The mothers? Of course not. I love the children. You’ve pointed this out yourself.” Noah resisted the temptation to sniff Thea’s hair, though the fragrance of meadow grass was a nice addition to the lavender-scented sheets.

She shifted, so her weight lay more heavily against his side. “Didn’t you care even a little, Noah? They are the mothers of children whom you love.”

Noah abruptly realized that Thea wasn’t asking about the girls’ mothers, so much as she was asking about their
father
. Noah ought to clarify the situation for her, explain exactly who was father to both girls, but Thea’s voice had grown sleepy, and her hand rested distractingly at Noah’s waist.

Best to end this entire discussion rather and save the sordid family history for a more opportune occasion.

“I will always esteem both women greatly for their maternal status, Thea. They could have ended their pregnancies, could have left the children in foundling homes, could have attempted blackmail, or worse. When I contacted the ladies, they agreed to terms, and each is kept informed regarding her daughter’s welfare. Should the girls wish it, when they are older, their mothers will know them. I respect their mothers. Is that what you’re asking?”

“I hardly know. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

Thank God. “Go to sleep, Thea.”

Angels defend him, Noah had just
ordered
his duchess to sleep. A charged silence ensued, during which Noah fumbled about mentally for some other way to phrase his
suggestion
.

“My courses started. At my bath.”

Then Thea turned her face against Noah’s neck, and her tears seeped hotly against his skin. Had he made her cry? Did she miss her first love, though she denied having feelings for him?

Talk of the girls had called forth Noah’s protective nature. Surely that was why he gathered Thea in his arms and held her close until sleep claimed them both.

* * *

“Just the man I was hoping to see.”

Giles Pemberton flicked a dismissive glance up from the
Times
, then returned to the society pages.

“Hallowell.”

The younger man pulled up a second wing chair, a poor reflection on the boy’s upbringing. These days, a youngster took his papa’s title for a license to run roughshod over manners, decorum, and common sense. A fellow couldn’t even read his paper in his own club in peace.

Hallowell, eyes sunken, cravat wrinkled, settled back into the chair. “Tell me, Pemmie, what sort of fellow does nothing to aid a friend in trouble?”

Pemberton lowered the paper, leveled a flat stare at Hallowell, then raised the paper back up.

“And mind,” Hallowell went on, shooting dingy cuffs, “I’m not talking about a passing acquaintance whose off wheeler looks a trifle uneven. I’m not talking about a chap one knew at school who’s playing a tad deep.”

“You are talking at tiresome length, however,” Pemberton said, “when you ought to be stumbling home after a night of raking, and leaving me to read my paper in peace.”

“What if I’m talking about a friend of yours, old man?” Hallowell’s smile was perfectly nasty, and Pemberton’s breakfast beefsteak threatened to rebel. Nobody else graced the reading room this early except the aging Duke of Quimbey who was poring over the financial pages as if they were the Regent’s tea leaves.

Pemberton gave the social pages a shake. “You’re choosing a deuced rude time and place to do it,
y
oung man.”

“Suit yourself.” Hallowell rose, a slight stench of gin and cheap perfume wafting from him. “If one of my castoffs had just married into the family, I’d hope my friends were seeking a way to address the situation on my behalf. While there’s still time.”

Pemberton folded his newspaper but remained sitting, lest Quimbey take notice. The most recent marriage in Pemberton’s circle was Anselm’s surprise courting raid among the ranks of the lady’s companions.

Unease congealed into dread. Companions could be a troublesome lot. Meech quite agreed—now.

“
If
I had a friend in that unfortunate situation, Hallowell, then the very last thing I’d do is bruit my friend’s troubles about where all might overhear the gossip, overreact to it, and give my friend cause to sue for slander. Good day.”

Pemberton rose and left at a dignified pace, making sure to greet Quimbey genially on his way out.

Old man, indeed. Fifty wasn’t old, and it wasn’t stupid either. Pemberton still had his teeth, his hair, and his brains, by God, and a few other noteworthy parts in working order.

But as he left the peaceful confines of his club for the damp heat of a June morning, Pemberton realized if Hallowell knew of the situation with Anselm’s wife, then others likely knew as well.

Something would have to be done. Pemberton owed it to Meech to see that something was done.

* * *

“Your tea, Duchess.”

Noah had woken up beside his wife—again, despite all plans to the contrary—creating another first for him. Thea had risen several times during the night to tend to herself.

He hadn’t realized that monthly courses caused a woman’s rest to be interrupted. Crashingly bad planning, for a lady’s sleep to be disturbed when she most needed rest.

This aspect of the female body was one Noah had largely ignored, insofar as any man could ignore the moods of three sisters as they navigated the shoals of young womanhood. His mistresses had dealt with their calendars in discreet innuendo, and Noah had been perceptive enough to take the hints.

But this…

Thea hurt, her mood was off, her rest was poor, and still, she would expect herself to get up, meet the girls in the stables, and to
manage
.

“You’re not about to steal my tea?” Thea held out the cup, her gaze shy as she sat propped against the headboard.

“Where’s the fun in stealing what’s freely offered?” Noah settled in beside her and filched a bite of her cinnamon toast. “Would you rather have chocolate this morning?”

“Because?”

“You’re”—Noah waved a hand in the direction of her middle—“indisposed.” While he disliked that Thea was uncomfortable, her indisposition confirmed that she wasn’t carrying.

She’d been honest, in other words. The relief of that was enormous, the size of an entire duchy, in fact.

“I am not indisposed.” Thea set her teacup down with a little clink. “The discomfort has passed, as it always does. You needn’t be concerned.”

“I am not concerned, Thea.” Not greatly concerned, now that she’d stopped ordering him to go away and was ready for a proper spat. “I am attempting in my bumbling way to dote. You will allow it.”

Drat.
He’d given another order.

“You couldn’t bumble if one gave you written instructions, Anselm. You were probably born instructing your nursery maids on the exact best means of mixing your gruel,” Thea said, and to Noah, she looked a little less peaked for having run up her flags. “That was my toast you appropriated.”

“Appropriation is what happens when one’s wife can’t appreciate a little doting. You’re being stingy with the tea, just as you were stingy with the covers.”

“I am the Duchess of Anselm.” Her chin came up. “I am not stingy with anything.”

“You swilled that tea right down,” Noah went on. “Pardon me while I play footman to our personal exponent of porcine nobility.” He let Sheba out, and when he turned back to bed, Thea was smiling.

Better.
“You’re feeling more the thing, Wife?”

“Yes, thank you.” She passed him the teacup for a refill. “I do prefer chocolate when the weather’s colder.”

“How much longer does this non-indisposition last?”

“You are a very presuming husband.” Thea leaned back against her pillows, her smile nowhere in evidence.

“Doting.” Noah passed her the second cup, and took her free hand long enough to kiss her knuckles—lest she mistake his point. “In need of my duchess’s guidance on this one marital matter. We didn’t cover it at school or university, and even my sisters kept a few things to themselves.”

Thanks to a merciful Deity.

“This is so personal.” Thea’s gaze was on their joined hands—for Noah had not turned her loose to go haring off in a fit of mortification. “I didn’t think you’d be a personal sort of husband. You were supposed to appear in my dressing-room doorway a few nights a month, quietly lift the covers, silently take a few marital liberties, and then leave me in peace. We’d trade sections of the
Times
over breakfast the next morning, I’d ask how your ride was, and you’d hold my chair when I rose to see to my correspondence.”

“Prosaic.” Boring, and exactly what Noah himself had envisioned. “Hard to see any doting going on, though.”

“You only mentioned a little doting when we were negotiating,” Thea said. “A little is…”

“Yes?”

“Letting me borrow your cat.”

“She goes where she pleases. Like most of the females under my roof.”

“Husband?” Thea’s tone was hesitant.

Noah forgot whether he’d added sugar to his own damned cup of tea, so he stirred in another two lumps.

“Thank you,” Thea said, her hand glancing over his shoulder and down his arm. “For keeping me company. I would not have known how to ask.”

Noah’s duchess was shy, which shortcoming bore some responsibility for her lamentable reticence until their wedding night.

A duke didn’t have the luxury of shyness.

“I suppose that’s the definition of doting.” Noah lingered at the cart to assemble a plate. “It’s the little things you can’t bring yourself to ask for, that an attentive spouse will enjoy providing to you. Bacon or ham?”

“A little of both, please.”

“Feeling carnivorous?”

“I’m a trifle indisposed. I need the sustenance.”

Noah piled both ham and bacon on Thea’s plate, and stole better than half of it, because he needed the sustenance too.

Fourteen

“You’re quiet,” Harlan said as the horses were brought around.

“My ears are recovering,” Noah replied. “Have your cousins always been so damned noisy?”

Harlan gave him a good shove to the shoulder. “Nini and Evvie are
little
girls
, and you just promised them ponies this summer. Of course they’ll make heaps of noise.”

The happiest noise Noah had heard from them. Ever.

“You may blame Thea for that nonsense,” Noah said. “She has informed me we’re to hire tutors and governesses and all manner of masters for the girls.”

Noah’s wife had been kind but firm, exactly as a duchess should be—when she wasn’t stealing covers.

“You won’t have Evvie and Nini all to yourself,” Harlan said. “You’re pouting because you’ll have to share.”

Noah swung up on True. “Where is it written that a grown man mustn’t pout? Seems to me one of the few privileges of adulthood is a good, cranky pout from time to time, or a fit of private ranting, with a tot of brandy consumed to settle the temper. Did Thea seem pale to you?”

“She seemed quiet,” Harlan said, mounting his new gelding. “The girls were making a racket, and nobody would compete with them when they’re fresh from their slumbers. Where will we find these ponies?”

Where, indeed? For not just any pair of ponies would do.

“I’m loath to return to Town,” Noah said, “despite all three of our sisters needing more supervision, and our brothers-in-law more moral support. Tatt’s will have plenty of ponies as the beau monde leaves Town for the pleasures of murdering Scottish grouse, but there has to be something closer to hand.”

A source of ponies that wouldn’t require Noah to leave Thea yet again, even though she was
not
indisposed.

“Greymoor’s estate is on the other side of Guildford.” Harlan led them to the left as they quit the stable yard, in the direction of the cultivated fields. “Greymoor’s no farther than Town, and he has a capital reputation for ladies’ mounts.”

Greymoor’s name had come up at Tatt’s, when Noah had dragooned Grantley into purchasing a mare for Lady Nonie.

“How do you know about Greymoor’s ventures?” Noah asked.

“I’ve spent the past two years at university,” Harlan said patiently, as if the elderly were prone to forgetfulness. “The true purpose of a university education is to teach a fellow how to hold his drink, and who among his set has the best gossip and the prettiest sisters.”

An appallingly accurate summation. “Does Greymoor have sisters?” The name brought to mind a vague image of blue eyes, height, and a miscreant past. Greymoor’s older brother had been brought to heel by matrimony—poor sod—but neither brother had been in Noah’s form at school.

“Greymoor has no sisters that I know of,” Harlan said, standing in the stirrups then settling back in his saddle. “Might I have some company down here over the summer?”

Not bad for a casual change of subject. “You might.”

Harlan’s expression remained quite diffident.

“Does this company boast of pretty sisters?” Noah asked.

“Possibly.”

Noah sighed loudly enough to have True flicking his ears around. The day was pretty, the corn coming along nicely, the hedges ripe with honeysuckle, and Harlan had apparently fallen in love.

Drat the luck. Would Noah be the only Winters male to escape a legacy of unbridled folly where the ladies were concerned?

“You are too young to contemplate matrimony, holy or otherwise, Harlan. If you need certain itches scratched, you have only to accompany Meech on his rounds, and the matter will be addressed before you can finish unfastening your falls.”

A common blue butterfly flitted around Harlan’s gelding’s ears, and the beast remained perfectly calm. Noah had tried twenty different horses before settling on the bay.

“The less I am seen in Uncle’s company, the better,” Harlan said as the butterfly went on its way.

“You are out of charity with Meech?” Noah occupied himself with organizing True’s unruly mane so it lay—more or less—on the right side of the gelding’s neck. Boggy conversational ground so early in the day called for a touch of fraternal tact.

“I love my uncle,” Harlan recited, “but he’s a damned embarrassment, Noah. There’s more to life than chasing skirts, bragging about chasing skirts, joking about chasing skirts, and trading reminiscences about chasing skirts.”

Noah drew True to a halt in the shade of a spreading oak and crossed his wrists over the pommel. On the new horse, Harlan sat as tall as Noah, possibly an inch or two taller.

Why must they all grow up so quickly?

Harlan pirouetted his gelding to face Noah. “Don’t scold, Noah. I’ll be eighteen next month, and I hear things at school.”

Eighteen was such a tender age. Thea had been eighteen when she’d accepted her first post as a companion, which thought, gave Noah an uncomfortable pang.

“You hear the best gossip and all that,” Noah said. “I want to defend Meech, but at your age, I had the same reaction to him. I told myself not to be so missish and judgmental, and I let Meech lead me into several situations I regret. Instead of defending him, I will admonish you to stick to your guns. Uncle is damned lucky somebody hasn’t blown his brains out on a foggy meadow dotted with cow dung, or worse.”

Noah nudged his horse forward, knowing he’d surprised his brother. He’d surprised himself, which had something to do with this business of not wanting to go back into Town. Yes, his sisters needed some extra attention, but they had husbands for that.

Thea had never admitted what had put her in tears last night. Maybe passing female sentiment was to blame, maybe the discomfort of her menses.

Noah couldn’t shake the nagging sense her low spirits were the result of something he’d done, or failed to do.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have insisted on waiting to consummate their union, but he’d said they’d wait, and going back on his word was unthinkable.

In future when he was called from Thea’s side, his notes would be of greater frequency and more…husbandly.

* * *

“I married a grasshopper,” Thea accused, unwilling to be swayed by Noah’s stoic expression. “And, you, Lord Harlan Winters, are a bad influence on your brother.”

Two grooms led the horses out, the elder man smiling at Thea’s scold.

“Don’t be too hard on Noah,” Harlan replied. “Greymoor’s stud is said to be all the crack, and you want the girls to have the best possible ponies, don’t you?”

Thea wanted her husband to admit he’d miss her.

She crossed her arms rather than give in to the urge to touch him. “The best possible ponies would have to be thirty-odd miles away. Not a single pony in all of Kent, or at the auctions in Town, would do.”

Based on Noah’s disgruntled expression, he would have preferred to go pony shopping in darkest Peru rather than endure Thea’s displeasure in public.

“I wasn’t looking for ponies when I dragged your brother to buy a mount for Lady Antoinette,” Noah replied, slapping his riding gloves against his thigh. “My wife had yet to inform me I’d been remiss in the matter of ponies.”

“Oh, her.” Thea groused. She wanted badly to smile, which was ridiculous, because Noah was haring off again, but this time he was dragging Harlan with him—or perhaps Harlan was doing the dragging. In any case, they were away to Surrey, though promising to be back the next day, or the day after, “at the latest.”

“You disparage my wife at your peril, Duchess,” Noah said, looking stern despite the glint in his blue eyes. “She is an estimable lady.”

“And very determined,” Thea reminded him. “If you do not reappear as scheduled, Husband, I will hire the crankiest governess I can find for our daughters, and you will have to pension the old besom off at considerable cost upon your return.”

Noah pulled on his gloves, though Thea had seen something—humor, bashfulness, what?—in his gaze before he’d looked away.

“What did I say?” Thea straightened the lapel of his faultlessly tailored riding jacket. “I wouldn’t hire them anybody terrible, Husband. You know this.”

Noah stepped closer and planted a smacking kiss on her mouth, while Harlan made a production of cinching up his horse’s girth. Thea might have wiggled away for form’s sake—both grooms were grinning now—but Noah held her close long enough to murmur in her ear.

“See that you look after
our
daughters
in my absence, Wife. My womenfolk matter to me.”

Thea stepped back, her fingers going to her lips to mask her pleasure. Harlan winked at her, swung up, and began castigating Noah for how slowly old married men moved when there were horses to be bought, and perhaps his brother wasn’t getting enough rest, or perhaps the
heat
was disturbing his slumbers—

Noah gently tapped Harlan’s mount on the quarters with a crop, which had the animal trotting off more in indignation than surprise, and Harlan laughing out loud.

“You have my direction,” Noah said as he settled into the saddle. “Mind you don’t let the girls explode with anticipation. They’re merely ponies.”

“Be safe, Husband.” Thea petted True’s sturdy neck. “They’ll miss you.”

“Right.” He leaned down and kissed Thea again, and that kiss held a promise. A very marital promise she wasn’t at all reluctant to fulfill.

When Noah cantered off to catch up with Harlan, Thea was still standing in the stable yard, the taste of her husband’s kiss lingering on her lips. What did it mean, that Noah’s womenfolk mattered to him, and why had he been surprised Thea had referred to Nini and Evvie as their daughters?

The girls were family, and little and dear. How else was she to refer to them, except as
our
daughters
?

Knowing the children were likely watching from the nursery windows, Thea marched herself back into the house. The day would be hot enough to do a little gardening, and then perhaps go wading, to maybe teach the girls the rudiments of fishing… No, not fishing. Anything involving worms on hooks was paternal territory.

The nursery maids reported that the girls were paying a call on Erikson, so Thea doubled back to the conservatory.

“We are dissecting,” Erikson said, looking up from his worktable. “It is very scientific work.”

“What hapless creature are you dissecting?” Thea knew to close the door behind her, lest the botanical beauties get cold. Erikson’s little assistants were ranged on either side of him, sitting on stools the better to view the procedure.

“A chocolate éclair.” Erikson’s fair skin colored. “Or half of one.”

“Very scientific, indeed.” Thea pulled up a stool across the table from the specimen. “But here we have a discarded sample.” She lifted the remaining half of the éclair, and took up a butter knife from the tea service. “I abhor waste.”

Nini nodded, her cheek sporting a smear of chocolate. “Me too.”

Thea cut the sweet into fourths, and forked the little bites onto plates for the girls. She speared the remaining bite—one rich with drizzled chocolate and a fat dollop of cream between the layers of flaky pastry—and held the fork across the table to Erikson. Rather than take the fork, he wrapped his larger hand around Thea’s, and ate the éclair directly from the tines.

“I will let Evvie make the first cut,” he said dramatically. “Recall, child, to cut across, not toward you, and to have your assistant note the order and dimensions of your incisions.”

“Who’s my assistant?”

“I am,” Erikson said, passing Evvie a clean butter knife.

“What’s a ’cision?” asked Nini, who now also had chocolate on her upper lip.

“A cut,” Thea said, dabbing at Nini’s face with a serviette.

“Quiet,” Evvie ordered, butter knife poised. “Is this a holy moment?”

“All science is holy,” Erikson said. “Particularly when chocolate is involved, and such good Dutch cocoa in the chocolate too.”

“You say everything good is Dutch,” Nini said. “Like the Holland bulbs and chocolate and the windmills and canals and the—”

“Ni-ni.” Evvie waved the knife. “Will you hush?” She mashed the knife into the éclair, and peered at her work as the filling oozed onto the cloth spread beneath it. “I made an incision. The patient bled. Write that down.”

“That’s not blood.” Nini’s finger made a pass toward the filling, only to be trapped in Erikson’s big paw.

“You’re an observer,” he chided. “You sit in silent awe of the wonders to be revealed.”

Nini frowned at the specimen. “How long does this take?”

“Not long,” Thea said, sending Erikson a look. “Not when we’ve spelling words and French vocabulary to learn, and wading to do.”

“Wading?” Erikson’s expression came alert. “In the lake?”

“We can go wading?” Evvie was off her stool, followed closely by her sister, but not before Nini cadged a taste of filling.

“I thought we might,” Thea said. “After it warms up a little more and we’ve done our schoolwork.”

Evvie arched a brow in a gesture reminiscent of Noah. “
Our
schoolwork?”

“You have to write the words, but I have to think them up and check them and explain if you’ve got them right or wrong,” Thea said. “So, yes, it’s our schoolwork. Now come, for you’ll need play clothes if we’re to study outside.”

Thea shooed them toward the door, and they thundered past in a happy rush.

“Such small feet.” Erikson said, licking Evvie’s discarded butter knife as Thea closed the door. “And such big noise, while our little science lesson is forgotten.” He popped the squashed éclair half into his mouth on a philosophical sigh.

“You’re good to be so patient with them.”

“Children are fine company for such as myself, but you should have company on this outing too, Your Grace.”

Would Noah have joined them, or been too busy with his ducal responsibilities?

“I can’t see bothering the footmen to stand about while the children splash each other,” Thea said. “Davies and Maryanne need every break they can get.”

“Those two.” Erikson’s normally genial expression shifted to a scowl. “They are too young for their responsibilities, but Anselm will not take them to task, because the girls are attached to their nursery maids.”