When the Duke Returns (12 page)

“She is your wife,” Godfrey intervened.

“But that when it comes to an emergency, one person has to assume responsibility.”

“An emergency,” Isidore said, ladling a generous dollop of scorn into her voice. “What sort of emergency are you thinking of?”

“All sorts.” He raised his glass, his eyes dark and somber over the rim. “I have been in enough difficult
spots, Isidore, to know that dangers flock from every direction.”

“For example?”

“Were you ever attacked by a lion?” Godfrey asked. He was definitely slurring his words. He looked terribly sleepy and slightly nauseated.

“Not lately,” Simeon said.

“Godfrey, would you like to retire to my armchair for a moment?” Isidore asked.

He just stared at her, until Simeon said, “Godfrey.” His voice was quiet, but the authority inherent there was absolute.

Godfrey stumbled to the chair and sat down, his eyes closing immediately.

“Is that your example?” Isidore asked.

“I suppose it could be.”

“The situation also could have been avoided had you paid attention. The third glass of wine was too much.”

“It was a matter of male pride. I believe this is probably Godfrey's first dinner in which he was offered sufficient wine to make himself ill. It is far better that he overindulge tonight and learn from it, than that he do so on a more public occasion.”

“I don't agree with you that there must be a general in every marriage,” Isidore said.

“The commonly accepted idea of marriage,” Simeon said, “is that the man has to be that leader. I have seen a few successful marriages in which the reverse was true. One of the two people must be accepted as such.”

Across the room, Godfrey was making a heavy breathing sound. She would rather assay her first seduction without a drunken thirteen-year-old in the corner.

But Simeon really meant it when he said that they would wait until the night of their wedding. He truly would walk away from her. She had to try
something
.

She leaned toward him so that the lush weight of her breasts hung forward. “Would you tell the footman outside the door that Godfrey has fallen asleep?” she said. “Perhaps Honeydew should escort him to his bed chamber.”

“And clear away these dishes,” Simeon said. He sounded as if she were a remote acquaintance, who had offered him a boiled sweet. She'd heard that voice before. He had a way of growing even more calm, more distant. She'd seen it before…

It meant he felt threatened.

Good.

She leaned back, thinking that her breasts had done their job. “Please,” she added.

He rose, opened the door to the outside and had a brief word with the footman. A moment later Godfrey walked unsteadily from the room, looking rather greenish.

“He's going to cast up his accounts in the bushes,” Simeon said.

The little house drew around them again, sheltering, sweet, romantic. Then the door opened and Honeydew swept in with dishes of pear stewed in port. He was gone in a moment, leaving them with glasses of sparkling wine.

Isidore had been flirting for years. She let her eyelids droop and threw Simeon a sleepy glance from under her lashes.

He was busy cutting up his pear and didn't notice. She waited a moment but he seemed as concentrated on the pear as if he were boning a pheasant. Fine. She turned to her own pear, trying desperately to think of a seductive topic. Nothing came to mind, so she found herself saying the least romantic thing possible: “When do you think that the water closets will be repaired?”

“Honeydew and I investigated the pipes today,” Simeon
said, looking up. “They are completely rotted. If you can believe it, the original piping was done in wood. Naturally the water rotted them through within the year.”

“Your father must have been one of the first to install a water closet at all,” Isidore said. “That was rather progressive of him.”

“It appears from the correspondence I found that he was offered the water closets for a pittance,” Simeon said bluntly. “He was supposed to allow the fabricators to use his name and express his approval. I think they probably discarded this idea when he refused to pay that pittance, saying that the pipes didn't work sufficiently. After that, the pipes rotted and there was no one to fix them.”

Isidore finished her bite. “It must be quite difficult to be in a position to judge one's parents as an adult,” she offered. “Since mine died when I was very young, I knew them only as parents, never as people.”

“Were they good to you?”

“Oh yes. They were Italian, you know, so they had a different idea of family life than do many English parents. There were nursemaids, of course, but both of my parents visited the nursery every day. I spent a great deal of time with my mother, in particular.”

“And when they died, you were sent here, to my mother?”

“Until my aunt took me away again.”

“Probably even if your aunt had been busking at the side of the road, it would have been the right thing to do,” he said, putting down his fork and knife.

“The wife of a future duke playing for pennies along with Mr. McGurdy?” she said, laughing a bit.

“My mother has a difficult character,” Simeon said. “Your aunt was right. I had no right to criticize her ear
lier. It is no one's business how you spent your time with your aunt, and certainly not mine, given my lengthy absence.”

Isidore was conscious of a warm glow under her breastbone. It wasn't a seductive glow, though, and some time later her so-called husband began making his way out of the cottage without taking even the smallest liberty. In fact, without a single flirtatious comment.

“Wait!” she said, when he had a hand on the door.

He turned.

She walked toward him, not with her signature sleepy look, nor with a little smile of interest, none of the tricks she had used to reduce men to their knees in the past. Instead she just walked to him and looked up, assessing the strong line of his jaw, the slightly wild cut of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders. He looked like a man, an adult. A grown man.

It gave her a little pulse of anxiety, as if she'd been playing with boys up until now. There was something different about the intensity and the fire inside Simeon.

“Will you kiss me good-night, please?” she said.

“Kiss you?”

“Yes. It's customary for married couples.”

She thought he would say they weren't married, but he didn't. Instead, he just moved forward and lowered his head, kissed her.

It was over in a second. She had a fleeting sensation of firm lips, a tiny scent of something…him…male, slightly spicy. And he moved back.

She blinked at him, thinking that kissing wasn't what she expected; it wasn't as good.

“Damn.” His voice was quiet, but the night was quiet too.

“What?”

“That wasn't your first kiss, was it?”

“Actually, it was,” she said. “Though—” She caught the words back. Why had she waited, evaded so many lips, never allowed herself to be kissed? It was nothing. Nothing special.

But then he moved closer again. “It's all right,” she said hastily, sensing that he meant to kiss her again.

This time his arms came around her slowly, and she had time to see the planes of his face, the way he looked straight into her eyes, the way his body loomed over hers…This time when his lips touched hers, they didn't slide away immediately.

She had seen kissing. She knew that it was done with open mouths, that it made women cling to their lovers, as if their knees were failing them.

She knew that, all that, and yet—

He kissed her hard this time, not a fleeting caress, but a command. His arms slipped past her, braced against the wall, and his body came against hers. She gasped at the strength of it, the heat, and then their mouths were open together. It was like an open flame that rushed through Isidore's body—the taste of him, the feeling of it, the kiss, his body.

She shivered, made an inarticulate murmur, a noise, a cry. Their tongues met and sang together. Her mind reeled and she wound her arms around his neck. Gone were all her thoughts of seduction, of fragile English brides.

“Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, her body against his. Her breasts didn't feel like large objects meant to attract men now. They were on fire, tingling from where they rubbed against his coat. He pulled her tighter, and another little moan came from her throat. He kissed her hard, pushing her against the wall. She wanted to open her eyes, but desire swamped her, betrayed her voice and her logical mind and her plans. She could only cling
to him and kiss him back, her tongue touching his and retreating.

Growing bolder, responding to the muffled groan that seemed to come from his chest, not from his mouth.

Finally he pulled back.

“Was that your first kiss?” she asked, when she could speak again.

He stood for a moment, the firelight cascading off the gleam of his hair. Half his face was in shadow.

Finally, he said quietly, “No.”

“Ah.” She didn't know what she had wanted to hear. Of course he was experienced at kissing. How could he—how could they have—

“It was my second,” he said. “The first was a moment or two ago, but I'm not sure they belong in the same category.”

And then he was gone, the door closing on a swirl of evening air.

Revels House
March 1, 1784

T
he next morning Isidore rose to find a light rain falling. She had a bath, sat by the fire, and read
Tales of the Nile
while Lucille fussed with her clothing.

But it was no good. She didn't want to sit in her cottage while Simeon was off in the main house by himself. She didn't want to wait for him, like a docile little mouse waiting for the cat to pay a call, to find time to discuss the end of their marriage. Besides, their marriage wasn't over, even if he didn't know it yet.

A few seconds later she was shaking the rain from her plumed hat, and handing it to Honeydew. “Your Grace,” he was saying. “May I serve you some tea?”

Isidore shook her head. She was looking around the high entrance hall. It wasn't in terrible shape, though the marble was cracked, and the paneling on one door looked scuffed. “What happened to this?” she said, walking over to inspect it before she even off took her pelisse.

“The late duke's dog was a terrible scratcher,” Honeydew said. She was getting to know him now, and that quiet tone implied severe disapproval.

“We need some foolscap,” she told him, giving her dripping pelisse to a footman. “And a quill. I shall make lists of what needs to be done, and I might as well start with the entry.”

She began prowling around the walls, looking at the pictures, the paneling, and the moldings.

“If Your Grace will allow me to act as your secretary,” Honeydew said in a tone mingled with astonishment and gratitude.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She had discovered a small painting next to the door leading to the drawing room. It was hanging askew and its frame was broken. But it was a lovely treatment of a dog with a pigeon. “Is this the dog in question?”

Honeydew turned from sending one of the footmen running for paper. “Exactly so, Your Grace. The former duke had his dog painted in a variety of poses.”

“This is lovely,” Isidore said. “Was the artist ever paid?”

“Yes,” Honeydew said, rather surprisingly.

Isidore nodded. “Is the duke in his study?”

“He is working. I'm afraid that the maids discovered a great nest of papers in one of the cupboards in the master bedchamber,” Honeydew said. “It appears they include some bills in arrears.”

“And the duke's mother?”

“Her Grace rarely makes an appearance before late morning,” Honeydew said. “She spends the morning in prayer.”

Isidore tried to imagine Simeon's mother praying, failed, and walked into the largest sitting room.

“The Yellow Salon,” Honeydew named it. In truth, the previously buttery upholstery had faded to a grayish-cream. But the room's proportions were beautiful. At one point, there had been an exquisite band of blue and gold plaster around the cornice at the top of the walls.

“New drapes, obviously,” Isidore said. “This sofa looks quite good and merely needs reupholstering. I very much doubt that all this work could be done locally in a timely fashion; shall we ship the lot off to London? I seem to remember that the Duchess of Beaumont made use of Mr. George Seddon's workshop.”

Honeydew beamed. “I agree, Your Grace.” He lowered his voice. “If I might suggest that we send payment along with the furniture. I'm afraid that the duke has a reputation to overcome.”

“We'll pay double,” Isidore said. “I would like the furniture reupholstered as soon as possible.” In fact, the more she thought about last night and that kiss…“I believe I would like this house to be shining and habitable in ten days, Honeydew. What do you think?”

The smile dropped from his face and he looked a bit winded. “That is hard to imagine.”

“I find that ready money does wonders. Do we have a cart for all this furniture?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Honeydew said. “We do, but—”

Isidore smiled at him. “I have absolute faith in you.”

Honeydew pulled himself up and nodded. “I shall do my best.”

“Let's put those yellow sofas and that large piece there on the list. Goodness, is that a harp?”

Honeydew nodded.

“Missing all its strings,” Isidore said. “We'd better make two lists. One set of furniture should go straight to London, with instructions that it be either repaired or reupholstered. The remainder can retire to the attics, the harp among them. We need a plaster-worker as well; the bones of the room are lovely but the walls need redoing. The criss-cross gold and blue around the top merely needs freshening.”

Honeydew scribbled at his list. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank goodness this mirror isn't broken,” she said, stopping before an eleven-foot-high mirror set into the paneling. “Whose portrait is set at the top there, in the medallion?”

“His Grace,” Honeydew said, “as a young boy. The chandelier,” he added, “is only missing one strand of glass pearls.”

“Make a note of it,” Isidore said. “I am monstrously fond of the new embroidered chairs, Honeydew, and they would look lovely in this room…perhaps with cherry blossoms on a pale yellow background?”

The door behind them opened suddenly and Isidore turned about. In the doorway stood the dowager duchess. She looked pinched and faded, and yet the same pugnacious light that Isidore remembered shone in her eyes.

Isidore immediately dropped into a curtsy that nearly had her sitting on the floor. She didn't raise her head from its respectful position for a good moment before murmuring, eyes still lowered, “Your Grace, what an honor. I had not thought to disturb you at such an early hour.”

“Honeydew,” the duchess said, “I'm sure that you have much to do.”

Isidore turned to Honeydew. “If you could arrange for the cart as we discussed, I shall rejoin you shortly.” The
dowager seated herself on one of the sofas, so Isidore followed.

Her mother-in-law didn't bother with preliminaries. “We never could abide each other,” she said grimly, “but need comes to want, and we have to work around that.”

“I am truly happy to see you in such good health, Your Grace.”

The older woman waved her hand irritably in the air. “My generation doesn't care so much for that sort of flummery. You don't give a damn about my health, but I imagine that you're as interested in my son's as I am. Have you spent some time with him?” She narrowed her eyes.

“I have. We dined last night with Godfrey.”

The duchess's face softened. “Godfrey is a good lad. My elder, on the other hand—” she shook her head. “I'm not of a generation to beat about the bush, so I'll tell you, he's unhinged. I thought at first that I might be able to keep it from you, long enough to head off an annulment, but I realized that talk of brain fever is impossible between a man and a wife. I would have known if my husband grew unhinged, and I expect you know as well.”

Isidore cleared her throat. “He is certainly original in his thinking.”

“He's mad. Cork-brained. He'll cause you many a humiliation if you stay in the marriage.”

It was no more than Isidore herself had initially thought.

“
But,
” Simeon's mother continued, “he's a duke. That's a fact and no one can take that away from him, whether he looks like a common thief or not.” She threw Isidore an icy look. “You're on the old side to catch another husband, may I point out? You'll never find one at the level of a duke. Your being Italian and all, you'd be lucky to catch a baron.”

Isidore didn't bother to answer.

“He's a duke and that makes you a duchess,” she continued. “It isn't trivial to be a duchess. You'll be among the highest in the land. People may talk behind your back about your husband's proclivities, but they won't do so to your face. And who gives a fart what they say behind your back?”

Isidore managed to close her mouth with an effort.

“Don't look so mealy-mouthed!” the duchess snapped at her. “I've never lost a moment's sleep thinking about what little people say behind my back. I advise you to do the same. You're not born to be a duchess, but we chose you carefully enough.”

“You chose me due to the dowry my father offered,” Isidore put in. She was starting to feel a rising wave of fury. How could a mother speak about her son in such withering terms? True, Simeon was unusual, but—

“He promised you were a biddable girl,” her mother-in-law said crushingly.

“He was mistaken,” Isidore said, showing her teeth in an approximation of a smile.

“I realized that the moment I saw you,” the duchess said. “Only twelve years old, and as saucy as a lower housemaid. I thought then that it would fall apart before the wedding and likely it would have but for my son's refusal to return to England. Of course he was suffering from brain fever.”

“He didn't have brain fever,” Isidore said.

“Put your gloves back on!” the duchess barked. “No duchess would show her ungloved hands in public. I can see that making
you
into proper duchess material is going to be as hard as bundling my son into acceptable shape.”

“Your son is more than acceptable,” Isidore said, placing her gloves on the table before her with some precision.

It was a signal of war. The duchess, who had up till now resembled an elderly bulldog, suddenly straightened and took on the air of a mastiff. “I foresee the long lineage of the Cosways dragged into the dirt.”

Isidore smiled kindly at her. “I will do my very best to get the dirt out of this room, not to mention this
house
, which smells worse than most slums.”

“A duchess does not lower herself to such inconsequential matters.”

“Your—and I use the word advisedly—
your
house looks like the tumble-down shack owned by an impoverished peasant. The house stinks like a privy, the furniture is falling apart, and the servants haven't been paid. I may not have been raised by a duke, but my father would have been ashamed to treat his dependents as you have routinely treated your staff.”

She paused, but the duchess didn't seem ready to take up her side of the argument yet, so Isidore continued. “My father would also have been ashamed to allow the house of his forefathers to fall into such disrepair.”

“It is not in disrepair,” the duchess said, her voice a growl. “There might be a piece of rackety furniture here and there that could use repair, but problems with the—”

But Isidore was just beginning. “Broken windows,” she said. “Warped wood that will need to be replaced. The chimney in the west wing seems to have toppled in on itself, from what I could see. My father, Your Grace, would call it a
disgrace
!”

Silence followed.

Her mother-in-law was red in the face and seemed to have blown up slightly, as a frog does before croaking. Isidore reached out and picked up her gloves. “You might be more comfortable retiring to your chambers,” she said, her voice even. “All the furniture in the down
stairs rooms will be removed in the next few hours and sent to London for refurbishing or replacement.”

That goaded the duchess into speech. “By whose authority do you dare that action!” she shouted.

Isidore stood. “By my own.” She pulled on her gloves, snapping them onto each finger. “That of the Duchess of Cosway.”

“You'll bankrupt the estate!”

“Nonsense. The Cosway estate is one of the richest in the kingdom, and even if it were not so, I inherited my father's entire estate.
I,
Your Grace, am likely the richest woman in this kingdom, barring their royal highnesses. Not to mention the fact that your son brought back a fortune in tiger rubies from Africa. If we wish to gild this entire house so that they can see the glow from London, we can afford to do so.”

“So that's the way of the world! The young waste the substance that the elderly worked so hard to build up, on fripperies, trivialities, gilded walls…”

“In this case,” Isidore said briskly, “the young make a necessary outlay of funds to repair the neglect and damage by the uncaring—”

“Don't you call me uncaring!” the duchess said, leaping to her feet with a great creaking of corsets. “I may not have thought that the broken window was terribly important, and I certainly never prided myself on being one of the richest women in the kingdom, the way you do, but I cared for this estate. I love it. It's—”

She turned, very precisely, and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

“Oh…
hell
,” Isidore said. Obviously she had bungled that. “It's my temper,” she said out loud, staring down at her gloves.

The door opened again to Honeydew, ushering in a bevy of strong-looking men. “If Your Grace would help
us select furniture for the cart, that would be most kind.”

By the end of the morning, the downstairs had been emptied. Even the dining room table was gone. “It's scarred,” Isidore told Honeydew. “I love that black oak, but it needs work. And frankly, I would prefer a table with more graceful lines. I have a mind to order a complete dining room set by Georges Jacob. He created a beautiful set for Queen Marie Antoinette in her Petit Trianon.”

Honeydew gulped. “From France, Your Grace?”

“Yes, of course,” Isidore said. She was ticking off a mental list on her fingers. “The furniture is dispatched to Mr. Seddon's workshop. This afternoon I'll send to Signora Angelico about an appropriate person to sew new curtains, and another to Antoine-Joseph Peyre about the broken statuary in the ballroom.” She paused because Honeydew looked confused. “Monsieur Peyre did some work on my palazzo in Venice, and it so happens that he's in London. I'm sure that he will help us.”

“Palazzo?” Honeydew enquired.

Isidore smiled at him. “If only it were closer, I would have furniture shipped from there. Monsieur Peyre worked all my walls in Venice with delicious flowers, in the style that I most prefer.”