When the Duke Returns (13 page)

“By next week?” Honeydew said faintly.

“He won't finish by then, of course.”

She turned about as she heard the study door open: the study was the only room on the first floor that they had not yet stripped of its furnishings. Simeon walked out. His hair was standing on end and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Honeydew,” he said, apparently not even seeing her, “have you ever heard of the Brothers Verbeckt?”

Honeydew frowned.

“They are asking for a large sum and though the reference is rather obscure, they seem to be talking of hunting. I thought perhaps the author was German.”

“That would be Verby, down in the village,” Honeydew said, his face clearing. “Now that's a pack of nonsense! For hunting, does he say? Verby used to go along with your father as a gun-cleaner now and then, and only when the duke had no one better to take with him. Brothers Verbeckt indeed!”

Simeon turned to Isidore and bowed. “Forgive me, duchess; I didn't see you were there.”

That was a lie. Isidore knew the moment his door opened. She could feel his presence even behind the door, as she made her lists. And the moment they were standing together in the same room, desire strung between them like an invisible thread.

But she smiled at him. He wanted to preserve the illusion of his life without desire, without fear. “Good morning.”

His eyes drifted over her and even though she was rather dusty and tired, suddenly, under his gaze, she felt all curves and female beauty.

“I've heard mysterious thumps,” he said, recovering first. “What on earth has been happening, Honeydew?”

“Her Grace has sent all the furniture to London,” Honeydew said. He was no fool, and was backing toward the hallway. “If you'll forgive me, Your Graces, I must see to luncheon.” He stopped. “The table!”

“We'll eat in the Dower House,” Isidore said soothingly. “Her Grace will undoubtedly wish a light luncheon in her chambers, just as she did last night.”

“What happened to the table?” Simeon asked, once Honeydew disappeared. “Did a leg fall off?”

“Oh no,” Isidore said. “I've sent everything to London, just as Honeydew said. Wouldn't you like to see?”

They walked into the dining room. Without furniture, and with the moldering curtains torn down, it was a wide, echoing room. Honeydew had sent maids in the moment the furniture was gone, and even the walls glistened.

“The house should be ready to receive guests in a few weeks at most,” Isidore said, since Simeon seemed to be silenced by the total lack of furniture.

“You got rid of all the furniture?”

There was a kind of controlled anger in his voice that made Isidore's eyes narrow. “I didn't get rid of it,” she said. “Well, I got rid of some it. But everything that could be refurbished has been sent to London.”

Simeon walked to the door leading to the great sitting room and stopped. Isidore knew exactly what he was looking at: the empty, stained floor where there had been two threadbare Aubussons and clusters of furniture in various states of disrepair.

“You sent away all my furniture,” Simeon stated. He ran a hand through his hair.

Isidore stared at his back. His shoulders seemed very tense. “It is presumably my furniture as well,” she told him.

“If we remain married,” he said. Then he whirled about. “You have no right to send away every stick of furniture in this house. People live here. I live here. You could have done me the nominal courtesy of asking my permission.”

“Your permission?” Isidore echoed. “Your permission for what? Would you have said that you wished to keep the rug that your father's incontinent dog chose as his private privy, or the one with a rip down the middle?”

“Do you mock me?”

Surely there were women who would have cowered at this point. But Isidore had never cowered at anyone, in
cluding Simeon's mother, and she wasn't going to start now. “Absolutely,” she said. “Mock where mockery is due, I say.”

“
You—
” he said violently, and broke off.

“Yes?”

And then, when he didn't answer: “Are you sure you don't want to characterize my heinous crime? That of sending the furniture out to be repaired so that this house is livable, if not hospitable?”

“Where is my mother to eat dinner?” he asked.

Isidore opened her mouth—and paused. “In the Dower House?”

“All four of us, happily crowded in the corner?”

“Honeydew will find a larger table,” Isidore said.

“Could you please consult with me before you embark on projects such as emptying out the house?” he asked.

He had himself under control again. Isidore almost sighed. There was something magnificent about Simeon in a rage. Not that she wished to court that condition, she told herself. “Of course,” she said. “Instantly. Every time. I'll ask you so many questions that you'll grow tired of the very sound of my voice.”

He shot her a sardonic look, but at least his mouth relaxed.

“What on earth could have happened to this wall?” he asked, wandering over to examine a gap in the paneling.

“Your father kicked it,” she said, answering his query.

“My father—”

“Your father apparently kicked the paneling after a game of cards. The strength of his leg was such that he remained stuck with one foot in the wall and the other on the floor, until the footmen could extract him.”

Simeon turned around and ran a hand through his
hair. “Isidore, have I lost my mind? Is this normal behavior for an English family?”

She smiled at that. “How would I know? I'm Italian, remember?”

“I spent the entire morning going through a most unpleasant stack of letters. They are all dated from six to eight years ago, and not only did each of them ask for money, but each had been denied by my father.”

He was a beautiful man: spare, large, wild-looking. Even his eyes were beautiful, filled with disappointment though they were.

He ran his hand through his hair again. “Am I truly mad, Isidore?”

“No,” she said promptly. “I should tell you that I had an argument with your mother this morning.”

“I apologize for my mother's undoubted vehemence.” He leaned against the wall next to her.

“I lost my temper,” Isidore said, meeting his eyes. “I spoke in a most inappropriate manner. And I said things that I wish I hadn't.”

“That pretty much sums up my experience of England,” he said, looking down at her.

Isidore suddenly felt as if her knees were weak. He was going to kiss her—he was—he did. His lips felt more familiar now. He licked her lips and she almost giggled, but then she put an arm around his neck and drew him close.

Thoughts fled as their bodies met. He was all hard muscle, and she melting softness. They both smelled of dust. But under the dust and faint smell of ink, she could smell the spicy cleanness that was Simeon. It made her tremble. It made her put both arms around his neck and hold on.

Revels House
March 1, 1784
That afternoon

S
imeon was conscious of savage disappointment: in his father, every time he leafed through sheaves of rejected bills, in himself. He had returned from the Dower House the night before and retreated to the study until numbers swam before his eyes.

Yet his father wasn't the heart of his problem.
She
was. He could fix the house, and pay the bills. He couldn't fix what happened to him when he was around Isidore. He felt like a hunting animal seeing her, as if even the hairs on the back of his neck knew where she was in the room.

Finally, at this late date, he understood all the poetry
of desire and lust that he had ignored before. Valamksepa used to recite the poetry of Rumi, a poet from 500 years ago; Simeon had exulted because he was free from the embarrassments described by the poet. And yet, Rumi was right: reason was powerless in the face of the lust he felt for Isidore. All he wanted to do was retreat to a bedchamber and—and rut.

Like an animal.

Not like a principled, thoughtful human being, like the kind of man he had always believed himself to be.

Except he was starting to worry about that too.

Finally he put down his quill and realized exactly what he feared: by marrying Isidore, he would be giving up himself. He would be giving
in
to violent tempests of emotion. His house would be shaken by screaming fights between his mother and his wife. He would be unable to withstand her, because he lusted after her to the point of being unable to think.

He felt ill—the kind of sick airy rush in his head that he used to feel when he and his men were being stalked by a tiger.

Danger…

 

His wife was equally worried. Isidore wanted to be a duchess. She had thought so before her husband appeared, and she thought so even more so now that Simeon turned out to be so knee-weakeningly appealing.

And yet life with him was going to be humiliating.

She could survive any amount of public embarrassment. He could go about London without a wig, and run through Hyde Park in a nappy. The problem was that he didn't really like her very much.

She could see it in the way he fought his attraction to her, in the veiled coolness of his eyes when she described
the changes she planned for the house. Simply in the way he looked at her.

A husband who didn't like her. It wasn't what she expected, though she couldn't say that she ever gave it a thought. Women liked her. Men desired her. She admired some and tolerated most.

Isidore sat down on one of the few chairs left in the house. She probably merited the scorn she saw in Simeon's eyes. After all, she wasn't what he wanted.

But what could she do? How do you make a man like you?
Like?
What did husbands like about their wives? A sense of humor, a partnership—

Partnership. She could help him more.

She leaped to her feet. He kept asking the butler questions about various bills. If there was one thing Isidore was good at, it was making inquiries.

“Honeydew, I should like to visit the village,” she said a few minutes later. “If you would have a bath drawn for me, I shall change my clothing.”

“When would you like the carriage, Your Grace?”

Isidore looked down at her dusty skirts. “It will take me at least two hours to make myself presentable.”

It actually took three, but when she climbed into the carriage, she felt fairly certain that she was perfectly attired: duchesslike, yet not too grand. She brought along Lucille and a footman carrying a thick purse. If there was one thing she was
not
going to do, it was order on credit.

The village consisted of six or seven establishments: baker, butcher, smithy, pub and a shop that seemed to sell everything from cloth to ceramic pitchers. Plus a church. She hesitated for a moment, thinking that the vicar was undoubtedly important, but what did she have to say to a vicar?

Two seconds later she was inside the general shop. It was rather dark because the ceiling was hung with a maze of objects. A table was jumbled with fabric, ribbons, buttons, cooking implements, a butter churn.

“Your Grace,” Lucille whispered, “what on earth are we doing here?”

Just then a lean-faced man, with such pronounced hollows in his cheeks that they looked like small caves, came forward. He bowed deeply.

Isidore pulled off her gloves.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, I would like to buy something.”

His expression didn't change. “A ribbon?”

There was something just faintly, faintly insolent in his tone. As if a duchess would only want a pretty ribbon, like a small child, or perhaps as if a duchess could only afford a ribbon.

“A bolt of woolen cloth,” Isidore said, picking the largest and most useful thing she saw. She needed to buy something large, something that would give the shopkeeper confidence that the Duchy of Cosway was solvent.

“A bolt of cloth,” he said. “Of course, Your Grace.”

So he did know who she was. There was an odd sucking sound and the man's cheeks suddenly popped inward. Then he turned around, plucked up a bolt of russet wool and thumped it down before her. “Will this do? It's eight shillings a yard. How many yards would you like? I accept only ready money in this shop.”

Not enough. Not nearly enough. “I'd like more,” Isidore said.

“More cloth?” He sucked his cheeks in again, with an audible pop. “I have blues, grays, greens, and more russet. How many yards would Your Grace need this morning?”

He was mocking her. Isidore's eyes narrowed. “A great deal,” she said, giving him a blindingly cheerful smile. “Probably every yard you have. I do like cloth.”

“Wool,” he said, “is a universal taste.” He turned around and bawled, “The bolts!”

Isidore took the purse from her footman. “How many houses are there in the village?”

“Twenty-three.”

“I'll have five yards per household.”

“There are a few huts down by the river.”

“I shall buy for twenty-seven households, then, which would be 135 yards, if I'm not mistaken.” She opened her purse.

“Over one thousand shillings,” the storekeeper said, his voice a bit strangled.

“One thousand and eighty,” Isidore said cheerfully. “Or fifty-four pounds.” She counted them out, then deliberately put a guinea on the counter. “For delivery to each house in the village.” The shopkeeper almost smiled.

She put down another guinea, and his eyes widened. Another. They formed a small golden pile. Deliberately, she built it into an unsteady mountain.

There was an audible pop. No one made a sound; even the footman seemed to be holding his breath.

“There are twenty-seven houses,” she said. “I shall add an extra guinea, so that you might provide some thread and needles to go with the fabrics.”

“Yes,” the man said, his voice half strangled. “Though there's no need—”

“I am the Duchess of Cosway. I always pay for the value of the merchandise I buy, and naturally, for its delivery as well. There is nothing more valuable than your time, Mr….”

“Mr. Mopser, Your Grace, Harry Mopser.”

Isidore held out her hand. “Mr. Mopser, it has been our pleasure to frequent your establishment.”

“Ba, ba—” he said, but finally managed to say, “Yer Grace.”

She swept from the store, hiding a smile. In the bakery, she ordered twenty-seven meat pies. In the church, having come up with something to say to the vicar after all, she promised a new steeple.

By the time she reached the smithy, Isidore felt like an ambassadress to a foreign country. The vicar had welcomed the idea of giving each household in the village a measure of wool with great enthusiasm; the baker had confided that she sent up a few pound cakes to Revels House weekly, in memory of the late duke's mother; Isidore promptly paid for five-years' worth of pound cakes.

The smithy had a low door and a pungent odor, like sulphur. “There's nothing to buy here,” Lucille protested.

“Then we'll just greet the smith,” Isidore said cheerfully.

Once inside the smithy, all she could see was a low ceiling, blackened beams, and the dim glow of the fire. Before she could say anything, her footman called, “The Duchess of Cosway.”

There was a clatter and a man rose from the hearth. He didn't bow, or even smile. He just put his hands on his hips and stared at her, and it wasn't a nice look. He had a crooked nose and his eyes looked like the sunken coals of his own fire. “The
new
duchess, I suppose,” he stated.

Isidore blinked.

“A newly minted duchess,” he drawled. “Flanked by a footman, the better to protect you in case a starving villager manages to sling mud in your direction.”

He had the air of someone of incredible strength and yet he was surprisingly gaunt. Behind her, Lucille made a little sound, as if she were a mouse scurrying away.

“Do you wish you had some mud to hand?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“A duchess who's not afraid of an insult…how peculiar.”

“Not that I've noticed,” she said, putting out a hand as her footman took a menacing step forward. “No one is as impolite to each other as equals, in my experience.”

“Do they chide each other with talk of starving children, then? Of fields rotting at the stalk due to bad seed? Of betrayal and coarse unconcern at the hands of those who should take the greatest care?”

Isidore's heart was beating fast.
This
was the heart of the matter. She looked around and saw a three-legged stool, covered with dust. With no hesitation she walked over, sat down, and folded her hands. “Lucille, I'll thank you and John to wait for me in the carriage. I'll sit for a moment and talk to Mr….”

“Pegg,” the smith said. “Silas Pegg.”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” Lucille moaned, looking toward the door as if it was heaven's gate itself.

Isidore fixed her with a duchess stare and a moment later the smithy was empty.

“You may sit down,” she said.

He just looked at her.

“If you wish.”

“I only sit amongst my equals.” His teeth were very white. “Duchess.”

Isidore had the distinct impression that she had been deemed lower than an equal. “Please tell me about the children,” she said, “and the fields.”

He curled his lip.

“Unless you wish to be counted amongst those who
should indicate concern and haven't bothered,” she pointed out.

“I heard that the young duke is paying overdue bills,” Mr. Pegg said.

“Every bill,” Isidore said. “He is paying every bill that the duchy owes.”

The smith grunted.

Isidore let the silence grow between them.

“We need a midwife and an apothecary,” he said after a time. “The bridge over the river is cracked and dangerous, so the post stopped coming to the village.”

“A midwife?” Isidore said. “Is there a surgeon?”

“Pasterby, in the next village,” the smith said. “I can't think of anyone who can afford him.” He turned to the side and plucked a horseshoe from the fire with a pair of tongs. It glowed red and smelled like hell's own furnace, to Isidore. Then, as if she wasn't there, the smith placed it precisely on his anvil, picked up a hammer, swung it over his head and brought it down with a precise clanging sound.

“Is there a school?” Isidore asked, timing herself between swings of the hammer.

He scoffed. “A school? You must be joking.”

She waited.

“Schools are at the behest of the duchy,” he finally said, turning the horseshoe over with long tongs.

“Was there ever a school?”

“Not in my lifetime.”

“What about a midwife?”

His hammer must have come down slightly askew because the horseshoe suddenly whipped past her cheek and clanged against the wall of the cabin.

Isidore didn't turn around, just gazed steadily at the smith. He looked a bit white. He put down his hammer
very precisely, picked up a stool, and sat down on it facing her.

“What happens if a man kills a duchess?” he said. Almost friendly.

Isidore let her eyes smile, but not her mouth. “Hanging,” she offered.

He put his hands on his knees. “The old duke chose a neighboring smith to put up the standards on the bridge over the river, after I wouldn't work for him any longer. The man mixed sand with the iron to save money, thinking to charge the duke twice as much and perhaps end up with his expenses.”

“Why did he do it at all?”

“If you didn't accept the duke's custom, he'd have you arrested for something. At least, that's what folks thought.”

“And yet you're not in jail,” she said. “How astonishing.”

“He was like a very small dog: all bark, no bite,” Mr. Pegg said flatly. “After I refused to do any more work for him, he never entered here again, but nothing the worse happened for that. Nothing that—”

He stopped.

“What?”

“No midwife,” he said. “She couldn't stay because no one could pay her. I've done all right because horses always need shoeing, and the baker's all right too, because people need bread. But almost all the other merchants are gone. People don't understand how much the great house matters, out here in the country. They stopped paying servants, you know, or paid them only once a year. No one could manage on half wages. The local people couldn't work there any longer.”

“So who is working at Revels House now?”

“The desperate. Honeydew is a good sort, and he's kept out true criminals.”

Isidore nodded. “The bridge,” she said. “The wages, the school, the apothecary, the post road. And the midwife?”

His eyes went blank. “Yes.”

She looked around the smelly, dusty smithy again. There was a cot against the wall, with a gray blanket cast over it. This was no house. It was just a place to be. And yet it looked as if he lived here.