Jilting the Duke (7 page)

“Certainly, your grace. Would you like to return to the library?”

“Not
your grace
. . . Aidan.” He gave a distant smile. “We were all so young, even children together. Surely—if nothing else does—that gives you the right of my name.” He turned down the final set of stairs.

“Then . . . Aidan . . . what remains for us to discuss?” She braced herself for his answer, keeping her eyes on the stairs as they descended.

“The past and the future,” he offered enigmatically.

She swallowed, waiting for the next sentence.

“And by that of course, I mean Tom and Ian. . . .”

She felt relief and disappointment in the same moment. So, they were to be cordial, ignoring the passion that had once connected them. But she had little time to consider the implications of that position; Aidan had continued speaking.

“Should we conclude our discussion of the guardianship now? Or would some other time be more convenient?”

Sophia thought of her preparations, her clothes, her hair, the air of distance she'd worked to maintain. Waiting would gain her nothing but more anxiety. “Perhaps we should make some preliminary decisions.”

Aidan held open the library door, and she entered, walking once more to the middle chair on the assumption he would again pick the couch. This time, Aidan chose the chair next to hers. She tensed.

“I can see why you wish to keep Ian here rather than send him to Harrow. He is sociable, but there is something . . .” Aidan's tone remained pleasantly cordial.

“Like Tom.” Sophia hoped spending time in the nursery had changed Aidan's perspective on Ian.

“Yes, like Tom. In his manner.”

“Tom would have hated Harrow, had you not been there.” She allowed herself to relax slightly. “Ian is not ready to have to work so hard to make friends or to be isolated from family.”

“I can see that. We will keep him with a tutor this year. But I still wish to introduce him to boys already at Harrow, so that he has friends once he is there.”

Sophia felt such relief that her body seemed to have lost all its sinews. “I'm pleased you agree that's the wiser course.”

“I'm even willing to leave him with you for the rest of the summer. I have a house not far from here; I could easily see him when I'm in town. At some point he might benefit from spending time on the ducal estate, but there's no hurry.” His voice was low, confidential, his body leaning toward her just slightly. “Whatever Tom might have imagined, it is for the two of us to decide.”

Sophia was surprised; he offered her everything she had wished for. All she had to do was agree.

Then she remembered the look of joy on Ian's face and the weight of Tom's letter in her hand. “Delaying Harrow for a year is best. As for the other, I had hoped to convince you to let him stay with me, but, seeing him with you . . . knowing that Tom talked about you to him, that Tom chose you to stand in his stead as father. Much as I will miss him, Ian should go with you. He needs more than a mother now.”

“I don't leave for some weeks. Why don't I spend time with Ian to see if having him accompany me would be a good decision? With your permission of course?”

“Of course.” She couldn't help but agree; Aidan seemed to have become more accommodating during his visit with Ian.

“Then I will see you tomorrow.” He rose to the sound of Dodsley's sharp double rap on the door.

“Excuse me, my lady. A messenger has arrived with a package from Mr. Murray.”

“Thank you, Dodsley. You may place it on the desk.” The butler followed her instruction, then returned to the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

“It must be an important package for your butler to interrupt,” Aidan offered.

“It's from Tom's publisher. I've been expecting it,” Sophia acknowledged.

“Why don't you open it? It may require a response by return of the messenger.”

Sophia wondered why Aidan was being solicitous, but his face revealed only a bland politeness. “If you don't mind . . .” She pulled on the twine, but the knot was tight.

“May I?” Aidan held out a knife. She wondered where he had kept it.

He cut the twine with one swift pull. Inside the heavy paper wrapper were several books in publisher's boards, each one with the title handwritten on the front cover, ready to be bound in the style of her personal library. Sophia looked quickly at each title, disappointed. The package had not contained the materials she'd expected.

Aidan, however, showed real interest in her choices, picking up each of the titles in turn. “Poetry, novels, science. It's an eclectic selection Murray has sent you.”

“Mr. Murray has been very gracious, and I read widely.”

“I can understand
Don Juan
. I've heard copies sell as fast as Murray can print them, though Murray's wise not to put his name on the title page. The slightest hint of sedition can put a publisher in prison. But Fanny Burney's
The Wanderer
? The reviewers dismissed it as quite inferior to her other books.”

“The reviews claimed it was quite
unlike
her other books, because Burney's heroine must make her way without the advantages of wealth or family connections. That piqued my curiosity.”

“Then, you must let me know if it proves worth reading.” He raised an eyebrow at the next volume. “Priscilla Wakefield's
An Introduction to Botany
? I would have thought Ian had no need of Wakefield.”

“It's for me,” she admitted.

“For you?”

“I'm interested in how children are taught botany,” she explained.

“Well, other than the Wakefield, we share some similar tastes. I have a substantive library in town, and you are welcome to draw on its contents at any time. Perhaps sometime you will tell me whether you find Burney's heroines better with or without wealth or family. But for now, I will leave you to that rake, Byron, knowing you will be well entertained. I will send round a note arranging a time to visit Ian, tomorrow.”

Sophia felt more than watched Aidan leave. Just as with his arrival, one moment the room was filled with his presence and the next it was empty. It was foolish, she told herself, to feel bereft. Somehow seeing him had resurrected both her grief for Tom and for the Aidan she had lost as a girl. But he had drawn the limits of their relationship to their roles as Ian's guardians—nothing more. Whether such a silence was wise or not didn't matter, not now, and not with the things she still had left to do.

Chapter Eight

Once Aidan was out of the house, Sophia turned back to the stack of books sent to her by Murray.

Several months past, she'd contracted with John Murray of Albemarle Street to publish her husband's last book—a work on European plants suitable for English gardens. Murray was known for publishing some of the finest books in England, and Tom's book would appear in two volumes, quarto. The proofs had arrived the day before. They lay on her desk, waiting for her approval.

But Mr. Murray had also been interested in a project of hers, and her book was slated to appear simultaneously with Tom's. It occurred to her suddenly that Aidan might not approve of her aspirations to authorship. If he had become a hard man like his father or his brother Aaron, it would be best to conclude her business with Murray quickly, before Aidan could object.

She looked at the clock next to the fireplace. Ophelia planned to visit before dinner while Sidney attended a committee meeting at Westminster. If Sophia hurried, she could still meet with Murray.

Dodsley tapped at the door to the library.

“Dodsley, please tell Sally to meet me in my dressing room. I'll be going out, and I wish to change into a walking dress.”

“I'm sorry, madam, but your brother is waiting in the green drawing room.”

She groaned. The only thing worse than meeting with Aidan to discuss Ian's guardianship was meeting with Phineas at all.

“I forgot he was to visit. Is the purse-lipped Chloe with him?”

“No, madam, but your brother appears agitated.”

“Oh, dear.” She smoothed her skirts and walked to the library door. “Send a tea service and ask Cook if she has any of yesterday's tea cakes. I would rather not meet the savage beast without refreshments.”

* * *

Sophia regretted dressing with such care for her meeting with Aidan. If she had remembered Phineas was to visit, she could have changed into something dowdy. But she couldn't change now; keeping Phineas waiting was never a good decision. At least, she consoled herself, Chloe had stayed home, saving Sophia from having to explain yet again why she and Tom had spent so many years surrounded by “papists and idolaters.”

As she entered the room, Phineas was pacing away from her. She chose the most comfortable chair. No reason to be miserable during the inquisition.

“How kind of you to visit, Phineas. Dodsley is bringing us tea. Please take a chair.” She always encouraged Phineas to sit when he visited. Pacing accentuated the angularity of his build and the narrowness of his limbs. His awkward gait always reminded her of a crow pecking for seeds.

He stopped before her, looking much like a dyspeptic Nero, his thinning hair brushed forward against his face. “Was that Forster”—he grimaced on the name—“leaving just now?”

“Yes.”

“Rather late for him to pay his respects to the family of the dead,” Phineas spat, then strode away from her.

Phineas expected no response, so she said nothing. Instead, she wondered how Phineas knew Aidan had not visited before.

“He isn't known for being scrupulous of propriety.” Phineas waved his thin arms. “They say he's seduced half the widows in the
bon ton
.”

Suddenly, Phineas stopped pacing and stood still. He examined her dress, her hair. “My God, did you invite him here? Surely you can't be thinking of returning to your Italian ways and taking a
cavalier servente
?”

Phineas always thought the worst of her. Irritated, she considered telling him that she'd never taken up Italian ways—whatever those were—or had a
cavalier servente
. But she let the accusations pass. Narrow-minded as Phineas was, he was still her brother, and his children were Ian's cousins. Since Tom's annuity offered her protection from Phineas's pettiness, she could endure his sermons and accusations.

Phineas continued unrestrained. “If you take up with Forster, people will soon remember the circumstances of your marriage to Wilmot.” Phineas was well agitated now, pacing with greater energy. She looked at her hands to avoid seeing the crow-like flap of his coattails. “That's likely why Forster is visiting now: as Wilmot's friend, he cannot have forgotten how easily you were compromised. He must think you a wanton, and it's not as if he would be seducing an innocent.”

She felt her back stiffen, but she told herself “quiet, quiet.” Appropriate women for Phineas were silent. Talking back, she had long ago learned, only lengthened his lectures.

“Wilmot might have married you to save your reputation, but you shouldn't expect Forster to do the same. If your liaison became public, I would feel obligated—for the sake of my family and my status—to turn you from our door.” Phineas paced back to the other end of the room.

Yes, Phineas would throw the first rock to stone her, though he would enjoy it more if he could make a speech on her weak morals first.

Dodsley tapped at the door with the tea service, and she nodded him in. “Tea has arrived, Phineas; can I serve you? Cook has prepared those cinnamon cakes you like so well. You wrote that you had a request for me?”

If Phineas liked anything as much as being the judge of social mores, it was Cook's cinnamon cakes. He sat immediately to tea. Sophia watched his hands as he buttered his cake. He'd married well—the widowed wife of an industrialist for whom he'd worked as a clerk. His wife's fortune had been sufficient for Phineas to buy a country estate and embark on a life of leisure. Even as a clerk, he'd kept his hands soft and clean—no inked fingers, no callouses. Neither one would do for a man rising in the world.

“You haven't told me why he was here.” Phineas sugared his tea with one, two, three teaspoonfuls.

“We met to discuss a request in Tom's will.”

“What request?” Phineas glared at her across his narrow, beaked nose.

“Forster is Ian's co-guardian.” It was always a delicate balance, offering little more than what Phineas could hear at his club or from a parish gossip.

“No, no, no. . . .” Phineas's howl sounded like the cry of the little owls in Naples. “This will not do. Of course
you're
not suitable to serve as the child's guardian. But we can have no connection with that man, not now.” Phineas set his cup down sharply, and she watched the liquid roll against the side of the cup.

“We must think. We could challenge the guardianship in Chancery—I investigated how one does that last year. But that will cause gossip.”

He'd already investigated how to challenge a guardianship in Chancery? She let the implications of Phineas's words flow past her, as he gulped down his tea in two large swallows. Whether it was true or just one of Phineas's tests of her reactions, she didn't know. She wondered how he would respond if she threw the teapot at his head. But even that act would require more energy than she had. Better to be still and let him imagine her grown compliant with age.

“Are you certain the guardianship papers are in order? Could you convince him not to take up the guardianship?”

She tried to sound meek. “You have always told me it is not a woman's place to oppose a husband's wishes. Tom's will is quite clear on this.” She held out the plate with the cakes.

Mollified either by her answer or the cakes, Phineas took up a second cake and motioned for her to pour him another cup of tea. “Certainly, you should submit to your husband's wishes. I always worried that you would follow in our mother's footsteps, so I've been relieved that since your return you appear to have avoided her foolish notions.”

Sophia bit her lip. It was one of Phineas's favorite complaints: how their mother's behavior had embarrassed her family and how Sophia—as her daughter—was fated to embarrass them as well. Exactly what her mother had done to deserve such condemnation, Sophia had learned in her girlhood not to ask. Doing so had only prompted a lecture on woman's frailty and need for obedience.

Crumbs fell on Phineas's trousers. He brushed them to the floor. “Well, if nothing's to be done about the guardianship, perhaps we can make use of the opportunity.”

He wrapped two cinnamon cakes in a piece of table linen. “Lord Craven has offered me a seat in parliament. He is the only voter in the borough, so the seat is assured. He comes to town in two weeks. As I have no established house here, I wish for you to host a dinner party.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Here's the guest list. You've been reclusive, so many will come simply to see you.”

“I've been in mourning. No one should be surprised not to have seen me.”

“I've been pleased that you showed an appropriate respect to your husband's memory. But you could have been visiting in the afternoons and going to private dinners for the last six months. No one will find it inappropriate for you to host a small party. To build alliances in parliament, I'll need to draw on Wilmot's connections.”

He paused, looking her over once more. “I was going to ask for Chloe to oversee your choice of gown for the evening, but that dress will do. You'll need to wear a black shawl to tone down the blue, but it's modest enough and shows your rank.”

She focused on reading the guest list. She knew all the names, and several—like Craven—had visited their villa in Italy.

“Two weeks should be ample time to make arrangements. Chloe will be with me and young Bartholomew and Chloe's Melissa.” He never referred to his stepdaughter as his own. Phineas pulled another package from his pocket. “Chloe has written the invitations. Your footman should deliver them today.”

Sophia nodded. He picked up the last cake on the plate. “Oh, and send an invitation to Forster. As Ian's guardian, he's likely to be seen with you. We must let it be known why. It wouldn't do for the
bon ton
to assume you his latest conquest. I'll spread the word at my club.”

“I would like to invite the Masons, and our cousin Malcolm Hucknall and his wife.”

“Wrong political opinions.” He handed her his empty cup. “But Ophelia could help you avoid any mishaps as hostess. And since she's Wilmot's sister, no one will think her presence remarkable.”

He stood, stuffed the cakes in his overcoat, and repositioned his hat. “I'll let myself out; I'll send Cook a menu. You'll need to hire additional servants for the evening. I don't have any in town.” He walked to the door. “Perhaps I will bring Chloe with me when next I visit.”

And with that, he was gone.

On the scale of meetings with Phineas, that one had gone, she thought, quite well—she was only the worse five tea cakes, some table linen, and a dinner party. She didn't know whether she should feel pleased or annoyed—both at Phineas and at herself. By refusing to defend herself, she had avoided a row. Now she appeared close enough to his ideal of womanhood that he would allow Chloe to visit. A disheartening thought. Chloe exhibited the vivacity and charm of a garden slug.

But her meeting earlier that afternoon with Aidan—the passionate love of her youth—made Sophia wonder at her own acquiescence to Phineas's demands. Had she really changed so much? When had she decided that giving in was just easier? Was there no passion left, no cause she would wish to champion? And worst of all, by keeping silent and calmly serving tea while Phineas impugned her character, had she finally become the sort of woman he and her aunt would praise?