The Duke's Disaster (R) (7 page)

The silence from before had nothing on this ringing, bitter gap in their civilities now. Tension snapped and crackled around them, rife with all sorts of bad feeling and misery.

Then Anselm was beside her.

“Don’t cry.” He moved in, handkerchief at the ready. “Please, Thea…”

“I’m not crying.” But she was, and no matter how determinedly she thrust her chin in the air, her cheeks were wet, and Anselm was dabbing at them gently. “Tears n-never solved anything, Your Grace, and you will please desist.”

“I will if you will.”

The childishness of it, the slight smile he managed at the ridiculousness, had Thea smiling too.

“I don’t mean to provoke you,” she said, letting him finish with the handkerchief. “But you pick on me.”

“Pick at you.” Anselm dabbed at the end of her nose, the idiot. “You’re a problem I don’t know how to solve.”

“A problem.” Thea leaned into the hand he’d cupped along her jaw. “And a disaster, but not, thank ye gods, a tragedy.”

“I would not have us be a farce, either,” Anselm said, expression serious.

“What is the problem that has you so vexed?” she asked. “I need a description more specific than my very name.”

The duke folded up his handkerchief, which had borne his initials and his beguiling scent.

“I’m not sure how to put the problem, but you’re right that it has to do with trust.”

Thea regarded her husband for a long, solemn moment as they stood two feet and a world of wishes apart.

“I’ve trusted you, Anselm. When I opened my mouth at that inopportune moment, I was trusting you.” More fool her.

He unfolded the handkerchief and began again, this time so the monogram remained face out.

“Trusted me not to beat you?” The duke spoke as if the very words stank.

“Not to beat me, or worse.”

Anselm jammed the handkerchief in a pocket, scowling ferociously. “Cast you out?”

“That too. I am grateful that my trust was not misplaced. I think you trust me a little too.” Thea prayed he did. Getting him to admit it was another matter.

“Whatever prompted that fancy?” Anselm hadn’t meant to sound so incredulous; Thea was sure he hadn’t.

“I was behind a closed door with Mr. Erikson,” she said, “and he was figuratively laying his flowers at my feet, but you did not leap to the wrong conclusions. That is an act of trust.”

Viscountess Endmon would have turned Thea off without a character for such a breach of propriety.

His Grace resumed his place before the tea tray and drained the contents of Thea’s cup. “You were trying to look interested as Benjamin prosed on and on, even I could see that, and you were sitting a good eight feet from him. You forgot to sugar my tea.”

Thea took the place beside the duke and passed him his own half-full cup.

“The door was closed, Your Grace, and Mr. Erikson is a comely fellow, intelligent, vigorous, and possessed of humor and a certain passion.”

“For posies,” Anselm said, passing her the unsweetened cup. “I don’t care for the flowers so much as I do the money they can make me.”

Anselm cared for the flowers because they reminded him of his grandparents. “My point, sir, is that you didn’t challenge Mr. Erikson to pistols at dawn.”

The duke wrinkled his nose, a splendid, aristocratic feature. “You’d have me believe a failure to issue a challenge is a step in the direction of marital trust?”

Of course it was. Thea held her peace rather than argue with her husband.

“Not a step back,” he allowed, popping a strawberry into the ducal maw. “I suppose that’s encouraging.”

They fell into an entirely different kind of silence over their next cup of tea, until the duke took a thoughtful nibble of a slice of golden cheddar.

“I’d not challenge a man of lesser station to meet me on the field of honor,” he said, passing Thea the butter knife. “The rules of honor forbid it, though I suppose a round of fisticuffs might be permitted. Perhaps I ought to remind Benjamin of this. Pour me a spot more tea, please, and don’t take that last slice of bread.”

Thea poured the duke’s tea and cut the last slice of bread exactly in half.

Seven

In addition to eschewing formal tea, Noah was also disinclined to stand on ceremony at dinner. He and Thea dined à la française, that is, serving themselves, though this informality was clearly not what his bride had been expecting.

“You’re used to a more formal meal?” he asked.

“As companion to two elderly ladies, and as Marliss’s companion, yes. Those households were prone to formality.”

“What about your household?” Noah asked, because they had to converse about
something
. “Was your mama a high stickler?”

“My papa was more the stickling kind. Mama was the type to tuck us in when we were too old to merit such coddling, and to read us stories on the nights when it stormed.”

An image of Thea surrounded by sleepy children, reading to them as thunder boomed, came to Noah’s mind’s eye. The picture was sweet, and he resented it even as it drew him.

“You loved your mother,” he said, pouring Thea more wine. “What of your father?”

“I’ve come to see that he wasn’t stern so much as serious,” Thea said. “He and Mama were not a love match, but they came to love each other fiercely. I saw that much before he died.”

Would that Noah’s parents had come to love each other
at
all
. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen when he died, and sixteen when Mama died.” Thea picked up her wineglass but didn’t drink. “Then we were in mourning, and when I might have made a come-out, there was no money, and no one to present me. Tims was being a regular brat, and Nonie not much better.”

“Siblings can be a challenge.” What little Thea had told Noah grated. She’d been sheltered as an earl’s daughter should be, completely unprepared to take on the raising of her siblings, and without the means or appropriate gender to do so.

And yet, she’d hesitated to accept his proposal?

“How did you become a companion?” Noah asked.

“Lady Bransom had been a friend of my maternal grandmother, and she saw the situation upon Mama’s death. She shooed Tim back to school, found a governess for Nonie, and said my salary as a companion would be adequate to cover the expense of the governess. She was being charitable.”

She’d apparently let Thea know that too. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen by then and out of mourning,” Thea replied, tracing her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I felt awful, leaving Tims and Nonie, though it was necessary.”

Noah took a sip of his wine, lest he opine that it had
not
been necessary, not if the trustees had been minding their duties. When he’d been left with siblings to raise, the last thing he’d permitted was for them to be separated from each other.

And from him. Noah pared off a bite of cheese and extended it to his duchess on the point of the knife.

“Speaking of siblings,” Noah said, “Harlan should be down from Town tomorrow. If he doesn’t comport himself like a perfect gentleman, we can send him off to Uncle Meech, and he’ll endure a few months of bawdy house parties and excessive doses of summer ale.”

Thea accepted the cheese and put it on her plate. “Harlan was at the wedding. A charming young fellow, and he has your eyes.”

Harlan had been at the wedding, and the dratted boy still hadn’t stopped growing—and Harlan had Meech’s eyes.

“The hour grows late, Duchess.” This time Noah held the bite of cheese up to Thea’s mouth, and she dutifully accepted it. “We can review the family traits while we prepare to retire. Shall I order you a bath?”

Noah’s wife would not discommode the servants at this hour by making the request herself.

“A bath would be most pleasant. I am tired, though.”

“I’ll light you up.” Noah drew Thea to her feet. “Will you ride out with me tomorrow?”

By the dim light of the sconces she peered up at him, for his request had apparently surprised her—her too.

“I’d like that, Anselm.”

“Then we’ll ride before breakfast, and I’ll send word to the stables to have Della saddled for you.” Just as Thea began to smile, Noah felt compelled to add, “You don’t need my escort, you know. Simply have a groom accompany you whenever you’d like to ride out.”

Thea’s smile guttered and died. “I will enjoy my husband’s company at the start of my day tomorrow.”

They processed along in silence until Noah pushed Thea’s door open. “Your bath should be ready shortly.”

When Thea might have taken the candle from him, Noah put a hand on her arm, kissed her forehead, and then stepped back.

“Good night, Husband.”

“Enjoy your bath.” Noah strode off, leaving Thea privacy to end her day, and he didn’t return until some hours later, when he could be sure his wife was fast asleep.

* * *

Thea awoke at the first gray light of dawn, aware that His Grace was abed with her. His scent was on the sheets, his arm about her middle, and his breeding organs were nestled against Thea’s backside. She did not dare move.

Had her nightgown hiked itself over her hip, or had a ducal hand aided its disarrangement?

The duke rolled to his back, and the hand that had been tucked against Thea’s waist came to rest on her hip.

Well, not quite her hip. Anselm had warm hands. He continued to caress her, while on his side of the bed, something else took place. A rhythmic movement—his other hand perhaps?—a slight jostle of the mattress, as if—

His breathing became deeper, harsher, and the tempo of whatever he was doing increased. The movement stopped, all was stillness, and then a soft, masculine groan wafted on the morning air.

Merciful, everlasting, gracious, benevolent—
Anselm
had
just
pleasured
himself
in
Thea’s bed.

The mattress shifted as the duke left that bed, and Thea feigned sleep for all she was worth, while her thoughts raced off in all directions.

Was Anselm making a point? Withholding intimacies from Thea as a punishment? Was he simply being male? Was he being
considerate
?

Somebody patted her backside.

“You’re awake,” Anselm accused softly as he climbed back on the bed and wrapped himself around her. “Even if you’re not, you should be.”

As if she could have slept through that? “Good morning. You may go away now.”

“And leave my bride?”

Thea burrowed into her pillow. “Please.” The sooner the better.

“You’ve an assignation at dawn with a handsome stranger.” Anselm brushed her braid back over her shoulder. “How can you resist such a call to awareness?”

Had he bothered to dress? “This stranger of yours is too cheerful,” Thea muttered. “You meet him for me.” Too cheerful, too male, too bold, too close.

Too intriguing, despite his moods and bluntness.

Anselm kissed her cheek. “If you’re truly too tired, we can ride later.”

He wasn’t leaving, but neither was he getting any more Ideas.

“Is there tea?” Thea asked, which earned her one duke, crouched above her on all fours without benefit of clothing.

“I’ll fetch you two cups, and you may down them both in peaceful solitude while I dress.”

“Such consideration, Your Grace.”

He nuzzled her temple, then took himself off to make good on his threats. When he pushed the tea cart into Thea’s bedroom, she was sitting up against the headboard, feeling not entirely rested, but at least sentient—and quite disconcerted.

Thank a merciful Deity, Anselm was in shirt and breeches.

“I had expected to sleep alone,” Thea ventured. “You seem to enjoy good spirits in the morning.” Good animal spirits.

Anselm passed her the first cup. “Unlike your charming self?”

“I love a nice clean, fluffy bed,” she said, “and a good hot cup of tea.” How Thea felt about waking up with a duke in her nice clean, fluffy bed required pondering. She was by no means ready to discuss such a topic, though in some mysterious, marital fashion, Anselm’s shocking behavior had been a step in the direction of a normal union.

“What else do you love besides clean linen, Duchess?” Anselm propped a hip at Thea’s side and appropriated a sip from her cup.

“Sweets. I am shamelessly appreciative of sweets.”

“Isn’t everybody?”

“No. Tims can walk past a plate of marzipan, or even chocolate, or chocolate-covered marzipan, and Nonie and I are incapable of his indifference.”

Did Anselm enjoy sweets? He certainly took sugar in his tea.

“Ah, but can his lordship walk past a brandy decanter?” The duke stole another sip.

“I frankly worry he cannot.” Thea peered at her almost empty cup. “If you filch half my tea, then you must fetch us another cup.”

Anselm rose from the bed, taking the teacup with him, and poured them more. “Shall I take Grantley in hand? This isn’t his first Season, is it, Thea?”

“By no means,” she said. “You asked me about going into service last night, and part of my motivation was to prepare Tims to stand on his own two feet. The tactic was not entirely effective.”

Had been a howling disaster, in fact, while this conversation was a cozy, even friendly way to start their day.

“Growing up takes time.” Anselm passed her the second cup and resumed his place beside her. “Then you blink, and your siblings are adults, and you’ve nothing to say to it.”

He sounded so forlorn. Thea suspected he’d married in part out of sheer loneliness for family. She risked a pat to the ducal knee.

“You are a good brother.”

Anselm was off the bed in an instant, rattling lids and plates and serving spoons while Thea sipped her tea.

“Some bacon for you today, I think,” he said, “and you like your oranges too, if I recall. Eggs?”

“Eggs would be good, and butter on my toast.”

Anselm attacked the buttering process as if fixing Thea breakfast were an important matter of state—because she’d given him a compliment?

“Husband?”

“Your breakfast.” He set a tray over her lap.

“Why did you sleep with me last night?” Thea asked as neutrally as she could when his answer mattered.

The toast was golden perfection, the eggs were steaming gently, and the scent of bacon made Thea’s mouth water, but she didn’t touch the food.

“Do you object to sharing your bed, Duchess?” Anselm asked in equally careful tones. He arranged food on his plate with a focus Thea suspected most men reserved for their dueling opponents.

Thea’s marriage was in a difficult posture because she’d not disclosed her lack of chastity prior to the vows. She made a decision right then, among pillows and breakfast offerings, to deal with her husband honestly.

“I like sleeping with you, Your Grace.” Liked his warmth, his simple male presence, his willingness to share the night with her, when distance and trouble lay between them elsewhere in their marriage.

Anselm’s head came up abruptly, and then he was buttering his toast to within an inch of its life.

“You needn’t say such things, Thea. I presumed when I joined you last night. We’ll be expected to spend time together for the next month, but we needn’t, that is to say, one hardly—”

“Noah Winters, I have enjoyed sleeping with you both times it was my privilege to do so. Now, will you march about while you demolish your breakfast, leaving crumbs all over my bedroom, or get under these covers and bear me some company?”

“I would not get crumbs on your carpet,” he grumbled as he climbed into bed with her and took a sip of her tea.

“I am married to a poacher.” A
shy
poacher, for all his vigorous animal spirits. “I suppose you’re also partial to chocolate?”

“I’m worse with chocolate,” he said between bites of Thea’s toast. “If you want to hoard your morning drink, take coffee. I can’t stand the stuff.”

“Neither can I,” Thea said, and then they were smiling at each other and sharing a third cup.

Thea’s fragile truce with her husband lasted through their ride, and into luncheon, and then Harlan arrived, and the brothers made plans to tour the village together. Thea walked with them to the stables, then excused herself to pen a letter to Nonie—and a surprisingly cheerful epistle it would be.

“Thea?” Anselm’s hand on her arm stayed her departure. “You recall my earlier offer? The one regarding your brother?”

Made casually over eggs, toast, and purloined tea. “I do recall it.”

“You never gave me an answer. I’d not make such an offer in jest.”

“I know you would not,” she said, “and we will discuss it. You are most generous.” She searched Anselm’s gaze, certain he was leaving a great deal unsaid, but he simply kissed her cheek, with Harlan standing right there, and let her go.

“Until dinner,” Anselm said.

“Which will be at seven, you two.” Thea shook a finger at them. “No staying for an extra pint and dragging in to table in your riding attire.”

They grinned similar rascally grins and headed for their mounts, while Thea, for reasons she did not want to examine too closely, grinned too.

* * *

“I like her.” Harlan swung up on the trusty bay he’d had since childhood, and waited politely for Noah to check True’s girth. Noah had taken his second personal mount out this morning with Thea, a big glossy black whose knees turned to jelly around cats, rabbits, and anything small and fast.

Except children, upon whom Regent, idiot beast that he was, doted.

“You are a male of the Winters line,” Noah said, swinging into the saddle. “You would like anything in skirts, including a Jersey Island heifer. Let’s head for the hay fields.”

Noah liked Thea too, which was a puzzle and a relief.

“Of course, the hay fields.” Harlan sighed with adolescent long-suffering. “I curdle my brains the livelong year in Greek and Latin, not to mention French, Italian, and German, just so you can put a blighted hay rake in my lily-white hands come June.”

Noah nudged True toward the driveway. “You’re familiar with French letters too, I hope, or I’ll know the reason why.”

Harlan aimed a scowl at Noah that was more adult than adolescent. “Is that all you ever think about, Noah? Uncle’s proclivities I can understand, because he’s too old to change his spots, but you’re a properly married man now, and I expect better from you, despite your age.”