Chapter Seven
Elizabeth Windham was a quiet presence at any meal, a polite conversationalist while waiting to take her turn with a bow and arrow, a dutiful companion to her aunt—and she was a walking, talking, smiling liar.
Were all women this good at dissembling? For the gracious, unassuming Miss Windham hid volumes worth of indignation and passion beneath her quiet exterior. If Julian were a betting man, he’d put money on lending libraries appearing in every village in the realm within ten years.
She had intrigued him with her demure composure, while this hidden ferocity fascinated him.
Miss Windham occupied the center of the room, dignity and ire crackling about her. Julian had offended a lady, and that was not an acceptable way to end his day—or hers.
“Madam, you place before me an impossibility. How can I have a pleasant evening, when I have so clearly upset you? At least finish your cordial.”
She likely wanted to dash her drink in Julian’s face, but faultless manners were part of her duplicity.
Miss Windham retrieved her glass from him and tossed back the contents in one gulp, then began coughing. Julian dared not laugh, but he did presume to lead her to the rocking chair.
“That was foolishness,” he said. “That was rank, reckless foolishness and a waste of Lady Glenys’s favorite recipe. If you wish to become inebriated, then you keep a patent remedy in good supply, and when nobody is about, tipple to your—”
“Haverford, cease instructing me, or I will strike a blow where you will never forget it.”
She apparently referred—in deadly earnest and at close quarters—to his tallywags, or possibly to his pride.
Julian took a step back. “I apologize.” A safe place to start, though inadequate. “Whatever fellow or fellows led you to have such a dim view of marriage, or its intimate joys, or of life in general, did you a disservice.”
He passed her his handkerchief and realized too late it was less than pristine.
“I’ve considered that,” Miss Windham said, finding a clean corner and dabbing at her eyes. “I’ve considered that I chose poorly when deciding to cross the bounds of strict propriety—though how is a woman to develop a sense for such matters? All men adopt fine manners, charm, and good humor when they’re in the ballroom. That apparently means nothing in the bedroom.”
Welsh curses came to mind in quantity.
“Maybe I chose poorly,” she went on more softly, “both times.”
Julian drew up the hassock and planted himself upon it, lest her revelations lay him out on the carpet. “You should not be telling me these things, but I beg you, if you have a scintilla of mercy in your soul, do not mention names.”
“Why not? Surely you don’t care if some baron—”
He put two fingers to her lips, and glowered as old Offa must have glowered at the barbarians to the east of his dyke, then he withdrew his hand before the texture of her mouth became too intriguing.
“—you cannot care who among your peers is a bad kisser,” Miss Windham said, “or doesn’t bother with kissing at all.”
St. David, pray for me. “If I know their names, I’d have to call them out. Two duels would be hard to keep quiet. Allermain might get word I’ve neglected him, and three duels is the outside of too much.”
“Allermain will spend at least the next year in Paris. Why would you call out men who’d merely accommodated my wishes?”
The hour was late, Julian was tired, and his mind refused to sort through the demands of honor when Miss Windham’s hurt feelings obscured all logic from his view. No plan he might have concocted, no list or ledger, would have prepared him to have the conversation he was having with her now.
“Those men disappointed you. I’d call them out for disappointing you. Let’s leave it at that. A gentleman might dally discreetly, as might a lady under very limited circumstances, but even a dalliance should be undertaken with a certain respect for one’s lover.”
“I suspected I’d chosen a pair of rotters. What foul luck. Might I have a bit more cordial?”
Julian poured her a generous portion and resumed his place on the hassock. “Did either of these varlets offer marriage?” And had they broken her heart or merely disappointed her?
“I had an understanding with Theodore, but then his mother’s god-daughter turned up in immediate need of a husband. She was pretty, four years younger than I, and her settlements included a lovely estate in Hampshire. He was very sorry, but duty compelled him to aid a damsel in distress.”
He was sorry, all right. Snippets of gossip connected in Haverford’s head. Teddy Morningside was the younger son of an earl, a bad card player, and a good dancer. He’d dropped out of the social scene about five years ago, though he was rumored to be filling his nursery in Hampshire.
“You’re better off without a man whose honor is so easily obliterated by coin.”
“I am, and he couldn’t kiss worth a bent farthing.”
“Always a consideration.”
Miss Windham took another sip of her cordial. “With the baron, I yielded to impulse. He said he had as well, but he’d neglected to tell me of a fiancée kicking her heels in County Mayo. He didn’t kiss at all.”
“Irish barons are always a risky bet. You can’t let those two encounters color your whole perception of the male gender, or of marriage.”
“They were experienced men, Your Grace. I chose them knowing they’d bring at least that asset to the proceedings.”
Her logic was faultless, and her lips had been very soft against Julian’s fingertips.
“I have years of experience being a duke. That doesn’t mean I have any talent for it. I wish you the joy of your lending library scheme, and I’m sure you’ll benefit many a village with it. On behalf of my gender, however, I’d like to offer one gesture by way of apology, or perhaps as a counterexample to your theories regarding marital pleasures.”
Julian took her drink from her hand and ignored the voice in his head that sounded like Radnor delivering a lecture.
“A counterexample sounds promising, Your Grace.”
“Julian. If we’re to be sharing counterexamples, you must call me Julian.”
He cradled Miss Windham’s jaw against his palm, lest she mistake his intent. When he was confident that he had her consent, and her attention, he kissed her.
* * *
I’ve left my common sense back in England.
Elizabeth hadn’t meant to rant at Haverford much less confide in him, hadn’t meant to disclose her past, or even discuss Charlotte’s inchoate schemes with him. The dratted man listened, though, most of the time. He was a duke, and yet he was also like no kind of aristocrat Elizabeth had met—or kissed—before.
Haverford was trying to convince her he was a lazy kisser, but he was lazy like a prowling lion, bringing infinite patience and focus to his advances. His lips moved over Elizabeth’s in gentle brushes, and she scooted closer, the better to grip him by the lapels.
He came closer as well, spreading his knees, and sliding a hand into Elizabeth’s hair.
His kisses were lovely. Tender, teasing, maddeningly undemanding.
“I want—” Elizabeth muttered against his mouth.
His tongue danced across her lips. She braced herself for an invasion, for a crude imitation of coitus, but Haverford surprised her by pausing to caress the nape of her neck.
“If you don’t like it,” he said, “you show me what I’m doing wrong. You are gifted at chiding and correcting. Chide me.”
Oh, my. Oh, gracious. Oh, yes. Elizabeth explored the shape and texture of his mouth, the contours of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows. His jaw was only slightly bristly—he must have shaved before dinner—while his eyebrows were soft.
Elizabeth took a taste of him, and his every movement, from his breathing to the susurration of his clothing, to his slight shifts on the hassock, stilled.
“Again,” he said. “Please.”
Elizabeth liked the sound of that, liked the feel of the word please whispered against her mouth.
And as the kiss deepened and became a frolic followed by a dare, punctuated by a challenge, she rejoiced.
I was wrong. I was so very, wonderfully wrong. Every man wasn’t an inconsiderate lout. They weren’t all monuments to self-satisfaction. At least one bachelor could kiss and kiss and kiss.…Elizabeth took one more taste of pleasure, then drew back enough to rest her forehead on Haverford’s shoulder.
“I need a moment, Your—Julian.”
He stroked her hair, his cheek resting against her temple. “Take all the time you need. I’m in rather a state myself.”
Elizabeth hugged his admission to her heart. He’d restored her faith in something—perhaps in herself. The fault had lain not with her, but with the men she’d chosen, and if she could be wrong in this, she might be wrong about the joys of marriage, about her own dreams, about anything.
Elizabeth sat back and smoothed the duke’s cravat. “My thanks. You deliver an impressive counterexample. You’ve given me something to consider.”
One mink-dark eyebrow quirked. “Such effusive praise will surely turn my head, Miss Windham.”
“Elizabeth. If I’m turning your head, you may address me as Elizabeth when private.”
They shared a smile, conspiratorial, sweet, and a bit dazed. This was how it was supposed to be between a man and a woman, both comfortable and daring, a private adventure.
Haverford rose and tossed a square of peat onto the fire, then poked it to the back of the flames, so the fire could both breathe and consume the fresh fuel.
“Shall I say something to Haldale regarding your sister?” he asked, giving the peat one last nudge.
“With the subtlety common to all dukes, you should let him know that if he pursues what Charlotte offers, he must do so with utmost discretion and care. Charlotte is merely bored, not desperate, and I suspect Haldale will regret any impertinence.”
“As you wish. A warning rather than a threat. I’m loath to leave you here alone at such a late hour. Might I escort you to your room?”
He was back to being the polite host, and yet, Elizabeth knew better. Haverford was a superb kisser, one who had probably made a few poor choices of his own, late at night in crowded, lonely ballrooms. The knowledge warmed her from within, like the subtle spices of the pear cordial.
“Yes, please, provide me your escort, Your Grace. I might get turned around again, and spend eternity trying to find the right tower.”
The duke repositioned the screen in front of the fire, set his glass on the sideboard next to Elizabeth’s, and went to the door. He first peered into the corridor, then gestured for Elizabeth to join him. The chill was bracing—this was a castle, after all. And yet, Elizabeth’s heart was warmed too.
Haverford had made sure nobody would see them leaving Lady Glenys’s parlor. He might kiss Elizabeth witless, but he’d protect her reputation from even a hint of gossip.
What was that old saying about the third time being a charm?
* * *
One institution in all of England was above what Lucas Sherbourne’s father had called “persuasion by coin.” Almack’s assembly rooms were managed by a board of patronesses, a coven of well-born females who might trade in influence and favors, but never in cash.
Sherbourne’s father had tried to bribe his way to vouchers and been unsuccessful. The only worse social disaster would have been a voucher granted and subsequently revoked.
“Perhaps next season, I’ll hold my annual ball on some evening other than Wednesday,” Sherbourne informed his grandmama’s portrait. Almack’s held its gatherings on Wednesdays. If Sherbourne couldn’t attend, the least revenge he could take was to ensure half of polite society was in absentia with him.
The half who owed him or his bank money.
“Next year will be different,” he assured his powdered, smiling granddame.
He rose from the table where he’d dined in lordly solitude. One did not become an aristocrat by swilling ale from pewter tankards or setting the table with Sheffield plate instead of silver.
When Sherbourne acquired a wife, she’d find herself in a household worthy of a duchess.
His path took him back to his estate office, where he kept the best Armagnac. The guest list from Haverford’s house party sat in the center of the morocco blotter on his desk. The family names marching down the page had all been admitted to Almack’s for at least the past quarter-century. Those people knew one another, they socialized with one another, they married one another.
“They are the aristocratic equivalent of an English infantry square, unrelentingly loyal to the regiment, closing ranks against all threats.”
Battles took a toll on those squares, though, and new recruits were necessary to keep Britain’s aristocracy funded. Sherbourne controlled fourteen seats in the House of Commons, and depending on market conditions, at least that many in the House of Lords.
“Still not enough,” he said, passing a glass of fine French brandy beneath his nose. “But more than many an earl can command.”
Haverford didn’t control seats in the House of Lords, he voted his seat. Ever the conscientious nobleman, was Julian, Duke of Indebtedness.
Sherbourne settled into the chair behind his desk, studying the list. Lady Glenys was the only ducal daughter amid the females, and she was, of course, his marital objective. Approaching her would be easier if he knew how much she comprehended about Haverford’s financial situation.
Only a fool antagonized the woman who might bear his children.
The list was incomplete, because it hadn’t been stolen from Haverford Castle. Such larceny would have been unsporting, given how little attention the St. Davids paid to the security of their domicile.
Sherbourne’s list was a compilation of servants’ gossip reported by Sherbourne’s housekeeper, observations offered by Squire Canford, rumors gleaned by Sherbourne’s land steward from forays into the local tavern, and a final few items from Sherbourne’s vast correspondence.
Never had so many single, wealthy, aristocratic bachelors gathered in one place, excepting perhaps Ascot during the race meets. Haverford was determined to parade his sister before every eligible of note.
That would not do. Lady Glenys was the highest-ranking female for several counties in any direction, and Sherbourne had all but decided she’d become his wife. He’d been patient long enough, and in the manner of good families down through the centuries, theirs would be an advantageous match for all concerned.
Sherbourne wasn’t a barbarian, and the St. Davids couldn’t afford to be choosy.
“A proposal from me would flatter any young lady of sense,” Sherbourne muttered, giving the list a final perusal.
A name near the bottom caught his eye: Windham, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Charlotte, accompanied by their elderly aunt, Lady Pembroke. The Windhams held a ducal title. In fact, they were the only other ducal family represented at the gathering besides the St. Davids.
Interesting.
Sherbourne consulted Debrett’s as he finished his drink, and then took himself off to bed. As his valet got him changed into a nightshirt and dressing gown, Sherbourne considered Haverford’s house party.
Lady Glenys remained the most desirable objective, though she’d never been anything more than cordial to Sherbourne. Ladies were like that, though. They could hide rage, affection, resentment, and attraction with equal skill.
“Her ladyship is no great beauty either.” Sherbourne knew who the great beauties were, because their papas needed great fortunes to clothe and dower them.
Sherbourne’s valet paused on his way to the door, a day’s worth of wrinkled linen in his arms. “Beg your pardon, sir?”
“Nothing of any moment. Has my trunk been packed for tomorrow?”
Turnbull had been wooed away from the household of a Scottish marquess who’d served in the Caribbean. Not by a twitch of an eyebrow did he betray surprise.
“All is in readiness for tomorrow, sir. Good night.” Turnbull’s voice bore the lyrical cadence of the islands, a counterpoint to the brisk dignity with which he went about his duties.
He withdrew silently, and Sherbourne settled into bed with a report from his London solicitors on the progress of various bills to regulate child labor. The aristocracy made polite noises about ensuring no children younger than nine were apprenticed in the textile factories and that such children never spent more than twelve hours a day at their work.
Of course, the same tender-hearted lords did nothing to make the laws enforceable, and most children in the factories weren’t apprenticed. Many were younger than nine, and they worked as much as sixteen hours a day for perhaps one-sixth the wages paid their fathers.
Sherbourne spent thirty minutes skimming the report, finding nothing more than the usual posturing by the usual titled nincompoops. Great lords giving great orations that ignored the great profits reaped by the same aristocrats using the very child labor they decried.
Parasitical hypocrites, the lot of them. Sherbourne blew out the bedside candles, and a thought occurred to him in the darkness.
No competent general went into battle without a contingency plan, and a mature, un-married niece of a duke, a woman of advancing years and no particular beauty, was probably a sensible creature.
Miss Elizabeth Windham would see the wisdom in an advantageous alliance, if Haverford and his sister proved difficult. The more Sherbourne considered his contingency plan, the more he liked it.
Having Haverford for a brother-in-law when Sherbourne was poised to ruin His Grace of Inherited Disaster would be awkward, after all.