The Last Duchess (The Lennox Series)(92)

Shocking her completely, Blix shrugged and continued munching his toast, a drop of marmalade clinging to his lips. “I daresay your papa knows what’s what and who’s who and can see the make of a man with far greater ability than most. It would please me much to see Lucy wed again, and if she’s willing to allow your father to find a suitable husband, I say he’s a good man and a brave soul, and where’s the harm?”

Jane read the letter again, intuition allowing her to read between the lines. Her papa was not, in fact, looking for a husband for Lucy. He might say he was, give all appearances of doing so, but he was not. He spoke of her fine character, her excellent qualities, her devotion to her child, her rather unexpected sense of humor. He mentioned that he was having the devil of a time finding a man worthy of her, that he’d not realized until now how very slim the choices of decent men in polite society, that they were all a rather depraved lot, and he was becoming disgusted. Lady Bonderant deserved and needed a man of high character and strong affections, one who would hold her in great regard and honor her as the high born, lovely lady she was.

Jane sipped her coffee and wondered what Blix would say if he realized her father, the Earl of Sherbourne, was deeply in love with his sister? Would he be so understanding?

She didn’t think so. Blix was terribly protective of Lucy, and he would surely not look favorably upon her marriage to a man of fifty.

Leaning back in her chair, she watched him eat his eggs and pondered her own feelings on the subject. On the one hand, it would please her very much if her father was happy, and she did like Lucy, would wish for her happiness as well. But the notion of the two of them, together . . . it was a trifle uncomfortable to consider. She had only to think of what transpired between herself and Blixford, and imagine the same between her father and Lucy, and it gave her a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

It appeared she was again mannish in her demeanor. Hadn’t he said men shy away from thoughts of their female relatives in a man’s passionate embrace? She could no more think of her father in that way than she might sprout wings and fly about the dining room.

Of course, if she were fair, she had to see that he was a man before he was her father. With seven children and a few bastards to his credit, he was clearly very much a man, with all the incumbent characteristics of such.

But, Lucy? She pictured her quiet, dignified beauty, then considered her father’s hearty laugh, his love of the outdoors, his enjoyment of ribald jokes and elaborate pranks, and it didn’t add up.

She read the letter a third time, and concluded she was correct. Her papa was head over heels in love with a woman half his age, his own daughter’s sister-in-law.

Blixford would not like it, she was certain.

Oh, dear. Returning to London was going to be even more trying than she’d imagined.

All the more reason to enjoy the last three days of their peaceful interlude in Kent.

***

He was ridiculous. He was besotted. He was falling deeply in love with Lady Lucy Bonderant. Sherbourne spent most days telling himself all the reasons why he couldn’t have her, why she needed a young man, why it was wrong, in myriad ways, for him to attend to her needful appetites with complete abandon. Despite his stern lectures to himself, every night found him in her bedchamber, doing just that. She was truly insatiable, and he’d found a hidden well of strength and stamina that allowed him to keep up. But it was an illusion, surely, bound to wane soon, and she’d be disappointed.

He waltzed her across the Morrison ballroom just after midnight on Friday and debated his plan for the evening. Over the past week and a half, he’d concocted a number of inspired ideas for ways in which he could gain access to her bed without anyone the wiser –particularly Blixford’s servants –for all servants, even the most trusted and regarded, had a tendency to gossip. He would not subject Lucy to gossip.

But he was all out of ideas tonight, and almost of a mind to simply take her home, follow her up to her chamber, close the door and stay until morning. He would love sleeping with her, nestling her sweet body close to his as they slumbered. He would love to see her of a morn, her hair mussed, her eyes sleepy, her body pink and warmed by his. He would love her all the days of his life, and attend to her with care and consideration.

If he were not fifty years old, and she but four and twenty.

In some ways, he regretted his impetuous decision to take her the day of Jane’s wedding. Had he but followed his head, he’d have gently discouraged her, sent her home, and that would have been an end to it.

But he didn’t. Instead, he plunged himself into her soft heat, and subsequently, into her life. They had become fast friends, sharing a hundred and one confidences, allowing private, intimate views into the darkest recesses of their minds and souls. He’d discovered a great deal about her during their sojourns in and about London each day, William usually in tow. In the night, when they were complete and sated, lying in each other’s arms, he learned of the cloistered life she’d led in the days, weeks and years since Bonderant’s death, of her unfulfilled needs, and the fantasies and imaginings she’d concocted to pass the lonely nights. She confessed she didn’t buy her erotic books, but wrote them herself. He was astonished, intrigued, and exacted a promise from her that she would allow him to read one of her books.