When the Duke Returns(45)

“Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, her body against his. Her breasts didn’t feel like large objects meant to attract men now. They were on fire, tingling from where they rubbed against his coat. He pulled her tighter, and another little moan came from her throat. He kissed her hard, pushing her against the wall. She wanted to open her eyes, but desire swamped her, betrayed her voice and her logical mind and her plans. She could only cling to him and kiss him back, her tongue touching his and retreating.

Growing bolder, responding to the muffled groan that seemed to come from his chest, not from his mouth.

Finally he pulled back.

“Was that your first kiss?” she asked, when she could speak again.

He stood for a moment, the firelight cascading off the gleam of his hair. Half his face was in shadow.

Finally, he said quietly, “No.”

“Ah.” She didn’t know what she had wanted to hear. Of course he was experienced at kissing. How could he—how could they have—

“It was my second,” he said. “The first was a moment or two ago, but I’m not sure they belong in the same category.”

And then he was gone, the door closing on a swirl of evening air.





Chapter Eighteen




Revels House

March 1, 1784

The next morning Isidore rose to find a light rain falling. She had a bath, sat by the fire, and read Tales of the Nile while Lucille fussed with her clothing.

But it was no good. She didn’t want to sit in her cottage while Simeon was off in the main house by himself. She didn’t want to wait for him, like a docile little mouse waiting for the cat to pay a call, to find time to discuss the end of their marriage. Besides, their marriage wasn’t over, even if he didn’t know it yet.

A few seconds later she was shaking the rain from her plumed hat, and handing it to Honeydew. “Your Grace,” he was saying. “May I serve you some tea?”

Isidore shook her head. She was looking around the high entrance hall. It wasn’t in terrible shape, though the marble was cracked, and the paneling on one door looked scuffed. “What happened to this?” she said, walking over to inspect it before she even off took her pelisse.

“The late duke’s dog was a terrible scratcher,” Honeydew said. She was getting to know him now, and that quiet tone implied severe disapproval.

“We need some foolscap,” she told him, giving her dripping pelisse to a footman. “And a quill. I shall make lists of what needs to be done, and I might as well start with the entry.”

She began prowling around the walls, looking at the pictures, the paneling, and the moldings.

“If Your Grace will allow me to act as your secretary,” Honeydew said in a tone mingled with astonishment and gratitude.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She had discovered a small painting next to the door leading to the drawing room. It was hanging askew and its frame was broken. But it was a lovely treatment of a dog with a pigeon. “Is this the dog in question?”

Honeydew turned from sending one of the footmen running for paper. “Exactly so, Your Grace. The former duke had his dog painted in a variety of poses.”

“This is lovely,” Isidore said. “Was the artist ever paid?”

“Yes,” Honeydew said, rather surprisingly.

Isidore nodded. “Is the duke in his study?”

“He is working. I’m afraid that the maids discovered a great nest of papers in one of the cupboards in the master bedchamber,” Honeydew said. “It appears they include some bills in arrears.”

“And the duke’s mother?”

“Her Grace rarely makes an appearance before late morning,” Honeydew said. “She spends the morning in prayer.”

Isidore tried to imagine Simeon’s mother praying, failed, and walked into the largest sitting room.

“The Yellow Salon,” Honeydew named it. In truth, the previously buttery upholstery had faded to a grayish-cream. But the room’s proportions were beautiful. At one point, there had been an exquisite band of blue and gold plaster around the cornice at the top of the walls.

“New drapes, obviously,” Isidore said. “This sofa looks quite good and merely needs reupholstering. I very much doubt that all this work could be done locally in a timely fashion; shall we ship the lot off to London? I seem to remember that the Duchess of Beaumont made use of Mr. George Seddon’s workshop.”

Honeydew beamed. “I agree, Your Grace.” He lowered his voice. “If I might suggest that we send payment along with the furniture. I’m afraid that the duke has a reputation to overcome.”

“We’ll pay double,” Isidore said. “I would like the furniture reupholstered as soon as possible.” In fact, the more she thought about last night and that kiss…“I believe I would like this house to be shining and habitable in ten days, Honeydew. What do you think?”