When the Duke Returns(50)

Except he was starting to worry about that too.

Finally he put down his quill and realized exactly what he feared: by marrying Isidore, he would be giving up himself. He would be giving in to violent tempests of emotion. His house would be shaken by screaming fights between his mother and his wife. He would be unable to withstand her, because he lusted after her to the point of being unable to think.

He felt ill—the kind of sick airy rush in his head that he used to feel when he and his men were being stalked by a tiger.

Danger…



His wife was equally worried. Isidore wanted to be a duchess. She had thought so before her husband appeared, and she thought so even more so now that Simeon turned out to be so knee-weakeningly appealing.

And yet life with him was going to be humiliating.

She could survive any amount of public embarrassment. He could go about London without a wig, and run through Hyde Park in a nappy. The problem was that he didn’t really like her very much.

She could see it in the way he fought his attraction to her, in the veiled coolness of his eyes when she described the changes she planned for the house. Simply in the way he looked at her.

A husband who didn’t like her. It wasn’t what she expected, though she couldn’t say that she ever gave it a thought. Women liked her. Men desired her. She admired some and tolerated most.

Isidore sat down on one of the few chairs left in the house. She probably merited the scorn she saw in Simeon’s eyes. After all, she wasn’t what he wanted.

But what could she do? How do you make a man like you? Like? What did husbands like about their wives? A sense of humor, a partnership—

Partnership. She could help him more.

She leaped to her feet. He kept asking the butler questions about various bills. If there was one thing Isidore was good at, it was making inquiries.

“Honeydew, I should like to visit the village,” she said a few minutes later. “If you would have a bath drawn for me, I shall change my clothing.”

“When would you like the carriage, Your Grace?”

Isidore looked down at her dusty skirts. “It will take me at least two hours to make myself presentable.”

It actually took three, but when she climbed into the carriage, she felt fairly certain that she was perfectly attired: duchesslike, yet not too grand. She brought along Lucille and a footman carrying a thick purse. If there was one thing she was not going to do, it was order on credit.

The village consisted of six or seven establishments: baker, butcher, smithy, pub and a shop that seemed to sell everything from cloth to ceramic pitchers. Plus a church. She hesitated for a moment, thinking that the vicar was undoubtedly important, but what did she have to say to a vicar?

Two seconds later she was inside the general shop. It was rather dark because the ceiling was hung with a maze of objects. A table was jumbled with fabric, ribbons, buttons, cooking implements, a butter churn.

“Your Grace,” Lucille whispered, “what on earth are we doing here?”

Just then a lean-faced man, with such pronounced hollows in his cheeks that they looked like small caves, came forward. He bowed deeply.

Isidore pulled off her gloves.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“Yes, I would like to buy something.”

His expression didn’t change. “A ribbon?”

There was something just faintly, faintly insolent in his tone. As if a duchess would only want a pretty ribbon, like a small child, or perhaps as if a duchess could only afford a ribbon.

“A bolt of woolen cloth,” Isidore said, picking the largest and most useful thing she saw. She needed to buy something large, something that would give the shopkeeper confidence that the Duchy of Cosway was solvent.

“A bolt of cloth,” he said. “Of course, Your Grace.”

So he did know who she was. There was an odd sucking sound and the man’s cheeks suddenly popped inward. Then he turned around, plucked up a bolt of russet wool and thumped it down before her. “Will this do? It’s eight shillings a yard. How many yards would you like? I accept only ready money in this shop.”

Not enough. Not nearly enough. “I’d like more,” Isidore said.

“More cloth?” He sucked his cheeks in again, with an audible pop. “I have blues, grays, greens, and more russet. How many yards would Your Grace need this morning?”

He was mocking her. Isidore’s eyes narrowed. “A great deal,” she said, giving him a blindingly cheerful smile. “Probably every yard you have. I do like cloth.”

“Wool,” he said, “is a universal taste.” He turned around and bawled, “The bolts!”

Isidore took the purse from her footman. “How many houses are there in the village?”