Page 59 of My Own True Duchess
“You have driven out, hacked in the park, danced with, and otherwise exerted yourself to be charming to every young woman on the list I handed you several weeks ago.”
He bowed. She curtseyed, and Jonathan had the sense that something even lovelier than the waltz had begun.
“They have been the longest weeks of my life.” Dancing attendance on women he had no intention of marrying had been tedious at first, but surprisingly agreeable when he’d taken the time to enjoy their company. Still, they weren’t Theo.
“Lord Casriel said you are organizing the ducal finances. Surely you enjoy that undertaking?” She stepped into his arms, and for a moment, Jonathan lost the thread of the conversation.
Since kissing Theo in the alley, he had not presumed in the direction of any further liberties. He’d sent peaches and chocolates. He’d lurked in the park with the dogs in hopes of crossing paths with Theo and Diana. He’d lent Seraphina a book of French verse that used flowers for all manner of sentimental metaphors.
And he’d gone to bed restless and beset every night. The club was part of it. He’d changed out every deck of cards, for several had had random unevenness along the edges or odd smudges amid the pips. Not enough to call them marked, but a purposeful attempt to make them look marked.
He’d watched the kitchen staff from dim corners, dropped every casual question he could to Moira, and had found nothing. When worries for the club weren’t troubling his slumber, longing for Theo bothered him without ceasing.
All the botheration stilled when he took her in his arms. The other dancers murmuring and shuffling into position faded, and the moment became a turning point, when hope blossomed and joy took hold.
The music started, they moved off, and for the first time, Jonathan understood the waltz. He understood the delight of dancing with a lady, not merely executing steps in tandem with her. He grasped why numbers and formulae could never be enough. He saw, in a wildly generous corner of his heart, why his parents had searched relentlessly for even an illicit echo of the joy that dancing with a true partner engendered.
Theo twirled, she dipped, she gave herself over to his leading and inspired him to a grace that was entirely her doing. When the music ended, she sank into a curtsey amid billowing blue velvet, and Jonathan nearly shouted at the musicians, Again, damn you!
“My thanks,” Theo said, taking his arm. “You are a superb dancer.”
He was also flirting with arousal that was simply there, his body rejoicing in her proximity. “I am motivated by your example. Might we find some cooler air while the buffet line forms?”
“The terrace will be crowded.”
Oh, Theodosia. You didn’t just invite me to… But she had. “Let’s find some privacy.” Jonathan knew Lord Tottenham’s premises fairly well, because his lordship was one of Quimbey’s familiars. The formal parlor was the cardroom for the evening, the gallery was hosting the buffet, and the library and music room were shoulder-to-shoulder with matchmakers and fortune hunters.
“This way,” Jonathan said, opening a door concealed in the corridor’s paneling. The stairwell was blessedly cool and barely lit, and yet, he did not trust himself to steal a kiss. Theo took hold of his hand, and even that, even with gloves on, was enough to inspire greater desire.
“I intend for every guest present to see us sharing supper, Mrs. Haviland.”
“I do not care one blessed farthing about supper, Mr. Tresham.”
Theo cared very much about farthings, also about suppers, in the usual course. Jonathan opened the door on the next landing and crossed a quiet corridor into an unused game room. The sconces were turned down, casting a billiards table and gaming table into soft shadows.
“Privacy,” Jonathan said, closing the door. “At present, my first priority—”
Theo stepped into his embrace, and his arms came around her as naturally as waltzing. She settled against him, faint jasmine blending with sweetness. She had become dear to him. Smiling at him across ballrooms, kissing him in an alley, lecturing him about gentlemanly deportment.
She had become necessary to him, necessary to his happiness.
“We must talk,” she said, her forehead pressed to his chest. “The topic will not be cheerful, but it must be aired.”
We must kiss. “Tell me what troubles you.” And I’ll make it right. She’d box his ears for such presumption, and yet, to keep her safe, to ensure her happiness, Jonathan would do almost anything.
“I am troubled by a who rather than a what. You know Archie’s cousin inherited the title.”
“I know the blighter has left you and the girls to struggle along on a pittance. Say the word, Theo, and I’ll mend his manners posthaste.”
“So fierce,” she said, ruffling his hair. “So determined. I love that about you, but you needn’t take Lord Penweather to task. I simply want you to know that he regards me as responsible for Archie’s death.”
I love that about you. How casually she took possession of Jonathan’s heart.
Then the rest of what she’d said penetrated the rose-colored fog in his brain. He regards me as responsible for Archie’s death. Those words were so absurd that Jonathan waited for an explanation. Theo seemed to be waiting as well. Tension suffused her, the stillness of a small animal avoiding notice.
“The viscount is either evil or mentally imbalanced,” Jonathan said, gathering her closer. “You could no more cause your husband’s death than I could cause my parents to become pattern cards of decorum.”
He’d never said those words aloud, never admitted that all of his childhood longings were wrapped up in that very end: He’d wanted a mother who sent the occasional basket to school, a papa who penned boring letters full of advice aimed at his younger self rather than at his son. Parents who were allies with each other, even if they weren’t great friends.
