Page 109 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

“So I went right over and engaged him. I knew you wouldn’t want me to delay.”

Perhaps this was meant to be an excuse for his lengthy absence. Cecelia didn’t require it.

“Bingham, the sneaking cur who stole Hobbs from me, is sorry now. He looked nohow when I told him. Because if he’d left Hobbs alone, he might have had Phipps, you see. A much better choice.”

James looked elated. How he liked to win. “So you have paid Bingham off for his sneakiness,” she responded.

“And more.”

“Well, bravo.”

James bowed as if to an appreciative audience. “And then I had to go by Tereford House, as I’d told Nordling I would.”

Definitely excuses, Cecelia decided. She was enjoying them a little. She continued brushing her hair. “Have they made a good beginning?”

“It’s going much faster with a team of brawny haulers. And Nordling’s keeping a close eyes on things.”

“Will you tell him to keep an eye out for the family silver? And china? I don’t want to purchase things we may find later in one of those piles.”

“Umm,” said James. He finally had a bit of attention to spare for his surroundings. “There’s a fresh scent in here. You’ve made the bedchambers very pleasant.”

“It’s potpourri.”

“Ah. It’s become a very comfortable room.”

“I hope to make you comfortable.”

“Only that?” He came over and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Well, more than comfortable perhaps,” said Cecelia. She turned from the mirror. He bent. Their lips met. The kiss began softly and rapidly rose to incendiary.

They had acquired some skill in removing their clothing by this time. In this at least they moved in perfect unison. And they’d learned the caresses that roused passions to a fever pitch—fingertips on silken skin, flurries of kisses. James made his wife cry out in delight, and his own release was like drowning in pleasure. Sleep overtook them in each other’s arms.

But the next morning, the deluge of business descended on their heads once more, so different from the soft and fiery intimacies of the bedroom. James’s new valet arrived early, and Ned had to be placated because James had forgotten to tell him that Phipps had been hired. Other new servants were joining them as well, and the house felt nearly as chaotic as great-uncle Percival’s for a time.

Then when James went out to discover how one arranged for an apprenticeship with a fashionable tailor, he was nonplussed to discover that the Terefords’ positions in the world were now reversed. His minor, personal success in securing a new valet was utterly eclipsed by Cecelia’s triumph over Prince Karl. Everyone was talking of her assurance and aplomb, admiring her courage. The tale of her confrontation at the ball was told and retold. James was the nonpareil—or he had been—and yet all anyone thought of now was his wife. On top of that, he was taxed with a day of drudgery. How had this happened? It was hours before it occurred to him that Mr. Dalton was the man to deal with apprenticeships and dispatched a note to the man of business saying as much.

James retreated to Tereford House, fully aware that this was what he had done the last time he felt vexed by society. But the situation was quite different, he told himself. Tereford House had become an active place. Men called back and forth from room to room, vying for Nordling’s attention. Mrs. Gardener was kept busy providing refreshments to fuel the search. And one never knew what would turn up. Yes, most of it was detritus. There were long, boring stretches. But once in a while a gem emerged, sometimes, as today, quite literally.

James headed back to the rented house with a velvet case in his pocket containing a diamond necklace. He bore it to Cecelia as a lavish gift, imagining her surprise and praise. When they were apart, he yearned for her. Yet when they were together, outside of the bedroom, they could not seem to avoid friction.

He found her in the small back parlor surrounded by a mass of papers. Before he could bring out the necklace, she said, “I had Mr. Nordling send over the basket of letters from the Tereford House library. Can you imagine, I’d nearly forgotten about them!”

There it was, the basket they’d found that first day, as long as his arm and nearly as deep, mounded with correspondence. “Without asking me?” he said.

“Asking you what?”

She seemed to have no idea of consulting him. “About the letters,” he replied, jaw tight.

“We can’t neglect them any longer, James.”

“They have been neglected for months. More than that perhaps. And nothing dreadful has occurred.”

“We don’t know that.” Cecelia gestured at the papers around her, which he realized now were these letters. “Who knows how many tragedies have befallen the writers in that time?”

“Tragedies! You exaggerate.”

“How would you know? You’ve never even glanced at them.”

---