The Day of the Duchess Page 15

  Calhoun.

  Even at meals, Sera and Haven were separated, regularly seated at opposite ends of the formal dining room—a room in which he could not remember the last time he’d been—and she disappeared immediately following dinner.

  Mal was ashamed to admit that he’d spent three nights listening to the silence on the other side of the adjoining door to their rooms before he’d given up and interrogated the servants about his wife’s evening activities—desperate to know if she was, in fact, spending them with Calhoun, who made himself as scarce as his wife did in the evenings. It was only then that he was told that Mr. Calhoun left the house after the evening meal, and returned the following morning at dawn, before most of the house had rung for tea and toast.

  Which meant Sera was alone at night.

  In the next room.

  Her silence was making him mad.

  He’d given her space, dammit, sure she’d return to him. Sure she’d seek him out for—if nothing else—pleasure. She’d come apart in his arms, hard and fast and with an intensity that had brought him with her. That had left him on his knees as she’d straightened herself and turned tail.

  And it had been turning tail.

  She’d hied out of that room as though Lucifer himself had been on her heels. Coward.

  Of course, he had not chased her.

  Resisting the thought, Haven stood from the desk in his private study and went looking for his wife. This time, he would find her. And this time, she would not be able to avoid him.

  She was in the kitchens, surrounded by his possible future wives and their mothers, as though the women were not houseguests, but rather sightseeing in Bath.

  “Now,” she was saying. “As mistress of Highley and Duchess of Haven you will be expected to arrange meals for the duke and any of his guests.”

  As Seraphina Bevingstoke had never once played the duchess, Malcolm couldn’t contain the little grunt of surprise that came at her words; the sound was louder than expected, clearly, as it attracted the attention of the entire assembly.

  Sera’s face was all calm, even as Mal noted the way her eyes flashed with anger. “Your Grace? Do you require something?”

  Yes. You.

  “No,” he said. “Please. Go on.”

  There was a pause, and he could see she wanted to argue. He raised a brow in invitation. Let her argue. If that was what he could have of her, so be it.

  Her lips pressed together in annoyance, and he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to kiss her always, honestly, but particularly when she was annoyed.

  She began anew. “The duke enjoys game, lamb, and duck.”

  He did laugh at that. What a ridiculous play in which they all performed.

  Sera’s annoyance became anger, and she turned on him again. He took it back. He wanted to kiss her particularly when she was angry. She was most beautiful then. “Your Grace,” she said, not hiding the disapproval in the words. “Again, may we assist you in some way?”

  “No,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb. “In fact, I’m finding this supremely edifying.”

  “You are surprised to find that you enjoy duck?”

  “I’m surprised to find that you are aware that I enjoy duck.”

  She raised her brows. “Am I incorrect?”

  “No,” he said. “But you’ve never planned a meal for me in your life.”

  He knew he goaded her. But if this was what he could have of her, he would take it.

  She smiled. “Considering we’re in the process of divorcing, I would think you’d be happy I haven’t attempted to poison you.”

  He blinked. The girls assembled tittered. Amusement? Surprise? Mal didn’t care. All he cared was that Sera was moved. Moved enough to challenge him. This was familiar. And welcome. God, she was welcome as the sun in English spring.

  As she drew closer, Mal’s heart began to pound, his palms itching to lift her in his arms and carry her away. Find a bed and keep her there until she agreed to begin again. Instead, he willed himself still, even as she stopped, scant inches from him, and said, loud enough for the room to hear. “Shall I tell you which foods I would happily lade with arsenic?”

  He raised his brows. “You realize that if I turn up dead now, we’ve a roomful of witnesses.”

  “A pity, as I realize I should have considered this course of action before. A widow receives a third of the estate, doesn’t she?”

  Christ, he loved the way they sparred.

  She continued. “Duck with sour cherries. Vegetables turned in the Portuguese style. New potatoes with a salted cream sauce. Lamb with jelly made from Highley’s own mint.”

  Until that moment, it had never occurred to him that his favorite foods might be used against him in battle.

  “Sprouts roasted with pear, fig and pig cheeks. Vinegared artichokes. Neither beef nor poultry are of particular interest. His Grace does not care for sweets, but if he must choose a dessert, it is raspberries with a drizzle of fresh cream.” She raised a brow. “Do you have anything to add, Duke?”

  He’d been given a culinary set-down.

  He cleared his throat. “I quite like asparagus.”

  She saw the lie. He loathed asparagus. But she inclined her head and said, “How edifying. He quite likes asparagus. Do remember that, ladies.” He noted that several of the mothers were scribbling notes, as though she were giving a lesson in gross anatomy rather than meal planning. “If you’re through, Your Grace, we are in a bit of a hurry, and you are a distraction.”

  She turned her back on him, and he was dismissed.

  As though he weren’t master of the house and lord of the manor.

  As though he were a minor, petty, irritating distraction.

  Dammit. They were the distraction. He had no intention of marrying any of the girls, and so Sera was not only wasting their time with discussions of food and table settings and linen treatments and how Highley soap was made, but also wasting his time. Time he could have been spending wooing her. Which was the plan.

  Though the plan appeared to be falling apart, and it had been only a week.

  It was an idiot plan, obviously.

  With a bow and the most gracious “Good day” he could muster to the women assembled, he returned to his study, feeling insultingly bested and not a small amount responsible for it.

  Ignoring his sister-in-law’s cat, which had taken to napping on his desk, Malcolm attempted to throw himself into the estate, which he’d done halfway decently until a knock sounded on the door and his sisters-in-law entered, promising to make a bad day worse.

  “There’s Brummell!” Sesily swooped over to lift the disgruntled animal from its perch and smother it with an embarrassing amount of affection. Once she was done, she returned the cat to the desk, where it proceeded to bathe itself upon a stack of farming reports.

  Mal scowled at the beast, to no avail.

  “Oh, you look like you’re in a sulk.” No one had ever accused Sesily Talbot of beating around the bush.

  He sat back in his chair. “Not at all.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “It looks like it though, doesn’t it, Sophie?”

  Sophie, his nemesis, grinned and said, “I wouldn’t know, as he seems to be in a perpetual sulk around me.”

  He searched for a retort, but all he could come to was, “I object to the word sulk on the grounds that it makes me sound a petulant child.” Sophie gave him a look that easily imparted her belief that he was, in fact, a petulant child. He scowled. “I’m not sulking.”

  She spread her hands wide, brandishing a square of ecru. “Far be it from me to say otherwise.”

  The scowl deepened. He waved at the paper. “What is that?”

  She looked to her hand, her features instantly softening. “A letter from my husband.” She handed it to him. “For you.”

  “Why?”

  She feigned ignorance. “Who can say?”

  Haven sighed and accepted the missive, reaching for a letter
opener and tearing it open to reveal the message:

  Haven—

  As it is, I’m less than thrilled that my wife has decided to spend the summer with you and her sisters instead of with me, but I am loath to argue with her when she is in her condition, and what she wishes, she gets.

  Haven looked up to find Sophie, hands over her expanding midsection, serene smile upon her face. He returned to the note.

  So, I shall settle for this, knowing that there is little love lost between you. Upset her, and you shall answer to me. I shall take pleasure in it.

  And then, below, parenthetically:

  (Upset your own wife and answer to her sisters, who are—en masse—as fearsome as I could ever be.)

  Eversley

  “He makes an excellent point.”

  Malcolm looked up from the note to find Sesily at his elbow, reading over his shoulder. He snatched the paper back. “You’re rather rude.”

  She smirked. “Oh, and you’ve always been the portrait of good manners?” She turned back to Sophie. “King loves you madly.”

  The Marchioness of Eversley lifted a shoulder as if to say, I know that bit.

  Sesily rolled her eyes and turned back to Malcolm. “We were sent to tell you that dinner is at eight.”

  He looked to his watch. There was enough time for him to shave and dress. He nodded. “Thank you.” He moved to come out from behind the desk, aware, if unsettlingly so, that he was all too eager to leave these women. It wasn’t that they scared him. Of course not.

  They were women, for God’s sake. He’d barely reached the corner of the great oak desk when Sophie shook her head. “You aren’t to leave yet, though.”

  “First, we’ve something to say,” Sesily added.

  He took it back. They were terrifying.

  “It’s clear you’ve some idiotic plan afoot here.”

  Mal shook his head. “I don’t know what you—”

  Sophie slashed a hand in the air. “Don’t waste our time, Haven.”

  His brows shot up. “To think, everyone called you the quiet one.”

  She grinned. “Well, you’ve got a pair of ruined boots that proves otherwise, do you not?”

  He did, indeed. In fact, when he thought carefully on it, he could still remember the keen embarrassment he’d felt at being put on his ass by this woman. Not that he was going to tell her such a thing.

  “At any rate,” she continued, “we’re all wondering what the plan is.”

  He wasn’t about to say, but it seemed he did not have to.

  “We’ve started a betting book.” Sesily announced as though she were discussing the weather. “Would you like to hear about it?”

  He leaned against the side of the desk, feigning disinterest. “By all means.”

  “Seline thinks you’re after Father’s money again.”

  “I wasn’t after it the first time.”

  “No,” Sophie said. “You were after his ruin.”

  He wasn’t proud of it. He’d been blind with anger and frustration and betrayal, thinking that she’d never cared for him. Desperate for her to care for him. And he’d gone after her father. Would have paupered him if not for Eversley, who stepped in and settled him down. “I’m not after either, this time.”

  Sophie looked unconvinced, but Sesily continued. “Seleste thinks you’re a spy.”

  That was unexpected. “To what end?”

  Sesily put down the paper and waved a hand in the air. “Something to do with Mr. Calhoun and their tavern. It doesn’t make any sense.” Later, he’d wonder about that reference to the tavern. He’d think on the their. But Sesily was still talking. “Now I . . .” She paused with unsettling gusto. “Call me a romantic, but I think you’re trying to woo her back.”

  His heart nearly stopped at that. He steeled his features as his sister-in-law soldiered on, thankfully unaware of the effect she’d had upon him. “Which is a terrible idea, I know. I mean, it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to see that she’ll never ever take you back.”

  The words were so matter-of-fact, he couldn’t help but feel their sting. And say, “Even if I’ve changed?”

  “You haven’t,” Sophie said.

  “I might have,” he found himself defending like an imbecile. “It’s been years.”

  “Time is irrelevant,” Sophie said. “Leopards and spots.”

  He opened his mouth to argue again, somehow unable to stop himself from the futility of the action, when Sesily interrupted. “It’s worth saying at this point that Sophie thinks you’re trying to exact further revenge.”

  Sophie nodded and waved in the direction of the letter now open on his desk. “Hence, the missive from King.”

  Malcolm resisted the urge to remind her that threatening husbands were rendered less so when they made their threats via post. “I’m not exacting revenge.”

  “That’s exactly what you would say if you were exacting revenge, though,” Sesily pointed out.

  It really was no wonder that she remained unmarried. She was straight from Bedlam. Haven ignored her and looked firmly at Sophie. “I’m not.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “You forget that I witnessed your anger, Haven. I saw the things you did. Heard the things you said.”

  All things he would give anything to take back. “I was—”

  “You were an unmitigated ass.”

  He blinked. Sesily snickered. And then he conceded the point. “Yes.”

  Sophie watched him for a long while, and then said, “I feel I should tell you I loathe you. More than the rest of them do.”

  He nodded. All of Sera’s sisters were forthright, but Sophie was the most honest. Always had been. He was going to have to win her back, as well. “Do you know what they call me now, Sophie? Since our last meeting?”

  She smirked. “The Dunked Duke. I’m quite proud of it.”

  He inclined his head, unable to forget the way she’d set him on his ass in a fishpond. Unable to forget the fact that he’d deserved it. “As well you should be. It’s a sound, embarrassing name.”

  That long assessment again. And then, “I see what you’re doing. It won’t work.” Maybe not. But it was worth a try. “And besides, it’s not me about whom you should worry. I don’t loathe you more than Sera does. So, if Sesily’s right, and you’re trying to woo her back, you’re going to need quite a bit of luck.”

  He rapped on the adjoining door to his wife’s room sharply at a quarter to eight that evening. She opened it instantly, as though she’d been waiting for him on the other side, pulling it wide and stepping back to let him in. Keeping her distance even as she made it easy for him to look at her.

  For a moment, he found he could not breathe.

  She was more beautiful than ever, in a stunning amethyst gown, devoid of the wide sleeves, frills and frippery that graced every frock in existence these days. In its simplicity, the dress devastated, tracing her shape down her torso to her waist, where it dropped in magnificent lines, not a spare crease to be found.

  She’d always been able to steal his breath. And now was no different.

  She filled the silence he’d brought with him.

  “I see my sisters delivered my message about dinner.”

  Why hadn’t she told him herself?

  Her sister’s words echoed through him. I don’t loathe you more than Sera.

  He pushed the thought aside. “Yours, and their own.”

  She was already across the room at her dressing table, lifting a button hook. It was then that he realized one long amethyst glove was unbuttoned.

  She extended one long arm to the light, revealing a long line of buttons, and began working to fasten them.

  “I heard there was a message from King,” she said, nearly absently. King was the Marquess of Eversley, a man whose infuriating superiority had been instilled with the name at birth.

  It grated that she used the informal name without hesitation.

  “He threatened harm should I hurt your sister.”
<
br />   She smiled at that, not looking up from her glove. “He loves her quite thoroughly.”

  The words were soft and full of warm satisfaction. And he hated his brother-in-law in that moment. Hated him because he wanted that satisfaction. He wanted to give it to her.

  He took a step toward her. She stiffened, and he stilled. “Shouldn’t you have a maid for that?”

  “I am sharing Sesily’s. I didn’t bring one of my own.”

  She was the duchess. The entire house was at her beck and call. “You needn’t share; there are a dozen girls belowstairs who—”

  “I don’t need one,” she said, deftly buttoning the glove. “I’ve become quite skilled at dressing myself.”

  “For stage.”

  She nodded. “Among other things.”

  He didn’t like the reference to her past without him. Didn’t like the way it made him want to ask a dozen questions, none of which she would answer. He tried for something lighter. “Did you know your sisters are taking bets on why I brought you here?”

  She did not look up from her task. “I thought I was here to get you married?”

  “Seleste thinks I’m a spy.”

  She gave a little chuckle, and he was suddenly warmer than he had been in years. “Seleste reads a great deal of adventure novels.”

  “It’s the best theory of the bunch.”

  “What are the others?”

  Suddenly, it seemed like the topic was a poor choice.

  Sera heard his hesitation. “Shall I guess?”

  Perhaps she’d get them wrong. “By all means.”

  “Seline cares a great deal about our father, so I would expect she thinks you’re after Papa’s money. Which of course you’re not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you were never after his money; you’ve always been rich as a king. You were after me,” she said, lightly, as though they were discussing anything but her family’s ruin at his hands. “Sophie thinks you are lower than dirt, so she likely believes you’re out for revenge.”