Restorative sleep was what he needed. He tore off the piratical patch and flung it to the floor. His eyes grained. He rubbed them, the good one and the cloudy blind one too. On occasion, when he caught his uncovered visage in a mirror, he’d fancy himself a villain in a gothic novel. The medieval-looking scar, an ugly jagged line, was just as frightening as his whitish eye.

Mrs. Chatham’s ardor had never changed. Lust between them had sizzled hotly before the accident when he was a whole second son, and it crackled like wildfire even though he was a damaged man.

The widow had deep, unseen wounds of her own. She’d masked them well. Wasn’t it time for her to let them go? Dare he suggest such a thing?

He wanted a life with Mrs. Chatham. To build and love, to heal and grow.

He smiled at the plum canopy overhead. Only a gardener would know how to fill the holes in his heart…humor for a more opportune time.

Stretching on his bed, the tips of his fingers grazed something stiff and crinkly on his pillow. He picked it up and held a neat square to the light. Foolscap. Folded in quarters. The slanted penmanship familiar to him.

“Mrs. Chatham. Leaving missives on my pillow, are you?”

Legs dangling over the bed, he opened the letter and read it with her knowing, sensual voice flooding his ears.

Richland Hall, Friday evening

May 23, 1788


My Lord Duke,

You’ve done me a great honor with your kind letter. There is no need to offer thanks. I am glad the oil of amber treatment agrees with you. You are possessed of an otherwise healthy constitution. Steady exercise and regular application should solve your aches.

HE CHUCKLED TO HIMSELF. “Why Mrs. Chatham, you’re just as bland as Doctor Mimsby.”

He put his attention back on the staid missive. There was a break in the text and two ink blobs before the widow continued.

I’d be remiss if I failed to mention our kiss. There was something exalted and heavenly in our embrace. No man has ever kissed me like that. I can’t imagine another could (don’t let your head swell with such fine praise). As I write this note, I’m picturing your male satisfaction at having pleasured me so.

He gripped the paper with an air of possession. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He’d earned an underlined word and high praise for giving the best kiss to the woman who made his heart sing. Of course, he was peacocking.

The minx.

Ideas were flowing. Seductions were forming. He’d have her again, and again, and again.

Another ink spot marred the foolscap. What a messy letter writer she was. He touched the surface lovingly, finding the outline of a stain. Wetness. A tear, he was sure. He scanned the remaining lines for the source of her weepiness.

Your Grace, this day with you will be with me forever. I will cherish it, but please know I will not infringe on your happiness. I will remove myself a suitable distance in another district.

We must do what is right. Your mother wants a proper marriage for you. I’m most certain your late father would too.


Yours in the deepest affection,

Mrs. Charlotte Chatham

P.S. Please burn this letter.

Burn the letter? Never. He’d memorialize it and read it when he was long in the tooth. Folding the tender missive back into neat fourths, he acknowledged a vexing point: the dowager.

What was he going to say to her?




CHAPTER 9




CARRIAGES RATTLED STEADILY, lines of them. In the distance, clouds of dust billowed on one particularly dry, eastern road. He let go of the high, sweeping curtains and took a seat at the round table where his half-eaten breakfast waited to be finished. The ever-vigilant Thomas attended his private meal. The footman’s back was to the window overlooking the south lawn where his brothers escorted Lady Jacintha, her sister, and mother on a late morning. The merry troop appeared to set out toward his newest folly, a recreation of a ruined Roman fortress.

There was much to decide today—and after seeing the earl’s daughter—a bit of strategy to plan too.

He speared his fork into a coddled egg when his mother nipped into his sitting room.

“Thomas, please arrange a carriage to take Mrs. Chatham home.” She paused, checking the brass mantle clock. “Have it ready for her in the next hour. She’s a bit peckish this morning and moving rather slowly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” White glove on his midsection, the footman executed a perfect bow. “I’ll attend it now.”

“Please do,” she said, arraying herself on the settee. The dowager cleared her throat while fussing with yellow silk skirts. The rustle was distinct, concise with an I’ve got things to say to you air about them.

A wise son, he would listen. He swallowed his last bite and turned his attention to the settee. Pleasantries were in order.

“Good morning, mother.” He motioned to the chair facing him. “Care to join me?”

“Good morning, and no, I have already broken my fast, though my appetite was a bit off because I had to use much of the morning explaining your sudden departure from the ball last night.” She tipped her head and pearl earbobs slanted elegantly. “You remember. The ball in your honor.”

A line was being drawn this day in their shifting relationship. She would forever be his mother, deeply loved and much admired, but he’d not be managed.

“Everyone seemed to enjoy the evening, and my presence was not required.” He set his fork on his plate and dabbed his mouth with the serviette. “My choice for duchess has been made.”

“Oh? Has Lady Jacintha won the honor? You didn’t dance with her.”

“No. I didn’t. Yet she’s gamboling on our south lawn with my brothers as we speak.”

Hyphen-thin brows arched. “What else could I do, but invite her and her family to stay? Your name was on her dance card.”

He put some space between himself and the table. “How did it get there?”

“I don’t know.” The dowager’s feigned innocence was terribly obvious.

“Mother…”

“I had to do something. Of all the young ladies, you favored Lady Jacintha. You spoke to her the most.” Manicured fingers drummed the settee’s back rest. “Though you ogled Mrs. Chatham at every turn.”

“Ogled?”

“That is how I would describe it.”

He checked his desk where another missive for the widow awaited delivery. A new appreciation for correspondence was forming. With Mrs. Chatham as his recipient, the chore was fun. Hadn’t she pointed out his need for more fun? He’d risen early and labored over three drafts before perfecting his message in this latest edition.

The balled-up rejections sat in the hearth. The dowager followed his sightline to those half-burned offerings, eyeing them keenly when she asked, “What are your intentions with her?”

He stilled as a poacher would when caught by a sheriff. Excess warmth gathered under the knotted neck cloth Simms had perfected. He was tempted to run a finger between its tightness and his skin.

“You speak of Mrs. Chatham.”

“Are we discussing anyone else?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention Lady Jacintha, but his mother was testy this morning. If she didn’t want to discuss the earl’s daughter, he saw no need to encourage that conversation. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself. The topic of their neighbor would be tetchy enough.

“I’m assuming her remedy worked?” Azure eyes speared him. The dowager was hunting for information. Did she suspect more had happened?

“As you witnessed last night eve. My stride was fluid.”

She nodded thoughtfully, her scanty brows pressing together. She searched the room from her grand perch as if the walls and furniture would speak. He was blessedly thankful they couldn’t.

Pushing upright, he dropped the serviette on his plate. “There is something I need to tell you.” Hands clasped behind his back, he paced a line to the mantle. “I have developed deep affections for Mrs. Chatham.”

The dowager’s head turned sharply toward him. Faintly painted lips firmed.

He and the widow had voiced their attraction in this room and sealed it with a kiss. In for a penny, in for a pound. There was no turning back…and how relieved he was in setting his course.

“I am going to ask her to marry me.” He’d tried last night and failed. His mother didn’t need that detail.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

She sighed a great gust of air. “Finally.”

For the second time that morning, he couldn’t move. Both times, his mother was the source of his befuddlement. She popped off the settee with startling energy and bestowed a relieved smile on him.

“I was worried you were considering asking her to be your mistress.”

“Mother!” he gasped.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate—”

“Then don’t be.” His stern tone earned a healthy pause.

The dowager was subdued, folding her hands together, wringing them ever so slightly. “Charlotte is my friend,” she said quietly. “Her good nature saved me more times than I can count.” The hand wringing slowed, and when his mother looked at him, light showed her age. Hurt etched the sides of her mouth and skin beneath her eyes. “I’ve known for a long time the two of you harbored an attraction for each other.”

“You have?”

The dowager rolled her eyes. Would wonders never cease?

“Give me some credit, my dear.” How sagacious, his mother. She smiled blandly at him with the tolerance one would give a dull pupil.

“Then you support my marrying her even though she’s…” He let his words trail because it was his turn to avoid being indelicate.