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Authors: Sherry Thomas

Tags: #England - Social Life and Customs - 19th Century, #Man-Woman Relationships, #General, #Romance, #Marriage, #Historical, #Fiction, #Love Stories

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BOOK: Private Arrangements
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Chapter Nine

14 May 1893

T
he music did not register at first. Gigi was not accustomed to hearing music in her own house when she hadn't paid for it. She dropped the report in her hand and listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of a piano being assaulted.

In his basket next to the bed, Croesus whimpered, snorted, and opened his eyes. Poor thing wasn't able to sleep well at night, perhaps because of all the naps he now took during the day. He shook his neck, rose on his short legs, and began his laborious ascent up the steps made especially for him after he could no longer bound up on her bed with only the aid of the bed stool.

She flung aside the counterpane and scooped him up. “It's that stupid husband of mine,” she said to the old pup. “Instead of banging me, he's banging the damned piano. Let's go and tell him to shut up.”

Her husband started something dramatic and harsh as she descended the staircase—
bong bong bong bong, bing bing bing bing—
a piece composed by the overly somber Herr Beethoven, no doubt. With a sigh, Gigi threw open the door of the music room.

He had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend—all that and social graces too.

And a streak of subterranean viciousness that had to be experienced to be believed.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “But some of us need to sleep so that we can get up early in the morning.”

He stopped playing and looked at her oddly. It took another moment to register that he wasn't looking at
her
but at Croesus.

“Is that Croesus?” He frowned.

“It is.”

He left the piano bench and came next to her, studying Croesus, his frown deepening. “What's the matter with him?”

She glanced down. Croesus seemed no different from how he usually was. “Nothing,” she said, her voice sharp with defensiveness. She liked to think that she provided Croesus a happy, comfortable life. “He's as well as an old dog can be.”

Croesus was ten and a half years of age, his once lustrous coat now dull and gray. His eyes were rheumy. He drooped, wheezed, tired easily, and ate poorly. But when he did have an appetite, he dined on foie gras sprinkled with sautéed mushrooms. And in ill health he was attended by London's best veterinarian.

Camden reached out toward Croesus. “Come here, old bloke.”

Croesus regarded him with drowsy eyes. He didn't move. But neither did he protest when Camden simply took him.

“Do you remember me?” he said.

“I highly doubt it.”

Camden ignored her snippy answer. “I've two pups in New York.” He spoke to Croesus. “Hannah and Bernard, a rambunctious pair. They would be pleased to meet you someday.”

She didn't understand why information so mundane and unremarkable as his having dogs should cause her a moment of scorching pain.

“I see you don't remember me.” He gave the fur behind Croesus's ear a wistful scratch. “I have missed you.”

“I'd like to have him back,” Gigi said coldly.

He complied, but not before holding Croesus close and kissing one of the old dog's ears. “Your piano needs to be tuned.”

“Nobody plays it.”

“A shame.” He turned his head and gave the instrument an appreciative glance. “An Érard piano should be played.”

“You can take it with you when you go back to New York. A divorce present.” She had ordered it as a wedding present for him. But it hadn't arrived until months after he left.

His gaze returned to her. “Thank you, I might. Especially since it already has my initials inscribed.”

He was standing close enough that she imagined she could smell him, the scent of a man after mid-night—naked skin under silk dressing gown. “Get to it, will you?” she murmured. “All this sexual skittishness is not very attractive in a man.”

“Yes, yes, I'm well aware. But the fact remains, I'm loath to touch you.”

“Turn off all the lights. Pretend I'm someone else.”

“That would be difficult. You tend to be vocal.”

She colored. She couldn't help it. “I'll sew my lips shut.”

He shook his head slowly. “It's no use. You breathe and I'll know it's you.”

Ten years ago she'd have taken it for a declaration of love. Her heart still gave a throb, a lonely echo.

He bowed. “One more piece and I'm off to bed.”

As she left, he began playing something as soft and haunting as the last roses of summer. She recognized it in two bars:
Liebesträume.
He and Mrs. Rowland had played it together that first night of their acquaintance. Even Gigi, incompetent musician that she was, could pick out that melody on the piano with one hand.

Dream of Love.
All that she ever had with him.

 

Mrs. Rowland's campaign to woo the duke had hit a snag.

For a day or so, things went terribly well. The case of Chatêau Lafite went promptly to Ludlow Court. A gracious thank-you note came back just as promptly, accompanied by a basket of apricot and peach preserves from Ludlow Court's own orchards.

Then nothing. Victoria sent an invitation to the duke for her next charity gala. He gave a generous cheque, but declined to attend the event. Two days later, she plucked up the audacity to call upon Ludlow Court in person, only to be told that the duke was not at home.

It'd been five years since she resettled in Devon in her childhood house, which she'd purchased from her nephew. Five years during which to observe the duke's comings and goings. She knew perfectly well that he never went anywhere else except for his daily walk.

Which left her no choice but to intercept him during his walk again.

She pretended to inspect the roses in the front garden, a pair of snipping scissors in hand, never mind that no self-respecting gardener ever did her cuttings in the middle of the afternoon. Her heart thumped as he came around the bend in the path at his usual hour. But by the time she'd maneuvered herself next to the low gate by the path, she barely got a “good afternoon” out of him before he sailed on past.

The next day she waited near the front of the garden, to no better results. The duke refused to be drawn into chitchat. Her comment on the weather only garnered the same “good afternoon” as the day before. For three days after that it rained. He walked in mackintosh and galoshes. But she could not possibly work in the garden—or even pretend to—in a downpour.

She gritted her teeth and decided to make an even greater nuisance of herself. She would walk
with
him. As God was her witness, she would bag, truss, and deliver this duke to Gigi at whatever cost to her own dignity.

Clad in a white walking dress and sensible walking boots, she waited in the front parlor of the cottage. When he appeared around the bend in the distance, she pounced, her tassel-fringed parasol in tow.

“I've decided to take up some exercise myself, Your Grace.” She smiled as she closed the garden gate behind her. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

He raised a pair of pince-nez from around his neck and looked down at her through the lenses. Goodness gracious but the man was ducal in every little gesture. He was not unusually tall, about five foot ten, but one chill look from him and the Colossus of Rhodes would feel like a midget.

He didn't give express permission. He merely dropped the pince-nez and nodded, murmuring, “Madam.” And immediately resumed his walk, leaving Victoria to scamper in his wake, hurrying to catch up.

She had known, of course, that he walked fast. But it didn't dawn upon her until she'd tried to catch up with him for ten minutes just how fast he walked. For a rare moment she wished she had Gigi's tremendous height instead of her own more demure five feet two inches.

Chucking aside all ladylike restraints, she broke into a half run, cursing the narrow confines of her skirts, and finally ended up at his side. She had prepared various openings, bits and pieces of local trivia. But by the time she finished enumerating interesting packets of historical details concerning the house next down the lane, she'd be five feet behind him again. And having been very ladylike all her life, she wasn't sure she could manage another run without expiring of apoplexy.

So she got to the point. “Would you care for dinner at my house two weeks from Wednesday, Your Grace? My daughter will be visiting that week. I'm sure she'd be delighted to meet you.”

She'd have to go up to London and drag Gigi down. But that she'd worry about later.

“I am a very fussy eater, Mrs. Rowland, and usually do not enjoy meals prepared by anyone but my own cook.”

Drat it. Why must he be so difficult? What did a woman have to do to get him into her house? Dance naked in front of him? Then no doubt he'd complain of vertigo.

“I'm sure we could—”

“But I might consider accepting your invitation if you would grant me a favor in return.”

If it weren't so darned exhausting to keep up with him, she'd have halted in her tracks, stunned. “I would be honored. What might I do for you, Your Grace?”

“I am an admirer of the peace and quiet of the country life, as you well know,” he said. Did she detect a trace of sarcasm in his voice? “But even the most ardent admirer of the country life sometimes misses the pleasures of the town.”

“Indeed.”

“I haven't gambled for the past fifteen years.”

This duke, a gambler? But he was a recluse, a Homeric scholar with his nose buried in old parchment. “I see,” she said, though she didn't.

“I hear the siren call of a green baize table. But I do not wish to go to London to satisfy myself. Will you be so gracious as to play a few hands with me?”

This time she did come to a dead stop. “Me? Gamble?”

She had never even bet a shilling. Gambling, in her opinion, was about the daftest thing a woman could do, other than divorcing a man who would one day be a duke.

“Of course, I would understand if you object to—”

“Not at all,” she heard herself say. “I have no objections whatsoever to a bit of harmless betting.”

“I like it more interesting than that,” he said. “One thousand pounds a hand.”

“And I admire men who play for high stakes,” she squeaked.

What was wrong with her? When she accepted giving up her dignity, she hadn't planned on surrendering every last ounce of her good sense as well. And lying outright, complimenting him on the most foolish, most self-destructive trait a man could possess! There came a time in every good Protestant's life when she yearned for a simple, sin-absolving trip to the papists' confession booth.

“Very well, then.” The Duke of Perrin nodded his approval. “Shall we set a date and a time?”

 

Chapter Ten

January 1883

M
y dear cousin, the Grand Duke Aleksey, is getting married today,” said the Countess von Loffler-Lisch—more affectionately known as Aunt Ploni, short for Appolonia. She was a second cousin of Camden's mother and had come all the way from Nice to attend his wedding. “I hear the bride is some gold-digging nobody.”

BOOK: Private Arrangements
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