Page 10 of The Duke's List
He was about to straighten and continue his tirade when Jane suddenly leaned closer and pulled his face to hers. She placed a soft kiss on his ear before whispering, “I truly understand your dilemma, but you must appreciate mine as well. We can’t talk now while you’re in such a state, but please read this later and then come to me tomorrow when you’ve had time to think about my list.”
Jane pulled a sealed note from her reticule and pressed the thin paper into his hand. She stood quickly and strode back to Bocollyn House, her slippers padding softly across the stone floor to where the footman awaited to escort her safely to the cottage.
Sidmouth’s mouth was so dry, he tossed down the rest of his glass of wine. It was then he realized, his mouth was dry because he’d left it hang open throughout his wife’s speech. He looked down at the sealed square of paper before lifting it to his nose. Just as he thought. The scent of Jane permeated even her stationery. Roses.
Jane flungherself through the cottage door as soon as she’d thanked the footman. The tears she’d been holding back flooded unheeded down her cheeks while she raced through the cottage to her bed chamber. The small room suited her and reminded her of the years she’d spent in London with her mother. She’d made the cottage a cozy escape with soft pillows stacked against the window seat. Bookshelves overflowed with her favorite books, some even from her childhood.
She knew this place was a far cry from the official, cavernous bedchamber for the duchess in Bocollyn House, attached to the duke’s chambers by a long, divided dressing room area. At a soft tap at the door, she snuffled and uttered “Come.” Her lady’s maid, Elsie, now occupied the tiny loft bed chamber since Nicholas had moved back to Bocollyn House to be near his mother.
When Elsie entered, the tears started flowing again. They ignored the flood while her maid helped her out of the intricate beaded dress that apparently had done little to soften her husband’s stubborn heart. She could only hope he’d read her list and think long and hard about who she was and what she wanted as a woman. Otherwise, she’d have to move into the lonely chamber next to Sidmouth until she produced an heir. Then she’d leave him to his boring, ordered existence.
Chapter Eight
Sidmouth staredat the carved medallion on the ceiling over the huge ducal dressing closet and pondered what he’d just read. Whilst he worked himself furiously with a bar of sandalwood-scented soap in a tub full of sudsy, hot water. His valet must think him mad to have demanded such luxury close to midnight.
By the time this farce of a dance he and his duchess were executing was over, everyone on the estate would know just how far the mighty Duke of Sidmouth had fallen. He admitted the sad fact. He’d fallen in love with his demented duchess who was still ensconced several hundred yards away, in another abode. Not that far, but there might as well have been a bloody ocean between them. When he finally found his release, he howled into the silent night air. And by God, he didn’t care who heard him.
Times like this made him say a selfish prayer of thanks that he was a duke. He could do what he damned well pleased. And no one would make an untoward comment. Not if they wanted to keep their head on their shoulders.
After reading the “list” she’d left before fleeing back to her cottage, he’d been tempted to burn the damned thing. In fact, he still might. He’d have to carry the now crumpled paper around on his person to ensure no one ever found her crazed demands and read them. He himself had crushed the letter up into a ball and flung the blasted thing to the farthest corner of his bed chamber after the first reading.
The second and third reading, however, (after he’d retrieved the strange missive) had begun to make sense. That he blamed on the bottle of chilled champagne he’d finished on his own, as well as the bucket of oysters, which he now regretted. However, he had a plan. When the alcohol had worn off by mid-morning, he would have his mare, Lucy, saddled up and he’d head over to Rose Cottage. His old friend, Captain Thorne, had helped him through a bad patch before. Maybe he should show him the list. He’d agree with him no sane man would let his wife dictate such mad terms, and that would be that.
He really missed Lieutenant Bourne, Harriet’s husband, who was always a steady head in a crisis. He’d not yet met the man’s father, Major Liam Bourne, late of one of His Majesty’s foot regiments out of Dublin, who’d moved into Rose Cottage with Captain Thorne. The time definitely had come for a trip over to that side of the estate.
When he finally staggered from the tub and wrapped himself in a long linen sheet, he fell onto his bed and immediately to sleep.
Jane never thoughtshe’d see Christina Sparrow again in this life, let alone in the flesh at Bocollyn. Yet there she was sitting beneath a tree, reading from the play they’d be performing the following week. She looked up with an impudent grin when Jane kicked at her foot with one of her boots.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Jane.”
“Why are you here?” Jane fairly hissed in an angry tone.
“Because you need me.”
“How did you lie your way into the Algernons’ troupe?”
“Oh, that? That was easy. You know I’m the best illustrator in London. They needed an artist for the backdrops, and I made my services quite reasonable.”
Jane also knew she was a popular caricaturist who was all the rage in the London gossip sheets. She signed her tattling caricatures with a sweeping “C. Sparrow” that bespoke the most outrageous sketches in the city. If Sidmouth knew who she really was, he’d never forgive Jane for not warning him.
“I’m perfectly fine. You might as well return to the city.”
She jerked away when Christina rose and moved close. “You don’t love him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Why else are you not even living under his roof, let alone sharing his bed?”
“It’s complicated,” Jane insisted. “You have to leave. I can’t have you here.”
You might as well get used to my presence. I’m not leaving until I’m convinced you’re happy.” She took a grape and rolled it carefully around her lips and tongue before chewing and swallowing.
Jane shuddered with revulsion. “Not that it’s any of your business, but what if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll have to persuade you to come back with me to my townhouse in London. I make a very comfortable living as C. Sparrow. No one knows the truth of who I really am.” She threw Jane a piercing, wicked smile, like a cat who had just swallowed a pet bird. “Or what I really am.” With that, she picked up a bunch of grapes and strolled away toward Bocollyn House where the rest of the actors had gone to continue work on setting up a stage in the ballroom.
Jane clenched and unclenched her hands, hating herself for feeling as defenseless as she had as a child of fifteen.