Page 8 of The Duke's List

When the door opened, Harriet’s footman, John Thomas appeared. “Her Grace and Mrs. Bourne would like you to join them for tea with the actors’ troupe in the orchard.”

Sidmouth took off his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. He leaned back in his desk chair and stared through the window to the kitchen garden and the clear, blue-sky October day beyond. Cotton puff clouds lazed along the horizon out on the Channel. “Beautiful day for it. Can’t see why not.” He motioned toward his steward. “Join us, Mr. Oxley?”

The man who had also served his father as steward gave him an affronted look as if he’d requested his presence on a luxury barge headed for London.

“Oh, no, Your Grace. There’s too much work here. You go along. I’ll see to the ledgers.”

Sidmouth surprised even himself. The thought of joining a boisterous crew of actors, his fun-loving cousin and her son, not to mention his distant, maddeningly beautiful wife, shoved aside his usually practical state of mind. He’d join them in the orchard for an afternoon escape from the endless figures associated with keeping his extensive holdings running smoothly, and profitably.

And then there was the matter of his duchess’s acceptance of his invitation to supper that night. He knew she’d gotten his note, but she hadn’t penned an acceptance. On the other hand, she hadn’t said no, either. And besides, the thought of seeing Jane’s dark curls and laughing eyes out in the noon-day sun made parts of his body stand up to attention like they hadn’t since his carousing youth.

The only thing more appealing was the thought of what Jane would look like by candlelight. In his conservatory. In one of her sinful Paris gowns. Sucking on one of Cook’s luscious oysters in butter sauce.

After staring at the numbers in the ledger long enough to coax the highly excitable part of his body to stand down, he stood and rang for his valet. What the hell should a duke wear to an afternoon tea with a crowd of actors in his orchard?

Jane sipped at her tea,dark and strong, the way she liked the hot drink. With the excuse of blowing on her steaming cup, she took the opportunity to stare unnoticed at her husband. He was exchanging tales with Mrs. Algernon, Franny, at the end of a long, plank table several of Bocollyn’s footmen had set up for the tea.

His ginger hair glowed under the sun, and his tanned face bespoke of the long hours he spent riding his lands and talking with the tenant farmers.

He could be charming and had a way with funny stories about his travels. He was regaling the table with an anecdote about their nervous Venetian butler who oversaw the household at the villa they’d secured for their short stay in Venice. He looked up for a short moment and caught her staring. She jerked her eyes away and made a show of dithering and calling to one of the footmen to bring her more hot water.

Underneath the simple riding clothes he wore, she knew a body not unlike a classical Greek statue at the British Museum lurked. She’d seen that body in all its glory in Venice, but her dreams of a sensual partner had evaporated with the morning sun after she’d confided her deepest desires to him. He’d accused her of being a wanton and worse. Although she suspected her passion for horseback riding might be the culprit, he’d accused her of not being a virgin, of having lovers before him. She didn’t bother to deny his accusations because, in a way, they were true. Shehadbeen loved.

Sidmouth was lost.Just one searing look from his absent duchess across a simple plank table had undone him. He could not believe how much he’d botched their honeymoon trip. The look she’d given him when he’d accused her of being a wanton still haunted his dreams. The only excuse for his behavior he could come up with was his father. He’d sounded just like his father. His negative, judgmental, but nonetheless caring father. Nothing Sidmouth had ever done had pleased the man, despite his mother’s best efforts to coax the elder duke to reconcile himself to his rebellious son.

Although he and his father had been close, the man never seemed to understand Sidmouth’s need to insert himself into the workings of their tenants’ farms, to get to know the families who worked the Wyndham lands, to dirty his hands in the dark Wyndham soil.

Next to him, Algernon’s wife Franny leaned her head close. “Your Grace-why not show your wife the inner workings of one of our wagons? I’m sure she hasn’t had the tour yet.” She and Algernon had shown him through the neatly organized structures carrying props, backdrops and hundreds of colorful costumes.

“My wife…” he started and then stopped, tongue-tied like a schoolboy.

“Yes, I’m sure she’d love a tour. Go ask her.”

Sidmouth felt Franny’s small hand press gently against his side. Although it was early November, the day was one of the precious Cornwall late autumnal days that left one breathless and a little teary-eyed. The breeze was cool enough to require a woolen jacket, but the sun was warm.

The nearness to the Channel made the weather so mild, that various species of palm trees grew in Falmouth area gardens. Although the ocean breezes could be cold, the warm Atlantic current kept them mostly free of snow and ice along the coast through the winter.

Mrs. Algernon, clearly the driving force behind the organization of the troupe of actors, was a tiny, bustling, elfin-like woman. Their four tall sons and two daughters seemed a well-blended combination of their parents. He secretly admired the way the family managed to work together in pursuit of a dream they shared with their father.

He rose unsteadily and made a long business of brushing crumbs from his jacket. He feared he was as bad as his ward Nicholas when it came to an insatiable need for ginger biscuits. And then he could procrastinate no longer. He made a brave show of making eye contact with Jane before walking purposely toward her. When she rose from the bench as if to leave, he enclosed her delicate hand in his bear-like paw.

In a low voice, he implored, “Please help me show our guests we’re at least friends.” When she turned back toward him with a blazing smile, he would have given her anything she asked…within reason. But instead, he escorted her toward one of the troupe’s gaudily painted, large enclosed wagons.

Two disparate feelingswarred within Jane. Sidmouth’s warm hand over hers had sent waves of intense need directly to the lower half of her body. However, they still had unfinished business. She’d be damned if she’d spend the rest of her life in a marriage providing a pale imitation of passion.

If she had to give what she was feeling a name, it would be resistance. She had to resist, she had to demand a love that recognized her needs.

“You’re awfully quiet. You really didn’t want this tour, did you?”

She fingered the lace on a gown designed for a play set in the previous century and delayed giving him an answer. Finally, she turned back to him. “What you’ve done here for Nicholas, Nana, and the rest of the family is wonderful, Sidmouth.” She pulled the blue velvet confection closer to her skin and whirled in front of a full-length mirror attached to an inside wall of the wagon.

When he suddenly reached out and touched her cheek, she jerked away and hung the gown back on its hook. “Let’s stop playing a game. What do you want from me? You don’t need to seduce me with a candlelight supper in the conservatory. Just tell me your demands. I’m sure you have many.”

The immediate hurt look that crossed his face and made his eyes tense as if in pain stopped her short.

“Can’t a man invite his wife to supper? That’s all I ask. Once you hear what I have to say, you’re free to live your life as you please.” He stepped closer, too close for her senses to block out the scent of healthy, sun-warmed man and faint lavender soap.

“You’re right.” She took a generous step away. “I’ll be there and look forward to hearing what you have to say.”