Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (9 page)

“Very well.” The two words were as curt as hers had been, and even though he inclined his head the duke still did not appear to be relieved. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

Despite the insult and the lack of apology, Elena was sure he felt the same carnal attraction she did. He could
not
have forgotten that kiss. Surely not.

Of course, he remembered the kiss and that was why he was so irritated
. The thought struck her with such force that she almost said it aloud.

He did not know what do with this attraction either. Not when he worried that she might be an enemy. Or did he think to put her off by behaving abominably? She pressed her hands to her heart.

“Good night, signora.” He did not bow, but he did take two steps toward the door.

“That, Your Grace, is running away.” She sat. “You are free to run, but you have yet to address the other reason you came this evening.”

“Preserving my privacy was the only reason.” He had his hand on the latch.

“Please sit down.” It was like combing a knot out of her hair to make this man be honest about his feelings.

“No, I will not sit down. I am not one to be ordered about like a pet dog.”

She rose and closed the distance between them. “At least be honest enough to admit this: that our kiss last
night reminded us there is life still to be lived. You are as afraid of what you feel as you are of what I can reveal about you.”

His eyes brightened. Her own heart fluttered and she smiled at the undeniable draw she felt.

“Signora, are you trying to seduce me?”

Not dismay. It was pleased surprise she heard in his voice.

“Provoking me is a unique approach.”

“I am not seducing you, you arrogant fool. Is there nothing in your world between honest conversation and seduction?” She shook her head on a breath of annoyance and moved back into the room away from where he stood, away from his spell.

“Leave then.” She waved a hand at him and wished he would disappear. He stayed at the door as if he had not understood that she was dismissing him.

“So, you want me to leave because you do not want a lover.” The duke spoke as though he was trying to reason with a half-wit.

“Yes. I assure you that if I wanted a lover, I could have had my pick tonight.”

He let her statement hang in the air for a moment, so that it embarrassed her to have been so crass.

“In fact, all you want from me now is the confession that I feel the attraction between us?”

“Yes,” she said with some force. “Admit it. Be honest with yourself and admit that is the real reason you came to call so late in the evening.”

He smiled, his eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped
to her lips. She stood very still as he took a step so they were closer than propriety would tolerate.

He did not touch her, but her lips tingled. He raised his eyes to hers.
Yes, I do want you. I want to undress you with more than my eyes, to hold you with more than my gaze, to touch more than your hand
.

It was the truth that she had demanded but with it came a hunger that was as exciting as it was surprising. This man, whose face rarely showed any of what he was thinking, could excite her with no more than his gaze. Attraction was too weak a word to describe what she felt. She looked away, afraid of what he could read in her eyes.

“Good night once again, Signora Verano.” Taking her hand, he bowed over it, did not kiss it or even caress her palm.

Meryon was halfway to the door before he turned, bowed again, and spoke one last time. “When you are ready to take a lover, signora, do let me know.”

M
ERYON THOUGHT
about Elena Verano all the way back to Penn House. His imagination played with wild fantasies of taking her then and there in her salon, of claiming her before any other man realized that her singing revealed only a little of the passion awaiting a lover.

Instead of ensuring her cooperation, he’d aggravated her, nearly driven her from the room.

He could still see her standing there, her elegant body calling to him as surely as her righteous anger ordered him to leave, then saying she did not want a lover, but insisting that he acknowledge the attraction.

Shifting on the seat, he pretended his arousal made him uncomfortable. But, if he thought honestly, he would have to credit Signora Verano with another truth that made him as restless as a schoolboy called to account.

He’d behaved without examing his reasons carefully, not even considering the propriety of such a late-night call. He’d acted on impulse, damn it. He thought he’d done with that when he left his twenties.

Penn Square was dark and quiet, though most of the houses were still alive with light. The Penn House night porter came out promptly, lowered the steps, and bowed to him with a comforting familiarity. Meryon nodded, still lost in thought.

He’d gone to her house without understanding the true reason why. Yes, he did need to protect his reputation, but he could have done that far more discreetly. He could have waited for a more opportune time.

Halfway across the great hall to the staircase, the porter’s cough distracted him.

“Your hat, Your Grace?”

“Oh, yes.” He took off his hat and greatcoat, handing them to the porter along with his cane. The servant looked mildly concerned.

“I am preoccupied, tonight.”

“But of course, Your Grace.”

The man was so surprised that Meryon wondered if he had ever spoken to the night porter before. Surely he had at some point.

The porter’s unquestioning acceptance reminded Meryon of Elena Verano’s diatribe: “No one questions you; you are never at fault.” And yes, here was his porter making excuses for him. He would have to note how often that happened.

The door to the formal salon remained open, reminding him of the days when he would invite friends back
after a ball or some late-night gaming. He should tell the majordomo that there was no need to continue that tradition.

He stepped into the room. Rowena’s portrait hung over the fireplace and he looked up at it, his hands behind his back.

He had not taken time to look at it since he’d come back from France.

Studying it now, he understood why. It represented how well she had suited the role of duchess. In the blue satin gown, wearing pearls and tiara, she appeared elegant, gracious, calm, and charming, but the portrait had failed to capture her essence.

The artist had not captured Rowena’s naive sweetness, the natural friendliness that he thought of as her most delightful trait. That was what had endeared her to the ton.

Those qualities had balanced his sober formality perfectly. Their union had always been civil and almost always comfortable, and until tonight he would have said happy, but now he realized that one crucial element had kept them from true happiness.

Never once in eleven years had he forgotten to leave his hat at the front door. Rowena had never confused him or made him think or made him so angry he’d behaved stupidly.

There had been no passion in their marriage.

He had denied her that. Burdened with regret, he bowed to her portrait. It was time to move the painting to Derbyshire, to Pennford, where it would hang next to his. As someday he would lie beside her in the cemetery there.
Meryon wiped the wet from his eyes and hoped that heaven gave her everything that she had not had in this life.

He left the salon, walking more slowly now, not hearing the two footmen who set about closing the grand salon for the night, not noticing the new statue that had arrived and been placed that day, so lost in thought he stood at the door to his study and stared at the panels as if it took all his energy to accept the truth.

Passion held the key to a well-lived life. Not just lust, but passion in so many other areas: music, sport, poetry, food. A passion for justice. That issue had consumed his life these past months. Until tonight.

He had allowed himself to be drawn into an argument with a woman who understood better than he did the attraction that simmered between them. Now lust shouted at him, and he knew that one kiss would never be enough.

E
LENA, YOU MUST
admit the duke had a very clever parting line.”

“He was not exiting a stage.” Elena stopped pulling the pins from her hair and let the chill show in her voice as she answered her ward. “Our conversation was private, Mia, or should have been. You are eighteen, old enough to understand that.”

“I could not help but hear.” The girl did not look or sound the slightest bit contrite. “I was in the small room next to the salon. You know it’s not possible to leave there except through the room you were in.” Her voice mixed apology and petulance.

“Tell me, how did you happen to be in there?” She was almost afraid to ask. “That room is no good for anything more than storage. And I thought no one could open the window.”

“To be honest,” Mia said, as though making a huge concession, “I was hiding from Tinotti. He and the Signora wanted me to help them inventory the wine.”

“At ten o’clock?”

“They insisted on waiting for you to come home and wanted to use the time sensibly. I told them it would burn too many candles. I did offer to teach them that game of cards we learned on the ship coming here. But they said no. They are always trying to make me do the things a servant does. They are the servants, not me.”

“Mia, you know better than that. They are much more than servants. Part of the family, as you are.”

“Yes,” she conceded grudgingly, “but you did not
hire
me. I am your ward now that both my father and Eduardo have died.”

“Yes,
cara
, and I realized quickly that you have a passion for mischief.” Elena pulled out the last pin and shook her hair free. Her headache disappeared almost completely. “I suppose it is too late to try to cure you of that.”

Elena could not help smiling at Mia’s prideful nod.

“So,” Mia said, circling back to her original question. “The duke is one of those quiet volcanoes the novels talk about. A man who is proper in public but not in private.”

Mia lay on top of the bed, her knees bent under her, in a position that would have been more than painful for anyone else. Her body was supple in a way that defied description. She proved it by moving to her knees in one
graceful movement. Elena prayed that it never occurred to Mia how much money she could make as a dancer or in a circus.

“Would you consider taking him as a lover?”

“What is your governess letting you read, Mia? That is a totally inappropriate question.”

“Yes, I know. But would you?”

“Never.” She answered with as much conviction as she could muster. “I am here so you can have your Season, not to indulge in an affair of the heart. A happy marriage is all that your father ever wanted for you.” It was a convenient explanation and almost the truth.

“Or you could marry him, Elena. He is a duke. Think how many gorgeous jewels he would give you.”

He is a duke
. That one word stood for all the reasons she should avoid him. “I have no need or desire to marry for jewels or money.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The girl sighed.

“Your disdain is unbecoming in one so young.” The realization that this child did not begin to understand what was important, even after losing both her father and her much-loved guardian, pained Elena as much as the child’s cynicism.

Elena undid the pearl earrings that Edward had given her on the day they had known each other for a year. “I do enjoy beauty in all its material forms but, Mia, do believe me when I say that jewels and clothes are not essential to happiness.”

“I believe that is true for you, Elena, but nothing would make me happier than someone who would give
me a jewel or a clock or a coach or horses, and a duke could certainly afford all those and not even notice the money was gone.”

That gave Elena pause. Despite headache and fatigue this subject could not be dropped. “We have not talked about this before, but you must understand that there is a difference between taking a lover and being a kept woman.”

Elena tightened the sash of her robe and came to sit next to Mia. “As a widow, then and only then, it is socially acceptable for a woman to establish a liaison with a gentleman.”

She paused a moment. Yes, a lover could give her the physical fulfillment she missed, but she never thought to find the kind of understanding she and Edward had shared.

“Yes, I know that. Go on.”

At least the girl was listening. “To become a man’s mistress is the complete opposite. In exchange for money and gifts you allow a man to command all of your time and attention, whenever he wants. A mistress must be ready for him at his whim, have no thought but to please him, no matter what he asks for.” Elena shuddered at the thought. She went back to the dressing table and began to brush out her hair. “I feel depraved for even mentioning such subjects, but let us blame it on my years in Italy.”

“But of course, I meant a husband. Of course,” Mia insisted. “How wicked of you to think that I meant something else.”