The Wyndham Legacy (Legacy 1)

When the Duchess entered the library the following Friday morning, looking for Marcus, she paused on the threshold, listening to him sing. His voice was a mellow base, not as beautiful as Spears’s, but very nice nonetheless. He was singing the bawdy sailors’ song.

He turned as he finished the last line, and grinned at her. “Isn’t that a wonderful ditty?”

“It’s certainly graphic. Th

e tune is nice, don’t you think?”

“Actually,” he said looking down at his thumbnail, and worrying at it a bit, “I don’t much like the tune at all. I was just thinking that I could have done much better. I have a talent, you know, for music, for tunes specifically, especially tunes for bawdy words and verses. I wish I knew the man who writes these songs. We could form a partnership. It’s a pity. These wonderful words and rhymes, and they must be sung with these miserable tunes.”

“Miserable! That’s ridiculous, they’re superb, well, not all of them, but most are quite acceptable, even occasionally exceptional. As for the “Sailor’s Shore Song,” I’ve heard that it’s already sung everywhere, that it’s popular, nearly beyond popular, and it won’t be forgotten. It will live forever in the King’s Navy. There, so much for your criticisms, Marcus. Miserable indeed.”

“It’s not bad, as I said, but I doubt it will be remembered beyond next month, beyond October at the very latest, surely not after my birthday. Why I’ve very nearly forgotten it already, particularly the tune.”

She picked up a thick tome of Tom Jones that was laid atop a marquetry table, and hurled it at him. He caught it handily, remarking, “Goodness, I hadn’t realized that TomJones was so heavy. Such a light tale for so many pages. Just like those silly ditties, so very light they are, meaningless really, just brief stupid diversions. And without sharp and bright tunes to make them memorable. Such a pity I don’t know the fellow who writes them. Poor thing, trying to survive without the valuable assistance of such a talent as mine.”

She turned red, looked about for another thick book, didn’t see one, and began running at him, hopping actually, because she was trying to pull off her left slipper.

She forgot the ribbons. When she looked down and tried to pull the bow free, she succeeded only in knotting the ribbon all the more. She cursed and he laughed. She shrieked at him even as she sat on the floor and began furiously pulling at the bloody knot, “You wretched sod! Those ditties are wonderful! How many do you know, anyway?”

He looked down at her there on the floor—utterly enraged, not at all the old Duchess, but his precious new Duchess, and she would surely kill him if she ever got that slipper unknotted—and he looked back to his thumbnail, saying in a drawling voice and enraging her all the more, “Oh, I suspect I know all of them, more’s the pity, since they aren’t really all that well done, just sort of well done, barely on the edge of being well done. Yes, I do know all of them.”

“That’s impossible, you sod. I know Spears is always singing them, but certainly you can’t know more than just a few, not more than five at the very most.”

The thumbnail received more concentrated study. He said, “I’ve been thinking I should go to Hookhams and see if they can’t give me this Coots fellow’s direction. Being a man, he’s probably reasonable and would look at my offer of partnership as a gift from God. What do you think, Duchess? Ah, that knot is stubborn, isn’t it? Do you want me to help you? No? I see, you’re going to try the other one. It’s about time. Anger is just fine, but the outlet for it is more important. Without the outlet, what is anger anyway?”

She’d switched to the right foot and the bow melted apart in her fingers. She jerked off the slipper, leapt to her feet, and ran right at him.

He was laughing when she began hitting his chest with the slipper, then he gathered her against him, pinning her arms at her sides. He nuzzled the side of her neck, whispering in her ear, “Do you think I should write to this fellow Coots? Inform him that I’ll make him a success? Surely he’s barely surviving now. What do you think, Duchess?”

“Damn you, what if Coots isn’t a man at all? I don’t suppose you ever considered that, did you? Not everything that’s creative or original, or, or, clever and imaginative is done by men, you witless sod.”

He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, but was careful not to let her free. “But of course it is, sweetheart. Face it, you’re a woman, an above-average woman, a beautiful gracious woman whom I love, but still, just a woman and surely you must recognize that this Coots is a man with a man’s talents, woeful though they be with regard to the tunes themselves. But only a man could produce songs that actually were worth something.”

She growled, red-faced, utterly furious at him, and he began to laugh. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Suddenly she became utterly still.

“You know.”

“Know what?” He laughed harder.

“You know all about Coots.”

“Of course I do, goose.” He stopped laughing, hugged her so tightly against him that her ribs creaked. “Lord, I’m very, very proud of you.”

“I could have hurt you throwing Tom Jones at you.”

“Yes, you could have knocked my head off, but you didn’t.”

“I wish you’d stop laughing at me, Marcus.”

“I did, just a moment ago. But you deserved it. You should have told me about R. L. Coots and the wonderful success you’ve gained. You should have told me when I first visited you at Pipwell Cottage and accused you of being kept by a man. Your pride, madam, makes me want to strangle you, that is, if I didn’t have the same pride myself. Tell me, is there another song in the works?”

“Yes,” she said, studying her own thumbnail, “but I seem to be having trouble with the tune. The words are clever, truly, but the tune is floundering.”

He looked down at her, cupped her chin in his palm and kissed her, then just looked some more. He was thinking about those pearls and which was more luminous, the pearls or her breasts.

“All right, Marcus, either we go to the music room right now and you prove your mettle else I’ll never let you forget it, never.”

“Let’s go,” he said, then lifted her, set her on his desk and put her slipper back on her foot and deftly tied the ribbon. “Shall I knot the ribbon on that brutal slipper, or have you regained your control?”