Dukes Prefer Blondes (The Dressmakers 4)

When at length he broke the kiss, he said, “I am going to be masterful, after all. This will be our last night together for a time, and that is not what I had planned. I am greatly displeased with the disruption of my neatly laid plots and stratagems.” He treated her to a leer, and she giggled. “Therefore,” he went on, “I, the Marquess of Bredon, command you, my lady wife, to send your maid to bed and place your person entirely at my disposal and whim.”

“Only my person, you shallow man?” She spoke haughtily but couldn’t conceal her blush, or the anticipatory shiver.

“My lord,” he corrected. “And you cannot be so henwitted as to think I married you for your mind.”

She stiffened. “That’s exactly what I did think.”

“Your mind is a negligible commodity,” he said. “I married you for lust.”

“Where is that set of heavy silver pots and such that Bernard sent us?” she said. “I mean to throw every piece of it at you.”

“That sounds exciting,” he said as he started unfastening the back of her dress. “I also married you to save you from yourself. Otherwise who knows what self-­destructive course you’d set upon. Run away to live in a tent. Marry Bernard. ‘Someone has to save this girl,’ I told myself, ‘and since she has fine breasts and other womanly parts—­and seems capable of learning a few simple skills—­the someone might as well be me.’ ”

“The silver ser­vice and the Sèvres,” she said. “All five hundred pieces of it.”

The following afternoon

For their private farewell, Radford and Clara lingered in the sitting room that adjoined his study. In a short time, he’d take leave of his parents and Westcott.

“I’ll be gone no longer than a fortnight,” he said. “I had everything in train before I left. Sanborne is more than competent. The agent Dursley has worked for the family this age, and he knows his business when let to do it without interference. It’s only a matter of the funeral and laying down the law to the family. Everybody will be acting terribly bereaved in between demanding this, that, and the other to soothe their wounded feelings. But they’ll have to address their sorrows and discontents to Westcott, who’s more than capable of deciding what tone to take with whom. It’s a pity you can’t come with me, and treat the other Radfords to your terrifying duchess persona, but that will have to wait for another time.”

“I’m not in the least terrifying,” Clara said.

“Do you think not? When you come all over the duchess with me, I quake in my boots.”

“That is not where you quake,” she said. And blushed.

She knew he found her autocratic manner arousing.

Well, he found many other aspects of her arousing, too, so it was an easy guess.

He drew her into his arms for one last embrace before they joined the others downstairs. He held her for a long time, burying his face in her neck, and dislodging her silk scarf in the process.

When at length he pulled himself away, it was he, not she, who restored the scarf. While he did so he said, “I’m not such a dunderhead as to tell you what to do while I’m gone. Of all women, you know what needs to be done and how to do it. But I will tell you what not to do.”

She gave him a look of innocent perplexity that did not deceive him for a moment.

“You’re not to pursue the Case of the Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy,” he said.

“How on earth would I do that?” she said. “When should I find time to do it? I have a house in London to fit out and staff from eight miles away. I must fight off the hordes who’ll be trying to beat down the doors here. I must keep my mother as sane as possible. Or maybe it’s better to keep her very busy. I must deal with Their Majesties—­”

“I can only hope this is enough to occupy you,” he said. “Leave it to the servants to look out for intruders. If you go out, be sure you have Davis and a manservant with you.”

“My dear, that is the way I normally travel,” she said, with audible patience. “A lady never goes out unattended. I only made an exception in your case because—­oh, I forget why. The wayward curl on your forehead distracted me, perhaps.”

A footman came to tell them the carriage was ready.

“You’d better make haste,” Clara said.

“You’re in a shocking hurry to be rid of me,” he said.

“If I were you, I’d be gone before my parents get here,” she said.

He knew she’d written to her parents yesterday with the news and urged them to postpone visiting until his father’s nerves had time to absorb the shock. She hadn’t felt certain, however, that her mother’s state of euphoria wouldn’t overwhelm any good intentions of respecting the elderly gentleman’s nerves.

“I doubt you’ll enjoy Mama’s smothering you with affection,” she said. “But more important—­the sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be back.”

“Yes.” He gave her one more kiss—­passionate, desperate, and frustrated—­which she returned in the same spirit.

Last night they’d made love, fiercely first, and gently and tenderly afterward. They’d talked and talked. It wasn’t enough.

They’d had so little time together as man and wife, and a fortnight seemed a much longer time now, when it meant being away from her, than it used to do.

When they broke the kiss, he didn’t let go. “Remember,” he said. “No playing sleuth.”

“Did I not promise to obey?” she said. “Before witnesses?”

“You had footnotes,” he said.

“And when you return, I’ll tell you all about them.” She cupped his face and kissed him once more, so tenderly. This time he let her go, albeit slowly.

Once more he arranged the scarf whose perfection he’d disturbed.

How he wished . . . but wishes belonged to the realm of magic, a place with which he had no desire to become acquainted.

He stepped back.

“Am I all quite correct now, my lord?” Her blue eyes glinted with humor . . . and something else. Ah, yes, affection that made his heart squeeze tight.

“You’ll do,” he said.

“Then come, take your leave of the Duke and Duchess of Malvern, Lord Bredon.”

Two hours later, Westcott was staring aghast at Clara.

“The Coppys?” he said. “Now?”

They’d adjourned to the sitting room, where she and Westcott had reviewed some general matters relating to Malvern House. Then she’d asked for news of Bridget and Toby Coppy.

“As soon as may be,” she said. “I hope you haven’t lost them. Mr. Radford—­that is to say, Lord Bredon—­told me you’d find an apprenticeship for Toby and lodgings for them, well away from their mother.”

“I haven’t lost them, my lady,” Westcott said. “The boy’s working at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where he was cared for. But finding him an apprenticeship isn’t easy. All anybody needs to hear is where he’d been before the hospital, and they become leery. The decent tradesmen do, at any rate. The more dubious sort will take anybody, but such positions would not be in his best interests.”

“Did you say he was working?”

Westcott explained. Once the boy recovered, he insisted on helping at the hospital. “He isn’t the cleverest fellow, but he follows instructions well, and will do whatever is asked of him. He mops the floors or the patients’ brows.”

“Not with the same implement, I hope,” Clara said.

“It’s a hospital,” Westcott said. “I can promise nothing. I can only tell you what’s reported to me: He works hard, is happy to be paid with food and a place to sleep. He’s extremely reluctant to leave.”

“Who can blame him?” she said. “Anybody who escaped the police raid will know we came looking for him. They’ll blame Toby for leading the police to them. One of the escapees, I understand, was Jacob Freame.”

“Yes, m

y lady, and I believe that’s a subject Lord Bredon would wish left out of our conversation. In any event, Freame is dead. Fever, we’re told.”

“Who told you?” she said.

“My esteemed colleague’s habitual skepticism has infected your mind,” Westcott said.

She regarded him patiently.

“That’s what’s said on the streets, according to our informers,” Westcott said.

“I hope it’s true,” she said, remembering Stuffed-­Cheeks Boy. “Whether it is or it isn’t, you’ll have to dislodge Toby from the hospital. I want him here with me. Bridget, too.”