Her Mystery Duke (29 page)

David touched the pages. “May I read this?”

“It will seem incoherent. They are just sketches to capture
my ideas. It will take some work to shape them into something worth reading by
others.”

He picked the papers up and sat and read through them. Her
throat drew tight. She hated moments like these. The moment of judgment.

He looked up. “You write very well.”

She shrugged. “Those are just sketches, as I said.”

He studied her. “You’re not satisfied with them?”

“It is not a question of satisfaction. I had to write them.”

“But now that you have, are you going to seek publication
for them?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“In your stories that were published in that man’s
newspaper—”

“Mr. Ratherford?”

“Yes, those stories. I noticed there is never a moral, a
deeper message.”

“Most fairy stories seem to me to be giving the message that
the world is dangerous and children should behave or something terrible will
happen to them. They present the moral of fear. I wanted to give children
something to make them laugh, to make them wonder about the more pleasant
possibilities in life. Childhood should be a time of fun and happiness.”

His expression grew tender. “Because of your own troubled
childhood?”

“Perhaps. I mean, is it so wrong to want to give others
pleasure?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it. But I don’t think it
should be the sole focus of your talents.”

His statement washed over her like icy rain. “David, my
writing is my life apart from you. That’s my area of independence. You cannot
judge me as an authoress. You cannot invade my privacy like that.”

“Invade your privacy? Jeanne, we’re a little more than a
duke and his mistress. We’re lovers. We should be able to talk about every part
of each other’s lives. We should share our lives.”

“I can’t believe you’d attack me in this way.”

He raised his brows. “Attack you?”

“Yes, I told you about Bernard. The things he said about my writing
and how his words prevented me from writing for a time. It was very hard to
share that humiliation with you. How could you turn around and do the same
thing?”

“This is different, Jeanne. I am not a rejected lover trying
to attack and hurt you. I care deeply for you. I can’t help but think you could
do so much more with your talents. It is hard for me not to think profoundly
about what would further your development in all ways.”

“You think profoundly about my development as a writer?
Why?”

“I think it is the path to your greatest happiness and
satisfaction. Today is the first I have seen you writing since you came to live
here.”

“I couldn’t help it. The theatre filled my mind with ideas.”

“But why did you stop before?”

Her chest tightened. She caressed the feather on her quill,
sliding her fingers over the texture. “I just did.”

“You must have had a reason. Tell me.”

It proved harder now to hide things from him, especially
when he asked a direct question. That was the price of intimacy and one she’d made
peace with. Still such moments could feel very uncomfortable, like having a
tooth cracked open, exposing its inflamed core. “I suppose now I don’t need to
write at all. I wrote before to earn money so I could get away from bedding men
I didn’t care for. Now I have a man I care for very much who cares for me and
provides me with a very nice life.”

“But surely that’s not going to be enough for you.”

He could be so relentless. She couldn’t look at him. “Why
shouldn’t it be?”

“You’ll want to write again.”

“Yes, I wrote today.” She couldn’t keep the defensiveness
out of her tone.

“No, I mean you’ll want to be published again. And when you
do, I think you should aim your sights higher and challenge yourself.”

“Challenge myself?” Her tone sounded a little distracted in
her own ears. She was weary, too tired for such emotional discussions. She was
also feeling hunted and she wanted to hide.

“Yes, you should write more complex stories suited for
adults. You could choose to highlight a social cause.”

“Such as?”

“Better treatment for insane persons.”

His words put a queasy feeling into her stomach. Her heart
began to pound harder. “I can’t write complex, serious stories for adults.”

“Why not?”

He was so exacting lately. Every inch the commanding duke,
he had closed himself to any sympathy for her. Just looking at his stern visage
made her blood colder. She took the only position she could, one of
self-defense. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Because I am just piece of
fluff, a girl who couldn’t manage to keep a position as a servant and only
found the way to survive by letting men bed her. I am not some bluestocking who
wants to dabble in politics and change the world. I just want to entertain
people.”

* * * *

Jeanne’s words were like a stab into David’s own heart. Her
defiant expression didn’t help. “You are not a whore, you are my mine, so
completely mine that I know you could never give yourself to anyone else
again.”

Her defiance softened. “Yes, of course, now.”

“Now is all that matters.”

“You don’t understand. I have nothing to offer people in the
way of moral lessons on how to view the insane. I abandoned my own father to an
asylum.”

“I think the increased frequency of your nightmares is
related to your dissatisfaction with your writing. It’s the guilt. I know. I
had similar dreams after Thérèse’s illness became so terrible. You still blame
yourself about your father and there is no need. Doing something real to help
the insane will help you lance that festering boil of guilt you carry around.”

Her eyes were wide. She had taken hold of the edge of her
chair. Her knuckles went stark white. “No, I can’t bear it, David. I don’t want
to think about the insane any more than I have to.”

“Hiding from the issue won’t help you. Not in the long
term.”

She turned away. “You probably don’t realize this, but I
live in a dead fear, each day, that I will encounter some insane person. I
constantly observe others for signs of madness and I avoid anyone
questionable.”

He could feel her tension as she waited for him to react in
shock to her words. However, her declaration didn’t surprise him. He knew she
hid. But he also believed she was capable of great strength, great courage.

“Jeanne, sometimes our world appears to be nothing but
shades and variations of insane persons to me. It is just the way of things. We
have to accept people as they are. We have to try and be tolerant.”

“Yes, this is why I avoid so many people. I don’t have your
tolerance.”

David’s heart contracted but being soft on her now wouldn’t
help. “You cannot live like that. That’s like being shut away forever in your
dreadful garret.”

“Is it so terrible?” She flashed a defiant glance at him.

“It is not a very compassionate view.”

Her lip curled, slightly. “And you’re always compassionate?”

“I try to be.”

Her defiance crumpled, replaced by a more tender expression.
“It must be exhausting. People are draining.”

The sympathy in her voice made him feel awkward. He did his
duty, nothing more, nothing less. It could be draining, yes, but there was no
cause for sympathy.

She studied him at length. “We’re very different, you and I.
We’ll never understand each other.”

“You really believe that we’ll never understand each other?”

She stuck her chin out and her gaze became cooler. Distant.
“No, we can’t. We come from different places. We think in different ways.”

“That’s a very fatalistic view.”

“I don’t mean to be fatalistic. I only want to keep a
realistic view.”

“A realistic view of what?”

“Of us and what we can expect from each other. From the
future.”

He didn’t know what to say to her that could soften that
hard little jut to her chin, the defensive look in her eye. He’d tried
everything he knew to do. So he changed the subject. “I am taking a journey to
Scotland, to tour a very progressive asylum. I want you to come with me. I
think that, in doing so, you’ll come into greater contact with your own
compassion once more.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I shall be with you every moment. And you won’t have to tour
in the areas where the violent patients are kept. I would never do that to you.
But I think it could help you to overcome some of what you feel about the past.
Confronting a fear can often be the first step in alleviating it.” She drew
herself into a tight ball by drawing her feet up and putting her knees to her
chin. “No, I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t even consider it?”

“I mean I cannot possibly consider it. You simply must
understand. I really am that girl, that piece of fluff who writes fluffy fairy
stories with no real purpose or moral. That’s who I am at my most basic level.”

“I’ll never believe that.”

“It is the truth. It is what you wanted, remember?”

“It is no longer enough.”

“Why?”

“Because I want a true partnership between us. I want you to
support the work of my daily life, that’s what I want.”

She glanced up, her expression stricken. “David, that sounds
very much like the description of a wife.”

“Does it? And does the prospect frighten you so much? Is
that why you’re looking at me like that?”

“Yes it does.”

“Why?”

“Because we should not tempt fate.”

“What nonsense, Jeanne.”

“I would disappoint you. You would expect—”

“Then meet my expectations. Be what I need you to be.”

“I don’t want to be anything other than what I am. Who I
am.”

He couldn’t deny the immediate sense of disappointment. It
certainly didn’t bode well that she didn’t even have the courage to face a mere
discussion of marriage. How would she face the difficulties inherent in a
marriage to a peer if she couldn’t even discuss it without blanching?

Perhaps she didn’t wish to contemplate the issue. That was
even more discouraging.

She placed her hand to head. “I don’t feel so well. I think
I’d like to be alone tonight.”

Oh, he’d recognized the signs. The heavy flannel nightdress
she wore. She hadn’t wanted to be intimate even before they quarreled. But he
did find himself enjoying, more and more, those nights when they simply lay in
her bed and cuddled. She would place her icy feet on the top of his own and
chatter to him about daydreams and nonsense until they fell asleep.

It appeared their lovemaking would be on hold until they
sorted out the larger question of their future.

Without a word, he left her chamber. He would use this free
evening to visit his club and catch up on everything he’d neglected of late.
But as he walked from her house to the mews, he wondered if this quarrel were
the start of the end of them.

* * * *

Jeanne sat in the coffee shop on the corner, watching people
and trying to clear the memories of last night from her mind. Two cups of
steaming chocolate hadn’t helped. All she could think of was how David wouldn’t
like her to be here.

Ladies didn’t frequent public rooms.

She wasn’t a lady, however.

David said she was as good as any lady he knew and should treat
herself accordingly. Still he hadn’t forbidden her to come here. He just made
it known he didn’t like the idea. Maybe she came here to maintain some
independence. She wasn’t sure.

“Miss Darling.”

She glanced up. Lord Toovey stood there. He smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back. No gentleman should approach another
gentleman’s mistress like this. It wasn’t proper. “David says I shouldn’t speak
to you. He says you’re not to be trusted.”

“I am not surprised. Of course he says that, Jeanne. He
hates me over what happened with Thérèse.”

“Is this a chance meeting, Lord Toovey?”

“No, I stopped by your house and you were gone. And your
housekeeper told me you’d come here.”

Why would Mrs. Wilson tell a stranger something like that?
Jeanne studied the lines of Toovey’s face. He was handsome in a boyish way. He
was titled. Yes, of course he could have charmed her housekeeper. Well, Jeanne
would have to have strong words with Mrs. Wilson about something like this. Her
first chastisement of a house servant. Her stomach flipped with anxiety at the
prospect. Goodness, she’d never imagined facing such a situation. What must it
be like to have to manage a full staff in a house like David’s? She shrank from
the mere thought. Right now, she had more pressing worries.

“You’ve come here in vain. I am not going to speak with
you.”

Toovey’s expression sobered. “Please, don’t give me this
coldness. I am sorry for any trouble I caused you over that silly cartoon.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“It was something between me and David—our old foolish
rivalry—and I feel terrible over it now. I didn’t think it would cause you any
harm. I have heard it did.”

Despite herself, Jeanne felt a softening towards him.
Perhaps he did feel badly. Maybe he wasn’t the arch villain David had described
him as. “Well, never mind. It all turned out for the best.”

“I am glad to hear that. It was all politics. Nothing
personal—or at least nothing personal against you.” He grinned.

“I have to leave.” She stood.

He reached for her hand and held it. “Please, I ask again,
don’t give me this coldness.”

“Let go of me.”

“Please, Miss Darling, I’ve said that I feel badly about
that cartoon. I had it made up simply to get under Hartley’s skin. He is so
much the proper, dignified duke, he hates any kind of controversy or public
jesting like that. He takes his political career far too seriously and spends
far too little time simply enjoying the pleasures and privileges that are
available to him as a duke. For Christ’s sake, he seems to believe he owes some
kind of service to the public in exchange for the happy luck of being born to
rank and wealth.”