The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(23)

He didn’t care if she’d schemed. Not anymore.

“I want my divorce,” she said. “I’ve a future before me.”

“With your American?”

She did not reply, and he watched her as she lit the candles, golden light spreading like starlight through her mahogany curls, her words echoing through him.

He wanted to be her future. Which meant he’d have to win her.

Find a new duchess.

He approached her once more, weaving through the tables.

She met his gaze, unwavering. Proud. “Leave, Haven. Caleb won’t be happy if we open the doors and you’re here. There’s nothing worse for business than a duke.”

Find a new duchess.

“I’ll leave on one condition,” he said, the words coming as quickly as thoughts formed.

She lifted a brow.

“Come with me.”

She laughed, low and long and somehow full of knowledge, as though she knew what he was to do before he knew himself. But then, it had always been that way between them. “And what then?”

“Come to the country. You give me six weeks. Until Parliament is back in session.”

She turned back to the candles. “What is this, some grand plan to woo me again? As though we are in some kind of romantic novel?”

Yes.

He was smart enough to stay quiet.

“We’re not in a romantic novel, Haven. This is not a love story.”

“Because you are in one with your American?”

“Because I’ve no desire to be in one. Ever again.”

Again. He would think on that word another time. Cling to it. “Fine,” he replied. “But you are in a marriage with me, and you vowed to obey.”

She leveled him with a look. “And you vowed to honor.”

“This is my offer. Six weeks, and you get your divorce.” It was a lie, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Her gaze narrowed. “What do you intend to do with six weeks of my company?”

“I intend to put it to good use,” he said, the answer coming even as he spoke it. “I intend for you to find your replacement.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and it was his turn to feel self-satisfied. To feel as though he’d won. His turn to smirk.

“What does that mean?”

“Just what I said,” he replied. “You come to the country and spend six weeks seeking your replacement.”

“You want me to matchmake you.”

He enjoyed the disbelief in her words, the way it helped him to regain his footing. “You must admit, it would save me a great deal of effort.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You do not think such an arrangement would be . . . impractical?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure it would not be at all awkward for the poor poppets eager for the attention of a duke to be closed into a country house, playing charades with his first wife—whom he is about to divorce.”

“I think it would be much more likely that they would find it a relief. After all, if we are able to coexist, perhaps I can avoid the worst of the divorce.”

One sleek brow rose. “You do not think that your dukedom will be a balm to your wretched reputation?”

“I should like them to have proof that I have not mistreated you.”

“Mistreatment is not only external.”

Guilt slammed through him, punctuated by the memory of the sound of the carriage door slamming shut as he sent her away. Of the sound of her tears on the day she returned. Of the sound of the silence that fell when she left him for good.

Not for good, though.

She was back.

He swallowed the emotion and met her gaze. “You want your divorce, do you not?”

She watched him as she seemed to consider her words. Finally, she said, all calm, “I do.”

“Find your replacement, Sera. And it is yours.”

It was a mad plan. Pure idiocy. And he would have been unsurprised if she’d told him so. Still, he held his breath, waiting for her reply, watching the way candlelight flickered over her skin, casting her into light and shadow, a remarkable beauty.

But she did not tell him so. Instead, she nodded her agreement. “Now leave.”

He gave her what she wanted and left without a word, making preparations to woo his wife.





Chapter 8



Season’s Slowest Scandal: Time Marches for Tick Tock Talbot!




April 1833

Three years, four months earlier



“Beethoven?”

Seraphina looked up from the pianoforte to find her sister Sophie across the conservatory, a piece of music in one hand, an expectant look on her face.

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Too bombastic.”

Sophie returned to the stack of music. “Hymns?”

“Too pious.”

“Children’s ballads?”

Sera shook her head.

“Mozart?”

“Too . . . Mozart,” Sera sighed.

Sophie cut her a look. “Oh, yes. No one likes Mozart.”

Sera laughed and toyed at the keys of the piano, playing a little impromptu tune. “Thomas Moore.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “It’s always Thomas Moore with you. Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wished to marry him.” She lifted a well-worn piece of music and walked it across the room, squeezing herself onto the little tufted bench where Sera already sat and setting the page to the ornate music rack.