Once more she pulled back. “What’s her name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her smile was laced with drollness, melancholy, and . . . was that pity? Not directed at herself but at him. He was not accustomed to being pitied. It irked, pricked his considerable pride, made him wish he hadn’t decided to pay her a visit.
She skirted beyond his reach. “Usually you’d have had me against a wall by now.”
She disappeared into the parlor. Like a fool, he followed. “Margaret, I apologize. It’s been a rather long day, but I do want you.”
“Don’t insult me, darling.” After pouring scotch into two glasses, she handed him one. “You’re here because you can’t have the woman you want, and I haven’t the fortitude to turn you away.”
“There is no other woman I want.”
She cradled his jaw. “Oh, you poor man. I think you probably believe that. I imagine I can even tell you who she is.”
“There is no woman,” he emphasized again.
With a secretive smile, she gave him a little pat on his cheek before wandering to the sofa and dropping elegantly onto it, her skirts billowing around her. “Tell me about your rather long day.”
He’d not come here to talk about his day, but to whisper naughty words into her ear. To hear her sighs and moans, to groan in return. He fully intended to stalk across the room, pull her up and into his arms, and have his way with her, allow her to have hers with him. And prove he did want her. As a result, he was a bit surprised to find himself walking over to the fireplace, where he leaned a shoulder negligently against the mantel. “Just business.”
“And your evening?”
Taking a sip of his scotch, he wondered why all the sexual tension and need radiating through him had dissipated the moment he’d taken her into his arms. She’d once been the mistress of the Duke of Birdwell, and as was often the practice with favorite mistresses, he’d set her up nicely upon his death, leaving her this residence and an annual income that had ensured she could choose her future lovers, if she desired any.
King always enjoyed their time together. Immensely. And she’d spoken true. He should have had her pressed to the wall within minutes of entering the residence. By now, clothes should be scattered over the floor, and the two of them should be on that sofa, lost in the throes of passion. Instead, his ardor had cooled, and he rather wished he’d climbed into the coach and returned home with Pettypeace. “Dinner at the club with the Chessmen.”
“That usually doesn’t leave you with a foul temper.”
“I’m not foul-tempered.” But even as the words spewed forth, he realized he did indeed sound as though he was in an extremely unpleasant mood. And why was his end of the conversation mainly composed of repeating in the negative what she’d said? “I apologize. It was a less than satisfactory meeting.”
His relationship with Margaret was not a complicated thing. It involved good sex and pleasing conversation, but nothing that ever delved beneath the surface. So much dwelled beneath his surface that he’d never shared with anyone, and it suddenly seemed a heavy burden.
“How is Miss Pettypeace?”
His heart gave a little lurch at the mention of her name, especially with the inclusion of the Miss, reflecting her femininity. He’d called her Miss Pettypeace during her interview, but once she came to work for him, she’d simply become Pettypeace. It had seemed to suit her. She’d been twenty at the time. Young and fresh, but not innocent. Her eyes revealed that little fact. They revealed everything he knew about her, which, he was beginning to realize, wasn’t much at all. “Efficient as ever.”
“I saw your advert in the Times indicating you are again accepting applications for the position of duchess.” She didn’t give the impression she was insulted that he didn’t ask for her hand. Early on she’d admitted to being unable to bear children, which made her promiscuity safe, meant she had no need to concern herself with bringing by-blows into the world. But it also limited her marriage prospects, at least among the aristocracy—as obsessed with heirs and bloodlines as its members were. Not that she’d ever indicated she would welcome a husband in her life. He suspected she rather preferred the freedom of being untethered.
“I require an heir.” At four-and-thirty, he was getting a bit long in the tooth. It was time he saw to this aspect of his duties.
“How romantic you are, King. If your handsome features, wealth, and titles don’t win a woman over, I expect she’ll swoon at your feet when you whisper those sweet words into her ear.”
He scowled, not certain if she was serious or teasing. But he knew the truth of the matter. “Pettypeace will not select a swooner.”
“You gave the task to that poor girl?”
She wasn’t a girl. She was a woman, with curves the green gown had highlighted in a manner the dark blue didn’t. With unblemished skin. Why of a sudden was everyone questioning his decision to hand the task over to his secretary? It was deuced irritating, especially when he was unaccustomed to having his decisions doubted. “I trust no one more.”
“In this matter, is it not better to trust your own heart?”
“You trusted your heart, and look where it got you.”
Her eyes softened, and her smile turned wistful. “Almost a dozen years of happiness. I couldn’t have him always. A duke does not marry a woman such as myself—although I was really just a girl, barely seven-and-ten, when Birdie took me in—but the hours he was able to give me, I wouldn’t trade for all the riches in the world. His wife had her lover, and he had his. Not uncommon among the aristocracy. But still, King, is it not better to love the woman you are to wed than merely the woman you may occasionally bed?”
He heaved a heavy sigh. “I seem to have taken us down a melancholy path. I came here with a much more entertaining purpose in mind. But you’re correct. My thoughts reside elsewhere, and you are deserving of a man’s full attention. I have missed your forthrightness. And I have been remiss in asking after you. How have you been, Margaret?”
“Missing Birdie. It’s been five years this month. You would think I would miss him less, but there is something extremely comfortable and comforting about being with someone who knows you so very well. Pleasure is certainly not to be taken for granted, but some of my favorite memories involve the quiet moments when we were together. I hope you have those with your duchess.”
He was going to have an abundance of quiet moments with his duchess. It was a requirement he demanded, and his secretary never failed to ensure his requirements were met.
Chapter 4
“You didn’t see the exciting part of the club at all?”
Having changed out of her evening attire into her nightdress and wrapper, Penelope sat at the foot of Lucy’s bed, with her fingers buried in her cat’s black fur. “Not so much as a peek. The door we entered led into a hallway that took us straight to the private dining room. We left the same way.” Not exactly the same way, at least as far as moods were concerned. Something had been amiss with Kingsland. He’d seemed disgruntled, which was unusual after spending time with his friends.