Chapter Sixteen
“That will be all, Simms,” Trentham said, dismissing his valet, who was clearly still irritated by the afternoon’s mishap.
He’d told the man not to bother trying to clean his jacket or shirt, to just throw them away, since he couldn’t imagine ever donning them again.
But Simms had nevertheless made an attempt, seemingly so that he could report back, in a put-upon tone, that the task was impossible.
He’d already bathed, urgently, the moment he’d gotten home, so tonight, Trentham had asked only for a basin of hot water, saying he would undress himself.
After Simms left in a snit, Trentham paced about his antechamber.
The room was more spacious than the adjoining bedchamber, which was cramped because of the extra-long bed he’d had installed.
His father had been a half-foot shorter, and those extra six inches in height made a difference.
That was the excuse, anyway, that he’d used to discard the old duke’s deathbed.
He wouldn’t sleep in it; he was haunted enough by the old man’s ghost.
The antechamber had the usual dark “masculine” furnishings.
In one corner, a gray velvet-upholstered armchair, mahogany side table, and an oil lamp afforded a comfortable space to sit and read when he could not sleep.
A nearby bookshelf held the novels he was embarrassed to display in the library.
There had been times in his life when, had he allowed himself to contemplate his troubles, he might have come apart.
So he’d sought escape in fictional lives.
He shouldn’t scoff at himself. It was better than coming apart.
He squinted toward the shelves. What might he read tonight?
He’d ridden home with Eli—rattling along in his coach, saying nothing. Eli looked ridiculously pleased, and Trentham had had to bite his tongue to keep bilious comments from spewing forth.
Gad. The two of them, Miss Delancey and Eli, so engrossed in one another and the music they were making, no one else might even have been in the room. Trentham would have preferred watching Eli playing the wolf to seeing them interact with such perfect accord.
And what did that say about him?
Eli deserved a chance to teach a serious student. And Miss Delancey deserved to be treated as the talented musician she clearly was.
What was wrong with him? Why begrudge them that?
He shed his clothes, then went to the stand where his favorite banyan, of dark blue silk, starting to thin at the elbows, hung on a hook.
All the while, he kept his eyes averted from his mirror.
He knew he was considered handsome—because he was an unattached duke under thirty.
But compared with Eli…oh, for God’s sake!
Why was he comparing himself to Eli? The fellow had the looks of a young Byron.
After slipping into his banyan and belting it, he went and pulled a book at random from his shelves, then dropped into his chair. He flipped the book open and stared, unseeing, at the flyleaf.
They made a fine couple, both aesthetically and practically. She was rich. He was gifted but poor. They were both good-looking and intelligent. They appeared to like one another. Their interests coincided.
They were both commoners.
He slammed the book shut and dropped it to the floor. Then rose. He was going to bed. Tomorrow, he would call upon Lady Elizabeth.
*
The Barringtons’ butler led him into the receiving room and asked him to wait while he saw if Lady Elizabeth was at home.
Trentham would, he knew, be admitted to the parlor where Lady Barrington and her daughter would greet him.
He stood, rocking on his heels, trying to ignore the worn condition of the furnishings and the dust that had collected on the floor beneath the hem of the drapes.
The ladies made him stand there longer than dukes were usually kept waiting before he was finally summoned into their presence.
Lady Barrington, who was surely wearing a wig, given the tower of dark brown hair coiled on top of her head, sat majestically in a large chair near the fireplace.
Coal burned in the grate. A comfortable warmth.
Still, there was nothing cozy about the scene. He had walked into a lair.
Lady Elizabeth sat a few feet away on a plain, straight-backed wooden chair, next to the more inviting davenport.
She wore an unadorned, unflattering, blue-black day dress.
Her hair was also piled atop her head, but at least it looked real.
Her expression was sullen. He noticed a fat book with a handkerchief tucked into it lying on a table beside her chair.
He gave a small bow of greeting. “Good afternoon. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” the marchioness said. “Please, sit down with us.” She gestured to the davenport, then signaled to the butler. “Charles, have tea brought in for His Grace.”
Trentham swallowed a sigh. Once again, he was to sit beside the girl and speak pleasantries to her while the mother looked on. Yet Lady Elizabeth’s mutinous face announced clearly that she would rather be reading her book.
He took his seat. “How are you finding your stay in London, Lady Elizabeth?”
“As well as expected,” she replied.
“Do you prefer the country to the city?”
She gave him a long look. “I do. As I believe I told you last time we spoke.”
Lady Barrington sucked in her breath, audibly. Trentham had a sudden urge to laugh. He stifled it.
“Ah, yes. Though you might have changed your mind. Ladies sometimes do.”
She scowled. “And men never do?”
He tried a smile. “We do. But we don’t like to admit it. So we forge on ahead with our ill-made decisions.”
She started, eyes flickering wider to study him a moment. He hadn’t consciously been referring to his courtship of her, but the statement was apt enough to cause a blush to spread over her cheeks. Before he could regret his words, she recovered.
“That’s stupid.”
He laughed. “Yes, it is. May I ask what you’re reading?”
“A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.”
Why wasn’t he surprised? Again, Trentham heard Lady Barrington make a disapproving noise. To keep the conversation going, he said, “Wollstonecraft.”
“You’ve read it?” she asked, pushing her spectacles higher on her nose. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the benefit of the doubt or mocking him.
“No. But I’ve read her daughter’s Frankenstein.”
The girl frowned again and made no reply. He did not generally find conversation painful, but after each requisite twenty minutes with Lady Elizabeth, he always felt he’d gone six rounds in a boxing ring.
The marchioness said, “Why don’t you play a little something for His Grace?” She tilted her head to indicate the piano on the far side of the room.
Lady Elizabeth said, “I’d rather not, Mama.”
“Why don’t I play then?” Trentham ignored Lady Barrington’s indignation and her daughter’s confusion.
A duke might sing a duet with a lady if his voice was good, or turn pages for her while she demonstrated her accomplishments, but to play the piano himself in a courtship setting was decidedly odd.
Thank goodness there was no harp in the room, or he might have been tempted to truly confound them.
He rose and took himself to the instrument.
It would pass a good part of his twenty minutes and then he could leave.
The polished surface of the piano was dull with age and the keys were yellowed. He tried a few chords and was relieved to find it in tune.
After settling himself on the bench and giving his fingers a stretch, he began a piece he knew by heart, one that sounded more difficult than it was: several minutes of a Brahms sonata.
The Barrington ladies listened in polite silence, then rewarded him with light applause.
He managed not to pull out his watch to see how long until he could go.
At the same moment, Charles returned carrying a tray with tea and cakes of some sort. The visit was just getting started.
Trentham removed to the davenport, accepted a cup, drew a breath, and tried again. “Do you enjoy the opera, Lady Elizabeth?” It was like quizzing his nephews when they were schoolboys. And what is your favorite subject? Fun for no one.
“I do.”
“Perhaps you and your mother would like to join me in my box tomorrow night at The Gaiety? The Magic Flute? The soprano playing Pamina, Adriana Tebaldi, is supposed to be excellent.”
“I’ve seen it,” she said flatly. “Papa took me.”
One really had to admire such brazen rudeness. Lady Barrington was practically panting with rage.
“Just as well.” He smiled. He set his cup on the table beside her book. “I despise the opera.”
“You do?” Her skepticism shone through her narrowed eyes. “But you said last time that you enjoyed the theater. And you’re musical. You’re Mr. Cameron’s patron.”
For better or worse, he was. He’d just displayed the peak of his talent, and her reason for believing him musical was that he was Eli’s patron. Ah, well. “Yes, but just because two things are separately wonderful doesn’t mean they will be wonderful combined. Why, look at chocolate and raspberries!”
A quick stutter of laughter passed her lips before she clamped it back. “You can’t mean you don’t like chocolate and raspberries.”
“Separately I do. What about you? Surely there is some combination of favorites that you find revolting.”
For a moment she frowned, turning her head, and he thought he’d lost her. Another conversational gambit dropping into the bottomless pit of her determined resistance. But then he noted the puckering of her forehead. She was thinking.
At last, she said, “Going to museums.”
“Really!” How surprising. “I would think…” He halted, not about to call attention to her bluestocking reputation.
“I love learning about old things. Ancient things. And I like taking long walks.”
“But not trudging around in crowded museums,” he finished for her, “trying to see artifacts through glass.”
She nodded, awarding him the tiniest of smiles.
“Perhaps we might go for a walk in Hyde Park tomorrow,” he suggested.
He tried to make his voice sound as though he wanted her to say “yes”, even though he desperately hoped for a “no”.
Walking about the park in stoney silence would be torture.
Was it possible she could derail this match?
Were her parents coldhearted enough to force her to wed him when she was so obviously against the idea? “With your abigail, of course.”
“That would be delightful, I’m sure.” Lady Barrington’s voice boomed across the room. “Why don’t you bring your carriage around at three o’clock? We’ll have tea first.”
With that, and without waiting for Lady Elizabeth’s answer, he stood, murmured his thank yous and goodbyes, and hurried out.
*
His piano was audible the moment he crossed his own threshold. Potter’s Rondeau, if he was not mistaken. Trentham stood, listening, until he was certain of it, then went to the music room. When he paused in the doorway, he saw Eli take note of him, then continue to play as if he had not.
He entered the room and sat, waiting for Eli to finish. Or to stop short of the end. It was a game they sometimes played. A childish one. How long would Eli dare to ignore his patron when they were annoyed with one another?
The game ended quickly this time, when Eli banged a discordant chord and then spun on the bench to face him. “Well, Your Grace?”
They had been avoiding one another today. Until now. Best to get this over with.
“I apologize,” Trentham began. “I was an arse last night. This is the perfect solution for you, and Miss Delancey is exceedingly fortunate to have you.” The annoyance fell from Eli’s face and turned to puzzlement. Before he could ask questions, Trentham said, “I had a headache that soured my mood.”
Eli’s mouth opened, then closed. He nodded. “I accept your apology. But not your excuse. You were perfectly headache-less talking politics with Lynch.” He paused. “Would you like me to tell Miss Delancey that I cannot—”
“No! No, I told you. This is perfect for you both.” He couldn’t control the edge in his voice.
Eli nodded again, worriedly.
“Blast it, Eli, don’t look at me like that. I’m not angry.”
Eli sniffed. “You say you aren’t, but you look ready to spring.”
“My springing days are done.” He stood. “When do your lessons start?”
“Tomorrow. Lady Lynchford and Miss Delancey have calls to pay today.”
“Well,” he said, before realizing he had nothing else to add. He improvised. “Supper at eight. Here, if you care to join me. I’m not going to Pratt’s tonight.”
“I would, but I’m meeting a fellow at Garrick’s. About a possible position.” There was a sharpness in his tone. “If it is not in London, would you prefer me to take it and go?”
“I would prefer not to factor into your decisions at all.”
Eli frowned, then turned back to the piano and switched from the rondeau to another dirge.