Page 45 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Except that it’s nothing at all like that.” She sniffed. “Could you see Trentham in a murderous rage over a lady?” She waited for the of course not that didn’t come.

Finally, in a low tone, Dessie said, “Do you care for him? Be honest. I’ll know if you’re not.”

“A little,” she whispered, admitting what Dessie already knew.

“Then we have to act quickly.”

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?”