When the Duke Returns (Desperate Duchesses #4)

When the Duke Returns (Desperate Duchesses #4) Page 40

“In what way?”

Even his responses were cautious and thought out.

“Do you swear?” she asked hopefully. “Take the Lord’s name in vain? Become blasphemous?”

He thought about that.

She thought about the fact he had to think it over, and decided to try to stop using her favorite epithet, bastardo. Though it reminded her of her mother, a good Catholic woman…

“On occasion,” he decided.

“What sort of occasion are we talking about? Is this a lion-chasing-man occasion, or a hit-elbow-on-doorframe occasion?”

There was a glimmer of a smile in his dark eyes and she thrilled to it like an Italian hearing an opera. “Lion-catches-man occasion.”

She quirked up the corner of her mouth. “I thought so.”

Just like that, his eyes went serious again. “If you’re prepared for all eventualities, there’s no need to react with fear or anger to the unknown.”

“Because there is no unknown?”

“Exactly.”

“So you’ll never shout at me?”

“I hope not. I would be ashamed to shout at my wife. Or at an underling of any kind.”

Isidore’s brows snapped together and her back straightened all by itself. “An underling of any kind—one of those kinds being the spousal variety?”

“There’s nothing unusual about my position on marriage, Isidore,” he said. “I do not mean any lack of respect. From what I’ve already learned of you, I think that you are better at managing people, better read, and more generous than I am. I would be honored to serve under you, were you the captain of a ship.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But I am worried.” He seemed to be picking his words carefully. “It would not have been my choice to throw money in the direction of Mopser’s store.”

Isidore stood up and then said, “In addition to paying him for the wool, I also gave him twenty-seven guineas.”

Simeon’s mouth fell open for a moment. “You—what?”

“I gave him twenty-seven guineas. For delivering the wool.”

“You—you mean ha’pennies, don’t you? You gave him a—you gave him twenty-seven guineas?”

Being a great screamer herself, Isidore had never believed anyone who claimed never to shout. She whipped around. “You’re howling at me,” she pointed out, with some satisfaction.

Simeon had surged out of his chair, but he caught himself. His voice calmed, but his eyes were searing with anger. “Do you know how much money twenty-seven guineas is?”

“You never returned to claim me as your wife,” she said. “Therefore I took over management of my estate when I turned nineteen.”

Simeon stared at his wife. “I’m proud of you,” he said woodenly. This was a disaster. A total disaster. Isidore was like a walking version of a succubus, the kind of woman who twisted a man’s resolution and manliness and turned him into porridge.

“You’re not proud of me!” she shouted at him. Suddenly she sounded much more Italian than she normally did.

He pulled his mind away. So what if her voice had a kind of husky tinge that made him quiver, like a dog hearing its master? That was it, exactly. She was going on about her dowry.

Simeon took a deep breath, centered himself, reminded himself that he was nothing more than a small pebble on the shores of eternity.

“I apologize for not returning and taking care of your dowry myself,” he said.

“It wasn’t just my dowry!” she shouted.

“You’re raising your voice.”

“So are you! And it wasn’t just my dowry. I inherited my parents’ estate, you cretin.”

“Cretin?” he said slowly.

“Cretino!” she said. Clearly, she had completely lost control. There were inky black curls flying around her head, and she actually pointed a finger at him, as if she were his governess. “Just what do you think I’m talking about?”

“Your dowry,” he said, pulling his mind back on track.

“Thirteen vineyards,” she said, walking a step toward him. “A palazzo in Venice, on the Grand Canal, a house in the mountains outside Florence that my mother inherited from her grandfather, a Medici duke, and a house in Trieste that belonged to my great-grandmother on my father’s side.”

Simeon opened his mouth, but she walked another step toward him. Her eyes were glowing with rage. “In all, I employ over two hundred underlings.” Her voice was scathing. “None of them live in houses filled with the stink of excrement! None of my houses are surrounded by withered lands. None of my bills are unpaid! None of them!”

The truth of it felt like a blow. “You’re right.”

“Those bills should be paid as a gesture of good will, and because at this point you cannot ascertain who is swindling you and who is not. And let me remind you, Simeon, that your father is the swindler in question: it was he who ordered goods and services, and never paid for them.”

“I never—” He stopped. “I didn’t think of it in that light. I should have known that my mother was unable to run this estate. Had I paid more attention to my solicitors’ letters, I probably would have discovered that my father had lost his mind.”

The anger in her eyes turned to sympathy. He hated that. In fact, he hated her. He bowed. “If you’ll forgive me, I have an appointment.” Then he turned and left, not waiting for her permission.

He headed straight outside. It was raining, but the air smelled sweet and clean. Birds were ignoring the rain and singing anyway. A footman tumbled through the door behind him, bleating something about his greatcoat. He ignored him and headed into the dilapidated gardens.

There was a scamper of feet behind him and he turned around, ready to snap a reprimand. Honeydew had to learn his place—

But it was Isidore.

She was trotting down the path after him, holding an absurdly coquettish, pink, ruffled umbrella in the air. Her hair was still in disarray, and little ringlets bobbed on her shoulders as she ran toward him. He almost stepped off the path, behind a bush, but he stopped himself.

She skidded to a halt in front of him. He braced himself, but there was no sympathy in her eyes. Instead, she looked rather annoyed.

“I think we have to make a rule,” she said.

“What?” His lips felt numb. He felt slightly unbalanced. He often felt like that around Isidore. “What sort of rule?”

“No walking out and leaving a person in the midst of an argument.” She tucked her arm into his and cocked her umbrella. Her face was shiny with rain. A drop ran down her cheek.

Simeon put a finger on the raindrop and brushed it away.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“So am I.”

“I expect it was wonderful in Africa, away from here,” she said.

Simeon sighed inwardly. From the sympathetic strain in Isidore’s voice, she was clearly coming to understand the reasons that he fled to the East the moment he turned seventeen.

“I don’t walk out in the rain,” he said, all evidence to the contrary. “I am practical, thoughtful, and controlled.”

She laughed and it was terrifying how much he liked the sound.

“I myself never walk in the rain, and particularly never sit down on wet benches,” she said, plumping herself onto a wrought-iron bench shining with water. She laughed up at him and he sat down beside her.