Why Lords Lose Their Hearts (10 page)

“What on earth have I done?” she wailed, bumping the back of her head against the door a couple of times as if to shake the memory of the last hour from her head.

“I don’t know,” came her sister’s voice from Perdita’s bedchamber. “What have you done?”

With a sigh, she crossed the lush carpet of the chambers she’d chosen after her sister became the new Duchess of Ormond. It was every bit as luxurious as the mistress’s rooms. At least Perdita thought so. It also came with the added bonus of possessing very sturdy locks and no threat of being invaded by Gervase in one of his moods, since he’d been dead for months since she’d moved into them.

The locks did not, however, protect against invasions by her sister, whom she found curled up on the chaise in Perdita’s bedchamber reading a novel with a box of chocolates on her baby bump.

“What are you doing in here? I thought your own rooms would be adequate to your needs.” Then realizing how pettish she sounded, she added, “Not that you aren’t welcome, of course.”

Isabella popped a chocolate into her mouth and chewed it before she spoke. “My own rooms are perfect, thank you,” she said. “But they do not allow me to question my darling sister about the very warm embrace Trevor and I walked in on earlier. I must say, I thought Archer would never make his move. But I am so pleased he’s done so at last!” She rolled into a sitting position, rather deftly despite her unwieldy body. “You must tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Perdita said calmly, moving to her writing desk to pretend to look very carefully at some receipts from the modiste she found there. “I’m afraid that I became overset about what happened yesterday and he was simply comforting me.”

“With his tongue?” Isabella asked sweetly. “I don’t believe that’s called comforting, sister. In fact, that’s just how Trevor was ‘comforting’ me when this happened.” She gestured to her belly.

“Don’t be absurd,” Perdita said with a blush. “He wasn’t … that is to say, there were no tongues involved.”

“That’s not what we saw,” Isabella chided in a singsong voice. Then realizing that Perdita wasn’t smiling, she said, “Dearest, there’s nothing wrong with kissing a handsome man. Especially when both the gentleman and the lady are not involved with anyone else. There’s nothing wrong with it at all.”

“Well, that’s not what was going on,” Perdita said tightly, “so I wish you wouldn’t mention it again.”

Isabella, her eyes so much like her own, frowned. “He did offer for you, didn’t he? Because I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man so besotted as Lord Archer Lisle has been with you. Never say you turned the poor man down! Perdy! What have you done?”

It was just the sort of scold that her sister had given her when they were children. The right of every elder sister in the world, she supposed, but Perdita was in no mood for it. “No, he did not offer for me, Isabella. Now please leave it be.”

“No, I will not leave it be.” Isabella rose from the settee and crossed the room to stand before Perdita’s writing desk where she continued to look down. “Perdita, you have a right to happiness. You know that I, of all people, know that. I cannot tell you how reluctant I was to start any sort of relationship with Trevor. Even friendship, for mercy’s sake. Because I did not trust him. Or any gentleman. But there is a difference between men like Trevor and Archer and even Con, and men like our first husbands. I know it seems impossible to believe that any man can be trusted after the hell Gervase put you through, but if ever a man was to be trusted, it is Archer.”

“It’s not what you think, Isabella,” she said, lifting her face to look, really look at her sister. To see the glow of impending motherhood that made it almost impossible not to break into a grin. She never would have guessed back when Isabella was at Wharton’s mercy that she’d one day be so blissfully happy. And certainly not with any Duke of Ormond. Much less the one who succeeded her own violent husband. “I know what you are saying. Believe me, I do. But I am not as…”—she paused, searching for the right word to describe her sister now—“resilient as you are. I don’t know that I will ever be completely trusting of a man again.”

“But you do trust Archer,” Isabella argued. “I know you do. Else you’d not allow him within an inch of you.”

Perdita closed her eyes, remembering his expression when she’d told him her plan to keep a husband in a marriage of convenience, and a lover to fulfill her emotionally, sexually. He’d been as angry as she’d ever seen him. And yet, he hadn’t lashed out at her. Hadn’t flayed her with words or struck out at her physically, either. He’d talked to her about it. As he had always done when there was something they disagreed about. But even Archer hadn’t been able to persuade her of the folly of her plan. He might have vowed to convince her of its recklessness, but she knew how to remain resolute when she needed to be.

Besides, the gentlemen of the ton had practiced the same sort of compartmentalization for years. A wife at home to serve as his hostess and bear his children, and a mistress set up in a little house where he would lavish gifts upon her in exchange for her never refusing him in her bed. Why shouldn’t it work if a lady were to try it? Of course, the husband and the lover would need to agree to the plan. Or, as most husbands did, she simply wouldn’t tell them. Though she supposed that she’d already told Archer. But she suspected she’d be more than able to convince him to keep the matter between them. And she would enjoy the convincing. She hadn’t lied when she’d told him that she wanted him. He was a handsome man, and the fact that he wanted her, too, made him even more seductive. He might not be pleased with the terms of her offer, but he seemed more than willing to accept them. A desire she was incredibly grateful for.

“Are you even listening?” Isabella asked, crossing her arms over her belly. “Because as soon as I mentioned him in proximity to you, it seems as if you disappeared into another world.”

This was far more than she’d wished to reveal about her discussion with Archer, Perdita realized, but she knew that her sister wouldn’t leave her be until she confirmed some of her suspicions. “Fine, yes. I do trust him. And we are going to become lovers.”

For the second time that day Perdita was faced with a completely dumbfounded conversational partner. It was becoming tiresome.

“You’re going to become lovers?” her sister demanded. “Just like that? No proposal? No promises between you?”

Perdita shrugged. “I trust him. You were right. And I am not quite ready to remarry just yet.” She forbore from telling her about the marriage plans. Because she knew that Isabella would never understand. Especially since Perdita herself wasn’t even sure she understood. And it was only a castle in the air at this point. Perhaps she’d change her mind about marrying Archer. She didn’t think it would happen, but she was honest enough to admit that this was all unknown territory for her.

Isabella studied her face in silence, then, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw there, she grinned. “Lovers, eh? I rather wish I’d tried that with Trevor before we were compromised into marrying.”

“So, you don’t disapprove?” Perdita asked, not letting on how much her sister’s response mattered to her.

“I think I do not, dearest,” Isabella said, slipping an arm around Perdita as she stepped out from behind the writing desk. “I couldn’t have chosen a better man for you to become involved with. And you know how much I like and respect him. Plus, I think he understands—in a way that many other men simply would not—how difficult it will be for you to let another man touch you in that way. He saw what Gervase did to you. And I think he even blames himself a little. But I also think he appreciates the woman you’ve become. He doesn’t put you up on some pedestal of martyrdom. He is your friend first, and that makes a difference. I think you’ll be in good hands, though God knows you were hardly waiting to hear that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Perdita said, leaning her head on her sister’s shoulder. “I think you’d be pleasantly surprised.”

*   *   *

Once Archer calmed down, he went in search of Ormond and Coniston. There were a few hours yet before the man from the magistrate’s office was expected, and he was in no mood to look at parliamentary business. Besides, Ormond had decided to set his own mark on the dukedom, part of which meant that his involvement with political matters would be restricted to those issues that he found important. Not what the dukedom had historically chosen to be involved in, but what he, Trevor, wished to put the power of the duchy behind. As a result, there was far less for Archer to do as the duke’s personal secretary these days. Enough that he’d been giving serious consideration to leaving his post. That had, of course, been before Perdita’s attacker had begun to make himself known. He would not leave his position while she was still in danger, and he hoped like the devil that Trevor didn’t choose to dismiss him before that.

He found the other men in the billiards room, about to begin a new game.

“Ah, Archer,” Con said, the cigar he’d been divested of yesterday once more in his fingers, though this time it was lit. “Come join us, for I fear Ormond offers very little challenge. Comes from growing up with sisters, I suppose. He is likely much more adept at needlework.”

Trevor, who was chalking the end of his stick, rolled his eyes. “Not because of the sisters, Coniston,” he corrected, “but because I was actually engaging in work on the estates. Something you are not very familiar with, seeing as how you spent your salad days daubing at stretched sheepskin with paints instead of producing something useful to the rest of society.”

“Dear God,” Con said, grinning at Ormond’s obvious annoyance. “If I am forced to listen to yet another tale of your days in the Yorkshire countryside consorting with sheep, old man, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to tell your wife.”

“You must have me confused with some handsy Scotsman, my lord,” Ormond said, leaning over the table to take his shot, winking at Archer while he did so. “I am from Yorkshire, man, but it is still in England by gad!”

As he let the other men’s insults wash over him, Archer felt himself grow calmer. Certainly more settled than he’d felt in the study with Perdita. That had been one of the most important conversations of his life, though he’d had no idea it would become so at the time. He’d gone in intending to work, and left with the knowledge that tonight, once the rest of the household had taken to their beds, he’d be taking Perdita into his. Or should he go to hers? They hadn’t really discussed the logistics, he supposed. Though at the time he’d have agreed to have her in a rowboat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park with a full orchestra playing on the shore. So long as he could get his hands on her lovely curves.

Somehow, Archer doubted Perdita would feel quite the same way.

“So, tell me about this big to-do in the study earlier,” Con said from where he surveyed the table. It looked to Archer as if his words had not been without truth behind them. He was a very good billiards player if the arrangement of the balls on the baize cloth was anything to go by. Still, Con’s words brought a curse to his lips.

“Don’t blame me,” Trevor said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t tell him.”

Archer sighed. Which meant that it had probably been Isabella, who told Georgina, who was unable to keep anything from her husband and told Con. “This is worse than the ladies’ sewing circle,” he said with disgust.

“Actually, they are much worse,” Trevor corrected, frowning as he looked at Con’s shot ruin any chance he had of winning. “Ladies’ sewing circles, I mean. There’s one in our village in Yorkshire. If they were the ones who spread this tale the entire household would have known before Isabella and I had even left the study. They have mysterious ways.”

“No one cares about your provincial needleworking ways, Ormond,” Con said dismissively. “I want to know what happened in the bloody study. Because for all that you think my wife tells me everything, you are dead wrong. She only told me that Isabella saw something ‘shocking in the study.’”

“Better than ‘something nasty in the woodshed,’” Trevor said with raised brows. “Not good, that. Not good at all.”

Archer, despite his annoyance with the fact that they knew anything at all about what had happened between him and Perdita, couldn’t help but laugh. “You do realize that the two of you bicker like an old married couple. I shouldn’t be surprised if there is talk.”

“Nice try, old fellow,” Con said, dropping into a chair in the corner to enjoy his cigar now that it was clear he’d won the game. “You might try to change the subject, but it won’t work. I want to know what happened. And if you don’t care to tell, then make something up.”

Though he considered the out the other man offered, Archer decided he might as well spill the beans. Mostly because although Georgina hadn’t told Con yet, he would needle her until she had no choice but to tell him. He could be relentless like that. “Very well,” he said, dropping into the chair opposite Con’s. “The duke and duchess walked in on me, ah, comforting Perdita in the study.”

“Comforting, is it?” Con asked slyly. “Was it ‘full comforting’ or maybe just a bit of ‘light comforting’? Inquiring minds want to know!”

“I want to know,” Trevor chimed in.

“You were there this morning,” Archer protested. “Unless you’ve got something wrong with your eyesight, you cannot have missed it.”

Ormond shrugged. “I was looking at Isabella’s bosom. It’s very impressive right now.” He raised a finger. “Not that I wish either of you to comment upon it because I’ll be forced to throw you in the dungeon.”

“There is no dungeon in this house,” Archer said automatically. As the duke’s personal secretary, he’d know about such things.

“Keep your smarmy bosom-watching to yourself, Ormond,” Con said, looking very pointedly at Archer. “Now, I believe there is another question on the floor. Full or light, Lord Archer? It will have an effect on your final score.”

“You’re a lunatic, you know this, right?”

“As my wife likes to inform me at least once a day. Now tell.”

“Fine,” Archer said, taking the glass of brandy that Ormond offered him. “Light. It was really just a kiss. And perhaps my hand was somewhere that would not be appropriate were we in a public place.”