When the Duke Returns
Page 39
Simeon’s eye rested on them for a moment and then he said, “Isidore, I am having to pay bills that I am certain are fraudulent.”
“Oh.”
“I briefly calculated Mopser’s request, for example. In order to use the number of candles that he says he sent to the house over the last five years, we’d need seven to nine candles burning at all hours of the day or night in every room in this house.”
Isidore bit her lip. “But the candelabra…”
“That’s calculating a rate of burn at about four hours, although most candles actually burn in approximately six,” he said, folding his hands. “Honeydew says that the candelabra haven’t been lit for years.”
“Mopser was probably trying to make up for other bills that your father didn’t pay,” Isidore pointed out.
“Or he’s a rascal taking advantage of the situation.”
“I truly don’t think so,” Isidore said. “In any event, I asked him to deliver five yards of wool to every house in the village. That’s well over one hundred yards, given that we have twenty-seven dwellings.”
“Did you say twenty-seven?”
“Including the huts down by the river,” Isidore said.
“There are nineteen houses in the village,” Simeon said. “Thirteen are occupied. There are indeed two hut-like structures by the river, but they are counted among the nineteen. He’s a thief.”
“Everyone in the village has suffered horribly because of your father’s peculiarities,” Isidore protested. “They have learned to scramble and perhaps to prevaricate. The smith, Silas Pegg, told me that the bridge is extremely unsafe, as there is dust mixed with the steel. Pegg himself refused to fulfill your father’s request due to previous unpaid bills, and so the smith in the next village did it, but only after he charged the duke twice as much to try to get his expenses…” Her voice trailed off.
Simeon’s was frowning so hard that his brows almost met in the middle. “You’re telling me that the smith in the next village sent in a false bill.”
“He had to!” Isidore said. “He calculated that your father would pay at most fifty percent, and so if he made the bill for twice as much, he might end up with his expenses.”
“This is the kind of thing that clearly drove my father into madness.”
“Mad—” Isidore stopped.
“He must have been mad,” Simeon said, moving the papers about on his desk. Isidore’s attention was caught for a moment by the beauty of his long fingers. He plucked out a sheet of paper. “From a seamstress in the village, asking for remuneration for two christening gowns. Christening gowns. Never paid.”
“I assume the bill is thirteen years old, given your brother’s age,” Isidore said.
“A long illness,” Simeon said. “It’s the only thing that explains it.”
“Did your father note why he refused?”
“He said that he didn’t care for the gowns, and that she should take them back again. The note is undated, but my guess is that he rejected the gowns only after the christening.”
“I don’t think that Mopser could be charged with your father’s madness, if we call it that.”
Simeon’s jaw set again, Isidore noticed. “He was plagued by false invoices. He felt that he was beset by criminals asking for money, and so, to some extent, he truly was.”
“They were desperate.”
“The most important thing is that we establish ourselves as honorable,” Isidore said. “That we make it clear that we will pay our bills honestly and on time.”
“I am not convinced that giving money to a thief like Mopser is the way to reestablish that confidence.”
“He won’t be able to fool you,” Isidore pointed out. “From what you describe today, you could enumerate every candle burned in the future.”
His hands stilled. “That doesn’t sound entirely complimentary.”
Isidore got up and drifted around the corner of the desk. She reached out and drew a finger down his thick, unpowdered hair. She had to admit that it was enticing without powder. She was so used to men with little piles of white on their shoulders, with hair stiff with unguent, curled, or powdered. But Simeon’s hair shone with health as it tumbled around his brow in disordered curls.
He looked up at her inquiringly and their eyes met. Her finger wandered from his hair to his strong forehead, down the bridge of his nose, to his lips.
“Are you trying to distract me?” He sounded mildly interested.
Isidore promptly sat on his knee. “Is it possible?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am.” She put her arms around his neck, but disconcertingly, he didn’t embrace her back. In fact, there was a look in his eye that was not—
“Why so condemning?” Isidore inquired. “Is it forbidden to kiss one’s wife, even if she might not be your wife for long?”
“I am attempting to see whether I discern a pattern,” he said.
Isidore sighed inwardly. He smelled like plums, spicy and clean. If she stayed close enough to him, she couldn’t even remember what the water closets smelled like. His lips were beautiful, so she reached up to touch them with her own.
He brushed her lips, only to firmly move her back.
Isidore was aware of a flare of hurt inside. Her eyes fell while she tried to think of a graceful way to clamber off his lap without looking as if she were offended.
“Oh, hell,” he growled. And then suddenly he kissed her. Really kissed her. She had just brushed her mouth with his, but he didn’t bother with anything light and teasing. Simeon kissed the way he spoke: in a forward attack, in an utterly direct, heartbreakingly honest way. His kiss said, “I want you.”
Their teeth bumped together, and he changed the angle of his neck, and suddenly his kiss was saying, “I have you. You’re mine.”
Isidore’s head fell back and she clung to him, letting the touch of his mouth shimmer through her body like shards of fire. She pressed closer to him, knowing that what she was feeling was lust. Good, old-fashioned lust. Lust, she discovered, made her tremble and melt inside. It made her forget that he was showing signs of being as tight with money as his father.
Lust made her mind reel and the only thought that went fuzzily through her head was some sort of repetition of don’t stop.
Of course, he stopped.
“I spent all these years avoiding kisses because I was told they led to nothing good,” she managed, pulling herself together. She kept her tone light, as if she wasn’t struggling to keep her spine straight.
His eyes were fierce, like a preacher’s eyes. She groaned and let her forehead fall onto his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re going to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For kissing me. You have a look about you as if you thought you’d committed a sin.”
“No.” But she thought he sounded unconvinced.
“Do you ever lose control?” she asked, suddenly interested.