She nodded. “Then I suppose my most pressing question is which bedchamber lies the farthest distance from a water closet?”

Of course she didn’t plan to stay in the master bedchamber. Of course not. He’d told her that he wanted to dissolve the marriage. What in the hell had he been thinking?

“I’ll ask the butler, shall I?” she said, turning away. The line of her back was straight and incredibly slender. And then her hoops…the way her skirt billowed as she walked made him long to follow the line of her back down to her hips with his hand. With a silent groan, he pushed open the door for Isidore and she swept through.

What would Honeydew make of the duchess’s request for a bedchamber far, far away? As it turned out, he was in entire sympathy.

“The dowager duchess has her own water closet, of course,” Simeon heard him telling Isidore. “And how she can abide the odor on damp days…”

“She’s probably used to it,” Isidore said, reasonably enough.

Back when Simeon was practicing meditation and first learning to control his body, it had been easy to maintain a manly discretion. When he arrived in Africa, and discovered running, he learned how to control bodily appetites such as hunger.

But England was endangering all his carefully erected barriers. His imperturbable, manly façade was shaken. He was enraged at his dead father for avoiding his obligations. He was irritated by his mother. And worst of all, he was riveted by lust for his wife. If the truth be told, lust was absorbing at least half of his cognitive powers at any given moment, even given that he’d had so little sleep.

He could hear Valamksepa in his mind’s ear, intoning that no man need be at the behest of his emotions, and certainly not of his body. The memory sounded like water running over pebbles a long way away.

Isidore put her hand on his sleeve and her touch sent a pulse of fire to his loin. “Simeon, is Godfrey away at school? He was just a toddler when I last saw him. He must be in long pants by now.”

Simeon gave her a wry smile. “He’s thirteen and nearly as tall as I am. You’ll meet him tonight.”

She gasped. “Thirteen?”

“I need to find him a tutor. My mother deemed Eton too expensive and yet she never hired a proper tutor. Luckily, he seems very bright and has taught himself, rather eclectically, from my father’s library.”

“Beaumont is sure to know an appropriate young man. Godfrey taught himself?”

Another pulse of shame. He should have been here, making certain that his brother was properly raised. But Simeon made sure his face was impassive. It was weakness to admit weakness. “He will quickly catch up to his peers.”

Isidore gave him a quizzical look, but turned away to speak to Honeydew. “I do not travel lightly,” she said. “Several carriages are following more slowly with my clothing.”

When Honeydew took her upstairs to explore the most palatable bedchamber—from an olfactory point of view—Simeon returned to his study.

The last thing he wanted to do was be in the same room with Isidore and a bed.

Chapter Thirteen

Revels House

February 29, 1784

Isidore had never selected a room on this basis before: she and Honeydew entered each room and then sniffed. But the stench was pervasive. It followed them from room to room like a friendly dog.

She was beginning to wonder if there was an inn within ready distance when Honeydew suddenly said, “Perhaps the Dower House, Your Grace. Would you consider it? I’m afraid it hasn’t been opened or aired, but it’s a lovely little house.”

“Honeydew, I will consider any place that was not refurbished to include a water closet.”

“The water closets in this house might be excellent,” Honeydew said, “if only I could have persuaded His Grace’s father, the late duke, to take proper care of the pipes.”

“When are they to be cleaned?” she asked.

Honeydew had a look of near agony on his face. “I’m afraid that the duke has encountered some difficulty finding appropriate help, but we should have men here within a day or two. It truly wasn’t as bad until this week…the damp weather.” He wrung his hands.

“I can see that there was little you could do.” They walked downstairs and out a side door, and though Isidore would never say so, the relief of walking into the fresh outdoor air, brisk though it might be, was considerable. She saw Honeydew take a lungful as well. “I suppose one gets used to it?” she asked.

“Some do,” Honeydew said. It was clear that he had not grown accustomed.

They followed a gravel path around the house. The shambles of a formal garden stretched before them.

She turned to Honeydew, mouth open, but he had the answer. “As of two days ago, His Grace instructed the estate’s remaining gardener to hire additional staff as expeditiously as possible. They will bring the gardens back into trim.”

The Dower House was not really a house; it was more of a cottage. But it was charming, with a rosebush climbing over the windows. It was like a doll’s house.

“What color will the roses be?” she asked.

“Pale pink,” the butler replied. “There are a great many of them. The vine hasn’t been pruned as it ought, but it puts out a quantity of roses all the same. There are lilac trees around the back, but they won’t bloom, of course, until late April.”

He took out a huge circle of keys and finally managed to fit one to the lock. “There hasn’t been anyone living here since His Grace’s grandmother,” he said, over his shoulder. “We used to air it out and clean it thoroughly, but in the past few years…”

Of course, he hadn’t enough staff to spare.

After a small entryway, sunlight fell into a surprisingly large sitting room. The furniture was soft and covered with Holland cloths. There was no attempt at ducal elegance, quite the opposite. The walls were paneled in elmwood, painted a cream color with little pansies scattered here and there. The floor was flagstone, but a cheerful, if faded, rug hugged the middle. Best of all, the house smelled dusty but without even a whiff of sewage.

“How lovely!” Isidore exclaimed.

“The late duke’s mother disliked formality,” Honeydew said, bustling to pull open the curtains. “Phew! Look at this dust. I’ll summon all the housemaids immediately, Your Grace, and we’ll have it clean and aired in no time.”

Isidore had discovered a charming little bedchamber containing a large sleigh bed and one table stacked with worn, leather-bound books.

“The duke’s grandmother was a great reader by all accounts,” Honeydew said. “Her own life was quite a romantic tale.”

Isidore looked up from a small copy of Tales of the Nile that she’d discovered. It was falling apart, though she couldn’t tell whether that was due to age or over-reading. “Romantic?”

“Yes, you must ask His Grace to tell you about it,” Honeydew said, darting about to throw back the shutters. “There now, if you would be so kind as to accompany me back to the house, we’ll get the house tidy for you.”

Isidore shook her head. She supposed she would have to reenter the house for dinner. But she couldn’t face that yet. She tucked herself into a rocking chair, book in hand. “I am exactly like my husband’s grandmother,” she said. “A great reader. I shall be quite happy here. When the maids arrive, I’ll simply go for a little stroll.”