An Affair Before Christmas (5 page)

“Ah, there were wheels within wheels, as there so often are,” Villiers said, sighing as he opened the library door. “But all I meant to say, Jemma”—and his voice lingered on her name, turned it into a caress—“is that I was mistaken to refuse your generosity.”

Jemma wasn’t sure how to reply.

He turned to her and made, suddenly, a deep bow. “With fair warning, Your Grace. I shall do my very best to entice you.” And then he turned with a swish of his magnificent rose cloak, and walked away.

Jemma stood like a clod in the corridor and watched him leave.

“Lady Nevill, your servant,” said Gill.

Fletch contented himself with bowing. He should introduce Poppy to Lady Nevill. Poppy was as beribboned and decorated as a box of French sweets, her hair carefully arranged into a towering stack of bows and curls.

The worst possible thing happened, then.

“Why Your Darling Grace,” Lady Nevill said. “How are you this morning?”

Poppy dimpled at her. “Lovely, thank you, Louise. I thought I’d be exhausted after all that sewing we did yesterday, but I’m fine.”

“Sewing?” Fletch said hollowly.

“That’s where I was yesterday morning,” Poppy said to him. “The sewing circle for Queen Charlotte’s hospital. Louise and I kept sewing and sewing, and drinking cups of tea, for
hours
.”

“You should keep better track of your wife, Fletch,” St. Albans said, obviously trying to turn the whole awkward mess into a light joke.

“I never know where she is,” Fletch said. “It would be most tedious to track one’s wife like a grouse in hunting season. I find it easier to proceed on the grounds of total ignorance of her whereabouts.”

“I always tell you of my plans,” Poppy said stiffly.

“You must all think I am very slow,” Lady Nevill said, looking to Fletch. “I gather this gentleman is your charming husband, Poppy, about whom you’ve told me so much?”

“Oh, yes it is,” Poppy said. “I’m so sorry; I thought you knew each other. May I present my husband, the Duke of Fletcher? Fletch, this is a very good friend of mine, Lady Nevill.”

He made a leg. Lady Nevill dropped a deep curtsy. Her eyes were completely different now. She was friends with Poppy, damn it.

“Your Grace, it’s a plea sure to meet you,” she said. “And now you young children must forgive me. I see a dear friend on the other side of the room whom I must greet.
Au revoir!
”

Fletch bowed again. It was as if they had never flirted. As if he were no more than any other man. And he could tell from the delicious way she said
au revoir
that she even spoke French.

Dammit.

There was a moment of silence after she left.

“You were both laughing so hard,” Poppy said. “Could you share the joke?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. Anger was starting to burn in the back of his throat. Rage at her, rage at life…

She dimpled. “I take it you were telling each other naughty jokes? I’m certain that I could understand anything Louise enjoyed.”

“I doubt it,” Fletch said. The other men were absolutely silent. He knew his voice was laden with scorn and near disgust. He couldn’t help it.

She blinked and then her sprightly smile popped out again. “Then I shall give you all the plea sure of explaining it to me!”

“You must be joking,” he said. “There are some things that ladies of your type never understand.”

She pulled herself taller. “Ladies of my type?”

“You know the type, St. Albans,” he said. But St. Albans wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Good to the bone. Practically achieving sainthood right here in London.”

“Fletch,” Poppy said. “Do not speak to me like this, I beg you.”

“Why not?” For the first time he looked at her directly in the face. “We never say anything significant to each other any longer. In fact, I don’t believe we’ve exchanged an interesting word in a year.”

She was rather white. “That is not true.”

“Name one interesting sentence,” he said, jeering at her.

She raised her chin. “I told you last week that I loved you. Under the circumstances, that was remarkably interesting.” She spun on her heel and left.

“Dammit,” Gill said. He forgot he was wearing a wig and tried to run a hand through his hair. His wig fell off and plopped on the floor. It looked like a dead hare, lying on the carpet.

Fletch’s jaw tightened. “I’m sick of her childish views. I can’t stand any more of her cheerful little comments about every damn thing. If I dropped dead in the street, she’d probably kneel down next to me and coo some platitude about how much I will enjoy heaven.”

“She loves you, not that you deserve it,” Gill said.

“Who cares if I deserve it? I don’t want it,” Fletch said. “Our marriage is a sham and a fraud. That being the case, I’d rather that we both understood precisely where we are, rather than my wife pretending that we’re a normal couple. That we have”—he spat it—“any sort of life in the bed.”

“Almost no one does have an intimate life with his wife,” St. Albans said, apparently recovering his tongue after the shock. “Doesn’t mean he has to shoot her down in cold blood like that.”

“She sees the world in rose and gold,” Fletch said flatly. “I believe she actually thinks we’re happy.”

“She doesn’t now,” Gill said.

Fletch hunched his shoulders. “Good.”

How could he? How could he have said that, and in front of his friends? She knew they didn’t talk very much. She knew—she knew there was something terribly wrong.

But try as she might, she couldn’t make it work. She woke every morning determined to make Fletch love her again, the way he used to before they married. She never betrayed the faintest irritation at the way he stalked around the house. Never, ever, did she irritate him by pointing out that they would have no children, given that he visited her bed once a month, if that. She never commented when he grew a silly little pointed beard, though he knew well that she loved his dimple. In truth, the goatee was vastly becoming.

But it was like everything else in the past few years. Fletch had turned himself into a distinguished, incredibly beautiful stranger. He wore clothes of a kind that dazzled and frightened her. He wore that little beard. He hired a French valet and a French chef, and rattled away to both of them in the language.

While growing up, her mother had made her study pianoforte for hours a day, saying the skill was essential to marriage. But if she offered to play for Fletch after supper, he would get a look of grueling boredom on his face, cross his arms over his chest, and sit until she finished a piece. Then he would stand, bow politely enough, and say his goodnight. Without kissing her.

She slowed to a walk. When had Fletch stopped kissing her? The very thought made her hiccup with tears, but after a bit she found a handkerchief and tried to think about it. She couldn’t remember. The last kiss…she didn’t realize it was the last kiss.

The last kiss he would ever give her, perhaps!

It wasn’t until she discovered that someone was standing before her, touching her cheek and saying something that Poppy realized that she was leaning against the wall and howling. Literally howling with sobs.

“I—I—I,” she said, and peered through her swollen eyes. “Oh dear!” she wailed, collapsing into Jemma’s arms. “I’m so—so—”

Jemma gave her a kiss and said, “Hush,” and then said to someone over her shoulder, “You did precisely the right thing, Isidore.”

Then Jemma gave her another kiss, as if she were a little girl, and said, “Darling, Isidore fetched me as soon as she realized you were in distress. Now, come in here, and Isidore will come too.”

Poppy let herself be put on a sofa without saying a word and Lady Isidore Del’Fino sat opposite. Her mama had said that she should never share the particulars of her marriage, that it was disloyal. But every time that Poppy said anything about marriage to her mama, her mother would say that she had to train Fletch into a sense of his responsibilities and proper behavior.

“Does he respect you?” she would demand.

And Poppy would nod. She wasn’t absolutely sure of the truth of that, because she had seen something very close to disgust in Fletch’s eyes lately. But the alternative was so horrible that she couldn’t bear it.

“If he respects you, there is nothing to worry about,” her mother would pronounce. “Do not say a word to anyone about your disappointments in Fletcher, and he will pay you the same favor. This is the nature of marriage.”

More tears welled in Poppy’s eyes at the thought. She didn’t feel like adhering to the nature of marriage anymore. Especially when Jemma sat down next to her (at least as close as they could be, given the size of Poppy’s panniers, and said, “Now what on earth is going on, Poppy?”

“It’s Fletch,” she said, hiccupping. Her handkerchief was sodden with tears, so she accepted Jemma’s. “My marriage—I can’t say it!” She sobbed a bit more instead.

After a while Jemma said, “Marriages are like lap dogs. Everyone boasts about having a good one, but the only ones I ever see are devoted to scratching the paneling and jumping on people. Failures, in my eyes.”

Poppy hiccupped again, loudly. “I’m sorry,” she said, gasping a little. “I always—always hiccup when I’m upset and mama says it is a most disgusting habit, but I truly am not in control of it.”

“It’s not as bad as scratching the paneling with your claws,” Jemma said reassuringly. “Now what’s happening in your marriage? Or should I say, what can possibly be happening in your marriage that hasn’t already happened in mine?”

“I am sure this is just the conversation to make me very glad not to be living with a husband yet,” Isidore said, while Poppy tried to stop crying. “Has your husband taken to wearing rouge?”

“No!”

“I only asked because I’m certain that Viscount St. Albans put a little something on his cheeks, and he and Fletcher are close friends, aren’t they?”

“They doesn’t mean they share a pot of rouge,” Jemma said. She squeezed Poppy’s hand again. “You’ll feel better after you tell us, darling.”

“I think he’s”—but Poppy couldn’t say it. The enormity of her suspicion was just too cruel to contemplate. “He was abominably rude to me in front of his friends,” she said. “He said—He made it clear that our marital activites are not all that—that he desires.” Tears welled up again. “But since he never comes to my bedchamber, I don’t see what I could do about that!”

“He said that
in front of his friends?
” Jemma said. Her voice rose about two octaves. It made Poppy feel better just to hear it.

“
Bastardo!
” Isidore hissed.

“Precisely,” Jemma said. “What a bastard thing to do. What exactly did he say, Poppy?”

“Well, I walked up with—with”—Her voice faltered.

“With whom?” Jemma asked.

“Viscount St. Albans,” Poppy said reluctantly, “and Gill. And…”

“He was talking to a woman?” Isidore guessed. “He didn’t say this in front of a woman!”

“No, she left.” But Poppy stopped.

“I see,” Jemma said, giving Poppy’s hand another squeeze. “I would guess that Fletch has a mistress.”

At the word, tears started backing up in Poppy’s throat again. “We were in love,” she whispered. “He was in love with me just a few years ago. And then it all went wrong!”

“At least he had the decency to wait a year,” Jemma said. “I was only married a few weeks when I walked into Beaumont’s chambers in Westminster to find him tupping his mistress on the desk.”

Poppy’s gasp was matched by Isidore’s.

“No!” Poppy cried.

“You never told me that,” Isidore said, at the same moment.

Jemma smiled a bit tightly. “It’s not the sort of information one offers to one’s friends.”

“Who was she?” Poppy asked.

“Her name was Sarah Cobbett,” Jemma said. “Which is really irrelevant, because I gather he’s pensioned her off, or what ever it is they do with women when they’re done with them.”

“At least you didn’t know her,” Poppy said.

“I suppose the good thing is that they can’t pension
us
off,” Isidore said thoughtfully.

“Yes, they’re stuck with us for life,” Poppy said. “Though Fletch would love to pension me off. He looks at me in such a way.” Her voice trembled and she steadied it. “I just wish I knew what I did wrong! Something I said? Or did? Now he loathes me. He truly does.”

“Beaumont was a
bastardo
as well,” Isidore said.

“The problem is that I still love him,” Poppy said. “I can’t help it. Ever since I realized how much he dislikes me, I’ve tried and tried to just cast him out of my heart.”

“Goodness,” Jemma said. “Cast him out of your heart? You’re a poet.”

Poppy hiccupped loudly.

“Are you sure you can’t do it?” Jemma continued. “I had a foolish fondness for Beaumont in the early weeks of our marriage, but after I found him with his mistress—and, I must admit, after he told me that he loved the woman—I did not find it overly difficult to excise him from my heart. At the moment, he appears to be flirting madly with Miss Charlotte Tatlock, and I find it merely irritating.”

“Really?” Poppy asked damply. “I’ve tried and tried this year, but I can’t help it. I still love him. If he’s in the room, I’m happier. And if I don’t know where he is”—her eyes filled with tears again—“I suppose he’s been off consorting with other women. I didn’t even think of that!”

“Who was the woman he was speaking to?” Isidore asked.

“Lady Nevill,” Poppy said. “Lu—” The name was broken by a particularly loud hiccup. “Louise! But—but I can’t believe that Louise…and yet they were smiling in such a way.”

“Not Louise,” Jemma said firmly. “I’m not saying that Louise respects her marriage vows, though with her poor husband incapacitated as he is, no one makes much of a fuss about it. But Louise has her own code of honor and she would never sleep with your husband.” She reached out and pulled the bell cord.

A footman opened the door directly. “May I help you, Your Grace?” he said, staring at the far wall. “Fowle asked me to stand outside and ensure that you were not interrupted.”

“Could you please ask Lady Nevill to join us, if she’s still in the house?” Jemma asked. “We would like a tray with all sorts of comforting things on it like gingerbread and hot chocolate.”

The moment the door closed again Poppy said urgently: “You cannot tell Louise of my suspicions, Jemma! She’ll be mortified that I thought so poorly of her.”

“No, she won’t,” Jemma said.

“I don’t believe she will either,” Isidore put in. “I don’t know her as well as you do, since I cannot abide all those charitable organizations that you both toil in. But I’ve had several very interesting conversations with her. I like her.”

Since Isidore was as opinionated and prickly as her Italian ancestry implied, this was high praise.

“It’s just so mortifying,” Poppy said in a low voice.

But Louise walked in that very moment, took one look at Poppy and, presumably, Poppy’s swollen red eyes, and came straight to her side. She went down on her knees and took both of her hands. “It was merely a flirtation, darling. Nothing more. I had no idea that he was your husband.”

Poppy smiled at her, trying to make the corners of her mouth turn up more joyfully. “I knew that, Louise. I—I’m afraid that—that Fletch was a bit abrupt with me after you left and so I indulged in a great weeping fit.”

Louise rocked back and looked at Jemma. Jemma’s eyebrow went up ruefully; Poppy caught it out of the corner of her eye.

“Please sit,” Poppy said, sniffing.

Louise stood up and said to Jemma and Isidore, “Darlings, I would drop you a curtsy, but I’m used to Poppy telling me what to do in committee meetings.” She sat.

Poppy folded her hands. “Louise, my husband was flirting with you.”

“I would love to say no,” Louise said, biting her lip. “Does it sound better if I say that I was flirting with him? But only because I had no idea who he was. He’s terribly handsome. You’re a fortunate woman!” She finished with such a celebratory smile that Poppy half expected her to cheer.

“Isidore,” Poppy said, “has Fletch ever flirted with you?”

Isidore looked surprised. “No. But then I have hardly met him. Perhaps next time.”

“You are terrifying,” Louise told her.

“Jemma, has Fletch ever flirted with you?” And Poppy held her breath, because she knew how much Fletch admired Jemma.

“Never,” Jemma said promptly. “He’s perfectly friendly but not at all desirous.”

“He was”—Poppy swallowed—“desirous of further acquaintance with you, wouldn’t you say, Louise?”

Louise turned a little pink. “Only because I didn’t know who he was,” she said.

“He planned to be unfaithful with you,” Poppy said flatly. “My marriage is over.”

“You’d be surprised how much it takes to kill a marriage,” Jemma put in. “Mine was over, in that sense, years ago. And yet here I am, returned to London and planning to create an heir.”

Isidore raised an eyebrow. “An heir?”

“Would that be before or after you finish the chess matches with the Duke of Villiers
and
your own husband?” Louise asked.

“After,” Jemma said. “My point was that your marriage is not over, Poppy. It’s merely entered another phase.” She sighed.

“Are you still making an heir if Villiers wins the chess match?” Isidore asked, looking even more curious.

“Of course I am!” Jemma said. “Not that Villiers will win. I’m just warming myself to the task of beating him resoundingly. But Beaumont and I haven’t seen each other under intimate circumstances for eight years. It’s not something I am looking forward to.”

“My marriage as I thought of it is over,” Poppy said, interrupting.

They were all silent, so she took that as agreement. “My husband is no longer in love with me. He plans to seduce another woman, and although Louise will not be the one, he is likely out there right now, finding a substitute.”

“Much though I hate to malign my own reputation,” Louise said, frowning a bit, “I don’t think he’ll have much luck. Unless he looks to Lady Rutledge, of course.”