Duchess in Love (12 page)

“How have you been, my dear?” Rawlings asked, beaming at his wife.

“Quite well, thank you,” Esme replied, disengaging her hands and curtsying. “How pleasant to see you again, Lady Childe. Are you enjoying the country?”

Lady Childe was about fifteen years older than Esme, and looked it. She was a horse-loving matron who had given her husband two boys and after her second lying-in never, it was widely rumored, shared his bed again. Or any man's bed, until she met Esme's husband.

They chatted pleasantly for a moment until Esme's fingers tightened on Gina's arm. “Please forgive me,” Gina said, smiling at the couple. “But I must return to my husband. Esme, will you accompany me into the supper room?”

“I think it could be much worse—” Gina began, as they walked away.

But Esme interrupted. “May we drop the subject? Please?”

“Of course,” she agreed. “Are you all right?”

“Certainly. Marriage is—difficult, that's all.”

Gina nodded. “You're four times as beautiful as she is,” she said reassuringly.

“That should matter, shouldn't it?” Esme was walking faster and faster, her stride lengthening. “But it doesn't. And I don't mean that I want him. I don't. I certainly don't want him in my bed, so I should be grateful to Lady Childe.”

Gina kept silent.

“The only reason I'm not grateful is that I'm a jealous, horrible person,” Esme said vehemently.

“No, you're not!”

“I am. He's in love, you know.”

“Not for the first time,” Gina pointed out.

“Ah, but for the last time, I think. I truly think it. He's been lucky enough to find someone whom he loves. And if society were any different, they would live together for the rest of their lives. In fact, I'm not sure but that they will anyway.”

“I doubt that,” Gina said after thinking about it. “Lady Childe's sons would suffer from her lack of reputation.”

“I suppose so,” Esme agreed in a dreary sort of way.

“Darling, what
is
the matter?”

“She has sons.”

Gina could think of nothing to say to that, so she twined her arm around her friend's waist and they walked into the supper room together. Carola was ensconced at a table and surrounded by her usual lively circle of young men.

“Carola needs your advice.”

“My advice?” But Esme let herself be drawn over to the table.

As soon as Carola saw them, she stood up and shooed off
her admirers. “Go along, do! I must speak to these ladies.” Grumbling, three of them left. Only Neville remained. “Neville!” Carola said. “I'll dance with you later.”

“I shan't go,” he said, bowing to Esme and Gina. “Your Grace, Lady Rawlings.” He deftly handed them into chairs and then sat down again. “I know the look of a witch's coven as well as the next man. And you know, darlings, I
always
fancied myself in a coven.”

Carola rolled her eyes. But Neville smiled so beguilingly that she gave in. “All right, you may stay. But this is a secret conference, do you understand?” She fixed him with a fierce gaze.

He bowed his head. “May all the starch in England be turned to butter before I breathe a word,” he said devoutly.

Gina eyed his elaborate, starched neck cloth with some interest. “Would that be so terrible?”

“There is no reason to live without a perfectly starched neck cloth in the morning,” Neville replied.

Carola tapped him sharply on the hand with her fan. “This is a council of war, and if you can't be serious, you must take yourself off.”

Neville straightened up immediately. “War! I always wanted a pair of colors!” he cried. “I would look so dashing in uniform.”

“No starch on the battlefield,” Gina pointed out.

“Please, let's be serious,” Carola said. “Esme, I need to ask your help. Your aid in—in—” She didn't seem to be able to formulate her request.

“May I?” Gina interjected.

Carola nodded.

But Neville's eyes were bright with affection as he looked at Carola. “Let me guess. My own Lady Perwinkle wants to win back the hand of her lamentably dressed husband, and
so she is employing the help of the ravishingly seductive Lady Rawlings.”

Carola swallowed hard. “Am I that obvious?”

“Am I your closest friend?” Neville asked.

Carola nodded.

“Besides, you never showed any interest in
me,
” he went on, “so I knew within moments that you must be still attached to your husband.”

“Oh, Neville.” She laughed.

“The point is,” Gina broke in, “that Carola needs to court her husband. He's only likely to stay at the house party two to three weeks, Esme, so we haven't much time.”

“I don't foresee any particular problems courting your husband,” Esme said.

“Can you—could you seduce anyone you pleased?” Carola asked, rather awed.

“Men are like children. You can't take their claims to independence seriously.”

Neville laughed. “I knew I would find out some home truths if I remained.”

Carola ignored him. “I have to tell you that Tuppy pays me no attention whatsoever. In fact, he didn't even greet me when he arrived last night. I'm not certain he remembers that I exist.”

“If he doesn't know you exist now, he will soon,” Esme said reassuringly. “Now, Lord Perwinkle appears to me to be the sort of man who will respond to—well, to put it bluntly—to a woman desiring
him
.”

Gina nodded. “That's what Carola and I thought as well.”

“I can't do it,” Carola whispered. “It would just be too humiliating!”

“There's nothing obvious about it. The man won't even realize what's happening,” Esme explained. “Now—here's
what we're going to do.” She paused and cast a glance at Neville. “Off with you! You've heard enough.”

He acceded to a greater authority and rose. “You may be right,” he said with mock gravity. “This is a conversation that would strike fear in any man's heart.” He bowed and kissed Carola's fingertips. “The first minuet?” She nodded and he strolled off.

C
am entered the Long Salon after eating supper with Tuppy, Stephen having fled back to London in the afternoon. He spotted Gina immediately, standing with the poker-faced man she wanted to marry.

She was fingering the sticks of her fan in a dissatisfied sort of way while the marquess lectured her about something or other. Cam felt a low simmer in his belly that he had no trouble identifying. He wanted the chit. Unfortunately, she was his wife and un-haveable. But perversely he meant to torment her for being so desirable.

Gina's face lighted up as he approached. “Cam!” she exclaimed.

Bonnington had screwed his mouth into a line again. “I think it inadvisable that Your Graces should overly associate.”

“I am quite certain it is of no concern,” Cam remarked.

“Rounton writes me that annulments are alarmingly easy to achieve. In fact, he intimated that they are growing as common as divorce.”

“Divorce is not common in England,” Bonnington
pointed out. “I am certain that you would not wish any unpleasant rumors to sully your wife's reputation.”

Cam frowned. “That reminds me,” he said. “What the devil is going on with your tutor, Gina? Rounton told me some nonsensical tale that people believed you were dallying with the poor man.”

Gina laughed, but Bonnington interrupted, scowling. “Such matters are inappropriate for Her Grace's ears,” he said heavily. “While I share your concern, naturally, perhaps we should discuss it at a later time.”

Cam met the marquess's eyes with a raised eyebrow. “Damned if you aren't the most poker-faced type I've met since my dear departed father,” he said. Then he turned toward his wife. “Gina, what the devil did you do to poor Wapping? The man couldn't throw his leg over a lady if you paid him, and here you are, ruining his reputation.”

She giggled. “I told everyone that. He is quite the shyest man I've ever met.”

“Damned if I'd send some Lothario to hang about my wife,” Cam said.

“It was all a mistake. A horrid gossip column printed something about us, and then we were surveying a meteor shower in the conservatory, and we were seen by Mr. Broke and his wife.”

“A meteor shower?” Cam looked skeptical. “What the devil did you want to see one of those for?”

“There was a meteor shower the night that Florence fell to the Medicis,” Gina explained. “Mr. Wapping thought it would be salutary for me to experience it, since the meteors had a marked effect on public opinion. But the almanac was mistaken and it was a dark night.”

The corner of Cam's mouth quirked up. “Thought you'd like Wapping,” he said. “I had the idea from your letters that life was beginning to pale a little.”

Gina met his eyes and found complete understanding. “Are you ever bored?”

Cam spread his large hands and looked at them briefly. He wore no gloves, unlike the rest of the men in the room. “I would be if all I did was dance and change my clothing,” he said, dropping his hands.

The Marquess of Bonnington was not having a pleasant evening. First he had been tempted into rash words by that witch of a woman, Esme Rawlings. Then, when he tried to explain his entirely justified attitude, his future wife disagreed. Finally, Gina was discussing her tutor with her husband as if
he
didn't exist. And as if
his
feelings about her tutor were of no account. He forgot that he didn't give a hang about Gina's tutor.

“I am happy to say,” he said, staring down his patrician nose, “that Her Grace and I do not engage in menial labor as a pastime.”

The duke looked back at him from heavy-lidded eyes. “Quite so,” he said with a drawl. “I declare I almost forgot that Gina neither weaves, nor does she spin. One of the lilies of the valley, aren't you, my dear?”

Gina glanced at her husband-to-be, who was sporting a dangerous flush high on his cheeks. “Sebastian,” she said placatingly, “May I speak to you for a moment?”

But fury was growing inside Cam. “It's admirable that you are such a modern fellow, Bonnington,” he remarked. “To look at you, I'd never think that you were the type to marry an illegitimate woman. By-blow of a French countess, aren't you, Gina?”

Bonnington's eyes narrowed. “And you, sir, are no gentleman even to mention such a thing in a public setting!”

“I see,” Cam said. “Trying to pretend it's all hum, are you? Well, it isn't, Bonnington. I've been meaning to tell you,” he said, turning to Gina who was standing frozen at
her fiancé's side. “I have something for you from your mother. Your real mother, that is.”

She gasped. “You have?”

He nodded. “No idea why it was delivered to me; I expect her estate made some sort of mistake. Remind me to give it to you tomorrow.” He turned away.

“Wait!” Gina said, catching his sleeve. “What is it? A letter?”

He met her eyes and suffered a shock. “I'm sorry, Gina,” he said. “I didn't think you would care much about the gift, and so I forgot to mention it.”

“Is it a letter?” she repeated.

“There might be a letter inside,” Cam said. “It's a box, about yea high.” He sketched a smallish box with his hands.

“I'm a selfish ingrate. I should have known that the gift would be meaningful to you. I'll go get it now, shall I?”

“No!” Sebastian said sharply. “You will
not
give my future wife the object sent by that disreputable woman. Act responsibly for once, and discard it as the trash it is.”

Gina looked at him incredulously. “You've making fun, aren't you, Sebastian? You would never keep my mother's present away from me?”

“Your mother,” he said between clenched teeth, “is Lady Margaret Cranborne. And naturally I would never limit any correspondence between you and your
mother
. But as for this disgraceful woman, yes! No husband would allow his wife to receive letters—gifts—from an infamous highflier, countess or not!”

Gina swallowed hard. “The question is not whether my mother was a countess, Sebastian. She was…she was my mother, and she left me something.”

“In my opinion, she gave up the title of mother when she discarded you on your father's doorstep,” he said icily. “And I cannot emphasize how utterly inappropriate I think it is to have this conversation in an open room!”

Cam shot Gina a swift glance under his lashes. Two tears were standing on her cheeks. A swell of rage almost led to the self-righteous bastard stretching his length on the floor. But he caught Gina's eyes just as another tear snaked its way down her cheek.

He bowed instead. “Bonnington, your servant. Gina.” He held out his hand.

But she didn't take it.

In that moment, it was absolutely clear to Gina that if she walked off with Cam, her engagement was over. She looked up into her betrothed's furious blue eyes, and knew that he recognized it as well.

“Sebastian,” she said shakily, “I find I am not as composed as I might wish. Will you accompany me on a brief walk in the gardens?”

Not even a flash of triumph appeared on his face. He held out his arm. “It would be my greatest pleasure,” he said.

Cam stepped backward and bowed again. Then he watched until Gina's slender, naked back disappeared into a crowd of overdressed aristocrats. He uncurled his hand and looked at it. His fingers were shaking slightly with the strain of not hitting the pretentious, stiff-rumped snob whom his Gina wanted to marry.

He caught himself.
His
Gina? Only in the legal sense, he told himself.

And it wasn't as if she gave a damn about him anyway. She had walked off with her marquess without a backward glance.

Cam's jaw tightened. His fingers instinctively curled into a large and dangerous fist once again.