Duchess in Love (27 page)

“I still cannot believe that the household consumes so much oil,” Cam remarked. “Six hundred gallons seems excessive.”

“There are a great many oil lamps,” Gina pointed out. “We could consider putting in gas lamps in the town house, I suppose. The banqueting rooms at Brighton Pavilion are being fitted for gas, but what if it explodes? Someone told me that gas is terribly dangerous.”

“I know nothing about it,” he said.

“What do you use for light in Greece?”

“Candles…the sun…the skin of a beautiful woman.” He bent down and kissed her cheek, so swiftly that she hardly felt the imprint of his lips.

Gina looked down at her hands for a moment. She'd managed to get an inkstain on her wrist. “Cam,” she said quietly, “we must stop this—behavior.”

He turned around from where he was standing, surveying Lady Troubridge's books. “What behavior?”

“Kissing.”

“Ah, but I like to kiss you,” said her reprobate husband.

Gina shivered. That would result in a lonely bed, tending to all of Bicksfiddle's letters while her husband bathed in the
Greek ocean. She looked away, tightening her lips against the sight of him.

But he was moving, pulling her to her feet. “Gina,” he said, and his voice was deep and full of passion. He kissed her just at the corner of her mouth, and her whole body trembled. “Gina,” he said. “May I accompany you to your chamber?”

She trembled in his hands like a bird caught on its first flight. He trailed kisses down her high cheekbones. “I want you,” he said, in a voice burnished and dark, a voice that spoke of laughter, irresponsibility, naked statues, and the Greek sun.

It was all wound up in Gina's mind: the statues, the naked women, his Marissa waiting for him—

She pushed his hands away. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips trembling, but her voice was firm. “That is not a good idea.”

His face became instantly guarded and casual. “Why not? We could both find pleasure without anyone being the wiser.”

Her eyes were scornful. “You would like to take pleasure, and leave without injury. That's just like you, Cam.”

“I don't see anything wrong with it.” He fought to keep his temper.

“Perhaps there isn't anything wrong,” she said, “from your point of view.”

“That's quite a little moralistic statement.” His voice was cruelly polite. “May I remind you, lady wife, that I have had every opportunity, and legal right, to take your body wherever I please? But I have chosen to ignore the signs of your oh-so-willing character, although I have had the distinct impression—”

She interrupted. Duchesses never interrupt, but this one was losing all claims to dignity. She was rosy with pure em
barrassment. “I enjoy kissing you.” Her voice shook. “I enjoy the way you, the way you…”

He stared at her, silenced by her truthfulness.

“But you're just talking about pleasure, not anything else,” she continued, meeting his eyes.

“What more do you want?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.

“I am twenty-three years old. I want to live with my husband and have children together, which is not an unreasonable request. What you offer is pleasure alone. You are too good at ignoring unpleasant truths, such as the fact that you've had a wife sitting at home for twelve years while you dallied with your Greek mistress.”

Cam frowned. “You never said that you cared about where I was. You never asked me to come home until you requested an annulment.”

“And would you have returned, had I asked?” She waited but there was no answer.

“Would you have given up Marissa, had I asked?”

He just looked at her, jaw set.

“I believe that marrying is not in your nature.”

Cam had always said he wasn't the marrying kind. He had made a joke of being the earliest-married among the never-meant-to-be-married. But he didn't like the prickling feeling it gave him when Gina pointed out his unsuitability.

He rallied quickly, the veteran of a thousand unpleasant family battles. “None of this started with a question of marriage,” he remarked, deliberately pulling down his sleeves and readjusting his jacket. “It is merely a question of desire. Since you are honest, I shall be as well. I want you, Gina.”

He walked a step closer and stared down at her. “I want to plunge inside you.”

She looked away to escape the intensity in his black eyes. He forced her chin back up. “And you want the same from
me.” She didn't answer, unable to balance the scorching glow in her belly and the shrinking humiliation of hearing such a thing said out loud.

“Desire is a normal, human emotion,” he said. “I can certainly understand if you would rather experience it with your future husband than with me.”

It didn't take a genius to realize that she and Sebastian would never share anything of the sort.

“But there is no need to insult me. As an eighteen-year-old, I did not indicate a wish to marry you, Gina. If I ever have a real wife, a wife I myself chose, I will not leave her for twelve years, nor take a mistress, for that matter. It is not fair to criticize me for breaking vows dictated by my father.”

He let his hand drop.

She felt a wave of shame so profound it was as if she'd been dipped in hot water. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“There's nothing to be sorry for. We're both victims of my father, two of the many.”

Gina looked at him and knew, in that instant, that she loved him. He stood in the last rays of dying sunlight and there was chalk in his hair. He stood smiling that lopsided smile of his, and she wanted nothing more than to hold out her arms and say:
Come. Come kiss me. Come love me. Take me to your chamber.

The words wavered on her lips but she couldn't say them.

He met her eyes. “Marissa is married to a nice fisherman,” he said. “She was my mistress, but I danced at her wedding some three years ago. We had an enjoyable time but our friendship was of no great consequence to either of us.”

“Oh,” she breathed. And she knew that what mattered was love, her love for him. Not the future: the present.

He had her hands again. “I have no right to ask. But may I…may we…” He didn't seem to know what he meant, or how to phrase it. He cleared his throat and put out his
elbow. “I will be a sometime husband, Gina. But I would like to be yours. May I escort you to your chambers?”

Gina took a deep breath.

“I believe you may,” she said. Her voice was faint but clear.

He looked at her for a moment and then bent his head and kissed her. Gina's whole body sang at his touch. He turned and wrapped an arm around her waist, and they walked toward the library doors.

P
hineas Finkbottle was not having a pleasant evening. It was very kind of Lady Troubridge to invite him to the house party, and goodness
knows
he needed ready access to the duke and duchess if he were to carry out Mr. Rounton's instructions. But how the devil was he supposed to ensure that the duke and duchess remain married? He had spent the morning shut in his room, miserably aware that he ought to be talking the duchess out of an annulment. Except the duchess was so very
duchess
like. He couldn't imagine bringing up the subject of whom she should or should not marry. At any rate, after yesterday, when he walked into the library and saw the duke kissing his wife, he was hopeful that the man would take care of the matter himself.

Still, it was better to sit glumly in his room than sit silently at the supper before dancing. The three elderly ladies to whose table a footman had escorted him responded to his introduction with the briefest of nods and turned back among themselves with a little titter. He ate wafers of ham and thought loathful thoughts about Mr. Rounton. If the man
wanted his clients to fall in bed together, why the devil couldn't he arrange it himself? Phineas's ears grew a little pink even thinking about it. The duke was at least ten years older than he, and far more sophisticated and experienced. He could hardly urge the man to visit his wife's bedroom. His skin crawled at the very thought.

The ladies' conversation drifted into his thoughts.

“Indeed, my dears,” said an elderly woman named Lady Wantlish, “I can tell you quite honestly that her tears were soon dissipated. Why, I believe she mourned the man for all of a fortnight, if that!”

Phineas sighed. He was discomfited by the fact that the ladies ignored him, and mortified by the realization that they were right to do so. He wasn't dressed in the first stare of fashion. He was only a solicitor, even if his father was a gentleman. Worse, he didn't know a soul at the party except for his clients and his hostess.

“They were in the conservatory together for at least two hours!” shrilled the plump woman named Mrs. Flockhart, to his right. “
Two hours,
my dears. I had it on the best authority. There are those who say that her mother locked the door until enough time had passed. Her father demanded satisfaction, of course.”

“How disgraceful!” chimed in the lady in yellow, whose name Phineas couldn't remember. “Although I don't believe it of her mother. Why would she bother to lock her daughter in the room with a second son? No, no, the girl is fast. I always thought so, since the moment she debuted. You know, she tripped over her train when she bowed to the Queen. Careless chit.”

“I think it's likely her mother was instrumental in locking them in the room,” Mrs. Flockhart insisted. “She always was a wily one. When we were just girls, she used to swear that she was going to catch a duke. Never did, of course.
The boy may be a second son, but he's got a nice income of his own.”

Phineas narrowed his eyes. If the duke and duchess were locked in a room together, would they be forced to remain married? Surely the marquess would discard his engagement if the duchess was compromised.

“What room was it?” he asked.

Three pairs of sharp eyes looked at him. “What the devil are you talking about, boy?” screeched Mrs. Flockhart.

Phineas felt his ears turning crimson. “The room,” he said. “Where were they for two hours?”

There was a cackle of laughter. “Not the bedchamber, if that's what you're thinking!”

“It is not a good way to win yourself an heiress,” said Lady Wantlish. At least she had a twinkle in her eye. “Too risky.”

“I am not hoping to win an heiress,” Phineas said with dignity.

“Good,” Mrs. Flockhart said acidly. “I don't think there are any here who are uncompromised.”

“Now, now,” said Lady Wantlish. “Miss Deventosh is quite a catch. She was the recipient of her late aunt's estate. And I assure you that she is uncompromised.”

“That red-headed little snip?” The old woman was scathing. “If she's an heiress, why is she wearing those dreadful clothes? She looks like a ruffled turnip.”

Phineas felt a stab of sympathy for the unknown Miss Deventosh. He felt like a turnip and apparently she looked like one.

“They were locked in a conservatory,” Lady Wantlish commented, turning back to him. She had a friendly look in her eye. Or perhaps she just wanted him to create a scandal.

“Ah,” he said, trying to sound uninterested. He felt a sharp dig in his ribs.

“Who are your parents, boy?”

“My father's name is Phineas Finkbottle,” Phineas said, starting to blush.

“Finkbottle? You're Phineas Finkbottle's son?” To his amazement, Lady Wantlish softened all over and looked as sweet as butter. “He was one of my very first beaux. That was before he lost all his money, of course.”

“Good thing you didn't take him,” Mrs. Flockhart observed.

“My father wouldn't allow it,” Lady Wantlish admitted. “How is he now?”

“He's lame, madam,” Phineas stammered. “He suffered a carriage accident a few years ago.”

“Are you good to your parents, boy?”

He started to turn purple with embarrassment. “Yes,” he mumbled. “At least I think so. My mother died in the accident.”

The old woman nodded. “Thought I heard something about that. A few years after Finkbottle lost his money on the 'Change, wasn't it? You have a nice look about you. Doesn't he, gels?”

They all stared at him with beady eyes.

“I expect you're right,” said the plump one to his right. “He
does
have a nice look.” She sounded quite surprised.

“I'll introduce him to the Deventosh chit,” Lady Wantlish announced. “She's my goddaughter, after all. As you said, Mrs. Flockhart, she dresses like a turnip and she's unhappy as a turnip too. Told me she doesn't want to marry a useless aristocrat. I'll hand her a nice young solicitor. Mind you”—she gave Phineas a sharp look—“no locking yourself into a conservatory with my goddaughter. She's a good girl, for all she has advanced ideas.”

Phineas turned quite purple with shame. Thankfully the ladies were gathering their scarves and reticules and prepar
ing to leave. He bowed, and bowed again as they left, swallowing a lump in his throat that made him positively long to jump into a coach and flee to London. Except then he would lose his position, and…the thought of his father at home stilled his nerves. He had to keep this job. He simply had to.

I'll lock the duke and duchess in a garden building, he decided. If that doesn't work, at least Mr. Rounton couldn't say that he hadn't tried. That very night he would do it. It would be easy enough. All he had to do was send the duke and duchess out individually, follow, and lock them in. As for the key…the key. What key? For that matter, what building? He set off with renewed vigor. He'd have to walk the grounds until he found a structure that locked.

By a half hour later Phineas was quite discouraged. Wandering around in the dark, he had found two little garden buildings, but they were so dirty that he couldn't imagine the elegant duchess entering either of them. Then he found an outdoor earth closet that looked like a little house from a distance. But inside it was quite malodorous, and what would the duke and duchess do for several hours? It was extremely difficult to imagine them sitting peacefully on stools.

The problem was that none of the little grottos or conservatories scattered about the grounds locked. And when he discreetly asked a gardener about keys to the Roman temple, he got nothing more than a suspicious look and a muttered response that there weren't no need for it.

Finally he was driven back into the house. He'd have to lock the duke and duchess into a room. Which sounded better, in truth, because they were bound to create a greater scandal by being locked in right under the house party's noses.

But he encountered the same problem. The library locked,
but only from the inside. In the end, he found only two possibilities: the billiard room and the cupboard water closet off the ballroom. On the whole, Phineas thought the billiard room sounded the better proposition. He walked out of the water closet, contemplating ways by which to maneuver the couple into the billiard room. To his horror, a gentleman was standing just outside. Phineas turned scarlet with confusion.

“Interested in the facilities, are you?” the man asked jovially. “As am I, as am I! I'm thinking of putting a Stowe water closet into my own house. My wife wants one in her dressing room. Have you seen the plunge-bath?”

Phineas shook his head.

“Come along, let's find it, shall we?” The man blew out his walrus-type mustache. “My name's Wimpler.”

“I am Phineas Finkbottle,” Phineas replied, bowing.

“Good!” Mr. Wimpler exclaimed. “Good, good, good. Now, the butler told me that the steps down to the plunge-bath come from the east portico. Must be this way.” And he set off vigorously, Phineas trailing behind.

They walked down a set of narrow, winding steps and peered into the plunge-bath. It was lined in brick.

“What do you think?” Wimpler shouted. “Think I ought to have one of those?”

“It looks chilly,” Phineas pointed out.

“Now there you're wrong,” Wimpler said. “Lady Troubridge told me that it's heated. Somehow…ah! Steam heat, I would guess. Look at that!”

Phineas looked.

Wimpler smirked. “Lovely place for a ron-dee-vous, wouldn't you say?” He elbowed Phineas cheerfully. “A little splash and tumble? Don't suppose that's what Lady Troubridge had in mind when she installed it, though!” He laughed at his own cleverness and set off back up the stairs.
“Come along, then,” he called back. “We shouldn't like to be late for the dancing.”

Phineas followed more slowly. What really struck him about the plunge-bath was the key on the door. The key, and the silent, oiled way in which it turned. If he could lure the duke and duchess into visiting the bath, he could lock them in. Moreover, since the entrance was on the east portico, the couple was unlikely to be discovered before sufficient time had lapsed to ruin their reputations.

The next question was how to lure them to the plunge-bath.

But that turned out to be quite easy. As he was walking back along the corridor, Mr. Wimpler having dashed away to find his wife, he saw the duke and duchess just leaving the library.

“Your Graces!” he called, rushing toward them.

The duchess had just begun to climb the stairs and didn't turn her head immediately. The duke stopped, however, and greeted him rather curtly.

“Lady Troubridge requests your presence,” Phineas said, catching his breath.

The duke had a hand on the duchess's waist. For a moment Phineas had a qualm: what if the duke was, indeed, going to take care of the problem himself? But then the sight of Mr. Rounton's apopletic face shot across his memory. No: he couldn't trust the duke. It was for his own good, after all.

“Her Ladyship would like to see you
immediately,
” he said, injecting urgency into his voice.

The duchess turned around, finally, and smiled. She put a hand on the duke's sleeve. “Why don't you greet Lady Troubridge for me? I shall take a small rest.”

Perhaps he
was
making a mistake.

The duke was grinning back at his wife. “No indeed. I couldn't let you do that. Not without exerting yourself first.”

Phineas was fairly sure that there was a double meaning to the conversation.

But the duke and duchess began walking quickly down the hallway. He actually had to run after them to direct them to the plunge-bath. Luckily, they didn't seem to notice where they were going, and accepted his hasty explanation that Lady Troubridge was down the stairs off the portico without even glancing at him. The duke was whispering in the duchess's ear; Phineas could see that she was faintly pink in the cheeks.

He hesitated, swung the door shut behind them, and turned the key. Instantly he felt enormous relief. He'd done what needed to be done.

He would return with witnesses in three hours. At the end of the evening. Surely people would notice the duchess's absence during the dancing. He smiled with newborn confidence. He, Phineas Finkbottle, was a man of action. A man who came up with a plan and satisfied his employer. He strolled in the door of the ballroom full of well-being.