Duchess in Love (4 page)

Tuppy Perwinkle joined them as evening wore on. Apparently, the cartwright would not be able to fix his gig's axle until the following day.

“How do you do, sir?” he asked, shaking hands with Stephen.

Stephen immediately warmed to the man's blue eyes. “Very well,” he replied. “Are you a resident of these parts?”

“Leave him alone, Stephen,” Cam said, looking up from his fifth attempt at making a dart. “Tuppy's house is in Kent, so he's out of your bailiwick. No votes there.”

Stephen's mouth tightened. “It was merely a polite question,” he snapped. Seeing that Tuppy's eyebrow was raised, he explained, “I'm the MP from Oxfordshire.”

Tuppy nodded. “Congratulations.”

Stephen bowed slightly and turned to his cousin. “How on earth did you find out that I'd made it into the House, then?
Don't tell me the
London Times
makes its way over to Greece!”

“Actually, it does. Not that there's much of interest to read in it,” Cam said. “I heard from Gina, of course. She's written me about your campaign. I even got you a vote.”

Stephen looked deeply skeptical.

“I did!” Cam protested. “Some old fussbudget named Peter Parkinson ended up at my table. He was from Oxford and he solemnly promised to vote for you.”

“Thank you. Are you getting many Englishmen over there?”

“More and more,” Cam replied. “Come out of curiosity, I suppose. You don't even have to pay tuppence to see the cracked English duke. What's more, you can take a statue home to plant in your garden,
if
you have the money. I charge absurd amounts these days.”

Stephen snorted. “Using your title to get yourself sales?”

“Absolutely. It's useless in every other respect. Only good for handing on to a son, and I've got no wish to acquire one.”

“You might well marry once you get this annulment out of the way,” Stephen pointed out.

“Not bloody likely,” Cam grunted. But when he said nothing further, Stephen changed the subject.

“What are you doing in these parts, Lord Perwinkle?” he asked.

“On my way to visit my aunt. She's a funny old thing, and she always has a house party around now. Wants me to come and show myself as the heir, even though I don't live up to her expectations.” He grinned faintly. “She'll shriek herself blue in the face when she sees these clothes, unless my man discovers where I am. He was following with my luggage.”

“What the devil's the matter with your clothes?” Cam asked.

Tuppy laughed. “Nothing that's not wrong with yours.”

Cam wore a shirt of white linen tucked into gray trousers. Neither article of clothing was in the first fashion, nor were they new; instead, they were comfortable and extremely clean.

“Who's your aunt?” Stephen asked.

“Lady Troubridge of East Cliff.”

“We'll take you up with us tomorrow, if your gig isn't repaired. That's the house party where you'll find your wife, Cam.”

He grunted and didn't look up from his dart.

Tuppy's mouth quirked. “We'll both be seeing our wives, then.”

At that, Cam did look up. “I thought you lost yours.”

“Doesn't mean I don't see her now and again. Generally only at this house party. I can't miss it since my aunt threatens to disinherit me. I spend most of my time fishing. My aunt has a decent trout stream.”

“So what's the house party like, then?” Cam was still whittling away.

“A nuisance. My aunt fancies herself something of a literary hostess. There's a load of bad poets and dissolute actors wandering about. Gawky girls, being polished up for their debuts. And my wife's set, of course. They're usually there as well.”

At Stephen's raised eyebrow, he went on. “Young and married, bored to death with their own lives and their own skins, rich enough to flaunt convention and discontented enough to do it.”

Cam looked up. “My duchess?”

Tuppy's smile was rueful. “Quite so, Your Grace. I believe she is one of my wife's closest friends.”

“Don't call me that,” Cam said impatiently. “I can't stand all that folderol. Call me Cam, if you please. Why didn't you tell me yesterday that our wives were friends?”

“I didn't think it was particularly relevant,” he replied, surprised.

“Gina always was a devilish little thing. Remember when she followed us fishing, Stephen?” Cam turned to Tuppy.

“We wouldn't take her with us because she was a girl, so she snuck after us and while we were fishing she stole our lunch.”

Stephen gave a snort of laughter. “I'd forgotten that.”

“What'd she do? Throw your food away?” Tuppy asked.

“No, that would be too simple. We'd told her that she couldn't come with us because girls can't handle worms without screaming. So she opened up every pasty and every tart and carefully packed worms inbetween the layers. Cozily lined the basket with worms as well.”

“Once we got over the shock,” Stephen chimed in, “it was fabulous. We had no lunch, but we had enough worms for a week's worth of fishing.”

Cam grinned. “We took her along the next day, of course.”

“She got more fish than either of us.”

“Now I think about it,” Cam said thoughtfully, “it makes absolute sense that Gina would be in a wild set.”

“As far as I can tell, she and her friends don't do anything but make scandals,” Tuppy said. “Sometimes I think my wife left me merely because it was considered tedious to live with one's husband.”

Stephen looked curious. “That is a remarkably frivolous reason to desert the marital bond,” he commented. Tuppy shrugged. “None of them have husbands about. Your wife”—he nodded at Cam—“has you, and you live abroad. Esme Rawlings has a husband but they haven't shared a house in ages. Mind you, he makes no secret of his love affairs. And the last is Lady Godwin.”

“Oh,” Stephen said. “That would be Rees Holland's wife, correct?”

“He has brought an opera singer to live in his house in Mayfair,” Tuppy put in. “Or so they say.”

Stephen frowned.

“So they are all husbandless and free to do as they wish,” Cam said thoughtfully.

Silence fell over the group, broken only by the gentle slide of Cam's knife up and down the dart.

Troubridge Manor, East Cliff

E
mily Troubridge was a woman who considered herself lucky indeed.

About twenty years previous she had had the good fortune to attract a man whose chief characteristics were years and holdings on the 'Change. In both areas, his possessions were enormous. In fact, as her second cousin had whispered to her on the morning of her marriage, her husband was twice as wrinkled as Methuselah and richer than Midas.

Not that hers was an enforced marriage. After Troubridge had declared himself captivated by the young Miss Emily, who paired docility with likely fertility, Emily's mother had not scrupled to point out the advantages of the match. Troubridge was old; ergo, he would not trouble her for long. He was rich; ergo, she would have a maid in country and a maid in the town, and more drunken footmen than she knew what to do with.

And sure enough, Lord Troubridge quickly went the way of all flesh. Somewhat to Emily's relief, he suffered a heart spasm after only two months of marital bliss. The fu
neral was followed by a rather apprehensive fortnight, during which everyone waited to find out whether her presumed fertility was up to task, but after that possibility had been cleared away Lady Troubridge settled down happily to spend as much of her yearly income as was humanly possible.

Early on she flirted with the idea of remarriage, but quickly realized that she had no interest in a long-term bed partner. Nor, more to the point, did she want a male to hold her purse strings. So she summoned her husband's heir, Lord Peregrine Perwinkle, also known as Tuppy, assured him that she would never marry, and proceeded to spend every penny of her dear, dear husband's money that wasn't entailed.

In the next few years, Emily Troubridge grew into a woman whom her ancient husband would not have recognized. She adopted an air of authority and command. Her dress took on an eccentric sense of fashion only successful among those who were either very beautiful or (as in Emily's case) who paid obscene amounts of money to their modiste. Her face was pale and too long, but it daily became lovely through an exertion of its mistress's strong will combined with her maid's gift for cosmetic application.

With the passing of time, Lady Troubridge's parties—especially those held in the tedious summer months after the close of season and before the return of Parliament—became well known. In fact, invitations were fairly lusted after, given that her gatherings spanned the scandalous and the marriageable. Those seeking to marry and those seeking to undo a marriage could find themselves equally entertained, and since Lady Troubridge had decidedly advanced opinions on horticulture, she dotted the landscape with small Greek temples and circular conservatories, ensuring privacy enough to achieve whatever goal one might wish to advance.

Young men flocked to hunt Troubridge's grouse-rich forests, and to flirt with unprincipled young matrons. Where unmarried men went, there went matchmaking mamas, daughters trotting at their sides like beribboned spaniels.

As well as the cream of the
ton,
Lady Troubridge always invited a bevy of performers, musicians, painters, and artists, who attended in the hopes of gaining a patron, and with the certitude that they could live high on the hog for a matter of a month.

Of course, the presence of those with artistic temperaments did not make things easy for Lady Troubridge. But, as she told her friend Mrs. Austerleigh, artists were hardly more trouble than lovers. And lovers she had plenty of, this summer at least.

“For there's Miles Rawlings and Lady Randolph Childe,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “And I believe Rawlings's wife is setting up Bernie Burdett as her latest flirt, although how she can stand his company, I simply can't say!”

“Well, I can,” Mrs. Austerleigh said. “He's terribly beautiful, you know, and Esme Rawlings is partial to beauty.”

Lady Troubridge had no such weaknesses. She merely snorted and continued. “Sir Rushwood hemmed and hawed and finally informed me yesterday that he would like to be housed on the same floor as Mrs. Boylen.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Austerleigh tittered. “Dear me, I remember when she married Boylen. She rushed all over London declaring that there was no lady happier than she.”

“I don't suppose she knew about his fancy bird then, did she? All those children of his—five or six, isn't it?—must have been a terrible shock for the poor girl.

“And there's the dear duchess, of course,” Lady Troubridge continued.

But Mrs. Austerleigh broke in. “The Duchess of Girton?
Just
who
do you consider her lover? Or should I say, which one?”

“Marquess Bonnington, of course, my dear. You don't believe that taradiddle about the tutor, do you?”

“I don't see why not. Willoughby Broke was quite adamant that he saw the duchess and her tutor in the conservatory in the wee hours of the morning.”

“She says they were watching a meteor shower.”

“Scandalous, that's what it is,” Mrs. Austerleigh remarked, wondering if the haddock served at breakfast could have been off. Her stomach was taking a nasty turn.

“The duchess is no more disreputable than Mrs. Boylen.”

“Yes indeed she is. Mrs. Boylen is discreet. But the duchess was seen with the man at night—and he is a
servant
!” It was hard to shock Mrs. Austerleigh, but she looked genuinely shocked at that.

“Well,” Lady Troubridge said, “I simply don't believe it. Mr. Wapping is a very odd little man, after all. Have you encountered him?”

“Certainly not.” Mrs. Austerleigh tittered. “At my age, I have no occasion to frequent a classroom!”

“
The Tatler
took a great liberty in calling him handsome. He has hair all over his face, which I most dislike. He has a pompous manner as well. Knole complains that he doesn't know his place.”

“Butlers always do say that, don't they? Mine is always making a fuss about someone's valet not knowing his place. Meteor shower or not, the duchess ought to be more circumspect. Marquess Bonnington is a very prudish sort, for a man so young.”

“Did you hear the rumor that the duchess's husband is returning to England?”

“No!”

“Yes indeed. And there can only be one reason for it, in my estimation. Bonnington must have asked for her hand.”

“I expect that was before this Wapping business,” Mrs. Austerleigh remarked. “I still think it's quite strange that she brought her tutor to your house party, my dear.”

“There is something odd about Mr. Wapping in general,” Lady Troubridge agreed. “Perhaps he's an impoverished younger son, or some such thing. Because he—”

But whatever insight she was about to deliver was lost when the door burst open. Mrs. Massey, the housekeeper, had just discovered that mice had gotten at the linen over the winter, and what did the mistress care to do about it?”

 

M
rs. Austerleigh was not the only person in Troubridge Manor who felt that tutors do not belong at house parties.

“I would like you to consider giving up your tutor,” Marquess Bonnington told his betrothed, the duchess herself, as he handed her a peeled pear. “It is quite unheard of to bring a history tutor to a house party.” Then he added, rather unwisely, “There's nothing more dreary than a bluestocking.”

He was answered by soft lips feathering across his cheek. “Am I so dreary, then?” came a seductive voice.

“Don't, Gina.”

“Why not?” she coaxed. “Do you know, Sebastian, your hair looks exactly like guinea gold, shining in the sunlight. How annoying to be marrying a man so much more beautiful than oneself. You truly would have made a lovely woman.”

“Please do not make funning comments about my person.” He pulled away. “Kissing in the open is extremely inadvisable.”

“We're picnicking in the country! There isn't a gabster for miles. Hawes is all the way down the road at that inn. No one can possibly see us. Why not kiss me?”

“This picnic is improper,” he replied. “I don't care for
kissing in the outdoors. It's unsightly behavior at the best of times.”

“I'll never understand men,” Gina lamented.

“It's not that I don't want to kiss you. You understand that, don't you?”

“There's nothing improper about kissing your betrothed,” she pointed out.

“You are
not
my betrothed, given that you are married,” he said, frowning. “I should never have agreed to accompany you on this picnic. Imagine if your mother knew where you were.”

“Don't fool yourself, Sebastian. She wouldn't give a hang, and you know it.”

“Well, she ought to,” he said.

“Do you know what they do to adulterous women in China?” Gina asked, braiding three grass strands together.

“No idea.”

“They stone them,” she said with some relish.

“Well, you may be married, but you're not adulterous.”

She giggled. “Thanks to you.”

The marquess stiffened. “You don't really mean that, Gina. You're just trying to shock me by talking like your friend Lady Rawlings.”

“Please don't criticize Esme. Her bad reputation is vastly exaggerated. You know that all those gabsters watch her like a cat, simply longing for a misstep.”

“No doubt. After all, she's provided so many interesting tales in the past.”

Gina scowled. “Esme is my very dearest friend, and since you're marrying me, you'll have to start squelching rumors about her, rather than starting new ones.”

“That will be difficult,” he said. “Don't tell me that she was only exchanging kisses last night—why, she and Burdett were absent from the ballroom for over an hour!”

“I couldn't say what they were doing. But I am quite sure that it was nothing improper,” she snapped. “For one thing, Esme thinks that Burdett is a dead bore. She would never allow him any familiarities.”

“He's a handsome bore.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are being quite unfeeling. Esme has suffered a great deal due to her horrible husband—and it's too mean of you to carry tales about her!”

“I never carry tales,” he retorted. “I simply don't understand why you can't find friends as virtuous and unblemished as you are!”

“Esme is virtuous,” Gina said. “She's also funny and clever and she makes me laugh. Moreover, it doesn't matter what people say about her, she's my
friend
.”

A puzzled frown creased Sebastian's forehead.

“Oh, all right, let's leave,” Gina said, standing up and shaking out her light muslin gown. “I suppose you're right about the impropriety of our picnic, although everyone knows how it is with Cam.”

“The only reason I agreed to accompany you is because you
are
married. I would never accompany an unmarried damsel on a picnic without a chaperone.”

“You know, Sebastian,” Gina said thoughtfully, slipping the plates back into a basket, “you are beginning to sound just a bit priggish.”

“Paying attention to propriety is not priggish,” he huffed.

“Ever since you inherited the title,” Gina continued.

“Why, when I first met you, years ago, you were far less interested in propriety. Remember when I stole out of the house and you took me to Vauxhall?”

His lips tightened. “Achieving maturity is not the same as being priggish. I do not wish the reputation of my future wife to be slurred by gossip. After all, you will be my marchioness, perhaps as early as the new year.”

Gina was fast losing her temper; he could tell that by her rising flush and the way she was fairly throwing the silver into the picnic basket. He kept silent and watched as she gathered the sliding strands of her hair and began pinning them to her head.

“I don't wish to brangle with you.”

“Nor I with you,” she said. “I am sorry, Sebastian. I love you for being so steady and respectable, and then I nag at you for the same reason.” She wound her arms around his neck.

But he didn't kiss her. “We are a most appropriate match, except when it comes to your friends. You are a woman of the highest moral fiber. Why do you have such ramshackle acquaintances? I believe not a one of them is living with her husband.”

“They are not ramshackle. Esme, Carola, and Helene are unlucky in that they have unsteady husbands. But one could say that it's due to them that we are together. After watching their marriages, I knew exactly what I wanted in a husband—you.”

His eyes softened, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead. “I dislike it when we are irritable with each other.”

“Yes indeed,” Gina said, looking at him with a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “We're already squabbling like an old married couple!”

“Quite so,” said the marquess, looking taken aback.