Love Match (10 page)

But she had not liked it, either. Justin was at a loss. Were he not holding her fast, she would probably take refuge behind the bed. He could not remember that any other lady had ever disliked his caress. Or had they all disliked his caresses, and merely pretended otherwise? He was, after all, a duke.

Her husband didn’t look especially formidable in this moment, Elizabeth reflected. Rather, he appeared perplexed. What must it be like to be always called starched-up, and high in the instep, and stiff-rumped? When all was said and done, St. Clair was but a man. A very handsome man. Wearing nothing more than a dressing robe. With a sash around the waist that she could reach out and unfasten, did she dare.

Of course, she did not dare. “Are you angry?” Elizabeth asked.

Justin lifted a tendril of hair off her forehead. “I will never be angry with you, so long as you speak the truth. This is all my fault. Had I not been neglectful of my duties, we would not now be at this impasse.”

Neglectful of his duties? He
listed
her
among
his duties? With a thump, Elizabeth fell back to earth. The duke saw her as a chore to be performed, like bringing in a load of coal, or emptying the slops. “I realize that ours is a marriage of convenience, but I am
not
a chamberpot! And now if you will excuse me, I am tired, Your Grace, and would like to go to sleep.”

The duke might not be the adept that he had fancied himself as concerned caresses, but he was not so green as to think his bride wanted him to join her in her bed. Nor did he think her amenable to reason in that moment, or that she would care to explain what had prompted her to compare herself to a chamberpot. “I will bid you good night,” he murmured, and withdrew into his dressing room, and closed the door. Behind him came a thud. It sounded as if Elizabeth had flung her hairbrush against the wall.

Justin might have liked to throw something himself. How had he come to stick his foot so firmly in his mouth? Mulling over how he was to set up his nursery when his wife couldn’t be convinced to let him in her bed the duke went downstairs in search of a glass of brandy. The duchess, meanwhile, added another line to her letter to her mama. Not that she would post the missive, but there was some satisfaction to be found from writing down her rage.

Chapter 10

“Few men expect to carry the elaborate homage and tedious forms of courtship into marriage.”

—Lady Ratchett

No laughter from the adjoining chamber wakened Lord Charnwood this morning. Nor did he feel inclined to invite his bride on a phaeton ride. Thornaby recognized the signs of a duke in a foul humor, and silently shaved and brushed and clothed his master before proceeding downstairs to report that his master had passed yet another night without breaching the bridal bed.

Fortunately, Justin was not aware of the servants’ interest in his sleeping arrangements—although had he considered the matter, he should have been aware, for the servants knew everything that happened in a household, as well as what did not. Unlikely, however, that even then he would have guessed that wagers had been laid on the outcome of the marital impasse.

He entered the dining room, where warm dishes had been set out on the sideboard, and footmen waited to serve smoked herring, grilled kidneys, cold veal pies; beef tongue with hot horseradish, sausages with mashed potatoes, grilled trout with white butter sauce. None of it appealed. Justin settled on hot coffee and a roll.

Nor did Magda appeal. That lady was already seated at the table, an empty plate before her, and crumbs scattered on the cloth. Today she wore another Grecian gown, this one pale green instead of white. Justin felt like draping a napkin across her bosom. He was in no mood to appreciate surveying Magda’s creamy flesh across the breakfast cups.

She tossed a grape to Birdie, who was perched on the table, and making a mess of the fruit centerpiece. The parrot caught the grape in her strong beak.
“Bien!
What a clever girl. You are up early, Saint. Did you not sleep well?”

Justin sat down and reached for the marmalade pot. “Mind your own business,” he snapped.

Magda, who was aware of certain wagers, tossed Birdie another grape. This time the parrot missed. The grape landed on Justin’s plate. “Your nose is out of joint. It is your own fault for not properly courting your bride. Or have you forgot how to woo a lady after all those years of females throwing themselves at your feet? I see how it was for you. A handsome face, a title.
Mais oui
, you are still handsome, even with that battered nose.” She plucked off another grape. Birdie sidled closer. “All the ladies swoon for you. Except Elizabeth.”

Briefly, Justin was tempted to ask his former wife about the quality of his caresses. However, many years had passed since he’d last caressed that lady, and he had no desire to do so again. “Cut line, Magda. I won’t allow you to take a rise out of me.”

Madame was impervious to snubs, at least snubs delivered by her one-time spouse. She broke a piece of bread from the roll on his plate. Birdie edged forward, interested. Magda popped the bread into her own mouth. “Gus is curious as to what prompted you to marry such a milk-and-water miss. I told her it was because Elizabeth is my opposite. She
is
very tall.”

Birdie edged ever closer to his roll. Justin moved it out of range. “There is people food, and there is parrot food. This is people food, and moreover it is mine.” Realization struck him, and he stared at Magda. “Gus brought you here to Bath.”

Magda shrugged, severely challenging the confines of her bodice. “I encountered Gus in London. At the tables,
naturellement.
You must do something about that one, Saint. She needs a gentleman with sufficient wealth to stake her, and a skin thick enough to withstand her barbs.”

“Even did I discover such a paragon, I could hardly make her marry him.” Justin recalled his own bride’s brief hesitation when asked if she’d been forced to wed. “You still haven’t told me why you are here. And I don’t refer to the breakfast table. Get out of my plate, you wretched bird.”

“How untrusting you are grown.” Magda diverted Birdie’s attention from the ducal breakfast with an apple wedge. “I do not recall why we parted. You were jealous, I think.”

Justin leaned back in his chair. “If I was jealous, madam, it was not without good cause. As you have pointed out, we were young. I would not be so foolish now.”

Magda tilted her head to one side. “You are grown beyond jealousy, my Saint?”

Lady Augusta paused in the doorway. “What is that
bird
doing
on the breakfast table?” she demanded. The parrot shrieked. Magda tossed another grape. Birdie caught it with an elegant snap of her beak.

Justin swooped up the parrot. Birdie ruffled up and snapped her beak. “Bite me and it’s in the soup pot with you!” he informed her. She subsided. He deposited her on the perch.

From the sideboard, Lady Augusta selected rashers of bacon, and oatmeal with sweet cream. Be conciliatory,
she told herself; much as it might go against the grain. Therefore she waited while a footman brushed parrot traces from the table, and summoned forth a smile. “Thank you, Justin. I have nothing against the pretty bird, but it did not seem appropriate to have her at the table. I trust you slept well?”

Augusta expected him to believe this attempt at conciliation? “No,” “And if you step one foot inside Catterick’s, I shall cut off your allowance for a year. You will have heard of Catterick’s. It is a gaming hell.”

Gus opened her mouth and closed it. “
Voyons!
” said Magda. “Augusta merely wanted to speak further with you about the dinner party she is planning in honor of your bride. A fillet of pheasant and truffles. Soup à la Reine.
Larded partridges, as I recollect.”

“It will be a charming evening.” Gus toyed with a bacon slice. “Your bride must be introduced to Bath society, you know. The cream of Bath society, that is, not the encroaching mushrooms one encounters in the Pump Room and on the streets. I’ll wager a pony—I mean, I am certain!—Elizabeth would like it of all things.”

“You think so, do you?”

“
Here is Elizabeth,”
said Magda. “Why not ask her yourself. Did you sleep well,
petite?”

What a cozy group they made around the breakfast table. Could Elizabeth have ducked out of the room without being noticed, she would have done so. However, Magda had seen her, as had Birdie, who let out a great squawk. Madame’s décolletage
dipped lower daily. Elizabeth was tempted to yank what little existed of that bodice right up to the lady’s chin.

“I slept well, thank you,” she said coolly, and walked to the parrot cage, where Birdie was sulkily chewing on her perch. “Good morning, fuss and feathers! And how did
you
sleep?”

Birdie spread her wings and quivered. Elizabeth held out her hand. With the parrot perched snugly on her shoulder, she moved to the sideboard. A footman loaded up her plate with grilled beef and sausage, and a kipper for the bird.

Justin reflected that his duchess looked as if she, at least, had enjoyed a peaceful night. She also looked quite pretty in her pale blue long-sleeved gown. Birdie made an interesting fashion accessory. Justin picked the grape up off his plate, and tossed it. The parrot caught it in midair.

Elizabeth flinched. Magda laughed. “Be careful, Saint, or your wife will think you are throwing food at her. Augusta doesn’t like parrots at the breakfast table,
ma
chère.”

Elizabeth pulled out a chair. “A pity. I do.”

Augusta looked at the duchess and her parrot, and bit down on her lip. When the pain let up, she said, “Magda exaggerates. Truly, I don’t mind.”

Justin could remain no longer at the table, lest he do something he would later regret, such as tumble his bride back among the china and throw up her skirts. He pushed back his chair. Magda’s bright eyes twinkled knowingly, “You are leaving us, Saint
?”

The duke recalled that he disliked his former wife’s sense of humor. “You will excuse me. I have business to attend.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Magda looked astonished. “What can be so important as to interrupt your honeymoon?”

“It is quite all right, Magda.” Elizabeth dumped a great deal of sugar into her teacup. “No one can expect St. Clair to dangle after his wife like a lovesick swain. Certainly I do not.”

Nor would she expect her husband to empty the sugar bowl over her head. “How magnanimous. Tell me,
would
you like a party, Elizabeth?” the duke inquired.

She raised startled eyes to his. “No,” she said.

Justin bared his teeth. “Then a party you shall have. Gus will arrange the business with Mrs. Papplewick. But remember, cousin, that there will be no bloody cards!” He stalked out of the room. That had
not
been well done of him. In the hallway outside, he paused.

“Don’t disturb yourself,”
soothed Magda. “Saint was installed by his guardians with a strong sense of propriety at an early age.”

“That hardly explains why he married you!” said Augusta, around a mouthful of oatmeal. “However, it is true that Justin is a man of many responsibilities.”

“You should know,
chérie,
since you are one of them. As I was saying, it would not occur to Saint that a honeymoon might interfere with his routine.”

Elizabeth inquired, “Did it interfere with yours?”

“Magda didn’t have a honeymoon,” volunteered Augusta. “They eloped to Gretna Green.”

“Damnation!” said the duchess.

“Biscuit!” Birdie croaked.

“Assez!
We shall go shopping,” interjected Magda. “I saw the prettiest hat one can imagine, and would like to visit it again. Also, I require to taste a cheese. Never fear, Elizabeth. We shall not allow you to become bored.”

“You will find us better company than Saint, at any rate,” Gus added. “The older he gets, the more ill-tempered he becomes.”

The duke recalled the old adage that eavesdroppers heard no good of themselves. It was, in this case, true. His cousin made him sound like an ancient crabbed geezer teetering on the brink of the grave. He called for his hat and gloves, and left the house.

The air was chill, the sky overcast. The gray day perfectly suited Justin’s mood. A brisk ride in the hills did little to improve his frame of mind, nor an encounter at the White Hart Inn in Stall Street with his man of business, who had brought an armful of papers for him to peruse and sign. Papers that could well have waited, had it occurred to Justin that meeting with
his man of business in anyway slighted his bride.

Elizabeth had given not the least indication that she desired his company. Rather the opposite. The duke wondered if he was indeed a coxcomb, instead of the worldly gentleman he had believed himself. A man of the world was hardly likely to be yearning after his own wife. Or to contemplate throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off to some dark cave.

He could not kiss her, or converse with her, or toss her on the breakfast table. What did she want of him? And how the deuce had he managed to marry the one damsel in the kingdom who showed no inclination of falling at his feet?

Elizabeth sprawled at his feet was an intriguing vision. Justin sighed and took himself off, not to take the waters—among the various ailments the waters were said to cure was, alas, not unsatisfied desires of the flesh—but to visit Catterick’s, which he had forbade his cousin, a gaming hell of infamous renown.

The club had provision for all manner of gambling games, and a supper room, as well as an upstairs chamber reserved for the sole use of gentlemen. Conversation there ranged from the pilfered antiquities found aboard the French ships captured by Admiral Nelson to a recent concert heard at the Pump Room, and en route flirte with politics and opera dancers and horseflesh.

It was a relief to hear no female voices. Justin requested a glass of claret from a hovering waiter and walked toward the fireplace, where Nigel was sprawled in a comfortable chair drawn up to the hearth. He was dressed in solid black. “I take it Lady Ysabella has arrived,” the duke remarked.