Love Match (9 page)

Nigel’s tone was gloomy. Justin raised an ironic brow. “Does Lady Ysabella plan to take up residence with me also?”

Scowling, Nigel abandoned the pianoforte. “No, she plans to stay with
me.
And Aunt Syb is deuced particular. She ain’t going to like staying in a bachelor establishment. My valet will probably quit again. And the cook. I’ll become a bedlamite. Much good her fortune will do me then.”

Magda and Lady Augusta had been listening openly to this catalog of woes. “Poor Nigel,” said Augusta. “We’ll all come to see you in that dreadful place. Maybe we’ll make a party of it. We’ll go into the city, and visit the lions in the Tower, and Nigel in Bedlam Hospital for the Insane.”

“Don’t think of it!” begged Nigel. “The lions might eat you and I’d be held to blame. Saint, I beg you to keep Birdie with you a while longer. Aunt Syb can’t abide her in the same house. Although she’ll probably descend upon you to make sure I haven’t done away with the fowl. Daresay she’d want to come and visit anyway. See what she can do about
your
household. Don’t disturb yourself, Duchess! You’re probably the only one of us Aunt Syb won’t turn upside down and shake out.”

“Ah,” murmured Elizabeth. “Because I am such a pattern-card.”

Nigel smiled. “You are, you know. And yes, I’m a humbug. You won’t mind having Birdie a little longer. You like her and she likes you. Here, let me show you how to take off the top of the cage. There, now it’s become a roost. She can’t go far. Her wings are clipped.”

Birdie didn’t have to go far to cause trouble, as Justin well remembered. However, he also remembered the sight of his bride laughing in her damp nightgown. Therefore, he remained silent as Nigel explained parrot care to Elizabeth, and told her how Birdie liked to have her head scratched, and that one foot lifted signified a desire to be picked up. Strutting and fanning were courtship displays, however, in which case the bird was best left alone, or given a mirror in which to admire herself.

Justin recalled a certain strutting and fanning episode involving one of his boots. Thornaby, unfortunately present at the time, had nigh swooned from the shock. Elizabeth was smiling as she scratched the parrot’s head. He envisioned her scratching his.

At this rate, he would soon be joining his old friend in Bedlam. “Very well! The bird can stay.”

Magda offered their visitor a cup of tea. Justin suggested port. Nigel declined both. “Must be off! Preparations to make.”

The men walked into the hallway, where Chislett was waiting to present Nigel with his coat and hat and cane. “I’ll try to keep Aunt Syb busy,” said Nigel, “but you know how she is.”

Justin had faint hope that the indomitable Lady Ysabella could be kept from meddling in his household. Ah well, he consoled himself, matters could hardly grow worse. “As for Birdie,” Nigel added, “I am in your debt.”

Justin glanced back into the drawing room, where Magda and Augusta had resumed their conversation, Magda pondering the question of how London was to be defended if Bonaparte led his army to England, Gus more concerned with
croquettes de game aux champagne.
Elizabeth was coaxing Birdie to sit on her shoulder. “You are in debt to me for the rest of your life, at least.”

Nigel settled his curly-brimmed beaver hat on his tousled golden curls. “My life is bound to be longer than yours!” he said cheerfully. “I only have Aunt Syb to contend with.”

Chapter 9

“It is our duty as gentlewomen to make sure we

never succumb to desire and suffer its disastrous consequences. “
—Lady Ratchett

Restlessly, Elizabeth paced the bedroom floor, to the annoyance of her abigail, who was helping her disrobe. Or attempting to help her. Daphne had a vested interest in the wager placed belowstairs as to whether the duke and duchess would share a bed this night. “Whatever is the matter, Your Grace?”

“I told you not to call me that.” Elizabeth paused long enough to allow Daphne access to the buttons of her dress. “I don’t suppose
you
were aware that Charnwood is divorced.”

Daphne gaped. “Divorced? His Grace?”

“So you weren’t.” Elizabeth sat down at the writing desk and picked up a quill. “I must inquire of Maman how I am to
properly
deal with the inclusion of St. Clair’s former wife in our honeymoon.”

Divorced! Lady Elizabeth was as sore beset as any romantic heroine. Or maybe worse, because Daphne had never read about anything like this. Poor thing, married for her dowry to a man who had his previous wife in the house. Thornaby thought himself so superior. Daphne didn’t see anything superior in being valet to a divorced man. Even if he was a duke.

“Mrs. Papplewick was talking about that Magda.” Daphne peered over Elizabeth’s shoulder to see what she had written. “She didn’t say as they were wed.”

Elizabeth set down the pen, to Daphne’s relief. If Her Grace sent off that letter, Lady Ratchett would descend upon them like a whirling dervish—the abigail was partial to romantic novels of an Eastern flavor—and Daphne would have to explain why she hadn’t kept Herself apprised of what was going on in her daughter’s house. “What
did
Mrs. Papplewick say?” Elizabeth asked.

Daphne struggled with her conscience. Or rather, her sense of which side her bread was buttered on. Best her mistress knew the truth, even if she didn’t like it. Which she wasn’t likely to. “According to Mrs. Papplewick, Miss Magda was a gay, lively lass. Adored by servant and lordship alike. And if no one can say for sure what had happened between them, it is Mrs. Papplewick’s opinion that it was his lordship as decided they wouldn’t suit. A queer thing in and of itself, she said, since it was obvious to one and all that once Miss Magda had suited St. Clair to a cow’s thumb.”

As Elizabeth clearly did not. Maybe the duke might be persuaded to divorce a second time. But in such a case, he would hardly return her portion. Elizabeth had no desire to return penniless to her mother’s house. “Well,” she muttered. “That is that.”

What
that
was, Daphne didn’t ask. She coaxed her mistress out of her clothes and into the sheerest of nightgowns, powdered her and creamed her and took the pins out of her hair.

Deep in a brown study, Elizabeth allowed her abigail to dress her like a doll. When Daphne was done with her at last, she walked toward the hearth. The Axminster carpet was soft beneath her bare feet. Daphne moved quietly around the room, fussed with the candles, plumped up the pillows on the bed, folded back the coverlet.

She picked up a scent bottle. Elizabeth waved her away. “I do not want to be perfumed, Daphne! You may go.” The abigail doused her with scent, all the same. Elizabeth sat down in front of the fire and began to brush out her long hair.

No wonder Maman had been so insistent that Elizabeth be a model of all the virtues. The duke would also turn off Elizabeth, did she fail to suit. And how could she help but fail, when even the glorious Magda had fallen short of the mark? St. Clair must have loved Magda once. She had, after all, suited him to a cow’s thumb. Did Lord Charnwood still nourish a
tendre
for his former wife?

The door to the dressing room opened. St. Clair stepped into the bedroom, for all the world as if Elizabeth had conjured him. He wore his dressing robe of lustrous rich satin, a deep wine in hue. Did he wear anything beneath it? Elizabeth suspected he did not. For that matter, neither did she wear anything beneath her gossamer nightgown. She hoped the duke would attribute her reddened cheeks to the warmth of the fire.

How somber she looked, thought Justin. Elizabeth could hardly be blamed for holding him in low esteem—it was her wretched mother’s fault, for not explaining things—but still, his pride was stung. Justin had ever conducted himself with the utmost propriety, especially toward his bride. He walked toward the hearth, where Elizabeth perched on a stool. The firelight caused lovely lights to dance in her long thick hair.

The room was warmly welcoming this night, the coverlet folded back invitingly, a floral scent in the air. Justin wondered if he might view Birdie’s absence from the bedchamber as an encouraging sign.

Probably he should not. His bride was watching him warily. He said, “Give me that hairbrush.”

Elizabeth handed him the brush, uncertain whether he meant to apply it to her top or to her bottom. Yes, and why should the notion of being turned over the duke’s knee cause her to squirm? At least her back was to him now, so she was spared further speculation upon what he was or wasn’t wearing under that silky robe.

He said nothing, but drew the brush slowly through her hair. So slowly that goose bumps sprang up on her arms, and butterflies resumed their somersaults in her poor insides, and Elizabeth longed to snatch the brush away from him. She refrained. Her behavior already left much to be desired.

Still St. Clair remained silent. She couldn’t fault him for his anger. Elizabeth had taxed this most proper of gentlemen with the most improper conduct. Still, she didn’t know what else she was supposed to think when no one bothered to explain. But if Charnwood had no
tendre
for Magda, why had Elizabeth been left alone on her wedding night? Not that she minded. Elizabeth had taken laudanum to ensure her solitude, after all.

How quietly she sat beneath the brush strokes. How still. Her hair was soft as silk beneath Justin’s hands. Lovely hair it was. As was her person in that gauzy gown. Here was none of Magda’s lush excess, but an elegant landscape of slender valleys and hills. A landscape of which he had a splendid view in that flimsy gown, and which he was surprisingly eager to explore. With the fingers of one hand, Justin traced the contours of his wife’s chin, and turned her to face him.

St. Clair was watching her with an intent expression. He wasn’t thinking of Magda in this moment, at any rate. Elizabeth almost wished he were. He was standing, she was sitting. She could have easily reached out and satisfied herself as to what the duke did or didn’t have on underneath his robe.

Her cheeks were flaming. Justin felt rather warm himself. Perhaps it was because they stood so close to the hearth. He could not recall that he had ever experienced a fire so warm. Maybe the servants were using a different sort of fuel. He grasped Elizabeth’s wrist and drew her to her feet. “My dear, we have got off to a bad start.”

“Um.” Elizabeth contemplated his bare chest. And a fine chest it was. St. Clair wore nothing beneath the robe on that part of him, at any rate. If possible, the duke was even more handsome
en déshabillé
than in his well-tailored clothes. Imagining her husband in a state of even more extreme undress made Elizabeth’s own chest feel tight. Reminded of Daphne’s romantic novels, she elevated her attention to his chin. Slave girls and harems. Irresistible heathen sheikhs.

What would the sheikh do now? The duke, that was. Sweep her into his arms and kiss her? Fling her upon the bed and have his wicked way with her? Crush her against his manly chest?

His
wife seemed fascinated with his chin. Justin was at a loss. What in blazes did one
do
with an untried miss? Maybe he should have asked Thornaby, since the man was determined to flutter about him like a hen with one chick. Not that Justin would actually commit such a solecism as asking his valet for marital advice. He reminded himself of the vast amount of experience upon which he himself had to draw.

Draw upon it he would, and proceed slowly, and try not to further frighten his bride. As opposed to ripping off her nightgown and deflowering her right there on the Axminster rug.

Lightly, Justin placed his hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders. So far, so good. She neither shrieked nor shrank away.

Justin decided he might attempt eye contact. He slid one hand to her throat, and tipped up her face to his. Her lovely brown eyes regarded him suspiciously. “I have told you that you must not be afraid of me. Do you remember, Elizabeth?”

He stood so close that she could feel the heat of his body. Difficult to say which put out more warmth, St. Clair or the fire. “I’ve forgotten none of the words you said to me, Your Grace.”

Justin regarded her quizzically. “I’m not certain what that means. Have I been so neglectful? If so, I am sorry for it. You must be patient with me, Elizabeth. This is new to me, too. Perhaps we might start with a light flirtation, although it is unusual to get up a flirtation with one’s own wife.”

A flirtation, was it? Elizabeth swallowed. “We may be beyond that, Your Grace. Unless people get up to flirtation in their nightclothes. Although Maman would think it very indelicate of me to say so.”

Justin trailed his fingers along her jaw. “Your Maman is not here.
I
find it adorable in you.”

Adorable? Her? Elizabeth blinked. St. Clair lightly brushed his thumb across her lips, and the effect of that chaste salute sent tingles all the way from the top of her head down to her toes.

Elizabeth wasn’t at all certain that she cared for tingles. Or perhaps she did. St. Clair’s proximity was wreaking havoc with her senses. She pulled away from him.

Justin counted to ten slowly. And then from ten to twenty-two. His bride was staring at him as if he had sprouted horns. “Good Lord, Elizabeth, was that so dreadful?” he asked.

It had not been dreadful. Startling, perhaps, but not dreadful at all. However, Elizabeth could not help but hear Maman’s warnings in her head. She had a horrid suspicion that the butterflies in her belly had something to do with all that lustful stuff. Or perhaps she was turning into a slavering beast herself. One of those feckless women ruled by the passions, like in Daphne’s dreadful books. A brazen piece, to be cut dead in the street.

The prospect turned her perfectly sick. At least, she thought it did. At the same time, she wished the duke would touch her again. Perhaps he might even kiss her. Not that she would suggest such a thing. A model of good breeding would hardly make such requests of her husband. Elizabeth must be correct in her conduct. Display a well-regulated mind.

He was waiting for her answer. What had his question been? Elizabeth collected her scattered wits. “It was not dreadful, Your Grace.”