This Duchess of Mine (10 page)

Jemma's eyes narrowed. She didn't like to think of that woman touching the dart in question. She turned back to the dancers. Louise seemed to have sobered enough so that she was dancing a reasonable approximation of the minuet, but as Jemma watched, she tripped and fell into Elijah's arms. He was laughing.

Jemma ground her teeth.

Enough!

D
ancing in Vauxhall, at this hour of the night, did not resemble the parallel activities that took place in the ballrooms of Versailles and St. James. The music sounded the same; a large orchestra was sawing away on its raised platform. But the dancers' movements were entirely more intimate.

Some people seemed to know that the minuet being played at the moment was generally danced in a formal pattern; others seemed to consider it more of a country dance. No one bothered trading partners: why pass your partner to the hand of another if it meant you might not see her again?

Only the Puritanical would insist that those at Vauxhall were drunker than those in elegant ballrooms. Elijah had seen whole rooms full of bluebloods reeling from an excess of punch. And those same Puritans couldn't honestly call the dancers more lascivious, since lust coursed through the noble soul with the same fury as anyone else's.

The primary difference, Elijah decided, was that whereas noblemen danced in patterns, those who came to Vauxhall danced in pairs. And pairing allowed for a certain proximity that encouraged groping.

Not that he felt the slightest inclination to approach his partner in that manner. He had recognized her immediately, though without any particular pleasure.

He was supporting the Marquise de Perthuis with one arm, while dancing a lamentable version of the minuet, and wondering where on earth Jemma had got to when he realized that his wife was standing at the edge of the floor, tapping her foot in an irritated fashion.

He swiftly turned the marquise in a circle so Jemma didn't catch his delighted grin.

“Goodness me,” the marquise said, “you are very quick on your feet!”

“It is because you are so beautiful,” he said to her.

She looked up at him rather owlishly, and Elijah thought that in fact she actually did look beautiful. Maybe it was due to being inebriated. Generally the marquise's rigid personality precluded anyone from thinking she was beautiful.

It was an odd thought, because rigid was what Jemma had always called
him
when they quarreled. As well as hidebound, moralistic, and tedious. He looked down at the marquise uneasily. Moralistic people were quite dislikable…though he never thought of himself in those terms.

She took a deep breath and shook her head a bit. “I do believe that I might have drunk a trifle more Champagne than I ought.”

“We all indulge at times,” he told her, looking around to see where Jemma was now. She would be very annoyed to see how closely he was holding the
marquise, though in fact he either had to grasp her tightly or let her slip to the ground.

“I never indulge,” the marquise told him. “Indulgence is the province of the devil. My mother said so and I'm sure she was always right.”

She seemed to be brooding about something, so Elijah twirled her again so he could see the space where he had last seen Jemma. She was still there, but no longer alone.

A red-haired fellow in a tired blue domino and matching mask was bowing before her. He looked like a sailor on leave. He had the rakish air of a young man of the town: not a gentleman, not a farmer, but something in between. Elijah began edging the marquise backwards through the crowd.

“Do mind my skirts,” the marquise said. “I must say, have you ever seen so many dissolute women in your life?” She seemed utterly fascinated. “I love it here. Had I known, I would have come long ago. You must have been to Vauxhall many times.”

“Hmm,” Elijah said. The blue cloak was leading Jemma onto the floor, and she was smiling up at him in a way that sent a flare down Elijah's spine. A moment later he had maneuvered the marquise so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with his wife.

From the lavish and delighted smile Jemma was giving her partner, she knew perfectly well he was there.

He set the marquise to turn a gentle circle and leaned in toward Jemma's ear. “I want you.” His voice was somewhere between a whisper and a growl.

She threw him a glance from those laughing, wicked eyes of hers. The man in the blue cloak hadn't noticed and drew her in the opposite direction. He
had red whiskers, a look that Elijah found extremely unattractive.

Now he was bending his head, to say something clever, no doubt. Jemma was laughing. Elijah saw her throat ripple and was seized by a blind wave of lust. He wanted to lick her there, to lick her whole body, feel the vibration of every muscle when she—

Belatedly he remembered the marquise and took her back on his arm. She was growing slightly more sober the longer they danced. “You know, Beaumont,” she pronounced, “I expect my husband Henri adores this place.”

“You do?” Elijah had met the Marquis de Perthuis only once, but he remembered a man with a longing face, the face of someone who wanted more than dissolute dancing. He looked like a frustrated painter, or an inventor of some kind.

“He hates being a marquis. He has all sorts of revolutionary notions about the
noblesse
and the
canaille
being alike. Can you imagine?”

Elijah could imagine quite easily. The marquis was a man who hated himself, and apparently he extended that dislike to his entire class. The marquise went on, telling him about her husband's strange proclivities, while he steered her through the crowd and back over next to Jemma. That fellow she was dancing with was entirely too familiar for Elijah's comfort. He was looking at Jemma as if she was a tart ripe for devouring.

Elijah could sympathize. Jemma looked succulent and sweet, like a peach. But she was
his
peach. Finally he managed to get the marquise jostled into the correct position so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Jemma again. The marquise was still talking, though Elijah had lost track of the subject.

Elijah Tobier, Duke of Beaumont, was never vulgar. Even when in the company of men who indulged in coarse jokes at women's expense—or at their own—he invariably smiled, but always remained silent. But now all nature of coarse words surged to his lips, though he didn't want to share them with a roomful of men, but with only one woman.

He leaned over and brushed her hair with his mouth, and whispered something extremely vulgar that only she could hear. He turned away, but heard her choke and laugh.

The marquise was pouting, so he bent his head down to her again.

“As I said,” she repeated, “he met this woman at a meeting with le Marquis de Lafayette. She helped Henri translate an American document, a declaration of some sort, into French. Can you imagine?”

It was surprising. “It would have been easier had he fallen in love with someone of my stature,” the marquise said dismally. “Because she would understand—” She waved her hands. “All of it, she would understand all of it. As it was, this woman demanded that he leave with her. Leave!”

“And did he?” Elijah enquired.

“He did.” She nodded vehemently and tripped on her cloak again. Elijah neatly caught her and put her back on her feet. “He left with her, and he left me.
Moi!
” She widened her eyes.

“An absurd decision,” Elijah put in.

“I am a leader in Queen Marie Antoinette's court,” the marquise announced. “My clothes are talked of by everyone. I have never marred my reputation, even with the slightest slur. I have never contemplated an excess.”

“An excess?”

“You know.”

He didn't, but it hardly mattered. “
You
are my first excess,” she stated.

He blinked down at her. “I am an excess?”

“Of course. Shall we go have some more Champagne?” she asked, seemingly forgetting that he hadn't been with her from the beginning. “There are several bottles on our table.”

“Are you here with a party?” he asked, more than willing to return her and pluck Jemma away from that sailor she was dancing with.

“Of course,” the marquise said with a frown. “I'm here with you. And you and I are…” She struggled for the word. “…seducing each other.”

Elijah's mouth fell open. “We
are
?”

“I have not decided exactly how far I shall allow the seduction to continue,” the marquise said loftily.

“It likely depends on the Champagne.” She looked around with a little puckered frown. “This wooing was quite easy once I had a glass or two. I should like some more. I believe I shall fetch it myself.” And with no further ado, she left.

Elijah looked after her for a moment, but a gentleman was hailing her to join him at a table to the side, and she wasn't swaying quite so much anymore. He wondered briefly how the marquise found herself at Vauxhall, and then swiveled to find Jemma.

She was still dancing. Her partner had either had too much to drink or was simply too lusty for his own good. He was trying to pull Jemma against his body. She stepped precisely on his foot with her sharp heel, and the sailor stumbled back.

Of course Jemma had fended for herself in Paris
for years. She didn't need him. The recognition of it turned his mouth into a hard line. She didn't even leave the floor after her partner's attempt at a kiss, just kept dancing with that blackguard as if nothing had happened.

“What a distinct—and surprising—pleasure,” said a voice at his ear.

He didn't bother turning, just kept his eyes on Jemma. “Villiers.”

“What are you watching with such—Ah, the wife.”

“She doesn't realize the man is drunk.”

Villiers laughed. “Jemma strikes me as a woman who will always be able to ascertain the extent of a man's inebriation.”

On the dance floor, the gallant leaned over as if he were trying to gobble Jemma's ear and she neatly evaded him.

“Why the devil doesn't she simply leave him there alone?”

“Because she's having too much fun putting on a drama for you. The cruelest thing you could do would be to turn away.”

That wasn't a possibility. Turn away while another man tried to paw his wife? Never mind the fact that he had known quite well that she was having
affaires
while living in Paris. That he deliberately hadn't followed her to Paris for three years—no, four—until rumor reached him that she'd had a week-long fling with a young fool named DuPuy.

It was her
right
, after what he'd done to her. He owed her.

But it was different now.

Now he was going to have to kill that fool she was
dancing with. Even as they watched, the red-haired sailor leaned toward her again, trying to catch a kiss. He was going for her mouth—He was—

A strong hand caught him. Villiers. “Just what do you think you're doing?”

“Going to retrieve my wife,” he said tightly.

“You can't be involved in a fight,” Villiers said.

“Why the hell not?”

He hesitated. “You're a statesman.”

“That hasn't stopped most of the men I know from brawling.”

“You
know
why.”

Jemma seemed to be fending off her swain with her elbow, so Elijah frowned at Villiers. “What are you talking about?”

“Your heart,” Villiers hissed. “You should be at home resting.”

“The devil with that.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swoop in again. He was bigger and stronger than Jemma. She was trying to push him away but—

Elijah was next to them in a second. He grabbed the man's shoulder and caught one glimpse of his surprised face, red lips pursed in a kiss, before he hit him so hard that the man rose slightly in the air, landed hard, and skidded on his bottom to the edge of the dance floor.

There was a chorus of little screams as dancers scrambled to get out of the way. The ruffian climbed to his feet. “What'd you do that for?” he yelled, furious. “I wasn't doing anything that the trollop didn't want me to do! Who the hell are you? Her protector?”

“The husband,” Elijah said softly. “Just the husband.” He could see the man shifting his weight
from foot to foot, trying to decide whether to lunge at him.

“I'm glad I don't have a wife like that!” he bellowed.

The crowd was interested now, forming a circle around the swell in the velvet domino and the red-haired sailor. There was a murmur of approval at that comment.

“It's hard to keep a wife where she belongs!” someone shouted.

The red-haired man grinned. “Especially if she's not satisfied at home. This one was looking for company.”

Elijah's fists clenched and he stepped forward, just one step. “No woman should be handled in such an uncouth manner.”

A shrill voice agreed. “She got the right to dance with whoever she pleases without paying with her reputation!” It was a burly woman in the front of the growing crowd.

“An' he's got a right to fight for his wife, light-skirt though she be!” someone else shouted.

Behind him, Elijah could hear Jemma's helpless laughter. He made the mistake of smiling at the sound.

“You're laughing at me! I did nothing to your wife but what she welcomed. She's worse than a light-skirt. She's a—a…” Maybe it was the look in Elijah's eyes that dried up his words. Without bothering to finish his sentence, the sailor lowered his shoulder and charged like a bull, catching Elijah square in the chest.

Elijah was expecting a blow to the face because that was how the men fought in the boxing salon he regularly visited. He barely managed to keep to his feet, and the man was rounding about, ready for another charge.

In one lightning quick moment, Elijah calculated the rate of speed of his attacker and his relatively lower height, drew back his fist, and waited for the man's chin to connect with it.

Over the sailor went, out cold.

The
thunk
that resounded through the night air was followed directly by an unmistakably official bellow. “Now what's all this, what's all this?”