This Duchess of Mine (6 page)

It was time to move in for the kill. “My husband,” Jemma said, “never, but
never
, looks at another woman. And why is that, my dear marquise? It is not only because my clothing is perhaps, shall we say, just slightly more graceful than your dogged wearing of black and white, but also because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve.”

Little white marks had appeared on either side of Louise's nose. “This English term…I do not know it. Where is my heart?”

“Out for everyone to see. You never flirt. You stay to the side of a ballroom and gaze at Henri with your heart in your eyes. You—”

“So now my heart is in my eyes?”

“Of course, most people do feel sympathy, though there are always the unkind who mock. You might try to seem a bit indifferent, my dear. A passion so flamboyant is bound to garner pity.”

“Ah,” the marquise said. “Pity.”

“Elijah never looks at another woman,” Jemma repeated, a bit worried about whether she was overdoing it.

But the marquise's nails had curled in such a way that strips of delicate paper shredded off her fan.

“
I
know!” Jemma said, sitting up as if suddenly inspired. “You might strive to create a bit of a scandal here in England. Something that would cause a rumor to fly home to Paris, convincing your husband that he is not the only one to enjoy himself with matters of the heart.”

Louise gave a savage little laugh. “You don't think
that I should have trouble finding someone willing to overlook my chessboard?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Jemma cried. “You mustn't take me too literally. When you say chessboard, it truly sounds as if I meant you were
flat
in the bodice, and of course I would never say such a thing! I have no doubt but that many men are delighted with a, shall we say, more modest offering.” Her eyes gently slid away from the marquise's entirely adequate bosom, as if she were excusing a serious flaw.

She continued, “Of course, women can be so cruel to each other. Why, the other day a bumbling lady of my acquaintance referred to you in the most disparaging terms—she is really hopelessly ill-bred—oh yes, I believe she mentioned a bird. Could it have been a crow?” She gave a shrug. “At any rate, I defended you. I told her that you were the only woman I considered to have the wit and charm to rival the great courtesans.”

Louise drew in a sharp breath.

“I mean that as the greatest compliment,” Jemma added. “You could have any man you wished. If you put your mind to it.”

She paused. “Other than my dear Elijah, of course. He is so
very
devoted.”

“I don't care for English men,” the marquise said, chomping down on a lemon tart. “For the most part they are quite brutish in their manners. Their bows are too unformed, too unrefined.” She waved her hand in the air. “They lack that sense of
élégance
that characterizes the French court. The beauty of the French poise and discretion.”

“While your point about elegance is absolutely fair, some Englishmen have a kind of masculine
beauté
that
I find appealing,” Jemma said. “I have always thought that my husband, the Duke of Beaumont, looks rather like Gerard de Ridefort, but with less affectation. And you know that Marie Antoinette herself called de Ridefort the most beautiful man in Paris.”

“Your husband,” Louise said broodingly. “Dear me, I remember the strangest rumor. But I am sure it is no more than that.” She opened her fan and waved it just below her eyes.

Jemma shrugged again. “Any scandal that involves the duke is surely untrue.”

“I know!” the marquise cried. “'Twas the reason why you moved to France, all those years ago. The foolish man declared himself in love with someone else.”

“His mistress,” Jemma said, her tone pitched to perfect indifference.

“But what an excellent decision you made to come to Paris. I remember the first year when you arrived; you had no poise, none of the charm that comes with sophisticated taste. And now look at you!” Louise raised an eyebrow. “So much older, and yet still with that sprightly, artless mode of dressing.”

“I learned so much in Versailles,” Jemma said. “Why, you have no idea how innocent I was. I truly believed that the duke loved his mistress. I can hardly believe that I was so foolish as to flee to another country over a matter as paltry as a husband's lover!”

The marquise took a moment to compose herself. “Dear me, all that agitation for a mistress,” she said, fluttering her damaged fan vigorously.

“I was very young.”

“How fortunate that you retain your memory. So many people find it difficult to think back over that many years.”

“Of course, I am very possessive,” Jemma added.

“What is mine, is mine. I would naturally consider it the worst of insults if a woman dared to approach my husband. Even though my husband merely
thought
he loved his mistress, I could hardly contain my anger. Very childish of me, I know. In Paris I learned that the way to my husband's heart was to ignore his unrefined behavior.”

The marquise picked up her third tart. “I consider mistresses to be part of a man's world, a necessary adjunct, as it were. They parade and trade them the way women might trade fans. They are necessary to their sense of—I don't know the word in English—
amour propre?”

“Their sense of vanity,” Jemma translated. “Yes, I suppose you are right. But I was young and rash, and so I fled to France. Luckily, Elijah quickly learned his lesson. His eyes never stray to other women. I credit that to the fact I went to France and had a few dalliances of my own. He learned that what is sauce for the gander is even better for the goose.”

“I fail to see how your dissipated behavior turned him into a saint,” Louise said acidly.

“Ah, well,” Jemma said. “Just think, Marquise. Your husband has never had to worry that
your
affections were caught by another man, one who would be a worthy competitor to himself. No, he is free to stray about, to fall in love, to act as foolishly as he wishes—confident that you will be at home waiting for him.”

The marquise chewed her tart rather savagely. “I would never lower myself to his level!”

“I expect you have never met a man whom you considered his equal,” Jemma said soothingly. “I myself am so fastidious about a man's appearance that I could
not countenance your husband's adorable way of finishing every scrap of food that strays onto his plate. He has such an appetite! It's admirable in a man, of course,” she added unconvincingly.

“Do you dare to suggest that Henri is fat?” Louise inquired.

“Of course not, of course not!” Jemma said. “Why, a man his age
should
have a belly. It shows gravity of purpose. Seriousness. That sort of thing. Please do continue to eat, Marquise. I myself never eat sweet things in the morning.”

They both looked down at the plate. “Dear me!” Jemma said. “I hadn't even noticed they were all gone. At any rate, as we were saying, I do admire your husband. He's so modest…of course, he has much to be modest about.”

There was a rigidity about the marquise's jaw that suggested to Jemma that perhaps she should stop before a plate broke over her head.

She sprang to her feet. “What a lovely conversation this has been. I would give you the name of my mantua maker, but I never share her address, even with my very closest friends. She's by far the best in London, and if I pay her three times the price, she plucks gowns literally out of the air. I've had a gown made for the following day!”

Louise managed a good show of indifference. Of course, half of London knew that Jemma frequented the establishment of Madame Montesquieu, on Bond Street.

“I do hope to meet you again soon, Marquise,” Jemma said blithely. “We go to Vauxhall tomorrow night…well, I believe I've never seen you there. Do you not care for it?”

“In fact, I had long planned to pay it a visit,” the marquise said. “Does one not wear a domino there?”

“Always.”

“Then no one would note my odious clothing,” Louise said with a marked snap. “I look forward to it.”

Rather than curtsy, Jemma delivered the
coup de grâce
. She held out her hand to be kissed.

Of course Louise bent her head over her hand with utmost grace. But her eyes swore revenge. Jemma left smiling.

She couldn't control everything. She couldn't control her husband's erratic heart. Elijah was important to the government and she was important to no one.

But she had her own rather particular skills.

O
n the way back from the marquise's house, Jemma remembered that she had one problem left to solve in Francesch Vicent's
100 Chess Problems
. She handed her pelisse to Fowle and headed directly for the library and her chessboard.

“Your Grace,” the butler said. “You have callers.”

But Jemma was already living inside the game. “I can't talk now, Fowle. I'll just be in the library for a bit.”

“Your gloves,” the butler said, a wry smile in his eyes.

“Oh,” Jemma said, pulling them off.

“The Duke of Villiers awaits,” Fowle said, to her back.

She turned about, feeling a pulse of extreme annoyance. “Villiers is here? What on earth is he doing here?”

“The duke paid you a call,” Fowle said. “Since the drawing room had a number of ladies waiting in it—and they are still there—he requested to be placed in the library. In front of the chess set.”

“Ah,” Jemma said, smiling. “I think those callers had better take themselves off, Fowle.” She paused for a moment. “Do they know of Villiers's visit?”

“I believe not.”

“Excellent!” She turned to the library. “I am suffering from a terrible headache, Fowle. Do give my apologies to all my visitors. And you might bring a light luncheon in an hour or so.”

As she walked into the room, the Duke of Villiers rose from the chessboard. Villiers was an odd mix of fashionable and its opposite. He disdained the mania for wigs, wearing his hair tied back in a ribbon, unpowdered of course. And yet he dressed as magnificently as she did.

In some ways, Villiers was the opposite of Elijah. He had none of Elijah's startling beauty: his face was too rough to be courtly, and his eyes too cold to be alluring. He cared nothing for the world's opinion, let alone its salvation. He had never taken up his seat in the House of Lords; as far as Jemma knew, his sole passion was the one she shared: chess.

Jemma actually felt a pulse of envy at the sight of his coat, an emotion rarely inspired by men's attire.

“You've outdone yourself, Villiers,” she said, by way of greeting. “Cream silk with interlocking chains in cherry embroidery. I've never heard of such a coat. No, I've never dreamed of such a coat.”

Villiers fell into a bow as magnificent as his garment. “I dreamed of it, though my tailor complained. It seems he feared I might become besmirched by dirt or spotted by rain.”

She laughed. “Rain would not dare spot His Grace, the Duke of Villiers?”

“Dirt is something that happens to others,” he said,
with that wicked laughter in his eyes. “Like sin and bankruptcy.”

“Alas, if you hope to avoid the blemish of sin,” Jemma said, sitting down before the chessboard, “I am not the one to give you an education.”

“But that is one of the things I love about you,” he said amiably. “The only thing I am certain about is the art of dress. Since you dress exquisitely on your own, I need not bother with advice. I do like your wig this morning.”

“Delicious,” Jemma agreed. She was wondering whether to speak to him of Elijah's heart. Better not. She might cry, a truly horrific thought.

She began swiftly rearranging the chess pieces. “The last time I spoke to you, Villiers, you flatly refused to play with me. I hope that your current position opposite me indicates that you have revoked your ban on the game?”

“Your husband tells me that you have decided to forfeit the final game in our match,” he said, sighing.

Jemma looked up quickly. “You discussed our match with Elijah?”

“The final game was to be blindfolded and in bed,” he said mournfully. “How it pains me to give up the prospect. You can have no idea.”

“But I am throwing the match! You win. Surely that makes you just as happy as being blindfolded.”

“To my astonishment, I find it does not,” he said, looking faintly surprised.

“In that case, I will give you the pleasure of playing a game,” she said, promptly putting the pieces in order.

“You may be White, as it agrees with your coat.”

“My coat is the color of rich cream,” he said with a delicate shudder. “Not White. I abhor white silk, and
satin of that hue is even worse. It reminds me of angels. Saints. That sort of thing.”

“I don't see anything wrong with angels,” Jemma observed. “I've always liked the idea of feathery wings, though perhaps not halos. They sound like a particularly awkward kind of bonnet.”

“Then you will like the reason I've come to see you,” Villiers said, moving a pawn forward. “I am considering a bid for a halo of my own.”

“I'm shocked,” Jemma murmured. They played for a moment in silence. Villiers brought forward a rook and she challenged one of his pawns with her bishop.

“I have a problem,” Villiers said, not even pausing before he brought a knight into the contest.

Jemma raised an eyebrow. “You, the Great Villiers, has that most plebeian of all human conditions—a
problem
?”

He sighed. “It's a particularly tedious conundrum, or I wouldn't bring it up.”

“They all are. Although I was of the opinion that unmarried men with no encumbrances had the fewest problems of any.”

“Alas, I seem to have acquired a few encumbrances, though, as yet, no wife,” Villiers said thoughtfully. “I have fallen into respectability without noticing.”

“Fallen?” Jemma said with a chortle. “Given those illegitimate children of yours, you should boast of the opposite.”

“Vulgar,” he said. “Unworthy of you.”

Jemma grinned at him. “I find vulgarity so refreshing. From what I understand, children
are
a problem. Though surely the illegitimate type, tucked away out of sight and mind, cannot present very many problems?”

“My thought exactly.” His long fingers played with the pawn she had just knocked from the board.

“But?”

“If you remember, while I was very ill following my regrettable duel last year, I made a promise about my children.”

“The deathbed promise! Oh, the very worst kind.”

“Adding unkindness to vulgarity,” he said with mock severity.

“Precisely,” she said. “To whom did you make that promise, anyway? I don't remember hearing that any church folk were tenderly waiting by your bedside.”

“It was to Miss Charlotte Tatlock.”

Jemma made a face before she could stop herself.

“No Puritan. Miss Learned Fetlock.”

“The same one who spent too much time adoring your husband,” he confirmed. “I asked her to marry me, you know.”

“I am glad she didn't accept you,” Jemma said with satisfaction.

“Who said she didn't accept me?”

“At my Twelfth Night ball I walked into my own sitting room to find her passionately clasped in the embrace of your heir. She wasn't nearly interesting enough to kiss him
and
marry you.”

“Then why did you fret about whether she would be successful in pursuit of your husband?”

“I wasn't fretting. I would never do something as bourgeois as fret.”

“You were fretting,” Villiers said. “Eyeing poor Elijah the way a rat eyes cheese. A true dog in the manger, in fact. ‘I don't care to have him, but no one else can either.'”

“Let's go back to your problems,” Jemma said, taking his rook.

“As it happens, I received a missive this morning informing me that my heir has irresponsibly and inappropriately married Miss Tatlock by special license.”

“Very romantic,” Jemma said.

“Your tone is distinctly unkind. Unsympathetic, in truth. Do you know that is the second of my fiancées to marry by special license?”

“My brother's wife and now Miss Tatlock. Tut tut, Villiers. Is that the problem you wish me to solve? Finding you a fiancée who will actually stay with you, rather than dash off with a swashbuckling passerby?”

“There's no need to enjoy my plight quite so much,” Villiers said, moving a pawn forward. “And no, I don't care for a wife. I have other pursuits in mind.”

Jemma caught her breath. He looked up at her, his hand still holding the chess piece, and there was no mistaking which pursuit he was thinking of. All of a sudden her laughing friend was gone; his eyes were smoldering. She raced into speech. “Your problem? What is it?”

He didn't speak for a moment, letting her know that he saw her flimsy evasion. She couldn't help it; the flicker of amusement—and recognition of desire—in his eyes made the corners of her mouth curl into a smile. But there was nothing in her smile that betrayed Elijah. Nothing.

“Children,” he said. “I promised Charlotte that I would find her the perfect husband. She showed no faith in my abilities, and insisted that if I managed the task, I would have to turn father, when she turned wife.”

“And she just turned wife!” Jemma cried. “You are caught, Villiers, fairly caught!”

“I thought you were going to call me Leopold. I'm sure we had reached that pitch of intimacy.”

The air stilled in the room again. She fled back to the subject at hand. “The question is, what did she mean by turning father?”

“She said something about learning the children's names.”

“You do support them, don't you?” she asked, knowing that he did. Even if he didn't entertain guilt, Villiers would never shirk a financial responsibility.

He nodded.

“I gather that you need to understand the word ‘fatherhood.'”

“I'm finding the parameters hard to determine.”

“I don't believe I ever met your father. Mine taught me to play chess.”

“I could do that,” Villiers said, something easing in his expression.

Jemma sneaked a glance at him under her lashes. “My father taught me how to fight off an unwanted suitor, and threatened to kill me if I failed.”

“Dear me,” Villiers said languidly, taking one of her knights. “How very violent.”

Jemma felt a prickle of irritation. Her father had been rightfully impassioned on the subject of rakes like Villiers. “Most of what he taught us we learned from living with him. Fatherhood involves propinquity.”

Villiers didn't even flinch. “The children are—”

“How many children are we talking about?” Jemma demanded. And, when he didn't answer, “You do know the number, don't you?”

“Of course. But there are complications.”

Jemma swept a bishop off the board. “Such as?”

“Six,” he said.

“
Six?
You have
six
children out of wedlock?”

His eyes focused on her fingers, still holding the bishop. “Considering the number of women I have made love to in my life, it seems a not inconceivable number.”

“
Inconceivable?
Who's vulgar now?”

He blinked. “An inadvertent pun, I assure you.”

“I thought you had perhaps two children.”

“Six.”

“You need to be more careful,” she scolded.

“Yes.”

“Didn't you ever give a thought to the lives of those children, born out of wedlock? Or their mothers, bearing children without marriage lines?”

“No.”

It was Jemma's turn to move, but she hesitated. She felt a bit sick. She liked Villiers. Leopold. She really liked him. She had even—

“I am a duke,” he said. His voice was like dark velvet, impenetrable. “Why would I give a damn about that sort of thing?”

“At least you pay for them.”

“I could support a foundling hospital, and you would applaud my virtue.”

“I didn't expect you to populate your own orphanage,” she said, her voice coming out more sharply than she intended. “It's despicable to think so little of the women that you—”

“Bed,” he supplied. “I think a great deal of some women I bed. Or hope to bed.”

But this bit of gallantry was forced, and she flashed him a look of contempt.

“What is the difference between six and two?” he asked.

“One child out of wedlock is an error. Two suggests carelessness. Three—and six—is simply wrong. Wrong.”

There was something in those dark eyes of his that made her anger diminish.

“You understand that, don't you?”

“You simply don't appreciate the mental cast of a duke.”

“Don't you dare tell me that your children's mothers were lucky to be impregnated by you, simply because of your rank!”

There was a brief smile in his eyes. “No. I meant that I was brought up to think that everyone below me was unworthy. That my inherited money, power, and title gave me the right to do just as I please. And as it happens, I dislike French letters and I honored my dislike for some years.”

“There's nothing honorable about that,” Jemma said scathingly. “You're lucky you don't have fourteen children! Who are they?”

“The children?”

“The mothers. I know that a child of yours was born to a gentlewoman, Lady Caroline Killigrew. And that you refused to marry her.”

“In fact,” he said, “that particular girl is not mine.”

“You mean she doesn't count as one of the six?”

“She does, but merely because she is in my care. I told you there were complications.”

“Of course the girl is yours. Lady Caroline told everyone. And her father told my Uncle Edmund that you admitted to bedding her and then refused to marry her. Everyone was so sympathetic and—” She met his eyes
and caught herself. “My God. So who was the father?”

Villiers shrugged. “I have no idea. I certainly never bedded her. I think she must have been desperate. It seemed to me that as a gentleman I had to play my part in the script she had written.”

“Perhaps she hoped you would be forced to marry her.”

“I don't think so. If she wanted to acquire a husband, she would have accused someone of lower rank, someone who would be glad of the large dowry her father would offer.”