When the Duke Returns (7 page)

“You could do that,” Jemma said loyally.

“I'm not such a fool as to ever put myself in that situation,” Villiers said. “As I recall, he wore short trousers that barely reached his knee along with a tunic-like affair, but at some point he removed that and had the boys dunk it in the river. They returned it to him wet. He appeared to be quite comfortable.”

“Unfair!” Jemma said.

“Did I mention that he was barefoot?”

“No. And you?”

“Boots. Sturdy English boots made for an exploring Englishman, out to gather useful knowledge of the world's fauna and flora.”

“You came home,” Jemma guessed.

“I forsook all the chess games I might have won in the palaces of the great pashas…I succumbed to the heat.”

“Or perhaps,” Jemma said wickedly, “to your insistence on dressing like a duke.”

“It has occurred to me since. Vanity, thy name is Villiers. Do read his letter.”

Jemma had forgotten about it. There was no formal salutation.

Jemma chuckled.

“I gather you've reached the part when he talks about my ability to arbitrate standards of respectability,” Villiers said.

“I was just thinking of you, all booted and laced, on board that ship.”

“The letter continues.”

Jemma looked up. “What on earth can he be planning? Isidore said that he'd alluded to a wedding celebration that included some sort of animal sacrifice—but he can't be thinking of enacting a primitive rite here. He would be arrested!”

“Not for animal sacrifice,” Villiers said. “As someone who loves sirloin, I can assure you that many cattle have been sacrificed to keep me happy.”

“You know what I mean,” Jemma said. “And Isidore mentioned
orgies.
”

“Well, that settles it. I knew you were the person to speak to. I shall have to pay him a visit, if only so that I can be part of the orgy planning.”

“Have you participated in many?”

“Orgies or weddings?” he asked innocently.

“I doubt you have been in any weddings,” she pointed
out. “Your engagement to my ward was your first and last, to the best of my knowledge.”

“Alack,” he said. “My experience with orgies is just as thin. This will be
such
an education for me, combining two pursuits I have religiously avoided.”

“You surprise me,” Jemma said. “I would have thought you had indulged in your youth, and then tired of such passionate pursuits.”

“The problem lies in my dukedom, I suppose, or in my spoiled nature. I have always thought of orgies as opportunities to share—and I don't do that very well.”

“Then I wonder why you have pursued
affaires
with married women,” Jemma said.

“Rarely. Very rarely, and only against my better judgment.”

“I see.”

“Only when the temptation is so great that there seemed no other woman in the world,” he added gently.

“Ah.”

“In fact, I must tell you that my reputation may be blacker than I deserve. I have, as yet, had no
affaires
of that nature.” He rose. “I must continue to my appointment, duchess.”

She stayed in her seat for a moment, then looked up at him. “Leopold.”

Only the lowering of his eyelids showed that he registered her use of his personal name.

But she wasn't sure exactly what to say.

“I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you a present.”

She rose, unable to find words, unsure what her response should be. “A present?”

He took out a fan and laid it on the table. “A mere token, a nothing. It made me think of you.” He turned to go.

“Wait—”

He looked back.

“When do you go to Revels House?”

“I shall return to Fonthill tomorrow. If Strange's daughter is still ill, I shall travel on to Revels House in a few days.”

She nodded.

“I shall make very sure that you are invited to the wedding, naturally.”

“Beaumont and I shall be happy to attend.” She wasn't sure why she felt the need to bring her husband's name into the conversation. It wasn't as if Elijah didn't—hadn't—Elijah himself refused to bed her until the chess game with Villiers was over. He understood the potential that she might have an
affaire
with Villiers.

Jemma sat for a long time after the door closed behind Villiers and his rose-colored silks…thinking of men. Of husbands, lovers, chess masters, heirs.

Of men.

Gore House, Kensington
London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
February 27, 1784
The next morning

I
sidore gave the direction to the groomsman, climbed into the carriage, and started pulling off her gloves.

“Do you always take off your gloves whenever possible?” Simeon asked.

Isidore glanced at him. “You aren't wearing gloves either.” Nor a cravat, nor a wig, nor a waistcoat, but why indulge in specifics?

“I dislike gloves, and it seems you do as well.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

He leaned forward and took her hand, turned it over.
His hand was large and callused, like a working man's hands. He wore no rings, not even a signet.

“Will you tell my fortune?” she asked.

“I don't know how. I had my fortune told once in India. The whole experience scared me to death and I never toyed with such people again.”

“What did he say?” It was hard to imagine Cosway, who looked large and fearless, quailing before a fortuneteller.

“He told me that it was up to me to make sure that my fortune didn't turn out as he prophesied.”

Isidore succumbed to curiosity. “Please tell!”

He shook his head. “Maybe when we're old and gray.”

“
If
we're old and gray together!” she pointed out.

“Are you angry at me because I didn't return when you came of age or because I'm offering you the chance now to annul the marriage?”

“I'm not angry with you,” Isidore said, withdrawing her hand. Her voice sounded petulant, but she felt out of her depth with this huge man.

Shamefully, she kept looking at him and thinking
virgin
? How could he be a virgin? He looked all man, all male…

She could feel her cheeks getting pink.

“Or are you angry at me because I'm not knowledgeable about conjugal intimacies?”

“No!” she said, turning to the window. “Look, Cosway, we're passing by Somerset House. If you crane your neck you might see the loggia on the south terrace. It was just finished…The Inns of Court are very close now.”

It was barely an hour before they were back in the carriage again. Isidore was in shock.

“I just can't believe it!” she said. “You ought to be able to annul a marriage easily on the grounds of nonconsummation. I'm sure everyone told me so a thousand times over the past few years.”

Her husband raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea that people were so interested in the state of our bedchamber.”

“Cosway,” Isidore said impatiently, “I am twenty-three years old. I've been jaunting around Europe for years. Unless people actually checked their Debrett's, they tended to think we were merely engaged, and I never corrected that impression. Even Jemma, one of my closest friends, thought that for a time. It was less humiliating to let people think such.”

“But—”

“But there are plenty who read their Debrett's like a Bible, so they know of the proxy wedding. They would inquire when you were returning. Nonconsummation has been mentioned to me many times. I know Villiers brought it up. And now it seems that it isn't an option.”

“I'm sorry,” Cosway said. “Even if it were legal, I would have to pass a test of my incapability. I can't.”

Isidore made herself say the words, because she had to know: “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Really sure?”

“No question. Is that what you're worrying about?”

“I'm not worried.”

“Because I could show you.”

She felt her eyes grow round. “What?”

He had a wicked smile. He started pulling open his greatcoat. “I could show you—”

“Don't!” she snapped.

“The truth is that I find it rather difficult to be around you,” he said, leaning back and leaving his greatcoat alone, to her relief.

She felt inexplicably hurt. Of course, he was eager to get an annulment, but there was no need to be so brutal about it. “According to that solicitor, there are other ways to dissolve our marriage,” she said a bit stiffly. “So you needn't give up the dream of your docile little hen-wit.”

“Hen-wit? Not a kind word, Isidore…But I wasn't referring to the question of annulment, but to the state of my cock.”

She gasped. “You—”

“Mayn't I use that word in front of a lady?” he inquired, as mild as sweet butter and all the time his eyes laughing at her.

“No!” she managed. “It makes you sound like—like—”

“Tsk, tsk, Isidore. I have the strangest sense that you and my mother are actually quite alike. But how can that be? After all, I rescued you from Lord Strange's notorious house party, did I not? Even I have heard tell of its brothel-like atmosphere. But here you are, quailing at a good, solid Anglo-Saxon word like—”

“Don't!”

“Are you telling me that language like that wasn't flying around Strange's dining room?”

“I tried not to listen to that sort of conversation.”

“You did?” He leaned forward suddenly. “Then without inappropriate words, Isidore, may I assure you that when I'm in your presence that part of my body stands to attention?”

Isidore could feel herself growing pink. And she always thought she looked her worst with ruddy cheeks. “Must you say these things?”

“You impugned my manhood,” he said. “I couldn't have you thinking that I was a limp lily.”

“How would—” she said, and broke off.

“How would I know?” His whole face was alight with amusement. “Really, I do have to show you, Isidore.”

“No!”

He barked with laughter. “I can't imagine you at Strange's house. Even in the half hour during which I managed to stay awake, I was told an entirely salacious story about a bishop. And his miter.”

Isidore shuddered. “I hated that place.”

“Then why were you there?”

She took a deep breath. “To force you to return home, of course.”

“That's what my mother said.”

“She was right. I had reached the point at which I thought either you came home or—”

“Or?”

Isidore suddenly saw exactly how to get back at him for offering to show her his equipment. She leaned forward and patted his hand. “Jemma told me once that it is a wife's duty to provide an heir if a husband is incapable. Since you showed little signs of returning from Africa, I decided I should begin to explore the possibilities.”

All traces of amusement were gone from his face.

“You were going to produce an heir
for me?
”

She shrugged. “And Cosway, if things are not entirely successful on our wedding night, should we decide to stay together, I wouldn't want you to worry. I can always—”

“You will
never
substitute another man for me! I don't know where you got the damned idea that I might be incapable!”

“Neither one of us can know the truth to that,” she pointed out. She was dancing on the edge of jeopardy and it felt wonderful.

His mouth opened like that of a fish out of water.

She leaned forward and patted his knee this time. “A
virgin at your age…well. I would never tell a soul.” And she beamed at him.

It was a beautiful moment. It almost made up for the way he was planning to annul their marriage due to her unsuitability as a wife.

He surprised her.

After staring at her for a moment, he collapsed into a howling fit of laughter.

She sat silently for a moment, but Cosway had the kind of laughter that made you want to join in, and she couldn't keep herself from smiling.

“You think that because I haven't tried out the equipment on a woman, it doesn't work at all?”

“It's a reasonable—”

He started howling with laughter again, and finally straightened up.

“I don't see what's so funny,” she said with reasonable dignity.

“It's you. I suppose it's due to being a lady. One can only assume from your idea about my equipment that you yourself have never—” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“What?” she asked, completely confused.

“You've never pleasured yourself.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Bloody hell, you haven't.”

She felt herself turning pink. “I see no need to engage in coarse language.”

“Shit and dam—”

“Don't!”

“I'm talking about pleasure,” he said. “The kind you apparently have never had.”

Isidore kept silent. What pleasure she had had or not was none of his business.

“I should have known,” he muttered to himself. “Now
look here, Isidore. My—well, what word am I allowed to use, then?”

“I don't know. Pizzle, I suppose. Though no one ever talks to me about pizzles.”

“They want to,” Simeon said. “You just haven't given them the chance. Pizzle, for Christ's sake. Sounds like a word a five-year-old might use when learning to take a piss. Are you sure we can't do with a bolder word, one more in line with the size of the thing?”

Isidore opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again and said: “Pizzle.”

“Right. Well, my pizzle is a
pizzalone
, in Italian. A
big
pizzle, Isidore.”

He was still making fun of her. She folded her arms over her chest. “There's nothing sadder than a man who feels the need to boast about the size of his equipment,” she said sweetly.

“It's not boasting, just stating.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Want me to prove it?” And he put his hands back on the front of his greatcoat.

“No!”

Simeon looked at Isidore. She was laughing and indignant at the same time. She didn't look docile, or sweet, or biddable…she looked like a banked fire waiting for just one spark to flare. She had never pleasured herself…she had never…she had
waited.

His blood was pounding through his body, begging him, telling him, commanding him. It took all his strength to resist the impulse to pull her into his arms. “I can completely understand your anxiety,” he said.

“You can?”

“You're buying a pig in a poke. Unlike the rest of the Englishmen around here, I haven't been strutting around
brothels for the last fifteen years. But if we did marry, I wouldn't bring you any diseases, Isidore.”

She nodded.

“You have a reasonable suspicion that my pizzle is not in working condition. Out of shape. Withered from lack of use. Tired from my own handling—”

“That's enough.”

“So I would have to prove it to you, obviously, before I could expect you to commit to our marriage.”

“But you yourself are not committed, since I'm not a docile little hen-wit.”

There was a moment of silence in the carriage. Her summary of his marital ambitions seemed unnecessarily harsh. “It's not that I want to marry an unintelligent woman,” he began painstakingly, but she interrupted him.

“You just don't want to marry me.”

“It's not a question of
you
, Isidore.”

He had that look again, the one of total calm and control. Isidore understood Simeon a bit better now—and pitied him for it. Her husband thought he had anger and lust under control, not to mention fear. He thought he had life under control.

He was a fool, but that wasn't the same thing as being a madman, the way she and Jemma had thought he might be. And from what he was saying, he wasn't incapable. Clearly, she needed to think about what to do next.

“If we call it off, I'll go back to Africa directly,” he offered. “Sign the papers and keep out of your hair while you find another husband.”

She nodded. “Very generous of you.” She looked down and found that her hands had curled into fists.
We
call it off? Simeon clearly thought that he was as much in control of the end of their marriage as he had been of the first eleven years.

“I expect it might put the new husband off his feed to have the old husband hanging around assessing him,” Simeon said. “I might want to engage in a pizzle contest, for example.”

Isidore smiled stiffly. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw such a contest in Smyrna.”

“Where's that?”

“On the Mediterranean sea, part of the Anatolian Empire. I met a vizier and his brother who were traveling to present themselves as possible spouses to a sheikh's daughter. The decisive factor? A pizzle contest.”

“Size?”

“Size and endurance,” Simeon said. “The sheikh made his entire harem available for the duration of the contest. He invited me to join the contest.”

“Was the sheikh just taking anyone? Not that they shouldn't have offered it to you, but you
are
married,” Isidore pointed out.

“Oh, the sheikh wouldn't have cared about an English marriage. In order to enter the contest, you had to offer a tiger ruby. And as it happened, I have something of a collection. I do believe that some of the gentlemen in question had no expectation of winning the princess's hand but they were happily offering up tiger rubies anyway.”

“Because of the harem,” Isidore asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Beautiful women,” Simeon said. “Exquisite in every way.”

“Wonderful.” Her tone could have curdled milk. “How did you ever resist the temptation?”

He grinned at her. “I had you.”

“Well,” Isidore said, “You didn't—”

“
Have
you,” he put in. “You're right. Let's put it this way: I didn't have you. Yet. But you were worth more than a night in a harem and a tiger ruby.”

Isidore thought of various remarks she might make, comparing her worth to that of the hen-wit, and stopped herself. “What does a tiger ruby look like? I've never heard of it.”