by Eloisa James
Mr. Parsloe was bowing deeply before Elijah. “Your Grace, may I welcome you to the London Chess Club? It is a true honor…you are the first new member in some years. In fact, since the Duke of Villiers did us the honor of joining the club.”
“I’m likely not to be the last,” Elijah said. “After all, my duchess has yet to play the Duke of Villiers.”
“We are free to admit more than one member,” Parsloe told him hastily.
Villiers was kissing Jemma’s hand again. “Ah, what a pleasure to play another Beaumont. I feel as if I am virtually a member of the family.”
Jemma sat down. “And just like the dramas that recur in the best of families, I fully intend to eviscerate you.”
“I have often remarked how grateful I am to have been spared a sibling,” Villiers said.
The footman backed away, and Parsloe quieted the room with one look. Jemma moved her pawn to King Four. In the last year, she and Villiers had played a number of games. They were matched in daring, she knew. He was an inventive player. In order to win, she needed to think far ahead.
He steadily built up a nest of pawns. Jemma watched. She could do herself no good by dashing into a counterthreat without thinking it out first. But finally…finally…she saw it. A brilliant combination, only seven moves ahead.
For the first time, she raised her eyes from the board. Elijah was standing to her right. Their eyes met and she saw that he knew, he’d seen the possibility, he approved.
Marriage, she thought, was a very strange thing.
She won.
“You will come to me for supper,” Villiers said, speaking under the roar of excited voices replaying every move. “No, no, I insist. I absolutely insist. I am, after all, dejected. Positively melancholy. I never lose.”
“You don’t look it,” Jemma said, cocking her head to the side.
“My natural dislike of losing is warring with my knowledge that I will now be able to enjoy excellent games on a more regular basis.”
“We’d be happy to join you tonight,” Elijah said.
Jemma glanced from one man to the other. For childhood friends who hadn’t spoken in years, they were rapidly mending their fences.
“Damn it, Villiers, you must be off your bacon today,” Feddrington roared. He might have slapped Villiers on the back, but the duke was the sort of man not even Feddrington would dare to touch.
Villiers cast him a look under heavy-lidded eyes. “You wound me, Feddrington.”
“We all lose sometimes,” the man said, smirking.
“But here’s a question. The duke and the duchess have both beat Villiers, and he’s rated first in the club. So who’s first?” He turned to Parsloe. “Are they to play each other?”
“Doubtless we shall play each other on many occasions,” Elijah said, smoothly cutting in before Parsloe could name him number one, as Jemma was certain he was about to do. “As it happens, my duchess and I intend to play the final game in our rather widely publicized match in the very near future.”
Villiers gave a little crooked grin. “The duchess had an equally publicized match with me some months ago, but she threw over the game. Shall we assume that she fights to the end with you?”
“Such is the nature of marriage,” Elijah said.
“We shall make the outcome of the duke and duchess’s match the key to rating these two players,” Villiers said, laying down the law. “Should the duchess win, she will become number one, and vice versa.”
Jemma always meant to win her final game with Elijah. Now the only thing that stood between her and victory was her refusal to bed her husband, because for all that Elijah seemed to enjoy their wooing, she had no real expectation that he would come to understand her point of view.
She could bear being ranked number two. “Tonight,” she said to Villiers, and swept from the room.
She found herself in the carriage, waiting for Elijah, who was engaged in conversation with a couple of elderly women. “Did you know them from somewhere?” she asked curiously once he joined her.
“Not so to speak,” Elijah said. “Mrs. Mogg was kind enough to bet on my winning the game with Villiers, so I felt I had to give her the news in person. She has a shilling sixpence riding on my beating you as well,” he added.
Jemma smiled. “I do hope that she has some money laid aside for a rainy day. Because that shilling is lost.”
Elijah leaned over. “Pride goeth…” he said softly. Suddenly the air in the carriage changed, and every nerve in Jemma’s body jumped to attention.
“Elijah,” she breathed.
The duke was a man who knew when a game was won, without even being played. Anyone who had seen the look in his eyes after he beat Villiers would have recognized his face when the duke and duchess stepped from the carriage in front of Beaumont House.
The duchess looked pink-cheeked, disheveled, and a little dazed.
The duke was smiling.
Chapter Fourteen
London town house of the Duke of Villiers
15 Piccadilly
That evening
“I haven’t been here since Villiers was on the point of death,” Elijah commented as they walked up the steps.
“I’ve never been here,” Jemma said, wondering if she ought to hand her pelisse over to the duke’s butler. He looked extremely old and frail; the weight of it might knock him to the ground. Elijah saved her the decision by taking off her pelisse and handing it directly to a footman.
“His Grace and his guests are in the sitting room,” the butler proclaimed, tottering ahead of them.
Jemma walked into the room and almost checked her step. Villiers had invited the Marquise de Perthuis. And this was not the marquise who would be recognized in the Court of Versailles either. Rather than her customary frizzed, crimped wig, styled to be nearly as wide as it was tall, the marquise was clearly wearing her own hair, albeit powdered. It was dressed in loose ringlets all over her head, with some flowing down each side.
What’s more, she had eschewed her black-and-white attire for a chemise gown, precisely the style that Corbin had declared too sensual for Jemma to wear. The marquise’s gown was made of pale hyacinth blue lustring so delicate that the fabric floated behind her as she turned to rap the gentleman she was speaking to on the shoulder with her fan. He turned his head and Jemma realized it was Corbin. But she couldn’t help noting that the marquise looked utterly delectable and outrageously sensuous.
“The marquise looks much better sober,” Elijah remarked. “Shall we?” Not even waiting for Jemma, he walked forward. The marquise’s roguish smile turned to something else, something delicious and intimate.
Jemma’s mouth tightened. Given the way the marquise’s bodice dipped in the front, Elijah could probably see her nipples.
Villiers appeared at her elbow. “Dear me,” he said, an obvious thread of amusement in his voice. “Did I misstep by inviting my dear cousin to dinner? You seemed to have achieved civility, if not friendship, in the past.”
“Of course, your cousin is always a charming companion,” Jemma said, watching Elijah bend his head to the marquise again. She was flirting with her fan now, eyeing him over the edge. Jemma had to admit that the marquise wielded a fan like a deadly weapon.
Wasn’t this just what she wanted?
Of course it was! She snatched her own fan, shook it open with a snap and sailed forward. She might not be wearing a chemise gown—in fact, she was wearing a dress of silver muslin that covered every inch of her bosom—but she was still the Duchess of Beaumont.
“How lovely you look!” she cried, by way of greeting.
The marquise dropped her a curtsy that had the marked benefit of presenting all three gentlemen—Villiers, Elijah, and Corbin—with an excellent view of her breasts. “As do you,” she said, her tone a little breathless. “I adore muslin; I always have. Why, I was married in a dress quite like that.” She smiled innocently. “Though of course that was quite a while ago now.”
Jemma knew that if s
he narrowed her eyes, it would honor that insult. “It is hard to countenance how old we have all grown, isn’t it?” she asked, knowing full well that the marquise was only two years younger than she. “We must make a pact never to try to dress with the joie de vivre of the very young. There’s nothing worse than a matron in a dashing style that only the youngest of women can wear with confidence.”
“Confidence is so essential to beauty, isn’t it?” the marquise replied, neatly turning Jemma’s insult on its head. “I think there’s nothing worse than an anxious woman. There can be nothing more aging than desperation.”
“Dear me,” Villiers said, a wicked smile playing around his mouth. “You both look rather purple in the face. It must be the heat from the fire. Madame la Marquise, do let me move you away from this annoying heat.” And he scooped her away while Jemma was still planning her next riposte.
Elijah was called away to greet Lord Vesey, so Jemma turned to Corbin. “Just when did she transform into such a hussy?” she demanded.
Corbin’s eyes were dancing. “Only after the second glass of Champagne. Although that gown she is wearing suggests that the real marquise has been hiding behind all that black-and-white. I find myself very interested in what her husband will make of her transformation.”
“He’s back in France,” Jemma said. “Spared the sight of his wife wearing a gown that a demirep might find too debauched.”
“She’s downing a third glass of Champagne,” Corbin said thoughtfully. “I never should have bought those two bottles at Vauxhall. Do you know, she’s been telling me the last twenty minutes that she wants to visit the gardens again tonight?”
“She and Villiers look quite good together,” Jemma said. “They have that same sort of French insouciance.”
“Which you need to practice,” Corbin said. “You looked like a disgruntled little spaniel when you were watching her flirt with your husband.”
“I never look like a canine!” Jemma cried.
“One who lost her bone,” Corbin added.
“This was your idea,” Jemma said glumly. “I don’t think it’s working very well.”
“That’s because you have to move to the second part of the plan: in other words, the point at which you cut out the marquise and start flirting with Beaumont yourself.”
“Oh, hurrah,” Jemma said. “I don’t think that Elijah is even interested in flirting. He’s such a straightforward type of person—”
“He’s doing a good job of it now,” Corbin pointed out.
Jemma whipped her head around. The marquise had escaped from Villiers and was standing in front of Elijah. He was laughing. “She can be very witty.”
“You wanted formidable competition,” Corbin said firmly. “You have it. She’s witty, a little tipsy, and making it all too clear that she is available.”
Jemma felt herself grinding her teeth. “Well, he’s not available.”
“I suggest that you amuse yourself for a time before making a move toward your husband,” Corbin said.
“It’s not considered appropriate to glower at your spouse. Remember, there’s nothing more aging than desperation.”
Jemma sighed. “I’ll talk to Villiers.”
“About chess, no doubt?”
She nodded. “I expect he’s seething over that combination move I managed this afternoon. We can talk it through.”
“Make it look as if you’re flirting with him,” Corbin said, by way of farewell.
Jemma pranced up to Villiers without even glancing over at Elijah. Her host was leaning against the fireplace, staring down into the fire. “Don’t tell me that you’re truly suffering pangs over losing those chess games,” she said.
He straightened immediately. “Actually, I wasn’t even thinking of them.”
She smiled at him over the edge of her fan. “You played very well. I almost regret cancelling our blindfolded game.”
She’d seen him look at others with a glance so cold and indifferent that it paralyzed; he had never looked at her that way before, but he did now. “Don’t shame yourself, Jemma.”
And, when she opened her mouth to spit back at him, he raised a hand. “You don’t wish to find yourself in bed with me, blindfolded or otherwise. To pretend otherwise is to cheapen the friendship we have managed to build.”
He looked directly at her. “Which I treasure. I have few friendships.”
She stepped forward involuntarily and held out her hand. He stared down for a moment as if he didn’t understand what to do. Then his large, warm fingers curled around hers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have behaved in such an insincere fashion.”
“I suppose there was a reason for it,” Villiers said, throwing a glance across the room toward where Elijah was talking with the marquise. Jemma could hear her soft giggles.
“So have you really known the marquise since she was a young girl?” she asked brightly.
“She was an awful little thing, as you can imagine.”
“I expect she was one of those children who never smudged her dress and was adored by her governess.”
“She was as small and round as a shrub, one of those shrubs that looks innocent but is kitted out with thorns. I remember playing spillikins with her, and when it appeared she’d lost, she picked up a stick and tried to stab me in the chest.”
Jemma laughed.
“She did!” Villiers protested. “I can imagine that you were a little devil as well.”
Jemma realized that their hands were still linked. But what did it matter? It was a small dinner, and she just heard Elijah laughing at another of the marquise’s sallies. Obviously, he wasn’t worried about her intimacies with Villiers. “I was charming,” she told him. “Whereas you were undoubtedly a dreadful boy.”
He looked at her from under his long eyelashes, and she felt that odd pulse of alarm again. “True enough,” he said, leaning a bit closer. “Fierce, bad-tempered, and, I realize now, inconsolably lonely.”
“Oh, Leopold,” she said, her hand tightening on his.
“I’m so sorry you were lonely.”
“It was hardly a wretched existence. I amused myself by giving the servants assigned to me a terrible time. The only person who could control me at all was Ashmole, my butler.”
“The same butler you have now?” Jemma asked.
“He used to spank me on a regular basis,” Villiers said. “He was fearless, for all that he was just a footman then.”
“You know, you’re not as bad as you let everyone think,” she said.
“Don’t get ideas about my sainthood,” he replied with an indifferent glance. “I keep Ashmole here because I can’t be bothered to pension him off.”
Jemma laughed at that, and reached up to tuck back a strand of Villiers’s hair that had fallen from the ribbon tied at the nape of his neck.
“So how long will you allow the marquise to trifle with your husband?” he asked. “It seems like a strange type of parlor game. Clearly you feel strongly about her behavior.”
“Elijah needs to have fun,” she told him. “I have decided that he has been far too serious all these years.”
“Just how much fun do you intend he should have? This is all sounding alarmingly depraved.”
“Not that much fun!” Jemma said, rapping him with her fan. “I can’t believe you could have such a dissipated thought.”
“Oh, I have many dissipated thoughts,” Villiers said lazily. “They’re practically my stock in trade. I think I’d better tell Ashmole to move supper forward. My cousin has drunk an alarming amount of Champagne, and the last thing I want is a drunken très-coquette losing control of her stomach.”
“Your hair is still falling out of its ribbon, Leopold.” Jemma tucked the lock behind his ear before she turned about, flipped open her fan, and began to saunter across the room. The marquise may have been half dressed, but she considered herself unrivaled in the art of flirtation.
Fifteen minutes later she had woken to a signal
truth: she could certainly flirt, but only if the man in question showed interest.
The marquise and Elijah were tucked together on a small sofa. While Elijah stood up when she approached, there was something careless in the way he looked at her, and he immediately excused himself and sat down again, which was so extraordinarily rude that she could hardly believe it had just happened. Elijah was never rude.
Jemma stood in front of the sofa for a moment like a gauche debutante. “Do allow me to join your conversation,” she said, managing to keep her tone calm with an effort.
Elijah glanced up at her. “Of course,” he said, blinking as if he’d forgotten she was there at all. “I shall pull up a chair for you.”
The moment he stepped away to bring a chair, she seated herself beside Louise. “How are you tonight, dear marquise?”
Louise eyed her a little blurrily and then smiled. “I am enjoying myself. Your husband is the sweetest, most attentive man I’ve ever met.”
“I can imagine—” Jemma began, but then Elijah reappeared with a chair.
“We were discussing foolish antics from our childhoods,” he said. His eyes slid directly past Jemma and focused on the marquise again. Perhaps on her bosom; Jemma couldn’t quite tell.
“Villiers and I were just discussing the same thing!” Jemma said gaily. “He insists that he was an extraordinarily naughty boy as a lad.”
At that, Elijah finally looked at her. “Give me the boy and you give me the man,” he said. There was something remarkably cold in his tone.
“Were you naughty?” she asked him, fanning herself slightly. This conversation was not going precisely as she had planned.
“Between the two of us, I expect that you would win that particular ribbon,” he said.
“I was a bit of a madcap,” the marquise put in.
“I can’t believe that,” Elijah said, his tone caressing.
“You are, of course, lauded for being exceptionally stylish, but also for your irreproachable reputation.”
The marquise giggled and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I assure you that I was a bit of a romp. My mother despaired of me. Why, I had a wild infatuation with Villiers. I took every opportunity I could to flirt with him, though my mother made it as difficult as possible.”
