by Eloisa James
He poured another quarter vial into the brandy glass and drank it before she could protest again.
Almost immediately he said, “I am faintly queasy.”
“Nausea is good,” Jemma said quickly. “It shows the medicine is working. Do you see any circles around this candle?” She ran to the mantel and snatched one up.
“Who can tell?” Elijah asked. “A candle has a natural aura.”
“Well, look at my head then,” Jemma said. “No, look at me! Do you see light around my head?”
“Are you trying to find out if you have angelic status?” he inquired, his mouth quirking up in a smile. He squinted at her. “Yes! I see feathery wings as well!”
“How can you make fun at a time like this!”
“If you can’t laugh in the face of death, when can you laugh?” Then he added, casually, “My heart feels quite steady.”
She couldn’t speak, just put her head against the chest that housed that wonderful, regularly beating heart. A second passed, and another, and another. It continued to beat steadily.
“It’s not skipping,” she said, awestruck.
“The foxglove has forced it into a normal rhythm,” he said. “Just like making love to you. Medicine in a bottle instead of a bed.”
Jemma chewed her lip. “How will we know when you should drink more? We forgot to ask.”
He stood up and stretched. “There’s only one way to test it.”
“How?”
He grinned, the wicked lively grin of a man without fear. “I have to exhaust myself. Drive my heartbeat up.”
Jemma backed away, shaking her head. “No, Elijah, I don’t think that—” But he seized her. She managed to say, “Only if you allow me to feel your heart whenever I want.”
“I’m going to tire myself out making love to you. And then I shall drink a glass of cognac and lie flat on the floor.”
“That’s too risky.”
But he had her on the bed, her own great warm beast of a man, pushing her flat, kissing her. “I’m fine. Feel.” And he pressed her hand to his chest.
There, under her hand, was the most wonderful miracle of all: Elijah’s heart was beating strongly, steadily, as if it had never missed a beat in its life, and they hadn’t even begun to make love.
Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Elijah…”
But the tears couldn’t fall because his hands—his lips—he was everywhere. He had no shame.
At some point in the evening, after the household was in bed, they wandered down to the library. Jemma’s hair was down her back and she was wearing only her nightdress, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Elijah poured himself a great glass of cognac. And then he poured one for her, since he didn’t feel like drinking alone.
The warmth of the cognac seeped to her toes, but she kept walking around the room, unable to settle down. “We have to send a note to your mother first thing in the morning,” she said, chattering. “And Villiers, of course.”
“And Dr. Withering,” Elijah put in. He was lying on the floor, just as he had threatened to do.
“How’s your heart?”
He just smiled and drank more cognac.
She came and stood over him. “Drink faster. This can’t be considered a proper test unless you are tipsy.”
“I have an idea,” he said, and his voice sounded so sleepy that she thought he meant to return to bed. His hand wrapped around her ankle and gave a gentle tug. “Kiss me.”
“Oh, Elijah…” But she came to her knees beside him. His kiss was more joyful than desperate, more honey than lust. It banished her fears, replacing them with something stronger: faith that her husband would live.
Slowly those kisses changed to something else and fire crept up the back of her legs. “We can’t do this again,” she gasped.
“O ye of little faith!” He laughed at her, and sure enough the evidence of his ability was more than obvious. “Of course, I must remain on my back. Exhaust me,” he commanded.
Jemma shifted, moving to hover over him, allowing him to stroke her. Then with one powerful thrust of his hips, he lunged upward. A cry broke from her lips.
“Did that hurt?” Elijah gasped.
“No,” Jemma whispered. “Do it again—Oh!”
She tried leaning forward and leaning back. She tried teasing him, and teasing herself. She let him kiss her breasts, and then sat back again so she could do some caressing of her own.
Finally she found herself beginning to shudder, driven to ride him with a steady, pounding beat. “Beg me,” she said, nipping his bottom lip with her teeth. “Beg me to go faster, Elijah.”
His fingers tightened on her hips. “I love it when you growl at me.”
She rose to her knees and teased him by withdrawing. “Beg me.” She slid downwards with a wanton twist of her hips.
“I—never—beg,” Elijah gasped.
Jemma would have laughed, but she had to concentrate to keep desire from overwhelming her. She drove him mercilessly, dancing to the brink and then stopping just before he toppled into pure pleasure.
“I can’t—” He spoke through clenched teeth, his body bowed in an effort to force her compliance.
“Are you begging now?” she asked, pushing his hips down so that a hoarse gasp came from his throat—and then sliding away just as easily.
“No. Begging is shameful and you won’t—” His voice broke off because she was reaching behind to caress him. “God,” he said, his voice breaking. “Jemma!”
“Mmmm,” she said, moving so slowly that her nerves danced with fire. Every inch of her body longed to drive him home, to ride him as fiercely as she was able.
But in a marriage, a true marriage, she couldn’t be the only one who knew how to beg.
He was gasping now, his muscled chest heaving, but she was relentless, using her body, her fingers, her lips to drive him mad. Finally, reluctantly, he threw back his head and a guttural moan came from his throat. “All right. I’m begging you!”
Before she could even react, as if the very hint of submission was too shameful to bear, he lunged up, flipping her over and driving deep. She clutched him desperately, gasping in his ear: “Please, please, please.”
Elijah braced his hands on the floor and stroked forward with a primitive force that made her shriek. “Say it,” he said, between clenched teeth. “Say it!”
“I’m begging you,” she sobbed. “I love you…”
“And I love you.”
They fell together into a place where there were only their two bodies, and their two hearts.
Beating together.
Chapter Thirty
April 5
Villiers couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about that boy up in the nursery. If you could call him a boy. And then there was Elijah. Was he still alive? Surely he would have heard if Elijah had died.
He rose at the first light of dawn and strode around his chamber, unable to settle his mind. He didn’t know what to do next. Should he fetch another child? The idea was—frankly—terrifying. Perhaps it would be better to get a wife first, and bring a woman’s hand into it. How long could it take to find a wife?
And then there was Elijah. He turned so quickly that his heel slipped and the rug crumpled behind him. He kicked it flat again.
Finally he cursed and rang the bell for his valet. He required a woman’s advice about matrimony. Jemma was a woman. And Jemma was married to Elijah: he needed to know how Elijah was. In any case, he couldn’t bear to be in his house anymore, not with that boy upstairs. One had to suppose he should go upstairs and say something to him. He shuddered at the very thought.
Villiers arrived at the Beaumont town house at the grotesquely unfashionable hour of eight o’clock, fully expecting the butler to deny him entrance. By the grace of God, Elijah’s butler wasn’t at his post. Instead a round-faced footman informed him that the duke wasn’t yet awake. “Fine,” he said brusquely, throwing his greatcoat into the man’s arms. The foot
man caught it reflexively, and Villiers strode around him. “I’ll be in the library. When the duke awakes, inform him that I’m waiting.”
He threw open the door to the room and stopped, frozen on the threshold. Then he stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him.
“Well, well, well,” he said.
“Don’t wake her,” Elijah said.
Jemma looked utterly delectable, of course. She appeared to be wrapped in little more than a blanket, and was sleeping as soundly as a babe in his friend’s arms. At least Elijah had a dressing gown on. Somehow Villiers found himself able to view the scene without more than a faint pang of envy. The whole experience of rescuing his son made his feelings for Jemma seem far in the past.
“You’re up and about very early,” Elijah observed.
“I had an interesting day yesterday,” Villiers said. Then he narrowed his eyes. “You look—”
“The foxglove works.”
“It works?”
“My heart beat steadily for approximately thirteen hours after taking a dose,” Elijah said, a huge grin breaking over his face. “When Jemma wakes, I’ll take another dose, as I only just started missing a beat or two in the last few minutes.”
“I’ll get the medicine,” Villiers said. “Where is it?”
“Nonsense,” Elijah said. “Dukes don’t fetch things. Jemma dashed over to your house to fetch the article on foxglove, and now you’re the same.”
“We’re not living up to your ducal expectations?” Villiers said.
“In some ways, yes,” Elijah said. “What has happened to you? You look as altered as I. Did you know that your hair ribbon does not match your coat?”
Villiers had grabbed it from the table and left his valet bleating something or other.
“Just to demonstrate that dukes do fetch things, yesterday I went to fetch my eldest son.”
“Were you successful?”
Jemma murmured something and turned in her sleep. Bright hair spilled over Elijah’s knees. Villiers realized with some surprise that he felt nothing.
“The boy had been consigned to a grotesque personage who ran a group of boys as mudlarks.”
Elijah frowned instantly. Of course he, of all the dukes in the realm, would know precisely what a mudlark was, and how perilous their lives. “Has he been injured?”
“His legs are somewhat scarred, but he seems well. Another boy appears likely to lose his foot from a great cut.”
“The mortality rate is very high.”
Villiers felt that like a punch to the stomach. “Ah. Well, my son appears to be alive. Very alive. In addition, he seems to be a hellion.”
“Imagine that,” Elijah said. “Who would have thought?”
Villiers ignored his sarcasm.
“Where is he?”
“I handed him over to Mrs. Ferrers, my housekeeper.”
“You handed your son over to the housekeeper? You don’t know where he is sleeping?”
“What housekeeper?” Jemma said, straightening up and yawning. “What time is it?” With a groan she collapsed back onto Elijah’s chest.
“Who else could take care of the boy? He was filthy. Was I supposed to do something with him?” But it was a question he had been asking himself. Should he go up to the nursery and say something? Take the boy somewhere?
Jemma sat up again and threw back her hair. “What the devil are you doing here, Villiers?” She blinked and clutched her blanket a little higher.
“I came to hear your good news,” he said blandly.
“Oh.” Then she beamed at him. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes.”
“But what were you saying about your housekeeper?”
“The housekeeper has been assigned to care for one of my children,” Villiers said. “I have five more children to find, and God knows what sort of living arrangements my solicitor made for them. He’s gone missing, by the way, and I expect he’s taken a quantity of money with him.”
“Have you put a Runner on him?” Elijah inquired.
Villiers nodded. “Not for the money, but in the event that I can’t find one or more of the children.”
“You must go look for the rest of them,” Jemma said.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Advice,” he said flatly.
“I know nothing of children,” she replied. “Perhaps you should hire a nursemaid. In fact, you will need more than one, as well as a governess. Your housekeeper can find them for you.”
“Not that,” Villiers said, picking up his sword stick and examining it as if he’d never seen it before. “I need a wife. That is, I suppose I do need a nanny or two, or three. But I need a wife. And I’ve lost two fiancées so far.”
“You need someone of a generous temperament, of course.” She hesitated. “Are you certain that you wish to bring up these children in your own home, Leopold? You could place them in the country, with a good family, and visit them often.”
“No.” He didn’t know why it was, but he couldn’t have Tobias sent away, where he might not be safe. Never again. Even though he was a repellent little monster. “I was under the impression that you were quite enamored of your brother’s illegitimate brat.”
“But last year Elijah threw a tantrum at the mere idea that the boy would be staying under our roof, and he was just the one child, rather than six,” Jemma said, elbowing her husband.
“I was trying to be effective in Parliament at that point,” Elijah said. “And I was going about it the wrong way.” He dropped a kiss on her hair.
“You need a woman who won’t be terrified by the very idea of your children,” Jemma said, “which I think excludes the greater number of debutantes, don’t you agree, Elijah?”
“The problem,” Elijah said slowly, “is not how to handle these children now. It’s what will happen to them when they reach marriageable age.”
“I shall dower them,” Villiers said. “I am one of the richest men in England, and much of it is unentailed. They shall marry whomever they please.” He heard the arrogance of his father, in his voice, and his father’s father—and didn’t give a damn.
“That’s not going to be easy,” Jemma said. “Perhaps a nice widow?”
“No,” Elijah said slowly. “The duchess would have to be of equal stature to Villiers.”
“I see. If we could find a duke’s daughter,” Jemma agreed, “between the two of you, you might be able to compel the ton to accept the children.”
“I doubt that the Puritanical will ever accept the children,” Elijah said.
Villiers felt a wave of rage in his chest. “They are my children,” he said tightly.
“Illegitimacy is well-nigh impossible to overcome.”
“So I need a duke’s daughter,” Villiers said, ignoring his doubts.
“The problem is finding eligible ducal offspring,” Jemma said. “Not to mention ones who might be convinced to marry a man in your situation.”
“You show me an eligible woman, and I’ll take her,” Villiers said softly.
“You can’t just take her,” Jemma said, scowling at him.
“Watch me.”
“There’s the Duke of Montague’s daughter,” Elijah offered.
“Actually, Montague has three daughters,” Jemma said. “The eldest one is Eleanor. She’s apparently quite proud. I’ve heard tell that she won’t even consider those of a rank below an earl.”
“I am above an earl,” Villiers said. “Are the other two as superior in their thinking?”
“I’ve met the youngest Montague daughter only two or three times, but it seems to me that she was as full of her own consequence as her sisters. I believe it’s a family trait.”
“Doesn’t the Duke of Gilner have a daughter?” Elijah asked. “I always liked him. He comes infrequently to the House, but he’s thoroughly intelligent.”
“Her name is Lisette. But she’s ineligible,” Jemma said.
“Why?” Villiers asked.
“She’s mad. Quite mad. She has never had a season. And everyone says it’s because she can’t appear in public at all.”
“There must be others.”
Jemma shook her head.
“Then I shall choose among the Montague daughters. Did you say the eldest is called Eleanor?”
Jemma nodded. “Eleanor, Anne, and Elizabeth. They’re named after three queens. I don’t believe they’re in London at the moment, but I shall invite them to the house for tea upon their return.”
“I would appreciate that,” Villiers said. He was beginning to feel worried about Tobias, as if the boy might flee if he left him alone too long. “I’m happy to find you so well,” he said to Elijah. “Now you should have a footman fetch that miraculous medicine.”
“We owe you thanks, since you found the doctor who directed us to Withering.”
“I shall take that as confirmation that I no longer need feel guilty about the fact you saved my life last year, after that duel.”
They didn’t embrace. English dukes didn’t flaunt affection, even under circumstances like these. But Elijah accompanied him to the door and their shoulders jostled together, just as they had in their boyhood.
The Duke of Villiers walked into the watery morning sunlight, thinking about duke’s daughters named for queens.
Chapter Thirty-one
Two months later, mid-June
1784
All of London was talking about the Duchess of Beaumont’s benefit costume ball for refurbishment of the old Roman baths. It was rumored that at least four duchesses would attend, and perhaps even the King himself. Everyone, of course, would be dressed in proper Roman attire.
Mrs. Mogg and her friends were waiting outside the gate of the baths hours before the ball was due to begin.
They watched as scores of footmen carried in countless garlands of flowers.
“They’ll wrap them around the trees, I’ve no doubt,” Mrs. Mogg said importantly. “The Duchess of Beaumont did just that at a party she had in Paris.” Her friends all nodded. Mrs. Mogg was considered something of an expert on the Beaumonts. After all, she’d talked to the duke himself twice. And she seemed to know everything there was to know about the couple.
