by Eloisa James
“Awk, urg, no!” she shrieked, shoving him away. For a small woman, Poppy had a lot of strength.
“But Poppy…”
Not even his sad eyes could make her change her mind about this. “I love you, Fletch, you know that.” She narrowed her eyes and waited.
“You know how much I love you,” he said, giving her a coaxing little smile.
She didn’t smile back. “You simply have to learn that there are things that—that an English lady doesn’t do.”
“What do you mean?” He looked a bit confused, and Poppy had a flash of pride. For once, she knew something he didn’t!
“Mama says that ladies have different rules for intimacy than—than, say, our lavandière does,” she explained to him, carefully keeping even the slightest bit of condescension out of her voice.
“They don’t kiss? Of course ladies kiss. And washerwomen too, no matter whether they’re French or English!”
“They may kiss,” she said, “but there are different kinds of intimacies practiced by the different classes, of course. Just as we wear different clothing, and eat different foods. And different nations too. We are fundamentally different. My mother says that English gentlewomen have very little in common with the French.”
He stared down at her and Poppy nearly blinked. Could that look be, just a little, well, disappointed? She hated disappointing people. “Do you understand?” she asked, a catch of anxiety in her voice.
“I suppose,” he said, rather slowly.
“You can see it yourself, Fletch, if you compare our monarchy to that of the French. The English court is virtuous, whereas the French court is riddled with scandal. My mother says—”
“Believe me, the English court is as rife with scandal as is the French. The distance of the Channel just makes it look cleaner. Their rumors don’t make it across the water.”
Poppy thought about that. “So you mean that last week, when there was all that fuss about Lady Serrard flirting with L’Anou…”
“They never heard about it in En gland, obviously, but it was all we talked of for days. Yet it came to nothing. We never hear English tittle-tattle, any more than they will hear of Lady Serrard’s supposed indiscretion.” “That’s a fair point,” Poppy conceded.
He grinned down at her and her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t help thinking that Fletch was far too beautiful for her.
The eyes of all the French ladies followed him, even those of the Countess Pellonnière. He often didn’t appear to notice, but Poppy did. Looking up at him now, she felt as if she could turn to stone, admiring his beautiful eyes (black in the center with a luminous gray rim), his lean body, the way he moved so gracefully, even when just walking. A lady had once sighed and said that to watch the Duke of Fletcher make his bow was to see the male body at its utter peak of grace. How on earth could such a nonpareil have fallen in love with her, Poppy, short for Perdita and just short in general?
She wasn’t the only one with that question in mind. French ladies looked at her and tittered behind their fans. They drifted past, congratulating her on her cleverness or called her a mignonne, which was next thing to calling her an infant.
Last night Fletch wore a mantle of black Epingle velvet embroidered with black jet beads to a ball given by the Duchess of Orleans. With his hair in a simple queue at his neck, he combined a rakish care-for-nothing air with the garments of an élégante. French ladies dropped their fans to smile at him, with that special pout they kept for delicious men. She had watched him smile in return, and then bow before the Countess d’Argentau, dancing with her for the second time.
“Sit straight!” her mother had barked at her. “You are going to be his duchess, not that rag-tale piece of nobility. Don’t peer like a lovesick nursling; you lower yourself by noticing her attentions to him.”
“But Mama,” Poppy had said, pushed into honesty by the twist in her gut, “the countess is so much more beautiful than I. And her gown is so much more revealing.”
“You are attired perfectly for a young girl making her debut,” her mother had said, looking her over. “And if your face and figure are not the height of regularity and beauty, no one could say that I spared the least expense.” That was true. Her mother favored two ruffles where one might do, and often decided on five instead. Poppy’s skirts were festooned with strings of seed pearls, and her bodices were trimmed with ermine.
But Poppy thought (secretly) that something simple might suit her better. Her frame was so small that side panniers, a long train, and a markedly large hairstyle, no matter how fashionable, made her feel like a decorated child.
Fletch tipped a finger under her chin. “I didn’t mean to send you into a daze, Poppy. I picked up your brooch, but I’m afraid the pin is bent. I’ll have it fixed for you.”
It was foolish to worry. Fletch was here—and he was hers. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
Fletch turned the brooch over in his hand. “What an odd cameo.”
“It’s the only cameo of a bird I’ve ever seen. The Wedgwood company made it in honor of Queen Charlotte.”
“And just how is a flying crane with a crown on its head supposed to honor the queen?”
“Foolish, isn’t it? But look here”—she pointed it out to him—“the craftsman was marvelous. You can see each feather in the wingspan.”
“But the crown makes it look as if the bird has horns,” he objected.
“I know. That’s a small problem in the execution, though I still like it.” She tucked her hand under his arm. “Shall we return? It’s quite chilly, and I wouldn’t want Mama to become concerned about me.” And then, because he still looked a little distant in a way that she didn’t like, she added: “I’ll ask Jemma exactly what ladies do and don’t when it comes to kissing, Fletch. I promise.”
A few minutes later they walked out the door of the abbey. Paris lay on either side of them, dreaming in the chilly morning air until suddenly the air came alive again with a wild ringing of bells, liquid notes falling from the tower above them, echoing off snowy brick walls and steep cathedral spires.
“It’s Christmas,” Poppy said, feeling a sudden rush of joy. “It’s my favorite day of the year. I adore Christmas.”
“I adore you,” Fletch said, stopping. “Do you see what I see, Poppy?”
“What?” she breathed, looking up at him and not wherever he was pointing.
“Mistletoe,” he said, putting his arms around her. “Mistletoe hanging in thin air.”
Poppy closed her eyes and tipped up her face. It was just the right sort of kiss: sweet, short and loving. Then they began to walk back, Poppy picking her way over cobblestones lined in a thin gleaming sheet of ice.
A young woman hurried toward them, head down, a long loaf of bread tucked under her arm. Fletch felt as if he could smell the warm, fresh bread, and then before he knew it, he was imagining the luxurious curve of her breast pressed against the warm crust. He would—
He wrenched his thoughts away. When he and Poppy were married, he would have fresh-baked bread delivered to their chambers, and he would break it apart and eat it from her body, as though she were a platter for the gods.
“You have such a curious smile on your face,” Poppy said. “What are you thinking about?”
“You. Only you.”
Poppy smiled to herself, and an old Parisian who passed reflected that he, one of the world’s connoisseurs of beauty, had never seen a lady quite so exquisite. In her face and figure were years of English and French ancestry, and having been raised mostly in France, every aspect of her figure and costume was à la mode. But it was her eyes, and the way she looked only at the tall Englishman striding beside her, that made her shine with that particular joy that makes even the plainest person beautiful.
“Ah,” he sighed. “L’amour!”
Chapter 1
Four years later
AN EXCERPT FROM THE MORNING POST,
APRIL 22, 1783
The buzz of
the past few days amongst the ton has been the challenge that the Earl of Gryffyn offered the Duke of Villiers. It seems that the earl has stolen away the duke’s fiancée. We cannot comment on the veracity of this report, but we would note that dueling has been strictly prohibited by our gracious sovereign…
Town house of the Duke and Duchess of Beaumont
A morning party in celebration of the Earl of Gryffyn’s victory in a duel
“The Duchess of Fletcher,” the butler announced with a magnificent bellow. When he said nothing about the duke, Poppy looked behind her…but Fletch was gone. He had drifted away to some other part of Beaumont House without bothering to be announced. Or inform her of his intentions.
She could feel her smile turning rigid so she picked up her skirts and edged down the three marble steps into the ballroom. Side panniers made it difficult enough to negotiate doorways and stairs, but this morning her French maid had outdone herself. A veritable cascade of frills, curls and bows towered over Poppy’s head, the whole of it draped with strings of small pear-shaped pearls. Walking was challenging; stairs were truly dangerous.
Not that it wasn’t worth it. She was fiercely determined to achieve an elegance to match her husband’s. Fletch and his costumes were the toast of London; she would never allow it to be said that his duchess shamed him. She didn’t want anyone to be sorry for her. Ever.
Naturally Fletch hadn’t said a word about her costume in the carriage, though he must have realized that her gown was new. Perhaps he thought its embroidery (in shades of gold and pearl) was too formal for a morning occasion. Poppy took a deep breath. If she’d learned anything from her four years of marriage, it was that one cannot guess what a man is thinking.
She revised that thought. Certain male thoughts were crystal clear.
“Your Grace,” came a deep voice at her ear. “May I escort you to the other side of the ballroom, where there is less of a crush? The Duchess of Beaumont is to be found there.”
“I’d be honored,” Poppy said to her host, curtsying just deeply enough to acknowledge his rank without disbalancing her hair. The Duke of Beaumont was attired in a simple coat of dark green velvet with turned-back cuffs of sage green. Of course, men rarely dressed as formally as women. She placed her hand lightly on his arm and they strolled through the ballroom, nodding at acquaintances. “I hadn’t thought to see you this morning,” Poppy said, before she realized that was rather impolite.
The duke—a consummate politician known jointly for his disdain for infamy and his infamous duchess, Jemma—gave a rueful smile. “Undoubtedly this party will be the scandal of the week, since it is held to celebrate a duel. To be quite truthful, in the normal run of events I would likely avoid this particular gathering. But as it is my own duchess holding the party, and in my own house, more commotion would result if I did not attend.”
Poppy felt a rush of sympathy for the poor duke. He was one of the most important men in the House of Lords, a man whose conviction, eloquence and power were known all over En gland. The last thing he needed in his life was scandal. And though she dearly loved Jemma from their days together in Paris, she had to admit that gossip-mongers adored the Duchess of Beaumont for good reason; everything Jemma did seemed to cause a sensation. It must be difficult to be married to her.
Almost as difficult as being married to Fletch.
She froze for a second. “Are you fatigued, Your Grace?” Beaumont asked, pausing. “Would you prefer to sit down?”
“Oh no,” she said, pushing thoughts about her marriage away. “I am so looking forward to seeing Jemma. I haven’t seen her since before I married, when we both lived in Paris. She must be happy to find that her brother won the duel.”
“Naturally we are all relieved that the occasion ended without undue bloodshed,” Beaumont said evenly, his voice showing how much he disliked the idea of celebrating his brother-in-law’s illegal foray into dueling. “And here is the duchess herself.”
He bowed, and left. Jemma looked even more elegant than she had four years ago in Paris. Though she was wearing panniers too, her skirts weren’t stiff like Poppy’s but soft and flowing. And whereas Poppy’s hair was curled into rigid little snail shells, Jemma’s hair was shaped into soft curls, so lightly powdered that its natural gold color shone through. Her beauty had deepened; the sensual air that Poppy remembered was even more pronounced.
“Jemma,” Poppy exclaimed. “How lovely you look!”
Jemma turned and gave a little shriek of welcome. “It’s Poppy!” she cried, snatching her into a hug. Then she backed up and narrowed her eyes. “What has happened to the little mademoiselle I knew so well in Paris? You are exquisite! You put us all to shame. Look at us, three duchesses, and you are the only one who looks the part.”
Poppy had already realized that she had grotesquely miscalculated the formality of the party. No wonder Fletch said nothing of her gown. Poppy smiled apologetically at the lady standing beside Jemma. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”
“We’ve never met,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “Jemma is engaging in hyperbole. I am no duchess. My name is Lady Isidore Del’Fino.” Lady Isidore was wearing a gorgeous costume of soft rose-colored crêpe-de-chine. If Jemma was all sleek perfection, Lady Isidore looked like a ripe cherry, seductive and delicious. Poppy’s heart sank even deeper.
“Isidore, this is the Duchess of Fletcher. Isidore is almost a duchess,” Jemma said, giving Poppy’s arm another affectionate squeeze. “She married by proxy and is just waiting for her duke to return from his travels.”
“I might add that I’ve been waiting ten years,” Isidore said, with such a funny wrinkle of her nose that Poppy started laughing. “I’m very happy to meet you, Lady Fletcher,” she continued. “I’ve heard so much about your charitable endeavors.”
“Which I shall not be joining,” Jemma said. “I ought to make that clear to you now, darling, before I disappoint you. I’m no more charitable than I was when we knew each other in Paris. In fact, probably less so.”
“How can you be less so?” Isidore demanded. “I’ve been living in Italy for the past three years, but I paid many a visit to Jemma,” she explained to Poppy. “I can’t say that I ever saw her exert herself to sew a charitable seam.”
“I have my moments,” Jemma said. And then added: “I consider charity to gentlemen my particular area of expertise.”
Her look was so mischievous that Poppy broke out laughing.
“It’s so strange to think of you married, darling,” Jemma said. “You would hardly believe it, looking at her now, Isidore, but Poppy was the sweetest little poppet you ever saw. She used to wander around the French court with her eyes as round as—as plums.”
“While everyone laughed at me,” Poppy said to Isidore, snapping open her fan. “To call me naïve would have underestimated the truth. I was in a stupor of surprise most of the time.”
“They never laughed!” Jemma cried, loyally. “They were too riveted with jealousy to laugh. You see,” she told Isidore, “Poppy appeared in Paris with her mother and within a week—nay within the hour!—she snapped up the most eligible bachelor in the city, the Duke of Fletcher.”
“I have seen him!” Isidore said, giving Poppy a smile. “In Italy we call such a man bellissimo.”
Poppy gave her a tight smile. There was a limit to how many times a woman wanted to be complimented for her husband’s beauty. It always made Poppy feel like a bracket-faced harpy who had managed a miracle.
“Poppy seduced Fletch straight from the arms of the Parisian court. I think the Duchess of Guise has not yet forgiven you. She still mutters about English fledglings.”
“Did you fall in love at first sight?” Isidore asked. “I would so like to do that, but it never seems to happen. Perhaps I could have fallen for your husband. Although,” she added, “I wouldn’t want you to think that I will look to your husband now.”
Jemma broke in. “Don’t be silly, Isidore. Poppy has Fletch at her feet. She’s
not one to become nervous about your charms. You see,” she said, turning to Poppy, “Isidore’s rather awkward position—”
“In fact, legally married though I haven’t seen my husband since I was in leading strings,” Isidore interrupted.
“Means that she tends to make married ladies nervous.”
“I can’t even talk to a married man,” Isidore complained.
“You can certainly talk to mine if you wish,” Poppy offered.
“There! I told you, Isidore. The two of you should become dear friends. Fletch is hopelessly in love, and so Poppy wouldn’t blink even if you flirt with him. Isidore,” Jemma said, turning to Poppy, “does have a disconcerting habit of making gentlemen fall in love with her, though I assure you that she does no more than talk to them.”
“I promise not to flirt with your duke,” Isidore said, giving Jemma a blinding smile. “But we shall be friends. The truth is that I find the Duke of Fletcher almost troppo elegante for me. I am greatly taken by men of a rougher cast.”
“I know just what you mean,” Poppy said. “A pirate!”
“Everyone loves a pirate,” Jemma said sadly. “Sometimes it seems so cruel that I find myself married to a politician.”
“There are no pirates in English society,” Isidore observed. “Still, I would resign myself to a man without piratical attitudes if he would lavishly adore me as your husband does, Your Grace.”
“Please call me Poppy.” And, desperate to change the subject: “I’m sure that your husband will lavishly adore you.”
“If he recognizes me,” Isidore said with a little hiccup of laughter.
Chapter 2
THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)
We do not comment on the veracity of this report, but we cannot help but wonder whether the Duke of Beaumont will be the next to challenge Villiers, given the rumor that the duchess, recently returned from Paris, is playing an intimate game of chess with the said duke…
