An Affair Before Christmas

by Eloisa James

  “How does the lady in question choose among all those who desire her? For their numbers must be legion.”

  “Like the maddened swine in the Bible?” She unfurled her fan; her eyes laughed over the edge. They were delicately marked with a sensual line of kohl. “The lady simply looks for the least pig-like, I assure you.”

  “And if they hide their curly little tails?” He laughed right back at her.

  “Ladies are never interested in anything little,” she said softly. Fletch let the corner of his mouth rise in brief appreciation of her jest. She was perfect: interested in his body for the plea sure it would bring her.

  “I outgrew my short pants long ago.”

  “And yet you are still so young!” Her eyes raked his body from head to foot, lingering in places where Poppy never bothered to look. The Frenchwomen had exclaimed over his endowments. He wouldn’t disappoint her.

  “Not so young,” he said, almost sadly.

  “None of us can claim eternal youth.” He could see in her eyes just a shadow of regret that echoed his.

  “Yet you look as beautiful as a girl of eighteen,” he said, taking her hand to his mouth.

  “I shouldn’t want to be that,” she said. “If I were only eighteen, after all, I should be young and just married. Which is what you appear to be.”

  “Married four years,” he said. “Believe me, that doesn’t come within the purview of just married.”

  “We must stop telling each other truths this very moment,” she said, her eyes dancing. “There is nothing more disconcerting—or dreary—than a conversation laden with veracity.”

  But Fletch was enjoying a conversation in which the truth was desire, and the words were nothing. “The most dreary conversation,” he said, “is one in which all the truths are unspoken.”

  “Now I can see that you are no newlywed. A wearisome topic, marriage,” she said, tapping him again on the wrist with her fan. “Since there seems to be no one here to introduce us, sir, perhaps we should do the honors ourselves.”

  Fletch was suddenly overcome by a giddy delight, by the pure plea sure of being in the company of a woman who wanted to touch him, who used her fan as an extension of her fingers. “But surely there is no need…I can guess who you are. A goddess?”

  “Do not say Venus, if you please. I find that good lady remarkably tiresome, and so overused.”

  “I wasn’t thinking mythologically. But if I were…”

  “Helen of Troy?”

  “I hope not. Poor Helen. Young Paris simply scooped her straight away from her older husband’s bed.”

  “I didn’t know that her husband’s bed was involved,” she said.

  “I assure you that it was. Paris arrived on the shores of—the shores of—where the devil was that, anyway?”

  “Greece,” she said, giggling. Her laugh was a century away from a girl’s excited giggle; it was a sultry chuckle that heated his groin. “I am fairly sure that we are talking about Homer’s epic about the Trojan War, are we not? In which Paris left Troy and came to Greece to steal the queen.”

  “He didn’t come to steal her,” Fletch objected. “He was promised her, was he not?”

  “Ah, men. They always think they have been promised some woman or another.”

  “Are we so demanding?”

  “Without fail. In my experience, men live in a fever of expectations about promises they think they were given.”

  “For example?”

  “Oh, that their wives will desire them forever…that they will be desirable forever…that their breath will always be sweet.”

  “But women are just the same. Oh, the promises men break without ever knowing that they made them! When all along women break their promises right and left.”

  “Now you must tell me.” Her eyes were dancing in the most delicious way. “What promise did I ever break to you?”

  “You haven’t broken any yet,” he said, allowing his voice to drop a register into a deeper intimacy. “But you will.”

  “I will?” She raised a delicate eyebrow.

  “Alas and alack,” he said, sighing. “A man says he loves a woman, and she invariably believes that he worships her. Yet we men are so awkward at kneeling. We do it without much conviction.”

  She shook her head dolefully. “And still a man invariably expects that a woman will kneel in front of him with…utmost enthusiasm.”

  Fletch had a sudden, enlivening idea of precisely what she would do, kneeling before him. The smile lurking on the edge of her lush lips suggested she might even enjoy it.

  “You haven’t guessed my name yet,” she prompted.

  “I know you are Lady Nevill,” he said. “But I don’t know the most important thing of all.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your proper name, of course.” He picked up her hand. “One learns much from a woman’s intimate name. I hope you aren’t a Mary…so puritanical.”

  She giggled at that, and the sensual sound of it raced down his legs. “I’m not Mary.”

  He traced a small pattern on her wrist. “There are many English names that evoke a kind of sturdy Englishhood,” he said. “I find it hard to put you together with a name like Lucy or Margaret.”

  “Surely I don’t look like a sturdy Englishwoman!”

  He took up her invitation and surveyed her from head to foot. Her eyes had a wicked slant, tipped up at the edges and emphasized by the kohl. Her lips were lushly red, crimson almost. Her bodice was stiffly laced and low; her breasts were much larger than Poppy’s and plumped above their restraint, as if begging for a man’s hand.

  “No,” he said slowly, feeling desire as a palpable ache. “No, you don’t look sturdy to me.”

  “I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “It begins with an L.”

  “Lily,” he said, “like a flower.”

  “Too wholesome.” Her eyes danced again.

  “Lettice.”

  She put up her nose. “I am not a garden vegetable.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had a great-aunt named Lettice and I’ve always liked it. Laetitia?” She shook her head. “Lorelei?” A nice name, she declared, but not hers. “Liliane?”

  Finally, she gave in and told him. “Louise.”

  “Louise…” He rolled the word on his tongue. “Very nice.”

  Her throaty giggle was reply enough.

  Fletch laughed—they were both laughing—

  When Poppy suddenly appeared with Gill and St. Albans beside her. “Hello,” she said.

  She wasn’t smiling.

  Chapter 5

  THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)

  Such is our plight when duchesses of a desperate disposition—wild to a fault and liable to obey no man’s word—are nurtured on the Continent, and return to our shores. One can only hope that such virtuous young duchesses as the esteemed Duchess of Fletcher, noted throughout the land for her charitable activities, will not find herself drawn into this circle of Amazons.

  Jemma could feel a weight fall from her shoulders that she hadn’t realized was there. Yes, her brother was fine. But her friend…her chess partner…Villiers?

  The duke stood in the doorway, seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny of several hundred pairs of eyes. He looked, perhaps, a trifle white, but otherwise he was as extravagantly elegant as ever.

  The word cloak brings to mind black velvet: but Villiers wore a sweep of rosy silk, edged in a stiff little ruffle of deep violet taffeta. The ruffle bore a gorgeous pattern of embroidery that resembled iron lattice work; in all Jemma’s years in Paris, at the Court of Versailles, she had never seen such an exquisite costume. His black hair, streaked with white, was pulled back and tied with a velvet ribbon that perfectly matched his cape.

  “The cape will protect his shoulder injury,” Damon murmured as they both made their way toward the door. “Smart fellow.”

  “There is no one like him,” Jemma said, finding herself smiling like an idiot. Villiers walked a dangerous bo
undary, between masculinity and its opposite and yet—as always—his flamboyant clothes managed to make him look more male. Of course, his features weren’t in the least feminine: not that large nose and rough-hewn chin. Especially combined with his customary laconic, bored expression.

  There wasn’t another man in En gland who could have worn the cloak. Correction: there wasn’t another man in England who would have dared to wear the cloak. But Villiers looked like a prince—the kind of prince who has a harem of dancing women, what’s more.

  Jemma turned sideways to slip her hoops between two gawking ladies and swept into a deep curtsy before Villiers. “Your Grace,” she said, “you do us too much honor.”

  Villiers made her as deep a leg. “The day I miss one of the Duchess of Beaumont’s entertainments will be the day you mea sure me for a coffin. And”—he turned to Damon—“though your brother has done his best to fit me for that uncomfortable bed, I find that I survive to fight another day.”

  Damon’s bow would have honored an emperor. “But never with me again, Your Grace.”

  “I trust not indeed,” Villiers said, walking forward and giving his surprisingly sweet, if rare, smile. “I find losing uncomfortable and should not wish to repeat the occasion, Gryffyn. You do realize that I lost to both brother and sister in only two days?”

  Jemma smiled. “If you refer to the chess match between us, Your Grace, you have lost but the first game of our match.”

  Villiers glanced around at the hushed guests, who instantly turned away, ineffectually pretending that they weren’t hanging on every word of their conversation. The smile playing around his mouth was devilish. “I thought perhaps we could begin that second game today, Your Grace. After all, as I understand it”—and he glanced about again—“some foolish men have bet over two thousand pounds on the outcome. It would be an unkindness to delay their curiosity as to the final winner.”

  There was a little murmur in the room, as if a sudden sweep of wind had blown over a field of wheat. In the last weeks, betting on the match between the Duchess of Beaumont and the Duke of Villiers had reached a frenzied pitch. Villiers was widely proclaimed to be the best chess player in En gland, and the fact that Jemma had beaten him in their first game would likely drive the betting to new heights. Not to mention the fact that—

  The Duke of Beaumont appeared at Jemma’s shoulder and swept a deep, diplomat’s bow. “I am enchanted to see you,” he said to Villiers, not even a shadow in his tone indicating that he was both estranged from Villiers and engaged in a parallel match of chess with his wife. Not to mention the fact that most of London believed that Jemma herself was the prize, to be given to the winner, whether it be her own husband or Villiers.

  Naturally, Jemma fully intended to win both matches herself.

  “I was sorry to hear that you suffered injury this morning,” Beaumont said, acting as if his brother-in-law had nothing to do with that wound. “Should you be resting, Your Grace?”

  “Ah, rest,” Villiers said idly. “So often overrated, particularly when there is a chance that one might play a decent game of chess. Indeed, Beaumont, I had hoped that your duchess would open a new stage in our match. You see,” he added, “I dearly hate to lose.”

  “We’re only playing one move a day,” Jemma said to him with mock severity. “You cannot hope to know whether you will win or lose based on today’s move, Your Grace.”

  “I shall endeavor to frighten you with my brilliance,” Villiers said, “blunting your intelligence so that you throw in the game.”

  “I tremble at the thought. But I agree with my husband that you must be in need of rest. If you would accompany me to the library, perhaps we might begin that game?”

  “I would be honored,” Villiers said. He made a leg to Beaumont, and Jemma noticed with a little pinch of anxiety that he seemed a bit unsteady. Villiers was never unsteady, for all he affected high red heels.

  She took his arm. “The library?” he said to her, sotto voce, as they walked through the crowds. The chattering peers fell back on either side as if they were royalty progressing to the throne. “I so enjoyed the more intimate setting of our first game.”

  Jemma threw him a reproving glance. “If you insist on beginning play during a party, you must accept a public setting. I shall certainly not invite you to my bedchamber in the midst of one of my own events.”

  Villiers nodded to Lord Sosney and turned back to her. “I realized something during that match with your brother.”

  “You plan to take lessons in swordfighting?” she asked with feigned innocence, smiling at Lady Rapsfellow, whose eyes were nearly bulging from her head with curiosity. “Yes, your ladyship, we go to play the first move in our second game. Would you like to join us?”

  Lady Rapsfellow gibbered with enthusiasm and fell in behind them.

  Villiers bent his head toward her ear and said, “Have you heard of that old legend about the Pied Piper who pipes the rats away from town?”

  “It’s all a plot to throw your concentration off,” she said, laughing up at him. “But do tell me, what did you realize during the duel?”

  “Since I am not stupid, I quickly understood that I was at your brother’s mercy,” Villiers said. “That gave my mind a peculiar clarity. I believe the experience is common to men tumbling down waterfalls and the like.”

  “Damon would never have killed you,” Jemma said, nodding to two ladies whose names she really didn’t know.

  “I assumed that the good name of his fiancée was worth less to him than the life of an errant duke, but one never knows,” Villiers responded. “At any rate, I wish that I could say that I had a change of heart that will send me to a monastery or some other place of good works, but alas, no.”

  “I can understand that,” Jemma said. “I fell under a carriage in Paris once, and regrettably my first thoughts on waking up had to do with the condition of my pelisse rather than the state of my soul.”

  A footman stood at attention, holding open the library doors. They swept through, followed by some forty or so guests. Villiers seated himself opposite Jemma at the chess table with a magnificent sweep of his cloak.

  Lord Randulf minced up behind Villiers. “I believe you began your most recent game at Parsloe’s with a pawn to Queen’s Bishop Four,” he said to Villiers. “Will you strike out in a new direction?”

  “No,” Villiers said, moving a pawn to just that place.

  “Novelty is always risky,” Jemma said, throwing Randulf a smile as she made her own move.

  “Is that it?” Lady Rapsfellow said in a shrill undertone. “It’s over?”

  Lord Randulf took her arm. “When a game is played at one move a day, it’s a tedious slow business, my lady.”

  “But don’t they have to think about it more?” Lady Rapsfellow persisted as Randulf steered her toward the door.

  Jemma met Villiers’s eyes. There was a little smile there. “I do mean to think more,” he told her. “Don’t count yourself the winner yet.”

  “I never underestimate my opponents,” Jemma replied.

  Those who watched were flooding back out of the library as quickly as they arrived. “What did you realize during your duel with my brother, Your Grace?”

  He slanted a look around the empty library and then leaned against his seat, heavy-lidded eyes watching her. “That I had made a mistake.”

  Jemma was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. “Only one? I’ve made so many.”

  “You have the advantage of me, then. I make few.”

  “One might add, in your own estimation,” Jemma put in.

  “Precisely. But when I make mistakes, I do it in a grand fashion,” Villiers said. “I made a mistake with Benjamin…the Duke of Berrow.” Jemma raised her eyes but he forestalled her. “I know that you know of Benjamin’s suicide, and of my role in his death. You and I agreed to be friends; it may be that my friendship is a tainted thing.”

  “I would not agree. It is true that Benjamin chose to
kill himself—”

  “After losing a game of chess to me.”

  “That is no reflection on your friendship. Benjamin always rushed into actions that he later regretted.”

  “True…true.”

  He was looking down at his hands, his eyes shadowed by long eyelashes. Suddenly he looked up and she felt herself growing a bit pink at something in his eyes. “I have decided to make no more mistakes with friends,” he said, his voice rough.

  “If you win a game from me, you may feel free to point out my errors,” she said. “I am so hideously competitive that I will certainly kill you rather than myself.”

  “Bitch,” he said unemotionally.

  She laughed. “But you see what good friends we can be? My passion for chess is equal to Benjamin’s, but when I lose a match the only thing I want is to play again.”

  “And is chess your only passion?”

  She sat for a moment, before deciding to answer truthfully. “I suppose it is. I hold my friends and husband in great esteem; I adore my brother. But my heart is in chess. I have observed that those who are masters at the game rarely find deep passion elsewhere.”

  “I would appear to confirm your theory, since I have no family to adore and thus my interests have lingered on the opposite sex in a fleeting way.”

  “As have mine,” she acknowledged. “’Tis a grave fault that has resulted in a great deal of scandal.”

  “Yet I am not so dismissive of the possibility of love as you are. You made me an offer of companionship a few weeks ago,” Villiers said. “I told you then that I would not cuckold my old friend Beaumont.”

  Jemma froze. She had offered an affaire, in a fit of rage at her husband, and Villiers had refused.

  “I have changed my mind,” he said. “In the five minutes I was at the mercy of your brother’s sword, I remembered that I have never loved a woman. And that it is one of the experiences that I dearly wished to have many years ago. I cannot explain how it has so unaccountably passed me by.”

  Jemma’s lips felt stiff. “Surely you are not saying that you love me.”