by Eloisa James
“Could you please ask Lady Nevill to join us, if she’s still in the house?” Jemma asked. “We would like a tray with all sorts of comforting things on it like gingerbread and hot chocolate.”
The moment the door closed again Poppy said urgently: “You cannot tell Louise of my suspicions, Jemma! She’ll be mortified that I thought so poorly of her.”
“No, she won’t,” Jemma said.
“I don’t believe she will either,” Isidore put in. “I don’t know her as well as you do, since I cannot abide all those charitable organizations that you both toil in. But I’ve had several very interesting conversations with her. I like her.”
Since Isidore was as opinionated and prickly as her Italian ancestry implied, this was high praise.
“It’s just so mortifying,” Poppy said in a low voice.
But Louise walked in that very moment, took one look at Poppy and, presumably, Poppy’s swollen red eyes, and came straight to her side. She went down on her knees and took both of her hands. “It was merely a flirtation, darling. Nothing more. I had no idea that he was your husband.”
Poppy smiled at her, trying to make the corners of her mouth turn up more joyfully. “I knew that, Louise. I—I’m afraid that—that Fletch was a bit abrupt with me after you left and so I indulged in a great weeping fit.”
Louise rocked back and looked at Jemma. Jemma’s eyebrow went up ruefully; Poppy caught it out of the corner of her eye.
“Please sit,” Poppy said, sniffing.
Louise stood up and said to Jemma and Isidore, “Darlings, I would drop you a curtsy, but I’m used to Poppy telling me what to do in committee meetings.” She sat.
Poppy folded her hands. “Louise, my husband was flirting with you.”
“I would love to say no,” Louise said, biting her lip. “Does it sound better if I say that I was flirting with him? But only because I had no idea who he was. He’s terribly handsome. You’re a fortunate woman!” She finished with such a celebratory smile that Poppy half expected her to cheer.
“Isidore,” Poppy said, “has Fletch ever flirted with you?”
Isidore looked surprised. “No. But then I have hardly met him. Perhaps next time.”
“You are terrifying,” Louise told her.
“Jemma, has Fletch ever flirted with you?” And Poppy held her breath, because she knew how much Fletch admired Jemma.
“Never,” Jemma said promptly. “He’s perfectly friendly but not at all desirous.”
“He was”—Poppy swallowed—“desirous of further acquaintance with you, wouldn’t you say, Louise?”
Louise turned a little pink. “Only because I didn’t know who he was,” she said.
“He planned to be unfaithful with you,” Poppy said flatly. “My marriage is over.”
“You’d be surprised how much it takes to kill a marriage,” Jemma put in. “Mine was over, in that sense, years ago. And yet here I am, returned to London and planning to create an heir.”
Isidore raised an eyebrow. “An heir?”
“Would that be before or after you finish the chess matches with the Duke of Villiers and your own husband?” Louise asked.
“After,” Jemma said. “My point was that your marriage is not over, Poppy. It’s merely entered another phase.” She sighed.
“Are you still making an heir if Villiers wins the chess match?” Isidore asked, looking even more curious.
“Of course I am!” Jemma said. “Not that Villiers will win. I’m just warming myself to the task of beating him resoundingly. But Beaumont and I haven’t seen each other under intimate circumstances for eight years. It’s not something I am looking forward to.”
“My marriage as I thought of it is over,” Poppy said, interrupting.
They were all silent, so she took that as agreement. “My husband is no longer in love with me. He plans to seduce another woman, and although Louise will not be the one, he is likely out there right now, finding a substitute.”
“Much though I hate to malign my own reputation,” Louise said, frowning a bit, “I don’t think he’ll have much luck. Unless he looks to Lady Rutledge, of course.”
Poppy shuddered slightly. “Louise!” Jemma scolded. “You and I are much more battle-scarred than dear Poppy. We must protect her sensibilities.”
“My husband just told anyone who cared to listen that our marriage was a sham,” Poppy said. “I think my sensibilities had better adjust to the truth of it.”
They all looked up with a certain amount of relief as Fowle entered carrying a tray. “Gingerbread, Your Grace,” he said ponderously. “Hot tea, of course, and hot chocolate. Lemon squares, as Cook feels they are very comforting.”
“This is lovely,” Jemma said.
Poppy took a deep breath and accepted a muffin dripping with butter. “I shall have to make adjustments, that’s all. Do you know, it’s better to know the truth? I’ve felt terrible for the past year, trying and trying to make things better.”
“It’s not your fault, darling, when men stray,” Jemma said.
“No, it’s the fault of women like Louise!” Isidore said, giggling madly.
Louise raised an eyebrow and said, “Quiet, youngster, or I’ll swat you with a lemon square.”
“Who’s calling whom a youngster?” Isidore asked indignantly. “I’m twenty-two years old, Louise Nevill, and you can’t be more than three years over that.”
“Five,” Louise said, adding, “but I am extremely well-preserved.”
Poppy finished her muffin, and let the conversation of her friends wash over her. It had seemed so stark and death-dealing to think that Fletch didn’t love her anymore. As if she had nowhere to turn, and no one to love her. But now—
“I love you all,” she said, sniffing a little.
“Are you going to cry again?” Isidore asked. “Because I love you too, at least as much as I know of you, but not if it’s going to make you cry.”
“We love you too, darling,” Jemma said.
“Perhaps I should leave,” Louise said, putting down her napkin. “I would truly not wish to intrude, and you have my every assurance, Poppy, that your husband will remain terra incognita as far as I’m concerned.”
“Please stay,” Poppy said. “After all, now that I’m leaving Fletch, I need to know what to do next.”
She truly enjoyed the shocked silence that followed her statement.
Chapter 8
THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)
If the soul of every duchess in London is at risk…let us not neglect the souls of their august partners, the dukes. While the gossip columns rage with stories of drunkenness and infidelity, there are those rare few, like the Duke of Beaumont, who seem to grace their high rank. Yet we have been credibly informed that even this most revered of politicians has shown untoward interest in a young lady, Miss T—. We protect her name in the hope that these reports are mere folly.
He interrupted her. “You used to call me Elijah in private. The party is over; you needn’t address me as Beaumont.”
Jemma almost pitied her husband, although the emotion was inconceivable. Yet he looked so confused—and stupid, in a manly sort of way. “I came back to London for you, Elijah.” She hesitated. How to say the unspeakable?
“Because my heart may be giving out,” he said, a line appearing between his brows.
“I’m also getting old,” she said, trying to make him smile, God knows why. “I’d better have that child now or I’ll find myself incapable.”
“Hardly.” His smile was no more than a twist of his lips.
“There’s no real evidence that your heart is giving out, is there?” she asked.
“The doctors see none, but I have the feeling they have no idea what a failing heart would look like.” He did smile at her now, a ruefulness in his eyes.
“They don’t know,” she said firmly. “You could have passed out that day in Lords because you drank too much at luncheon.”
She saw the truth in his eyes.<
br />
“All right, you never drink to excess. Lord almighty, Elijah, is there anything you do wrong?”
A queer little silence greeted her.
“Besides marrying me, of course.” She said it with dignity.
“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”
“Well,” Jemma said, feeling a curious wish to make the bleak look in his eyes go away, “you’ll be very happy to hear that my brother is taking his disreputable fiancée to the country. Your reputation is saved,” she said, leaning forward and tapping his finger. His fingers looked strong and durable. Surely his heart was the same.
He shrugged. “My reputation appears to be intact; I just received a missive from Pitt asking me to address the House of Lords and prepare them for his enclosure tax. The more pressing question seems to me to be when we begin our next chess game. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“It’s very kind of you not to dwell on the fact that you just won the first one,” she said.
“I see no reason to dwell on it,” he said, smiling at her. “I fully intend to win this game as well.”
“That would mean no third game,” she said.
“True, and won’t that make the ton irritable. They are so looking forward to hearing of our third game. Blindfolded and in bed, wasn’t it?”
He was watching her closely, so she raised her eyes and met his. “Indeed, those were the terms of the match.”
“You appear to have beaten Villiers in the first game,” he said. He sounded casual, but she knew him better.
“We began our second this morning.”
“A subject that fascinates everyone from the younger chambermaid to the highest duke in the land,” Beaumont said.
There was a moment and Jemma realized what he had said. “You, my lord, are the highest duke in the land.”
He rose and looked down at her. He had taken off his wig at some point. His hair was cut so short that it left his face unguarded, his beautiful cheekbones, tired eyes. “I would not wish you to think that I don’t find the outcome fascinating,” he said. And then swept her a bow.
Chapter 9
THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)
We will close our report with an admonishment to these Desperate Duchesses…plea sure yourselves as you will, but remember that your dukes will do the same. And when a duke strays, he may well stray permanently and to the detriment of your welfare!
Nine in the evening
The same day
Fletch didn’t come home for hours. Supper passed, but Poppy didn’t allow herself to be dressed for the night. Instead she sat, bolt upright as her mother had always taught her, and stared at the wall. The only—only—good thing about the day was that her mother refused to go anywhere near the Duchess of Beaumont, so she had not been at the party. While she would undoubtedly hear of Fletch’s insult by the next morning, that gave Poppy a very small window in which to think her own thoughts.
Not her mother’s thoughts.
There was a great difference. Somehow she’d fallen into the habit of letting her mother command. It was easier to go along with her, to keep her happy. When she was unhappy…
Poppy shuddered a little. She had never liked screaming, not from the time she was a little girl. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t love her. She did. She really did. Sometimes Poppy had to remind herself of that, because being Lady Flora’s daughter sometimes felt like being something that belonged to Lady Flora. A possession.
She still remembered sitting for hours as a little girl and pretending to be a hassock. A foot stool. Because if she could just stay very small, and very quiet, her mother would forget she was there, and then she wouldn’t scream about people and places and things that had gone wrong.
The memory made Poppy feel guilty. It wasn’t as if her mother screamed at her—at least, not most of the time. It was just that gales of anger would sweep around Poppy’s head until she felt as if she were in the middle of a great thunderstorm. If Lady Flora noticed Poppy, she generally would scream. There were so many ways in which Poppy could improve.
What she felt was weary. Tired of people who disapproved, people who were impossible to please, people who made her feel inadequate. Stupid. That was the one clear thought she had in her head. She didn’t want to be screamed at by her mother. And she didn’t want to see that closed, disgusted look on Fletch’s face ever again, even if that meant she never saw him again.
A tear fell on her hand, but the truth of it was clear.
Even if she never saw him again.
Fletch finally came home around ten in the evening. She heard the bustle that always accompanied Fletch, the footman taking his hat, his manservant fussing over his coat, his hair, his…
It felt quite good to curl her lip.
He came to her chamber as soon as Quince informed him of her request, of course. Until this evening she and Fletch had always been entirely courteous to each other. He stood in the door a moment, looking like a fashion illustration from Journal de la Mode. It made her tongue-tied, especially in this last year, as he grew more like a valet’s dream, and thus she more inarticulate.
“Please come in,” she said. “We need to speak.”
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said. He stopped in front of her, his eyes serious for once. Not scornful. “I should never have spoken that way in front of my friends.”
“I would prefer that you expressed yourself to me before others,” Poppy said. “But I noticed Gill showed no surprise, so I gather you have already discussed our marriage with him. Perhaps you should tell me everything that you’ve told Gill.”
“Gill is an old friend,” he said, his eyes going opaque at once. “Men say things to each other in the heat of the moment that they don’t mean. Gill was surprised; he gave me a proper scolding after you left.”
“Do give him my gratitude,” Poppy said, folding her hands. The conversation was veering toward hostility. She could feel herself curling into a little mouse, running away to some part of her head where she wouldn’t be shouted at. She took a deep breath and told herself to be brave.
“Please sit down, Fletch.”
He sat.
“I should like to know what you think of our marriage. Not because I want to argue with you, or…”
He sat down, looking so tired that her heart wrung and she almost jumped to her feet to ring for tea and a hot bath to be drawn. But she bit her lip and forced herself to stay put.
“I think we are probably doing as well as any other duke and duchess in En gland,” he said, looking at her with a rueful twist of his lips. “Better than the Duke and Duchess of Beaumont, certainly. I’ve been acting like an ass, Poppy. I’m sorry.”
He did sound sorry, not that it mattered much. “Still,” she said, “what do you wish was different, Fletch?”
“We all fall into foolish ideas sometimes.”
“I don’t understand those ideas. I feel as if I’m always trying to be something that you want, but I don’t know what it is.”
“There’s nothing,” he said sharply. “You’re perfect as you are, Poppy. I’ve been a fool. Let’s say no more of it.”
She swallowed. “You’re not happy with our marital intimacies.”
The silence grew like stale bread, with the stink of a rotting egg. Bravery seemed a very stupid concept.
“Did you think I was not aware of your unhappiness?” Poppy asked. “From the moment we fell in love, you’ve wanted me to be different. And yet I am precisely the kind of wife that I understand. I—I don’t know how to be other than myself.”
His jaw tightened. She saw it under her lashes. “No doubt I have made untoward demands on you.”
“How would you like me to be?”
He didn’t answer. She gathered her courage and kept blundering on because it all had to be said. She couldn’t bear another conversation of this nature. “I’m really asking you, Fletch. I keep wondering how I disappoint you, and I don’t know. What am I doing wrong? I have tried to do everyth
ing you asked of me, stayed quiet when I thought you wished me to, modeled my behavior on yours.”
“You have not disappointed me.”
Her stomach was so sour that she almost felt as if she might throw up right here, sitting in her own bedchamber. She clenched her hands instead, under a fold of her gown so that he couldn’t see it. Her face was completely calm; she knew that. “What do you expect? Or perhaps I should ask, what do you wish I would do?”
“You told me once that ladies are different from washerwomen, do you remember that?”
She smiled faintly. “I’ve done so much work in hospitals in the last two years that I can tell you that women are not really very different. I don’t remember saying that. What was it in reference to?”
“You didn’t want me to kiss you other than with a closed mouth.”
Now he had that furious look again.
“But I allowed you to do so,” she said, forcing all her fear into her stomach and not letting her voice wobble. “Once we were married, I have tried very hard never to say no to you, Fletch.”
“We shouldn’t have this conversation.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have done your best, Poppy, I know that. And my hopes were naïve.”
“But what did you expect me to do!”
His head jerked up at the sharpness in her tone.
“You always look disappointed. You demand, and demand, without saying what you want. What is it?”
“I would have wanted you to—to—”
“Well?” She hardly recognized the hardness in her own voice.
“Enjoy yourself,” he said sadly. “Enjoy yourself, enjoy me, it’s all the same.”
She bit down so hard on her lip that she could taste blood, metallic and strange. “I do enjoy myself.”
He rose at that and walked to the window. “I’ve been blaming you for something that is outside your control, and it’s grossly unfair. I’m sorry.”
She stared at his back and knew that her marriage was indeed over. She couldn’t give him what he wanted. They would never be happy together, and she would always disappoint him.
