by Eloisa James
“I feel responsible,” she cooed. Yes! It was a coo. Fletch ground his back teeth and didn’t shift backwards, as was his instinct. “I obviously failed in raising my daughter, and through that, I failed you. I have been in the greatest agony of mind for an hour; you must understand, the agony of a mother’s heart is like no other.”
Fletch opened his mouth but her lovely lips just kept moving.
“Then I realized that there is only one person in the world who can solve this dilemma, who can make up for the extraordinary behavior of my daughter”—and for a moment Fletch saw her blue eyes harden into something like glass—“and assuage my own overwhelming sense of guilt. I shall stand by your side, Your Grace, I shall not desert you, even though my daughter has done so. I—”
Fletch cleared his throat. “Lady Flora, I have every confidence that my wife will return to the house by nightfall; there is no need to put yourself into such anxiety.”
“I only wish that were the case,” she cried, her voice rising a little. “Yet I must admit that I know Perdita better than you do. She is nothing if not amenable—until she—”
Fletch caught the flash of Lady Flora’s white teeth. “She had it from my late husband, may God rest his soul,” Lady Flora said. “I very much doubt that Poppy will return to your house, Your Grace.”
“Of course she will!” Fletch growled, moving backwards so that her hand fell from his sleeve. “Now if you will allow me, madam, I will ask Quince to accompany you to your house himself, since you are distressed.”
She smiled at him as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll speak to the house keeper and get everything under control immediately. I won’t have you discomforted in the slightest by this absurd flight on the part of my daughter!”
There wasn’t even a twitch in her eye to admit that there was something incongruous about a mother offering to replace a daughter. The only thing Fletch could imagine was that Lady Flora, like her daughter, was the sort of person who never thought of bedroom matters.
Fletch’s only thought was of flight. “I do apologize, Lady Flora. I am due at an urgent appointment.”
She smiled at him with all the warmth of a ravening tiger. “Do make yourself comfortable wherever you wish to go. Everything will be in order for you in this house.”
Sure enough, she turned away and began barking at Quince about house keeping and menus and her maid and sheets. It was amazing how quickly her smooth tone peeled away when she addressed a servant.
“Oh, Your Grace!” she carrolled, as a footman was opening the door.
He turned back to her once more.
“Do give my best to my daughter, should you happen to speak to her.”
Fletch bowed. The funny thing was that Lady Flora’s hair was a still vibrant golden color; it didn’t look as if it were made of snakes. But surely…
His butler bowed by the door, holding out the coat he had just taken off. “Quince,” he said, pausing, “who was that goddess whose hair was made of snakes?”
“Medusa, Your Grace,” Quince said. “One glimpse at her hair and a man was struck to stone.”
“Just so,” Fletch said thoughtfully, heading toward his carriage. Poppy would understand that she had to come home.
Chapter 14
May 1
The wig was damnably heavy, but no itchier than the one he wore every day. The hooped petticoat was more of a problem. “How do you sit down in this?” he asked Mrs. Ferrers, the house keeper.
“You’ve nothing but small side panniers,” she observed. “Now those of twenty years ago were something terrible, they were. This will do little more than give you a woman’s shape.”
Finchley glanced down at the bodice of his sky-blue gown and snorted. “My hips aren’t the only part in need of padding, Mrs. Ferrers.”
“It would be much easier if you’d allow one of the house maids to do it for you,” she said. “Betty, now. She has a properly dramatic way with her.”
He shook his head. “The duke would never forgive me for allowing a woman to see him in his current state. Never.”
Mrs. Ferrers pursed her lips. “Betty can’t afford to lose her place. She’s got those three sisters of hers.”
“There you are, then.”
“Your arms look terribly hairy, Mr. Finchley, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Perhaps a shawl? I tried to get into that red gown with the long sleeves, but it didn’t fit.”
“Well, you look as best a man can look in a woman’s costume. I’ll give you a shawl, and we’ll tuck a lace fichu into the bodice; you’ve a bit of hair showing there as well.”
“I suppose I could shave it off,” Finchley said doubtfully.
Mrs. Ferrers backed up and eyed him.
“His Grace is dreadfully feverish. He hardly opens his eyes.”
“All he’d have to do was squint to see those arms of yours, and he’ll think he’s having a nightmare.”
With a groan, Finchley went off to do the necessary.
“I’m ready,” he said grimly, some time later. Mrs. Ferrers wrapped a length of cloth around him. “There’s not a shawl large enough, Mr. Finchley; this is the Easter cloth from the small dining room, and I think it looks quite pretty.”
Finchley didn’t look in the glass, just turned to go.
“Walk lightly now,” Mrs. Ferrers reminded him. “You don’t want to stamp in there and have His Grace open his eyes from surprise. You’ll need to talk soft and high.”
Finchley paused in the doorway of the bedchamber and said in his normal voice, “Your Grace, may I present the Duchess of Beaumont, who has come to play a chess move in her game with you?”
“Good!” the duke said, sitting up and tumbling off his nightcap. “Dammit, it’s as dark as a wolf ’s mouth in here. How are we to play in the dark, Finchley? Bring us a lamp.”
Finchley tucked himself down by the bed and cooed in a high voice, “But Your Grace, I can see perfectly well. Surely we can simply continue?”
Villiers blinked at Finchley, who pulled back nervously. But Villiers was apparently fooled, because he said: “You look like a white ghost, Jemma. All wrapped in white like that. It’s not a look that will set London on fire, in my opinion.”
Finchley took the chess board handed to him by the footman. “Now I shall move my pawn so, Your Grace,” he chirped. “Do you make your move, and I’ll leave you to take a good night’s rest.”
The duke seemed to be having trouble staying awake so Finchley nudged the chessboard a little closer to him. Villiers opened his eyes and stared at the pieces. “Jemma,” he said finally, “does the rook ever stand up on his hind legs and buck when you look at him?”
“Never,” Finchley squeaked. He exchanged looks with the footman.
Villiers reached out a hand and then paused. His hand froze in the air above the pieces.
“Your Grace?” Finchley quavered.
Slowly, slowly Villiers turned his head. His eyes narrowed, and he looked from the very tip of Finchley’s wig, over his cleanly shaven chin, paused for a moment on the reddened skin that showed above his bodice.
“Finchley,” he said, sounding clear-headed and utterly sane, “I think I may be losing my mind. Would you be contributing to that situation for some reason?”
“I’m not Finchley,” Finchley said.
“No? Then the Duchess of Beaumont has truly changed her spots. I can only assume that some distress has led to this change in your apparel.”
Finchley swallowed. “Your Grace has been quite worried that you would miss your move with the duchess,” he ventured.
“I am disagreeably sweaty,” the duke said. “I should like a bath immediately. I certainly couldn’t entertain a duchess in this condition.”
“So I thought.” He had to ask. “Your Grace, why?”
“Why did I regain my wits? The Duchess of Beaumont opened this game with a pawn to Queen’s Four, Finchley. The idea that she would then take
a knight to King’s Rook Three was enough to shock me out of a fever dream. She would never move a knight to the edge of the board in the opening moves. I gather that I have not been in my proper head.”
“No, Your Grace.”
He peered around the room. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” Finchley said, and then added, reluctantly: “You’ve been ill for well nigh ten days, Your Grace.”
The duke’s eyelids closed. “What do they say?”
“Who say?”
“The doctors, fool.”
“You could be ill for quite some time,” Finchley said. “Banderspit has seen cases linger for months with this sort of fever.”
“Linger? Linger and then—”
“Recover!” Finchley said, cursing his choice of words.
“Write a note to the duchess and call off our match for the time being,” Villiers said, ignoring him. “And you’d better call my solicitor here as well. Now, while I’m still in my right head.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Finchley said. “You do come out of the fever in the mornings, Your Grace.”
“I’ve no memory of that.” He rubbed his head. “I feel as if that benighted duel took place yesterday.”
To Finchley’s practiced eye, the fever was already coming back again. “I’ll summon your solicitor tomorrow morning.”
His master’s eyes focused on him. “You’d better remind me that I’m dying before he comes, Finchley. I won’t have the faintest idea why he’s there.”
It broke his heart, but he bowed his head and said: “Yes, Your Grace.”
Chapter 15
Two weeks later
May 15
Jemma was rereading The Noble Game of Chess when her maid Brigitte scratched on the door and told her that the Duchess of Fletcher was asking to see her. She leapt to her feet. “Poppy, darling, how lovely you look!”
“I’m afraid I’m the worst of house guests.”
Poppy certainly was an unusual house guest. She stayed in her room and, by account of the maids, did nothing but read. And cry, Jemma thought. “There’s nothing better than an invisible house guest,” she said reassuringly.
Poppy reached out and touched her book. “I wouldn’t have thought there were books written just about chess.”
“In fact, there are many.”
“You must forgive my innocence. I do know that you are very, very good at the game…And that you are playing matches both with the Duke of Villiers and with your husband.”
Jemma looked at her guest from under her lashes and gave a mental shrug. Poppy might as well know the worst. “One move a day,” she said. “In each match. If either match goes to a third game, the third will be played blindfolded—and in bed.”
There was silence. Then: “Why?” Poppy finally asked. She didn’t look a bit shocked, just surprised. “Why would you want to play in bed? Won’t the pieces tip to the side and you’ll lose your spot?”
“Perhaps.”
Another moment’s silence. “I suppose it was your husband who came up with that idea.”
“Actually, it was the Duke of Villiers.”
“Will you win?”
“Both matches? I grow frightened that this might be a case of pride goeth before a fall,” Jemma said. “I was rather shocked when I lost the first game to my husband. At the moment both games are postponed until Villiers recovers.”
“Why not lose this game as well? Then you avoid the whole third game business,” Poppy asked.
Jemma blinked. “Are you suggesting that I deliberately lose a game?”
“Why not?”
The question was inconceivable, but there was a more interesting point behind it. “Would you deliberately lose the game to avoid an encounter in bed?”
Poppy turned a little pink. “Playing chess in bed sounds quite uncomfortable.”
Jemma leaned back in her chair. Her guest was perched upright, her back as straight as if it were soldered with iron. Poppy was exquisite although—now that Jemma looked more closely—rather brittle-looking, as if she might burst into tears.
“I gather the bedchamber is not a place where you and your husband are in accord,” Jemma said.
“I always did my best. But Fletch is not happy with me. And yet, I have tried! If—if my mother only knew the things I did with him, and yet it wasn’t enough!”
Disturbing possibilities raced through Jemma’s mind. She hadn’t lived in Paris for eight years without hearing a great deal about human depravity. And Poppy’s sweet little face and yellow curls looked…young. She felt a little sick. “Perhaps it is better that the duke meandered off to greener pastures?” she asked.
There was a strangled silence on the other side of the table, a silence that did not seem entirely to agree. Yet if Poppy were being veritably abused, she would presumably long to see the back of her husband.
“Exactly what does Fletch request of you, Poppy?” Jemma asked.
“Nothing,” she said wretchedly. “I suppose I am a prude. He said as much once. And after that I tried—I really tried.”
“To do what?”
“I take off my nightgown,” Poppy said.
Jemma nodded. “And?”
“I take it off before getting into bed.”
“Yes?”
“And then I lie down on the bed and I never make a fuss about anything he might do.”
Jemma didn’t have a patient nature. “And what exactly is that, Poppy?”
“He rootles about,” Poppy said. “He—he—does what he came to my chambers for. I never make any fuss,” she added. “I hope that he knows that he’s welcome to take as long as he possibly could wish. I—”
“Oh dear.”
Poppy burst into tears. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? I’ve been thinking about it. Other women are different. Except my mother, of course. I must take after her. There’s Louise, flirting with Fletch and it wasn’t a matter of falling in love with him.”
Jemma didn’t answer immediately, so she demanded: “Louise wasn’t thinking of love, was she?”
“Absolutely not!” Jemma replied.
“And if you—if you play this third game in bed with the Duke of Villiers, not to mention your husband—you wouldn’t be entirely dismayed to find yourself there, would you?” Poppy demanded.
“I suppose not.”
“He will sweep the board to the side and—and then you will enjoy it, won’t you?”
“Which man are we talking about?” Jemma asked cautiously.
“Either of them,” Poppy said, catching a sob.
“I think I shall be able to beat my husband,” Jemma said, thinking about it. “And Villiers—” But then she broke off, realizing that the point was not whether she could win the games, but what would happen if she didn’t. “Bed with my husband will happen sometime, of course, because I returned from Paris just so that we could make an heir. One must go to bed in order to create children. Poppy, did you know that?”
“Of course I did!” Poppy wailed. Her little face was all blotched with tears now, and she looked red and angry and grieved all at the same time. “I went so far as to tell Fletch that! How can we have children if he never visits my bed? He should make it his duty! My mother said that father visited her punctiliously until that event occurred, but Fletch—Fletch is only interested in—well…” What ever she said disappeared into a mumble of sobs.
“I expect that Fletch is interested in plea sure,” Jemma said.
“If that’s what you call it!”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know.” Poppy’s tear-streaked face contorted. “I just don’t know. I tried…I did everything he wanted. I let him do anything he wanted, kiss me all over even though it was—was wrong.”
Jemma was beginning to wonder whether Poppy’s marital problems might be more than she could reasonably hope to help her with. “Why wrong?” she asked cautiously.
“My mother…” but what ever
it was Poppy meant to say, she was sobbing too hard.
“We need a cup of tea,” Jemma said. “Then I will tell you exactly what I have ever done—or allowed a man to do—in bed. So prepare to be shocked.”
It took two cups of tea, but finally Jemma and Poppy were seated on the little sofa before the window and Poppy was looking at Jemma expectantly.
“It’s not a matter of what one allows a man to do to one,” Jemma said. “Take an apple puff, Poppy; they’re delicious. It’s a matter of what one requires a man to do.”
“To darken the room,” Poppy said nodding. “I told Fletch that.”
“Nothing to do with lights. The crucial thing to remember is that men find it very easy to please themselves and women don’t. Therefore, your plea sure should be foremost.”
“Oh.” Poppy’s face drooped. “Believe me, Fletch knows that. He’s asked me so many times whether I like this or that, that I felt as if I could scream if he asked another question. No answer satisfies him. I can say no, and he doesn’t stop. If I say yes, he doesn’t stop either. Or if he does, he’s angry at me.”
“It’s nice that Fletch shows interest in your plea sure.”
“Too much,” Poppy said with feeling.
To Jemma’s mind, they had reached the heart of it. “Are you saying that nothing Fletch does feels good?”
Poppy bit her lip. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? One night Fletch told me that I should be instructing him in what to do. I should tell him exactly what I wanted.”
“That’s easier than relying on a man,” Jemma said encouragingly.
“I just—I just want to do it right,” Poppy said despairingly. “Ever since the first night after we married, I’ve never been right. He wanted me to do this, or do that, and I didn’t even know what he was talking about. And then everything he did was so embarrassing. I don’t think he has any idea what well-bred women are supposed to be like!”
“Undoubtedly true. I have to say, Poppy, that Fletch sounds much more interesting than most English men.”
“Oh, he’s interesting,” Poppy said morosely. “He’s so beautiful now. I—I keep looking at him, and I can’t believe that I’m lucky enough to be married to him. And then he looks at me with such scorn and I remember how much of a failure I am, and I just wish he were married to someone else. That way I could love him from afar—and I would. I can’t imagine loving anyone but Fletch. If we weren’t married, he wouldn’t hate me so.”
