“Aye, and I know full well how it got that way. As I know there’s few men wish to fondle a braid. Just because his lordship went out last night doesn’t mean he won’t come to y’r bed tonight.”
“That’s quite enough, Tess. Do up the braid and go.”
Mumbling an occasional remark about how Captain Wharton had never liked a nightbraid, interspersed by grumbles about women who didn’t raise a finger to entice their men deserved what they got, Tess finished her task and stalked out, adding a very formal, “Goodnight, Your Grace,” as she exited the room.
Jen stifled a sigh. The number of sighs that had tumbled from her mouth since their return to town was appalling. Lady Caroline might have befriended Susan, but her attitude toward the second Duchess of Longville remained frosty. And Tony—her very own brother who ought to have known better—seemed to be showing an interest in that direction. And Laurence—poor little Laurence—was the object of vicious gossip. Not to mention a mama-in-law who seemed determined to terrorize her family, no matter how many insincere apologies she might profess.
And as wife of the Duke of Longville, she, Eugenia Norville Wharton Carlington, was expected to deal with these problems. As well as with a husband who seemed to have forgotten her the moment he arrived back amongst the more enticing attractions of London. She had been a country fling, Jen decided. Interesting the mighty Duke of Longville only because nothing better was at hand.
The duchess was so lost in agonized thought she did not hear the dressing room door open.
“Jenny, my dear,” said the duke, “would you be good enough to join me? I have something to show you.” The duchess gasped, stared, wide-eyed, at her husband’s reflection in the dressing table mirror. “Good God, I had not thought to startle you,” he apologized before his mouth quirked up in a hint of a smile. Nonchalantly, he leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Pray tell, my darling duchess, just whom else were you expecting?”
Jen grasped the dressing table with both hands, levered herself to her feet. It was not fair that Marcus was always so certain of his place in the scheme of things, that he could tease or mock while confusion reigned inside the skin of lesser mortals, namely herself. “I had thought you gone out,” she said, cloaking herself in all the dignity she could muster. “As you did last night.”
His amber gaze roamed over her, taking in the unadorned wool robe, the peek of white cotton beneath the hem, the heavy hair skinned back from her face in what Jen knew was a most unflattering manner. Her stomach flip-flopped. Her small rebellion, her petty revenge for his neglect the previous night, no longer seemed a sensible maneuver.
Yet all he said was: “Were you cold, my dear? Shall I have a fire lit?”
Jen, murmuring that she did not need a fire, hastened to join her husband. “You have something to show me?” she prompted, struggling for composure.
“Ah, yes,” said the duke, sweeping his arm toward the dressing room and his chamber beyond. “After you, my dear.” Meekly, Jen moved ahead, overwhelmed by warring emotions. She had sworn she would not go to him. And yet, as she entered her husband’s highly masculine bedchamber, both pride and curiosity about what he wished to show her were lost in a sudden sweeping desire to try out the huge four-poster with its elaborately carved oak tester and heavy burgundy velvet hangings.
“Over here,” the duke said, indicating a large secretaire whose fold-down front was open, supporting two decorated wooden boxes, one of marquetry, the other lacquered over an intricate oriental design . “My mother has sent the Carlington jewels. I thought you would wish to see them before I place them in the vault.”
Opening the marquetry box, he picked up a diamond necklace worthy of an empress and draped it around her neck. Solemnly, Marcus shook his head. “Not quite the effect I pictured,” he drawled.
Jenny, having no difficulty interpreting his words as a comparison of diamonds laid over green wool to diamonds set off by the transparent silk she should have been wearing, drooped. As a duchess, she was a colossal failure. How could he not compare her to the dainty Amy who had once worn these gems?
“My dear Jen, you’re not looking,” Marcus chided gently. He returned the diamonds to their black velvet nest, then opened the swinging door of the lacquered box and began pulling out shallow drawers, revealing parures of every description. Pearls, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, intricate gold work—surely as fine as the queen’s own collection, Jen thought. And all to be worn by a duchess who looked like a dark-haired Valkyrie instead of properly ethereal and regal duchess.
A long aristocratic finger reached under her chin, turned her downcast face up to meet her husband’s gaze. “You will look magnificent,” the duke assured her. “These gems tend to overwhelm their wearers. Not so with you. You will be the envy of the ton.”
She was almost certain he meant it. How very odd. It was almost as if he had read her thoughts.
The duke turned away, carefully closing and locking both jewelry boxes. Shoving them toward the back of the secretaire, he folded up the front, then locked it as well. “And now,” he declared with a lazy smile that curled Jen’s toes, “I believe there’s a braid that needs to come down.”
By the simple expedient of informing Sims, the butler, that Lord Frayne was not to be admitted to the Longville House drawing room without being shown into the bookroom first, the duke found himself face to face in private with his brother-in-law.
“May I say you are looking remarkably fine, Longville,” the viscount drawled as he crossed the room. “It would seem marriage agrees with you.” Tony’s lips clamped tight together as he realized he might have phrased his casual greeting with greater care.
“Ah, yes . . . well, this one does,” the duke murmured, his customary aplomb wavering for a moment. “A fine woman, your sister. She makes a splendid duchess.”
“I’m rather fond of her myself,” Tony agreed as he seated himself in the wingchair across from his friend.
After a few equally awkward exchanges about the days at Totten Court, which the duke described as if the sole purpose of the trip were the refurbishment of the dilapidated country house, Lord Frayne began to suspect that there was more to this meeting than a social exchange between two gentlemen who were now closely related by marriage. He could think of only one topic. The viscount braced himself.
The duke leaned back, his fingers drumming a tattoo on the arm of the chair. “I believe I must thank you for your kind attention to my children during my absence,” he began.
Tony assured him their few excursions had been no trouble at all. In fact, he had rather enjoyed revisiting some of the sights he had treasured in childhood.
“Not your cup of tea, I should think? Bear-leading the infantry?” The duke, his sharp gaze never leaving the viscount’s face, raised a dark brow and paused, awaiting Tony’s response.
“Truly, I enjoyed it.”
“And just how many excursions did you undertake?”
“I believe it was six, Your Grace,” Tony murmured after a slight hesitation.
“Six in nine days,” the duke mused, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Such avuncular devotion, Tony. I confess I am surprised.”
“Marcus,” Tony groaned, hoping to end this game of cat and mouse.
“Very well,” the duke declared, “allow me to suggest that your kindness to the younger children was possibly the result of an appreciation of the attractions of the eldest of my offspring.”
“Blast you, Longville,” Tony returned quite evenly. “I’ve been a good uncle to Susan and was happy to welcome Laurence into the Norville family fold. Oddly enough, I happen to like children, no matter how unfashionable that might be. But I would have to be blind or dead not to notice Lady Caroline is a beauty destined to take London by storm. Did I wish to enjoy her company? Did I enjoy showing her off on our drives about town? Of course I did. I’d have been a demmed idiot, else.”
“And that is it?” the duke inquired in accents so soft and deadly T
ony felt a quiver creep up his spine. “You are a park saunterer showing off the latest diamond?”
“No, that is not it,” the viscount declared, flashing a hint of steel of his own. “From the night I met Caroline I found her delightful. A captivating mix of naiveté and world-weary knowledge that life is not always kind.”
“The night you met?” The duke’s amber gaze turned ominous as he pounced on the viscount’s words..
Hell and the devil! The little minx had never told him. If only he had watched his tongue. Tony straightened his shoulders and proceeded to lay out the entire tale, including his sister’s untimely arrival and the hot words exchanged by the two women closest to the Duke of Longville. When he was finished, the duke lowered his head into his hands. A sound closely resembling a groan was heard. Tony felt sorry enough for his friend that he did not even gloat over managing to elicit a groan louder and more anguished than his own.
“So you do not anticipate a smooth path as Jen oversees Caroline’s come-out,” the duke said at last.
“I think,” Tony told him, “they are both well-bred ladies who will get through it somehow without disgracing either the Norvilles or the Carlingtons.”
“Poor Jen,” Marcus murmured. “That she should have thought I . . . The devil of it is I suppose I deserved her lack of faith.”
“Not really. Your reputation far outruns your actual peccadillos.”
A derisive bark echoed from the duke. “A fact known only to my closest friends,” he conceded. “And I, fool that I am, assumed that by some miracle my betrothed—my wife—would seize this knowledge out of thin air and have implicit faith in the purity of my activities.” Longville paused, struck by a sudden thought. “No wonder she looked so odd the day after we came back,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“And that means . . .?” Tony prodded.
“With the political situation so volatile, I spent the entire day catching up on what had happened while I was gone. As if the situation with Boney weren’t bad enough, there’s still a good deal of unrest here at home. I had Sims tell her . . . ” The duke broke off, swearing colorfully. “Basically,” he admitted sheepishly as he ran out of invective, “I sent my bride word by the butler that I would not be home that night. The very first night of our married life back in London.”
“Lord, Marcus,” Tony pronounced with considerable feeling, “Jen must truly care for you or she’d have handed you your head on a platter. Not a shy flower is our Jen.”
“You’d be surprised,” the duke returned quietly. “I believe our Jen has far more fears and doubts than anyone realizes.”
“So we’re both having difficulties with our women.” The viscount sighed.
“Our women?” The Duke of Longville returned to his stance as a sharp-eyed father. “I trust your intentions are honorable, Frayne?”
Tony drew in a deep breath. “I had not thought I had any intentions beyond the familial,” he admitted, “but it would seem I am moving in a direction previously considered anathema. For, yes, I find myself drawn back to Longville House as if pulled by an irresistible force. Willy-nilly, no matter where I think I am going, I end up on your doorstep.”
“Ah, poor boy,” Longville sympathized, “I believe you have caught the disease.”
“Disease it is,” Tony agreed glumly. “But it may be I shall conquer it,” he added, brightening, “for Lady Caroline is quite determined not to marry. Perhaps I shall have my five more years of freedom before she comes to her senses and realizes that marriage is inevitable for us all.”
A rueful chuckle escaped the Duke of Longville. “If I did not like you, Tony, I would have the footmen toss you out for that remark. “I warn you, Caroline deserves better.”
“I heartily agree,” the viscount agreed, rising to his feet, “but then some things inspire me to greater effort than others. And Lady Caroline is a remarkable bit of inspiration. Do not worry, Longville,” Tony added softly, “you must know I would never do anything to harm her.”
The duke touched a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “My apologies, Tony. A necessary conversation, this. Nothing more.”
Tony was almost to the door when he suddenly turned back. “I nearly forgot.” He paused, frowning, searching for the right words. “There were moments when I was driving the children around—down by the Tower, by St. Paul’s, once even on Bond Street—that I saw what I can only describe as odd looks. Yes, I know Laurence is an object of interest to nearly everyone, but I . . . I thought I caught a note of hostility here and there. Perhaps it was imagination, nothing more than my feeling of responsibility for the children, but Boney’s escape, his success in rallying his troops, seems to have struck a spark with some of the rabble here at home.”
“The duke nodded, his look thoughtful. “I must confess, my friend, I have great respect for the acumen you usually hide so well. And you are right, there have been increasing incidents of unrest.”
“So you agree it’s best to keep the children close for a while? I fear I may have been too sanguine in taking them about so freely,” Tony admitted. “You are a wealthy and important man, and even before Boney’s escape, there was considerable resentment against the latest Corn Laws.”
“I am not certain if what I feel is my blood freezing at your words or my blood running hot with fury,” the duke commented softly.
“I am saying we must take care,” Tony told him. “There is, at this point, nothing more threatening than the liveliness of my imagination.”
“If I did not hold your intelligence in high esteem, young man, we would not have been friends these past few years. I will take steps immediately to see to the security of my family. Including Jen and Caroline.”
“They will not like it,” Tony opined.
“Unfortunate,” snapped the Duke of Longville. “They will do as they are told.”
As Tony climbed the stairs, following Sims to the drawing room where the Carlington ladies awaited, he was still frowning. Had he poked his nose into a hornet’s nest, stirring up trouble where there was none? Certainly he had instigated the return of the Duke of Longville to his full autocratic authority, which tended toward having no consideration for the feelings of others, whether wife or child. Jen would not thank him for it.
Tony swore under his breath, then pasted on his most brilliant social smile as Sims threw open the door to the drawing room.
“Your Grace, my lady,” the butler intoned, “Viscount Frayne.”
~ * ~
Chapter Twelve
Lady Caroline hid a wince as a pin nicked her side. The horrified look on the face of the seamstress’s assistant was enough to convince her the girl would be sacked on the spot if her employer discovered her shocking negligence. There was quite enough distress in the world, Caroline decided, without the daughter of the Duke of Longville inadvertently adding to the long list of hapless persons on the streets of London. She closed her lips firmly over the complaint which had nearly slipped out. New gowns might be quite wonderful, but the process of acquiring them was not.
“Ah, Caroline, there you are,” said the duchess as she entered the room. “What a becoming gown! This is the one we chose for Almack’s, is it not?”
In a soft swish of ivory silk Caroline swung round to face her step-mother. “Your Grace,” she demanded, “why am I confined to the house in this fashion, the seamstresses forced to come here? I do not care to be a prisoner in my own home.”
All of Jen’s five feet ten inches quivered before Lady Caroline’s wrath. Being at odds with Marcus’s eldest child was not something she could like. Goodness knows she had tried this past week, but the duke’s insistence on curtailing their excursions outside the house had exacerbated tempers, rather than helped. Instead of enjoying the full panoply of the fashions offered by the modiste, the duchess, as well as Lady Caroline, had had to confine herself to the fabrics and sketches the seamstress and her helpers could transport to Longville House.
“Caroline, you know your father
’s thoughts on this subject. We must humor him in this, I think.”
“Half London is off to Brussels to view the great battle, and we cannot venture outside the house!” Caroline declared bitterly.
“Half London is mad then,” the duchess returned, “for who is to say where the battle will be or when. Or if it will take place at all.”
“I heard papa say that all of Boney’s old soldiers are rallying round. There will be a battle, he is certain of it.”
“And in such uncertain times your father is wise to curtail our racketing about town,” Jenny returned with calm good sense. “Which brings me to my reason for seeking you out—”
“Papa has not canceled the picnic!” Caroline cried. “Tell me he has not.”
“Not at all,” Jenny hastened to reply. “I have come only to discuss the guest list with you. Tony wished me to select some young ladies whose company you might enjoy.”
“Young ladies whose company Sir Chetwin and Mr. Trimby-Ashford might enjoy,” Caroline countered.
“That, too,” Jen agreed with a tentative smile. “I was thinking of Lady Harriet Grantley. Her father is one of the duke’s political friends.” Caroline offered an infinitesimal nod of approval. “And I was wondering,” the duchess ventured, obviously less certain of her ground, “if you would not mind the inclusion of a young friend from my days with the army. Truthfully, she was but a child when I knew her. My husband was an officer in her father’s regiment. Colonel Bettencourt has gone to fight the Americans and Emily is living with an aunt, who is, shall we say, on the fringes of society.”
“And you wish to include her in our picnic?” Caroline stated coldly.
“Her family is quite acceptable. Her grandfather is Lord Belhampton, a baron.” Jen heard herself burbling and was mortified. She was the duchess. It was her brother’s picnic party. They could invite anyone they wished. Just because she had been foolish enough to try to warm her relationship with her step-daughter by consulting her . . .
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