Duchess in Love

by Eloisa James

  Sebastian still didn’t respond, so Esme kept chattering, well aware that his presence was making her into a complete ninny. “Girton probably spent most of his time carving little statues of his nanny without her apron.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had a brother.”

  He stood before the fireplace, looking so handsome that her heart skipped a beat.

  “My little Benjamin,” she said. “He died when he was five years old.”

  There was something in his expression that made her keep talking, even though she never, ever talked about Benjamin. “He got a chill. His death changed my mind about having children. For a long time I was afraid to have children of my own.”

  He sat down beside her on the settee. But he didn’t look at her. “You don’t wish to have a child? Is that why you live apart from your husband?”

  “This is a very improper conversation,” she said, trying vainly to draw herself together. The rehearsal—the whole performance—was a dreadful idea. All the time she was spending with Sebastian wasn’t helping her ignore her ridiculous affection for him.

  “In my experience, your conversation is invariably improper,” he noted.

  Why did he have to have such a deep voice? The truth is, Esme thought, with her usual clarity, I would rather sleep with my best friend’s fiancé than with any other man I have met in my entire, misspent life. This was a repulsive thought to have about oneself, and she frowned in reaction.

  He put his hand on her forehead and smoothed the frown lines with his thumb. “Are you sharing a bed with Burdett?” he asked, and his voice had a harsh edge to it.

  She met his eyes steadily. “No, I am not.” His shoulders relaxed imperceptibly. “But only because Bernie’s mind turned out to be disappointing,” she added. “I have slept with men other than my husband. Would you like to know their names?”

  “Absolutely not.” His hand dropped from her face.

  “I thought you were indicating interest,” she said, her tone tranquil. Inside her mind was screaming with tension. She folded her hands in her lap. “Shall we rehearse the play, my lord, or would you like to give me a list of your lovers?”

  There was silence. She finally had to look at him. His eyes were the dark blue of pansies. So sober, they were.

  She opened her book.

  “I have not yet slept with a woman, married or unmarried.” His voice was low but utterly calm.

  Esme’s head literally jerked in shock. “You haven’t?”

  “No.” He didn’t seem to feel the need to elaborate.

  “Why on earth not?” she breathed.

  “Because I am not yet married.”

  “I had no idea you—are you a Puritan?”

  “No.”

  She waited.

  “I have never understood the folly that leads to setting up a mistress,” he remarked. “Friends of mine have broken their marriage vows and wasted their principal on opera singers. Never having met a woman who tempted me into foolish behavior, I have not followed their example.”

  “Oh.” She could not quite think what to say next. “Shall we begin with the third act of Much Ado, my lord?”

  He ignored her. “I would not break my marriage vows, had I made any.”

  “That is very appropriate of you,” Esme said awkwardly.

  “However, I have come to believe that Gina will stay with her husband, rather than marry me,” he said, looking down at her. “I expect she will tell me so tomorrow.”

  Esme swallowed. She couldn’t just sit silently. It was too treacherous, too enticing. Miles was moving back into her bed. Miles was going to father her children. She couldn’t make that fact sound urgent to herself.

  “Am I to understand that you have met a strumpet capable of tempting you into foolish behavior?” she managed.

  “Yes.”

  She stood up. “Then I wish you luck in achieving the proper degree of folly. Unfortunately, it is time to retire for the night, or we could prolong this fascinating conversation. I suggest that we continue our rehearsal in the morning.”

  He caught her wrist just as she turned away. She refused to look. His eyes were too dangerous: his eyes and that lean beauty of his. She wasn’t going to be his strumpet.

  “You have slept with other men—” he began.

  She jerked her wrist away from him. “The cardinal distinction is that when I have occasionally—occasionally, my lord—shared my bed with men, it was because I desired them. You seem to have ignored that important fact.” She walked toward the door.

  He was just behind her. He didn’t touch her again, though.

  “I didn’t say it correctly. I should have told you how beautiful you are.”

  She couldn’t help it: she looked over her shoulder.

  He looked faintly impatient. “I was hoping that we could acknowledge our mutual attraction without attaching undue sentiment to that fact.”

  She took a deep breath. “I gather by acknowledge, you think I should invite you to my chamber?”

  He nodded. “You are an extremely intelligent woman, for all you pretend to be frivolous.”

  “That is hardly the point.”

  He caught her hand and pulled her around to face him. “Then what is the point, Esme? I want you. I want you as I’ve never wanted any woman and you are…available. I am not married, and I don’t believe that I am truly engaged to be married either. Why shouldn’t you invite me to your bed? I assure you that my brain is in far better working order than Burdett’s.”

  “You are likely right about Gina’s marriage.”

  He opened his mouth and she hastily interceded.

  “But not about mine, my lord. I am not available.”

  “No?”

  Damn him for his beauty, for the emotion in those businesslike eyes, for the way his hands on hers made her shudder with longing. “As it happens, I am returning to my husband’s bed,” she said briskly. “So I am afraid that you have missed your opportunity. Strumpet today, wife tomorrow.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Returning does not imply immediate action.” He paused.

  She said nothing.

  “Do I understand that you are not yet reconciled with the estimable Lord Rawlings?”

  At her small nod, he reached behind her and locked the door. “Then I would be a fool to miss the small opportunity that I have, would I not?”

  Eyes on hers, he stripped off his neck cloth and tossed it to the side.

  Esme laughed unsteadily. “You’ve run amok, my lord. This is not like you—”

  His body was large, a rider’s body. Despite herself, she felt a deep, melting ache inside. Hers. No woman had touched that body. He threw his shirt over a chair.

  “You cannot undress in Lady Troubridge’s sitting room,” she protested. “What if someone wishes to enter?”

  “They will not.” He was pulling off his right boot. Despite herself, she watched the muscles flex in his powerful back as he bent over. “The musicians were playing a last dance when you and Burdett left the ballroom. No one is at the billiards table next door, and I feel reasonably confident that the household is preparing for bed.”

  His hands went to his waistband, and her mouth went dry.

  She made one last feeble protest. “I shouldn’t—” but her mind was already made up. Every bone in her body told her to accept what had come her way. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable joining me in my chamber?”

  He looked at her darkly. “I think not. I find the idea that you may have slept with other men in that bed uncomfortable. It is a foolish quibble, but I feel it none the less.”

  She started to protest and stopped. It was none of his business that she hadn’t invited a man into her bed for years, let alone during Lady Troubridge’s house party.

  In a moment he was stark naked. Esme’s knees felt weak; she leaned against the sitting room door.

  “Aren’t you going to undress?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat. This was truly the strange
st seduction she had ever participated in. “Will you act as my lady’s maid?”

  He stepped closer and she felt the blood rush to her face. He was so casual in his nakedness, so confident.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that this is the first time you have done this?” she asked, with some curiosity.

  He paused for a second in his nimble unbuttoning. “No. The process seems simple for most men, so why would it not be so for me? The action required of me does not seem complicated or difficult.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I am reputed quite an athlete, Esme. I trust I shall not fail you in the field.”

  He gently kissed her neck, and she felt his tongue touch her skin for an instant.

  The small part of her brain that hadn’t slipped into heated awareness of his body noted his incredible arrogance. Had the man no lack of confidence in any area of his life?

  She gently laid her gown over a chair and turned to face him. She was a great aficionado of French undergarments, and at the moment she was tricked out like a Parisian courtesan. Her chemise was naught but a few scraps of lace.

  His eyes darkened to black. “You’re exquisite.” He put a hand on her throat. It slid to her shoulder.

  She turned and walked toward the couch. Reaching up, she pulled pins from her hair until it fell in a gentle swoosh to her pantalettes. Then held out her hand.

  “Will you join me, my lord?”

  Esme shivered with a combination of excitement and embarrassment. She had never made love in a public room. But it didn’t seem to bother the proper marquess.

  He pulled off her remaining garments until she was quite naked, curling her toes into the carpet.

  And he just looked at her. When he spoke, his voice made her jump.

  “You’re the most exquisite woman I have ever seen, Esme.” He pulled her forward, into his arms.

  She toppled against his chest, and he smoothed the long line of her hip and thigh, pulling her against his body.

  This is the most dangerous thing I have ever done, Esme thought. But his eyes were as blue as a cloudless sky.

  At some point a servant rattled the door, wishing to damp the fire for the night.

  Sebastian bellowed at him.

  Marquess Bonnington, widely known as the most gentlemanly gentleman of the ton, had lost his composure. Worse, when his companion giggled and said something very naughty in his ear, he didn’t reproach her. Instead he pinned her down and said something fierce, something impolite, something that made Esme shudder and pull him, all the glorious muscled parts of him, closer.

  Just because he was an athlete didn’t mean that there weren’t matters of finesse to learn. But great athletes are great athletes. As Esme discovered, to her great pleasure, they learn quickly. Even better, they understand that the road to perfection is a question of doing it again…and doing it again.

  And perhaps, in the gray hours of dawn, one last time, if only to prove that innate athletic prowess is a valuable attribute in all sports.

  30

  Courage Is Required:

  Lord Perwinkle’s Bedchamber

  Carola huddled under chilly linen sheets, safely enclosed in Tuppy’s curtained bed. She had pulled the curtains so tightly together that not even a gleam of light penetrated the cloth. Everything was in place except her resolution. In fact, she was contemplating flight. She had just realized that there was one important thing wrong with Esme’s plan.

  She, Carola, didn’t like the marital act. Didn’t like it when Tuppy instigated it on their wedding night, and didn’t like it any better two weeks later. Her mother’s assumption that she would calm to the bridle had never taken place.

  She huddled into a tighter ball and clutched her knees. The key thing to remember was that she did want to be Tuppy’s wife, even if she didn’t want to do that wifely duty. She would like to kiss him. The very thought of kissing Tuppy—of Tuppy kissing her!—sent a flush to her face.

  But kissing wasn’t enough. Esme had been cuttingly straightforward in her analysis. Carola had to persuade Tuppy that she wanted to be in his bed so much that she would humiliate herself to be there. To her mind, humiliation was inevitable. She was so embarrassed that she truly thought she might faint when he climbed into the bed.

  The problem was that Tuppy was no good at this sort of thing. Of course, she hadn’t stressed that with her friends. It wasn’t a loyal thought. She was going to have to pretend to enjoy it. That was the only way she could make Tuppy believe that he wasn’t a bad rider, and all the other things she said when they were first married.

  She had to be congratulatory. “That’s wonderful, Tuppy!” she practiced, under her breath. “What wonderful…” Wonderful what? Rhythm? Cadence? “What wonderful finesse you have,” she decided. “What wonderful finesse you have, and how much I am enjoying this!” That sounded sophisticated. She had to avoid a tendency to sound like her mother opening a charity bazaar. She had to sound fervent. Truthful.

  Just then there was a scraping noise and the door opened. Carola squeaked with panic and then buried her face in the pillow. Had he heard her gasp? She would die if he discovered her when he was still fully clothed. He had to come to bed unclothed and having turned down the lamp. Otherwise, he might be put off by the sight of her overgrown breasts. She was wearing her nightgown with a small corset underneath, just to keep her flesh in place. There were muffled sounds as Tuppy walked around the room, presumably undressing.

  Carola’s heart was beating so fast that she could hardly hear his movements over the drumroll in her ears. What was taking him so long? There was a creak, and then silence. She lay rigid. One moment. Two minutes. Surely she had waited ten minutes! He wasn’t coming to bed at all. Or—perhaps it wasn’t Tuppy in the room?

  Carola’s eyes grew wide. It was the thief! The man who rifled Gina’s room had come to steal her husband’s cuff links. She inched up on her knees and slowly, slowly edged toward the curtains. The thief would likely kill her as soon as look at her. Everyone knew that criminals were desperate by nature and regularly battered people on the head with heavy objects.

  With the tip of a finger, she drew the curtain slightly apart. At first she couldn’t see anything but the corner of the room. Then she edged to the side and saw—

  Tuppy. It was no thief. It was Tuppy. Carola felt a surge of irritation. It was just like Tuppy to sit around and be idle when there was something important to do. He always wanted to sit and read a book, when she wanted to be at a play or, better, a ball.

  The fire wasn’t even lit. He was just sitting. His legs were outstretched and his lean face was tired. He looks lonely, Carola thought, and a pang caught her just under her heart. Maybe he’s thinking about our marriage. Maybe he’ll cry! But Tuppy had never shown any sign of tears, and Carola had to admit that he didn’t look ready to succumb now. He just stared blankly at the charred logs.

  Finally he stood up, stretched, and began unbuttoning his evening jacket. Carola’s breath caught in her throat as he pulled his shirt over his head.

  Tuppy wasn’t much of an athlete, compared to some men of the ton. He didn’t strip and box with Gentleman Jackson himself. He didn’t ride to the hunt four days out of five; nor did he careen around the countryside in a racing phaeton. Nothing she knew of explained the whip-lean body he had. How could you get those chiseled muscles sitting around on a riverbank? Tuppy tossed his trousers over the chair and began looking around the room.

  Carola suppressed a nervous giggle. He was looking for his nightshirt. But she had bundled it up and stuck it under the bed. She had thought that he was less likely to throw her out of the room if he were completely undressed.

  After a while, he gave up the search and just readjusted his smalls in the front. Carola watched with fascination. Men were so oddly constructed. His thighs bulged with muscles as he walked across the room. She felt an odd, flickering heat all over her body.

  She nervously shifted back, dropping the curtain. But nothing happened. She
couldn’t hear anything.

  Delicately, she reached forward again and peeked out. He had apparently decided to tend to the dying fire. He was standing next to the fireplace, leaning one arm on the mantel and lackadaisically smashing the charred log with a poker.

  He does look sad, Carola thought. Perhaps he doesn’t want to leave tomorrow morning. Perhaps he cares for me.

  Then Tuppy headed for the bed.

  It was curtain time.

  31

  Curtain Call

  Tuppy opened the bed curtains and pulled at the blanket before he realized that there was already someone under that blanket. In fact, she was clutching it to her neck. Her tousled mop of curls and bright eyes were all that could be seen.

  He felt an instinctive lurch in the area of his chest, instantly quelled. She was a charmer, his maddening wife. But she wasn’t his. They had quarreled from their first day together, and he had come to the painful decision that it was time to end the marriage. She could marry her tidy dancer, and he would forget about her. Forget about all women.

  His tone was colder than it might have been, given that last thought. “What are you doing in my bed, Carola?”

  She bit her lip but didn’t say anything.

  “Can it be you mistook the way?” he asked. He felt anger growing in his chest. What the devil was she doing, climbing in his bed? She didn’t want to be with him; she’d made that clear enough the day before. “Did you think that this was Charlton’s bed? I would think that you knew the way quite well, by now.”

  He stared at her, willing her to blurt out the truth, but all she did was put a small hand on his arm and say, rather imploringly, “Tuppy?”

  A sudden thought struck him. “You’re carrying Charlton’s child, and you hope to seduce me into acknowledging the child as my own. It would be one of those six month babes, I presume.”

  She flinched as if he had struck her. For a moment they just stared at each other in the gloomy half light cast by one oil lamp.