by Jane Feather
“Ah, the older generation, madame . . . it is ’ard for them to keep up with progress,” the hairdresser said, stowing his scissors in his leather bag. “Your grace, you will need a little tidying in a week,” he pronounced to Arabella as he left the boudoir.
“Now,” Arabella said, rubbing her hands with anticipation, “we need to find you a dress for dinner. There’s a ball at Gordon House later tonight and you must make a spectacular entrance.” She turned and made for her bedchamber.
Meg followed, still patting her unfamiliar hair. “Can I just turn up uninvited?”
“Oh, yes. You’re a guest of the duchess of St. Jules, my dear,” Arabella declared airily as she flung open her armoire. “Somewhere in here is a green chiffon ball gown. I insisted Celeste make it up for me, but Jack always looks so disapproving when I wear it . . . just because he didn’t choose it, I’m sure. Ah, here it is.” She reached into the depths and drew out the gown.
She passed it to Meg. “Hold it up . . . oh, yes, the color’s perfect for you.” She made a wry face. “I hate to admit it, but Jack’s right. It looks much better on you.”
Meg examined herself in the long mirror. “It’s going to be too big. I’m not as well endowed as you, Bella.”
“Oh, Becky will fix the bodice in a trice,” Arabella said, pulling the bell rope. “A tuck here and there, and she’ll need to hem it a little. But she’s a very handy needlewoman and Martha can help her. It won’t take them any time at all.”
Jack was already in the salon when the women came down to dinner just as the clock struck eight. He bowed, the skirts of his gold brocade coat flaring, the jeweled hilt of his evening sword catching the candlelight.
“That gown becomes you, Miss Barratt,” he said with a nod of approval. “Much better than it does Arabella.”
Arabella glowered at him. He beckoned her and caught her chin, scrutinizing her complexion. “You’re looking a little washed-out this evening, my dear. I would not have chosen the ivory tonight. You would have done better in the chocolate silk over the cream slip.”
“Well, I’m not changing now,” Arabella said, annoyed. “Perhaps I’ll try some rouge.”
Jack released her chin. “No,” he said definitely. “Try a few early nights instead.”
She grimaced. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you?”
“Not where you’re concerned,” he agreed amiably. He turned to the sideboard. “May I offer you sherry, Miss Barratt, or would you prefer madeira?”
Meg looked amused and wondered if the duke with his proprietorial comments about his wife’s appearance was somehow asserting his position in front of Arabella’s dearest friend. “Sherry, please, sir. I must congratulate you, Duke. Bella doesn’t normally accept personal criticism with such forbearance.”
“Husbands have rather more leeway than others in such matters,” Jack said glibly, handing Meg a glass of sherry before pouring madeira for his wife.
Arabella coughed pointedly. “I appear to have become invisible.”
Jack wondered what on earth had got into him. For a minute there he had suddenly felt as if he was in competition with Arabella’s friend. How absurd. He was aware of a slight flush of embarrassment, which astounded him almost as much as his ridiculous behavior of a minute ago.
He kept his back averted while busying himself with the decanters until he had regained his composure and then turned with a cool smile and handed his wife her glass, but not before he’d caught the quick conspiratorial gleam of amusement passing between the two women.
“Thank you, sir.” Arabella took the glass.
Jack sought for a neutral topic that would restore his badly shaken dignity. “Do you care to ride, Miss Barratt?”
“Why, yes, sir, I do.” Meg gave him a bland smile.
“I’m sure we have a horse in the stables that will suit you,” he said. “What do you think, Arabella. The piebald mare, perhaps?”
“Certainly,” Arabella agreed, a quiver of laughter in her voice. She had never before seen her suave husband behave so clumsily. He was never at a disadvantage and despite her amusement she decided she didn’t like it. She set down her glass. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
Arabella ascended the sweeping staircase of the Gordon mansion on her husband’s arm, Meg on her other side. The duchess of Gordon was already waiting to receive her guests at the head of the staircase and the sounds of the orchestra drifted from the ballroom at her back.
The duchess greeted Meg graciously, fluttered her eyelashes at the duke, and bestowed an assessing scrutiny on Arabella, looking for some new innovation in wardrobe that the duchess of St. Jules would make all the rage.
Jack danced first with his guest and then with his wife, then, duty done, made his way to the card room.
It was just past eleven o’clock when Lady Jersey swept up the grand staircase, wearing a diamond set given to her by the prince, and certainly the equal of anything adorning Princess Caroline, who was dancing the quadrille with the duke of Devonshire.
“There’s the gorgon,” Arabella murmured to Meg.
“She’s quite stunning,” Meg said, examining the lady over the top of her fan.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t. So is Lady Worth,” Arabella said glumly.
“She’s not here tonight?”
“Not so far . . . Wait a minute.” Arabella put a hand on Meg’s arm. “What’s happening?”
The two women watched in disbelief as Lady Jersey, her head at its usual disdainful angle, began to move around the room. Every group she approached dispersed before she could reach them. There was a curious hush in the ballroom, and the orchestra sounded plaintive and reedy.
“Well,” Arabella murmured. “It looks like the worm of Society has finally turned. The lady has at last gone too far. Probably because she’s been boasting of persuading the prince to get a legal separation from Caroline. If ever hubris had its just reward.” She stepped backwards, pulling Meg with her into a small antechamber. “Much as I’m enjoying watching this, I don’t want to take part.”
“Why not?”
“I want to take the moral high ground,” Arabella returned with a rueful grin. “At least in front of my husband. I’ve trodden in this quicksand once already, but now that public opinion has vindicated me I can afford to stand aloof.”
Meg followed her gaze towards a side door where the duke of St. Jules stood, one hand resting on the hilt of his dress sword, his other on his hip. His face was expressionless, his eyes cool as he observed the entire proceedings.
Lady Jersey, her face a mask of mortification, swept from the ballroom.
Jack left his post at the side door and made his way across the room, where the buzz of conversation had increased to an almost fever pitch and the orchestra had launched into a spirited country dance. He spotted Arabella and Meg as they left the sanctuary of the antechamber, moving back into the ballroom.
“If you’re ready to leave, my dear, I’ll gladly escort you,” he said, taking out a delicate japanned snuffbox from his deep coat pocket.
“Oh?” Arabella frowned. She guessed that the play in the duke of Gordon’s card rooms was a trifle tame for her husband. “I thought we might stay a little longer. But we can see ourselves home, Jack. The footman is waiting downstairs and he can summon the carriage whenever we’re ready.”
He took a pinch of snuff and dropped the box back into his coat. “I own I could do with a little more excitement than Gordon’s tables can afford.”
“Then go,” Arabella said, flicking her fingers towards the door.
He bowed. Lifted her hand to his lips. “Until later, ma’am.” He offered Meg the same courtesy and sauntered away.
“Well,” Arabella said. “What do you make of that?”
“It does seem strange that he’d say not a word about what just happened,” Meg agreed.
Arabella nodded thoughtfully. “The damn man is never predictable.”
Charles Fox, dressed with remarkable sobri
ety in a gray wasp-waisted coat, approached, with George Cavenaugh on his heels. “Shameful of your husband to desert you, my lady Arabella,” he declared with a flourishing bow. “And his so charming guest.” His eyes ran appreciatively, even a little lasciviously, over Meg’s slight figure. “May I beg the favor of this dance, Miss Barratt?”
“In all fairness, sir, I should warn you that I am not adept at the cotillion,” Meg informed him cheerfully. “But if you’re willing to take the risk of being trampled, then I shall be delighted.”
Fox was momentarily nonplussed, then he recovered with a laugh and another bow. “So charmingly frank, ma’am. But I don’t believe a word of it. You couldn’t trample on an ant.”
They went off into the dance and George offered his hand to Arabella. “Interesting evening,” he observed as he led her into the dance.
“Very,” she said, and devoted her attention to the complicated steps of the dance.
It was close to two o’clock in the morning when they returned to Cavendish Square. The rout of Lady Jersey had been the only topic of discussion and ensured that the duchess of Gordon’s ball would take its place in the history books.
The night porter welcomed the women into the quiet house and offered the information that his grace had returned some minutes earlier and had inquired whether her grace had come in as yet.
Meg yawned. “I shall take myself to bed,” she said. “I got up this morning at some ungodly hour in order to arrive at your bedside with your morning chocolate.”
Arabella laughed and hugged her. “Your sacrifice is well appreciated, Meg. I can’t think of a more welcome sight on which to open one’s eyes.” Meg gave her a quizzical look and she blushed a little. “You know what I mean.”
They parted at the head of the stairs and Arabella entered her boudoir to find only one lamp burning low and the fire a mere ashy memory. No dogs either. She raised her eyebrows. Becky usually ensured that this room was warm and welcoming in the evening in case her mistress wanted to sit up for a while before going to bed.
She went into her bedchamber. The light here was brighter, and a healthy fire burned in the grate. Of Becky there was no sign. No dogs either. Instead, Jack, in shirt and britches, lay on the bed, propped up on pillows, hands linked behind his head. He looked the picture of careless ease.
“Good evening, my dear,” he said. “You did stay late at the ball. Was the gossip irresistible?”
Arabella realized that she didn’t want to discuss the evening’s events with Jack. It would take her too close to her own hurt. She shrugged lightly. “Only what you’d expect.” She turned her back on the bed and sat at the dresser to remove her jewelry. She could see the bed in the mirror as she unthreaded the pearl-studded ribbon from her hair.
“I’m guessing you rather enjoyed it.”
“I’ve never enjoyed gossip.”
He sat up abruptly and her heart skipped as he uncoiled himself and swung off the bed. She had a vivid reminder of the moment long past when she had likened him to a jaguar.
“My dear, you’ve made no secret of your opinion of Frances Villiers,” he said, his step lithe as he crossed the room.
“My opinion is irrelevant in the light of tonight,” she responded, reaching to unclasp the pearls from around her neck.
Jack moved her hands away and unclasped the necklace himself. He let the creamy strand run through his fingers in an opalescent stream. He seemed to tower above her as he stood at her back, his eyes on hers in the mirror. “I was wondering if perhaps there was a personal reason for your outspoken loathing for Lady Jersey,” he said slowly.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was flat.
He let the strand coil into the opened casket. He spoke carefully. “This is not easy . . . Lady Worth—”
Arabella spun around on the low chair. It was unbearable that he would throw that in her face. “Do you really think I might be jealous of your mistress, sir?” Her laugh was short and derisive. “Believe me, my lord duke, what you do with the countess of Worth is a matter of supreme indifference to me.”
He held up a hand. “Please . . . Arabella . . . hear me out.”
“Hear you out?” She jumped up from the stool, her hair flying around her face in a dark halo, fury in her eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “Hear me out.” He caught her wrists, bringing them behind her back so that her body came up sharply against his. “Please.” He tried to quell the fire with his own quietness, to hold her furious gaze with his, and slowly he felt the tension leave her.
“What do you have to say?”
He released her wrists but kept one hand at her waist. His free hand ran through the now tangled halo of curls, pushing it away from her face. “I have not shared Lilly’s bed since I met you.”
Arabella caught her breath and then inhaled deeply. “You don’t give that impression. You are in and out of her house . . . you have têtes-à-têtes at balls. Everyone assumes she’s your mistress.”
“Everyone is sometimes mistaken.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Her gaze was steady, the tawny eyes calm now.
Jack sighed a little. “Of course I should have done. But, forgive me, Arabella, I have some loyalty to Lilly. I could not . . . would not . . . humiliate her by a rejection that would be the topic in every salon for months.”
Arabella could have laughed at the neatness of it all, if it had been at all amusing. Which of course it was not. Jack had disliked witnessing Lady Jersey’s humiliation because he had seen in it the shadow of Lilly’s. He had disliked the idea of Arabella’s enjoyment of the one because he didn’t like the idea of her enjoying the other. And she . . . well, she understood herself only too well.
“There is one other thing,” Jack said into her silence. “You should know this too. Lilly relies upon my purse and I won’t cut her off from that.”
Oh, how easy that was. Money? In Jack’s world it mattered nothing. He’d lost one fortune and made two. There were no emotions entangled in money.
“Of course not,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “But it’s clear Lilly still thinks she’s your mistress.”
“She still wants other people to think it,” he corrected.
“Yes . . . Could you quite quickly find a way to convince her otherwise without too much loss of face?”
He bent and kissed her eyelids. “You are a generous woman, wife of mine.”
“Even a Lacey can be generous,” she said.
He raised his head. “You are not a Lacey.”
She touched his mouth, smoothing the hard line. Now was not the time. “No, I’m a Fortescu. And I would like you to remind me of that fact.”
His eyes softened with his mouth. He cupped her face and kissed her lips. “With pleasure, madam wife.”
Chapter 19
Arabella awoke to the sounds of the dawn chorus and a tickling sensation on the nape of her neck. She burrowed deeper into her pillow as she identified the sensation. Jack was paying attention to one of his favorite spots, his lips nuzzling into her hairline, his tongue lightly stroking in the groove of her neck. She lay prone, sunk deep into the feather mattress, her arms stretched above her head.
He ran a hand down the length of her back, his fingers playing a little tune on her spine. His hand flattened over her bottom, caressing the smooth curves before sliding down her thighs. Sleepily awake now, she held her breath, waiting for the touch. He made her wait as he stroked down her legs, his fingers dancing in the hollow behind her knees, and then his hand slipped between her thighs and crept upwards. She sighed into the pillow, lifting her hips slightly to facilitate his progress and let the soft wave of an almost indolent pleasure wash through her. When he swung over her, sliding his hands beneath her belly to hold her on the shelf of his palms as he entered her, she pushed back for him and felt him slide deep within her.
He moved slowly, sweetly, still holding her, his mouth pressed against
her neck. It was like a long, slow fall into a cloud that enveloped her in languid release. Her eyes closed again and she was barely aware of him moving away from her, of the light caress on her backside, the soft laugh as he left her bed. And it was full daylight when next she awoke, to the sound of Becky drawing back the curtains. Boris and Oscar snuffled at her with wet noses and she groaned and sat up.
“Beautiful day, Lady Arabella,” Becky said cheerfully. “You slept long, but Miss Barratt said I should wake you because you have an engagement this morning.”
“Oh, do I?” Arabella frowned, accepting the cup of hot chocolate that Becky handed her. “Oh, yes, I remember.” At the Gordon’s ball she had promised to supply orchids for the Beauchamps’s ball, and Lady Beauchamp was coming at noon to make her selection. It was fortunate Meg had been there when the arrangement was made and had remembered for her. She glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw it was already past nine o’clock. What time had Jack woken her? Her body felt somehow well used this morning, a little sore and a little achy here and there, but after the night and her dawn awakening it was not to be wondered at.
She smiled to herself. “I think I shall bathe this morning, Becky.”
It was an hour later when she entered the breakfast parlor. “You look very smug,” Meg observed, looking up from the Gazette. “Truly the cat who caught the goldfish. I’m jealous . . . my pristine, virginal bed, comfortable though it is, lacks a certain . . .” She opened her palms in an expressive gesture. “A certain je ne sais quoi, I think one would say.”
“I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you can remedy the situation,” Arabella said with grin. She helped herself to a dish of eggs on the sideboard and sat down opposite her friend. “Anything in the paper?”
“Nothing about the Gordon’s ball, but there wouldn’t have been time last night to make the morning edition. It’ll probably be in tomorrow’s.” She shot Arabella a knowing look across the table and inquired, “Did your husband finally bring up the subject?”
