by Eloisa James
He wasn’t one-legged, or toothless. He was probably one of the most beautiful men she’d ever met. She had lost track of the conversation.
“The duchess and I leave in the morning,” he was telling the butler.
In the morning? Isidore was gripped by a sense of fear so great that she couldn’t imagine even walking to the carriage. If she were utterly honest, she had imagined a man who would be slavishly grateful to discover that his wife was so beautiful. But now…
She thought she had all the power. She didn’t.
She had to take command. Cleopatra, she thought desperately. Cleopatra would not allow herself to be transported like a piece of luggage.
“I myself do not plan to leave for several days,” she said, smiling at him even though her heart was thundering in her chest.
It wasn’t just that Cosway wore no cravat. He wore a gorgeous jacket of pale blue, but it was open straight down the front. Long cuffs fell over his hands, the wrist button undone. He looked as if he were ready for bed. The very thought stoked her nerves.
He took her hand in his, and raised it to his lips again. Isidore watched his lips touch her glove and felt herself shiver.
“Ah, but sweetheart,” he said, “I am all eagerness for our wedding.”
For a moment, Isidore just thrilled to the sound of that sweetheart, to the way his eyes warmed her, to the secret shiver she felt in her legs.
But then she realized what he had said. “We are wed,” she pointed out, withdrawing her hand from his. He looked amused, so she added: “You may have ignored the fact for years, but I assure you that it is true.”
That’s where it all went wrong.
It started there…and it ended with Isidore alone in a bedchamber that night.
Not to mention, Isidore, still a virgin, on her way to London the next day.
He might as well have labeled her, the way they did trunks:
Isidore, property of the duke.
Chapter One
Gore House, Kensington
London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
February 21, 1784
“He’s a virgin.”
“What!”
“He’s a virgin and—”
“Your husband is a virgin?”
“And he won’t bed me.”
Jemma, Duchess of Beaumont, sank into a chair with a look of almost comical dismay on her face. “Darling, if there ever were grounds for annulment, these are they. Or this is it,” she added with some confusion. “Is he some sort of monk?”
Isidore shook her head. “Not that I’m able to see. He says he will bed me eventually—just not until we’re married.”
“But you are married!”
“Exactly. I may call myself Lady Del’Fino, but the truth of the matter is that in the eyes of the law, I’m Duchess of Cosway.” Isidore dropped into a chair opposite her friend. “We’ve been married for eleven years, last I counted. And it’s hardly my fault that my husband is still a virgin. If he hadn’t been chasing all over Africa looking for the source of the Blue Nile, we could be utterly bored with each other, like other well-bred English couples.”
Jemma blinked at her. “It’s unbelievable. Unbelievable.”
“I spent the last seven years fending off lechers in every court in Europe, waiting for him to return home, and what does he do? Decide we’re not truly married.”
“So why didn’t he fall directly into your bed, virgin or no?”
Isidore glanced at herself in Jemma’s glass. Men had lusted for her ever since she turned sixteen, and the particulars hadn’t changed: black hair, pale skin, generous bosom. In short, something short of Venus, but delectable enough to send most men into a lustful frenzy.
“One has to assume that Cosway is fascinated by the exotic,” Jemma continued, “and you have such a deliciously un-English look about you. Your eyes are a gorgeous shape, not like the little raisins most of us have.”
“I don’t think of myself as exotic,” Isidore said, “and more to the point, he seems to want someone more skilled in a domestic capacity. Not more than ten minutes after we met—for the first time!—he inquired whether I had been doing any weaving lately. Weaving? Was I supposed to whip out a spindle and sew a fine seam?”
“Even I know that one doesn’t sew with a spindle, which implies that Cosway has a gross disappointment in store if he’s counting on your domestic skills,” Jemma said, laughing. “Perhaps he’s the type that babbles when faced by a desirable woman. It’s a surprisingly common affliction.”
“Believe me, I was watching him closely, and he gave no sign of being overcome by lust.”
“Even Beaumont, who hardly notes anything outside the House of Lords, told me after my masquerade that you had the most beautiful mouth of any woman in England.”
“Beaumont said that?” Isidore said, feeling a little thrill of pleasure. “That’s nice. Though I have to say, Jemma, I shouldn’t like my husband to praise other women to my face.”
Jemma shrugged. “According to your own assessment, as a well-bred English couple, we are merely adhering to type. I don’t think you should panic, Isidore. I expect Cosway is madly attracted to you and he’s just conveying his deep respect by holding a ceremony in front of a bishop.”
“He’s deranged,” Isidore said flatly. “It must have been all that sun in Africa. We married by proxy, but it was still a marriage. I was only twelve years old, but I remember it perfectly well.”
“Well,” Jemma said, rallying, “maybe the duke wants a romantic ceremony now that he’s returned.”
“And maybe he’s utterly mad and bizarre,” Isidore said, putting her fear into words. “What sort of man stays a virgin until he’s near to thirty? That’s almost disgusting. How am I supposed to introduce him to the bedroom, Jemma? Men do this sort of thing on their own. Honestly, if he’s never used his equipment—well, who’s to say that it will function at all?”
Silence answered her.
Isidore could feel her eyes growing hot. “I just want to have my husband go to bed with me so that I can be a proper duchess, use my title, and have a child. Is that too much to ask?”
Jemma reached over and took one of her hands. “No. I’m sorry, darling.”
Tears started sliding down Isidore’s cheeks. “I was never unfaithful to Cosway. The Comte de Salmont told me—in rhymed couplets—that I was more delicious than a 1764 cognac, and given his cellars, that was a true compliment. I finally returned to Italy because Salmont was so extravagant in his pursuit, but I didn’t sleep with him, even when he threatened to kill himself.” She sniffed, and Jemma handed her a handkerchief.
“I kept to my part of the bargain, although any woman in her right mind would expect her husband to show himself when she came of age.”
“Childhood marriages are a huge mistake,” Jemma said. “I shall never allow Beaumont to arrange one for a child of ours. People should be adults when they marry.”
“I’m not fussy. Truly I’m not. I may have flirted with men as handsome as Salmont, but I like men of other types too. Even short ones. I’ve told myself for years that no matter how Cosway looked when he finally staggered out of the jungle, I would do my marital part charitably if not enthusiastically. But—”
“Is he unacceptable?” Jemma asked with some curiosity.
“Oh, oh—no,” Isidore said. “That’s not the point. His looks are irrelevant. He’s manifestly odd. Odd!”
“I have another idea. Perhaps Cosway is just too intelligent to have interested himself in carnal matters.”
Isidore gave her a watery smile. “Show me the man who’s too intelligent to use his tool, and I’ll show you a dunce.” The words came out more harshly than she intended.
“The most obvious explanation is that he’s following some sort of religious law. Did he say anything about going to church? Likely he’s a Puritan. Aren’t they terrifyingly severe when it comes to base appetites?”
“I spent almost no time alone with him
,” Isidore said, “and if he has converted to a puritanical sect, he neglected to inform me. He arrived at the house party, scooped me up as if I were a parcel he’d left behind, announced that we were to be remarried, and dropped me in London.”
“What do you mean, dropped you in London?” Jemma said, frowning. “Dropped you where?”
“At Nerot’s Hotel,” Isidore said dispiritedly. “We stayed there last night. I hardly need say that we didn’t share a room. He told me—without asking my opinion—that I should wait in the hotel until he returned from his estate.”
Jemma cleared her throat. “Obviously Cosway is not au courant as regards English customs. What did you reply?”
“Not as much or as sharply as you might expect. He assumed that I would unthinkingly obey him, and though I can hardly believe it, I did. Now all I can think of are the cutting things that I should have said.”
“You’ve discovered one of the primary activities of married life, and so quickly too,” Jemma said. “I’ve lost weeks formulating the witty remarks that I should have said to Beaumont.”
“I did manage to tell him that I would stay with you rather than remain in the hotel.”
“Why didn’t you discuss this hotel business on the way to London from the house party?”
It was humiliating to admit the truth of it. “He barely entered the carriage before he fell asleep.”
“Cosway fell asleep after meeting you for the first time? Meeting his wife for the first time?”
Isidore nodded. “I believe the truth of it is that I am not what he expected, Jemma, and certainly not what he wanted. When he arrived, the night before, he seemed taken aback by my gown. I was wearing my silver gown. Do you remember that costume?”
“No one could forget the twist of cloth pretending to be a bodice. I’ve seen larger diamonds.”
“It seemed to me that from the view of convenience, not to mention desire, that the gown was the perfect welcome to a missing husband,” Isidore said with a deep sigh. “When I wore it in Paris, the Comte de Salmont said—well, never mind what he said. My husband just asked if my taste was always this unorthodox. I did not take that to be a compliment. He then retired to bed. By himself, one hardly need add.”
“Few men could resist you in that gown,” Jemma said, a frown pleating her forehead.
“The following morning,” Isidore said with a sniff, “he ordered everything packed up and I barely said goodbye to Harriet before he bundled me into the carriage. Whereupon he went to sleep rather than talk to me. I’ve married a monster!”
“If he is indeed a monster, then you needn’t stay married to him,” Jemma said practically.
“How can I not? He’s planning a wedding celebration in the chapel at Revels House. Which means that I have the prospect of seeing my mother-in-law, a pleasure that I have carefully avoided for years.”
“He is?”
“Oh, Jemma, I forgot to tell you this part! While he was in Africa, he went to the wedding of a princess. It lasted four days. Or perhaps fourteen, with constant feasts and entertainments. I have a terrible suspicion that he’s planning something like that for us.”
“He really doesn’t seem very English, does he?”
“That’s not the most unusual aspect of it,” Isidore said, putting down her handkerchief. “I gather the wedding culminated in an orgy, though given Cosway’s lack of interest in acts of intimacy—at least with me—I would surmise that he does not plan to mimic this particular aspect of the royal wedding.”
“What?”
“An orgy. Not to mention the fact that the participants drank warm blood from a sacrificed cow as part of a fertility ritual.”
Jemma’s mouth fell open. Then she said, “Cosway is holding the wedding celebration at his estate, at Revels House?”
“I expect the Archbishop of Canterbury would look askance at warm blood, don’t you think?”
“And his mother will be there?”
Isidore nodded again.
“Warm blood,” Jemma said. She covered her mouth but a giggle escaped. “Can you just see him passing a cup of that to his mother?”
“The dowager is one of the most upright, English—”
“She could be the queen!” Jemma said. “The queen! She’s that rigid. I know this is really crass, darling, and obviously you’re going to have to annul the marriage on grounds of pure insanity, but may I have an invitation to the wedding, please?”
“It helps to laugh about it,” Isidore said with a sniff.
Jemma got up and perched on the arm of Isidore’s chair. “Marriage is a great destroyer of logic, but I do think it’s a benefit to begin with a sane husband.”
“You should have seen the way he was dressed. No wig, no hair powder. No cravat! He had a lovely coat, but it was open down the front, with no waistcoat.”
“I can’t wait to see him,” Jemma said. “I’ve always thought it unkind to pay a visit to Bedlam just to laugh at the patients, but if a madman is walking among us…Truly, at this point you should probably visit a solicitor, Isidore. Beaumont’s offices are in the Inns of Court so he’s surrounded by men of that profession. He can point out a good one.”
Isidore sniffed again. “I wish my mother were alive.”
“I could lend you my mother-in-law, if you like,” Jemma offered, giving her a hug.
“Is she the one who populated your house with pictures of Judith holding Holofernes’s head?”
“Exactly! She obviously had a fractious relationship with my father-in-law and came up with creative ways to express herself. She might be just what you need to give the wedding celebration an extra little something.”
Isidore leaned her head against Jemma’s arm. “I didn’t realize how desperately hopeful I was until Cosway walked in the door.”
“Is it instantly apparent that he’s mad?”
“No. He looks like a muscled explorer, all browned by the sun, and rather wild. He has a big nose, but he looks all man, if you know what I mean.”
Jemma nodded.
“But then he turned out to be so very unmanly. The virginity, for example, is so disconcerting. I’m afraid he might tell everyone at the wedding,” she burst out.
“He wouldn’t!”
“He’s not ashamed. He says it’s the best gift he could have brought me. I’m going to be the laughingstock of all England. Isidore, the Virgin Duchess.”
“Now I think of it, Isidore, if my husband had been a virgin when we married, he wouldn’t have had a mistress.”
“One has to assume not.”
“If that were the case, we would have had a chance at a decent marriage,” Jemma pointed out.
Isidore sighed. “I certainly won’t have to fend off other women. Believe me, once the ton gets wind of his odd ideas, there’ll be no competition for his dubious charms.”
Jemma’s arm tightened around her. “I don’t know whether it would be better to initiate annulment proceedings now on the grounds of nonconsummation, or just get the marriage annulled later, on the grounds of mental instability.”
“Cosway is probably going back to Africa in any case,” Isidore said dispiritedly. “He won’t be around for the proceedings.”
“Is there a Red or a Green Nile to trace?”
“Who would know? I thought the Nile was in Egypt somewhere, but he talked of Abyssinia. I can’t say that I had much education in geography.”
“If he’s really going back to Africa,” Jemma said, “then you might want to stay married.”
“Because of the title, you mean?”
“Precisely. Let’s hope he’ll stay around long enough to create an heir, and then he can wander off for a decade or so.”
Isidore got up, walked a few nervous steps before she blurted out her darkest fear. “If he’s capable of making an heir.”
“If he’s not, then you know what you have to do. Your first duty to the title is to produce an heir, and if the duke isn’t capable, then you find a man to do the d
eed. That’s a fact of life.”
“Speaking of that,” Isidore said, “didn’t you move back to England precisely to give Beaumont an heir?”
“Beaumont doesn’t want to engage in heir-making activities until I finish the chess match I started with the Duke of Villiers. But Villiers is still recovering from brain fever and his doctor won’t allow him to play chess. Which is actually a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Beaumont and I are getting to know each other,” Jemma said lightly.
“And yet not intimately?”
Jemma started laughing. “You would put up with the warm blood, the orgies, and the unpowdered hair, if only your husband would take you to bed, Isidore. Isn’t that the truth?”
Isidore felt a pulse of humiliation, but after all, Jemma was her dearest friend. “I’m twenty-three,” she said. “Twenty-three! I’m curious! You should see the way Harriet acts with Lord Strange when they think no one is looking. I came across them kissing in a corridor, and the air fairly scorched around them.”
“Poor Isidore,” Jemma said, meaning it. “Though I feel compelled to tell you that the whole bedroom experience is rather overrated, in my opinion.”
“It would have been easier if Cosway expressed the slightest interest in the occasion. At this rate, I’m going to terrify the man if we ever get to a bedchamber.” She took another nervous turn around the chamber.
“I think you should probably prepare for the worst,” Jemma said. “It seems very likely to me that incapability lies at the heart of this situation. It would explain why he’s a virgin, and also why he’s making such a fuss out of the wedding.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Another wedding delays the inevitable. Perhaps he’s thinking that although he may not have functioned in previous attempts—”
“Sharing a cup of warm blood will make it all better?” Isidore couldn’t help it. She started laughing again, a kind of laughter halfway between joy and despair.
