by Eva Devon
The Dowager Duchess of Hunt, Cordy’s infamous mother-in-law, snapped her fan shut and pursed her beautiful, rouged lips. Lips most women half her age would traipse over hot coals for. “Nonsense! You’ve spent enough time chasing after my son. You’ve made the right decision. You cannot allow him to behave like a total ass and get away with it. It was your idea to take London by storm and I shan’t let you retreat now.”
Cordelia laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The very best thing she’d ever done upon returning to London, and facing humiliating rejection after rejection on the part of her husband. . . For her chase of said husband had turned into a bloody French farce. . . Had been the acquaintance of her mother-in-law. Hyancinth Eversleigh was a gem of the first water and a breath of fresh air in the stagnate ton. She’d even managed to keep the old gorgon of Jack’s grandmama at bay. Something Cordelia was ridiculously thankful for, because given the notes she’d received, the old lady was bound and determined to have her way. It was complimentary in some ways, but she wasn’t going to stay Jack’s duchess if the dratted man didn’t want her. She had far too much self respect.
“Hyacinth,” Cordelia said in all seriousness, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
A slow grin pulled at the older woman’s lips. “You, dear girl? Why you would have simply chosen another plan of attack. I do not believe there is a single way in which you wouldn’t be the victor. I still think my son will fall to you and it would be the best thing for him.”
Cordelia sighed. There was no point arguing. After last night’s debacle at the club, she’d put any hope of Jack out of her thoughts. She’d acted the fool long enough. Eying the packed ballroom, she drew herself up. Desert tribes, marauding across the plain hadn’t swayed her, so why in the devil would a bunch of lords and ladies in starch cravats and winched waists? The English were unlike any other people in the world. It was the only explanation for it.
Speaking of winched waists hers seemed to be protesting her corset in sharper degrees these last few days. Waving her fan in front of her face, she forced herself to ask with cheer, “Well then, who shall you introduce me to first?”
Hyacinth waggled her brows. “Well, I do believe the Duke of Aston is to be here tonight and he is a delicious fellow. Plump purses for your digs, my dear.”
Just as they were about to begin making the rounds of the packed room, Lady Gemma scampered into sight, her full ivory skirts, teasing her ankles.
“Mama,” Lady Gemma scrambled to a halt her face glowing. “I’ve just been to the terrace—”
“With Lord Markham?” The duchess clasped her fan with delight. Not the usual response of a mama to a daughter who’d just been out to the terrace, and presumably not alone.
Gemma made a face. “Lord no.” She glanced askance at Cordelia, her cheeks blushing. “A gentleman unknown to you, mama.”
From the guilty look upon Gemma’s face when looking at her, Cordy had the distinct feeling that somehow she was involved in the terrace business. . . But she wasn’t so. . .
Cordy snapped her gaze back to the ballroom. James, towering above most of the men of the ton, his black hair gleaming under the candlelight, was making his way hastily towards the exit, a perplexed look of stunned mystification upon his face. A look quite uncommon to her skeptical, capable, and irascible brother.
“Gemma,” Cordelia began. James would not be a wise choice. Not even for a dalliance. He was completely absorbed by pots. Two thousand year old pots, she granted, but pots none the less and if he was kissing Gemma, she had little doubt that he’d been cornered. And cornering James was a very, very inadvisable proposition. “I must warn you—”
Gemma sniffed, tossing a longish curl behind her ear. “Really, Cordelia, variety is the spice of life, is it not mama?”
The dowager duchess smiled graciously, as if they were talking about the next shoot in Norfolk. “Indeed it is my darling, but I do not think Cordelia shares our desire to taste all the lips we may.”
Cordy swayed slightly. She’d had one pair of lips and that was quite enough, thank you very much. Look at the trouble such an endeavor had caused in her perfectly ordered life. “Taste? All the lips—”
Hyacinth snapped open her fan and waved it luxuriously before her face. “My dear, men would have us be flowers, immobile, whilst the bee moves from bloom to bloom. I’m sure you’ve already seen the folly of that. Even if it was with my dear son.”
“Most unfair,” Gemma contributed. “How shall we know which bee we prefer if we do not pluck up our roots and experiment?”
“Experimentation is essential,” Hyacinth exclaimed like an impassioned curator, “in life if we are to learn or grow.”
Cordy drew in a quick breath. Life with the Eversleighs was enough to send her head pounding. “From a logical point of view, I must agree. When excavating, we must experiment with new methods and—”
“Oh good!” Gemma gushed. “I should hate to think you disapprove of me. . .” Before she could continue, Gemma’s eyes flared before she swore sotto voce, “Hells bells.”
“Gemma,” her mother intoned, “whilst I too use invectives, there is a time and—”
Lady Gemma leaned forward and hissed, most unbecomingly “Lady Swinborne is upon us. . . in full sail.”
“Bloody tart,” Hyacinth huffed, glancing about, no doubt looking for said bloody tart.
Cordy found the insult most amusing given that many might describe Her Grace in such a fashion. But in any case, she turned her gaze to see what dragon might be heading their way. She fully expected a crone, warts upon her nose, and a stare which would wither them to stone.
For an inexplicable reason, she tensed. She didn’t know why but if she’d been a cat, her back would be arched and her tail would be in full puff.
The woman didn’t have the look of a shrew. Quite the opposite. A diminutive Kewpie doll came to mind. Cordy leaned towards her mother-in-law and whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Who is that?”
But before anyone could reply, the woman was before them, her violet eyes flashing with vicious amusement.
“Dowager Duchess,” the kewpie doll oozed.
Truly. Oozing. She did indeed ooze. Sensuality, point of fact. Cordelia perked up, her curiosity over-reigning her instant dislike. Why would such a woman head into territory that was clearly unwelcoming?
“Lady Swinborne, have you been taking the waters?” Hyacinth tilted her head to the side, a speculative gesture which let her gaze linger on the other woman’s rouged cheeks. “You look rather boiled.”
Lady Swinborne drew up for a moment, her perfect little nose pinching as she inhaled sharply, but then a rich, seductive laugh tumbled out of her mouth. Her blond curls, laced with emeralds and peacock feathers bounced. . . As did her considerable bosom, improved by a tight bodice of iridescent sapphire silk. “How droll, you are Duchess,” she sighed. “I do believe I am overheated by the excitement.”
If one could hate a woman for her looks alone, Cordelia would have done so. But she was above such things surely. It mattered not that she suddenly felt like a sunburnt bit of bacon next to a puffed up prancing bird.
“Ladies such as yourself are always in heat, so it would seem,” Hyacinth returned with a smile.
Cordy swung her gaze from one woman to the next then looked at Gemma. Were blades about to be drawn? Would blood spill upon the polished parquet floor? Given that she’d not brought her parasol for battle, she stepped forward, jabbing her hand out to shake the odious woman’s. “How do you do. We’ve not been introduced.”
Lady Swinburne gazed at her hand as if it were something dead the dog had rolled in and then brought in the house.
“Lady Swinburne,” Hyacinth said tightly, “Lady Cordelia Eversleigh.”
Lady Swinburne gave a low laugh. “Not for long, I hear.”
“No, not for long,” Cordy stated, refusing to be pulled into the mire. “The little time I’ve had has been positively trying.”
Aha. Now, she knew why she’d instinctively disliked the woman. She was one of the many who had cavorted with her husband. “Did you? Well, you must have ruined him then for all other women.”
The three other ladies stared at her as if she had just produced a plucked chicken for their gratification.
“The Duke of Hunt?” Lady Swinburne gasped. “Ruined by me?”
Cordelia studied the other lady for a moment then decided to launch into her new tactic. Surely, compliments would divert her form her present vitriol. “Clearly a woman of your beauty and talent would be capable of such a thing, no?”
Lady Swinburne’s forehead puckered, clearly looking for the trap.
But there wasn’t one. Jack had been ruined for any woman that might love him. And so she said with utter honesty, “I don’t think he shall ever be capable of giving his heart to a woman. Do you?”
Lady Swinburne frowned. “Come to think of it, he never game me his heart.”
Lady Gemma and Hyacinth gaped.
Somehow, Lady Swinburne and Cordy had done the undone thing. They were openly discussing Lady’s S’s love affair with Jack.
“Well, you must know, he’s never actually been my husband. Otherwise how could I ask for an annulment. You are much more to his preference, I think.”
“Clearly not or. . .” Lady S bit her lower lip.
“He wouldn’t have thrown you over,” drawled Gemma.
“Now, Gemma that is not fair,” Cordy protested, suddenly wishing to learn more about Jack, even if it was from a former mistress. “Jack is a most curious man. Perhaps we should discuss his propensities with his other women. If we did such a thing, we might discover who it was that did indeed ruin him for all others.”
“Cordelia,” Gemma ventured, “I think—”
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Lady Swinburne burst out. “I never knew what to make of it. I did all the things he liked. My friend, Lady Eden did the same thing. And he. . . Well. . .”
“He acted an ass, did he not?” Cordy asked, wondering what the deuce was driving her. But she had the utter clarity of knowing whatever it was, was the right thing. For some reason, she felt, if she could just make sense of Jack’s past, she’d be able to dismiss him from her thoughts. And never let her heart hurt over him again. Yes. The more evidence she could gather, the more she’d understand him. And the more she understood him, the less she would be curious.
“He did,” Lady Swinburne confessed. Yes.”
“Would you be so kind as to introduce me to Lady Eden?” Cordy inquired. “Is she here?”
“Cordy,” Gemma said through clamped teeth. “What are you doing?
Hyacinth arched a brow. “She’s being deuced clever. That’s what’s she doing.” She waved her fan in the direction of the ball. “Go. Meet them all, if you have the courage. I cannot wait to see the outcome.”
Lady Swinburne blinked. “I—I don’t know—”
“Come. We are of the same genus and gender, Lady Swinburne.” Cordy crooked her elbow, tempting the other woman to take her arm. “We must stick together.”
Chapter 28
Jack never would have thought death might be preferable to his present position, but he was beginning to come around to the supposition. After all, it had been his intention to stride into the ball and dance with every single one of the women he’d shared a bed, barn, or carpet to show his wife what an utter ass he was and what a lucky escape she had made.
It seemed, however, that intentions where it came to his wife were completely impossible to maintain. Intentions as it turned out, would have to be tossed out the proverbial window because every woman that he had thought to ask to dance was sitting around his wife. And she was ruling court.
“Doth mine eyes deceive me?” chortled Charles.
“It depends,” Jack gritted. “Do you see my wife?”
Charles clapped him on the back. “Look at her. Just. . . Just look.”
Jack couldn’t decide if he should grin or scowl. “I am looking.”
“Are you certain you don’t wish her? Her dauntless spirit is a wonder of our age. I could marry her. She likes the look of you. Therefore she likes the look of me,” Charles said, a devil’s gleam in his eye. “We’d rub along quite well together, I think.”
The very idea of anyone rubbing along with his wife sent a red streak through Jack’s vision. “Do you wish to keep your tongue?”
“The ladies would be dismayed if it were removed.”
“Then keep it behind your teeth.” With that, Jack did the only thing a man in his position could do aside from running for the hills or the bottle. He strode forward, wading through his former paramours and held out his hand to his wife. “Do me the honor of this dance.”
She gazed up at him, her blue eyes alight with mischief and something else. Something far more powerful than a moment’s laughter at his expense. “I will.”
He nodded, stunned but pleased that this would be simple. Once he had extracted her—
“If you answer but one question.”
His hand tensed, still hanging mid air. His silence was punctured by the strains of a Vienna waltz drifting in on its sugary notes.
“Surely, you are not afraid of a simple question?” she asked, batting her lashes.
“Ask whatever it is you wish,” he replied, hand still outstretched, sensing he’d somehow slipped into a trap. “And I will answer. . . if I choose.”
The ladies tittered with laughter as if they had known his reply.
It was damn tempting to shift on his feet like school boy brought before the headmaster but he’d be damned before he let the women know he was feeling like a man standing opposite a firing squad.
“Why is it that you have only engaged with married women?” she asked softly.
Suddenly, under the intensity of her gaze and the soft, sympathy of her voice which seemed to know him all too well, he couldn’t breathe.
He was surrounded by skirts. Wide, colorful skirts of married women and several sets of probing stares. But the only one that mattered was his wife’s. “I hardly think that appropriate for our present company.”
“What other company would it be appropriate for?” she queried lightly, but there was the slightest edge to her tone.
“Perhaps,” he said, sincerity deepening his voice, “just you and I.”
“No.” She shook her head with mock woe. “No. You’ve made it clear I am just as they, bored with me as you are.”
Bored. He’d said that. He’d been an idiot and he felt paralyzed unable to make any sort of decision which would rescue him from this moment. There was only one thing to do. Something he seemed only willing to do when she bid him. Speak the truth.
Jack drew in a long breath. “It is my fate,” he said simply.
Cordelia’s eyes softened for the briefest moment but then she shook her head, her blond curls teasing her cheek. “According to your past words, you find ladies boring, scheming, disloyal. If you find us so, why do you engage with us at all?”
Jack stared at his wife. Surely she recalled. She’d said he was shallow and pleasure seeking. “Because I prefer pleasure to obligation.”
“That is the reason then that you cast us all off?” she checked, her chin lowering. “Because of pleasure not obligation?”
He gave a tight nod. It was true. Pleasure was the only thing he was good for. Dancing. Carousing. Drinking.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “I think what you do is very much out of obligation.”
Her words hit hard. And brought to mind why he had walked away from her into the night weeks ago. She was determined to make him into something he was not. A good man. “Cordelia. Stop.”
She waved a hand around her, gesturing to the women about her. “Stop what? We are merely bandying theories.”
Jack leaned forward took her gl
oved hand in his and hoisted her to her feet. “Come with me.”
She tugged against his hand. “I would rather—”
He tugged right back. He had to get her into his arms. Away from these women who had no doubt only confirmed that he had never shared any part of his person but his body with them. “And I’d rather you danced with me.”
She laughed humorlessly. “I’m not at all surprised you wish to avoid this conversation, but you’ve rescinded the right to make requests of me”
An impulsive urge spiked through him and he arched a brow. “You’re still my wife.”
“Am I?” she whispered.
Leaning toward her, he suddenly wished he could sweep her from the room and show her just how much she was still his wife. “Until the courts deem otherwise.”
She squared her shoulders, undaunted by the heat of his tone. “Then ask nicely.”
He snorted. But then again. If that’s all she wished, then he would be more than happy to appease her and get her into his arms as quickly as he could. Bowing low over her gloved hand, he said, “Your Grace, will you do me the honor of accompanying me on the floor?”
She sank into deep curtsy, matching his bow. “I would be delighted.”
The rest of the world seemed to fade away as he led her back out to the ballroom. With a degree of possessiveness he hadn’t intended, he placed a hand on her waist and took her free hand in his.
All eyes turned towards them and a wave of gossips, whispered amidst the strains of the orchestra, seemed to surround them. Much to his irritation, but not surprise, their bodies moved in perfect alignment as he begun to guide them about the floor. It was as if they had danced a thousand dances together. Perfect dances in which each partner knew the other’s every strength and weakness. Every curve and line.
It was torturous heaven.
The layers of silk and corset between his hand and her body were a damned nuisance. The soft scent of clean soap and a hint of lavender surrounded him and he was falling fast. Falling fast into his deep desire for his own wife. It was all he could do not to whisk her into a dark hall and ravish her. He’d certainly spent enough nights alone in his bed recently, dreaming of such a thing. Something which had not occurred to him since he’d been little more than a boy.
