by Eloisa James
In fact, it was almost enticing.
Chapter 7
From the Duchess of Beaumont to the Duke of Villiers:
Though we haven’t met in years, I should like to invite you to my ball tomorrow. My footman will await your response.
From the Duke of Villiers to the Duchess of Beaumont:
You should speak to your husband more frequently. We don’t consort. No, thanks.
From the Duchess of Beaumont to the Duke of Villiers:
Would you agree that pawn-grabbing, like sin, cannot be diminished by apologies?
To the Duchess of Beaumont:
Are you offering to grab my pawn? I am charmed. No, thank you.
To the Duke of Villiers:
Perhaps I am guilty of a badly timed opening? Capturing a pawn en passant is of course a delicious possibility, but I prefer to create a nest of mating possibilities.
To the Duchess of Beaumont:
An aggressive opening play. Does your king know of this invitation?
To the Duke of Villiers:
I was lucky enough to beat Philidor with an aggressive opening and I am fond of them for that reason. One of my weaknesses, perhaps, is that I underplay the king.
No salutation.
Are you talking about François Philidor?
No salutation.
Of course.
No salutation.
You beat François Philidor in a game of chess?
No salutation.
Many times.
No salutation.
I’ll be there.
Chapter 8
The last person Jemma expected to welcome into her bedchamber that night was her husband. Though of course she would have to invite him in at some point if they were to embark on their heir-making activities.
“May I come in?” Beaumont said, looking furious, as always.
Jemma opened the door without saying a word. At least he didn’t appear to be attired for bedroom matters. She was not prepared for that sort of intimacy with him. Not yet.
He strode over to the center of the room and stood there as if he were planning to make a speech in parliament. “Obviously, we have matters to discuss.”
“I actually wanted to ask you about your health,” Jemma said, rather surprised to hear herself say the words.
Beaumont shrugged. “My doctor feels that I fainted as a result of overwork and general stupidity, rather than a signal problem with my heart. But I may have less time left than I would prefer, given my father’s early demise.”
That casual statement gave Jemma a slightly sick feeling; for all they lived apart, they were man and wife, after all. She nodded, and made her way over to a chair by the fire.
“That is one of the reasons why I must ask you to curb any injudicious activities,” he said, obviously choosing his words with care. “We are at the beginning of a revolution in the House, to be led by young Pitt, and I would not want my private life to become a distraction.”
He seemed to be waiting for a response, so she said, “Experience has taught me that your idea of discussion is entirely one-sided, so you may continue as you wish, Beaumont.”
He scowled but started to talk about propriety and parliament and other boring topics. Jemma began thinking about the chess game she had in progress. Her queen pawn was bottled up—
“Jemma!”
She raised her eyes. “Yes, Elijah?” It gave her an odd frisson to use his given name, knowing that he hated the intimacy of it. In truth, her husband was quite good-looking. It was a shame that he was impossible to live with.
“Jemma!”
She stood up again. “Let me itemize your demands. You want me to behave with utmost propriety in every situation. You would prefer that my brother not live in the house due to the presence of his illegitimate child. In fact, you may just have ordered me to send him away although I am hoping I misunderstood you. I should also dismiss my secretary. You would prefer I entertain no lovers, take in no brothers, and chatter with no friends. Have I understood you?”
“Some version of that would be very helpful to me. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely not.” She walked over to her chess table and stared down at the game as if she were contemplating a move, though to tell the truth, her heart was beating quickly with rage.
He made a sharp movement behind her but said nothing.
She turned back to him, leaning against the table. “My brother has come to pay me a visit in a house that is mine as well as yours. Obviously, you have grown mightily in your own estimation during the years I lived in Paris. You did not used to be so unilaternal nor so tedious.”
“I request”—he spat out the word—“the very minimal that any man might expect of his wife. I ask only that you not have yourself carried naked into the dining room, nor—”
She laughed. “Did that story reach London?”
“Did you think it would not?”
“I didn’t do it, you know.”
“Unfortunately, the truth matters little since the story arrived here with your name firmly attached to it, and all sorts of details regarding the size of the platter and the number of footmen required to hoist you into the air.” His eyes raked her figure, up and down. “I would have guessed that four footmen could have managed the business, but I’m told it was eight.”
She smiled at him. “My breasts and hips have grown since my salad days when you and I shared a bed. To be safe, I would have commandeered eight. But as a matter of fact, Catherine Worlée was brought in on a silver dish, and it wasn’t even at a party of mine. I’m sure you would have enjoyed her company; she was something of a professional comrade to men of your ilk.”
His eyes narrowed to daggers. “What a shame I never met her. Although I can imagine it would be confusing to be unable to tell my wife apart from a courtesan such as Mademoiselle Worlée.”
“I doubt it would be confusing to you at all,” she said. “After all, you are accustomed to paying women for the privilege of sharing their bed, are you not? Whereas I”—her heart was beating so quickly she could hardly hear—“engage in the sport for pleasure.”
He turned away. “This quarrelling will get us nowhere. All I am asking, Jemma, is that you not scandalize all of London. I have work in Parliament. I know you find it uninteresting, but it is important work.”
“There was a time I found it interesting. But that was before I realized that your mistress found it so fascinating that she visited you in your office to discuss it.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “For God’s sake, Jemma, will you forget that? I’m sorry that you opened the door. I still can’t believe that the clerks let you into my office without warning.”
“Never underestimate the charm of a young bride wishing to surprise her spouse.”
“We have discussed this before,” he said through clenched teeth. “One of the few pleasures of our marriage in the past years has been that we rarely quarreled during my visits to Paris.”
“During those visits, you never questioned my decisions, nor acted ashamed of my entertainments.”
“You were in Paris. Now you are here, in my house—”
“My house as well. I am home, and you will simply have to accustom yourself to that notion. I am home, with my disreputable friends, and my illegitimate nephew, and my entertainments. I am not a good political wife and I never will be. I will do my best, however, to tailor my flights of fancy to your hidebound notions. Luckily for you, I have no lover at the moment, nor do I intend to take one.”
This would obviously be a good time to discuss the question of marital visits, but she was too angry. A mad, irresistible impulse was beating in her heart, a wish to make him sorry for describing her in such tawdry terms, for implying she was incapable of understanding politics.
There was a moment of stiff silence. Jemma sat down at her chess table, refusing to look at him again.
He walked over and looked down at the game. “You are playing, I see?”
/>
“I have yet to find a partner in this country. Unless you would consider a return to the board?”
“My games of strategy take place on a larger stage.”
She raised her head and met his eyes. They were black, marked by eyebrows that winged up at the edges. He had the straight nose and strong chin of his forefathers. “I suppose that is designed to make me feel petty. I would remind you that women are allowed no role in those larger games of strategy. Perhaps I play chess because I am not allowed to play in a larger sphere.”
“How dull your life must be, to cherish one move all day,” he said slowly, staring at the board. “Very pretty. A deceptively placid position. Black has some powder left, but White is nicely set up.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your skill has indeed grown, Jemma. I take it your silence is an assent.”
“You have never been interested in my skill,” she said, without pity. “I see no reason to boast to you…I shall save my flights of self-congratulation.”
“With whom do you play? Have you a maid who knows the game?”
“In Paris, I had partners.”
“We have all heard of those partners,” he said, and his voice was very even. “The practice of a gentleman and lady playing chess in the privacy of a bedchamber only reached these shores in the last year.”
“How unfortunate,” she said. “I was hoping to have the pleasure of setting all the dowagers’ hair on end by starting the fashion myself. Since I have no partner in England, I play both sides of the game.”
“So you make two moves a day?”
“When I play the other part, I am not myself.”
“I would take it you are White, menacing Black’s bishop.”
“Unfortunately,” she said, “I am Black.”
He laughed.
“You are White.”
The laughter died.
“I had no idea that I was playing,” he said. “Let alone that I would win.”
“Life is full of pleasurable surprises.”
“Did I take my rook to Bishop Two?”
“Precisely.”
“Why are you letting me win?”
“I didn’t; you are winning fair and square. It was a beautiful set on your part: only five moves.”
“You must be very fair to play like this.”
“The hard part is not being fair, but playing as if I am you.”
“Because?” He looked at her, eyebrow raised.
“You are an excellent chess player. Better when I play you than you used to be on your own.”
He gave a bark of laughter.
“Given that proviso, I rarely win against you.”
“Oh, have we played often?”
She nodded. “Whenever I am without another partner, I turn to you.”
He picked up the rook. “I am, then, a way station between partners?”
“You seem to be confusing bed partners with chess partners,” she said. “Men who can play chess are so infrequently worth the time in bed. It takes a different kind of imagination.”
“Describe my play—at chess?”
“You have foresight, detail and courage. Your fault is that you are not daring enough, but you excel in outwitting, cornering and demolishing your opponent.”
He was silent a moment but she saw a smile in his eyes. “I think my opponents in Lords would agree with you. Your play?”
“I am more brilliant, and more erratic. In our last four games, played by myself, of course, you have won three. I tend to take far too much delight in risk.”
“How interesting that by pretending to be me you curb your own impetuosity.”
“I don’t consider myself impetuous,” Jemma said. “I assure you that when I win, my moves are beautiful. I frequently win, except when I play you. Monsieur Philidor was the only person who beat me on a regular basis, but I also beat him, many times.”
She felt his eyes on her, but refused to look up again. When he spoke again, his voice was rather stifled. “I realize that you didn’t have to return to London, and that you left a great deal behind you in Paris, Jemma.”
“True.”
“I am grateful.” The words seemed reluctant.
“It is no more than my duty.”
“I confess that I am reluctant to see the estate go to my nephew.”
“Is he still as foolish as ever?”
“He wears a great quantity of false hair,” Elijah said. “False teeth, and—so he tells me—pads his stockings to give himself a proper leg. So false legs as well.”
“I am not yet ready to engage in the intimacies that will lead to an heir,” Jemma said, still not looking at him. “I am accustomed to pleasure for its own sake. Nor am I happy about the inevitable unpleasantness involved in carrying a child. Perhaps after the season. We can retire to the country.” And won’t that be fun, she thought.
He bowed. “I am at your convenience.”
Chapter 9
April 11
Nine o’clock
Beaumont House
There hadn’t been such excitement over a ball since Princess Charlotte attended her first public fête at Windsor Castle. Though many were certain that the Duchess of Beaumont would lose her reputation within weeks of arriving in London—after all, they’d all heard stories of the many lovers she deserted in Paris—she had not yet been rejected from society, and thus everyone with an invitation was free to attend.
“We have to take advantage of it,” Miss Charlotte Tatlock said to her sister May. “Lord knows, the duchess may be persona non grata by next week.”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak in riddles,” May replied. She was looking out the carriage window, trying to see whose coach was following theirs.
“That’s not a riddle; it’s Latin.”
“I see no difference. And besides, I know why you wish to attend the ball, Charlotte.”
“For the pleasure of it?”
“Because you’re hoping that her uncle will have come to town to see his niece. Lord Barnabe Reeve.”
“I had forgotten about him,” Charlotte said, less than truthfully. “Didn’t he retire to the country? Of course he won’t be there. You know as well as I do that he’s not right in the head.”
“Like all the Reeve family,” May said. “Did you hear that the duchess is bringing the daughter of the Mad Marquess into society? I expect there are bets in White’s about her eccentricities, to put it kindly. Naturally the Mad Marquess and the Reeves share some part of their family tree. It only makes sense.”
May had the most annoying titter in the entire world. “I want to see the duchess’s arrangements,” Charlotte said. “I heard that she intends to serve a table of fruit embedded in Parma violets. I’ve seen fruit embedded in moss; haven’t we all? But violets? That must cost three hundred pounds.”
“I am more curious to see her clothing,” May said. “That is, if she wears any. She may repeat herself and be delivered on a platter.”
“I discount that tale entirely. It would be most uncomfortable, as one would be in constant danger of falling to the ground.”
May looked unconvinced, but just then the carriage drew up in front of Beaumont House. “Well, you can’t tell me that you have forgotten the Duchess of Claverstill’s ball. Not after making an exhibit of yourself dancing all night with Barnabe Reeve.”
Charlotte had a low opinion of her sister’s intelligence, and this question did not improve it. How could she—Charlotte—have forgotten that ball? ’Twas the one at which she fell in love with Barnabe Reeve. Though he’d never asked for her hand, and left London shortly thereafter, she hadn’t forgotten.
There was a cacophony of noise around them as carriages unloaded and footmen shouted. May was dressed most becomingly in blue, with moderate hoops. Charlotte, who prided herself on being elegant, was resplendent in sprigged silk. Unfortunately, the best they could hope for in terms of compliments were words like becoming and resplendent. It was a far cry from the ball when Charlotte danced all ni
ght with Lord Barnabe Reeve, dance after dance, certain she would be married within months.
“Let’s enter, shall we?” she said, adjusting her drape of Anglican lace around her elbows. “We have a duchess to see!”
But in fact the first person they saw was not the duchess, but the duke.
“He’s glowering,” May whispered, as they approached the receiving line. “I cannot think why Her Grace returned from Paris. They cannot be happy together.”
“Perhaps she was tired of France. I’ve heard that it can be miserably hot in the summer.”
“There must be something more to it,” May murmured, with the kind of intensity that suggested she would spend the entire night talking of nothing else.
“Good evening,” the duke said, bowing before them.
They curtsied.
“The duchess has made her way into the ballroom,” the duke said, looking glacially disapproving. “I know she will be most happy to see you, Miss Tatlock, Miss Charlotte.”
“Goodness,” May whispered as they hurried past him. “He couldn’t be more forbidding, could he? Is that Villiers on the other side of the room? It can’t be. He never speaks to Beaumont.”
“He might know the duchess…How interesting that would be!”
“What?”
Sometimes May was quite dense. “If Villiers made a set at Beaumont’s wife,” Charlotte said patiently. “Villiers hasn’t a mistress at the moment, has he?”
“Who would know? The only thing that man really cares about is chess.”
“I know, but he seems to cut a wide swathe through the female half of the ton in between matches.”
“He’s so rude!” May said. “I simply can’t abide him.” She plumped up her hair. “Perhaps I shall grant Muddle two dances tonight. Here he comes.”
Charlotte groaned inwardly. Her older sister finally had a beau, Horace Muddle. I’m happy for her, she thought. I’m happy for her.
Why not be happy? They are both muddled and muddling; they will live together in happy muddlestown. And I shall live—
