by Eloisa James
Her husband moved his chess pieces as if there were no other move than the one he had just thought of; Villiers was far more deliberative. Beaumont calculated in a heartbeat; Villiers brooded. As a player, he was very similar to her. He clearly spent a good deal of the day thinking of dazzling possibilities. He was a swashbuckling player, and she was something of the same. Elijah was some other kind of player: taut, deliberate, incredibly fast.
Brigitte brought in the Duke of Villiers’s card. “But I must tell you, my lady, that Joseph accompanies his master. He just told me that he asked, but he thinks no one in the household knows of the affair with Lady Caroline, even the duke’s valet. His Grace, the Duke of Villiers, plays it very quiet to the chest, he says.”
“Close to the chest,” Jemma said absentmindedly. It made sense from what she knew of Villiers. He would never amiably discuss his affaires with a valet. “The écharpe cloak is yours, Brigitte. I do hope that your acquaintance with Joseph has not been too tedious.”
Brigitte dimpled. “He has still to take me to these gardens. I am finding that red hair is perhaps not such a grave defect.”
Villiers appeared wearing an extraordinary cloak embroidered in peacock feathers. Jemma eyed it and said nothing. He was flaunting something…what? His costume seemed almost a slap in the face to those who felt men should dress more soberly than did women.
She took a pawn with her queen; he moved a knight to Queen’s Bishop Three; they both settled back in their chairs.
“How was your morning?” she asked.
“Terrifyingly out of the mundane.”
She looked up. “Oh?”
“I pensioned my mistress.”
Jemma thought about that for a moment and decided that he wouldn’t mind a frank question. “How much does it cost to do such a thing?”
“It’s a matter of balancing economics and affection,” he said. “I am fond of her, and more to the point, she lived in a house of mine for three years.”
“Was she distraught?”
“Not at all. It was all amicable, which told me that I should have done it a year ago.”
“I think it must be tiresome to be a man, when it comes to these matters,” Jemma said. “After all, in the last three years you have had, one must presume, some little interludes with gentlewomen of the ton, and at the same time, your mistress was waiting for you.”
“I’m not so old yet that you need question my prowess.”
She smiled faintly at that. “’Tis the emotions that would tire me.”
“Sometimes it does feel a bit complicated. Sophia is a courtesan to be reckoned with, you see. She games, she kisses, she has many demands.”
Jemma toyed with a chess piece. “And thus you gave her up?”
“Oh no, I gave her up because I plan to marry.” Villiers watched her closely to see whether she would show signs of jealousy.
She surprised him again, smiling at him with true appreciation in her eyes. “Then you did just the right thing.”
He gaped at her. “Yes?”
“I feel that a gentleman should no longer pay for women’s company once he takes a wife,” she said. “I find the practice distasteful at the best of times, but dishonorable once vows are said.”
He swallowed his astonishment. “Rather old-fashioned of you, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Actually, I think it is the future,” she said. “The Hellfire Club, with all their fêtes and nymphs…they’re dying, though they don’t see it yet. France was the same. The Queen herself, Marie Antoinette, is turning to settled domesticity, I promise you.”
“So your husband’s party will bring with them sober behavior and settled mores? Wives who play at dairy maids rather than flamboyant courtesans?”
She laughed. “My husband and his set are as likely to have mistresses as men of other parties. They simply do not flaunt their affections, at least not as much as does Fox.”
“Fox’s Elizabeth is a remarkable creature.”
“I met her in Paris and was most impressed.”
“So I thought I would join the settled ones by marrying your ward,” he said, watching her through his eyelashes.
Her smile was disappointingly genuine. In fact, Villiers was aware of an interior whisper suggesting that his revenge didn’t appear particularly effective. Jemma didn’t seem to give a damn whether he married or no.
“You could not make a better choice. Roberta is remarkably beautiful, as you know, but she is also intelligent and witty. The only possible defect is that she doesn’t play chess.” Jemma made a funny face.
“Ah, but I have you for that,” he said, touching one of her delicate fingers. It had come to him in the middle of the night that what he really wanted from this was not, in truth, the match itself. It was she. He wanted her, that deep intelligence, and the way she sparked into sudden laughter, the pure elegance of the way she moved and spoke.
Not to mention the fact that she was a brilliant chess player, a fact that fired him with a roaring lust, deep in his loins. In fact, the emotion was so ferocious that he didn’t dare look at it too closely.
“I’m enjoying this,” he remarked, watching as she shook down her ruffs. “Which is a terrifying thought.”
“Why? I always enjoy well-played chess, even when I’m losing.”
“The chess, certainly. But also”—he leaned forward—“talking to you.”
Jemma hid a smile. Villiers was most seductive when he was the most straightforward, if only he knew it. She felt unshaken by his practiced raillery about her ruffs and her beauty: but when he grinned at her, and told her frankly about pensioning his mistress—then, she was in danger.
Yet she had no intention of succumbing to Villiers’s wiles. All the more so now that he was almost affianced to Roberta.
She met his eyes and saw disappointment flash.
“You unman me,” he said gravely.
“You think me capable of such disloyalty to a friend?”
“And you think me foolish if you wish me to believe that you have no interest in me due to my possible marriage to your ward.”
She didn’t answer that, and he felt a flash of anger at his own stupidity in declaring himself. Did he really want to marry? Of course, he would have no hesitation dropping the country miss as quickly as he picked her up.
Yet Roberta was exquisite. And capable of a witty rejoinder, which was rare. She was young, likely fertile, and all the rest of it. He needed an heir, for God’s sake. Plus, his mistress was gone now. He needed a bedpartner.
“So you won’t have me?”
Jemma smiled at him, and her beauty was almost like a blow in the face. “You’re getting married.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “The lady may not have me.” He knew that was a falsehood as well as Jemma did.
It was damnably true that it is hard to desire a person who wants you. Roberta made no secret of her desire for him. Her eyes grew slightly dreamy at the very sight of him.
He preferred Jemma’s clear-eyed look.
It was also bitterly true that a person who doesn’t want you is twice as desirable.
Chapter 22
The invitations were delivered by footmen.
“I simply can’t believe you’ve been invited!” May said with a little gasp, looking at the card her sister held. “Do you have some acquaintance with the duchess of which I knew nothing?”
Charlotte shook her head. “The duke asked me to dance at the ball, but I never spoke to Her Grace.”
“The duke?” May’s round face look scandalized. “Why on earth would he invite you?” She peered at the card. “It all looks most respectable, doesn’t it? I would have expected her to announce a Feast of Venus, or some such thing.”
“I doubt they would invite me if they wished for nymphs,” Charlotte said dryly.
“True. But how queer it is to invite you and not me. Don’t you think that’s queer? You don’t think that he’s thinking of setting you up as—as an intimate!” Her v
oice was horrified.
Charlotte allowed herself just one longing thought about the duke’s lovely, tired eyes before she said, “Don’t be a goose, May. Do I look like the sort of woman whom the duke would set up as his courtesan?”
“I should hope not.”
“At least my life would be more interesting than it is now,” Charlotte said, just to provoke her.
But May was not a bad sort, and having got over her first surprise at the invitation, was beginning to count its blessings. “You must have a new gown,” she said firmly. “We’ll send a message to Madame Hayes and tell her that we need that gown you ordered last month by Thursday.”
“She won’t do it.”
“Yes, she will. She will once she hears that you are invited to this particular party,” May cried. She was getting giddy with it now and waved the invitation over her head like a flag. “Perhaps Town and Country will produce sketches of every person invited; they might well. How exciting it all is!”
And Charlotte had to admit that it was exciting.
She kept her own preparations for the event secret from her sister; she sent a footman out to buy every political newspaper and commentary he could find.
The Duchess of Berrow’s response to the invitation was rather less celebratory. With a sigh she changed her gown, had horses put to the carriage and set out for town. A mere hour or two later the butler ushered Jemma into the drawing room where Harriet waited for her.
“Darling,” Jemma said, “you’re just in time. I’ve decided to catalog all the paintings of Judith and Holofernes in the house and I would adore some help.”
Harriet rose to her feet. As always, the force of Jemma’s personality made her feel like a faded cutout, a cartoon from the illustrated papers. “I came to ask about this,” she said, taking out her invitation.
Jemma grinned at her, leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Our plans are in full force!”
“The chess game? Are you winning?” Harriet asked hopefully.
“I have every expectation,” Jemma said. “In fact, though it’s vain of me to say so, I would bet on myself. Despair is circling Villiers on all sides. He’s going to ask for Lady Roberta’s hand in marriage at this very dinner party.”
Harriet’s mouth fell open. “Villiers? Getting married?”
“I can’t think of a better revenge, can you?”
“But—But—are you saying that you don’t like your ward?” Harriet asked, bewildered. “I thought she was a lovely person, whom—”
“Oh, she is,” Jemma interrupted. “In fact, Villiers is extremely lucky to have her. No, it’s marriage itself that is a punishment. He has no understanding of the state, you know. He thinks his life will hardly change: I can see that in his eyes. He’s a babe in the woods.”
“Not everyone’s marriage is unpleasant,” Harriet ventured.
“You think that I should not extend the example of my marriage to all such unions?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, look at your marriage,” Jemma suggested. “It was the best of matches; you both had great love for each other.” She stopped.
“And?” Harriet asked dangerously. It was one thing if she bemoaned the rift between herself and Benjamin, but—
“Were there not great moments of humiliation?” Jemma asked.
Humiliating moments raced through Harriet’s mind in an exhausting stream. “Yes,” she said faintly.
“It’s part of marriage. Inherent to the state of matrimony.”
“So Villiers will be at this dinner party,” Harriet said. “And I—I am to be there too? I can’t.”
“You must,” Jemma said, taking her arm and walking into the entryway. “Now we are going to walk through this entire house and spy out all the paintings of Judith. Fowle, will you follow us and note down the pieces?”
Harriet tried to swallow her frustration. “Jemma,” she hissed, “must your butler follow us? I just told you that I am not going to attend your dinner party.”
“Yes, you are,” Jemma said, smiling down at her. “I need you. And I need Fowle to make an inventory of these paintings.”
“Why must I attend the dinner?”
“Because my brother is near to making a fool of himself. Oh look, there’s a painting of Judith in the corridor. I hadn’t even seen it before. Fowle, did you mark this one down?”
Harriet glanced back and saw the butler making a notation on a piece of foolscap.
“What is your brother doing?” she whispered.
“Making an ass of himself, as I said,” Jemma replied, in a perfectly normal tone of voice. “Mooning over Roberta, if the truth be known. In fact, from the look in his eyes, he’s halfway to thinking he’s passionately in love. And I can’t have that.”
“Because Roberta must marry Villiers.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, if she’s marrying Villiers—”
“No one in their right mind would marry Villiers if Damon entered the lists,” Jemma said impatiently.
“You are his sister,” Harriet pointed out, feeling a bit like laughing for the first time all day. “Don’t you think you might overestimate Damon’s good parts just slightly?”
“Not at all. It’s an impartial judgment. Roberta doesn’t play chess, so Villiers’s talent is of no attraction. In fact, I’m not quite sure what she does find so attractive in him. But I also know that Damon is kissing her in the odd moment here or there, and I certainly don’t want him to muddle Villiers’s proposal, or Roberta’s thinking about it. So you must dance attendance on him, Harriet. I am counting on you.”
“I don’t wish to be in the same room with Villiers.”
“I’ll put you at opposite ends of the table,” Jemma said. “Ah, here’s another. Particularly bloodthirsty, isn’t it? And she put it in the morning room, in the place of honor.”
They both gazed for a moment at the triumphant Judith, holding up a head. The artist appeared to have given special attention to the neck of poor Holofernes. Jemma shuddered a little. “I shall never understand the dowager duchess: never.”
“When did Beaumont’s father die?” Harriet asked.
“I believe he was ten years old. Perhaps nine.”
“So he essentially grew up with his mother.”
“That fact would go far to making me feel sorry for him,” Jemma said. “But of course there’s no such emotion between man and wife.”
She turned away. “There’s another one in the ladies’ retiring room. It gave poor Lady Fibble quite a shock during our ball, or so she told me. Apparently she thought that it resembled Beaumont. I devoutly hope that is not the case. Or if it is, I assume that the portrait is of the late duke.”
It was Harriet’s turn to shudder.
Chapter 23
April 17
Day six of the Villiers/Beaumont chess matches
Charlotte could tell before she put her slipper from the carriage that Beaumont House was surrounded by throngs of people waiting to see who would enter. She took a deep breath. She was not used to traveling among the very highest circles of the ton. She and May were girls grown long in the tooth, hanging on the fringes with their inadequate dowries and lack of powerful friends. They were well bred, so were invited everywhere. But they didn’t stand out. They never took.
Except, Charlotte reminded herself again, that May had now been taken by Mr. Muddle, and next year Charlotte would be doing the season on her own. It was all so dismaying that one couldn’t think about it too clearly. It was like thinking about turned seams and orphaned children.
She gave herself a little shake. She looked her very best. Charlotte knew exactly what that meant: not like a ravishing goddess, but like the profile on a Roman coin. May always said her nose was refined. It was a nice shape, but far too long. “It makes you look intelligent,” Mama had said. “No man wants an insipid miss for a wife.”
It seemed they didn’t want a Roman coin either.
The crowd ar
ound the carriage pushed and juggled as she stepped from the carriage. Most of them were trying to figure out who she was.
“That ain’t Lady Sarah,” she heard someone say. “Lady Sarah doesn’t have—”
Charlotte was sure that Lady Sarah didn’t have a Roman nose. She pulled herself taller. Her gown was of pale pink crêpe and showed off her skin and her dark blue eyes. Her hair was perfectly groomed, and as high as fashion demanded. She was the very best she could be, and that had to be enough.
“I got it—Tatlock,” she heard someone say loudly, just as she began to climb the stairs to the front door. The butler bowed so low that she almost expected him to topple over.
“Miss Charlotte Tatlock,” he said, backing away. The house was surprisingly quiet. “If you please,” the butler said, after her wrap had been removed, “would you prefer to visit a retiring room, or would you like to join the other guests in the drawing room?”
Charlotte was, frankly, too frightened to gaze at herself again. It was best to get it over with. Surely the dinner would be large, and there would be people she knew. She could find a comforting matron and stay in her shadow.
But it was not a large party, and there was no comforting matron to be seen. Instead there was just a small cluster of people standing about holding glasses.
Charlotte almost ran, but the Duke of Beaumont turned, and smiled.
She walked forward.
One moment Roberta was chatting with Mrs. Grope about the feathers she had bought at the bazaar, and the next Villiers had swept her away to the far side of the room.
“Surely one might keep a polite distance from women of her caliber?” he said.
She looked at him.
“I realize it is difficult under the circumstances.” And then, without pause: “I’ve never asked anyone to marry me.”
Unless Roberta was mistaken, the Duke of Villiers was about to ask her to marry him. Was doing it at this very moment, as a matter of fact. She had an unnerving sense of watching a play rather than performing in it. “I trust that new experiences are not always unpleasant ones,” she said.
