by Eloisa James
“How…” He paused. “How odd. I had considered paying a visit to the duke.”
She said the obvious. “Lisette is the only other eligible duke’s daughter of whom I’m aware, given that my sister Elizabeth is only fourteen. Ducal progeny is quite rare, and when one is shopping for a wife, one ought to inspect all the available merchandise.”
“Are you encouraging me to pay a visit to the Gilner estate?” he asked curiously.
She looked up at him. He wasn’t beautiful. He was the opposite of Gideon, the man whom she loved with all her heart. Gideon had golden ringlets that curled at his neck like angel kisses. In fact, Gideon wasn’t like any other man she knew, more like a true angel, with his ethical heart and his serious blue eyes.
This duke…this one was no angel. Villiers was all human, in his flaws, in the deep lines by the side of his mouth, the crinkles at his eyes that didn’t look as if they came from smiling. He talked without shame of his illegitimate children. He was a man. No angel, a man.
And not even a very good man.
“I am fond of Lisette. Perhaps she would be a better duchess than I.” She couldn’t make herself care very much what Villiers decided. Though Anne’s prickly comments were in the back of her mind, poking her, reminding her that she ought to make an effort to marry. Why not marry this duke?
“I would be a very comfortable type of husband,” he said, clearly trying to be persuasive, though he sounded merely repetitive. It was a typically foolish male comment, because no one could look twice at the Duke of Villiers and imagine that living with him would be comfortable.
“I begin to think that you protest too much,” she said, smiling. “I suspect you’re a tyrant in private life.”
“Never having had anyone to tyrannize, I can hardly defend myself. Did you know that your eyes are the exact color of wet violets? You must trail a string of broken hearts, given your provocative declaration as regards marriage.”
Eleanor discovered that she had accidentally crushed the few blossoms she had carried away with her, and dropped them. “Not provocative as much as overly proud. And I have never found that men experienced a great deal of sorrow at the idea of not marrying me.” She had been stupid to think that modest clothing would attract the right man, an honorable man. Perhaps just the right man had been in London, but had rejected her, based on her starchy reputation.
She could flaunt her bosom and chase men up and down shady alleys. Or she could just marry the duke in front of her, since he was there. At hand. Women had married for worse reasons.
“Are yours nice children?” she asked.
He blinked. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Didn’t you say that three of them are now in your nursery?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you have visited them? I would imagine that moving from brothel to ducal town house would be rather shocking.”
“Did your father pay visits to the nursery?”
“Yes, he did. Though more often we were summoned to the drawing room.”
“I haven’t got around to summoning them yet,” Villiers said, an uneasy look in his eye. “My housekeeper found some nannies and I assume everyone is comfortable.”
Eleanor didn’t like the sound of that. She thought it unlikely that the duke’s household had simply absorbed the presence of three bastard children without significant upheaval. Servants tended to be far more conservative than their masters. The ton would surely look askance at the presence of such children under the duke’s roof once they learned of it, which meant that his servants were probably mutinying belowstairs. Not that it was her business. Still…
“I have meant to visit Lisette these past two years,” she said, surprising herself.
He bowed. “Perhaps I might meet you in Sevenoaks.”
Eleanor put her fingers on his outstretched arm. “I shall have to ask my mother, Your Grace. She may not be free to accompany me to Kent.”
He smiled down at her. He knew as well as she did that her mother would throw all her engagements to the wind in order to further a marriage between the Duke of Villiers and her daughter, but he was polite enough not to point it out. “Of course.”
“She will not be happy to learn of your family,” she observed, in a coda to the unspoken question of her mother’s approval of any prospective betrothal.
“Which makes it all the more surprising to discover that you are so calmly accepting of their existence. It seems you resemble neither your father nor your mother, Lady Eleanor.”
“I am certainly temperamentally different from my parents. And you, do you resemble your parents?”
“They are both dead. I hardly knew my father, and had very little to say to my mother.” There was something in his voice that did not welcome further enquiry on that front.
“Where is your country seat?” she asked.
He looked down at her and said, “You really don’t know anything about me, do you?”
“Why should I?”
“There are so few dukes that I know quite a lot about them without even trying. I believe your brother is great friends with young Duke of Astley, for example.”
“Indeed.” She climbed the stairs.
“I haven’t seen Astley in a few years,” Villiers said. “I suppose you know him well.”
“As you say, he is friends with my brother. He spent a great deal of time with us while we were all growing up,” Eleanor said steadily. “Of course now that he’s married, we see him much less frequently. I believe we shall find my mother in the refreshments tent.”
“You should probably remove this curl,” he said. With a start, she realized that one of the fat curls Rackfort had pinned into her hair was dangling by one pin alone. Villiers’s fingers brushed her cheek; he twisted and the curl lay in his palm.
“It looks like a country slug,” Eleanor said. She pulled off the other one as well.
“As opposed to a city slug?”
“A city slug would be wearing powder,” she said, smiling at him. She tossed the slugs into a nearby hedge.
He almost smiled back. She could see it in his eyes.
“Would you like me to escort you to your mother?”
If the duke arrived at her mother’s side, with Eleanor on his arm, rumors of a betrothal would flare through London. “I believe not,” she said. “I shall consider the matter, Your Grace. Perhaps, if I decide to continue our acquaintance, I shall pay a visit to Kent.”
“You are truly a very interesting woman,” he said slowly.
“I assure you that you are quite mistaken. I am positively tedious in almost every respect.”
“Not so. Do you know how unusual it is for a duke—myself—to speak to an eligible young lady without the woman in question making an overt expression of fierce interest?”
“I do apologize if I insulted you again,” she said. “First I compared you to an incontinent canine, and now I have apparently not marshaled the proper enthusiasm.”
His eyes did smile, even though his mouth didn’t curl. “Does that apology mean you are mustering enthusiasm for my charms?”
“I expect we feel precisely the same way about each other,” she said. “Cautiously interested. It appears that I suit your criteria, and you seem to suit mine, such as they are.”
“A group of people is coming our way,” he said, moving back slightly into the shadow of a pillar. “If you wish to retreat to your mother’s side without being observed with me, you ought to leave.”
She turned to go and his deep voice stopped her. “I set out for Sevenoaks in two or three days, Lady Eleanor. I would be—”
She looked back at him. “Yes?”
“I would be quite sorry not to meet you there.”
She curtsied. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Leopold,” he said.
“What?”
“My name. It’s Leopold.” And with a quick glance at the group wandering toward them, he melted backward between the pillars an
d was gone.
Chapter Three
Lady Eleanor might not have caught the connotations of that pool full of violets, but the Duke of Villiers certainly did. Once this party was over, his friend Elijah planned to lure his wife, Jemma, down into that fragrant bathtub and seduce her.
Villiers found himself smiling into the dark. He didn’t give a damn what Elijah and Jemma got up to. After spending months mooning over Jemma like a sick calf, it was a pleasure to think of her without a surge of desire and jealousy.
Lady Eleanor Lindel, daughter of the Duke of Montague, might well complete his cure. She was certainly Jemma’s opposite. Jemma was tall, slender, and duchess-like. Her every move signaled patrician blood enhanced by beauty, intelligence, and exquisite taste in clothing.
But Eleanor? She wasn’t proud, as he had assumed when he heard of her express desire to marry a duke. Her clothing was abominable. And she clearly didn’t give a damn about her appearance, considering the way she had tossed those curls into the bushes.
If Jemma was slender, Eleanor was curvy, with lush lips that resembled those of a naughty opera dancer. He could have sworn she wasn’t wearing lip color, although her mouth was a deep rose that hardly seemed possible in nature.
People’s faces tended to match their attire: a woman with a severe profile generally adorns herself with equally stern clothing, even though he himself chose to emphasize the rough character of his nose and chin by wearing outrageously luxurious garments. But Eleanor’s mouth didn’t match her prim attire and absurd curls. She was as mismatched as he was, albeit in a different key.
She looked acerbic. Peppery. Delectable. As if she’d get bored with chess, toss the board to the side, and climb into a man’s lap.
Though presumably she’d be unlikely to climb into his lap, since she was pining for another man. In truth, he had given up hope of that sort of adoration. And certainly he had never wanted it from a wife.
He pushed himself away from the wall. He ought to go home and plan his trip to Sevenoaks. He was itching to be on the road, but the Bow Street Runner had sent the name of the orphanage only that morning. After the third disappointment, he’d learned to wait until the presence of twins was confirmed before haring off to check their lineage.
“Villiers!”
He turned to find Louise, Lady Nevill, waving at him. She was standing with his former fiancée, Roberta, now the Countess of Gryffyn. That betrothal had been a profound mistake, but, thank God, one from which he’d escaped. And now that Roberta was happily married, they exchanged civil conversation on occasion.
“Villiers,” Roberta cried, holding out her hand. “I am so happy to see you looking so well. You were still terribly thin last time we met.”
Lady Nevill gave him a lazy smile, accompanied by an appreciative survey from head to foot. “Roberta, darling,” she drawled, “the man certainly isn’t looking thin. Though I wouldn’t call him precisely padded either.” Her gaze lingered for just a second at his crotch.
Louise was wearing what he thought must be the only low-cut toga in existence. Her lush breasts threatened to spill free at any moment. “Roberta and I are amusing ourselves by comparing men to types of food,” she announced.
“Louise says that Albertus Vesey resembles a stick of asparagus,” Roberta said with a gurgle of laughter.
Villiers raised an eyebrow. “Given his girth, I would suggest a melon.”
“Believe me,” Louise said, “you should be thinking about asparagus. That rather exotic white kind.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly. “Pale, slim…overcooked. Limp.”
“Hush, Louise,” Roberta said. “You’ll make Villiers blush. Now what kind of food would the duke be?” They both looked him over.
“Neither of you has sufficient knowledge to assess my vegetable,” he told them.
“Then you describe it for us,” Louise suggested with a twinkle.
Roberta laughed and changed the subject. But it made him think just how long it had been since any woman—at least an available woman—had greeted him with Eleanor’s profound lack of interest. In truth, it had been years since he encountered indifference.
He did not have pretentions when it came to his appearance. His face was ugly, to put it bluntly. But his title was beautiful, and the shine of his gold even more attractive, and the combination had delivered to him woman after woman.
“Your Grace,” Lady Nevill said, tapping him on the arm with her fan. The lazy, sweet tone of her voice put her in the interested category, though in this case it was not for his gold or his title. Louise was married, after all, although her husband was incapacitated. “I have been told that you are looking for a wife.”
“I never cease to be amazed at the triviality of conversation amongst the ton,” Villiers said, by way of reply.
“I’m grateful for the early warning; it gives me time to rehearse my condolences once you find an appropriate lady,” his former fiancée said with a smirk.
“Well, I would admit to being surprised,” Louise put in. “After Roberta threw you over, I thought you would never succumb to the parson’s mousetrap.”
“Villiers is a man,” Roberta said to her friend. “By definition he is in need of someone to look after him.” She turned back to him. “I heard a rumor that you are considering no one below a duke’s daughter. Should I be complimented, since I was apparently eligible last year, even given my lowly birth?”
“I just had a conversation with Lady Eleanor, the Duke of Montague’s daughter,” he admitted, ignoring her question. “And I’m traveling to Kent later this week.”
“Lady Eleanor would be an admirable choice. But Lady Lisette…” Louise’s tone cooled. Apparently, she didn’t care for Gilner’s daughter.
“And I intend to retrieve two of my six children and bring them back to be reared under my own roof.” He knew he shouldn’t enjoy Louise’s dropped jaw quite as much as he did. But there it was: he had learned to enjoy the petty pleasures of astonishing the ton.
“Good for you!” Roberta said, without turning an eyelash. Since she was raising her husband’s illegitimate son, he would expect no less. “It seems you are combining business with…business while in Kent. While I am all in favor of your rearing your own children, Villiers, I’m not quite as sanguine about your method of courting. You are as deliberate as Damon when he surveys mares he thinks to buy. Did you choose me with equally rigorous logic?”
“You were an impulse. And a lovely one.”
She liked that. “I haven’t met Lady Lisette. Of course, I’ve heard—” She broke off.
Louise shook open her fan so it hid her mouth. “One has to imagine that the rumors regarding Lady Lisette’s witlessness are exaggerated. After all, so many people in London fall under that description.”
A finely nuanced statement, Villiers thought. Guaranteed to make the point that the lady’s mental state had been called into question. “Is that why she hasn’t been presented at court?” he asked with some interest. “As far as I know, she’s never been presented, nor yet appeared in London at all.”
“Not everyone wishes to meet the queen,” Roberta said. “And certainly there are many who consider occasions of this nature to be a waste of time.”
From what he was hearing, meeting Lisette would be a waste of his time. He wanted a wife who would wield sufficient social clout to introduce his illegitimate children to society. Choosing a woman who hadn’t bothered even to introduce herself to society could hardly fit the bill, especially if she were deranged.
Roberta’s husband, the Earl of Gryffyn, strolled up and gave Villiers an insouciant grin. “Ah, my favorite dueling partner.”
“Only because you managed to trounce me,” Villiers replied. “And don’t think it will ever happen again.”
Gryffyn laughed and dropped a kiss on his wife’s ear.
“Just think, darling,” Roberta said. “Villiers has six illegitimate children and he’s going to Kent to bring them all home to live with him. Are you quit
e certain about that decision, Villiers? We have only one, and even with two nannies, I have a strong belief that another child would give me hives. This morning Teddy trimmed the stable cat’s whiskers. I would advise stowing your children in a French monastery and picking them up ten years hence.”
“I doubt it was his illicit birth that gave the lad criminal tendencies,” Villiers murmured, cutting his eyes to the earl. “Inheritance takes so many forms.”
“Six?” Gryffyn asked, looking rather more shocked than a man raising his own bastard had a right to be. “And they’re all in Kent? Why Kent?”
“Only two children live in Kent,” Villiers said.
“Are you sure you will be able to persuade their mother to give them up?” Roberta asked. “I’ve been Teddy’s mother for only something over a year, and I would take after you with a dagger if you tried to separate us.”
Louise had apparently recovered from her shock, since she jumped into the conversation. “Mothers are such an intriguing question. Lord Gryffyn, you do realize how much passionate interest we all have in discovering the identity of your son’s mother, don’t you?”
“I fail to see why,” Gryffyn said. “Why don’t you contemplate Villiers instead? Teddy has but one mother, whereas Villiers’s children will afford six times the pleasure.”
“Ah, but there’s a difference,” Louise said. “We all know about Lady Caroline’s unfortunate situation…Villiers, you are raising her child, aren’t you?”
“I find this conversation most objectionable,” he said flatly.
Louise fluttered her fan as if he hadn’t spoken. “Not that all of us believe that Lady Caroline told the truth about the parentage of her child…” She paused. Villiers didn’t deign to answer, so Louise rattled on. “As to the parentage of the duke’s other five children…” She shrugged. “One has to believe that the mothers are not one’s next door neighbors. Yet everyone is quite convinced, Lord Gryffyn, that your child’s mother is well-born. There is nothing more fierce than an English lady with a nose for scandal and a mystery that involves her peers.”
“Teddy shows no interest in the question, and he’s the only person with the right to know.”
