This Duchess of Mine

by Eloisa James

  Jemma thought about that costume while they went through the motions of drinking tea and chatting about the riots. Hadn’t Elijah once said that the marquise looked like a chessboard?

  “How do you find yourself?” Jemma asked, watching the marquise over the edge of her teacup. “The last time I saw you, you were on your way to Lincolnshire…” She allowed her voice to trail off in a tactful invitation.

  The marquise’s eyebrows drew together. “I did locate my husband, or at least where he had been. There was a village where he stayed with this—this putain that he followed to England. I made my footmen inquire.”

  The pained edge to her voice made her humiliation clear. “Apparently he and the woman were together, and then he suddenly left. She stayed a mere day or two longer—”

  “At least they are no longer together!” Jemma exclaimed. “He left her.”

  “Yes.” Louise’s tone lightened. “The villagers were very clear about that. Henri simply left. He must have been desperate to get away from her; there was some talk that he discarded his clothing in the inn where they were staying, though I don’t hold with that notion. Henri is not the sort to travel without proper accoutrements. I expect he went back to France.”

  She picked up a lemon tart. “I found it hard to believe that he ever left France for this woman, even in the throes of the deep love he felt.” She spat the last sentence.

  “Will you follow him across the Channel directly?” Jemma enquired.

  “Absolutely not,” the marquise said. “Can you imagine? He might think that I pursued him to England because of some anxiety about his degenerate activities.” She magnificently ignored the fact that she had followed her husband for just that reason. Instead she gave a careless shrug. “I couldn’t be less concerned about what he does, and he is perfectly aware of that fact. I shall stay here for as long as I please. London is an enchanting place, of course.”

  Jemma translated that statement into a declaration that Louise would stay in London just as long as necessary to assure that her husband dared not question her presence in this country.

  It was time for an insult, one ruthless enough to send Louise directly into a towering fury. Jemma shook open her fan and held it so that it covered the lower part of her face, as if she were preparing to say the unsayable. Fans were so useful to the art of the insult. She pitched her voice low and confidential. “My dear marquise, if you’d ever like some guidance in the matter of husbands, you need not do more than ask.”

  Louise narrowed her eyes. “Advice of what sort, dear duchess?”

  “It’s a mere suggestion,” Jemma said. “But have you considered altering your—” She waved her hand as if she couldn’t even think of the word.

  “My what?”

  “We must be frank between ourselves, must we not?” Jemma said, lowering her fan to chin level to bestow a lavish smile. “I mean, of course, between close friends like ourselves.”

  “Naturellement,” the marquise said, every inch of her rigid body showing just how much she disliked frankness.

  “You wear the most sophisticated costumes in the French court. Your ensemble is only equaled by that of Marie Antoinette herself. Your face is always exquisite, your—”

  “Exactly so.” Coldness sliced through Louise’s words.

  “And yet.” Jemma sighed. “One cannot ignore the fact that you look…oh just slightly…like a chessboard, dearest marquise. What man wants to sleep with a chessboard? You do not dress like a woman who wants to seduce, but like a woman who wants to impress. To be noticed.” Then she added, as a kindly afterthought, “Though you are, of course, a most beautiful woman.”

  Louise appeared to be grinding her teeth.

  “My husband never strays,” Jemma said, closing her fan. “And why is that, Marquise? Why is that?”

  “It certainly isn’t because you yourself have remained chaste,” the marquise said flatly.

  “Alas, that is so true,” Jemma said. “So, so, so true. And yet my dearest Elijah never wandered during all the years I lived in France, never even looked at another woman. I wish for nothing more than for you to have the same happiness.” Her smile was guaranteed to scrape the marquise’s nerves like the squeal of rats in an alley. “Dear friends should always look out for each other’s best interests.”

  “So you believe that Henri took this woman to Lincolnshire because he dislikes my élégance?” One had to admire the marquise’s command over her voice. She conveyed withering scorn with nothing more than a shading of tone.

  It was time to move in for the kill. “My husband,” Jemma said, “never, but never, looks at another woman. And why is that, my dear marquise? It is not only because my clothing is perhaps, shall we say, just slightly more graceful than your dogged wearing of black and white, but also because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve.”

  Little white marks had appeared on either side of Louise’s nose. “This English term…I do not know it. Where is my heart?”

  “Out for everyone to see. You never flirt. You stay to the side of a ballroom and gaze at Henri with your heart in your eyes. You—”

  “So now my heart is in my eyes?”

  “Of course, most people do feel sympathy, though there are always the unkind who mock. You might try to seem a bit indifferent, my dear. A passion so flamboyant is bound to garner pity.”

  “Ah,” the marquise said. “Pity.”

  “Elijah never looks at another woman,” Jemma repeated, a bit worried about whether she was overdoing it.

  But the marquise’s nails had curled in such a way that strips of delicate paper shredded off her fan.

  “I know!” Jemma said, sitting up as if suddenly inspired. “You might strive to create a bit of a scandal here in England. Something that would cause a rumor to fly home to Paris, convincing your husband that he is not the only one to enjoy himself with matters of the heart.”

  Louise gave a savage little laugh. “You don’t think that I should have trouble finding someone willing to overlook my chessboard?”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Jemma cried. “You mustn’t take me too literally. When you say chessboard, it truly sounds as if I meant you were flat in the bodice, and of course I would never say such a thing! I have no doubt but that many men are delighted with a, shall we say, more modest offering.” Her eyes gently slid away from the marquise’s entirely adequate bosom, as if she were excusing a serious flaw.

  She continued, “Of course, women can be so cruel to each other. Why, the other day a bumbling lady of my acquaintance referred to you in the most disparaging terms—she is really hopelessly ill-bred—oh yes, I believe she mentioned a bird. Could it have been a crow?” She gave a shrug. “At any rate, I defended you. I told her that you were the only woman I considered to have the wit and charm to rival the great courtesans.”

  Louise drew in a sharp breath.

  “I mean that as the greatest compliment,” Jemma added. “You could have any man you wished. If you put your mind to it.”

  She paused. “Other than my dear Elijah, of course. He is so very devoted.”

  “I don’t care for English men,” the marquise said, chomping down on a lemon tart. “For the most part they are quite brutish in their manners. Their bows are too unformed, too unrefined.” She waved her hand in the air. “They lack that sense of élégance that characterizes the French court. The beauty of the French poise and discretion.”

  “While your point about elegance is absolutely fair, some Englishmen have a kind of masculine beauté that I find appealing,” Jemma said. “I have always thought that my husband, the Duke of Beaumont, looks rather like Gerard de Ridefort, but with less affectation. And you know that Marie Antoinette herself called de Ridefort the most beautiful man in Paris.”

  “Your husband,” Louise said broodingly. “Dear me, I remember the strangest rumor. But I am sure it is no more than that.” She opened her fan and waved it just below her eyes.

  Jemma shrugged again. “Any scandal
that involves the duke is surely untrue.”

  “I know!” the marquise cried. “’Twas the reason why you moved to France, all those years ago. The foolish man declared himself in love with someone else.”

  “His mistress,” Jemma said, her tone pitched to perfect indifference.

  “But what an excellent decision you made to come to Paris. I remember the first year when you arrived; you had no poise, none of the charm that comes with sophisticated taste. And now look at you!” Louise raised an eyebrow. “So much older, and yet still with that sprightly, artless mode of dressing.”

  “I learned so much in Versailles,” Jemma said. “Why, you have no idea how innocent I was. I truly believed that the duke loved his mistress. I can hardly believe that I was so foolish as to flee to another country over a matter as paltry as a husband’s lover!”

  The marquise took a moment to compose herself. “Dear me, all that agitation for a mistress,” she said, fluttering her damaged fan vigorously.

  “I was very young.”

  “How fortunate that you retain your memory. So many people find it difficult to think back over that many years.”

  “Of course, I am very possessive,” Jemma added.

  “What is mine, is mine. I would naturally consider it the worst of insults if a woman dared to approach my husband. Even though my husband merely thought he loved his mistress, I could hardly contain my anger. Very childish of me, I know. In Paris I learned that the way to my husband’s heart was to ignore his unrefined behavior.”

  The marquise picked up her third tart. “I consider mistresses to be part of a man’s world, a necessary adjunct, as it were. They parade and trade them the way women might trade fans. They are necessary to their sense of—I don’t know the word in English—amour propre?”

  “Their sense of vanity,” Jemma translated. “Yes, I suppose you are right. But I was young and rash, and so I fled to France. Luckily, Elijah quickly learned his lesson. His eyes never stray to other women. I credit that to the fact I went to France and had a few dalliances of my own. He learned that what is sauce for the gander is even better for the goose.”

  “I fail to see how your dissipated behavior turned him into a saint,” Louise said acidly.

  “Ah, well,” Jemma said. “Just think, Marquise. Your husband has never had to worry that your affections were caught by another man, one who would be a worthy competitor to himself. No, he is free to stray about, to fall in love, to act as foolishly as he wishes—confident that you will be at home waiting for him.”

  The marquise chewed her tart rather savagely. “I would never lower myself to his level!”

  “I expect you have never met a man whom you considered his equal,” Jemma said soothingly. “I myself am so fastidious about a man’s appearance that I could not countenance your husband’s adorable way of finishing every scrap of food that strays onto his plate. He has such an appetite! It’s admirable in a man, of course,” she added unconvincingly.

  “Do you dare to suggest that Henri is fat?” Louise inquired.

  “Of course not, of course not!” Jemma said. “Why, a man his age should have a belly. It shows gravity of purpose. Seriousness. That sort of thing. Please do continue to eat, Marquise. I myself never eat sweet things in the morning.”

  They both looked down at the plate. “Dear me!” Jemma said. “I hadn’t even noticed they were all gone. At any rate, as we were saying, I do admire your husband. He’s so modest…of course, he has much to be modest about.”

  There was a rigidity about the marquise’s jaw that suggested to Jemma that perhaps she should stop before a plate broke over her head.

  She sprang to her feet. “What a lovely conversation this has been. I would give you the name of my mantua maker, but I never share her address, even with my very closest friends. She’s by far the best in London, and if I pay her three times the price, she plucks gowns literally out of the air. I’ve had a gown made for the following day!”

  Louise managed a good show of indifference. Of course, half of London knew that Jemma frequented the establishment of Madame Montesquieu, on Bond Street.

  “I do hope to meet you again soon, Marquise,” Jemma said blithely. “We go to Vauxhall tomorrow night…well, I believe I’ve never seen you there. Do you not care for it?”

  “In fact, I had long planned to pay it a visit,” the marquise said. “Does one not wear a domino there?”

  “Always.”

  “Then no one would note my odious clothing,” Louise said with a marked snap. “I look forward to it.”

  Rather than curtsy, Jemma delivered the coup de grâce. She held out her hand to be kissed.

  Of course Louise bent her head over her hand with utmost grace. But her eyes swore revenge. Jemma left smiling.

  She couldn’t control everything. She couldn’t control her husband’s erratic heart. Elijah was important to the government and she was important to no one.

  But she had her own rather particular skills.

  Chapter Six

  On the way back from the marquise’s house, Jemma remembered that she had one problem left to solve in Francesch Vicent’s 100 Chess Problems. She handed her pelisse to Fowle and headed directly for the library and her chessboard.

  “Your Grace,” the butler said. “You have callers.”

  But Jemma was already living inside the game. “I can’t talk now, Fowle. I’ll just be in the library for a bit.”

  “Your gloves,” the butler said, a wry smile in his eyes.

  “Oh,” Jemma said, pulling them off.

  “The Duke of Villiers awaits,” Fowle said, to her back.

  She turned about, feeling a pulse of extreme annoyance. “Villiers is here? What on earth is he doing here?”

  “The duke paid you a call,” Fowle said. “Since the drawing room had a number of ladies waiting in it—and they are still there—he requested to be placed in the library. In front of the chess set.”

  “Ah,” Jemma said, smiling. “I think those callers had better take themselves off, Fowle.” She paused for a moment. “Do they know of Villiers’s visit?”

  “I believe not.”

  “Excellent!” She turned to the library. “I am suffering from a terrible headache, Fowle. Do give my apologies to all my visitors. And you might bring a light luncheon in an hour or so.”

  As she walked into the room, the Duke of Villiers rose from the chessboard. Villiers was an odd mix of fashionable and its opposite. He disdained the mania for wigs, wearing his hair tied back in a ribbon, unpowdered of course. And yet he dressed as magnificently as she did.

  In some ways, Villiers was the opposite of Elijah. He had none of Elijah’s startling beauty: his face was too rough to be courtly, and his eyes too cold to be alluring. He cared nothing for the world’s opinion, let alone its salvation. He had never taken up his seat in the House of Lords; as far as Jemma knew, his sole passion was the one she shared: chess.

  Jemma actually felt a pulse of envy at the sight of his coat, an emotion rarely inspired by men’s attire.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Villiers,” she said, by way of greeting. “Cream silk with interlocking chains in cherry embroidery. I’ve never heard of such a coat. No, I’ve never dreamed of such a coat.”

  Villiers fell into a bow as magnificent as his garment. “I dreamed of it, though my tailor complained. It seems he feared I might become besmirched by dirt or spotted by rain.”

  She laughed. “Rain would not dare spot His Grace, the Duke of Villiers?”

  “Dirt is something that happens to others,” he said, with that wicked laughter in his eyes. “Like sin and bankruptcy.”

  “Alas, if you hope to avoid the blemish of sin,” Jemma said, sitting down before the chessboard, “I am not the one to give you an education.”

  “But that is one of the things I love about you,” he said amiably. “The only thing I am certain about is the art of dress. Since you dress exquisitely on your own, I need not bother with advice
. I do like your wig this morning.”

  “Delicious,” Jemma agreed. She was wondering whether to speak to him of Elijah’s heart. Better not. She might cry, a truly horrific thought.

  She began swiftly rearranging the chess pieces. “The last time I spoke to you, Villiers, you flatly refused to play with me. I hope that your current position opposite me indicates that you have revoked your ban on the game?”

  “Your husband tells me that you have decided to forfeit the final game in our match,” he said, sighing.

  Jemma looked up quickly. “You discussed our match with Elijah?”

  “The final game was to be blindfolded and in bed,” he said mournfully. “How it pains me to give up the prospect. You can have no idea.”

  “But I am throwing the match! You win. Surely that makes you just as happy as being blindfolded.”

  “To my astonishment, I find it does not,” he said, looking faintly surprised.

  “In that case, I will give you the pleasure of playing a game,” she said, promptly putting the pieces in order.

  “You may be White, as it agrees with your coat.”

  “My coat is the color of rich cream,” he said with a delicate shudder. “Not White. I abhor white silk, and satin of that hue is even worse. It reminds me of angels. Saints. That sort of thing.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with angels,” Jemma observed. “I’ve always liked the idea of feathery wings, though perhaps not halos. They sound like a particularly awkward kind of bonnet.”

  “Then you will like the reason I’ve come to see you,” Villiers said, moving a pawn forward. “I am considering a bid for a halo of my own.”

  “I’m shocked,” Jemma murmured. They played for a moment in silence. Villiers brought forward a rook and she challenged one of his pawns with her bishop.

  “I have a problem,” Villiers said, not even pausing before he brought a knight into the contest.