Christmas with the Duchess

by Tamara Lejeune

  And yet, he did not reach for her. He did not throw her down for a quick drive to the main chance. He waited for her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his body taut as a lute string. He puzzled her. Could he really be that shy?

  “Do you love me?” she asked softly.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered instantly.

  Her eyes closed, she tilted her head back. Reaching behind her back, she found the laces of her gown and loosened them, so that, when her young man found his courage, he would be able to undress her with perfect ease.

  “Do you like it when the woman is on top?” she asked him hopefully.

  She heard him lick his lips nervously. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, very much.”

  Emma smiled. Most men were not so accommodating. Swooping down on him, she began kissing his body, her mouth moving over him hungrily. She was expert in the art of arousing a man, and the sensation was too exquisite to be endured quietly. He jumped, crying out. Holding him down, Emma trailed her tongue over his belly. Involuntarily, he began to move his hips. He bit his lip to keep from crying out again, but she took great pride in causing him to moan in spite of himself.

  She lifted her head to look at him. “Do you still think I am teasing you?” she asked.

  His head arched back into the pillows. “I cannot believe this is happening to me,” he whispered. “A week ago, I was just an ordinary man.”

  Emma laughed softly. “You’re still an ordinary man, I hope.”

  Farther and farther down she went. Her hands masterfully stroked his thighs, then skimmed up to the buttons of his trousers. In a moment, he was free. His straining member was in her hands.

  “I stand corrected,” she said, pleased with her prize. “You are an extraordinary man.”

  She lowered her head.

  “Wait!” he cried suddenly, scrambling away from her. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I’m trying to forget everything,” she purred, crawling toward him like a cat.

  “But you’re still in mourning,” he said breathlessly.

  The mood was instantly broken.

  “What?” she said sharply.

  “It is one thing for you to go down to dinner,” he said. “That was a magnificent gesture, but this…It is wrong. Emma, we cannot do this.”

  “Why not?” she wanted to know.

  “My love!” he said reproachfully. “I know your marriage was not happy, but the proprieties must be observed. If I led you into dishonor, how could I say I love you?”

  “I don’t understand,” Emma said coldly. To be rejected by the same man twice in one night was not doing her temper any good. “You would use honor as an excuse to hurt and humiliate me?”

  “I adore you,” he said fervently, clasping her in his arms. “I love you! But I love you with honor. You cannot be truly mine until the year of mourning is over. Let us not begin like this, with a dishonorable act. I am scum, I know, but you deserve better.”

  His words made no sense to her. She felt only the pangs of rejection. Smarting, she left the bed, tightening the laces of her gown as she did so.

  “If that is how you feel,” she said coldly, “you’d better get dressed. I will take you back to your own room…if your honor allows it, that is!”

  Chapter Eight

  “Don’t be angry, my love,” Nicholas said softly. “You know I am right.”

  “I am not angry,” she snapped, tapping her foot. “I am waiting.”

  He dressed quickly. Without a word, she lit a candle, and picking it up, led the way out of the room. He followed where she led, stopping on the threshold of another bedchamber.

  “My love—” he began haltingly.

  “Don’t distress yourself, my angel,” Emma said coolly. “I have no further designs on your precious honor.” Going over to the fireplace, which was cold and dark, she pressed the carved panel of the marble mantelpiece in the spot that opened the hidden door.

  “A secret passage!” he exclaimed, coming into the room.

  “And you thought I was going to seduce you,” Emma said lightly. “Don’t you feel silly?”

  Nicholas looked into the passageway, but, in the darkness, there was not much to see. “Was it used for hiding priests?”

  Emma snorted. “I doubt it,” she said dryly as she entered the dark passageway. “The fifth Duke of Warwick put this passageway in so he could visit his mistress without creating a scandal.”

  Nicholas was so tall he had to stoop to follow her. The ceiling was rather low, but otherwise the passageway was quite comfortable, and wide enough for three to walk abreast. Paintings depicting beautiful women, many of them nude, all of them posed seductively, lined the walls. Thankfully, Emma’s candle did not shed enough light for him to see them clearly.

  “He had several mistresses, as you see. These are not all his, however,” Emma went on. “He merely began the tradition of hanging their portraits in this hall. Over the years, his descendants have also placed their favorites here. A sort of sportsman’s trophy room, as it were, and these are their kills.”

  The paintings made Nicholas uncomfortable. He tried not to look at them.

  Emma stopped at a painting. “This lady was my husband’s mistress,” she said matter-of-factly. “I should say one of his mistresses, for he had just as many as he could. My friend Thomas Lawrence painted her. He painted me at about the same time, in the same pose, I found out later. The only difference is that I was more formally attired.”

  Nicholas bit his lip. “Your husband’s infidelities must have caused you a great deal of pain. I will never betray you like that, you know.”

  “He did cause me pain,” Emma said. “I did my best to cause him pain, too, but I could never hurt him as he hurt me. Still, you insist that I mourn him properly? If I had preceded him in death, he would not have been so conscientious, I assure you!”

  “It is only a few days, my love. Then we can be together, secure in the knowledge that we have done nothing wrong. I love you that much. And you love me, too, do you not?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Emma said tartly. “I forgot how much in love we are.”

  Holding up the candle, she turned and moved swiftly down the hall. Nicholas hurried to keep up with her.

  The passage wound its way through the interstices of the palace. At last, Emma stopped and opened a doorway. Motioning for him to be silent, she looked out into the bedroom beyond, satisfying herself that it was empty. “The passageway from the duke’s chamber has no direct link to your apartment,” she explained, drawing him into the room. “You must go out into the hall, and cross to the other side of the gallery. Westphalia is the only apartment on that side. I will not go with you,” she added, slipping back into the passageway. “If I were to be seen in this part of the house by another guest or a passing servant…”

  “Of course,” he said. Seizing her hands, he kissed them fervently. “Good night, my angel. You have made me the happiest man alive.”

  “What a fascinating entry in my journal this will be,” she replied coolly. “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Good night, Nicholas.”

  Monday, December 12, 1814

  The next morning, Emma was still fuming. “Who does he think he is to refuse me?” she demanded of her twin brother as they sat in the window of her sitting room sipping chocolate from tiny cups. Otto and Monty had gone out shooting with the other gentlemen, and, although it was nearly noon, Lady Scarlingford was still sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s celebration. Emma had been obliged to rise early for her daily meetings with the chef, the housekeeper, and the butler respectively. She was charmingly dressed in a morning gown of fine India muslin with a short brocaded jacket. Colin was still in his dressing gown of quilted purple satin. Bleary-eyed, he hid a yawn behind one hand.

  “No one refuses me!” Emma went on, full of petulance. “If there is refusing to be done, I’ll be the one doing it, thank you very much.”

  “Calm your
self,” said Colin, wincing as her voice became a trifle high-pitched. “Really, you’re like an illustration of the woman scorned. It’s possible that sailors have some silly prejudice against widows,” he suggested. “They are a superstitious lot, you know.”

  “If so, it is a superstition the British Army don’t share,” Emma said dryly. “General Bellamy’s men have been sending me a constant stream of billet-doux all morning. You see them there,” she added, nodding towards a little table laden with envelopes and posies set on a tray.

  “It must have been that rousing welcome speech you gave last night. Naturally, they hope the thanks and praise of a grateful nation will translate into a bout of sweaty lovemaking with the Duchess of Warwick. They’re only human, after all. I received a few letters of my own, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really?” said Emma, instantly diverted. “Who?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Colin said piously. “Anyway, we were talking about you and Nicholas. Have you considered the possibility that he might be sincere?”

  “Sincere!” Emma said incredulously. “He told me he loved me the moment he saw me, and that he knew we were destined to be together.” She laughed. “Open any one of those letters from the army, and I daresay, you will find those exact sentiments, if not those exact words.”

  She turned her face away. “Is it possible that I am not as attractive as I think I am? I am almost thirty. What if he saw something that made him change his mind?”

  “You mean like those wrinkles around your neck?”

  Emma put one hand to her throat. “They are called the rings of Venus,” she told him angrily.

  “Yes; by liars. For heaven’s sake,” he went on impatiently. “He was probably just too drunk. You know some men cannot perform when they’ve had large amounts of drink. None of the men I know, of course, but I hear it does happen occasionally to the lesser mortals.”

  “It wasn’t that,” Emma snapped. “Everything was present and correct.”

  “Very mysterious,” said Colin. “How will you punish him? You are going to punish him, of course?”

  “I shall ignore him,” said Emma. “If he doesn’t want me, I’ll find someone who does. I do not lack for admirers, you know,” she added. “I’ll just pick one at random.” Setting down her cup, she ran over to her escritoire, where her letters had been piled. Emma snatched one up and looked at it. “General Bellamy!” she exclaimed in horror. “Ugh!”

  Running over to the fire, she tossed it in.

  Down in the courtyard, a few stragglers were arriving in a hired chaise. “I see Cousin Claud is here, with that frowsy little wife of his,” Colin observed. “And, if that beautiful young man dancing attendance on her is her cousin, I’ll eat my boots.”

  Emma glanced out of the window, but, before she could give her impressions of the ménage à trois a loud knocking at the door jerked their attention away from the window. Emma nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Good God!” Emma breathed. “Who the devil can that be?”

  The servants had been trained to scratch gently at doors, and her close friends thought nothing of simply walking in on her.

  “Colin, go and answer.”

  Colin burrowed deeper into the seat cushion. “I’m not dressed,” he said. “Besides, it’s your room, not mine. Perhaps it’s Nicholas,” he suggested. “He’s come to apologize for his odiously gentlemanlike behavior. Perhaps he’ll ravish you to make up for it.”

  Crossing the room, Emma opened the door.

  A tall cavalry officer about her own age stood there, bareheaded and spattered in mud.

  Without hesitation, Emma threw her arms around him. “Michael!” she cried happily, recognizing her brother-in-law, Lord Michael Fitzroy. “This is a most welcome surprise. No one told me you had arrived. When did you get here?”

  “Just now,” he told her, holding both her hands. “I rode across the fields from Redditch. Forgive my coming to you in all my dirt,” he added with a grave smile, “but I wanted to see you, Emma, before anyone else knew I was here.”

  Emma stared at him. “Has something happened? Michael, you’re frightening me. Is it Harry? Is it Grey?”

  Colin left the window seat to be with his sister, even as Lord Michael was assuring her that her sons were perfectly well as far as he knew. His news had nothing to do with them.

  “What is it then?” Emma asked. “Oh, do sit down. You remember my brother Colin, of course.”

  “Of course,” Lord Michael said politely, but it was clear Colin’s presence made him uneasy.

  Colin sighed. “Do you wish to be private with my sister?”

  Emma caught his hand. “There’s nothing Michael can say to me that my brother cannot hear. What is it, Michael?”

  Lord Michael walked up and down the room, his manner agitated. “I will just say it, then,” he said, stopping abruptly. “Emma, I am married.”

  Emma almost collapsed from relief. “Is that all? I thought someone had died, Michael!”

  “Someone will die,” said Colin. “Does Octavia know about this?”

  “Oh!” said Emma. “You mean you did not marry Octavia?” She stared up at her brother-in-law. “Oh.”

  “Octavia!” Lord Michael said scornfully. He sat down in a chair near the fire. Facing Emma, he leaned forward, his hands pressed together. “Emma, I don’t know what they’ve been telling, but I was never engaged to that female, and I certainly am not inclined to honor an agreement that exists only in my uncle’s fertile imagination! Warwick fully supported my decision. Did he never mention it to you?”

  “Never,” she said. “But, then, he wouldn’t have. My husband never spoke with me about Fitzroy family matters.”

  “When my brother died, my uncle started up his nonsense again, claiming that I had been engaged to his eldest child. I even got a letter in Lisbon from Cousin Octavia, enthusing about our coming nuptials—and declaring her undying love for me, if you like!”

  Suppressing a shudder, Colin kindly handed him a glass of brandy.

  “I knew not how to answer her letter,” Lord Michael went on, when he had fortified his tissues with liquor. “I was already married to Elvira by that time. I did not want to be cruel to Octavia. It is not her fault, after all. She is but an innocent pawn in her father’s game.”

  “More like a snake in the grass, I’d say,” Colin muttered.

  “What is it you want me to do, Michael?” Emma asked pragmatically.

  Lord Michael raked his fingers through his curly auburn hair. “I have left my wife at the inn in Redditch with my friend, Captain Charles Palafox. I did not want to bring her here until I was sure of her reception.”

  “Michael!” Emma said indignantly. “Of course I will receive your wife! I will welcome her as a sister. I am hurt that you would think otherwise.”

  “It is not you I doubt,” he said hastily. “I merely wanted to make sure you were at home before I brought her here. I fear the other ladies will not be kind to her, for, not only is she not Octavia, she is a Portuguese. She’s from a very old family, very respected.”

  Emma laughed. “Ye gods, man! It is enough for me that she is your wife. I do not require her pedigree.”

  “Others will demand it,” he said darkly.

  “Yes,” Emma agreed sadly.

  “I mean to sell out now the war is over,” he went on, climbing to his feet. Emma rose with him. “I am hoping for an appointment to the Portuguese court. I wondered, Emma, if you might have any influence with Lord Castlereagh.”

  “Why, no,” said Emma, “but Colin might.”

  “I’ll be happy to write a letter,” Colin offered.

  Lord Michael looked askance. “You mean to say that Lord Castlereagh is—is—a backgammon player?”

  “Not at all,” Colin answered coolly. “I play backgammon with his lordship’s wife.”

  Lady Michael arrived at Warwick within the hour. Footmen dressed in the red and gold livery of the Fitzroys lined the courtyard. The lad
ies of the household crowded the portico and the vestibule, eager to get a look at the Portuguese. Lady Susan Bellamy, much too important to go out to meet her nephew’s wife, stayed at the window of the main drawing room, where, they had been told, Lady Michael was to be received formally.

  “She seems very neat and clean, for a dago,” Lady Susan reported. “I am quite surprised. Someone must have helped her. Oh, my poor Octavia,” she gloated, enfolding her niece in a perfumed embrace. “To be jilted is bad enough, but to be thrown over for a swarthy, black-haired gypsy—! You are most sincerely to be pitied.”

  Octavia stood smiling coldly.

  “Run along upstairs, darling, and I will make your excuses for you. And, to be sure, I will scold my nephew very thoroughly for treating you so ill! Will your father sue him for breach of promise, do you think?” Lady Susan wanted to know. “How very shocking it all is.”

  While the other ladies waited in the drawing room, Emma went down the steps to greet her new sister-in-law. Lady Scarlingford, too, had been dragged from her bed for the occasion. Still suffering from the effects of too much Champagne, she clung to her brother-in-law’s arm. Colin had dressed as if for a royal levee in velvet breeches and buckled shoes.

  Going down the steps, Emma embraced the young woman. Lord Michael’s wife was a black-haired beauty with caramel-colored skin and large, gentle brown eyes. She answered everything that was said to her with a lovely smile.

  “I’m afraid Elvira’s English is not very good,” Lord Michael said, coming forward. “I am teaching her, of course, but, for now, we converse mainly in French.”

  Emma obligingly switched to French, and she was still speaking it when Lord Michael presented his friend to her. Captain Palafox was a handsome, self-assured gentleman with knowing gray eyes and a wide, untrustworthy, insolent smile. His dark hair looked as polished as his boots. He was clean shaven but for a thin mustache. He lingered over Emma’s hand with such breathtaking impertinence that she wondered at Michael’s having entrusted his wife to his care even for a short time.