Christmas with the Duchess

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Wait! No! There is a reply, Carstairs. Please tell the lady that the gentleman cannot do as she requests.”

  Carstairs bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

  “No, wait,” Nicholas said, detaining him again. “If you’re quite sure this is for me, perhaps I should go.” He could always tell the surprised Emma that Carstairs had given him her note by mistake. After all, it was the truth.

  Before Carstairs could speak, Nicholas reversed himself again. “No, I can’t. Tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t. Tell her that. On the other hand,” he went on, almost in the same breath, “it is my room, and I have every right to go there if I want. She can’t keep me out of my own room.”

  There is a limit to everything, including Carstairs’s patience. “My lord, if you please!”

  “Cousin Nicholas?”

  Octavia’s voice preceded her into the hallway.

  Nicholas jumped. “No reply, Carstairs,” he said quickly. “No reply at all.”

  “Is that your final answer, my lord?” Carstairs drawled.

  “Yes, of course,” said Nicholas.

  He hurried to meet Octavia. “I’m so sorry, Cousin Octavia. This is our dance, is it?”

  “Yes, Cousin Nicholas, the supper dance. What did Carstairs want?”

  “Nothing,” Nicholas lied. “A slight wobble in the Christmas tree, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

  “It would serve her right,” Octavia sniffed, “if the whole ridiculous thing fell over.”

  “But I put it up,” Nicholas reminded her as they returned to the ballroom.

  She looked at him blankly. “Yes? And?”

  Nicholas had a sudden, repellent vision of his future: a lifetime of Octavia’s blank stares, her cold voice, her handsome but masklike face. There would be children, too, little children with blank stares and cold voices. He wanted to run away to the nearest port and take the first ship bound for anywhere. Instead, he was going to have to keep his word and marry Octavia.

  “Nothing, Cousin Octavia,” he said quickly, and they went to rejoin the dancers.

  It was just then a little after eleven o’clock. As Nicholas danced with his cousin, it became crystal clear what he must do. Or, rather, what he must not do. Emma Fitzroy was the first woman, the only woman, with whom he had ever been intimate. She still excited him physically, and the desire to see her again was very strong. But, sadly, she was a loose-moraled woman, and, besides, he was spoken for, engaged to Octavia. It would be wrong to meet in secret with another woman. He would not go.

  And, up until the very moment the clock began to strike twelve, he was perfectly at peace with his virtuous decision. He had just escorted Octavia down the steps into the dining room, and was on his way to the banquet hall to prepare a plate for her, when he saw Charles Palafox, with a look of urgency on his face, leaving the ballroom. And the handsome officer was not going in the direction of the dining room.

  Emma was nowhere in sight. All thoughts of right and wrong vanished from Nicholas’s mind. So! He had been right, after all. Carstairs had gotten it wrong; Emma’s letter obviously had been meant for Palafox. The assignation Emma had been attempting to make in her note must have been made by some other method, probably face-to-face.

  It should be me, Nicholas thought furiously. If she’s going to rendezvous with anyone, it should be me. I saved her. I got her letter back. And this is how she thanks me?

  He could have used that letter to make her his mistress. Now he regretted letting that power out of his hands. She should be mine, he thought, almost blind with rage.

  Suddenly, he forgot that he was engaged to Octavia, and that, at this very moment, she was waiting patiently for him to return to her with a plate of lobster patties and caviar. Forgetting everything but his own fury, he started after Palafox, moving across the ballroom, going against the flow of traffic.

  Naked as the day she was born, Emma lay shivering in Nicholas’s bed, thinking over and over: this isn’t going to work, this isn’t going to work. Octavia could discover Nicholas in bed with a dozen women, and she would still not release her fiancé from the engagement, Emma was sure. She did not have much faith in Colin’s plan, whatever it was, but she clung to hope.

  She heard the clock strike midnight. Nicholas was late, and she began to fear that he was not coming. He does not want me, after all, she thought, wounded, but not really surprised. She felt ridiculous lying there naked, waiting for a man who obviously did not want her. Not even the memory of his egregious attempt at lovemaking could soothe her injured pride.

  She dreaded having to get out of bed and get dressed, but she was on the verge of doing just that when the door opened, flinging a rectangle of light across the bedroom of Westphalia. The light disappeared as the door closed. Swiftly, Nicholas crossed the room and went into his dressing closet. After a moment, she heard the unmistakable sound of a man answering the call of nature.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” she said as he emerged from the closet.

  “Who’s there?” His voice was sharp with surprise.

  “Who do you think?” she whispered, sitting up. “It is I, Emma. Hurry! Take off all your clothes and get into bed.”

  Charles Palafox held up the candle and grinned at her. “Duchess! Does this mean you have forgiven me?”

  Shocked, Emma pulled the eiderdown quilt up to her chin so hard that her feet were exposed. “You!” she shrieked. “What are you doing in Lord Camford’s room?”

  Palafox was taken aback. “Camford? No, this is my room.”

  “I don’t think so, Captain Palafox,” Emma said coldly. Now she had her knees tucked under her chin, her body completely covered by the quilt. “I’m quite sure this is his lordship’s room. It’s Westphalia, isn’t it?” She looked around desperately. It was a long way to the door, and Charles was between her and her clothes.

  Palafox was enjoying himself. “If you’re looking for Camford’s room, my dear duchess, it’s across the hall,” he said. “We switched.”

  “Switched?”

  “We exchanged rooms,” he clarified. “I preferred the view from this chamber, and his lordship didn’t care, so…we switched. I must say, the view keeps getting better!”

  “I see,” Emma said primly. “It would seem that I have made a mistake. I apologize for intruding on your privacy, sir.”

  “Madam, I forgive you,” he said warmly.

  “Thank you,” she said tartly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me,” she went on, with all the dignity she could conjure. “I seem to have…Oh, hell! I need to get dressed.”

  He chuckled. “I can help you with that. I’m good with my hands.”

  “No, thank you!” she snapped.

  “Really, I’m very good at dressing ladies. That is, I’m very good at undressing them. I’ll just do what I usually do, except in reverse, shall I?”

  “Mr. Palafox!” she said sharply.

  “You’re wasting your time with Camford, you know,” he told her irritably. “The on-dit is that he’s going to marry the eldest Miss Fitzroy. Personally, I’d sooner marry an eel, but there’s no accounting for taste, is there? You and I could have such fun together,” he went on. “I know I can please you, if you would just give me the chance.”

  “Captain Palafox, I must ask you to recall that you are an English gentleman!”

  “At least let me watch you get dressed,” he pleaded.

  “Certainly not!”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Just let me see your breasts.”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Let me see your breasts, and I’ll go away directly and forget I ever saw you.”

  “Oh, all right,” Emma said crossly, throwing off the quilt. “Anything to be rid of you!”

  Staring at her naked torso, he gave a deep, contented sigh. “Glorious,” he murmured appreciatively. “But then I knew they would be. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t care for a tumble? I’ve got something very nice for you in my breeches. You will
not be disappointed.”

  “Get out!” she said, snatching up the book from the bedside table and throwing it at him. He knew better than to duck and Montaigne’s essays whizzed harmlessly past his head, hitting the floor with a thud.

  Chuckling, Palafox went to the door. As he opened it, Nicholas, Lord Camford, fell into the room. The earl caught himself, regained his feet, and stood red faced with anger and embarrassment. “If I’d known we had an audience, I’d have projected more,” Palafox drawled. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, my lord, but this is my room. Yours is across the hall.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Nicholas said stiffly. He glanced at Emma, who was sitting up in Palafox’s bed, half hidden by the quilt. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said contemptuously. “Your note was delivered to me by mistake. I daresay Carstairs cannot keep up with all your lovers!”

  He flung her crumpled note in her direction.

  “Nicholas!” she cried, struggling to get out of bed with the quilt wrapped around her. “This is not what it looks like. Please, you must believe me!” She followed him into the hall.

  “I may be an idiot,” said Nicholas, “but I am not an idiot!”

  “I don’t think you are an idiot!” she said quickly. “Please, just listen to me! Charles and I are not lovers.”

  “What are you, then? A pair of rutting beasts?” he shouted. “It’s bloody obvious what you’ve been about, madam! Do not imagine that I care,” he added unconvincingly. “If your note had not been delivered to me by mistake, I would not be here.”

  “But it was not delivered to you by mistake,” she protested.

  Nicholas recoiled as if she had struck. “You meant for me to find you like this? With this—this paltry excuse for a Casanova? If you were any sort of gentleman, sir,” he went on, eyeing Palafox with contempt, “you would at least propose marriage to this…this lady. And if you were any sort of a lady, you would accept,” he added scathingly, glaring at Emma. “But I fear you are no more a lady than he is a gentleman.”

  “How dare you!” Emma gasped.

  “Allow me to point out to you, sir,” Palafox said coldly, “that this is really none of your business. You are not her husband, after all.”

  Nicholas laughed bitterly. “I am thankful for that, at least.”

  Palafox laughed back at him. “Sour grapes, Camford?”

  “Hardly!” Nicholas spat. “You are welcome to this—this strumpet! In fact, I’d say you were perfect for each other! You, madam, are a brazen hussy!”

  Emma bristled at the insult. “How dare you speak to me like that? I wash my hands of you. If you’re foolish enough to marry Octavia, then you deserve every ounce of misery that’s coming your way!” She took a deep breath. “Come, Charles,” she said, taking a firm hold of Palafox’s arm. “Are we going to make love or not? We mustn’t let this ridiculous boy spoil our fun.”

  “No, indeed,” Palafox answered warmly.

  Emma paused in the doorway to deliver one last blow to her one-time lover. “My lord? If you’re going to eavesdrop while Charles and I make love, I recommend you press a glass to the door. I’m not sure how it works, but I’m told it amplifies the sound beautifully.”

  Palafox chuckled. “Unless the poor sap is completely deaf, he will have no difficulty hearing your sweet cries of ecstasy,” he said, pulling her back into his room, and closed the door in Nicholas’s face.

  Alone with Palafox, Emma snatched up her clothes and ran into the dressing closet.

  “Does this mean we’re not going to be making love?” Palafox pouted in the bedroom.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Charles,” she shouted through the door.

  Nicholas went back to his room to lick his wounds. He thought guiltily of Octavia. No doubt she was still waiting for her lobster patties. He should return to her, he knew. But the last thing he wanted at the moment was to be among other people. In the state he was in, he was either going to break his hand punching a wall or burst into tears like a bereft child. Either way, he could only disgrace himself. He needed time alone to cleanse himself of all thoughts of the cruel and faithless Emma.

  In the darkness, he threw himself down on the bed, striking it with his fists.

  “Ouch!” howled Julia Fitzroy. At Colin’s insistence, she had been waiting in his bed, stark naked for nearly a quarter of an hour, and this was not quite the greeting she had expected.

  Nicholas scrambled to his feet. With shaking hands, he lit a candle. “Julia!” he gasped, as his fifteen-year-old cousin sat up in his bed, the coverlet slipping from her small, firm breasts, and her rich red hair cascading about her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

  Barely holding a sheet around her body, Julia walked to the end of the bed on her knees. “Isn’t it obvious?” she pouted. “I’m saving you from Octavia. You can’t marry her. She’s too, too awful! Tell the truth,” she went on coquettishly. “Wouldn’t you rather marry me?” She looked up at him with wide, dark eyes.

  Nicholas scowled at her. “Dress yourself, child,” he said harshly. “I will wait for you outside.”

  He strode to the door and opened it. Lady Anne Fitzroy stood there, poised to knock. “Nicholas!” she cried. “Have you seen Julia?”

  “I’m here, Mama!” Julia cried cheerfully.

  “How do I look?” Emma asked, coming out of Charles’s dressing room with her clothes back on.

  “Like you’ve had a good rogering,” he said approvingly. “May at least I escort you back to the ballroom?”

  Emma took his arm. “You may.”

  They went out into the hall together just in time to see Julia Fitzroy come dancing out of Nicholas’s bedroom wearing nothing but a bed sheet. “She looks like she’s had a good rogering, too,” Palafox remarked, sounding a little envious.

  Emma could only stare.

  “Oh, hullo, Duchess, Mr. Palafox!” Julia called to them. “Would you happen to have a little hartshorn or lavender water? Mama found me naked in bed with Cousin Nicholas, and I’m afraid she’s fainted dead away.”

  “I say!” Palafox murmured.

  Emma stalked into Nicholas’s room. Lady Anne had collapsed into her nephew’s arms. Nicholas had lowered her to the rug and was fanning her ineffectively with his hands.

  Nicholas looked up at her, panic in his eyes. “She just sort of fell over,” he said weakly.

  “I’m not a bit surprised,” Emma said dryly. Sinking down to the floor, she began chafing Lady Anne’s wrists together.

  Julia appeared over Emma’s shoulder with smelling salts. Her loose hair brushed against Emma’s cheek. “Charles had these in his room.”

  “Dress yourself, child,” Emma told her in an awful voice. “Let not your shame be the first thing your poor mother sees when she returns to us.”

  “Yes, your grace,” Julia said, scampering off to Nicholas’s closet.

  “I can assure you, madam, this is not what it looks like!” Nicholas protested as Emma opened the bottle.

  “Really?” Emma said coldly. “Because it looks a bit like the pot has called the kettle black.”

  “No!” he cried. “I just came back to my room, and there she was. Nothing happened. I never touched her. You do believe me, don’t you? Emma?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” said Emma, helping Lady Anne sit up. Lady Anne gasped for breath, but she was conscious.

  “Aunt Anne? You believe me, don’t you?” Nicholas said anxiously. “Julia just appeared in my room. I—I did not invite her here.”

  “Come now, my lord,” Palafox said coldly. “It’s damned obvious what you’ve been up to with your pretty little cousin! And if you were any sort of a gentleman, you would make that poor child an offer of marriage. After all, if you do not marry her, she’s ruined.”

  “Ruined!” Lady Anne sobbed. “My youngest child!”

  “What do you mean, ruined?” cried Nicholas. “I never touched her!”

  “Julia is not a widow with a certain reputation,”
Emma told Nicholas coolly. “In other words, she ain’t me! She will be ruined unless you marry her.”

  “Can we not…Can we not keep it quiet?” Nicholas pleaded with them.

  “I’m not keeping it quiet,” said Palafox. “Are you, Duchess?”

  “I shall be silent as the grave,” said Emma. “But will Julia? Will her mother?”

  “My youngest daughter is ruined,” Lady Anne wailed. “Nicholas must marry her. There’s nothing else to be done.”

  “But—but I am promised to marry Octavia,” Nicholas protested weakly.

  “Oh, my God!” Lady Anne gasped. “Who is going to tell Octavia?”

  She fainted dead away, collapsing into Emma’s arm.

  “I’ll tell her,” said Julia, shrugging.

  Chapter Fifteen

  December 1815

  Julia, Lady Camford, pushed her head out of the window of her husband’s carriage as it rumbled up the avenue to Warwick Palace. Dark clouds filled the wintry sky, casting a heavy, gray-violet pall over the great house, which looked forbidding and deserted in its brilliant emerald-green setting. A light, cold drizzle had been falling, but, as the carriage drew near the front steps, thunder broke overhead, and the heavens opened up, sending rain down in hard sheets. Quickly, Julia pulled her head in, losing a feather from her wide-brimmed bonnet in the process. “It’s too bad!” she complained to her husband, who was seated opposite her in the carriage.

  Nicholas was no longer the cheerful, good-natured young man he had been the year before. He looked older now, closer to thirty than twenty, and, though he was still handsome, there were grim lines around his mouth, and a hard, cynical glint in his blue eyes. His hair was finely barbered, and, after a year in the wan English sun, it had darkened from blond almost to chestnut brown. He sat reading a book, paying no attention whatsoever to his sixteen-year-old wife.