It hadn’t occurred to Elizabeth that the duke might not approve of her bosom. He certainly didn’t seem to mind when Magda put hers on view. “My husband has not seen me tonight without my cloak. I doubt that he would notice my, ah, bodice anyway.”
Conor doubted that Saint wouldn’t. Idly he wondered for what reason Magda had stuck her fingers in this particular pie. “You are fine as fivepence, Duchess. Anyone who failed to notice you must be either blind or dead.” He escorted her into the tearoom, which featured a two-storied colonnade on its west end, in the upper section of which the musicians sat. Corinthian columns surrounded the room at that level. From the coved ceiling, three chandeliers hung. “If the minuet does not tempt you, some other sort of dance might better suit.”
Elizabeth doubted Mr. Melchers was referring to the sort of dancing that was done in a ballroom. “First bosoms, and now dancing. Are you trying to get up a flirtation with me, sir?”
Conor smiled at her surprise. “You do not approve of flirtation, Your Grace?”
Certainly Maman did not approve of flirtation. This conversation would have already caused her to grope for her hartshorn. “I don’t know. No one has ever flirted with me before.” Elizabeth knew without asking that Mr. Melchers would never refer to bedding a lady as though it were an unpleasant chore.
That gentleman, bless him, reacted with astonishment. “How can that be? Young women imbibe instructions on the fine art of male entrapment along with their mother’s milk. Were you locked up in a convent? Allowed no contact with the cruder sex? Until Saint rode up on his white horse and spirited you away.”
Elizabeth found this a charming fancy. A pity it was so far from the truth. “So far as I can tell, dashing knights on horseback live solely in the pages of my abigail’s romantic books. What I was fed along with my mama’s milk—which is a figure of speech; Maman would not have been so crude as to nurse a child herself—was an entire manual on propriety. You will have heard of propriety, Mr. Melchers, although I suspect you’ve never given it a single’s moment thought.”
Despite her stern words, Saint’s duchess was smiling. Nor had she removed her hand from his arm. It was second nature for Conor to notice such things. “You wound me, Your Grace. And you will I hope forgive me if I point out that, whereas my character may admittedly be less than perfect, I have not been so impertinent as to make such personal comments as you have done. Which is not to say I won’t, but I haven’t yet.”
She had indeed been impertinent. Elizabeth wanted to sink through the floor. Then she caught the mocking expression on Mr. Melcher’s face, and called him a rude name. “Oh, blast!” she added, when he laughed aloud. “Now I suppose I must apologize.”
“Never apologize, Duchess, and never explain.” Conor was enjoying rather more than he had expected this effort to aid Magda in her scheme. “I provoked you to it, after all. And as I had anticipated, you are even lovelier when you let down your guard.”
“Moonshine! I am nothing of the sort.” Elizabeth was also enjoying her first conversation with a rakehell. “In truth, I meant no criticism. To be not bound about by restraints must be a fine thing.”
“It depends on the circumstances of the binding. There, I have made you smile. Next, you will laugh for me. And after that—” Maybe Magda wouldn’t owe him a forfeit after all.
The man was deliberately wicked. Elizabeth had no doubt it was most improper in her to be amused. “You are determined to provoke me, Mr. Melchers. I do not think that you would force a lady to do other than she wished.”
In truth, Conor hadn’t come across a great number of ladies who didn’t wish. “Do you fear for your virtue, Duchess? I can hardly debauch you in the midst of the tearoom.” He considered his surroundings. “Or perhaps I could. Observe, if you will, that large cloth-covered table against the wall. We could disport ourselves beneath it. No one would ever notice, providing we did not upset the teapot.”
As he had intended, his companion laughed. “I remind you that I am a married woman, sir.”
For someone who had never before engaged in a flirtation, Saint’s duchess was getting the hang of the thing quick enough. Mr. Melchers made a mental list of what else he might teach her, and when. “Ah, but I would be a paltry sort of scoundrel, would I not, if I were discouraged by the minor impediment of a spouse?”
Chapter 14
“No woman even in the warmest flush of youth ought to be prodigal of her charms.”—Lady Ratchett
The Duke of Charnwood was not enjoying his excursion to the Assembly Rooms, which were populated with a great many people he had no desire to meet. While the duke might have argued with Lady Ysabella about some more important matter—not that he would have enjoyed so doing, nor was he certain he would have won—in this instance he had believed Elizabeth would enjoy the outing, and so had agreed.
Was she enjoying it? He had not seen his duchess since their arrival, for he had been busy with other things, such as assuring his acquaintances that nearly all the monarchs of Europe waited for an opportunity to renew their attack on France, and that the waters at Bath were known for their miraculous powers in the curing of consumption and rheumatism, barrenness and gout, though mercury was generally more efficacious in the treatment of the pox; and then extricating his cousin from the cardroom, and suppressing a strong desire to shake her till the teeth rattled in her head.
Augusta was not grateful. “You grow odiously overbearing,” she informed him, “and something of a bore. Why did you have to interfere? I had an excellent hand!”
“You were going to lose the rubber, Gus. I saw your cards. If ever there was a pigeon ripe for the plucking… Do try and recall that you have few feathers left in your nest.”
Augusta sputtered with frustration. Justin ignored her sulks. At least this evening his cousin had indulged in nothing more serious than whist. He plucked Magda from the arm of a tall aristocratic Frenchman and inexorably steered his companions into the ballroom.
The ballroom was twice as long as it was wide, with a beautiful coved ceiling from which hung five superb cut-glass chandeliers. Gilt-framed looking glasses placed at each end of the room brilliantly reflected more Corinthian columns, ornate swags, and a Vitruvian scroll. A lofty semicircular recess housed the musicians: a harp, four violins, one violoncello, two clarinets, and a tambourine. Justin escorted his reluctant companions to the three front benches reserved for ladies of precedence at the upper end of the room, where Lady Ysabella sat laughing as Conor Melchers murmured in her ear.
Conor Melchers, damn his eyes. If Justin could tolerate rubbing shoulders with parvenus and cits, Melchers was something else again. The man had already been involved in several scandals, although this had little adverse effect upon his dealings with the opposite sex, a surprising number of whom were apparently attracted to gentlemen with shocking reputations. Lady Syb laughed at some improper sally, a circumstance that put Justin further out of charity with his hostess. “Hallo, Saint,” she said. “Nigel is dancing with your wife.”
Augusta settled on a chair. “Brave lad,” she said.
“Ma foi!” remarked Magda. “What an ungracious attitude. And after all our efforts. You must have lost at cards.”
The duke and his companions drew more than their fair share of attention, Lady Ysabella at the center of it in a blue gown trimmed with bands of satin, roses, and rouleaux; on her golden curls a turban made of matching satin, fringed with gold. Magda wore her shocking red and white. Gus was more than passably pretty in a sea green gown that added color to her eyes. These two latter ladies had not only spent the afternoon teaching the duchess dance steps but had also taken a hand in her dressing. The duke, who was neither blind nor dead, would likely have an apoplexy at sight of his wife’s low-cut bodice, which was perhaps their intent.
Justin caught his first glimpse of his duchess as Nigel escorted her off the dance floor. He blanched. Any lower, and her bodice would reveal the top of her nipples. He hoped she would not bend over.
In the next second, he hoped she would. “Good God,” he said.
“I thought you would not like it,” Mr. Melchers remarked. “You may blame Magda, if you like.”
Magda shook her head at him. “You are grown a dull stick, Saint. I tell you, bosoms are all the rage. Mais non, you must not abuse me in front of all these people! Recall that yours is a great romance.”
Perhaps instead of Gus he would shake Magda till the teeth rattled in her head. Or better yet his wife. Justin had believed he could trust Elizabeth, at least, to behave with good sense. Clearly he had been mistaken. And mistaken as well in following Nigel’s advice (based on that gentleman’s experience with his sisters) about leaving the ladies wanting more, about which he had already been skeptical, because he’d seen no indication Elizabeth wanted anything from him at all.
“Here is our duchess, safe and sound,” said Nigel, as he joined them. “Someone might have warned me it was her first dance. No, don’t apologize: I shan’t miss the use of that small toe. Now she is going to assure you that no one’s ate your bird, Aunt Syb.”
“I do not know why anyone would want to eat her. She is old and tough.” Lady Ysabella cast Mr. Melchers a languishing glance and fluttered her jewel-inlaid fan. “Alas, to lose the succulence of youth is the sad fate of all things.”
Conor languished right back at her. “Ah, but age is the best teacher of youth. If you will pretend to be old, Lady Ysabella, I will pretend to be a lad.”
Augusta snorted at this nonsense. “That bird is spoiled. Elizabeth had the creature at the breakfast table, and it sleeps with her at night.”
Came a brief pause in the conversation while his companions mulled over the duchess’s sleeping arrangements, and Justin pasted an impassive expression on his face. “In point of fact,” said Elizabeth, “Birdie sleeps with one of the maids. I was remarking to Nigel how well Augusta looks tonight.”
“That’s when she stepped on me,” offered Nigel. “I was so struck by the notion of Gus looking less than waspish that I failed to pay attention to my feet.”
“Shame on you. Gus does look well. You will dance with her,” decreed Lady Syb. “Conor, you may partner Magda. Saint, fetch me some tea. Indulge me in this, the lot of you. I mean to speak privately with Saint’s bride.”
No one argued with Lady Ysabella, particularly no one who figured prominently in her will. Therefore, Nigel bowed. Gingerly, Gus took his arm. With as much enthusiasm as if they went to meet Madame Guillotine, they stepped onto the dance floor. Magda and Mr. Melchers followed suit, albeit with less gloom. The duke went off to fetch Lady Isabella’s tea.
Elizabeth gazed after them. While Gus did indeed look well this evening, Nigel outshone her in a green coat and kerseymere smallclothes, frilled shirt, and lace ruffles, waistcoat of pale pink silk with an overall pattern in rose, lace cravat tied in a design of his own devising, with ends floating free, and fastened by a diamond pin. “Nigel and Augusta make a handsome couple, do they not?”
“Nigel can’t afford her. Do sit down, before I get a crick in my neck from gawking up at you.” As Elizabeth settled on a chair, Lady Ysabella observed the crowd. “Hopeful mamas bring their daughters to public places like Bath to find themselves a husband. You already have one, lucky girl. Unlike poor Gus, who is beyond her last prayers. I am tempted to take her in hand.”
Poor Gus, truly, in that case. Lady Ysabella had a different view of Bath than did Maman. Probably Lady Syb had different views on most matters. Elizabeth watched the dancers. What would it have been like to be raised by Nigel’s aunt? “Lady Augusta dances well.”
All manner of emotions could be wordlessly conveyed by the skillful manipulation of a fan. Lady Ysabella snapped hers shut. “Gus can do anything well, if she wishes. Unfortunately, she does not often wish. Let us return to you. It is my contention that all marriages would be better arranged by the Lord Chancellor than by the parties involved.”
Did Lady Ysabella think her unworthy of Charnwood? Elizabeth felt cross. “Are you now going to tell me how I must go on?”
Lady Ysabella raised her eyebrows. “Should I?”
“If you must,” muttered Elizabeth. “But I don’t promise it will do any good. Everyone is determined to preach and prose at me as if I were the greenest girl.”
“If the shoe pinches,” murmured Lady Ysabella. “One should never give advice to those who want it. Since you do not want it, probably I shall. To phrase it delicately, I hear there is a certain want of domestic comfort between you and St. Clair.”
Was she never to live down that blasted bloody nose? “It was an accident. I assure you, I am not prone to violence.”
Lady Ysabella waved a dismissive hand. “Pish tush! We are all prone to violence, given the right circumstance. Henry IV had during his lifetime some fifty-six mistresses, three of whom had been nuns. Smile at your husband, my dear! It will make a much better impression on the world.”
Elizabeth puzzled over these strange statements. Was she to believe the duke kept mistresses in the double digits? Or was she to be relieved that he had but one? Did he have a mistress, damn and blast the man?
Not surprisingly, these speculations made her even more cross. Elizabeth reminded herself that she was a duchess, and therefore might behave like one. “I will not discuss St. Clair. Nigel calls you Aunt Syb. Is that another of his nicknames?”
“A clever change of subject.” Lady Ysabella unfurled her fan. “Nigel has called me Syb ever since he was an infant and couldn’t pronounce my name. He was a dreadful scamp. Still is, for that matter. I quite dote on him.”
Mr. Slyte also doted on his aunt, for all he said to the contrary. People, Elizabeth decided, were altogether strange. Nigel bemoaned his Aunt Syb’s whimsies and doted on her at the same time. St. Clair lamented Magda’s arrival, yet made no move to oust her from his house.
“Is it true that Birdie has had her portrait painted?” she asked.
Gracefully, Lady Ysabella accepted this change of subject. She was still speaking of the macaw’s colorful history when Nigel escaped the dance floor. “What have you done with Augusta, you scamp?”
“A hornet remains a hornet, no matter what you call it,” Nigel retorted, as the duke presented Lady Ysabella with her tea. “I left her speaking with Melchers. I wouldn’t be surprised if she persuades him to stake her to a game.”
“Don’t look so bloodthirsty,” Lady Ysabella scolded the duke, while Elizabeth reflected that Augusta was less particular about who she rubbed elbows with when it came to playing cards. “Conor won’t oblige her. Gus is hardly in his style. Go fetch him to me, Nigel. I’m of a mind to be entertained by gossip about our mutual acquaintances. Then you will dance with Magda. Saint, it’s past time you paid some attention to your wife.” She patted the duke’s cheek, and drew him closer to speak softly in his ear.
Nigel winked at Elizabeth. “Saint ain’t stiff-rumped by nature. He came into the title so young he had to act top-lofty to be taken seriously, and he’s got in the habit of it now. You’ll do us all a favor if you can persuade him there is more to life than duty and responsibility. I’ve tried, but he don’t take me seriously.”
Elizabeth’s husband would dislike being talked about like this. As he gave every indication of disliking what Lady Syb murmured to him now. “I suspect you don’t want anyone to take you seriously, Mr. Slyte.”
“Ah, you have learned my secret, Duchess. I beg you will it to yourself. It would be beyond embarrassing were word to get out.” Nigel flinched as his aunt snapped shut her fan. “I’m going!” he said, and went.
The duke felt as if he were still in the schoolroom. So strong a peal had Lady Syb rung over him that his ears still burned. Before she could prod him with her fan, he approached his wife and bowed. Prettily, Elizabeth curtsied, but didn’t meet his eye.
Why wouldn’t she look at him? Must he stand on his head? Justin reined in his temper and led her out onto the floor. It was hardly Elizabeth’s fault that Lady Syb had seen
fit to read him a scold.
Nor was it her fault she had worn that shocking dress. He recognized Magda’s work. He glanced at his wife’s neckline—though he tried not to—and wondered how she would feel about having her nipples rouged. Although he hadn’t yet seen her nipples. Perhaps they were so pink and perky that they had no need of rouge. Perhaps if they weren’t rouged, she would let him rouge them for her. The duke gritted his teeth.
If his drawing room was hardly a fit setting for such musings, the Assembly Rooms were ten times worse. Justin searched for something to converse about other than nipples, rouged or no.
He could hardly tell Elizabeth he wished she would not display to the world charms that he had not yet discovered. She would be startled by this dog-in-the-manger attitude. Justin was startled by it himself. Even in his youth he had not been bit by the green-eyed monster. Maybe this sudden surliness was due to the frustration attendant upon his failure to bed his bride. Prolonged abstinence was unhealthy for a man.
There could be no other cause for his condition. Justin had no time for the gentler emotions, in the normal way of things. His first marriage had been made for love, or what he had believed was love at the time, and never had he been guilty of a more ill-considered act. Abruptly he said, “I have not seen that dress before.”
Elizabeth was gratified. St. Clair had noticed what she wore. However, he did not seem to approve the garment, because he was glowering at her. It was unfair, that glower; if the duke had a mistress, he would have seen her in costumes more shocking than this.
Did St. Clair have a mistress? According to Maman, most men demanded carnal relations daily. Yet the duke did not seem to be suffering from a lack of marital privilege. Or maybe that lack was what caused him to wear that stern expression. “Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured, and concentrated on the movements of the dance.
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