Love Match

by Maggie MacKeever

  So much for doing the pretty. Justin had hoped his wife might be pleased by his comment on her dress, might even favor him with one of her smiles. Instead, she displayed no gratitude whatsoever. Nor did she seem the least bit embarrassed by that revealing neckline.

  Already she grew wise in the ways of the world. He would not tolerate it. If anyone were to rip away the veils of his bride’s innocence, it would be Justin himself.

  He could hardly do so in the middle of the Assembly Rooms, however. He must be cool and self-controlled. “I understand that you spent some time in conversation with Melchers. Apparently I failed to make it clear that I do not find the man fit to associate with my wife.”

  First he ignored her, next he glowered, now he scolded. “Which wife might that be?” Elizabeth icily inquired.

  Chapter 15

  “A gentleman’s right to chastise his wife is indisputable.”—Lady Ratchett

  The fire was burning, the candles lit, robe and slippers laid out neatly. The duke’s dressing room was quite cheerful, until the duke arrived. One peek at that irate visage was sufficient to alert Thornaby that the duchess’s dance lessons hadn’t achieved the result he’d hoped.

  Discreetly, he inspected the ducal shoes. Definitely he must invest in pumice stone. Treacle and ivory black, to boot. He smiled at his unintentional witticism. ‘To boot.’

  Justin was annoyed to see his valet so cheerful. “What do you find humorous?” he snapped.

  “Nothing, Your Grace.” Thornaby suspected Lord Charnwood would find no amusement in the condition of his shoes. Lord Charnwood wasn’t in a frame of mind to find humor in much of anything, which didn’t bode well for a certain wager. Thornaby helped his master out of his coat.

  “Damned right,” muttered Justin, though he would have rather argued. However, it would be shabby in him to pick a quarrel with his valet, because Thornaby wouldn’t dare fight back. Such familiarity would be opposed the valet’s notions of what was proper and what was not. Did a note of censure pass his lips, the man would probably go out and hang himself.

  Justin deserved more than a note of censure. He was behaving badly. Lady Syb had said so, emphatically. “You are as busy as the devil in a high wind. Stop fussing, Thornaby.”

  Thornaby had indeed been fussing, rather as if he were a trainer preparing his boxer to step into the ring. Unlikely that the duke would appreciate the analogy. At least he had managed to wrestle his master’s jacket off him, his waistcoat and cravat.

  The valet got no further. His efforts were interrupted by a noise from the next room. The duke scowled ferociously and strode toward the door.

  The knob moved beneath his hand, but the door refused to open. He pushed. Still the portal remained firmly closed. “Thornaby, this door is locked,” he said, through gritted teeth.

  Thornaby tried the handle. “It seems to be, Your Grace. Mayhap you should knock?”

  Justin would be boiled in oil before he knocked on the door of his own wife’s bedroom. “Do I have a key?”

  Thornaby couldn’t decide who was the biggest pigwidgeon, the duchess or the duke. “I believe the key is in the duchess’s bedroom, Your Grace.”

  Of course the key was not in the duchess’s bedroom, else the duchess would not have been able to lock him out. Justin put his shoulder to the door, and shoved. The heavy door budged not an inch. “Bring me my pistols, Thornaby.”

  The valet’s question was thereby answered. The duke was the biggest pigeonhead. The duchess had but locked the bedroom door, which if not particularly intelligent of her, was hardly a hanging offense. “Mayhap you might wish to reconsider, Your Grace.”

  “What I wish to do is throttle someone, and you are close to hand.” Justin bared his teeth. “The pistols, and be quick about it, man!”

  Thornaby did not want to be throttled. He fetched the weapons out of the drawer where they resided, and opened the brass-bound mahogany case. On the green baize lining rested a pair of fine flintlock dueling pistols with beautifully executed gold inlay on the blued locks, elegant French-style cocks, and browned Damascus barrels. The priming pans and touch holes were also covered in gold. Since the pistols had been made by Joe Manton, they featured such innovations as hydraulic barrel testers, fast-firing recessed birches, and trigger springs.

  Expertly, Justin dealt with powder and ball. “Oh, Your Grace!” Thornaby moaned.

  “Swoon and you’re dismissed. Without a reference.” The duke approached the closed portal.

  Thornaby didn’t swoon. Nor did he tell his master that he was behaving like a loony, though that was what he thought. A valet must have quiet unobtrusive manners, and employ delicacy when speaking of and to the gentleman he served.

  The duke raised his pistol. “Elizabeth! Stand away from the door.”

  A voice responded from the bedroom “What?”

  Justin sighted down the barrel of his pistol. “Stand away from the door. Either that or open it. If you have not opened it by the count of three, I am going to shoot off the lock. One. Two—”

  The door swung inward. Elizabeth stood framed in the opening, still wearing her evening gown. Daphne had managed to accomplish even less than Thornaby in the matter of disrobing, due to no lack of effort but because her mistress wouldn’t hold still. Elizabeth wasn’t fidgeting now. Her face was pale.

  Justin walked into the bedroom. “How dare you lock the door against your husband?” he inquired.

  Lock the door? Elizabeth blinked. Someone might have warned her that her bridegroom was prone to go off in odd humors. “I didn’t lock the door. I dislike locked doors. It must have gotten stuck.” Or maybe it hadn’t, and St. Clair had just sought an excuse to wave his weapon around.

  Had the door been simply stuck, Justin was making a jack pudding of himself. That realization didn’t improve his temper. “Where is the key, madam?”

  Elizabeth looked blank. Her maidservant scurried to fetch the key from the mantelpiece, and presented it to him.

  Justin took the key from her and gestured with the pistol. “You. Leave.”

  Abandon her mistress? Daphne contemplated the duke’s half-buttoned shirt and skin-tight breeches, his disheveled hair and the gleam in his eye, and recalled the wager yet to be won. She curtsied and departed, her imagination awhirl with sultans and harems, and the odd circumstance that the concubine selected for the evening’s pleasure entered the sultan’s bedchamber and crawled under the covers from the foot of the bed.

  The duke frowned at his duchess, who still wore that accursed gown. He placed the key in his pocket and slammed shut the dressing room door. “Now you will tell me, madam, why I shouldn’t mind that Conor Melchers flirts with you.”

  One should remain calm when faced with a madman, Elizabeth told herself. She had never met a madman before, but St. Clair must surely qualify. “What makes you think Mr. Melchers was flirting with me?” she asked.

  “He flirts with everyone!” snapped Justin. “The man is a curst menace. He even tries his hand with Lady Syb.”

  Elizabeth was briefly distracted. “Lady Syb?”

  Justin was also distracted. The bedroom was welcoming. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece. A fire burned in the hearth. The counterpane was folded back as if inviting him into the great mahogany bed.

  He glanced from the bed back to his wife, who was staring at him as if he were a madman. “Is that pistol loaded?” she inquired.

  Justin realized he was still holding the pistol. He placed it on the writing desk. Lady Syb had been right to scold him. He had lost control of both his temper and his emotions. “Turn around.”

  Looking bewildered, Elizabeth obeyed. Justin busied himself with the fastenings of her gown. How could he have ever found her but passably pretty? Half the bucks in Bath had been tripping over their shoelaces for a glimpse of her smile tonight.

  Or, rather, her cleavage. “I suppose I needn’t ask how you came by that dress.”

  Elizabeth clutched her bodice tightly to her. “Ma
gda vowed it was the thing.”

  Justin heard his wife’s voice tremble. She was not entirely indifferent to him, then. “I dislike you making a display of yourself,” he said, as he pushed the fabric from her shoulders. And lovely shoulders they were. If only Elizabeth would let go of that gown she was clutching for dear life.

  If he did not want her to make a display of herself, why was he taking off her dress? There was no question of it: he was taking off her dress. “It has grown quite warm in here,” Elizabeth squeaked, and bit her lip.

  Justin’s fingers slid over her bare shoulders, lingered on her neck. The muscles were tight, which shouldn’t have surprised him; she was unaccustomed to being touched. And now he was touching her, as was his husbandly privilege, and it shouldn’t matter to him if she craved his touch or not.

  But it did matter. In an attempt at self-control, Justin bit his own lip. A hair shirt might have been more effective. Mortification of the flesh. The flesh not proving cooperative, he removed his hand from his wife’s smooth skin and thought grimly of sackcloth and ashes and beds of nails.

  The duke was staring. Elizabeth could feel his eyes on her, even though her back was turned. Her skin prickled where he’d touched her. She wanted him to touch her more. It was most improper in her. She couldn’t help but wonder how many gowns he had unfastened, to acquire such a degree of skill.

  Justin swung his duchess round to face him. Her bare flesh was soft beneath his hands. Her cheeks were pink.

  Mere thought of carnal matters was sinful, according to Maman. Elizabeth must be a sinner, then, because she could not stop herself from thinking about the conjugal bed. Would the duke kiss her now? How disconcerting to be standing half undressed in the middle of the bedroom, trying to guess what might happen next.

  Her skin was warm and silky, her brown eyes opened wide. What had they been discussing? Ah, that blasted dress. Justin pried her fingers off the fabric, and let it tall to the floor. “For Magda to make a vulgar display of herself is one thing. You, however, are my wife.”

  Elizabeth was confused. If he was still talking about that dratted dress, she had thought it vulgar herself. But if he was talking about the exhibition she currently was making, standing in the bedroom with said dress down around her ankles, it had not been her idea to disrobe. Not that she was any more uncovered than she had been previously, because she still wore her petticoat and stays and most especially her chemise. According to Maman, a chemise was the defining sign of a lady’s delicacy, a pledge of honor that sheltered her from unsanctioned eyes. Blast Maman, anyway. And blast St. Clair. “Why did you marry me?” Elizabeth demanded.

  Justin surveyed his wife’s shapely body, and marveled that so slender a damsel should feel the need of stays. Maman’s influence, he guessed. Yes, and how was he to get her out of those stays without scaring her witless? A maiden with delicate sensibilities must be gently treated, lest she be given an eternal disgust of the marriage bed, which would be a pity, because he intended to spend a great deal of time in that bed with her, and not just for the purpose of setting up his nursery.

  Why had he married her? The question was impertinent, irrelevant, and unanswerable. “I do not immediately perceive what that has to do with anything. It is not something with which you need to be concern.”

  Elizabeth stepped away from him. “I suppose I also not need concern myself that you and Magda eloped to Gretna Green.”

  Justin reminded himself to strangle his cousin. “I fail to see what that signifies. We were young and foolish. I would not marry for love again.” He realized from his bride’s expression that this had not been a wise choice of words. “People of our class wed for social advancement, security, wealth. You know that, Elizabeth.”

  So she did. It was the way of their world. Elizabeth had married for social advancement—or Maman had—and St. Clair had married for wealth. Men of stature with dwindling fortunes frequently sought to revive their estates by marrying women of fortune, even women of lower social rank. Not that she had seen any indication that St. Clair’s fortunes were on the dwindle. And not that this was not the answer she had wished to hear. “Fustian!” she said.

  A good biddable girl with a proper way of thinking, Justin reminded himself. He had been promised a comfortable little wife. In this particular moment his good, biddable wife was glaring at him as though she might turn him to stone. Perhaps this was an instance where action would prove more effective than words. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Elizabeth cried out, and beat at him with her fists.

  It was to no avail. St. Clair was the stronger. He dumped his bride on the pillows and held her down while he went work on the corset strings. The corset was quickly discarded, along with her petticoat, leaving her in her chemise. Elizabeth did not wish to give up her chemise. He caught her hands before she could box his ears.

  Justin paused to compose himself. He was not displaying a great deal of finesse. In point of fact, he was displaying none at all. Nor was he likely to, if Elizabeth didn’t cease writhing about on the bed.

  Her cheeks were pink, her bosom heaved, her hair was coming unpinned. She looked deliciously abandoned, save for her expression, which was mutinous. “My dear,” said Justin. “I do not want us to live like cats and dogs.”

  Not? In that case, what was he doing with mistresses and ex-wives and cousins strewn all about the house? The duke wasn’t bored now, at any rate. His expression was not toplofty, nor his countenance stern. Informality suited him; tousled hair, unbuttoned shirt, bared chest. Her gaze lingered on the latter. Unfair that he should tempt her so.

  Yet, why should he not tempt her? Were they not man and wife? Hard to remain coherent when held so close to him. “You are squashing me. Do you have a mistress?” Elizabeth asked.

  Justin was so startled he released her. Elizabeth grabbed the counterpane and scrambled off the bed. He propped himself up on one elbow. “What did you ask me?”

  Now that she had escaped the bed, Elizabeth wished she were back in it. St. Clair must be the most disturbing man in the entire world. With as much dignity as she could command, she wrapped herself in the counterpane. “I asked if you had a mistress. An inamorata. A petite amie. I daresay you know the meaning of the terms.”

  Of course the duke knew the meaning of the terms. However, his duchess should not. He didn’t know how to properly respond to her question, because naturally he had a mistress, though he hadn’t thought of her in a prodigious long time. “I’m shocked that you would ask me such a thing.”

  He hadn’t denied the accusation. Though it was not more than she had expected, Elizabeth’s heart sank down to her toes. “Lady Ysabella made a reference to Henry IV. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to tell me something or not.”

  As Justin recalled matters, his wife wasn’t to bother him with nonsensical notions. Her mama had said so. Elizabeth was supposed to be the sunny-tempered epitome of good sense. Not that Justin was displaying much good sense himself at the moment, or a sunny temper. He leaned back on the pillows. “Ah, the fifty-six mistresses. You may make yourself easy on that head. Come here, Elizabeth. I promise you I have never debauched a nun.”

  Nor was he going to debauch her. Elizabeth was no longer in the mood. She retreated to the fireplace, and picked up a poker. “I don’t think so.”

  How had things come to this pass? Justin supposed he could hardly blame his bride for arming herself with a fireplace poker when he had threatened her with a gun. He could disarm her easily enough, but to what end? Was he to chase her around the room yelling “Stop! Stay! Lie down! Roll over!” as if she were a hound? “I cannot do this,” he said, and got up from the bed.

  Elizabeth had been prepared to defend her virtue, or pretend to defend her virtue, which even she realized was a matter of cutting off her nose to be revenged of her face. She watched as her husband picked up his dueling pistol. That stern expression had returned.

  He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the doo
r key. Elizabeth took a firmer grip on the poker. “Are you going to lock me in?”

  Where did the girl get her nonsensical notions? Justin inquired, “Why should I do that?” She flushed, and stared at the floor.

  Elizabeth’s Maman had a great deal for which to answer. Perhaps Justin would throttle her. He tossed his wife the key. In catching it, she dropped the coverlet. Quickly, she snatched the fabric up, her cheeks aflame.

  She was charmingly innocent. Justin preferred she remain so. Rather than allowing reprobates to flirt with her and ogle her bosom. No question but that Conor Melchers had ogled her bosom. Only a eunuch would have failed to ogle her bosom, and Melchers was anything but that.

  It would be a cold day in the nether regions before Melchers gaped at her bosom again, had Justin anything to do with the matter. “Conor Melchers is a roué. A man of convenient morals. A libertine. I trust I have made myself clear. We will not speak of this again.”

  Elizabeth understood that her husband had climbed back up on his high ropes, and also that he had got the cart before the horse. She thrust out her chin.

  Did she deliberately set out to both madden and unman him? Justin swung on his heel and walked out of the room. With unnecessary force, he closed the door.

  “Damnation!” muttered the duchess, as she sank down on the footstool. A certain want of domestic comfort, indeed.

  Chapter 16

  “A cut is only excusable when a gentleman persists in bowing whose acquaintance a lady does not wish to keep up.”—Lady Ratchett

  It was clear to every member of the staff from Chislett to the boot boy that all was not le couleur de rose between the Duke of Charnwood and his bride. Startling enough that St. Clair and his duchess had as yet failed to share the bridal bed; now it seemed they could scarce bear to be in the same room. Therefore, when Madame de Chavannes suggested a country outing, no one was especially surprised St. Clair excused himself on the pretext of having urgent business elsewhere.