Love Match

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Love Match Page 16

by Maggie MacKeever


  The fire had burned low on the heath, the candles in their holders. Shadows lurked in the corners of the room. From one high-backed chair issued a gentle snore.

  Justin ground his teeth together. Even in his sanctuary, he was not to be left alone. He moved around the side of the chair, prepared to forcibly oust the invader. However, not one of his uninvited guests, but Elizabeth was sleeping there. In her lap dozed the black kitten. On the floor beside the chair lay an opened book. A somewhat naughty opened book, Justin discovered, as he tilted his head to read the title. She was full of surprises, this wife of his. She looked enchanting in her simple white dress, her hair coming unpinned.

  This dress, at least, met with his approval. It was high-necked and long-sleeved. Absurd to feel disappointed that he therefore could not view her bosom. Lord, he was in a sad condition. He should seek out a more accommodating female, and thereby relieve himself. But he wouldn’t. Justin reached out and touched his wife’s soft cheek.

  Abruptly, Elizabeth awakened. She had been dreaming of St. Clair, and was startled to see him standing by her chair. Had he stroked her cheek? Doubtless that gentle caress had existed only in her dream. “I waited to speak with you. I meant to wait awhile and read, but I must have dozed off instead.”

  Chivalrously, Justin refrained from commenting on the nature of the book which lay open on the floor. Elizabeth was deliciously disheveled. Lest he succumb to the temptation to take her onto his lap, Justin seated himself behind the writing desk.

  Elizabeth straightened. The kitten stirred and yawned, clambered down her skirts to the floor. She watched her pet make its unsteady way toward the desk, pausing en route to be delighted by the sight of its own tail. “Maman did not like felines. She said they are sneaky, and much too independent, and weave around one’s ankles deliberately to trip one up. I fear I am a gudgeon. Until Katy brought Minou back to me, I feared you had taken him away to drown him, or worse.”

  His bride had called herself a gudgeon. The duke was not disposed to disagree. He leaned down and scooped up the kitten, which was attempting valiantly to climb his boot, and leaving behind tiny needlelike scratches about which Thornaby would have a great deal to say. “If I’m to share my home with the wretched creature, it had to have a bath.” He deposited the inquisitive kitten on his desk. “Lord knows where it has been.”

  Were those scratches on St. Claire’s hands? Katy had said he bathed Minou himself. Now he was even tolerating the kitten’s fascination with his table globe.

  Elizabeth had misjudged her husband. She had behaved badly toward him as well, brandishing a fireplace poker at him as she had. On the other hand, he had brandished a pistol first. The house was quiet. She was intensely aware that they were alone together in the room.

  Justin was acutely aware of his wife, who was fidgeting in her chair. What did it matter if she had spoken to Conor Melchers, other than that he had said she should not? Of course she should not go against his wishes, no matter Lady Syb’s outrageous opinions on the subject, but the duke would not dwell upon such matters now. What the devil had inspired him to barricade himself behind this infernal desk? He hit upon the brandy decanter as a solution to his dilemma, and moved from behind the desk to pour them both a glass.

  Warily, Elizabeth accepted the brandy snifter. One of the reasons St. Clair had chosen to marry her was because she was a model of good breeding, or because he’d been told she was. Elizabeth admitted she hadn’t been behaving lately like a model of much of anything. Perhaps Sir Charles was correct, and she had given St. Clair a disgust of her, and that was why he hadn’t asserted his husbandly rights. But if he disliked her altogether, surely he wouldn’t have let her keep Minou?

  If she had given the duke a disgust, then she must make things right. Elizabeth had no intention that Sir Charles should take her home to Maman, and therefore she must somehow persuade St. Clair to make her his wife in truth. But how was she to accomplish that? Sir Charles had also said she should take off her clothes. In the library? Elizabeth chewed her lip.

  She was lovely in the candlelight. Justin longed to take her in his arms. Yes, and why should he not? After all, she was his wife. Therefore, he took her hand and drew her to her feet. “I wish that you would call me Justin. Why do you look startled? It is my name, after all.”

  So he was not altogether disgusted with her? “Thank you… Justin.” Would he kiss her now?

  If only he dared kiss her! But in this moment his bride trusted him a little, and Justin did not want to frighten her away. “We have had a great many misunderstandings between us. Permit me to clear up one of them. When I said I did not want my wife to associate with Conor Melchers, I did not refer to Magda. It has been a long time since I considered her anything but a curst nuisance.”

  Encouraged, Elizabeth ventured, “She is unconventional.”

  “Magda has an abominable inclination to meddle. If I may say so, as I should not, I say so to my wife, and nothing that we say or do together may be considered improper.” Ruefully, Justin smiled. Elizabeth’s eyes were opened wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked infinitely kissable.

  Well, then, he would kiss her. Surely he had sufficient self-control to kiss his bride without tossing up her skirts and making love to her on the writing desk. For that matter, why shouldn’t he make love to her on the writing desk? Elizabeth was his wife, and this was his house. He raised his hands to cup her pretty face, bent his head and—

  “Ah ça!” Magda said cheerfully, as she swept into the room. “I see I am de trop.”

  Thus was the moment was shattered. The duke released his current wife and reached for his brandy glass. His previous wife strolled in front of the fire, which outlined her figure nicely through the lace of her negligee, to lean against the writing desk. Her expression was amused.

  Elizabeth twisted her wedding ring on her finger. It seemed she was not of sufficient interest that her husband cared to embrace her—or continue to embrace her—in the presence of his former spouse, who felt so comfortable in his house that she wandered about the halls in attire even more provocative than the gowns she wore during the day.

  Magda looked very much at ease in the library. One suspected she had been in the room before. With St. Clair, no doubt. Elizabeth thought: a curst nuisance indeed.

  Lost in her own thoughts, she had not been paying attention to Minou. The kitten set the globe to twirling so madly that he became giddy and tumbled off the desk. “Bravo!” laughed Magda, and snatched up the kitchen in midair. “This little fellow has much improved since Conor gave him to you, n’est-ce pas, petite?”

  Chapter 20

  “Be not curious to know the affairs of others, neither approach those that speak in private.”

  —Lady Ratchett

  Sir Charles found his host at the breakfast table, sharing a rump steak pie with Birdie and a small black cat. Before his fascinated eyes, the parrot snatched up the last bit of the pie. The kitten spat, climbed into the duke’s plate, and began to lick it clean.

  This was the strangest household Sir Charles had ever visited. “Good morning, Charnwood,” he said, as a footman filled his plate with beef tongue and horseradish sauce, sausages and mashed potatoes, fresh bread and orange marmalade from among the selections on the sideboard.

  He sat down at the table. Birdie fluffed her feathers, leaned toward his plate, and quivered longingly. Justin snapped his fingers. “No more begging, you wretched creature, or you’ll go back into your cage.” Birdie fanned her tail at him and strutted along the table toward the centerpiece. The kitten, sides bulging with his portion of His Grace’s breakfast, pounced on the parrot’s tail. Birdie snapped her beak and squawked. The kitten hissed and fluffed up like a startled hedgehog.

  Ignoring them both, the duke turned to his companion. “I trust you slept well, Sir Charles.”

  “Marvelous well. And you?” Sir Charles bit into a sausage, paused midchew. In light of a recent conversation with his stepdaughter, this questi
on might not be politic. Charnwood looked as if he had not slept at all.

  As the duke refrained from comment on his nocturnal habits, the parrot ducked behind the centerpiece for all the world as if it was playing hide-and-seek. Nothing loath, the kitten pounced.

  The centerpiece tipped over, spilling fruit everywhere. The kitten chased after an apple. The parrot caught a bunch of grapes in one claw and began to dine. The duke dropped his head into his hands.

  The parrot, Sir Charles had already met. “A kitten?” he inquired.

  “Its name is Minou. Elizabeth brought it home. My wife is determined to acquire a zoo. We won’t speak of how she came by the kitten. Her mama would not approve any more than I do.”

  The duchess’s step-papa did not care to discuss her mama. Nor, in point of fact, did he care to discuss the matter that he must. There was nothing top-lofty about Charnwood now. Sir Charles was observing a man who had reached the end of his rope.

  He seized the moment. “Since we find ourselves private, I have a crow to pluck with you.”

  Justin didn’t know how private they might be in the midst of cats and birds and servants. “Thank you, William, James. We will serve ourselves.” The footmen bowed themselves out of the room. The duke caught the apple, and the kitten, before they tumbled to the floor. “Maybe you might pluck a parrot instead, Sir Charles.”

  Sir Charles studied the parrot. Birdie blinked one baleful yellow-rimmed eye, darted out her wicked beak, and snatched a sausage from his plate. He jumped. “By Jove!”

  “Unruffle yourself, Birdie. It was but a figure of speech.” The duke plopped the kitten back down on the table. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

  “It’s not that I wish to.” Sir Charles pushed his plate away. “Thing is, maybe I can help you out. Happens to all of us, you know. I’ve made a bit of a study of the matter myself.” He went on to speak knowledgeably about earth chestnut, and wild clary drunk with wine; black ants, deer genitals, raw oysters, and applications of camel fat. By the time Sir Charles had finished this little dissertation, the food had congealed on his plate, Minou had fallen asleep in the sugar pail, and Birdie was perched on the duke’s shoulder and grooming his hair.

  “I’ll say no more!” Sir Charles put down his napkin. “Other than that if I fetch Elizabeth home, my wife will ring me such a peal. You’ll see how that is, now you’re a tenant for life. Take my advice, and we’ll see matters fixed up all right and tight. Sometimes the ladies require us to make an effort, bless their hearts. Where are the ladies, by the by?”

  Justin wondered what his own lady had said to prompt her stepfather’s lecture. Perhaps he would feed her raw oysters and black ants. “They have gone out. I believe they intended to visit the Baths.”

  “Excellent notion!” Sir Charles pushed back his chair. Justin plucked Minou out of the sugar pail and nostalgically recalled his simple bachelor life.

  * * * *

  Madame de Chavannes, at that same moment, was enjoying a Bath Bun, a sweet rich roll to which raisins, chopped lemon peel, and almond nibs had been added before it was baked. “That was excellent!” she said, and brushed coarse sugar off her gloves. “Onward, ma chère! Did you know that during the Dark Ages, Bath was given the name ‘Akesmanceaster,’ which meant ‘sick man’s town’?”

  What Augusta knew was that Magda sought to distract her. Her devious companion contrived to send on vital information, but to whom? The Comte de Provence, marooned in exile, or the Due d’Engheim? Bonaparte? The Directoire? And what vital information had she unearthed here, the ingredients in a Bath Bun? Gus paused to peruse the window of a woolen merchant. “I’m surprised that Elizabeth didn’t accompany us today.”

  Would that Gus had proved equally reclusive! Magda suspected Saint’s cousin would follow her even into the slums of Avon Street. “Merde alors! Now you accuse poor Elizabeth of getting up to some intrigue. She probably stayed home to play with her new pet.”

  “I should never have let her go off alone with you.” The ladies promenaded briskly along a street of splendid shops, Augusta matching Magda step for step. “Conor Melchers, of all people! What were you thinking? The man is a libertine.”

  “Attractive, is he not?” Magda shot her companion a sideways, knowing glance. “Even you are drawn to him. Admit it, Gus.”

  Augusta snorted. “I am nothing of the sort. Why are you so set on leading poor Elizabeth astray?”

  Magda was relieved to see ahead of them the fretted pinnacles of Bath Abbey, the columned and pedimented colonnades of the Pump Room, the spacious paved courtyard where blue-coated sedan chair attendants awaited customers. “Mon Dieu, you grow protective. I thought you had no fondness for Saint’s new wife, Gus.”

  Lady Augusta paused to avoid a passing carriage, then hurried after her companion, who moved along as quickly as if she were engaged in a footrace. Or trying to outdistance someone.

  Gus wasn’t about to be outdistanced. “Elizabeth can’t be faulted for her courage. A cat, of all things. And Saint will let her keep it. Saint does not like cats. It is prodigious strange.”

  The Baths lay before them. Magda led Gus toward the dark entrance and—since this outing had been her notion, if not Augusta’s participation in it—paid the admission fees. “Not so strange as all that. Saint is trying to please his wife.”

  Augusta followed Magda into the steamy, dungeon-like dressing area, where a female attendant waited to help them into canvas bathing costumes. “Why?” she inquired as she stepped into the stiff petticoat. “He hasn’t tried to please anyone else that I can see. I still cannot decide why Saint married her. She’s not at all in his style. I mean— Look at you!” Difficult not to do so. A large amount of Magda’s person was currently on view.

  “It has been a long time since I was to Saint’s liking.” Magda thrust her arms into a brown linen jacket and waved away the bonnet that the attendant sought to put atop her head. “Tastes change, as you might discover for yourself, were you not so determined to be a thorn in your cousin’s side.”

  Augusta opened her mouth to protest this calumny; closed it as the attendant plopped the chip hat on her head. “I am not a thorn,” she said, when the woman was done with her. “And if I am, it is because there are so many restrictions placed on an unmarried woman that it makes me cross. It is different for you. As a widow you may do as you please.”

  The ladies stepped out into the sunlight. On one side of the huge cistern, a colonnaded covering protected the bathers from the weather. Spectators and friends of the bathers lounged along the sides of the bath or on the gallery above. Several women sat in a semicircle near the bar, cup and saucer in either hand, listening to the musicians play. Nearby were chambers in which a patient might immerse the afflicted portion of his body in hot water right out of a pump; and a steaming room where direct injections were administered in the belief that they were of service in violent intestinal complaints. In a recessed niche stood a statue of King Bladud, erected in 1699.

  “It is not that the world permits me to do as I please,” Magda said, as she plunged a foot into the water, “but that I do it anyway. Imagine what this was like in Roman times. The bathing ritual lasted for hours. Everyone from military generals to shopkeepers mingling freely in the waters and conversing, playing games, relaxing. Traders displaying their wares, everything from fresh fruits to fine jewelry.”

  Lady Augusta surveyed her fellow bathers. Rheumatics, gout sufferers, people afflicted with rampant eczema and other unsightly skin diseases; fat women, thin women, obese and skinny men, all milling about and splashing each other and having a marvelous good time in the bath. The excessively hot bath, which she was sharing with them. At least they hadn’t brought along their livestock. “I hope the water has been changed since then. It doesn’t smell much better than it tastes. I suppose those little floating copper bowls filled with scented oils and pomades are an attempt to purify the air.” Gus couldn’t help her instinctive distrust of water that spr
ang out of the earth already boiled for use.

  Magda glanced over her shoulder. “The baths are constantly fed by hot water springs that start beneath the earth. But you must avoid the Cross Bath, ma chère. They say women become pregnant after bathing there.”

  Augusta grimaced. Magda was teasing her again. She returned to the primary source of her annoyance. “Justin is a man, and can do anything he likes. I would give anything to have the freedom of a man.”

  Magda would have liked to have her own freedom, especially from Gus. She waded through the crowd. “Olympe de Gouge was a French butcher’s daughter who believed women should have the same rights as men. The National Convention escorted her to the guillotine. On what charge, you ask? Treason, naturellement.”

  Gus wondered if it was treasonous to want control of her life. Justin would believe so, at any rate. She dared not provoke her cousin further, not without some good reason, if she wanted to keep her allowance and a roof over her head, which was why she had thus far, and with a heroic self-control, avoided the gaming clubs.

  Men and women were strolling around together in the baths. If in theory the sexes weren’t supposed to mingle, mingle higgledy-piggledy they did, laughing and chatting in water that rose up to their necks. The men wore stiff canvas robes. The ladies’ costumes were amazingly unbecoming. Some women had attached handkerchiefs to their bonnets in an attempt to blot away the perspiration that trickled down her cheeks.

  Augusta dabbed at her own forehead. She had said she’d never go into the baths. She should have listened to herself. Amid the rabble—Gus’s social consciousness hadn’t been elevated one whit by the recent troubles in France—she glimpsed a familiar face. “Magda! There is that Frenchman who follows you around.”

 

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