When the Duke Returns

by Eloisa James

  Of course, the wild pirate would overcome the delicate flower’s resistance. The key was to pretend not to enjoy it.

  Or perhaps the key was to be afraid?

  Simeon wasn’t mad. And she had a fair idea that he truly was capable in bed. He was dressed oddly. But he looked male. In fact the very idea of him without clothes made her feel the opposite of frightened.

  She got out of the bath and picked up the toweling cloth left for her by Lucille. All she had to do was flirt with him until he took some liberties. Then she would launch into a version of the fragile English rose, and, she hoped, he would revert to wild pirate, and all her worries would be resolved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gore House, Kensington

  London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont

  February 29, 1784

  “What would you like to do this evening?” Jemma looked down the table at her husband. “We’ve been invited to Lady Feddrington’s soirée in honor of the visit of the Prussian prince, Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick; or there is a musicale given by Lady Cholmondelay; and of course there’s the performance of As You Like It that we discussed last week, in which all the women’s parts are played by boys.”

  Elijah put down his napkin and stood up, walking around the long table to Jemma. She looked up at him inquiringly. He looked somewhat better than he had before eating: he was too young to look so bone-tired.

  “I am in no mood to watch boys prance about the stage,” he said, taking her arm to bring her to her feet, “but I should be happy to escort you to either of the other events.”

  Jemma blinked at him. She fully expected him to say that he had to work. To read those documents that he was always reading, even at the supper table. “You mean—”

  He held out his arm. “I have decided not to work in the evenings. I am at your command, duchess.”

  “Oh,” Jemma said, rather uncertainly.

  They strolled toward the drawing room. “I suppose the soirée,” Jemma said, deciding. “I should like to dance.” She was wearing a new dress, a delicious gown of figured pale yellow satin with a pattern of tiny green leaves. Her skirts were trimmed with double flounces and rather shorter than in the previous year.

  Elijah looked down at her with a smile in his eyes.

  “Yes, I am wearing a new gown and I should like to show it off,” she told him, thinking that there were nice aspects to having been married so long.

  “The hem reveals a delectable bit of your slipper,” he said gravely.

  “You noticed!” She stuck out her toe. She wore yellow slippers with very high heels, ornamented with a cunning little rose.

  “Yellow roses,” he said, “are not nearly as rare as a perfect ankle like yours, Jemma.”

  “Good lord,” she said, smiling at him. “It must be a blue moon. You’re complimenting your wife. Let me find my fan and my knotting bag—”

  Fowle handed them to her.

  “What a lovely fan,” Elijah said, taking it from her. “What is the imagery?”

  “I hadn’t looked closely,” she said, turning away so that Fowle could help her with her cloak.

  “Venus and Adonis…and a very lovely rendition as well.”

  She came back and stood on tiptoe to see the fan, which he had spread before him. “Oh, I see. Yes, there is Venus. My goodness.”

  “She seems to be pulling poor Adonis into the bushes,” Elijah said. She loved the dry humor he displayed when he wasn’t acting like a hidebound and moralistic politician. “Look at her breasts! No wonder the poor lad looks frightened and titillated, all at once. A tantalizing bit of art, this.”

  “Surely you don’t approve?” she said. “You, the proper politician?”

  “No Venus has offered to pull me into the bushes, so I could hardly say.” He closed the fan. “Where on earth did it come from, Jemma? You didn’t purchase the piece without looking at the illustration?” Fowle threw a cloak around his shoulders.

  “Fans are a popular gift at the moment,” Jemma said. “This came from Villiers. He gave it to me a few days ago.”

  “I didn’t know he paid you a visit.”

  Jemma felt a strange qualm. It was all so difficult, having her husband’s boyhood friend trying to seduce her. “He came by to tell me of the strange doings of the Duke of Cosway.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Elijah toss the fan dismissively toward one of the footmen. Of course, that left her without a fan for the evening. No one was ever without a fan. But she could say that she left it in the carriage.

  She climbed into the carriage and sank into the corner, suddenly struck by a profound realization. It was too late for Villiers, fan or no. She would never drag him into the bushes. When she first returned from France, she was so angry with Elijah that she thought to have an affaire with Villiers, but he had refused her.

  And now, now that Villiers had changed his mind…it was too late.

  Elijah had kissed her a few weeks ago. He had kissed her twice, actually. It was absurd, it was deluded. She was riveted by the memory of those kisses.

  He was her first, her only husband, her…

  Whatever he was to her.

  The truth was that she was infatuated. She spent her afternoons in the library, waiting for him to return from the House of Lords. She secretly read all the papers so that she could engage in clever conversation about the events of the day. She thrilled when reading accounts of his speeches, and trembled when he set out in the morning on a day that included a talk before Parliament.

  Not that he knew it, of course.

  She would rather die of humiliation than let her husband know that she was infatuated by him.

  She kept telling herself that Elijah never bothered to come to Paris to bring her home when she had fled there as a young bride. She kept reminding herself of his mistress, but somehow she had lost her rage, or perhaps her enthusiasm for that rage.

  It was gone, tucked away in a faded box of memories. And the only clear thing she knew about her marriage was that she was married to a man who was so beautiful, with his sharp cheekbones and English grace, his tall, strong body and intelligent eyes—so beautiful that she would do anything to lure him back to her bed.

  She was aware, while dressing, while putting on lip rouge, while putting on her shoes, that she was playing the most serious game of her life. He had to come to her. She could not chase him, beg him, or by any means at her disposal make it clear that he was welcome to her person…to her heart.

  Though he was.

  It wouldn’t work, not for life.

  She wanted Elijah—not the way she had him when they were first married, not with the genial affection and enthusiasm he showed for their awkward couplings. She wanted him, the Duke of Beaumont, one of the most powerful men in government, at her feet.

  And she wouldn’t settle for less.

  Villiers would be useful in her campaign. He and Elijah had been childhood friends and were now estranged. Good. She would use him. She would use any man in London who asked her to dance, if it would fan a spark of jealousy in her husband’s civilized heart.

  But it wasn’t jealousy that could do it. It was she: she had to be more witty, more beautiful, more desirable than she ever had been.

  Elijah was seated in the opposite corner of the carriage, looking absently out of the window. As always, his wig was immaculate and discreet. Not for the Duke of Beaumont were pyramids of scented curls or immovable rolls perched on top of frizzled locks. He wore a simple, short-cut wig with curls so small they hardly deserved the label.

  Underneath, she knew, he had his hair clipped close to his skull. It was a style that would destroy the appeal of almost every man. But on Elijah it brought into focus his cheekbones and the gaunt, courteous, restrained masculinity of him.

  By the time they arrived at Lady Feddrington’s soirée, the receiving line had broken up and the ballroom was crowded. They stood for a moment at the top of the steps leading down into the room.

&n
bsp; “It’s a bit overwhelming,” Elijah murmured. “How on earth do you ladies manage to move about a room like this, given the width of your panniers?”

  Jemma smiled at him. “’Tis only the unfashionable who have very wide panniers this season. Look at myself, for instance.”

  He looked, and she felt his glance as if it were a touch. Not that she showed it. She had spent years in the court of Versailles; if those years had taught her anything, it was that she should never reveal vulnerability.

  “Your skirts look as wide as a barnyard door,” he said to her. But she saw the laughter in his grave eyes. He needed to laugh more.

  She met his eyes with the kind of smile that told a man she liked him. It felt odd to give it to her husband. “Narrower than many,” she told him.

  “I’m sure you are precisely à la mode,” he said, taking her arm again. “Shall we?”

  They reached the bottom of the steps just as the first notes of a minuet sounded. “Would you like to dance?” he asked her. “I realize it is a great faux pas to dance with one’s husband, but you could always say that you got it out of the way.”

  She looked up at him and had to swallow because of the beauty of his eyes. She put her hand in his. “You do me too much honor.”

  He bowed before her as the music continued, and they moved smoothly, together, into the steps of the dance. It separated them; she felt it as a physical ache.

  It brought them back together; she was afraid that her pleasure showed too much in her eyes, and she refused to look at his face. “Look!” she cried, her voice witless, “there’s Lady Piddleton, dancing with Saint Albans. He must be gathering material…he is always so cruel about her.”

  Elijah didn’t reply. When she stole a look at him, he met her eyes and there was something there.

  Surely he would speak to her. Kiss her again. Tell her…

  The dance ended and he bowed. Saint Albans was at her right elbow, her friend Lord Corbin at her left. Lord Sosney walked up with Lord Killigrew, veritably shouting over the din, “Duchess!”

  She caught Elijah’s eye for a moment, but he turned away.

  And she turned away.

  A chess player never shows the moment when she realizes that she might lose a game. That the board has turned against her; the black pieces are clustered for attack. The very best chess players revel in the chance to save themselves.

  Jemma reminded herself that she was the very best.

  She turned, laughing, to Lord Corbin, holding out her gloved hand to be kissed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Dower House

  February 29, 1784

  The table gleamed softly with old silver. Honeydew had conveyed Mrs. Bullock’s promise that the food would be exquisite. The butler referred darkly to some exigencies in the recent past, but Isidore did not inquire further. She found that a combination of blissful ignorance and high expectations was the best policy when it came to household problems.

  She was dressed in an informal open gown of the finest wine-dark silk. The overskirts pulled back into great loops of nearly transparent fabric, tied by forest green knots of silk. It was an unusual and charming garment—and perhaps most importantly, the bodice was cut extremely low.

  There was quite a lot of Isidore in the chest area. She generally viewed this feature dispassionately, as an attribute that made certain corsets impossible, and others very uncomfortable. But she wasn’t blind to how much men liked to be presented with abundance; if Cosway turned out to be someone enchanted by an expanse of flesh that would suit a worthy milk cow, Isidore was just the right one to enchant him.

  In fact, she thought she had the virginal male fantasy in play. Breasts barely covered, with light, billowing skirts that appeared easy to remove, check. Unpowdered hair piled in loose curls, check. Just a touch of haunting perfume—the sort that smelled clean and innocent rather than French and seductive—check and mate.

  Years of assessing male attraction were coming in quite useful. She thought it was quite likely that the duke, her husband, would experience her femininity like a bolt of lightning.

  There was only one thing she didn’t envision.

  Two males appeared at the door. Make that two virgins. And when they both walked in her front door, Simeon bending his head slightly so as not to strike his forehead on the lintel, it was his little brother Godfrey who looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. He stopped short and Simeon walked straight into him.

  His mouth fell open. Strange noises came out, resembling frogs singing on a summer night.

  “Good evening, Simeon,” she said, moving forward. Didn’t he have any sense? Couldn’t he have guessed—

  Apparently not. Without even a flicker of regret in his eyes, Simeon was turning to his brother and introducing him. “Godfrey, stand tall. You haven’t met the duchess for years, but I’m sure you remember her.”

  Godfrey bowed so deeply that she was afraid he wasn’t coming back up again. He did, eventually, face red and hair on end.

  She dropped into a curtsy that unfortunately put her breasts directly under his nose. He turned purple and cast a desperate look at his brother.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Isidore said. She gave him a kindly smile, one that said calm down.

  But the duke was moving into the room and suddenly it seemed to have shrunk to half its size. Isidore stopped herself from falling back. It was just that Simeon was so…male. Very male. Very large.

  “What a charming little room this is,” he was saying, wandering about just as if she wasn’t there, quivering like a jelly tart fresh out of the oven.

  “Yes, charming,” she said, watching his shoulders. They were broad and beautiful. If he didn’t even kiss her good night, she decided, that meant he was incapable.

  Alternatively, it could mean that he found her unattractive. No. That option was unacceptable.

  He pulled out her chair and she sat down, mentally giving herself a shake. Obviously, her earlier plan wouldn’t work. But she had once boasted of her ability to make any man flirt. Flirtation was halfway to the bedchamber.

  This duke wouldn’t see it coming, and Godfrey could take a lesson in adulthood.

  She leaned forward, employing the smile that set half of Paris on fire during her twentieth year. That would be the male half, naturally.

  “Do tell me about yourself, Simeon?” she cooed. “I feel as if I hardly know you.” In her experience, there was nothing a man liked more than to talk about himself.

  Simeon put his heavy linen napkin in his lap. “I am so uninteresting,” he said blandly. “I would prefer to hear about you. What have you done during the years while I was wandering around Abyssinia and the like?”

  He was obviously a worthy opponent. He looked genial, friendly, utterly calm—and about as interested as he would be if she were a nursemaid.

  “I traveled Europe with my aunt,” she said. “Surely you remember from my letters?” She let just a tiny edge sharpen her words.

  The footman was pouring wine and Isidore noticed out of the corner of her eye that Godfrey was drinking with marked enthusiasm. Did boys of that age drink wine? She had the vague idea they were all tucked away in schools; certainly one never saw them at formal dinners.

  “I expect that many of your letters did not reach me. I remember getting a note from my solicitor once informing me of some action he’d taken on your behalf.”

  “Weren’t you concerned that I might discuss intimate matters in my letters?”

  He looked surprised. “I never considered the possibility, given as we had never met. What intimacies could we exchange? Of course I instructed my solicitors to act on my behalf with regard to any missive from my family that appeared on their desk. One never knew how long it would take to get mail, let alone to return my instructions to London.”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder where your wife was?”

  He paused for a moment and then said: “No.”

  Well, that was straightforward.<
br />
  “I wondered where you were,” Godfrey said eagerly. “I still remember your stay at our house, though it was brief.”

  “Impossible,” Isidore said. He was in that gangly stage, where his legs seemed impossibly long. He had the nose of a man and the eyes of a child. “You were only…how old? It was ’73.”

  “I was almost three,” Godfrey said. “Don’t you remember playing peek-a-boo with me? I thought perhaps you had come to live with us.”

  “I did,” Isidore said, seeing no reason to lie to him. “But I caused your mother such discomfort that my aunt decided it was better that I travel with her.”

  He nodded. “The servants told stories about your visit for years.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He had a funny little grin, this brother of Cosway’s. “No one before or after has called the duchess a termagant to her face.”

  “There you see,” Isidore said. “What a good thing it was that my aunt agreed to take me with her. The heart palpitations your mother escaped once I left can only be imagined. I trust,” she added punctiliously, remembering that she was speaking to a child and should add guidance, “that you did not follow in my disreputable example.”

  “She’s not so terrible,” Godfrey said earnestly. “Truly. She gets frightened about money, and that makes her sniffy.”

  Simeon reached out and knocked his brother on the shoulder in what Isidore assumed was a fraternal gesture.

  Honeydew entered, followed by footmen carrying covered dishes. They were placed on the side table, just as she had instructed when she was envisioning a seductive meal. Honeydew waved the footmen outside and served the table himself as the three of them sat in utter silence. Godfrey had finished his wine, so Honeydew poured him another glass before retiring to the great house. Godfrey looked interestingly pink, and Isidore decided he was not used to imbibing.

  Simeon’s eyes had a kind of ironic laziness to them that she found rather attractive, given that most men’s eyes took on a feverish gleam if she paid them attention, especially with her bosom on display.

  “Did you and your aunt live anywhere in particular?” he asked.