When the Duke Returns

by Eloisa James

  Even now…

  Even now she couldn’t believe it.

  She stared unseeingly into her glass. Was it that she thought she was too beautiful to be scorned? The only person who had ever scorned her, so to speak, was her own husband. Perhaps the right way to put that was that the only person who had ever shown indifference was her husband.

  For a moment, an image of Villiers flashed across her eyes. Her revenge was ready at hand. She needn’t watch as her husband turned from her company to the House of Lords, with as much interest as if he had selected a game of billiards over one of macao. She could turn to Villiers. All of London would know within hours of their first public appearance together.

  Elijah would be humiliated and it would serve him right.

  But she knew even as she envisioned it that she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do it. Villiers was no pawn; he was a man. A dangerous man: beautiful, witty and easy to love. That was where the danger lay, in the fact she could fall in love with him.

  Then her marriage would truly be over.

  Somehow, it had never been over in her mind, not even when she fled to France and Elijah didn’t follow, nor the first time she found herself in bed with another man. Even when she tormented herself with remembering Elijah’s declaration of love for his mistress.

  He never said he loved her, Jemma, his wife. Surely that in itself was enough to end a marriage?

  The invisible bonds had grown thin over the years that she lived in France without him. Attenuated by memory and her dalliances with other men.

  But they never broke.

  And all those memories were fresh to her now: of their wedding, when she hardly knew him, and yet her heart thrilled at the sight of him waiting for her in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Of their wedding night, when she was so awkward and he thoughtful, if (she thought in retrospect) rather reserved. But of course he was in love with another woman. Still…

  There was a habit of mind, a way of thinking and talking, that came from being married to someone. A sort of bone-deep intimacy that survives even blows such as their marriage had taken.

  Love, it could be called.

  Odd, fugitive, undeserved. She had done nothing to deserve his love, and she rather thought he hadn’t given it. Sometimes she thought, recently, that she saw something tender in his eyes, almost longing, but…

  But somehow she had poured out her love when they first married, and there was no taking it back, no matter how she tried.

  And no matter how he rebuffed her.

  Perhaps…perhaps she was making a mountain from a mouse. Elijah worked too hard. He always worked too hard; that was why he had fainted in the House of Lords last year. Overwork and lack of sleep.

  Perhaps he needed to be reminded that life was not work. She could…

  But the idea of going to his chambers in the Inns of Court made her physically ill. She could remember what his mistress’s hair looked like, flowing over the edge of his desk. Surely he still had that desk. It was a large solid oak one, good for the weight of a sturdy woman.

  It hadn’t been making a creaking sound as she entered, though he was surely thrusting with some strength…

  It was all so far in the past, and yet close enough to touch.

  She couldn’t go to his chambers. What if she did and there was some evidence of his current mistress, if he had one?

  Or had he told her that he had no mistress these days?

  She couldn’t even remember: such a crucial detail and it was gone.

  Jemma rose to her feet; her letters fell to the carpet. She was not a woman, she told herself, to sit around bleating and wringing her hands. She was a person who—

  Who went and got a man if she wished.

  She wasn’t a mere lass anymore. If she wanted to see her husband, she would do so. And of course she would have his clerks properly announce her, so that in the remote chance he was entertaining a woman, he could bundle her out the back door.

  She needed an excuse for paying a visit. In vain she tried to think of something important. Why would she stop by his office? Why would any wife? Only to announce an immediate change of plans. If one, for instance, had suddenly decided to leave London for a few days, and go to the country. She could go to their country house and check on the renovation of the North Wing.

  Suddenly a letter on the floor caught her eye, and it came to her: she knew where she was going. Her sister-in-law, darling Roberta, had written her a letter full of laughing, rueful details about Roberta’s father, who was marrying a woman he met at Bartholomew Fair. That might be bad enough, but the woman apparently earned her money by donning a fish tail and speaking in verse—and Roberta’s father was a marquess.

  Naturally she had to stop by Elijah’s chambers and tell him that the Marquess of Wharton and Malmesbury had lost his heart to a mermaid, and that she meant to pay Roberta a visit and see the mermaid in person. Perhaps she would force Elijah to take her to luncheon, or a ride in the park. She glanced out the window and saw it was drizzling.

  A ride in the rain.

  She, Jemma, was not leaving London without another kiss.

  Sad, but true.

  Her husband had kissed her twice in the last nine years, both recently. And she had kissed him once. Stupid beggar of a woman that she was, she treasured those kisses.

  There. It was settled. She would instruct Brigitte to pack for a short journey, and meanwhile she would go to Elijah’s chambers. If he wasn’t there, she would wait. And when he finally arrived, she would kiss him goodbye.

  The smile on her lips had a spice of joy about it that made her nervous, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  When had all this happened?

  When did…

  She turned away. There was no accounting for the human heart, or so her mama had always said.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Dower House

  March 3, 1784

  It was still raining. Isidore sat at her window, watching rain slide off the thorns of the rose briar circling her window. She could live without being a duchess. It would prickle, if she were honest. True, she had thought of herself as a duchess for years, whether she called herself Lady Del’Fino or no.

  But what was a duchess, after all?

  Just a title. Simeon was merely the only man for whom she’d allowed herself to feel desire. There were likely hundreds of desirable men waiting for her to discover them. She could direct the solicitor to unravel the weave of their marriage lines, go to London, and begin flirting with every man she met.

  She felt as sad as the raindrops.

  When Lucille appeared, full of excitement about the dismantling of the house, she put on her clothes without saying more than a word. Why should she seduce Simeon as she had planned? Surely that would be the worst possible footing on which to start a marriage. Likely he would blame her thereafter, thinking her a Jezebel who lured him into a marriage he didn’t want.

  She rejected the delicious gown her maid suggested and pointed to a blue-black one, sprigged with blackberry vines. It was sedate; it was proper. She wore it to go to church.

  By the time she emerged from the bedchamber, Cosway was already seated at the desk in the sitting room, a stack of papers before him. Isidore felt a flash of irritation at him, for being so beautiful, so restrained, so not in love with her.

  Not that it was his fault.

  “If you will forgive me for my intrusion,” he said, rising, “I thought we might break our fast together. The Dead Watch apparently have entered the pit and cleaning has commenced. Honeydew asked that we serve ourselves, as he has the entire household staff guarding the silver, at least those who are not consigned to guard parts of the house.”

  “Goodness,” Isidore said, seating herself at the table before he could help her. “Are we giving hardship pay to those assigned to the fumes?”

  “An excellent suggestion.”

  She picked up a muffin and buttered it, very precisely. They could be friends.
There was no reason for her to feel melancholic. A whole world of men lay before her. “What work need you do today?”

  “I have left the most difficult letters for the end,” Simeon said.

  “Difficult in what sense? Are their requests unlikely?”

  “No. I took your advice and paid all those about which I had doubts.”

  She put down her muffin and felt her smile growing. “That was very generous of you, given your fear of being swindled.”

  “I didn’t do it out of generosity,” Simeon said. “In fact, I don’t think I am particularly kind.”

  She couldn’t think what to say to that, so she took a bite of her muffin.

  “I like to keep what is mine,” he continued.

  I was yours, she thought, somewhat bitterly.

  “These are letters that hint at other transgressions,” Simeon stated.

  “Of what kind?” Isidore asked interestedly.

  Simeon rose, extracted a sheet of tinted note paper, and handed it to her. It was written in a sloping, elegant hand and still smelled faintly of roses. It wasn’t long, though bitterness made the phrases pungent.

  Isidore looked up. “Your father’s mistress, I presume?”

  “One of them.”

  “One? How many are there?”

  “There are four such letters. Then there are five or six of a less imploring nature.”

  “Five or six! That’s—”

  “At least ten women,” Simeon said flatly.

  Isidore bit her lip. “As I understand it, it is a common practice. Ten may seem a great many, but your father was a man of many years, and he—”

  “The ten letters are all dated within the last six years of his life.”

  “Well,” Isidore said, thinking frantically, “he certainly was a virile man.”

  Simeon’s jaw tightened. Clearly he did not appreciate his father’s virility.

  “At least your mother doesn’t know,” Isidore said, looking for a bright side.

  “Actually, she does.”

  “How do you know?”

  In answer, he got up and fetched another piece of paper, handing it to her. This letter wasn’t quite so bitter: it mournfully requested that the duke fulfill at least some of the promises he had made, for a small cottage, the writer noted, and a pension. At the very bottom, written in the duchess’s spidery handwriting was a note indicating a payment of four hundred pounds.

  “Four hundred pounds!” Isidore said. “At least she got her cottage.”

  “Yes.” His voice was so uncompromising and rage-filled that Isidore fell silent again. “Did your father have a mistress?” he asked, finally.

  “I don’t believe so. My mother…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Would have killed him,” she said. “You said that I was uncomfortably emotional, Simeon. I got it from my mother. She had a terrible temper, and occasionally she would erupt into rages and scream.” She smiled, thinking of it.

  Simeon looked appalled.

  “My father would argue at first,” Isidore said, “and finally he would start laughing. Then she would laugh too, and it would be over.”

  “I feel as if I returned home to a family I never knew,” Simeon said. “I had no idea that my father swam in a sea of deceit, cheating everyone from the tradespeople to his intimates. I fear that debts of honor will be called in at any moment.”

  “Was he a gamester?”

  “I have no idea. To this point, no one has approached me about gaming debts left unpaid. I didn’t know him.”

  “It could be that no one really understands another person,” Isidore offered.

  Simeon put down his knife and fork with sharp little clicks. “I am a man of restraint and habit, Isidore. I do not like chaos.”

  “I know,” Isidore said, feeling her melancholy almost like a friend at this point.

  “I dislike—I truly dislike—this feeling that at any moment, unpleasant truths about my family may appear. I wasn’t observant as a child and I noticed little beyond my parents’ arguments. Even those I paid scant attention to. I was utterly riveted by my dreams of travel.”

  She had to smile at the idea of that. “Ever since you were little?”

  “I left the country at the earliest possible age. My father thought I would be travelling for a year. I knew it would be far longer, though I didn’t emphasize the point. Yet I would have come back if I’d known the family was unraveling at the seams.”

  “How you’ve changed,” Isidore said. “You used to long for adventure, and now you seem to want the quiet life you once despised.”

  “There’s such a thing as too much adventure,” he said dryly. “Near-Death-by-Privy is a good example of what adventure often looks like, up close.”

  “Once you pay the outstanding bills, you won’t be buffeted by chaos.” It had to be said, so she said it. “I have been thinking about your reluctance to marry me, Simeon, and I think your initial instinct was right. I am not the proper wife for you. The solicitor made it clear that we could end the marriage, and I think we should.”

  He had picked up his knife but he put it down again, very precisely. He didn’t seem inclined to speak, so she continued. “You will be much happier with someone like yourself, someone restrained and organized. I am not very restrained, Simeon. And you haven’t even seen my worst side. I would make you uncomfortable in the long run.”

  “I begin to question my concept of marriage,” he said, but his voice was wooden.

  “I know I would,” Isidore said, pushing away her plate. “We’ve turned into friends, don’t you think? Perhaps because we are both people without experience. But you called lust a transitory emotion, and I’m certain that you’re right. Previously, I never allowed myself to feel anything of that nature.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you rather that I had felt lust and had restrained myself? Not that it matters,” she answered herself. “I think you will be much more comfortable with someone as composed as yourself.”

  “She sounds like a personal secretary,” Simeon observed.

  “No, not at all,” Isidore said, warming to the task. “We’ll find you someone sweet.”

  “Docile?”

  “Well, that’s such an unattractive word. Perhaps not docile, but you would be more comfortable perhaps with someone more biddable. I am not biddable, Simeon. Not in the least. I have made my own way for too many years. I never really realized it before, but I fear I have become a virago.”

  He gasped, but she saw the amusement in his eyes. “No!”

  “Laugh as you like,” she told him. “You’re grateful I’m saying this, and don’t pretend that you’re not. As I said, we’ll find you a charming English girl to whom restraint and prudence are second nature.”

  “Like my mother?”

  “Your mother?” she repeated, losing track of the conversation.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “My mother learned my father’s lessons so well that she maintained his deranged method of paying bills for years after his death. The only hint of rebellion I can find is that she paid his mistress so generously. He would have hated that. But that in itself indicates a certain lack of passion, don’t you think? I find it hard to believe that she was not aware of the existence of all these women.”

  Isidore really didn’t know what to think of Simeon’s mother. “You don’t like passion,” she pointed out. “It is uncomfortable. Your mother likely feels the same way. After all, if one’s husband is determined to stray, what can one do?”

  “What would you do? If I took a mistress?”

  Isidore didn’t even need to think about that. “I’d kill you,” she told him, smiling to soften it a little. “So you see, Simeon, I would be a very uncomfortable wife.”

  “I don’t intend to have a mistress, or mistresses,” Simeon said.

  “That’s very admirable of you. I’m sure your wife will be much happier.�
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  “I feel queasy at the idea of you choosing my bride.”

  “Of course,” Isidore said brightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude in any fashion.”

  There was a beat of silence, so she added, “I shall naturally be looking for my own spouse so I wouldn’t have to time to search out the proper damsel for you. We both must manage the task on our own.”

  “Won’t you mind not being a duchess?”

  “Oh, no,” she said airily. “Titles are not very important to me.”

  “You might not feel that way after more reflection.”

  “If that proves to be the case, I shall simply set my cap at a duke,” Isidore pointed out. “The Duke of Villiers is surprisingly attractive. He and I accompanied my friend Harriet to Lord Strange’s house party. I had no idea that Villiers was so witty.”

  “The problem is not you, Isidore, but myself.”

  “You said that before,” Isidore pointed out, feeling irritated. “I entirely understand that you find me unrestful. I accept it; in fact, as I’ve just said, I’ve come to agree with you. After all, what if I wanted a husband who would show passionate interest in me?”

  His eyes were impenetrable. “Yes, what then?”

  “I do not want a spouse who will be always calm and ordered,” she told him. “My father cared deeply about my mother.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “He never would have taken a mistress, not because he was afraid that she would scream at him, but because they were a pair. They faced the world together. Even—” her throat was tight a moment, but she said it anyway—“even though I couldn’t bear it, I was glad they died together. I simply couldn’t imagine one without the other.”

  “They were fortunate.”

  “You wouldn’t have thought so,” she said. “They did fight. Sometimes my mother won, and sometimes my father won. On balance, I think my mother won more often. I remember finding them kissing. And I remember my mother sending me to the nursery, and pulling father off for a nap as well.”