by Eloisa James
“Likely no better than she should be,” Tobias concluded. “Aren’t you tired of sitting in all that dirty water?”
The truth was that he was used to Finchley handing him a towel. He stood up and plucked it off the back of a chair. “It’s not dirty water. It’s clean bathwater.”
“Once you’re in it, it’s dirty. Better get in and out quick.” He said it with the tone of a boy who had never bathed more than once a month before coming to Villiers’s house and had taken to the practice only reluctantly.
Finchley slipped back through the door with the wounded look of someone barred from the family home on Christmas morning. “It is time to dress, Your Grace. The pale rose or the black velvet?”
“The rose,” Villiers said at the same moment Tobias said, “The black.”
“Why the black?” Villiers asked.
“Because you look a proper fright in those fancy coats,” Tobias said. “Even if you decided on Lisette—and I’m not saying you should—she’d never take you looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“A posy. You look like a blooming posy. Like you don’t care for your bag.”
“My what?”
“Your potato-finger. Your holy thistle!”
Villiers was aware that Finchley had stopped feeling insulted and was trying to suppress a smile. Finchley never smiled. “If I understand you, you’re saying that my pizzle doesn’t show to best advantage in the rose coat.”
“Not if you’re talking about that pink one, no.” Tobias pointed at the offending garment. “Only a man who had a withered pear would wear that.”
Finchley snorted, and Villiers cast him a glance. “There’s nothing withered about me,” he said, pulling on the rose-colored coat over his sleek, skintight breeches.
“I’m not the one you need to convince of that,” Tobias said, plopping down into his chair again. “It’s your wife who’s going to wonder if you’re a molly or not.” He turned back to his book.
Villiers felt his lips twitch. No one had ever called him a molly. Or implied he had a limp potato-finger.
Finchley looked at him sympathetically and, quite wisely, kept his mouth shut.
Chapter Ten
“You look exquisite,” Anne said, popping into Eleanor’s bedchamber. “The color suits you better than it does me. The woven silk is beautiful. And the lace accents…” She kissed her fingers. “Exquisite!”
Eleanor looked down at her skirts. The fabric was rose-red silk, with trails of white flowers woven throughout. The bodice and sleeves were edged with a splash of rose lace sewn with tiny spangles. “The bodice doesn’t fit properly.” She gave it an irritable pull.
“Don’t touch it,” Anne gasped. “You’ll tear the lace. Look, there are gold threads among the silk. Father swore I bankrupted him with that one gown alone. You shouldn’t do more than breathe on it.”
“My breasts are almost entirely exposed. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the only thing between the open air and my nipple is a mere inch of lace!”
“I did notice,” Anne said happily, “and more to the point, so will every man in the room.”
“I’m thinking about Mother.”
“She ordered you to wear my clothing.”
“Yes, but what looks merely saucy on you looks utterly debauched on me,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Are you implying that’s a disadvantage? Believe me, you should thank God for every inch you have. Where’s the dog?” Anne said, cautiously dusting off a chair before she sat in it.
“Willa took him to the kitchen for the evening. She’ll bring him up the back stairs later.”
Anne wrinkled her nose. “He sleeps with you?”
“Yes.” Eleanor was unapologetic about that. “He’s a puppy. He’s lonely at night.”
“Are you planning to wear some lip color? You look like the ghost of Lady Macbeth.”
“I never wear face paint,” Eleanor said. “I—”
“You are so lucky that I’m your sister,” Anne said. She placed her net bag on the dressing table.
“What is that?” Eleanor asked.
“Kohl black, for your eyes,” Anne said. “Hold still or I’ll blind you.”
Eleanor froze.
“You can open your eyes now.” She stepped back. “You have lovely eyelashes, Eleanor. Who knew?”
“They’re the color of my hair,” Eleanor said. “Nondescript.”
“Now some rouge, and then a little lip color. And I’m going to put just a touch of black at the outside corner of your eyes. Your eyes are already large, but this will make them mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” Eleanor snorted. “No one with my name could possibly be mysterious.”
“Every woman is mysterious to men,” Anne said, dabbing more color on Eleanor’s lips. “Villiers is the kind of man who takes appearances very seriously. You do him dishonor by just throwing yourself together.”
“I don’t throw myself together,” Eleanor said indignantly. “I give the process a reasonable amount of time.”
“But you never try to make yourself attractive to a man,” Anne said.
Eleanor was silent.
“I was shaken by the bastard children, I don’t mind admitting. But now I’ve decided that Villiers is definitely the one for you. You don’t mind a dog in your bed, so I assume a bastard or two in the wings of your household will be equally acceptable.”
“Children are not dogs,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Of course not. They’re a good deal easier to take care of. One never sees children when they’re at the stage of peeing on the floor, for instance. Whereas everyone seems to think that dogs can’t be hidden in a nursery and trained by servants, the way offspring are.” She started tweaking Eleanor’s curls.
“What are you doing now?”
“Making you look more rumpled.”
“Rumpled? I don’t want to look rumpled!”
“Yes, you do. If Lisette’s appeal is that of the fragile young maiden, yours is going to be pure sensuality. And the lovely thing about that, Eleanor, is that you actually have an appetite for the bed. Many women don’t, you know.”
“All this advice assumes that I want to be a duchess,” Eleanor noted.
“I’m assuming that you’d like the choice,” Anne retorted. “There! Let’s go.”
Eleanor started to turn toward the glass but her sister grabbed her shoulder. “No, don’t look.”
“What have you done to me?” Eleanor asked with a wave of misgiving.
“You are absolutely beautiful,” Anne said. “But if you see yourself, you’ll want to pin your hair back like a shepherdess in a bad play.”
“Are you saying that I normally look as if I’m tending sheep? With straw in my hair? As if I might yodel?”
“You spend a lot of time looking like a virgin,” Anne said. “And may I point out that you haven’t had claim to that title since you were, what…fifteen?”
“Sixteen. And in fact I stopped dressing like a debutante long ago. You’re being unfair. I don’t believe I even own a white gown.”
“And yet you cling to clean-scrubbed modesty, as if you were going to fall in love with the evil landlord and end up throwing yourself off a cliff.”
Eleanor thought about the implications of Anne’s description. “I have not been wandering around in a melancholy daze,” she stated.
“It’s as if Gideon stole all the life out of you, those years ago.” Anne reached in her net bag and brought out a thin silver box, flicked it open and displayed a row of cigarillos.
“I can’t think that tobacco is good for you,” Eleanor observed.
“This isn’t for me, but for you.”
“Me?”
“You. You’re going to offset Lisette’s pallid brand of perfect Englishwoman by appearing absolutely wicked. Lusciously licentious.”
“Wicked? Me?”
“The only way to stay young is to try new things,” Anne said. “God knows virtue neve
r shaved off anyone’s years. On second thought, I’ll wait to give you a cigarillo until after supper. But then you, Lady Eleanor, are going to have a glass of wine and smoke tobacco. I shall tutor you myself.”
“Pah!”
“You don’t have to smoke it. I’ve found that merely holding a cigarillo catapults one from tedious virgin to something far more interesting. Here’s my point, Eleanor. Gideon the Godless stole more than your virginity when he turned his back and married Ada instead. Now could we please go downstairs? I need something to drink, and so do you.”
“Mother believes drinking spirits before meals causes mental instability,” Eleanor said, following her.
“Ratafia promotes mental instability: that’s why there are so many silly women in the ton. Rum is what you need,” Anne said. She breezed into the drawing room, paused for a moment on the threshold so as to draw all eyes, and then moved to the side, pulling Eleanor forward.
Lisette beamed at them, of course. Lisette was always happy to see her friends. Their mother opened her mouth and snapped it shut, for all the world like a beached fish. Villiers said nothing, nor did his face change.
Anne tucked her arm through Eleanor’s. “Good evening, everyone.” She turned to Popper, who was proffering a silver tray. “Is that ratafia, Popper? And orgeat? Absolutely not. We know exactly what we’d like. Rum punch, if you please.”
Lisette came to her feet as if she had just remembered she was their hostess. She was wearing a charming gown of cream silk, embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots. Her bosom was chastely covered, and her panniers equally modest. Eleanor felt like the Whore of Babylon by comparison, dressed in crimson and painted to match.
Her mother appeared at her side. “Why?” the duchess whispered, horror in her voice. “Why?”
“I am wearing Anne’s gown, precisely as you bade me,” Eleanor said to her, sacrificing her sister without guilt. “You instructed me to listen to her advice as regards men, Mother. You said that I must learn from her experience.”
“But—But—”
“Doesn’t Eleanor look absolutely ravishing?” Anne put in.
“She does!” Lisette crowed, joining them. Lisette had never expressed a stick of jealousy, as far as Eleanor knew. “I wish that we had more visitors to admire you.” The smile fell from her face. “We never seem to have visitors anymore. My aunt, Lady Marguerite, tends to discourage our neighbors from joining us for dinner. Oh, I know!” She waved madly at Popper.
He was mixing rum punch at the sideboard.
“Popper! Popper!”
The butler turned around. “Yes, my lady?”
“Send a footman to Squire Thestle immediately, if you please. Do beg him the courtesy of joining us for supper, he and his lovely wife. And Roland, if he’s at home.” She turned back to Eleanor, smiling. “Sir Roland would be perfect for you, dearest. He has a Roman nose. Yes, and a Grecian chin.”
“Perhaps you could turn him to currency and trade him on the Exchange,” Anne remarked. “Villiers, how kind of you to finally decide to greet us. You appeared frozen in your place, as if you had turned into a Roman statue yourself.”
“I was struck dumb by your beauty,” Villiers said, bowing.
Eleanor just stopped herself from rolling her eyes.
“My lady,” Popper was saying in some distress. “I am not sure…in Lady Marguerite’s absence—”
“For goodness sake,” the duchess burst out. “You’ll forgive me, dear Lisette, if I observe that a strong hand is needed in training this household.” She rounded on Popper without pausing for breath. “I do hope that you are not questioning Lady Lisette’s direct order? We will, naturally, wait for supper until the squire and his family arrive. I am not hungry, although I trust your cook can bring us something to nibble on.”
Eleanor was hungry, but she took a sip of her rum punch instead. It was surprisingly good, rather sweet and fruity. She had always thought men drank fiery drinks, meant to straighten the backbone.
Popper had a noticeably wild-eyed look, but he trotted into the hallway. “That looks very good,” Lisette said, noticing Eleanor’s glass. “What is it?”
“Rum punch,” Anne said. “It’s utterly delicious, which is why gentlemen tend to gulp it all themselves. Here, darling, you may have mine. I haven’t even touched it. Villiers, you know none of us can match you at chess, and besides, it’s such a deadly boring game that we would fall over with fatigue if you started a match with one of us. Do you know any other games, perhaps something all of us might play?”
“No,” Villiers said. He wasn’t the sort of man who could be easily flirted with, Eleanor noted.
Anne didn’t seem to notice. “I expect we have at least an hour before the squire arrives,” she observed. “We could have an interval of improving conversation.” Her tone made it clear that she’d rather jump into a lake.
“I know exactly what we should do to amuse ourselves,” Lisette said.
“What do you propose?” Villiers asked, bending solicitously toward her.
Eleanor drank some more of her rum punch.
“We’ll play knucklebones!” Lisette said, smiling at him.
There was a moment’s silence. “Knucklebones?” the duchess asked. Her tone was not friendly, but Lisette was oblivious.
“You might know it better as dibs,” she said happily. “It’s no end of fun.” She waved at a footman and a moment later was holding a pile of knobby bones and a small wooden ball.
Eleanor peered at the bones with some interest. It went without saying that her mother had never allowed a game so unsanitary and altogether common in the ducal nursery.
“Now,” Lisette said, “we must make ourselves comfortable. Of course we need to be able to toss the bones properly, and that means a wood floor. Perhaps I should have that big rug taken up.” She looked over at the remaining footman as if about to order him to get to work on the spot.
“Not tonight,” Anne said. She looked distinctly amused. “There’s plenty of bare floor; we are standing on some at this moment. But where do we sit, Lisette?”
“On the floor, of course,” Lisette said.
“On the floor,” Anne repeated. “Of course.” Without hesitation, she gracefully sank to the ground, and beamed up at them from the wide circle of her skirts. “Do join me.”
The duchess cleared her throat with a sound of utter disbelief.
Eleanor didn’t want to sit on the floor. Her side panniers were likely to spring into the air and throw her skirts over her head. On the other hand, she didn’t want to align herself with her mother, especially given that Villiers was apparently finding the whole idea charming.
At least, that was what she gleaned from the laughter in his eyes. Naturally, he said nothing. Lisette, meanwhile, had dropped to the floor, scattered the bones, and was now practicing throwing the ball in the air and catching it.
“Knucklebones is a game for children,” the duchess pointed out.
Lisette’s mouth drooped. “I know. I do wish we had children in the house.”
“But we do have a child in the house,” Villiers said.
Lisette blinked up at him. “They all went home.”
“My son is here.”
Being Lisette, she didn’t wonder how Villiers had a son, given as he had no wife. “Leopold, how wonderful you are,” she crowed, as if he had produced that son solely for her pleasure.
Eleanor’s mother had been occupying herself by glaring at Anne’s bent head, but now she jerked around to stare at Villiers instead. She, if not Lisette, knew perfectly well that Villiers had never married.
“A ward perhaps?” she asked, her tone just this side of glacial. “Surely the word son was a slip of the tongue, Duke?”
“In fact, Tobias is my son,” Villiers said. He turned to the footman. “Summon my son from the nursery, if you please.”
“How lucky you are!” Lisette said wistfully. “I do wish I had children.”
“Be still!” the duch
ess snapped.
“Mother,” Eleanor said, feeling a pulse of sympathy. She had realized long ago that her mother found situations even slightly out of the ordinary to be frightfully upsetting. It wasn’t that the duchess had a puritanical attitude toward sin, precisely—but she had a positive loathing for irregularities of any sort.
“Hush,” her mother said, rounding on her. “You are far too innocent to understand the implications of this—this—of—” She ground to a halt, and then said, “Your son should not be in the vicinity of decent gentlewomen, Villiers. I should not have to emphasize such a common point of decency. You have offered your hostess a monstrous insult.”
Villiers’s gray eyes rested thoughtfully on the duchess and then moved on to Lisette. “I have an illegitimate son,” he explained. “I apologize for insulting you by bringing him under your roof.”
Eleanor felt like applauding. Villiers’s voice was so composed that not even a tinge of irony leaked into his words.
Since Lisette cared nothing for irregularities and indeed created them on a regular basis, she smiled up at Villiers. “You’re very lucky.”
“You see what you are doing?” the duchess hissed at Villiers. “Contaminating the ears of the innocent. She doesn’t even understand your effrontery.” If Villiers had himself under such tight control that he appeared emotionless, her mother was on the verge of losing her temper altogether.
Eleanor glimpsed the bleak look in Villiers’s eyes, and the unmindful—though not innocent—smile playing around Lisette’s lips. She hated the choking sense of inferiority she felt whenever her mother was about to call someone stupid. It didn’t even matter that she herself was not the subject of the diatribe.
What she hated, and had hated since childhood, was the moment when her mother lost control of her temper and flayed all those in her path.
“I have half a mind to leave this house immediately,” Her Grace said now, her voice rising. “Villiers, you are a fool if you believe that—”
Something snapped inside Eleanor: that same frail thread of patience that had carried her through twenty-two years of her mother’s bouts of irritability. She was tired of hearing people called stupid. She was tired of agreeing with her mother’s pronouncements simply because opposition took effort.