by Eloisa James
Their eyes caught and he didn’t lower his. “May I?” he asked.
They weren’t marrying, after all. He was going to marry Lisette, who had children following her like the Pied Piper. This was merely…
This was merely a dalliance in the moonlight.
She felt a surge of womanly power, a force as seductive as the shape of his body. “You may look,” she instructed. “But you may not touch.”
“You don’t belong to me. I have no right to touch.”
True enough. He’d chosen Lisette. And some small, mean part of her mind thought that—well, to be truthful, it wasn’t a small part of her mind. With her whole mind she thought he was even more blind than Lisette was crazy, which was to say: completely.
He deserved what he got. And just like Gideon, he deserved to lose what he was about to lose. So she stepped back and smiled, releasing his eyes from their voluntary bondage.
Of course, being Leopold, he surprised her. His eyes moved so slowly.
If he were naked, she wouldn’t even know where to look first…Perhaps his chest. She knew it was muscled, but…and his stomach. Lower. The way his thighs felt when pressed against hers, hard and potent.
Her imagination made her own body change, feel liquid and powerful. She opened her legs slightly, not even glancing at the discarded towel, and leaned back against the balustrade.
Leopold was inspecting her as slowly as if she were a sovereign he suspected of being copper rather than true gold. She arched her back a little. She liked the way her breasts curved, and her delicate pink nipples, and the way those nipples didn’t point downwards, like some women’s did.
His breath was ragged but he was taking too long in his inspection, so she bent over to pick up the towel, taking her time.
When she straightened, she met his eyes again. The look in them was smoky and seductive, and made her feel as if she might do something foolish. It was time to leave.
She blew him a kiss.
He groaned as if he was in pain.
Good.
She left.
Chapter Nineteen
Knole House, country residence of the Duke of Gilner
June 19, 1784
The next morning, Eleanor walked over to the other wing of the house, trailed by Oyster and a footman with a tea service. Anne was sitting up in bed, reading. “How are you feeling?” Eleanor asked.
“Tea!” Anne cried rapturously. “You are my favorite of all sisters.”
“You are the most easily bribed of mine,” Eleanor said, sitting down with her cup of tea.
“Marie, will you come back in two minutes?” Anne asked her maid. And then: “She told me about Ada. I’m so sorry, Eleanor.”
“There’s no reason to give me particular condolences.”
“Yes, there is,” her younger sister said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve known you for years, after all. I would guess that you stayed up half the night weeping into your pillow.”
“Ada deserved tears. She had a terribly short life.”
“I agree. I do agree. But it’s not your fault, my dear. And I would guess yours were guilty tears.”
Eleanor nodded. But what was there to be said about it, after all? She had liked Ada, but Ada was gone, and there was no changing that. “Villiers has decided to marry Lisette.”
“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing for you,” Anne said. “Though it certainly is for him. Lisette really is eccentric, the poor thing. She’s not made for marriage. She is best here, in the place where everyone knows her and makes allowances for her behavior. Does Villiers still fancy himself as a rescuer of fair maidens?”
“I believe he fancies her as an excellent mother.”
Anne snorted. “This is the most wonderful book,” she said, waving it at Eleanor. “It’s called The Castle of Otranto. I scared myself silly last night when the son of the lord was crushed to death by a monstrous helmet that falls out of the sky just before he was supposed to be married. Have you read it?”
“I’m still trying to read Shakespeare’s sonnets,” Eleanor said.
“So boring,” Anne said. “Sonnets all just talk about one thing, really. But this book has portraits that sigh mysteriously, and bits of armor falling out of the clouds. And now Lord Manfred is trying to divorce his wife to marry his son’s fiancée…I believe I shall just stay in bed and read the whole thing today. I can’t possibly survive another night unless I’ve found out how it ends. This house creaks terribly in the dark.”
There was a knock on the door and Anne’s maid reentered. “Do you happen to know how the duchess is feeling?” Eleanor asked her.
“Her Grace had a poor night,” Marie reported. “But the surgeon comes today and he’ll pull out the tooth. Meanwhile Lady Marguerite gave a great bottle of laudanum to Her Grace’s maid, and so Her Grace is fast asleep. Lady Marguerite told the maid to keep her that way so that the tooth can just be pulled before she wakes up.”
“Oh dear,” Eleanor said. “But I’m sure Mother would much rather be asleep. She is not fond of pain.”
“Who is?” Anne said. “I gather you are clambering up on a horse this morning, Eleanor? I must say, that habit is just lovely, and I didn’t even pick it out myself.”
Eleanor glanced down at herself. For almost the first time since arriving, she was wearing a costume that she herself had ordered. The habit was made of blue ribbed silk with a deep turned-down collar behind.
“I particularly like your coattails,” Anne added.
“Why should men be able to wear coattails and not women?” Eleanor agreed, tipping her tall hat a little farther forward over her eyes. It was blue as well, and had two jaunty tassels that hung to her shoulder.
“May I offer my felicitations on your betrothal to the Duke of Villiers, my lady?” Marie asked.
“You may not,” Anne said promptly. “My sister has decided not to marry the duke.”
“Those children!” Marie cried immediately, clasping her hands. “I absolutely understand, my lady. The household is convulsed.”
“Convulsed?” Eleanor repeated. “That seems an odd word choice.”
“Popper is a very pious man, you understand. He has all of the maids praying three times a day. Then the duke brings these children in the house and of course they’re—” She broke off.
“They’re bastards,” Anne put in cheerfully.
“Popper was distraught enough when the first one arrived, thinking the boy was a limb of Satan and so on. But Lady Lisette just told him not to be tiresome, and the Duke of Villiers pays no heed to Popper, of course.”
“I’m sure he just waved his fingers disdainfully,” Eleanor said.
“The first day wasn’t too bad, but then when the two little girls arrived…well, there’s been a terrible commotion belowstairs. Popper isn’t anything compared to Mrs. Busy, the cook. She told the upstairs maid that her immortal soul might be in danger if she cleared the grate in the nursery. And she keeps sending up gruel because she says that meat does something to flesh and causes carnal provocations…I think I have that right.”
“That’s purely cruel,” Eleanor said sharply. “Those are innocent children and they ought to be treated well. Did you say the cook’s name is Mrs. Busy?”
“Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy,” Marie said.
“Zeal of the what?”
“Zeal-of-the-Land Busy,” Marie repeated. “Her husband was a famous preacher in London—a Puritan, of course—until he died from a surfeit of boiled pig and she was forced to go into service.”
“Absolute rubbish,” Eleanor said. “Are you telling me that Popper agrees with this extraordinary behavior?”
“Well, he does and he doesn’t. He did tell Lady Lisette about the gruel, and she said that some gruel wouldn’t hurt them, and that Popper should just make peace in the household. From what they say, Lady Lisette does not like to involve herself in household matters. And I’m afraid that Lady Marguerite travels a great deal of the time.”
“Well, she’s here now, and she ought to be boxing Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land’s ears,” Eleanor said.
“Actually Lady Marguerite is not here,” Marie said. “She rose early this morning and she and Mr. Bentley went on a trip to Royal Tunbridge Wells. She left you a note.”
“What an interesting life Lady Marguerite leads!” Anne said with delight. “I expect I shall be just the same, if I find myself widowed. Not that I would wish to be.”
“I shall go to the kitchens myself,” Eleanor said. She was experiencing a nice burst of pure rage, which had swept away the melancholy. She hated melancholy. “I shall bring Oyster,” she added. If Lisette was going to allow children in her house to be fed nothing but gruel, she would simply have to tolerate the presence of a fat, cheerful puppy.
“Go forth and conquer!” Anne said, settling back into bed. “Perhaps I shall see you at supper, and perhaps not. It all depends on whether a whole suite of armor smashes the castle.”
Eleanor walked down the front stairs, planning to sweep up Popper and take him along with her. Clearly he was a weak link in the household, but at the least he could back her up when it came to children’s need for more than gruel to eat.
Oyster started barking energetically the moment they rounded the curve of the stair, so she peered down and saw Villiers standing in the entrance hall.
For a moment her heart bounded—it had been so much fun toying with him and thinking of marrying him but then she remembered that he had chosen Lisette over her. So she said, “Oyster, be quiet,” not loudly, but there must have been something in her tone because he actually obeyed.
The duke was as polite as ever, which was to say not very. He had a way of bowing that implied he was above such observances.
That being the case, she didn’t curtsy to him, just pulled on her gloves. She wasn’t going to touch anything in Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Gut’s kitchen with her bare hands.
He raised an eyebrow.
“When you bow as if you give a damn, I’ll bother to bend my knee to you again.” She gave him a sweet smile. Then she turned to Popper. “I’ll thank you to show me the kitchens.”
“What, my lady?” he said, starting to stammer because he was that sort of man.
Eleanor was her mother’s daughter, even though she didn’t choose to act as such most of the time. She pinned the butler to the wall with one look and then said, softly, “The kitchens, Popper.”
Oyster gave a little whine by her leg. At least someone knew when she meant business.
“Of course, my lady,” Popper cried, pulling open the green baize door at the back of the entrance hall so quickly that it banged against the wall.
“Eleanor?” she heard Villiers say behind her.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Housekeeping matters,” she said coolly. “You continue on with whatever you were doing. Play some chess or something.”
She heard him snort. He followed her through the door, but she paid him no mind.
“Tell me about Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land, Popper.”
“I do hope that breakfast was to your satisfaction, my lady?” Popper trotted backwards down the servants’ corridor, at imminent risk of bouncing into a wall. His round face was creased with anxiety.
“Perfectly acceptable,” Eleanor said dryly. “No prayers delivered with my eggs.”
“Prayers?” Villiers echoed.
They reached the kitchen. Popper thrust open the door and then flattened himself against the wall to allow her to pass.
“Prayers?” Villiers asked again, from a few paces behind Eleanor. But she had turned into a woman intent on battle, a species he recognized, so he wasn’t surprised when she ignored him.
The kitchen was enormous and appeared to have changed little since medieval times. One wall was taken up by a fireplace with five spits rotating before it, thanks to a half-asleep boy operating some sort of a treadmill with his feet. Every last inch of the other walls was covered with shelves holding china, held upright by small wooden dowels. There were rows of teapots fenced in and adorned with strings of onions and garlic. Up above hung strings of sausages and cuts of other meats that Villiers couldn’t identify.
There had to be ten people at work, carrying food about, stirring things on a big iron stove, washing crockery, or in the case of an elderly gentleman, sleeping in the corner.
“Lady Eleanor. His Grace the Duke of Villiers,” bellowed Popper.
A large woman turned about from the stove and squinted at them. “I don’t hold with visits to my kitchen.” She turned her head. “Witless, if you don’t keep them spits turning I’ll put you on one of them!”
“Sister Busy,” Popper said, wringing his hands. “Make the duke and lady welcome. Be charitable, Mrs. Busy, be charitable!”
Eleanor advanced to the center of the kitchen. The cook had scarlet cheeks and small eyes, not to mention a huge, dripping ladle.
“I would like some bacon for breakfast,” she said, walking forward as if the ladle were no threat.
The cook’s small eyes narrowed. “I don’t hold with pork,” she said shrilly. “The spice of idolatry, I call it! And what are you doing, bringing a mongrel into my kitchen!”
“Bacon is meat, and it is nourishing meat,” Eleanor said coldly. Villiers had never heard quite that tone in her voice before, and he was glad of it. “I want bacon and eggs sent up to the nursery immediately.”
The cook slammed her ladle back into the large pot so hard that boiling soup splashed out on the stove and the floor. “So this is what you’re about!”
“Indeed,” Eleanor stated.
Why on earth was she fussing over the children’s breakfast? Villiers could have told her that Tobias had it all in hand, what with his bribes to the footman, but there wasn’t time to interrupt.
“Food is not meant to be gorged with gluttony or greediness,” the cook said shrilly. “Nor to be eaten by those who are an abomination under the Lord!”
For the first time Villiers noticed that Eleanor held a riding crop, and he grew a little concerned. She was running her fingers over it as if it were a delicate ribbon. Mrs. Busy didn’t look like the type of woman to be intimidated.
“I would hesitate to categorize anyone as indulging in gluttony,” Eleanor said, her eyes lingering unpleasantly on the cook’s admittedly abundant curves. “But I do know that those children cannot thrive on a diet of gruel.”
Villiers froze.
Mrs. Busy’s small mean eyes darted to him and then back to Eleanor. “Meat breeds foul temptations! Carnal provocations! Those children are the seed of the devil and their appetites will be strong.”
“You are the foul face of the devil,” Eleanor said, taking another step forward.
She didn’t do anything with the whip, but the cook flinched.
“If you do not send up a nourishing meal, including at least two kinds of meat, within the hour, I will have you turned out on the road, Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy. You will no longer be so busy. Do you understand me?”
Mrs. Busy didn’t answer. A drop of sweat ran down her forehead.
“She understands,” Popper said, popping up between them. “She does, don’t you, Sister Busy? She knows that the children are innocent creatures who aren’t to blame for the circumstances of their wicked conception. Children, Sister Busy,” he implored. “Just children.”
“Aye,” the cook said slowly.
Villiers stood behind Eleanor, the truth of it slowly sinking in. Apparently the gruel Tobias complained of wasn’t just Mrs. Busy’s idea of a child’s diet, but something of a purgative. Thank God, Tobias had taken care of himself.
Eleanor’s face looked as if it were carved of the finest marble, as if the goddess Athena had come to life.
Mrs. Busy was no match for her. “I’ll send them breakfast,” she said, wilting.
“And every meal, as long as those children are here. If I hear that there is the least inadequacy, if you misplace an herb or forget an ingredient, I shall return.”
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“I shall not. I sought merely to curb the—the—”
Something in Eleanor’s gaze warned against an explanation.
“I’ll send excellent meals,” Mrs. Busy said hastily.
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Then I’ll bid you good day, Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy. Oyster, come.”
Villiers waited until she left the kitchen, because he didn’t want Eleanor to feel that he didn’t trust her success. Mrs. Busy didn’t stir, just waited, with her eyes fixed on him. “My children are not an abomination,” he stated, hearing his own cold voice and knowing there were few brave enough to endure the sound without flinching.
“That they are not,” Mrs. Busy readily agreed, showing that she wasn’t one of the brave.
Villiers turned to go.
“But you are!” she burst out. “Verily, I must say the truth and that is that thou dwellest in the tents of the wicked and feedest the vanity of the eye.”
Apparently she didn’t care for his coat. Or perhaps it was the embroidery that was spurring her censure.
“I am moved by the spirit to say so!” Mrs. Busy insisted.
“As long as the tents of the wicked are replete with the smiles of beautiful women,” Villiers said, “I shall be happy.”
“I shall daunt the profaneness of mine enemies,” Mrs. Busy stated. “When sin provokes me, I shall not be silent.”
“Sister Busy,” implored Popper. “Cry you mercy, Sister Busy, consider your place in life.”
“And while you are contemplating that, Mrs. Busy, you might include the thought that I may well marry your mistress, Lady Lisette,” Villiers said. “In which case this house will become one vast tent for my wicked self. And then you, Mrs. Busy, will need to thrust yourself onto the sanctified highway because I may well bring all six of my children to live under this roof. In case you are wondering, none of the six was conceived with the benefit of matrimony.”
“Six!” she gasped, falling back and regarding him as if he were the very devil himself. “Thou tellest untruths. No man is so rank in the face of the Lord.”
Against all odds, Villiers was beginning to enjoy himself. “Are you gnashing your teeth, Mrs. Busy? That’s an odd sound you’re making.”