Duchess By Night
Page 12
“The duchess had all the married men at Jemma’s party running in little circles around her. It was like a trained dog act.”
Jem snorted. “You weren’t one of them?”
“Not in the cards at the moment,” Villiers said. “I didn’t even make it to the ballroom, just languished in a side room waiting for visitors.”
There was a note of self-mockery in his voice. He didn’t want sympathy. “You deserved every moment, playing the fool with a rapier. We’re too old for that.”
“I’m not allowed to play chess,” Villiers said, sounding as if he were announcing a ritual castration.
“Says who?”
“Dr. Treglown, the Scottish devil who saved my life. I was in and out of a fever for months, and apparently I did a lot of raving about chess. He says I have to take a break and rest my brain.”
“Ah, so a visit to the house of tarnished angels is a perfect convalescence. Though I still don’t quite understand why you dragged along those two, I’ll take care of them for you.”
“Put them in adjoining chambers,” Villiers said.
“What?”
Villiers looked at him. “I thought it was impossible to shock you,” he observed. “I’m off to bed, if you please.”
Povy ushered him away and Jem stood for a moment, staring at the odd couple still looking at the statue. They were no longer examining the salacious point at which female marble blended into male. Instead, Mr. Cope was running his finger down the arch of Venus’s neck.
It was one of Jem’s favorite aspects of the statue. Venus had her head thrown back, her face a mixture of desire, joy, and despair. The genius who sculpted it had captured, to Jem’s mind, the joy—and the grief—of marriage. Venus’s head fell back, her body ravished by a pleasure she couldn’t control and somewhat resented.
Jem wrenched his eyes away from Mr. Cope’s slender finger. Really, it was time he took a mistress again.
He really meant it: If this oddness was part of growing old, he wanted nothing to do with it.
Chapter Eight
The Definition of Marital Success
The same day Before dinner
H arriet couldn’t stop giggling, once she was alone in her bedchamber. She’d done it! She’d really done it! She had bowed to Lord Strange, and murmured something in as gruff a voice as she could manage, and he had believed her to be male. She didn’t see even a flicker of disbelief in his eyes.
The first moment she saw him, she thought the jig was up. She always considered Villiers rather terrifyingly intelligent, with his heavy-lidded eyes and sardonic comments.
But Villiers was nothing compared to Strange. Strange had a lean face that had seen use, but the sardonic lines by his mouth only emphasized the beauty of his bones, the banked sensuality of his eyes, the long body that reminded her of the coiled energy of a greyhound. Put together with the fierce intelligence in his eyes, and the charm…God, he had charm.
But it was his intelligence that made him frightening. No wonder Villiers had called him a genius. He looked like one. And yet—he hadn’t seen through her disguise!
She lay back and swung her legs into the air. It was utterly bizarre to see her legs in the open like this. She never looked at herself in a glass unless she was wearing a corset, camisole, panniers, petticoats, and a gown on top. Somewhere under there were her legs, one had to suppose.
But now, wearing this ridiculous male attire, they were exposed. Thanks to Villiers, who had ordered her an array of clothing fit for a young prince, her breeches were closely shaped to her leg, ending at the knee. They buttoned on the outside, and had a closure in the front that made her laugh. Even her knees were entirely visible, clad in pale, violet-colored stockings.
Actually, her legs looked shapely and strong. The truth was that while Harriet always felt smothered in women’s clothing, she was starting to think that she looked just right in breeches. Her body was a kind built for endurance, with muscles in her legs that came from the way she walked for miles after breakfast.
Benjamin never liked that habit. He preferred to see her reclining on a couch, waiting to hear about his latest chess match. Not strolling over to see how the sow was faring with her new piglets. “That’s not duchess’s work,” he would tell her. But then he would laugh. Benjamin was a great laugher. He never truly hated her penchant for walking. Nor her legs.
Though come to think of it, her husband had likely never seen her legs this clearly.
The adjoining door opened and Harriet sat up so fast that her head spun.
“It’s just me,” Isidore said. “I’m sorry; I should have knocked.”
“Do come in,” Harriet said, lying back again. “I’m admiring my breeches.”
“They are lovely,” Isidore said, wandering into the room. “But if I were playing the man I would want oval-shaped knee buckles. Oh—and perhaps knee ribbands.”
Harriet wrinkled her nose. “Too feminine. I have to look as masculine as possible.”
‘The odd thing is, Harriet, that you do look masculine. I mean that you look perfectly feminine and delectable in a gown, but there’s something, oh, out-doors-ish about you at the moment. I really wouldn’t guess that you were a woman in a man’s costume. I wonder if I could get away with it.”
“No. Your features are far too delicate.”
“So are yours,” Isidore persisted. “You have a little pointed chin, and those big eyes. How on earth did you get your brows to look so dark?”
“Villiers’s valet drew them on,” Harriet said. “His name is Finchley, and he’s going to help me dress when necessary.”
“It adds a masculine touch,” Isidore said. She peered closer. “Did he do something to your chin as well?”
“He put some dots here and there that are supposed to make me look as if I have a beard coming.”
“Less successful,” Isidore announced. “Though it looks as if you might have spots, which would make sense if you’re a very young man.”
Harriet decided to forego the nearly-beard spots in the future.
“What are you going to wear tonight?” Isidore enquired. “I was so disappointed that there weren’t any Paphians languishing around the entranceway, weren’t you? I mean, there was that statue, but given that the bottom half was all one blob of marble, you couldn’t really see the relevant bits.”
Harriet thought the relevant bit was the look on Venus’s face, but she didn’t say so. Isidore, after all, was a virgin. Which brought her to something she wanted to say. She propped herself up on her elbow.
“You aren’t really thinking of bedding someone, are you, Isidore?”
“I might,” Isidore said, pinching her cheek to make it a bit pinker. “If there is someone truly delectable. Let’s face it: since I’m here, ruining my reputation, I might as well have fun.”
“Don’t,” Harriet said, catching Isidore’s eye. “I’ve been married before, and I know what I’m talking about. Please don’t do that.”
“Why not?” Isidore turned around, hands on her hips, and there was a flash of genuine rage in her eyes. “You can’t tell me that my husband has been parading around foreign parts like some sort of eunuch.”