This Duchess of Mine

He leaned over and brushed her hair with his mouth, and whispered something extremely vulgar that only she could hear. He turned away, but heard her choke and laugh.

The marquise was pouting, so he bent his head down to her again.

“As I said,” she repeated, “he met this woman at a meeting with le Marquis de Lafayette. She helped Henri translate an American document, a declaration of some sort, into French. Can you imagine?”

It was surprising. “It would have been easier had he fallen in love with someone of my stature,” the marquise said dismally. “Because she would understand—” She waved her hands. “All of it, she would understand all of it. As it was, this woman demanded that he leave with her. Leave!”

“And did he?” Elijah enquired.

“He did.” She nodded vehemently and tripped on her cloak again. Elijah neatly caught her and put her back on her feet. “He left with her, and he left me. Moi!” She widened her eyes.

“An absurd decision,” Elijah put in.

“I am a leader in Queen Marie Antoinette’s court,” the marquise announced. “My clothes are talked of by everyone. I have never marred my reputation, even with the slightest slur. I have never contemplated an excess.”

“An excess?”

“You know.”

He didn’t, but it hardly mattered. “You are my first excess,” she stated.

He blinked down at her. “I am an excess?”

“Of course. Shall we go have some more Champagne?” she asked, seemingly forgetting that he hadn’t been with her from the beginning. “There are several bottles on our table.”

“Are you here with a party?” he asked, more than willing to return her and pluck Jemma away from that sailor she was dancing with.

“Of course,” the marquise said with a frown. “I’m here with you. And you and I are…” She struggled for the word. “…seducing each other.”

Elijah’s mouth fell open. “We are?”

“I have not decided exactly how far I shall allow the seduction to continue,” the marquise said loftily.

“It likely depends on the Champagne.” She looked around with a little puckered frown. “This wooing was quite easy once I had a glass or two. I should like some more. I believe I shall fetch it myself.” And with no further ado, she left.

Elijah looked after her for a moment, but a gentleman was hailing her to join him at a table to the side, and she wasn’t swaying quite so much anymore. He wondered briefly how the marquise found herself at Vauxhall, and then swiveled to find Jemma.

She was still dancing. Her partner had either had too much to drink or was simply too lusty for his own good. He was trying to pull Jemma against his body. She stepped precisely on his foot with her sharp heel, and the sailor stumbled back.

Of course Jemma had fended for herself in Paris for years. She didn’t need him. The recognition of it turned his mouth into a hard line. She didn’t even leave the floor after her partner’s attempt at a kiss, just kept dancing with that blackguard as if nothing had happened.

“What a distinct—and surprising—pleasure,” said a voice at his ear.

He didn’t bother turning, just kept his eyes on Jemma. “Villiers.”

“What are you watching with such—Ah, the wife.”

“She doesn’t realize the man is drunk.”

Villiers laughed. “Jemma strikes me as a woman who will always be able to ascertain the extent of a man’s inebriation.”

On the dance floor, the gallant leaned over as if he were trying to gobble Jemma’s ear and she neatly evaded him.

“Why the devil doesn’t she simply leave him there alone?”

“Because she’s having too much fun putting on a drama for you. The cruelest thing you could do would be to turn away.”

That wasn’t a possibility. Turn away while another man tried to paw his wife? Never mind the fact that he had known quite well that she was having affaires while living in Paris. That he deliberately hadn’t followed her to Paris for three years—no, four—until rumor reached him that she’d had a week-long fling with a young fool named DuPuy.

It was her right, after what he’d done to her. He owed her.

But it was different now.

Now he was going to have to kill that fool she was dancing with. Even as they watched, the red-haired sailor leaned toward her again, trying to catch a kiss. He was going for her mouth—He was—

A strong hand caught him. Villiers. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to retrieve my wife,” he said tightly.

“You can’t be involved in a fight,” Villiers said.

“Why the hell not?”

He hesitated. “You’re a statesman.”

“That hasn’t stopped most of the men I know from brawling.”

“You know why.”

Jemma seemed to be fending off her swain with her elbow, so Elijah frowned at Villiers. “What are you talking about?”

“Your heart,” Villiers hissed. “You should be at home resting.”

“The devil with that.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man swoop in again. He was bigger and stronger than Jemma. She was trying to push him away but—

Elijah was next to them in a second. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and caught one glimpse of his surprised face, red lips pursed in a kiss, before he hit him so hard that the man rose slightly in the air, landed hard, and skidded on his bottom to the edge of the dance floor.

There was a chorus of little screams as dancers scrambled to get out of the way. The ruffian climbed to his feet. “What’d you do that for?” he yelled, furious. “I wasn’t doing anything that the trollop didn’t want me to do! Who the hell are you? Her protector?”

“The husband,” Elijah said softly. “Just the husband.” He could see the man shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to decide whether to lunge at him.

“I’m glad I don’t have a wife like that!” he bellowed.

The crowd was interested now, forming a circle around the swell in the velvet domino and the red-haired sailor. There was a murmur of approval at that comment.

“It’s hard to keep a wife where she belongs!” someone shouted.

The red-haired man grinned. “Especially if she’s not satisfied at home. This one was looking for company.”

Elijah’s fists clenched and he stepped forward, just one step. “No woman should be handled in such an uncouth manner.”

A shrill voice agreed. “She got the right to dance with whoever she pleases without paying with her reputation!” It was a burly woman in the front of the growing crowd.

“An’ he’s got a right to fight for his wife, light-skirt though she be!” someone else shouted.

Behind him, Elijah could hear Jemma’s helpless laughter. He made the mistake of smiling at the sound.

“You’re laughing at me! I did nothing to your wife but what she welcomed. She’s worse than a light-skirt. She’s a—a…” Maybe it was the look in Elijah’s eyes that dried up his words. Without bothering to finish his sentence, the sailor lowered his shoulder and charged like a bull, catching Elijah square in the chest.