Christmas with the Duchess

Books by Tamara Lejeune

SIMPLY SCANDALOUS

SURRENDER TO SIN

RULES FOR BEING A MISTRESS

THE HEIRESS IN HIS BED

CHRISTMAS WITH THE DUCHESS

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Saturday, December 10, 1814

The iron gates of Warwick Palace stood open all morning, their sharp, gilded spikes gleaming in the winter sun as dozens of heavy traveling carriages rolled up the wide, evergreen avenue to the courtyard of the great house. Emma Grey Fitzroy, Duchess of Warwick, watched the invasion from the window seat of her private sitting room, high above the noise and confusion below.

With her dazzling white skin, steel-blue eyes, and thick, ash-brown hair, Emma was considered one of the great beauties of her time, but men were not drawn to her so much for her angelic appearance as her unbridled sensuality. Born into a life of privilege, Emma had never attempted to govern her passions, had never felt the least need to resist temptation, had never learned to be discreet, or, God forbid, prudent. At twenty-nine, she was as headstrong and impulsive and defiant as she had been as a child. She accepted no criticism of herself. She was, in short, an aristocrat.

“Look at them!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with anger. “I should be ashamed to show up at someone’s house uninvited.”

Seated across the richly appointed room in front of a cozy fire, Cecily, Lady Scarlingford, looked up from the shawl she was knitting. Over the course of her ten-year marriage to Emma’s elder brother, Cecily had borne six children, only three of whom had survived infancy, all females. The experience had left her plump, nervous, and worn out. No matter how hard she tried, she always looked rumpled. Her hair was a bushy mess of stubborn brown curls. She was known by smart Londoners as the “unmade marchioness” because of her unfortunate resemblance to an unmade bed.

“Otto will make them go away,” she told Emma. “Won’t you, Otto?”

Otto Grey, Marquess of Scarlingford, glanced up from his newspaper with eyes more gray than blue. Emma’s elder brother was a tall, thin aristocrat with finely chiseled features and black hair streaked with silver. His skin was fashionably pale, and diamonds glittered on his long, elegant fingers.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man’s house is never his own at Christmas,” he said importantly. “Whatever his thoughts may be on the subject, his family will not be denied their fair share of hospitality. You see, Cecily, how your life will be when I inherit Chilton.”

“I’m afraid your husband is right,” Emma told her sister-in-law. “The Fitzroys invade Warwick every year; it is a standing engagement. From Stir-up Sunday to Twelfth Night, they look upon my son’s estate as quite their own, just as they did when his father was alive. It is quite useless to resist, and even more useless to complain.”

“You will do both, however,” Otto remarked, folding his newspaper neatly and turning it over. Even this slight, affectionate jab brought a frown from his proud sister. “Is it Uncle Cuthbert?” he asked presently. “Second Cousin Hortensia? Rufus?”

“You are making those names up, Otto,” Cecily accused her elegant husband.

He smiled enigmatically. “Am I?” he murmured.

Cecily blinked at him. “Are you?” she asked uncertainly.

“It is nosy, interfering Aunt Susan,” Emma interrupted, “and that fat, lecherous, old fool she married. General Bellamy—back from the war and eager to take all the credit for the Allied victory, no doubt. They’ve brought the whole army with them, too, by the looks of it. Why, the courtyard is perfectly scarlet!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” said Otto. “Nothing is so common as exaggeration. The Bellamys have four daughters married to officers; a few redcoats are to be expected amongst the party.”

“Do I exaggerate, Cecily?” Emma demanded, pointing.

Her sister-in-law set down her knitting. “Oh, how splendid!” she said, coming to the window. “It’s like a parade. They must have invited
all
of the officers.”

“Quite!” Emma said indignantly.

“You should go down and do the pretty with Aunt Susan, Emma,” said Otto.

Emma laughed uproariously. “And let the general pinch my bottom, too, I suppose!”

“I’m perfectly serious,” Otto insisted. “You will catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“But I do not like flies, brother,” she told him.

“You know what I mean,” he said sharply. “A little civility will go a long way. It will do you no good to antagonize the Fitzroys—or the Bellamys for that matter. Like it or not, you are related to them by marriage, and connected to them forever by your children.”

“It is my
existence
that antagonizes my in-laws,” Emma retorted. “In their view, I am nothing more than a worn-out brood mare. Anything I do short of suicide is bound to antagonize them! Doing the pretty in this case would mean jumping off the bloody roof. Besides,” she added mischievously, “being a duchess means never having to do the pretty.”

She certainly had no intention of going down to greet her in-laws. With few exceptions, she had never liked the Fitzroys, and, since the sudden death of her husband the previous year, she had learned to hate them. The Fitzroys had fought tooth and nail for custody of Emma’s two sons, and, after a vicious battle, they had won.

And they had not been gracious in victory. For the first time in her life, Emma did not know where her children were. She had not been permitted to seen them since the moment her husband’s uncle, Lord Hugh Fitzroy, had been awarded guardianship of the two boys. Harry, her eldest, had turned thirteen since his mother saw him last. He was now the Duke of Warwick, and essential to the Fitzroys, but Emma feared that Grey, who was just eleven, would not be cared for as assiduously. Keeping him from his mother could only be an act of pure spite.

“They will not keep the boys from their mother at Christmas, surely,” Cecily protested.

“Really? Do you believe there is a limit to their cruelty?” said Otto. “Emma? You know them better than anyone. What do you think?”

“I will not go down, Otto,” she said fiercely. “I will not crawl to Susan Bellamy or anyone. They would only laugh in my face. I have no leverage, and they have no pity. But the boys will come home for Christmas, and I will see them.”

“And then?” said Otto.

“And then we will see,” Emma said impatiently.

From the window of another apartment, Captain Lord Ian Monteith stared down at the disorder in the courtyard with a dismay verging on panic. A powerfully built Scotsman with pale green, oddly tilted eyes, he was somehow attractive without being really handsome. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, too long for fashion, but too short to tie back. The younger son of the Marquis of Arranagh, he had been destined for the Army from a young age, and he had not disappointed expectations. At least, he had not disappointed
those
expectations.

“You did not tell me the house would be full of soldiers,” he complained to his lover, Lord Colin Grey. “What if I should meet someone I
know?
”

Emma’s younger brother was standing at the cheval glass, engrossed in tying his cravat. He and Emma were twins, born just six minutes apart, and the resemblance was undeniable. Like his sister, he was beautiful, spoiled, and reckless. Rumors abounded that the flamboyant younger son of the Duke of Chilton was a homosexual, but, thus far, his rank and wealth had protected him from outright accusation.

“
Is
the house full of soldiers?” Colin asked mildly, studying all aspects of his well-groomed exterior in the mirror. “No one said anything to me.”

“Take a look, why bloody don’t you!”

Colin calmly strolled over to the window. “My goodness!” he exclaimed, slapping his palms to his cheeks. “A whole camp full of soldiers! Somebody pinch me.”

“Oh, shut up!” his friend snapped. “If I’d known about
this,
I would never have agreed to come with you to Warwickshire. You never
think,
sir! You never think.”

“On the contrary, I am always thinking,” Colin replied, yawning. “Why, I’m practically a philosopher, don’t you know. What I do
not
do is worry, Monty. I never worry, and, as you can see, I have no wrinkles to show for it.”

“But I
do
worry, sir!” Monty, who was not a day over twenty-one, said angrily. “Unlike you, I am not independent. If it should get back to my father—! If it should get back to my
regiment
that I’m spending Christmas with the infamous Lord Colin Grey, I’d be ruined!”

“Very likely,” Colin sweetly agreed. “But
I
happen to think I’m worth it.”

Monty was not amused. “My God! Is that General Bellamy?” he moaned. “My colonel plays cards with him.”

“We know him as Uncle Susan around here,” Colin replied.

“Colin, I must leave here at once.”

Colin laughed. “Pull yourself together, Monty! Screw your courage to the sticking place, if you’ve got one. If anyone inquires into our friendship, tell them you’re in love with my sister. Make up to her like nobody’s business. Emma won’t care three straws if people think you’re her latest bedfellow.”

Monty seized on the suggestion. “Would that—would that work, do you think?”

“Of course. It’s a very neat trick. We’ve done it before.”

Monty frowned at him. “Oh, you have, have you?” he said coldly.

“Lord, yes. Heaps of times.”

“
How
many times?” Monty demanded.

“I can’t recall. The point is,” Colin went on quickly, “people are ready to believe anything about my sister. Now, how do I look? Exquisite or divine? Those are the choices.”

Turning in a slow circle, he offered himself up for inspection.

“Oh, I
do
hope Harriet has not botched the arrangements this year,” Lady Susan Bellamy, nee Fitzroy, remarked to her husband, as a footman darted forward to open the carriage door for her. He was a perfectly handsome, tall footman, faultlessly turned out in the Duke of Warwick’s black and gold livery, but Lady Susan was determined to find a blemish.

“Just once, I should like to come home and find the place in order,” she said, lowering her quizzing glass in triumph, having discovered that the footman’s eyes were a shade too close together. “Now, is that too much to ask? Heaven knows Harriet has little enough to do. She has no husband, no children, nothing to employ her. Why, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I had to live here year round,” she added mendaciously. “I could never be so lazy.”

Still vigorous at sixty, General Bellamy hungrily eyed the other vehicles, the passengers of which were just beginning to disembark. “Good old Harriet,” he muttered amiably, even as he searched among the passengers for signs of his mistress, Mrs. Camperdine, the fetching little wife of his quartermaster. In his youth, the general had been a voracious philanderer. Age had narrowed the field for him to just one wife and just one mistress, but he still imagined himself to be a great favorite amongst the ladies.

Lady Susan, herself an aging coquette, bristled at his unsolicited endorsement of Lady Harriet Fitzroy, her elder sister. “I daresay the whole place is in a shambles,” she said belligerently. “I daresay our rooms will not be ready for
hours,
and your
good old Harriet
will surely greet us with some ridiculous excuse about my letter going astray!”

“I can reassure you on that head, madam,” the general replied. “Since your letters never seem to land where they should, I took it upon myself to scribble a note.
My
letters always manage to get where they are going,” he added smugly.

Lady Susan was vexed. She had not actually written any letters to her sister. She preferred to arrive at Warwick unexpectedly, and then complain about her sister’s lack of consideration. She thought it very disloyal of the general to go behind her back.

“I’m cold,” she complained, hurrying up to the house with the general in tow. “I do hope the fires have been lit. Let us hope the
servants
know what they are about, even if
good old Harriet
does not.”

Spotting Mrs. Camperdine at last, the general gave an involuntary grunt of pleasure. “I’m sure you have the right of it, my dear,” he said cheerfully to his wife, and they went into the house together.

A tall, thin lady came down the great double staircase to greet them. Although she was ten years older than her sister, Lady Harriet looked ten years younger. Her face was unlined, and her dark eyes were bright with intelligence. Her white hair was cropped short, giving her an odd, almost whimsical appearance. She might otherwise have seemed quite severe.

Lady Susan lifted her quizzing glass, but Lady Harriet retaliated with her lorgnette.

Thirty-odd years before, General Bellamy, then a handsome young captain of the Guards, had jilted Lady Harriet to marry Lady Susan. Lady Harriet had realized very quickly that she was better off without the womanizing George Bellamy, but she had never forgiven her sister’s treachery. It gave her malicious satisfaction to see that Susan had grown even fatter since last Christmas. Her beauty was in danger of disappearing altogether amongst the folds of white flesh.

For her part, Lady Harriet looked about the same. But then,
she
had no husband or children to make her fat or give her worry lines, Lady Susan reminded herself, seething with resentment.
Harriet
lived year-round in luxury at Warwick Palace with other people’s servants at her beck and call while Susan was forced to spend her own money on her own establishment. So unfair! The quizzing glass was withdrawn.

“I trust the India Suite has been made ready for us,” Lady Susan said aloud, in a tone more suitable for addressing one’s housekeeper than one’s sister.

“You
do
look very tired, Sister,” Lady Harriet said with sweet malice. “I know how you like to rest after a journey. However, I fear I cannot oblige you with regards to the India Suite. Her grace occupies it currently, as she always does when she is at home.”