Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (23 page)

"Because that's for ladies and gentlemen. You should have four or five beaux at least, my lady. I want just one."

"I think," said Eleanor, "that I want just one as well."

"It would be a great waste," Willa said, shaking her head. "Look at your gown, and how beautiful you are, and all. And then there's your dowry. It's always better if a gentleman has to fight off other men."

"For his sake or for mine?"

"Oh, for both," Willa said, getting into the spirit of the conversation. "He feels better because he's had to fight off rivals."

"Well, I don't think that Villiers cares," Eleanor said, feeling a touch ofwistfulness."He just wants a mother to his children."

"That's not what he wants from
you,"
Willa said with a chuckle.

Villiers inspected himself one last time in the glass while Finchley waited, another cravat close at hand in case he decided to redo the knot. He was wearing one of his favorite coats, made of a pale green silk, the color of the very first leaves in spring. It was embroidered with mulberry-colored flowers, a fantasy of climbing trumpet vines. His hair was tied back with a ribbon of the same green.

He looked like what he indeed was: an idiosyncratic and powerful duke. He did not look like a man who was prey to unaccustomed and unwelcome emotions. Shame, for one. And fear. When Tobias couldn't be found...when the daughters he had never met couldn't be found... he had felt sick.

That was unacceptable.

And what he felt for Eleanor was, frankly, unacceptable as well.

He had to make a dreadfully important decision that would determine his children's future happiness. He didn't need a wife or a lover. The important thing was that they needed a mother. And Lord knows, they deserved whatever he could give them.

His jaw tightened as he pictured the fusty, filthy sty again. And Tobias, wading through the bitterly cold mud of the Thames.

"Your Grace?" Finchley prompted. "Would you like your gloves?"

"No," he said, turning to go. "I think I'll stop by the nursery before going downstairs for dinner."

"Very well, Your Grace. I will wait in the downstairs entry with your gloves."

Villiers pushed open the door to the nursery with some trepidation. He and Tobias seemed to be able to rub along together. But he had another son and a daughter at home with whom he had hardly exchanged a word. And now two more daughters. It was overwhelming.

The first thing he saw when he entered was Lisette. She was sitting in a rocker by the fire, singing.

She had a beautiful voice, as clear as a bell and yet surprisingly low.
"Hush-a-bye baby, on the
treetop,"
she sang. Lucinda or Phyllinda was curled in her lap, wearing a white nightie. Villiers looked around for the other girl, and found her in one of the beds, sucking her thumb in her sleep.

"When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will
come baby, cradle and all."

The moment Lisette stopped singing, the little head on her shoulder popped up

"Don't stop, lady, don't stop..."

That had to be Lucinda, given her exhausted but stubborn tone. Lisette stroked the little girl on the shoulder, then bent her bright head over the girl again and sang.

"Mama will catch you, give you a squeeze. Send you back up to play in the trees..."

Villiers smiled. He didn't remember ever being sung to. His nanny was greatly taken with the young duke's consequence and treated him as a small prince from the moment he could remember.

No one sang to princes.

"When twilight falls, and birds seek their nest. Come home to the one who loves you the best."

Lisette's voice was so beautifully soothing that it wasn't in the least surprising to find Lucinda had succumbed. A maid tiptoed over to take the little girl, but Villiers waved her away and picked up the child himself.

She was utterly beautiful, from her curls to the long eyelashes hiding those lavender eyes she inherited from his grandmother. In sleep, her mouth was a rosebud rather than the defensive, obstinate grimace that she had worn downstairs.

"Put her down carefully," Lisette said softly, at his shoulder. "You don't want to wake her."

He started toward one of the other little beds lining the wall of the nursery, but her light touch on his arm stopped him. "With her sister."

Of course. He placed Lucinda on the bed next to Phyllinda. Their ringlets curled together on the pillow.

"You're going to have a fine time fending off suitors when they're old enough to be noticed," Lisette whispered.

"They may be rejected by the
ton.
I'll dower them, of course, but they're bastards." He had promised to himself that he wouldn't try to avoid what he had done to them, and that meant naming it.

"If they were mine, I would teach them not to care."

"Hard to do in the midst of London, and children to a duke," he said wryly.

"I don't agree." She gave a disdainful little wave. "I would teach them to ignore such foolishness.

The (on is made up of unimportant, stupid persons. I care nothing for them; why should they?"

She meant it. He could see the truth in her eyes: she really believed the (on was unimportant.

What do you think of my title?" he asked her.

What do you mean, what do I think of it?" She smiled. "It has four letters. D-U-K-E." "Do you revere it?" "Should I?" "No."

"My father does not revere his title in the least," she said.

Villiers hadn't even thought about her father. Gilner was an excellent man in Parliament, by all accounts. "Your mother died some time ago. Do you know if your father ever thought to marry again?"

"Oh no," Lisette said peacefully. "He says he would prefer that his direct bloodline die out. My second cousin will inherit."

"How extremely—"

But she slipped her delicate hand into his and put a finger to her mouth. As they watched, Phyllinda shifted to her side and threw an arm around her sister.

"We will be missed downstairs," Lisette whispered. "I only meant to stop by the nursery and see how they were doing."

Villiers said. "I've heard the first part of that lullaby, but never the second verse."

"Oh, I made it up," Lisette said. "I never liked the idea of the basket falling. Why, the babe would be hurt!" She tugged his hand gently. "Come on, Leopold. My aunt has returned home and she'll be vexed with me if I'm overly late."

She called him Leopold so easily, as if they had been intimates forever.

Eleanor entered the drawing room and was greeted by a tall, thin woman wearing a towering, snowy white wig. "Darling, it's been years! I haven't seen you since you were in pinafores, and look at you now. Utterly gorgeous."

"Lady Marguerite," Eleanor said, dropping into a curtsy. "It's such a pleasure to see you again.
I
may have changed, but you have not."

Marguerite laughed at that, but it was true. She was not only beautiful, but stylish, with arching dark eyebrows that sharply contrasted with her white wig. She had to be in her forties or even her early fifties, but she dressed with the eclat of a young woman.

"It's such a pleasure having visitors, even though several of them are confined to their chambers.

Apparently your mother has a toothache," she said, leading Eleanor into the room, "and dear Anne refuses to leave her bed. So we're very thin company tonight, with Lisette, Villiers, and myself. But I must introduce you to my good friend, the Honorable Lawrence Frederick Bentley the Third."

Bentley was from Yorkshire, with stiff white whiskers and very bright eyes. He looked as if he enjoyed galloping the moors shouting
Tally-Ho!
"How do you do?" he said with a flourishing bow.

"We've been discussing the endlessly fascinating subject of matrimony," Marguerite said, seating herself. "I myself have never been married, as you know, and I shall never choose to be at this point in life. I prefer to have devoted friends."

"But what of love?" Lisette said, cocking her head to one side and regarding her aunt as if she'd never seen her before.

"Love is all very well in its way—Eleanor, dearest, do have one of these small tarts; they are delicious—as I was saying, love is fine, but friendship is much more important." Marguerite shot an amused smile at Bentley. "Which is not to say that there can't be love in friendship... at least
devoted
friendship."

"Without marriage no one would have children," Bentley said. "Family, what? Important, that sort of thing."

"Bentley has two children, though of course they're grown now," Marguerite informed the rest of them, speaking for him in a comfortable way that made it clear that while she may have declined to marry Bentley, the contours of their relationship weren't unfamiliar.

"One can certainly have children without marriage," Lisette said, with her unerring gift for saying what most people think, but never utter. "Just look at Villiers's children. Your girls have startlingly beautiful eyes," she said, turning to him.

"Children? Didn't know you were—what, ho!" Bentley said, stopping in some confusion.

"I'm not married," Villiers said calmly. "But I do have children. Three of whom are upstairs, and about whom Lady Lisette has kindly expressed some admiration."

"Do you have any children born outside your marriage?" Lisette asked, turning to Bentley. "You must have had a wife earlier in life, before you met Marguerite, I mean."

Bentley was clearly used to Lisette; he didn't even flinch. "My wife died many years ago. I don't have any children other than those Marguerite mentioned, but a brother has one. Nice lad; we set him up as a cartwright and he's as fine as fivepence. A sturdy fellow too, not at all like my nephew."

Marguerite laughed. "Poor Erskine! Bentley's nephew is in love with the daughter of a colonel, and all he does is mope and carry on for the love of her."

"They are
both your
nephews," Lisette pointed out.

Eleanor felt very glad that her mother felt a toothache; this was not a conversation that she would enjoy. What's more, the Honorable Lawrence and Marguerite were holding hands now, and the duchess wouldn't approve of that either.

And Villiers was smiling at Lisette, likely because of her defense of the illegitimate cartwright.

Eleanor felt a stab of jealousy. He was
hers
—except he wasn't. "Did Sir Roland happen to stop by while we were at the orphanage?" she asked Marguerite.

"Of course he did," Marguerite said with a wicked twinkle. "I gather you have captivated the attention of our local bard. I invited him to join us after supper for a musical interlude. Which reminds me, we really should go to supper now. Popper seems to be quite unnerved. I think it'd be best if we do exactly as he requests tonight."

"Did you bring back any interesting stories from London?" Lisette implored, after they were seated around the table.

"Your papa sends his best wishes and said to tell you that he'll be coming home in a week or so."

"Not that sort of news," Lisette said impatiently. "Interesting news. As when you told us about Mrs.

Cavil eating a bushel of cherries."

"That was a sad story," Marguerite said, "given what happened to Mrs. Cavil the next day."

"Exactly," Lisette said, grinning.

"Well, along the same lines, but Popper just told me that Gyfford's brew house burned down. It's a village over," Marguerite explained to Villiers and Eleanor. "Half the village is insisting that it was Gyfford's dead wife, come back for revenge. The other half of the village is much less poetic, and feels that Gyfford was smoking his pipe in bed."

"What does Gyfford say about it?" Lisette inquired.

"Unfortunately, he's cinders," Marguerite said.

Lisette blinked. "He was our neighbor." Her lower lip started to tremble.

"Stow it," Marguerite said, rapping Lisette sharply on the hand with her spoon. "You didn't know him, and by all accounts he was a hoary old bastard."

"Now, now, Marguerite," Bentley said. "Lady Eleanor is not used to your lively ways. You'll shock the poor lass."

"I've never seen that particular lass shocked," Villiers drawled. "Do go ahead and see if you can do so, Lady Marguerite."

"I am rarely shocked or frightened," Lisette announced. "Except by dogs, of course. Fierce dogs."

She threw a meaningful look at Eleanor.

"Oh, don't go on about that puppy again," Marguerite said, earning Eleanor's gratitude. "Let's see, what else can I tell you. The dowager Lady Faber has had a horrible accident." She paused dramatically.

Do tell," Lisette said, clapping her hands together.

She saw an advertisement in the
London Gazette for
a depilatory."

Any story beginning on that note will end badly," Villiers said.

What's a depilatory?" Lisette asked.

A medicine to remove hair," Marguerite told her. "Lady Faber rubbed it all around her mouth, and unfortunately everywhere it touched turned bright garter blue." Lisette went off in a peal of laughter.

"And while it is
not
funny, did you hear about the Duchess of Astley?" Marguerite added. "Yes, thank you, Popper, I will have just a trifle more. Please tell Cook that the baked carrots are extremely good."

Villiers's head swung up and he met Eleanor's eyes. "What on earth has happened to the duchess?"

he inquired.

"I do hope you weren't close to the poor dear," Marguerite said. "Yes, Popper, I think we could move on to the next course now."

"The duchess?" Villiers repeated.

"You appear quite dismayed," Lisette observed. "Was she a friend of yours, Leopold?"

"You are addressing the duke by his first name," Marguerite said, narrowing her eyes and looking from Villiers to Lisette. "That is inappropriate. You are a betrothed woman."

Villiers blinked, and Eleanor felt a perverse satisfaction. Not that a betrothal would stop Villiers, if he decided he wanted to marry Lisette.

Lisette gave her a lazy smile. "Leopold is a
devoted
friend. And since my fiance hasn't set foot in England for six years, I hardly feel he deserves the title."