Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (39 page)

"Hell," Leopold muttered. The man was mad with grief. He'd seen that look once before, on his aunt's face—at the funeral for his five-year-old nephew.

He assumed his stance.

Obviously, Astley wasn't practiced. And he didn't even fight that well. In less fraught circumstances, Leopold could have chosen a spot to insert his blade and injured the duke within a minute. But passion, it seemed, changed everything.

He found himself fighting defensively, parrying Astley's inexperienced lunges. It was surprisingly difficult, perhaps because Astley didn't respond like a trained fencer. He simply slashed away as if Leopold were a hedge he had decided to prune.

Within ten minutes they were both sweating in the still-cool air. But Leopold couldn't keep his mind on the duel, no matter how he tried. He just kept thinking what a fool he was. He didn't seem to be able to trust his instincts.

His heart.

He took a step back. Astley bounded toward him, sword raised like some sort of avenging angel.

Leopold threw down his rapier.

Astley tried to stop, but slid on the wet grass and ended up on his back, sword in the air. Leopold offered him a hand. Astley ignored it and came to his feet, breathing hard. "What in the holy hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"I refuse to fight," Leopold said, certain of the absolute Tightness of that decision. "Do I have to slap you
again?"

"You can try. But I will not fight you. A duel is for protecting one's honor," he said painstakingly.

"You don't think you need to protect your honor, after what you did?"

"I don't think I have any." He picked up his sword and untucked his shirt from his breeches in order to wipe the dew from the blade.

There was an odd little silence in the meadow, broken only by the song of a lark over the river.

"You can kill me if you want," Leopold added.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Astley sat down on a large rock at the side of the stream, then observed, "My arms ache."

"You should get a fencing master," Leopold said. "You're not bad." "Why? In case I find some honor of my own somewhere?"

Their eyes held the same rueful acknowledgment. They were the two luckiest, and two most brainless, men in the kingdom.

"She loves you. You can get her back," Astley offered.

Leopold shook his head. "She'll never believe that I love her now. She thinks that she's nothing more than a second-best mother, that I never wanted to marry her until I saw how much Tobias cared for her."

"Even worse, she likely thinks that you want her now only because Lisette proved herself stark raving mad."

"I don't know what to do."

Astley stood up with a little groan. "My back!"

"Find an instructor," Leopold said, looking up. "Not for defending your honor, but because it's fine exercise."

"I see that," Astley said, moving slowly toward the house.

He stopped and looked back. "If I were you, Duke, I would fight for her."

Leopold's eyes fell on his rapier.

"Not that way," Astley said with disgust.

And he was gone.

London residence of the Duke of Montague

August 6, 1784

It took almost six weeks for the Duchess of Montague to plummet from the heights of maternal bliss to utter despair. At first she didn't believe Eleanor's declaration that she had refused Gideon's proposal, even if he followed the strict protocol of a year of mourning. After finally grasping and accepting that, she leapt on the idea of her daughter marrying Villiers, bastard children or no.

Resigning herself to the finality of Eleanor's edict regarding the second duke led to wailing and gnashing of teeth. Literally.

Melancholy hung over the house like a shroud. The duchess took to drifting from room to room, her face a combination of dejection and rage.

"Don't imagine that you can live with your brother for life!" she said shrilly one morning at breakfast. "I won't have his life destroyed by having to live with a spinster sister. It would have ruined my marriage had your aunt lived with us."

"I mean to marry," Eleanor said steadily, repeating what she had said a few hundred times in the past weeks. "Just not a duke."

"Two dukes! Two dukes asking for your hand in marriage and you refused them both!" The lament sounded like a lullaby to Eleanor now, so familiar that she didn't even distinguish the words in the general flow. "The only good thing to emerge from this disaster is that you've got rid of that horrid dog, though I vow the Aubusson in the morning room still has an odor."

Then the letter arrived.

Dear Lady Eleanor Lindel,

I hope you will excuse the audacity of this missive. We danced together once in the past, although I
am quite certain that you hardly noticed my presence. For my part, I was unable to express my
admiration as I was engaged abroad on His Majesty's behalf. I am now returned to England, and
thus I am bold enough to inquire, as I would have three years ago, if you would be so kind as to
accompany me on a drive to Kensington Gardens.

Hon. Josiah Ormston

"You might as well go," Anne said, reading over her shoulder. "He's obviously been nursing a tendre for you all this time. It will cheer you up. Do you have any idea who he is?" "No, I don't. And it won't cheer me up," Eleanor said evenly.

Dear Mr. Ormston,

No lady can consider it an affront to learn that a gentleman has remembered her name over the
span of three years. However, I must beg you to excuse me. Since I do not have the same memory of
you, it would feel odd indeed to join you for a drive. Perhaps we shall renew our acquaintance
when the season begins again.

Lady Eleanor

"Never mind the fact that you'll be a burden on the family for life!" the duchess wailed, upon learning of the letter. "The least you could do would be to marry someone above the merchant class.

Though if your father ever returns from Russia, I shall direct him to inquire amongst that sort.

Beggars can't be choosers."

Anne, who was kindly sharing most of her meals with them, doing her best to blunt the flow of recriminations, said, "Mother, you can't mean to say that you intend to sell Eleanor to the highest bidder."

"Why not?" the duchess demanded. "No one can tell me that she isn't a serpent's tooth, gnawing on my bosom! Her dowry should be sufficient to buy us a merchant. Perhaps one of the Wedgwoods. I vow their crockery has grown so expensive that they must be worth a fortune."

"Mo
-ther,"
Anne said, grinning.

Eleanor said nothing. Her father would never agree to such a scheme. And her mother didn't really mean it. By refusing two dukes, she had struck at the roots of her mother's strongest belief: that a title is God's own way of marking his blessed few. Marrying her daughter to a cit would likely kill her.

"The least you could do is devote an afternoon to this—this Ermster fellow," the duchess continued.

"He's a gentleman. He might marry you."

"I don't know who he is," Eleanor objected.

"He's not in
Debrett's,"
Anne added.

"Debrett's, Debrett's,"
the duchess said fretfully. "It can be terribly inaccurate, you know. They completely neglected to note that your great-aunt was related, on her mother's side, to a Russian prince."

Eleanor sighed. "If you wish me to accompany Mr. Ormston to the park, I shall, if he asks me again."

"It's the least you could do," her mother said. "The very least. You'll have to make a true effort now, Eleanor. Everyone will think that Villiers rejected
you.
They'll be scrutinizing you to see what he found lacking."

Despite herself, the back of Eleanor's throat tightened.

"Mother," Anne interceded, leaning forward and waving a copy of the
Morning Post,
"did you read about this extraordinary robbery?"

"There are so many," the duchess said. "Who can keep account?"

"Yes, but this one happened in our own street!"

"Here?"

"It says that an old gentleman, residing in Arlington Street, was sitting in his front parlor when he was extremely alarmed by the sudden appearance of a man with black crepe over his face."

"A cape on his face? How extraordinary."

"No, black
crepe.
He must have worn it..."

Eleanor stopped listening. She had beaten back the tears, again. Perhaps she should go for a drive with Mr. Ormston. She had made up her mind to marry a mere gentleman, and any man who didn't even appear in
Debrett's Peerage
certainly qualified.

There was no real point in waiting for the new season. She suspected—nay, she
knew—
that her heart would never be whole. Yet she would marry, and she would have children, and she would feel joy again.

But she would never love with that kind of ravening, blissful hunger that she felt for Leopold—the kind of hunger that made her want to touch his arm when they were at supper, meet his eyes at breakfast, sleep next to him every night.

Mr. Ormston's next letter provided something of a relief from these gloomy thoughts.

Dear Lady Eleanor Lindel,

I entirely concur with your dismay at the idea of a tête-à-tête with an unknown man, though I
should assure you that I am indeed a gentleman. As the younger son of Baron Plumptre, I took my
uncle's surname in honor of his leaving me a snug fortune. I hope that I do not offend you by
speaking so directly of these matters. Though I have little hope of refreshing your memory, as I
recall, you wore a gown of some sort of blue stuff, and we talked of Miss Burney's play,
The Witlings.
You did not care for the actress who played Mrs. Voluble.

With deep respect, Hon. Josiah Ormston

"Well, now you
must
remember him," Anne said with triumph, waving the letter. "You didn't like Mrs. Voluble."

"No one did," Eleanor said. "I barely recall the play, but every review said that Mrs. Voluble was shrill and unpleasant."

"What I like about this man is that he remembers everything about dancing with you," Anne said, dropping the letter and turning to her mother's
Debrett's,
always handy on the parlor table. "It would be very nice for you to experience some adoration. Yes, he's here, listed not under Ormston, but as a second son to Plumptre. Josiah is not a wonderful name, but a sturdy one, don't you think?"

"I suppose."

"You must go," Anne said. "Mother will never let you hear the end of it otherwise."

Dear Mr. Ormston,

I would be pleased to accompany you to the park tomorrow.

Lady Eleanor

"You should wear the blue gown you took to Kent," Anne said. "It might remind him of whatever it was you were wearing three years ago."

"I'll wear one of my old gowns," Eleanor said. "It did me no good to put on a wanton appearance, Anne. You have to admit that."

"No lip color?" Anne asked, horrified.

"None. And a modest dress."

"Perhaps you weren't aware of this, but I instructed Willa to give away most of the gowns you used to own," her sister pointed out. "You didn't!"

"I certainly did," she retorted. "Just because you've been thwarted in love..." She paused, and added,

"again,
doesn't mean that you should turn yourself into a pattern card of domestic dreariness.

You've had very bad luck, Eleanor. Now you need to be prudent."

"I am being prudent."

"No. You are going to dress like the desirable young lady that you are. You are going to act in a proper manner. Don't tell me that Villiers didn't get a good look at your silver combs, Eleanor, because I know perfectly well that he did."

"You're saying I'm a fool."

"I'm saying that perhaps you should just follow the path that the rest of us have taken successfully,"

her sister said gently. "Flirt with the gentleman, be enticing and yet modest. It's a game, Eleanor, but it's a most rewarding one."

"Very well," Eleanor said, inexpressibly depressed.

"Remember, that was your first season, and your head was full of Gideon. Any number of respectable gentlemen might have fallen in love with you, and you wouldn't have noticed. I would suggest the sprigged muslin, because the gauze around the bodice makes it practically prudish."

Eleanor nodded, acquiescing.

"And I suppose that you might eschew the black around your eyes," Anne said. "But you simply must have a bit of cheek color. You look as pale as a ghost. Poor Mr. Ormston will think you suffered from a bout of consumption while he was abroad."

At precisely two of the clock, Eleanor was ready. In truth, the muslin was so delectable that it was hard to feel miserable while wearing it. It had a cream background, sprigged with tiny cherries. The skirts were puckered around the bottom with cherry-colored gauze; the same gauze was tucked into the bosom, which would have been indecently low without it. The ensemble was completed by a supremely fashionable cabriolet bonnet with gauze ribbons that fluttered behind.

"You look quite good," her mother said grudgingly. And then, rather surprisingly, "You needn't feel that Mr. Ormston is your only resort, Eleanor. Your beauty means that you can certainly marry where you wish. Witness the two dukes begging for your hand. I know I have been snappish on the subject, but I have no doubt but that you'll take at some point."

Eleanor brushed her mother's cheek with a kiss. "Thank you, Mama."

Anne was standing at the window, most improperly peering through the drapes. "He's got a perfectly lovely landau," she reported. "It looks to be painted on the sides with cupids, or something like that.

I can't quite see. And he has a footman. Really, Mr. Ormston was not jesting when he said his uncle left him a living."

"That is vastly unseemly of you," the duchess scolded. "You look like a housemaid at the window.

What do you see of the man himself?"

"The footman is coming to our door and blocking my view. Oh! Mr. Ormston is wearing a wig
à
Grecque.
Very fashionable of him! His coat is black. Quite plain. I don't see any large buttons."