This Duchess of Mine (28 page)

Two months later, mid-June
1784

A
ll of London was talking about the Duchess of Beaumont's benefit costume ball for refurbishment of the old Roman baths. It was rumored that at least four duchesses would attend, and perhaps even the King himself. Everyone, of course, would be dressed in proper Roman attire.

Mrs. Mogg and her friends were waiting outside the gate of the baths hours before the ball was due to begin.

They watched as scores of footmen carried in countless garlands of flowers.

“They'll wrap them around the trees, I've no doubt,” Mrs. Mogg said importantly. “The Duchess of Beaumont did just that at a party she had in Paris.” Her friends all nodded. Mrs. Mogg was considered some
thing of an expert on the Beaumonts. After all, she'd talked to the duke himself twice. And she seemed to know everything there was to know about the couple.

“That was when they were living apart,” she continued now. “The duchess was over in Paris, by herself, see, and the duke was here. But then she came back and they fell in love, just like a fairy tale.”

“She's the best chess player in all England,” Mr. Mogg put in. He had discovered that if he didn't go along with his wife's obsession with the ducal family, they had nothing to talk about. So in his own way, he had become an expert too.

“Nay, you're wrong there,” a bystander said. “The Duke of Villiers is the best chess player. They just had in the paper as how he is the number one ranked player in the Chess Club.”

“But that's only because the duke and duchess refuse to play each other for a ranking,” Mrs. Mogg said. “I had a shilling and sixpence riding on the duke winning the game with the duchess, and he sent a footman to my house to tell me the match was off.”

“Cor,” the man said, looking at her again.

Mrs. Mogg drew herself up, her fox head stole shaking with excitement. “He sent that footman right to my house, to tell me that.”

“Well, why won't they play each other?” someone asked respectfully, as befitted a conversation with someone who knew a duke personally.

“I expect because of love,” Mrs. Mogg said. “They're in love, you know. She calls him Elijah. I heard her, clear as I hear myself. ‘Elijah,' she called him.”

“Are they really all going to be wearing sheets?” someone asked her. He had a little notebook. “I'm reporting for the
Morning Post
, madam.”

Everyone looked at her with respect. “That's what I heard,” Mrs. Mogg said, watching as the reporter wrote down
sheets.

There are some people for whom the command to wear a toga is anathema. The Marquise de Perthuis, for example, received her invitation, shuddered, and dropped it in the fireplace. Wearing a shapeless white gown held no interest for her. Besides, she was packing to return to France. Having heard nothing from Henri, she had decided to shock him (and the French court) with the glory of her new chemise gowns.

Lord Corbin was similarly discomposed. How did one wear a proper wig with a toga? And what about shoes? Weren't ancient Romans prone to wearing roughly-made sandals that displayed one's toes? He went to the opera instead.

But most other English peers were braver than Corbin, or more curious. “It's held up on only one shoulder,” Roberta, the Countess of Gryffyn, complained. “What was Jemma thinking of? What if my gown falls straight to the ground while I'm dancing?”

Damon, the Duchess of Beaumont's brother, dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “She was thinking that you would look utterly ravishing in a toga,” her husband said huskily.

Roberta met her husband's eyes in the glass, and unfortunately that particular couple arrived quite late at the ball.

It wasn't until some hours later—after Mrs. Mogg, Mr. Mogg, the
Morning Post
reporter, and a small stalwart crowd had been standing long enough to be truly weary, and all the footmen and cooks and the rest had gone through the little gate—that Mrs. Mogg really achieved fame.

The Duke and Duchess of Beaumont were the first to arrive. That made sense, since they were hosting the affair.

The reporter started writing busily, for here was a couple for whom the very design of the toga seemed to have been invented. The duchess wore her unpowdered hair in simple curls, with a lock or two falling over her bare shoulder. She had jewels in her hair and on her slippers. The duke looked like Socrates himself, the reporter scribbled, stopping for a moment to wonder whether Socrates was Greek or Roman. Well, it hardly mattered.

“Mrs. Mogg,” the duke said, stopping with a bow.

The reporter stopped writing to stare. Did the
duke
just bow to Mrs. Mogg?

Sure enough, she was bobbing a curtsy and talking to him as if he were of no better rank than a dockworker. The reporter shook his head. There was no point in writing this down; no one would believe it.

A few hours later, the gardens of the Roman baths were thronged with Roman nobles—or so it seemed. The trees were festooned with flowers and strands of pearls; twinkling small lanterns lit the darkest corners.

“It's a triumph,” Elijah whispered to Jemma.

She smiled up at him. “Did the king tell you that he's going to undertake restoration of the baths himself? They should be a national treasure, he said.”

Elijah's arms tightened around her. “I'm a bit sorry to have lost our secret place, but he's right. The mosaics need to be restored.”

“I know.” And then: “Why do you have that naughty look, Elijah?”

He dropped a kiss on her nose. “After the ball is
over, Duchess…” He ran a finger under the single knot that held up her toga.

She laughed. “Yes?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

A drawling voice said, “Should I return, or are you two going to continue making an exhibition of yourselves?”

“Piss off,” Elijah said, turning his back on his oldest friend to gather his wife in his arms.

“I need Jemma,” Villiers said, sounding amused.

“Or rather, I need a wife and she promised to help.”

“Oh!” Jemma said. “Do let me go, Elijah. I promised to introduce Leopold to the Montague sisters. I just saw Eleanor, dressed as Caesar's wife.”

Elijah reluctantly let her go, just pulling her back at the last moment. “Later,” he said into her ear.

And then watched her walk off with Villiers, knowing that the high flush on his wife's cheeks had nothing to do with face paint.

As the night wore on, the gardens gradually emptied of revelers. Some of the lanterns winked out, giving the paths the air of a wild bacchanalia. Carriages drew up continually outside the little stone wall, taking away groups of chattering noblemen. The hems of their togas were black with dirt; they themselves were replete with gossip; it was accounted a brilliant night by all.

Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Mogg were the only two people still waiting outside the gate. “But the duke and duchess haven't come out!” she wailed.

“We've been here for hours, Marge,” Henry said.

“You know I love you, but I'm done with this here waiting. We must have missed them. Or they left through another gate. Look, all them servants have left, and the place is dark now.”

Mrs. Mogg finally allowed herself to be drawn away, though she could hardly believe it. “I couldn't have missed him. There must be another gate.”

“'Course there is,” Henry said stoutly. “They probably left early. Too many people in that there garden, if you ask me.”

But in fact not all the lanterns were out. There were still glowing lights hanging from the columns of the baths themselves, and the duke and duchess were wandering hand in hand in that direction.

“We've never been here at night,” Jemma said. “It's magical, Elijah. Just look at all the stars.”

“I have a surprise for you,” her husband said.

They walked between the dilapidated columns, turned right and descended the stairs to the baths. Jemma stopped. “Oh, Elijah!”

In the golden light of the lanterns hanging around the baths, the pool looked like a purple sea. The entire surface was covered with hundreds and hundreds of floating violets. “It's so beautiful!”

“Every violet Stubbins was able to force in his new frames,” Elijah said with satisfaction, “and more sent in from the country.”

She smiled up at him. “Extravagant man!”

“I've been waiting to do this all evening.” He slid the knotted cloth of her toga off her shoulder. It fell to the ground, leaving her in nothing but an extremely naughty pair of cherry-colored stays.

“I didn't expect to find
that
under your toga!” Elijah said. His voice darkened at the very sight of her slender long legs topped by stays that pushed her breasts forward, as if they longed for a man's touch.

Jemma took a step toward him with a sultry swing
of her hips. “Your toga, Duke.” With one finger, she pushed it off his shoulder.

Unlike the duchess, the duke had chosen to wear nothing under his toga.

Jemma broke into laughter.

“It was a good idea,” Elijah said, grabbing her. His hands slid down her back, over her stays, shaped her bottom. “Unfortunately, every time I caught sight of you I had to turn away and think hard about chess, because the front of this damned toga tented in the most obvious manner.”

He picked her up and carried her straight into the water. They made a little path through the violets, as fragrance drifted into the air. “Oh, Elijah,” Jemma said, “this is the most romantic night I could ever have dreamed of.”

“Do you know what interesting fact Stubbins told me this morning?” he asked, striding through the violet sea.

“Does it involve manure?” she asked, leaning her head against his chest, just for the reassurance of hearing the steady beat of his heart.

“You can eat violets.” He placed her carefully down on the edge of the bath, where he had arranged for long cushions to be placed on the cold marble, just as the Romans had.

“What on earth are you planning?” Jemma said. She stretched languorously, loving the way his eyes ran greedily along the lines of her legs.

“I'm going to turn you into a pagan goddess,” he said, nimbly pulling out the pins that held up her curls, and then turning to the ties holding up her stays.

Jemma lay back and smiled at the open sky. Far
overhead, stars were shining, though the roofless bath seemed like the most protected room in the world. Elijah was tucking flowers in all her ringlets. He stood back and looked at her. She rolled over on her side and propped up her head with one hand. “How do I look?”

“More like a debauched Roman matron than a goddess,” he observed. He reached forward again.

Jemma squeaked. “Not there too?”

“Everywhere,” he said with satisfaction. “In fact, given that violets are edible, we should consider your body a banquet. Put a violet everywhere that you would like me to…taste. Do you see what I am doing, Jemma?”

“Turning me into a flower bed.”

“No, I am having fun. Just as you taught me.”

She leaned over to give him a kiss.

“I'm being extravagant,” he continued. “I'm risking bankrupting the duchy to blanket you in flowers. I'm flirting with you, and now I'm going to make love to you.”

“Hmmm…” Jemma rolled to her back and held out her hand for violets. “Here,” she said, dropping them onto the slope of her breast. “Oh, and here.” She loved it when he kissed her stomach. “And…”

The next hour or so was delicious from a culinary—and a personal—point of view.

It was only when they were sitting twined together on the steps leading down to the pool, enveloped by the warm water, that Jemma said, “Elijah.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Look at those broken tiles over there, Jemma. I do believe there used to be a mosaic depicting Apollo and Daphne on that wall.”

“I have a surprise too.”

“You do?”

She looked up at him. “I taught you how to have fun. And you taught me something just as important.”

“I love praise,” he said, nuzzling her. “Tell me more.”

“You taught me that not all games need to be won. And that I don't always have to be in control.”

He nipped her ear. “That's true.” There was a deep, male satisfaction in his voice. “You've become quite used to begging.”

“I have a gift in return.”

His eyes were grave now, looking into hers. “What gifts haven't you given me, Jemma? Besides my life?”

She kissed him again, loving him. Then she picked up his hand and put it gently on her belly. “This is my gift.”

He froze.

“Jemma!”

She started laughing at the look in his eyes.

“You're joking,” he said hoarsely.

“Never.”

“You're—You're having a baby?”

“
We're
having a baby,” she corrected him.

He had both hands on her tummy now, spanning her with ease. “Are you certain, Jemma?” he asked.

“I've seen pregnant woman and you're very slim.”

“I am not!” she protested. “You simply haven't noticed. Look!” And she stood up. She thought her stomach formed the sweetest, most delicate curve she'd ever seen.

Elijah rose from the water, drops flying from his muscled body, and without pausing fell to his knees and put his lips to her stomach.

“Oh, Elijah!” Jemma said, putting a hand on his dark hair.

“I love you,” he said huskily. “You've given me my life, Jemma…twice over.”

In the end, she cried.

He was too happy for tears.

An appalling number of years later

T
here were times when the Duchess of Beaumont felt quite irritated about growing old. Her right ankle hurt sometimes. Her hips were a little rounder than she would have preferred. Her hair was emphatically no longer pure gold.

Even now, for example, as she bent over to adjust the knot of pearls on her slippers, something creaked in one knee and she straightened quickly.

“Why the frown?” Elijah said, entering the chamber and stripping off his riding coat. He had been in Hyde Park with Evan, their eldest. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I have to tell you what happened while we were riding. Your friend, the Duchess of Cosway, stopped me because she wanted to know more about the Cacky Street helmets. She had the idea that perhaps their village smith might use something of the same nature.”

“Oh, how is Isidore?” Jemma asked with pleasure.

“I haven't seen her since our Twelfth Night ball.”

“She seemed the same,” Elijah said, pulling off his boots. “Beautiful woman. Not as lovely as you, of course. But more importantly, I think she has a good point about smiths making use of something to protect their eyes.”

Jemma picked up her manuscript. She had been working all morning on her latest project, a treatise entitled
The Beaumont Chess Series: Complex Problems for Master Players
. “That's wonderful, darling. I've been writing all morning. I thought I'd stow this in the library and go for a walk. Would you like to join me?”

“But I haven't told you what happened yet,” Elijah complained. He took off his shirt.

Jemma put her book back down and sat to ogle her husband as he undressed. Even now, at sixty, Elijah was still lean and muscled. She had grown a little plumper, but he maintained the exercise practice that he insisted was half of the reason his heart was still—even now—beating as steadily as the pendulum of a clock.

“Isidore was accompanied by one of her daughters. The younger one, with the extraordinary eyes.”

“Lucia has her mother's eyes,” Jemma said. “Isidore's eyes tilt up at the corners in precisely the same fashion.”

“Well, between us, Lucia looks like a harem dancer,” Elijah said. He was down to his smalls now, and Jemma thought he looked delicious. His legs were as powerful as they had been at thirty-five. It was such a pleasure to still desire her husband, these many years later, that she couldn't stop smiling.

“You sound a little moralistic,” she teased. “Lucia is a very nice girl and no harem dancer. When she debuted last year, she had at least four requests for her hand, and one of them was from the Earl of Derby's heir!”

“That's my point,” Elijah protested. “Any normal unmarried man—except for Evan—would have gravitated to Lucia's side like steel to a magnet.”

“Evan ignored her,” Jemma said resignedly.

“He's just like me,” Elijah said, for perhaps the fourteen-thousandth time since Evan was first put in his arms. It was undeniably true that their eldest son's grave, intelligent eyes looked exactly like his father's.

“He's so passionate about furthering his study of heart ailments that he can't stop thinking about his latest experiment, even when a woman as beautiful as Lucia shows interest.”

When Rosalind was born, Jemma happily recognized a bit of herself in one of her children. Rosie's bright hair and laughter had kept Evan from being too solemn as a little boy.

But it wasn't until their third, Marguerite, came along that Jemma saw herself and Elijah combined in one child. Marguerite would passionately argue one minute for the life of a frog that Evan planned to dissect, and then turn about and argue just as passionately for the right to wear Spanish blue rather than white for her debut.

“I know, darling,” Jemma said. “Evan is just like you.”

“He's—” Elijah looked up. “Laugh if you like. But that boy is twenty-five years old, and he shows no signs of being interested in looking for a wife. Perhaps we should have arranged a marriage for him.”

Jemma got up and wrapped her arms around Elijah's chest. “He'll find his own way.”

“An arranged marriage worked for us. At this rate, he'll never get married. And I think that Cosway might welcome the suggestion for Lucia. Perhaps I'll ask him.”

“No,” Jemma told him. “Marguerite is going to force Evan to accompany her to balls this season. He'll find someone on his own.”

Elijah snorted. “Did you hear that Marguerite slaughtered poor Villiers at chess again last night? He's going to refuse to pay us visits at this rate.”

“Mmmm,” Jemma said. “You know, Elijah, I think your heart may be missing a beat.”

“Really?” He looked unconcerned. “I doubt it.”

“No, I mean it,” Jemma said. “And you know what resets this particular clock in the best possible fashion.”

The smile on his face was positively wicked. “It is two in the afternoon,” he said with mock severity. “Are you trying to lead me astray? I had plans to work on—”

She turned her mouth to his chest and his voice broke off.

A moment later he picked her up and laid her on the bed. “You shouldn't lift me,” Jemma protested. “I'm too plump for that.”

“I love carrying you,” Elijah said. “Have I told you how grateful I am that you stopped wearing all those panniers and petticoats?”

“Yes,” she said, gasping a little because his hands were wandering.

“And you are not plump. What you are is delicious, Jemma. Every time I see you, I want to make love to you.”

“Oh, Elijah,” she whispered.

“Last night at supper,” Elijah said, pausing for a moment and looking down into her eyes, “Marguerite was nattering away with one of Villiers's boys, and you were talking to Rosalind about a new
modiste
. And I couldn't concentrate on what Villiers was saying at all because I kept looking at you and thinking about how you taste, and how you smell, and how soft you feel…”

He stopped talking, but only to give her a kiss.