This Duchess of Mine (7 page)

“Saved by your dukedom,” Jemma said. “And yet you played the hero.”

“Hardly,” he said dryly. “I refused to marry her. I merely restrained myself from pointing out the fact that I hardly knew her. She, for her part, did a wonderful job of lurking at the side of ballrooms and staring at me tragically, until her father whisked her off to Canada. The child was sent back to England a few months later with a quite disagreeable note about my role in its upbringing. What on earth could I do except accept her as my own?”

“You don't know where the mother is now?”

“Why should I?”

“Good point.”

“So her child is one of my six.”

“Who are the five remaining mothers? Nightwalkers, all?”

He waved a hand. “Play your piece, Jemma. I intend to win. And no, there are no nightwalkers among them. I have a great deal of respect for myself, and the risk of disease in those encounters is appalling.”

“You're splitting hairs,” Jemma said, moving her king. “Call them courtesans, if you wish.”

“Their station in life is irrelevant,” he said with
emphasis. Just as she hoped, he was focused on the conversation and didn't appear to notice that her remaining bishop would soon have his queen.

“I wouldn't agree, given that they are rearing
your
children. And I imagine they aren't teaching the children chess. Just imagine all the useful lessons the girls are learning.”

“In fact, only one child is being reared by her mother,” he said.

“Oh? Then who cares for the others?”

“My solicitor makes sure that the children are well cared for.”

“You don't know.”

“Why would I? Do you—”

“If I had a child, I would know where he was!”

“So far, we have two items on the fathering list,” he said, sighing. He was being surprisingly calm. The old Villiers, the pre-nearly-dead Villiers, would have stalked from the room long ago. “Ascertain who is raising them, and teach them chess.”

“I do believe you ought to take them in yourself, as we discussed a few weeks ago,” Jemma said, baiting him. “Although I must admit that I thought we were talking of two children at that point.” She moved a pawn, calculating the number of moves remaining before she seized his queen.

He looked up. “You were joking then, and I trust you are now as well.”

“Absolutely not! Is your hand on that pawn because you intend to move it?”

He looked down with a slight frown and moved the piece.

“Children ought to live with their parents. It's part of the duties of parenthood.”

“Don't be a fool. I have no wife.”

“Didn't the Earl of Ballston take in at least twelve illegitimate children?”

“He had a wife.”

“A couple of the illegitimate children were hers, by all accounts. So, what we need to do is find you a wife…just the right kind of wife.”

“The kind who won't object to my children, you mean, because she has some illegitimate offspring of her own?”

“It would serve you right,” she said, breaking into a laugh at the look on his face.

“You think I should
live
with these children?”

“Well…no.” She moved her bishop. “Check and mate.”

He stared down at the trap she'd set. “Christ! You distracted me!”

“But it was so delicious to see your face when I suggested that you move the children into your house. Delicious!”

He blinked at the board and looked at her. “I might take in one child.”

“What?”

“I could take in one. Do you think that would be enough?”

“Enough for what?” Jemma stared at Villiers as if she'd never seen him before. “I was merely trying to win the game. And I won. Do you wish to trace your mistaken move?”

He shrugged. “No. You won. If you'll excuse me, I must think.”

She sprang to her feet. “Think about bringing illegitimate children into your house? I was only joking, Villiers! Truly. No respectable woman will marry you
under those circumstances. I should never have said such a thing.”

He rose and came one step toward her. He was tall, almost as tall as her husband, and she had to tilt her head up.

“I don't want to marry a respectable woman,” he said. Slowly.

Oh God. There was something in those black eyes of his that she'd never seen before. They had been flirting for almost a year now, ever since she had returned from France and challenged him to a chess match…A match that was never finished, and never would be. A match designed to end in bed.

“Leopold,” she whispered. “You mustn't—”

“I must be serious,” he said. “You're married. You're married to my childhood friend, Elijah. And Elijah—” He seemed to change his mind and took a breath.

“He's got you and I haven't. I'm just saying, Jemma, that there aren't a lot of places a man can go after he has met you.”

Jemma felt the pleasure of that compliment deep in her gut, in her backbone, in all the silly places that a person can feel a compliment. And she knew why, too. Somewhere in her was still the forlorn young woman, desolated to find that her husband enjoyed the company of his mistress over that of his wife.

She shook her head. She would never be unfaithful to Elijah again. “We plan to have a child,” she said, pretending there was nothing wrong with her husband's heart.

“I already have some children, and I think it's time I came to know them.” Villiers stepped back, and she found herself reaching out a hand without conscious
will. His tone was so sad and yet so self-accepting, with that flare of humor.

“You will fall in love with someone, Leopold. Someone will steal your heart before you notice it.” He shook his head. “I plan to visit Vauxhall tomorrow night; come and I will introduce you to the loveliest women of my acquaintance.”

He bowed, said all the right things, and left.

Jemma sat in front of the game board for a long time, thinking that Villiers had changed. After finishing a game of chess, they used to play it backwards, dissect it three or four different ways, argue over moves. Now he'd walked away after she'd played the oldest, silliest ploy in the book, distracting him with a lively conversation.

The thing that made her uneasy, made her sit staring at the discarded pieces, was that she knew what was in his eyes when he looked at her. Not that she'd seen it all that often.

It wasn't something he was supposed to feel. Not for her. Not for…not for anyone, except his wife, when he had one.

B
y evening, Elijah had not yet returned to the house. Jemma ate in solitary splendor at nine; she dallied over her meal until ten and then retreated to the library. She fiddled with a chess problem and went over the household accounts.

But in reality, she watched the clock. She felt torn in two: one moment desperate just to see Elijah, the next torn by resentment and a furious determination to make him leave the House of Lords.

When her husband finally walked into the library, his face gaunt and exhausted, she wanted to throw herself into his arms, at the same time that she wanted to rail at him. Fortunately, she didn't have to choose: the presence of Fowle and the footmen made either an impossibility.

Elijah bent over her hand, kissing it as if she were the merest acquaintance. Fowle bustled across the room before they could exchange a word, followed by three footmen carrying a small table, covered dishes, and china.

Jemma walked back to her seat, feeling as if she were walking on broken glass. She, who was never at a loss for words, was struggling to formulate even the most trivial comment. They sat in silence as Fowle set the table before Elijah, uncovered a beefsteak, and poured him a glass of wine.

“If you would be so kind as to leave the dishes, I will serve myself,” Elijah said.

Fowle pursed his lips in a scandalized kind of way, but Elijah sent him from the room with one look.

“How was your day?” Elijah asked as the door closed behind Fowle and the footmen.

Jemma took a sip of brandy. “Oh, quite enjoyable,” she said lightly. “I paid a visit to a friend in the morning, and I beat Villiers at a game of chess in the afternoon.”

A shadow crossed his eyes. “How is the duke?”

“Fine. Though he confessed that he has six illegitimate children.”

Elijah's hand froze, a piece of steak halfway to his mouth.

“Six,” Jemma repeated. “What's more, he did not actually father Lady Caroline Killigrew's child. Do you remember all the fuss when he refused to marry her?”

Elijah nodded.

“It was astonishingly generous of him to allow that story to circulate. He said that he felt it was the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Not an impulse he feels on a daily basis,” Elijah said dryly.

“Only Villiers would be so careless of his reputation that he allowed himself to be besmirched by a young lady he hardly knew.”

“It is the privilege of the uncaring.” There was a bit of a snap in his tone.

“He's a great deal more sanctimonious than he allows. I believe that he finds a reputation for immorality useful.”

“He makes being on the side of the sinners look extremely attractive,” Elijah admitted, pulling off a cover and putting a helping of plaice on his plate.

“Whereas you make being on the side of the saints look very exhausting,” Jemma replied, seizing the opening.

He looked at her over the table. “I know what you're going to say.”

“Then I shan't ask it, because there's nothing worse than a nagging wife, saying the things that one knows already.”

His smile made her heart beat suddenly faster. “I quite look forward to being nagged by you.”

“You mustn't give me encouragement of this sort,” Jemma said, striving for a flirtatious tone. “We've lived apart so long that you've forgotten what a shrew I can be.”

“You were never a shrew,” he said, his voice low. They stared at each other a moment. “You didn't even scream at me after walking into my office when I was—with my mistress.”

“I didn't?” In all honesty, Jemma couldn't remember anything but Sarah Cobbett's yellow hair, hanging over the edge of Elijah's large desk.

“You just looked at me, your face white. You dropped the picnic hamper you held, and you fled.”

Jemma gave him a little smile. “Don't think I'd be as silent again. If I ever encountered such a scene now, I would bring the walls down around your
ears.” But she said it knowing perfectly well that Elijah would never do such a thing again. That he'd changed, and she'd changed, and no woman stood between them.

“The look on your face was like a dagger,” Elijah said.

“Surely, you—”

“I'm not exaggerating. I'd seen that look before.”

“You had?”

He waved his fork at the walls. “You've taken down all the evidence.”

Jemma blinked at the walls. She'd had them repaneled and painted a dark crimson while they were in the country for Christmas. “They were oak,” she said confusedly. “I would hardly call that evidence of a crime, though they were rather old-fashioned.”

“A large and detailed picture of Judith and Holofernes used to hang directly before my father's desk,” Elijah said, returning to his plate. “It was a particularly vivid tableau in which Judith waved Holofernes's severed head with a distinct air of glee. I think my mother liked to believe that it would force my father to notice her rage, but I doubt she succeeded. He was not an observant man.”

“Your mother was angry about your father's mistress?” Jemma asked cautiously.

“Something of that nature.”

The conversation was not going where Jemma had planned. The former duke's dubious intimacies were interesting, but not relevant.

“In truth, I had a horrid day,” she said abruptly.

Elijah immediately put down his fork. “I am very sorry if the state of my health caused you any distress.”

“Distress?” For a moment she couldn't continue; it felt as if her throat were closed to words. “I was quite unkind in the morning to a woman who is an acquaintance, if not precisely a friend. And I topped that piece of goodwill by goading Villiers into taking his illegitimate children under his own roof.”

“He can't do that,” Elijah said, frowning. “Even his rank won't inoculate him from becoming a pariah. What were you thinking, Jemma?”

“I wasn't thinking.” She raised her chin, willing herself not to cry. “I was so angry at you for leaving this morning without even a note, that I behaved—” Despite herself, her voice wavered. She swallowed and continued. “I behaved like the worst sort of person, determined to win in both encounters no matter the damage I caused.”

“
Win?
What on earth did you hope to win from your friend?”

“It's unimportant, and I'm afraid that that friendship is at an end.”

“It was most unkind of me to leave you no personal message, particularly after the shock of last night. I apologize.” His eyes were warm and sympathetic. “I shall not behave in such a discourteous way again.”

She was a shrew and he was the perfect husband. “Thank you,” she said. “But I do have a request.”

“I believe I can anticipate you,” he said, raising his wineglass to his lips. “I know we need to have a serious discussion; of course, you wish to address the question of an heir. The next duke. I have already informed Pitt that I will not be available tomorrow.” His eyes caressed hers. He clearly meant to spend the day in bed. With her.

“In fact, that is not my request,” she said carefully,
trying not to dwell on the cold-blooded fashion with which Elijah referred to the question of children.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I would ask that you give up your seat in the House of Lords. For your health.”

The words hung in the air. The sensual warmth in his eyes disappeared as if it had never been, and she was faced by the consummate statesman. Being Elijah, he didn't dissemble. “The government faces ongoing prisoner riots, a coming election, an impoverished citizenry. Fox and the Prince of Wales risk the health of the entire nation with their drunken exploits; the king seems unable to rein in his own son. I could not consider such a drastic move.”

“I would not argue with their need for you,” Jemma said. “But I wonder that you need
them
.”

“I'm afraid that I don't follow your point.”

“I have no doubt that the Prime Minister faces a difficult year. But Mr. Pitt seems to me to be amply, if not eagerly, able to take on those challenges. In fact, he was elected for just that purpose. But you, Elijah, were not elected.”

“Responsibility is not incurred only from election.” His eyes were grave but utterly resolute.

“Your heart is giving out because of the pressure of being roused at dawn to argue problems that most of your peers merely read of in the papers, if they bother to do so. Villiers never took up his seat in Lords. When he was so very ill last year, after his duel, he recovered in bed.”

Elijah put down his wine. “We are very different men. The ethical compass of Villiers's life is bounded by the chessboard.”

“You are not listening to me,” Jemma said, feeling
her hold over her temper slipping. “Villiers nearly lost his life last year, but he is here today because he retreated to his chambers. Had he pushed himself out of bed at dawn under the mistaken impression that there was no one else able to deal with a public furor, he would be dead.”

Elijah's jaw was set. “Surely you are not suggesting that I live the remainder of my life in bed? Lying flat, as Villiers did in the grip of fever? Perhaps playing a game of chess now and then?” He pushed his plate away, the food half-eaten.

“That seems an exaggeration.”

His tone was courteous as ever, but she could see the leashed fury in his eyes. “You suggest that I should treasure life so much that I preserve it, as a fly in amber? That I should add to my allotted minutes by staying on my back, by giving up every ambition I had to do something of value with those minutes?”

“You needn't—” Jemma began, only to be overridden by the steady voice of a man used to shouting down a chamber full of howling statesmen.

“In fact, you would have me become a man like Villiers, a man whose children are negligently scattered about the countryside, a man who cares for nothing but his next game of chess. Though perhaps you consider that an unjust appraisal. After all, Villiers does care about his appearance. So I would be allowed sartorial splendor and chess.”

Jemma straightened her back, trying to force air into her lungs.

“I could walk about with a sword stick and make absolutely sure that every man on the street understood that I was a duke, a man who by the fortune of birth considered himself just under the rank of the
Archangel himself. Without lifting a finger to gain that status.” He picked up a silver cover and put it precisely on top of one of the serving platters with a sound like a slap.

“Let me put this as clearly as I can, Jemma.” His mouth was a straight line. “I will shoot myself before I become the man that Villiers is.”

“You are unkind,” Jemma said, hearing a slight shake in her voice and hating it. She wasn't used to battles of this nature. In fact, she never argued with anyone but her husband. Her sanctimonious, infuriating husband.

Elijah obviously heard the tremor in her voice. He rose, walked to the cabinet and poured two tiny glasses of ruby-colored liqueur. Then he returned and handed her one. “It's made by monks in France, from cherries. Or cherry blossoms.”

Jemma took a taste and choked. The liqueur burned to the bottom of her stomach.

“The particular pastimes of the Duke of Villiers are not relevant,” he said, sitting down again. “But he and I are very different men. I cannot conceive of a life in which I drift around London, impulsively stopping for a game of chess with a friend. Or did you summon him this afternoon?”

He waited, one eyebrow up. Jemma shook her head.

“So the duke happened by and you spent a delightful afternoon together, sharing a bit of light banter about his bastard children, a bit of flirtation, I have no doubt.”

Jemma heard the naked anger in his voice with a shock of surprise. “You couldn't be jealous of Villiers! Not after I gave up the chess match with him.”

“Jealous of a man who spends the afternoon telling my wife how beautiful she is?”

She opened her mouth and he held up a hand.

“Tell me that Villiers didn't compliment you, Jemma. Tell me that, and I'll acknowledge myself a fool.”

She was silent.

“He's in love with you,” Elijah said flatly.

They were at some sort of queer crossroads. “That doesn't mean that I would be unfaithful to you. With Villiers or any other man.”

“I know that.”

She took another sip of liquor. It was like a fiery stream of sugar. She hated it.

“Last night Fox called out the Artillery Company and told them to open fire on rioting citizens in Lambeth, his district,” Elijah said.

“That's terrible,” Jemma murmured.

“I have no doubt it seems a remote problem. But tell that to the young mother whose babe was shot in her arms last night, when she thought they were safe inside her own house. A stray bullet from the company.”

“I am deeply sorry for that poor young woman,” Jemma said. “But must you be so self-righteous, Elijah? Listening to you, one would think that you are the only thing stopping Fox and Pitt and everyone else in the government from turning to a snarling mass of savages. Your sense of importance seems a trifle overblown. After all, you too gained your position due to an accident of birth. Or do you think that you would have the same influence, the same power, were you not a duke?”

She couldn't read his expression. There was nothing in his eyes. “Has your opinion of me always been
this low?” he asked. He sounded curious, as if he were asking about a preference for peas over potatoes.

“I do not have a low opinion of you,” Jemma stated.

“I merely suggested that you might wish to rethink the extent of your personal capacity to cut short the world's injustices, including Fox's authorization of an artillery man who accidentally shot a child. Did you personally sanction Fox's unfortunate decision?”