When the Duke Returns (28 page)

“Then you won't,” Jemma said. Against all reason,
she was smiling. “We'll arrange it so that he comes to his senses. Do you know that when people are knocked silly by a blow, sometimes a second injury puts them back into a sane mind? That's what we'll do.”

“I don't want Simeon hit on the head,” Isidore said, alarmed.

“We won't
hit
him,” Jemma said. “We'll just do something to throw him out of his complacent frame of mind.”

“What?”

“It's not a question of what,” Jemma said, smiling. “It's a question of whom.”

“Then?”

“Villiers.”

Revels House
March 26, 1784
Early in the morning

T
he Duke of Villiers paused before entering the house. If the truth be told, he was remarkably fastidious. Sometimes he embarrassed himself by his dislike of bodily functions. Other men seemed to love sweating and generally rolling around in their own muck. He did not, and a sewer was perfectly emblematic of the sort of bodily process he would prefer to be invisible and certainly inoffensive.

But the butler was waiting, so Villiers climbed the stairs with a sigh. How he had become such a slave to his acquaintances, he didn't know. Though he had the
idea that Elijah would correct him and say,
slave to his friends
. One cautious sniff within the hallway, and Villiers felt more cheerful.

He turned from handing his cloak to the butler. “I heard tales that Revels House had been conquered by a terrible odor,” he told the butler.

The man beamed. “No longer, Your Grace. If I might show you into the Yellow Salon, the duke will join you shortly, I'm sure.”

Villiers no sooner entered the salon than he stopped short, staring at the rug stretched at his feet. It blazed up at him, an extraordinary dancing pattern of cherry red and deep crimson that covered the entire floor. Stags bounded in incredible detail around the border. “My God,” he said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“There are only two or three such in the world, as I understand it,” the butler told him. “His Grace bought it from a Mongolian king. It is knotted in wool and silk, with gold and silver threads.”

Villiers had an enormous estate, but he thought he might be treading on something of comparable value. It made him feel almost queasy to walk on it.

Cosway stamped right over the carpet when he entered. “I'm sorry to have written you that letter,” he said without further greeting. “I've called a halt to my marriage ceremony.” He looked tired. Disheveled, but not nearly as extraordinarily odd as his mother's letters had promised.

“So what got you into breeches?” Villiers asked, skirting the question of marriage. “According to various reports, you were shocking the countryside in your trousers.”

Cosway shrugged. “It wasn't worth the amount of anxiety it seemed to cause my acquaintances. Not to mention my household.”

“No powder,” Villiers observed. “But breeches, and a decent waistcoat. We'll make a duke of you yet.”

Cosway smiled faintly. “I even have a valet.”

“Can you be ready to leave for London in an hour?”

“What?”

“In an hour,” Villiers said agreeably. “You might want to tell your valet to begin packing.”

Cosway's smile grew. “No.”

“Tonight the king holds a party on board the royal yacht, the
Peregrine,
which has been moored in the Thames, just outside the Tower of London.”

“Fascinating,” Cosway said. “I hope you enjoy yourself.”

Villiers dropped into a chair, taking a moment to deliberately rearrange himself. Then he said, as casually as possible: “The king has interested himself personally in the dissolution of your marriage on the grounds of your insanity, and has ordered the matter expedited both in Parliament and with the church. The duchess—that would be,
your
duchess—has been invited tonight. It is my distinct impression that the king will personally grant her a dissolution of her marriage.”

It was a blow. Villiers could see that. Then Cosway's jaw set and his back straightened.

“I can't stop her,” he said. “She deserves to choose her own husband.”

“She's already being courted by every fortune hunter on three continents.”

“Yes, I expect that is the case.” Cosway sat down and crossed his legs as if they were discussing tomorrow's weather.

Another man might have believed Cosway's uncaring voice. But somehow Villiers had learned to recognize the signs of anguish, even buried deep in a man's eyes.

“Ah well,” he said. “I just thought I'd let you know. I must say, I'm glad to hear that you're so uninterested.”

“Why is that?”

There was just a shade of suspicion in Cosway's tone, but Villiers was too good an actor to start laughing. “Well, I don't know if I've ever mentioned it to you, but I have a number of illegitimate children,” he said.

Cosway's eyebrows flew up. “Do you find that inconvenient?”

“I haven't,” Villiers said feelingly, “but I am beginning to. You see, I have decided to gather these children into my own household.”

“And the number is?” Cosway asked.

“Six.” Villiers sighed. “I can hardly believe it myself. The sins of youth become the burden of old age.”

“You're hardly old,” Cosway objected. “What are you, thirty? I suppose you could sprout a full dozen if you put your mind to it.”

“Thirty-four,” Villiers said. “And my soul is much older, I assure you. At any rate, six illegitimate children do pose something of a problem for my matrimonial prospects, as you can imagine.”

Cosway snorted. “You won't be—” He broke off.

Villiers watched with satisfaction as the truth dawned.

“I need to find them a mother,” he pointed out. “Women of my own rank are unlikely to take me, under the circumstances. But a divorced woman? And Isidore is very delectable.” He said it gently, but apparently not gently enough.

He could have sworn that Cosway didn't even move, but the next moment there was a strong hand around his throat. “She is no mother for your misbegotten brats,” Cosway snarled. The tight thread of rage in his voice would have made Villiers smile, but he had a suspicion
he might die for it. “She's mine.” He threw Villiers backwards. The chair nearly tilted and went over, but held.

Villiers delicately felt his throat. Jemma would owe him for this one. Friendship was one thing; physical assault was not as appealing. He coughed. Cosway didn't seem to be impressed, so he coughed again, harder.

Cosway was still standing over him, staring. “Damn it,” he said, turning and throwing himself down into a chair. “You lied to me. Bastard.”

“In what way?” Villiers asked cautiously.

“You don't intend to marry Isidore, do you?”

“Not if it drives you to assail me, no.”

Cosway's face was as foul as any pirate captain Villiers had had the good luck not to meet. “I'd probably rip your guts out at the altar.”

“Charming,” Villiers said. “What happened to all that Middle Way business that you regaled me with when we were on board ship together? Aren't you a calm pebble on the shores of eternity any more?”

“I met Isidore,” Cosway said through clenched teeth.

“Women,” Villiers sighed. He got up and rang the bell.

The butler appeared immediately. “May I bring some refreshments?”

“A wet cloth for my throat,” Villiers said. “And tell the duke's valet that we're leaving for London within the hour. We'll be on the royal yacht tonight and the valet needs to pack accordingly.”

“Damn it,” Cosway said behind him.

“You're just rediscovering your manhood,” Villiers said soothingly. “All that pebble business wasn't good for you. The question is, how are you going to win her back without getting yourself thrown in the Tower for murder?”

“She said she wants to pick her husband,” Cosway said. “She wants to be wooed. Flowers. Poetry.”

“Jewels,” Villiers said. “Skip the flowers; they just die. Do you have any jewelry?”

“Tiger rubies. I just had them transferred from Hoare's bank.”

“Excellent.”

“But Isidore is not really interested in that sort of thing,” Cosway said, slumping back in his chair.

“What is she looking for?”

“A lapdog,” Cosway said. “Someone who will allow her to make all the decisions and believe everything she says.”

“She'll adjust,” Villiers said, getting up and wandering over to examine the wall paneling. “You have some lovely frieze work here, Cosway. Was this original to the room?”

“No. Isidore brought someone in, but she left before seeing what he did.”

Villiers turned around. “Here's my advice, for what it's worth. There's been nothing romantic about your marriage.”

“What marriage?”

“Exactly. She went off to London to have it annulled and you didn't even bother to follow.”

“I'm not a damned dog to follow at her heels!”

“Exactly,” Villiers said. “You're more of a pirate.”

Cosway narrowed his eyes. “A—”

“A man who slashes his way to his lady's side,” Villiers said, almost dreamily. “Beating all the odds, including causing grave bodily harm to those highest in the realm (for which he could be hung, mind you), he makes his way to his chosen bride and slings her over his shoulder, heading for the freedom of the open—”

“I have it,” Cosway said, cutting him off. “I suppose you write melodramas on the sly?”

“Do you think I ought to?” Villiers said, widening his eyes. “I'm so pleased you think I have talent.”

“God,” Cosway said. “If I didn't know you were one of the best fencers in Europe, I'd wonder about your manhood, Villiers.”

Villiers shook down the lace at his wrists. “I've only lost one duel. And that was to a man in love.”

“Ah.”

“So you see,” he continued gently, “I have a great respect for the condition. I would put myself in danger from such a man only under the strongest persuasion.”

He could see Cosway thinking, accepting it, learning to live with it. He even smiled, a moment later. “So who forced you to come here?”

“Jemma, Duchess of Beaumont,” Villiers said. “Now we must leave. It will take me at least three hours to prepare for the king's festivities tonight.” He eyed Cosway. “Depending on the skill of your valet, it should take you at least four.”

The Peregrine
Yacht to His Royal Highness, George III
March 26, 1784

I
sidore knew it was a silent, defiant gesture. Her solicitor assured her that the king himself intended to speak to her that very evening about the dissolution of her marriage; she chose to wear the dress in which she first met her husband. She had a strong feeling that the majority of men on the royal yacht would not react to her presence by querying whether her taste ran to the unorthodox.

“Lord,” Jemma said, coming up behind her. “You look astonishing, Isidore.”

“It's something of a debutante ball for me,” Isidore
said, smiling at her in the mirror. “I intend to impress all available men with my attributes.”

“No debutante could wear that gown,” Jemma said, “given your meager bodice and less-than-meager curves. The design is so beautiful: I love the blue watered silk petticoat underneath the silver. Gorgeous! Especially with the diamonds sewn all over it…You look like a fairy.”

“I think of fairies as small green creatures with transparent wings,” Isidore said dubiously.

“A fairy queen,” Jemma amended. “One look at you and mortals lose their wits, forever wandering in the depths of the forest.”

“You are rather odd, Jemma, do you know that?”

“I accept that about myself. And I'm not the one with diamonds pasted everywhere from her bottom to her heels.”

“I just want to make it clear to everyone that I'm—it is ridiculous, isn't it?”

“Everyone knows how much you're worth, darling,” Jemma said soothingly. “I like the glittering look. It's a public service. You'll reflect the candlelight so no one falls overboard. You know, last time the king had a gathering on his yacht, Lord Piddle tripped over his own feet and somersaulted into the water.”

“Did he come back up again?”

“Naturally,” Jemma said. “He floated like a cork.”

“If I fell overboard,” Isidore said, “I would sink like a stone. These diamonds are quite small but put together, they're quite heavy.”

“I suggest you sit in a throne to receive the admiring hoards.”

Isidore bit her lip.

“Villiers went to fetch him,” Jemma said, guessing exactly what she was thinking.

“What if Villiers can't convince him?” Isidore said, fear welling up in her heart. “What if Simeon is perfectly happy without me, and has decided I'm just too much trouble?”

“Then we'll auction your dress in the marketplace and you can buy yourself a new husband.”

 

By ten in the evening, Isidore was beginning to accept that even the Duke of Villiers couldn't work miracles. King George III had come and gone, giving his assurance that the bill of divorce her solicitor had submitted would be approved speedily. It should have warmed Isidore's heart to realize that even a happily married monarch found her bosom appealing, but it didn't.

Why didn't Simeon come? She stood up listlessly and put her hand into the hand of some gentleman. She couldn't even remember his name. There had been so many suitors that she'd taken to describing them to Jemma by their clothes. This one wore a turquoise coat with green buttons.
Not
a good combination. She managed to find a smile for him.

Turquoise Coat bowed with a great deal of unnecessary hand flourishing, and they eased their way onto the crowded floor. The yacht was ample for a boat, but the king had been lavish with his invitations and there were (in Isidore's opinion) far too many people onboard. Her panniers kept knocking against those of other ladies, necessitating a constant flow of apologies. What's more, the gentle rocking motion of the river made dancing all the more difficult, especially when dressed in perilously delicate heels and a cumbersome gown.

She was just twitching her hem out from under the clumsy feet of one of the royal dukes when there was a sudden thump and the entire yacht bounded in the water, as if a giant's hand had thrown it in the air an inch or two.

The duke frowned as though her gown were to blame and lumbered off to the deck, followed by most of the dancers.

“Peculiar,” her partner remarked. “I wonder what that was about. I suppose we could go look at the water.” The musicians produced one screeching discord, and then settled back to finish the measure.

Some people continued to dance, though most had drifted through the doors that opened onto the deck. She could hear a few shouts from outside. Jemma appeared at her shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “I think another boat has hit us,” she cried over the noise. “I'm looking for Beaumont!” And she was gone.

Turquoise Coat started a running complaint. Drunken river boat captains presented a hazard to everyone on the river…Isidore had a headache, and it wasn't getting any better listening to prognostications about the rightful punishment that would be meted out to the drunken captain who struck the king's own yacht.

“If you'll forgive me, my lord,” she said, “I must retire to the lady's salon for a moment.”

“I doubt if that is entirely safe,” Turquoise Coat said. “What if the boat has suffered some damage? We should make our way outside.”

“If the boat were damaged, we would be listing,” she pointed out.

“I do hear some shouting and such.”

Isidore slipped her hand out of his arm. “It has been a pleasure, my lord.”

He said something, and she turned about. “Excuse me?”

“I'm not a lord,” he snapped, looking distinctly put upon.

She turned away without answering, which made her feel guilty all the way back across the now empty ball
room floor. The boat was still rocking from side to side. Her guess would be that it had burst free of its moorings and was drifting in the Thames. Which meant that it would strike one or the other bank in a matter of five minutes. Hardly anything to worry about.

At any rate, she didn't see any reason to join the crowds on deck, where doubtless her gown would be trod on and she might even fall overboard, given the fact that the heels of her diamond-encrusted shoes had proved to be far too high for comfort. She teetered across the polished floor and finally made her way into the ladies' salon.

The maids had deserted their posts, naturally. She sat down on a chaise-longue and stared at the opposite wall.

She loved him, and she'd lost him. She'd lost him by being a peremptory dragon. “Arrogant,” she muttered to herself. “Fool.” She'd dropped her handkerchief somewhere so she resorted to pulling up her jewel-encrusted skirts and wiping her eyes on her chemise.

“Lost your way?”

She hadn't heard the door open. She hadn't heard any footsteps, or sensed eyes watching her. She hadn't planned anything to say, which was almost the worst of it.

He looked like any other duke of the realm, dressed in a gorgeous coat of dark blue satin, embroidered with pomegranates.

“That's not your coat,” she said.

“It belongs to Villiers.” He didn't take his eyes off her.

“You look like a duke,” she said, sniffing a little.

Being Simeon, he didn't bother with flummery about clothing. “You are free to choose a husband, or so they tell me,” he stated.

She swallowed. Her heart was beating so fast that she could hear it in her ears. “Yes.”

“I could offer myself as part of the horde that Villiers assures me is sniffing about you.”

A tiny tendril of hope sprang up in her heart.

“You could,” she said, nodding. “You're wearing breeches. I'm sure that was one of my requirements.”

“And powder,” he said, “for meeting royalty. But—”

“But?” she whispered.

“I'm not offering myself.”

Her stomach twisted on a great wave of nausea and shame. “I see,” she said faintly. He was looking at her closely so she couldn't, she couldn't cry. She mustn't. She didn't.

“Surely that doesn't surprise you,” he said, moving into the room and closing the door behind him.

“This is the ladies' salon,” she said. Her voice cracked, which was stupid. She was swamped by a feeling of bewilderment, like a child who just lost both parents in one moment. She had believed him when he said he loved her. Her eyes blurred and she had to bite her lip hard. She turned away from him. “I think it's time to leave,” she said, forcing the words out of her throat. “Jemma will be wondering where I am.”

He didn't answer, so finally she turned back. Simeon was busy jamming a gilt chair between the closed door and the dressing table.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I'm not offering for your hand,” he said, walking over and towering above her.

“There's no need to emphasize your decision!” she snapped. “I fully understand your reluctance.”

“Do you, Isidore? Do you really?”

She lifted her chin. “Of course I understand. I gave you scant courtesy when I made those decisions about the house, for which you were justly angry.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I'm not offering for your hand, Isidore, because I'm taking it.”

She blinked at him.

“I'm not a tame dog to follow you to London and paw at your skirts. I want you,” he said fiercely. “Because I love you, and you love me. And damn it, you're going to be the very devil to live with. But you're
my
devil, and I can't let anyone else have you, and I can't imagine life without you.”

Isidore took one sobbing, song-filled breath. “I thought—”

“You thought I didn't love you enough to stay with you,” he said. “And you tested me by taking off to London and expecting me to follow.”

She lurched to her feet like an ungainly adolescent, literally throwing herself into his arms. “I love you,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I thought I couldn't follow you because it meant I was your inferior.”

“I never thought that!” Isidore said.

“I couldn't accept the truth,” he said. “You rule my heart, Isidore, and there's no shame in that.”

She took his face in her hands. “I love you,” she whispered.

He kissed her so hard that her hands slipped around his neck. He kissed her so sweetly that her heart was never the same. And he kissed her so fiercely that she knew that a lion had voluntarily walked into the circle of her arms. Isidore Del'Fino, Duchess of Cosway, never forgot that last lesson.

His hands were roaming. “You can't,” she said breathlessly, thinking of all the people on deck—and he did it anyway. “You shouldn't,” she gasped a few minutes later—but he already was.

Her bodice was designed to cover her breasts, no matter the circumstances, but it gave way before Simeon's determination. The breath caught in Isidore's throat when she saw his face.

“You're so beautiful,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his hands hovered above her, as if he were afraid to touch her. “Ripe and delicate and as beautiful as a rose.”

They didn't have time for poetry. So Isidore caught him by the hair and said, “
Simeon
.”

He looked at her, his eyes dark as a moonless night. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

“Like this?” he asked, a glimmer of laughter in those wicked eyes of his. He dropped a polite little kiss on her nipple.

She shook her head.

“Like this?” he inquired, giving her a tiny lick.

Her hips bucked, but it wasn't enough. “
Simeon
.”

So he laughed and suckled her, shaping her other breast with a rough hand. All thought of possible interruptions flew from her head.

It wasn't many minutes later that Simeon found himself on his knees before Isidore. Her skirts were thrown up and she was lying back on the chaise-longue, making the sort of moans that only a woman in a very, very pleasurable state might make.

She was so beautiful. Her hair had toppled out of its coiffure of elaborate curls and puffs, and fell about her shoulders. Her lips were a deeper red than any ruby; her skin was peaches and cream. She tasted like nectar, but the true aphrodisiac was the look in her eyes.

He drew his fingers down over creamy flesh and began sweetly circling a bit lower. She trembled and then begged, finally propping herself up on her elbows and scowling at him, which was just what he wanted.

He loved her scowl. So he dipped his head and gave her exactly what she wanted, drove her to the very edge of abandonment, kissed her until cries tumbled from her lips like a song…and pulled back.

Sure enough, he got the scowl back. “You're trying to make me addled,” Isidore said, catching her breath.

He soothed her with his fingers until she writhed under his touch. “I'm just making sure that you know who I am.”

“Simeon,” she breathed. “My husband.”

It was at that moment he heard a dim banging noise behind him. He ignored it, concentrating on giving Isidore exactly what she wanted. Sending his beloved toppling into the kind of chaotic bliss that poets dream of. Except—

It was more than a distant annoyance. There was a chaotic shouting and crashing from the boat deck. And then the pounding was on their very door. “Come out!” a voice called out, high and alarmed. “The prison ship, the hulk, hit the yacht and prisoners—”

“What?” Simeon said sharply, lifting his head. One had to expect that at some point the king's servants would desire entrance and he meant to deny them. But this sounded more serious.

“He said something about prisoners,” Isidore said, her breath catching in a little pant. “A prison ship. Simeon…don't stop, please don't stop!”

But his entire body had gone on alert in the time it took for her to say the sentence. “Up,” he commanded, jerking down her skirts as he spoke.

“What?” Isidore stood up, but her legs were wobbly and she clung to his arm.

“One of the prison boats moored in the Thames must have struck this yacht. Or we struck it.” He wrenched on his breeches.