She looked at Poppy. “It truly was very bad luck that your mother happened to invite Lady Cooper to tea.”
“Lady Cooper is one of her best friends,” Poppy said. “But it doesn’t matter. This is—quite simply—impossible. Inconceivable.”
“Not according to Lady Cooper,” Jemma said. “Your own butler straight away confessed that the young man had originally visited the house in order to assist your mother in some decorating schemes and as the last months passed, he had indeed noticed that they were spending more and more time together.”
“Impossible!” Poppy exclaimed.
Fletch reached forward and took her hand. “Alas, the family is always the last to know, dearest.”
She shot him a look and he shut his mouth. Really, she had moments in which she quite resembled her mother.
“Does your correspondent have anything further to say?” Poppy asked Jemma.
“Only that the young man was indeed quite handsome and when confronted, maintained that he stood as a bulwark to protect Lady Flora’s renown and chastity, and that she was his dearest patron and nothing more. That’s a quote. Naturally, that simply inflamed everyone further, for there’s nothing worse than a man defending a woman’s honor. If the man had no relationship with your mother, Poppy, he would have said so, rather than talking about her honor.”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Patton said. “Talk of honor is always the death knell to a woman’s reputation.”
Poppy was shaking her head. “I simply can’t believe it. I just can’t—I can’t believe it.”
Fletch kept silent.
“Since the dinner bell rang some time ago, I think we should go in or risk choking on a chilly cut of meat,” Jemma said, coming to her feet. “Poppy, I know this must be most distressing for you. Would you prefer to eat in your room?”
“No,” Poppy said. “Jemma, may I read that letter myself? I simply can’t believe it!”
“Don’t you remember when Bussy D’Ambois turned out to be having an
affaire
with the Countess of Montsurry,” Jemma asked, “when everyone thought he was toying with the Duchess of Guise? I assure you that the Count of Montsurry was just as surprised as you are now.”
“But that ended so unpleasantly,” Fletch said. “Didn’t the count go quite mad?”
“He murdered his wife,” Jemma said, “insisting that he had to defend the honor of his name.”
“I suppose there are those who might think that your name has been tarnished by connection with your mother,” Fletch said to Poppy, who was reading Lady Smalley’s letter.
“Nonsense,” she replied.
“Then I suppose I needn’t be as extreme as the Count of Monsurry,” he said with a pang of disappointment.
Jemma gave him a sharp look.
He smiled back at her blandly. “All’s well that ends well, don’t you think? I feel quite certain that Lady Flora will soon rule what ever nunnery her friend the bishop places her in.”
“Of course she will,” Poppy said, handing the letter back to Jemma. “But—”
She talked all the way to the dining room. And through most of the meal. The sad fact was that Poppy was having as hard a time getting her mind around the truth of this story as did the Count of Monsurry. Yet by the time the pear compotes and apple tarts appeared, she was reluctantly accepting the account.
“For why would your mother retire to France unless there was truth in it?” Fletch kept repeating. “She would simply brazen it out.”
Then it turned out that Beaumont, late in opening his mail, had been sent a similar account. Beaumont’s letter described the young man falling to his knees and kissing Lady Flora’s feet in anguish; they all agreed that the detail was likely embellished.
“But the truth of it stands,” Fletch said. “Your mother was caught by a pretty face, Poppy. She’s human after all.”
“No, she’s—” Poppy said, and caught herself.
“Human,” Fletch said happily. “Nothing more than a hapless member of the human race, just like the rest of us.”
To say that her heart lightened at the thought would underestimate the truth. She felt as if she had drunk an entire case of champagne.
When supper was over, the ladies left the gentlemen with their port and returned to the drawing room. Harriet and Mrs. Patton left to visit the nursery. Jemma seated herself on a sofa with Isidore and—gulp—Louise. Which was distinctly humiliating, because Poppy had decided to ask for marital advice. Yet Louise already knew the worst about her marriage.
So she mentally girded her loins and marched over to Jemma. The three of them were sipping toddies, looking like a fashion plate from
The Lady’s Magazine
. It wasn’t that Poppy didn’t feel fashionable: she knew quite well that her petticoat was flounced and furbelowed. She had a beautiful lace ruff, and her hair was raised on the smallest pad—with no powdering whatsoever. She looked pretty. In fact, she thought the way her hair shone without powder was much more attractive than when it was powdered. But the important point was that she didn’t look…
Like Louise.
Louise had a roguish sensual look about her. It wasn’t just that her gown was lower cut and a bit tighter—which it was—it was something about the way she walked, and the color of her lips, and the way she laughed, low and deep.
“Hello, darling,” Jemma said, looking up. “Are you drinking these toddies? Because honestly, I think they may be a wee bit on the strong side. I’m not sure I can stand up.”
“I haven’t had one,” Poppy said. “Perhaps I should.”
“Definitely you should,” Isidore said, giggling madly. Her cheeks were bright red, which looked wonderful with her jet-black hair. She looked tipsy.
Louise reached up and pulled Poppy down next to her. “Do come sit with me,” she said. “How lovely your hair looks. Please take my toddy. I only sniffed it, as I can’t abide strong liquor.”
“I’m not sure I can either,” Poppy said. But she sipped it and thought it was very nice, like cinnamon and wine and Christmas, all mixed together. “I need help,” she said bluntly.
Isidore blinked at her a bit owlishly. “Do you want us to throw your husband out of the house? Jemma, you should have done better than allow that man into your party after what happened last time we were all together!”
“I invited him,” Poppy said quickly.
Isidore’s mouth fell open in a comical fashion. “You did?”
“I wanted—well—I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?” Louise wanted to know.
“About him.”
Jemma was smiling. “You’ve decided that a bird in the hand is better than a naturalist in the bush, is that it?”
“Yes,” Poppy said.
“How can we help?” Isidore said, drinking some more.
Louise narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to have a fearful head tomorrow, Isidore. And—if you don’t mind my saying so—your face is quite rosy.”
“I always turn red as a beet when I drink spirits,” Isidore said. “But honestly, who cares? My husband is away in far off India or some such place. I could turn purple and he wouldn’t care.” She drank again.
“He’s a wart,” Jemma said bluntly. “If you want to turn red, Isidore, you go right ahead.”
“One of these days,” Isidore said, with only a little slur in her voice, “I’m going to do something wild.”
“No doubt,” Louise said briskly. “When that times comes, we’ll sober you up. It’s best never to be wild while inebriated.”
Poppy took a huge gulp of her toddy. In her view, it was likely easier to be wild with a little inebriation. “I want to do something wild too,” she said.
“What?” Isidore said, peering at her. “Is your husband going to India as well?”
Louise reached over and took Isidore’s cup away. “You’ve had enough, darling. At this rate, you’ll sleep straight through Christmas Eve and miss all the festivities.”
“I’m not sure how celebratory we can be,” Jemma said, looking worried. “My butler tells me that Villiers isn’t doing very well at all. I stopped up to see him, but he was asleep again. I think he slept most of the day.”
“Oh dear,” Isidore said, her mouth drooping instantly. “I thought perhaps I would marry him instead of my duke, but I can only do that if he survives.”
“I didn’t know you liked Villiers,” Jemma said, looking surprised.
“I hardly know him. But he’s a duke. I could just scratch out my husband’s name on the wedding certificate. It seems like a fair trade for the duke I don’t really have. A duke in En gland is worth two off in India.”
“Which reminds me,” Jemma said. “So how can we help, Poppy?”
Poppy had finished her toddy and was enjoying an agreeable warmth in the pit of her stomach. “Fletch says that men are never interested in women after a few years of bedding them,” she said. “So he’s not interested in me anymore.”
“Bastardo!”
Isidore hissed, taking Jemma’s cup out of her hand and drinking some of it.
“I want to—to lure him back to my bed,” she said.
“You’re looking as red as I am,” Isidore observed.
Jemma was grinning. “A
femme fatale,
” she said. “Louise, Isidore, let’s go!” She grabbed Poppy’s hand. “Upstairs!”
“I think,” Beaumont said, rising, “that this performance is likely directed at you, not me.”
Fletch rose and turned around.
She was walking in the door.
At supper, her hair had been up above her head, in one of those hair styles that women liked, albeit without the powder. She’d looked sweetly pretty. Now it was all different.
Walking in the door was the courtesan to a prince. She had curls atop her head, caught up with sparkling jewels, though a few fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were lavishly lined with black and they looked twice as big and four times as powerfully blue. Her lips were crimson and curled in a small mocking smile.
Her gown was dark crimson, a color near to black. And the bodice plunged below her breasts. There was nothing but the frailest scrap of lace covering her nipples. Around her neck she wore a dramatic, exquisite necklace, with a pendant that fell just between the curves of her breasts.
The entire drawing room went silent as a stone.
Fletch walked forward, feeling as if he should fall on his knees.
Poppy stopped and her scarlet mouth curled appreciatively.
He swept into a bow. “Good evening, madam.”
“
Bonsoir
.” Her voice was no sweet jangle of bells. It was husky, demanding, a woman’s voice. It was a French woman’s voice.
Jemma swept in behind them, laughing, with other women, but Fletch didn’t take his eyes from Poppy.
There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in her eyes. Not even a tremor. She was, every inch, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
Him.
“I am here only for the evening,” she said.
“Visiting?” he managed.
“From France.”
“Could I get you…something,
mademoiselle
?”
“Alack,” she said, lowering her eyelashes. They were outrageously black and so long that his loins stirred. “I am no mademoiselle.”
“Married, are you?” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth. “I am
désolé.”
Her shoulders rose in a little shrug. “Why should you be? I find that marriage is such an interesting state.”
“Truly?”
“But of course! Only a married woman can truly know what she wants.”
Behind him Jemma laughed, but Fletch’s heart was beating too hard for laughter. Every inch of him had turned to fierce prowling hunter, to the kind of primitive male who throws a female to a pallet and has his way with her. He wanted to toss Poppy over his shoulder and take her upstairs, every delectable inch of her. Her breasts were visible to the whole room; he could see one pink nipple peeking at him through the white lace.
“And what did marriage teach you about desire?” he asked, the huskiness in his own voice startling him. “What do you want,
madame?
”
Something changed in her eyes, went serious for a moment.
“Poppy?” he said. “What do you want?” He brought her hand to his lips again. Even touching his lips to her skin made him start shaking a bit, like a race horse waiting at the start line.
“You.”
She said it softly, and then shot him another one of those liquid dark, dangerous looks out of her beautiful eyes.
“I want you.”
Fletch’s only explanation was that he lost his head. Right there in a drawing room full of giggling peers, at least two or three footmen, not to mention a butler with hair like the rise of the sea…
The Duke of Fletcher swept up his duchess in his arms—or perhaps it was just a wild Frenchwoman paying a visit—and stalked out of the room.
And up the stairs.