Desperate Duchesses (13 page)

In truth, Roberta had been forgotten by most of the players of this comedy. She obediently circled the bal room throughout the night, moving from one gentleman’s arms to another. At first she danced like a feather, and later she began weaving a bit because her toes hurt.

She retreated to the ladies’ retiring room because Jemma’s exquisite French slippers caused blisters, not because she had no one to dance with.

A whole flock of girls were there, chattering like magpies. Their voices died when she walked in.

But then a girl with a sweet, plump face stood up and smiled. “I’m Margery Rowlandson; we met earlier this evening.”

“Good evening,” Roberta said, and curtsied.

Margery introduced her to everyone, and soon she was a part of the giggling group. One girl who couldn’t be more than sixteen was expecting an offer on the morrow; another had danced twice with a young courtier.

“But you’re so lucky!” Margery exclaimed, turning back to Roberta. “I just realized that you are staying in Beaumont House, aren’t you? That means you are
living
in the same house with Lord Gryffyn.”

“Yes, he is here,” Roberta said.

“Along with his—his—his—” Roberta thought her name was Hannah. She was giggling so hard that she couldn’t voice it.

Among the foolish, she would take a crown, to Roberta’s mind.

“His son is in the house as wel ,” she said evenly.

“I don’t know how you can!” a shril voice said. “Why, my mother said that if she’d known of his presence, she might not have let me come to this bal at al !”

“He’s only a child of six years old.”

“You haven’t met him!” That was Margery, her eyes round with horror.

“I met him briefly and there was no sight of devil’s horns anywhere,” Roberta said gravely. “But then, I do not care for children.”

“Neither do I,” the shril -voiced girl said. “Especial y ones of this nature, who should be kept out of sight.”

“I don’t care if Lord Gryffyn does have an il egitimate son,” Margery sighed. “He’s so adorable.”

“I suppose one could think that,” Roberta said. “I believe I prefer someone older…say the Duke of Vil iers?”

There was a moment of horrified silence.

“Hasn’t anyone told you of his reputation?” Hannah gasped. “Stay away from him!” She punctuated each word with a stabbing motion of his finger. “Stay away! You haven’t a mama who can tel you these things. Stay away from him!”

Roberta almost fel back a step. “I wil . I promise.”

Never had she felt more lonely.

The girls al took her for precisely what she appeared to be: a docile young heiress, brought from the country to be launched onto the marriage market under the aegis of her cousin the Duchess of Beaumont.

Their mothers seemed equal y accepting. The dreadful il ustrated pictures of her and her father in
Rambler’s
Magazine
were brought up several times, but only by kind matrons intent on reassuring her that no one knew of their existence.

Al night Roberta danced and looked for the Duke of Vil iers. Then, final y, she curtsied to a partner who had trodden al over her wounded toes, turned away and there he was.

“You must forgive me,” he said. His deep, purring voice went through her like a bolt of lightning. “I might almost have knocked you down.”

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“I gather you are a new lamb brought to languish in the London season. Or to triumph over it, as the case may be. Do tel me your name, now we meet again?”

“Lady Roberta St. Giles.”

“My father died some years ago,” he said, in a striking non sequitur. “I can only suppose that yours has come to some unfortunate end since you are consigned to the duchess’s tender care.”

She raised her chin. “My father is enraptured by the duchess’s kindness toward me.”

“Shal we dance? It wil come near to ruining your reputation, I should warn you. But I believe I already gave you a warning, did I not?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? I must have forgotten.”

He knew she was lying, but she thought he liked it. “I never seduce impoverished young ladies,” he said, his voice silky and sweet, “but I am more than available for young ladies of ample means.”

“I believe,” she said, al owing just the right amount of time to pass, “that my virtue can withstand the assault of partnering you in one dance. But it is
so
reassuring to know that if I am overcome by a desire for ruination, you are wil ing to accommodate. It warms the heart.”

He threw back his head at that and let out a peal of laughter. “Hoist with my own petard! I deserved that. Come on, then.

You’re not as wholesome as you look.”

“Since I gather that chastity would set no edge on your appetite, I shal not pretend to horror and dismay.”

“
The Rape of Lucrece
,” he observed. “Do you play Lucrece then, with beauty and virtue striving in your face?”

“That sounds like an armada in ful battle. Absolutely not. Had I been Lucrece, that dagger would have made its home in Tarquin’s heart.”

“Bravo! But have no fear, Lady Roberta, I have never yet had to lower myself to Tarquin’s violent tactics.”

“Ah,” Roberta said. “It’s useful to know that ruination does not always result in feeling like a
polluted prison
.”

“A terrible use of al iteration on Shakespeare’s part,” he said, frowning. “I assure you, Lady Roberta, that ladies leave my care as assured of their own divinity as they were the day before. If perhaps slightly more so. I find—don’t you?—that pleasure is a divine gift.”

They walked into the bal room. The main pleasure on Roberta’s mind was the slightly hungry way in which other women looked at Vil iers.

“I don’t suppose you play chess, do you?” he asked suddenly. “I am finding myself rather surprised in that respect this evening.”

“I have never played the game,” she said. The chess board had languished in her father’s drawing room forever; it had never occurred to her to study it. If only she had known it was so crucial to London entertainments.

He seemed to guess at her thoughts. “Almost no one in this house”—he nodded at the bril iant silks crowding the dance floor—“can play the game worth a damn, if at al . It is only I, and perhaps your hostess, who seem to have a curious affinity for it.

”

They paused just inside the bal room, waiting for a new measure.

Vil iers seemed to feel no need to entertain her. He dropped her arm; when she looked at him he was exchanging looks with a young matron who had an entire ship balanced on top of her hair.

“A nautical miracle,” he murmured, seeing that she had fol owed his eyes. “And Madame Moore is so very light herself that it’s a miracle she doesn’t capsize more often.”

He was bored by her, and why shouldn’t he be? “As I understand it, light frigates are very easy to board,” Roberta said, unrol ing her fan and fluttering it before her face. “I assume that is an attraction for those too clumsy to attract a less sluggish vessel.”

“Definitely unexpected depths,” he said, and there was a strain of amusement in his deep voice that made her lightheaded. A strain of trumpets signaled the beginning of a minuet. He bowed before her; she snapped shut her fan, and curtsied. The steps of the dance kept them apart, turning toward him and his heavy lidded eyes, turning away. Her breath was coming quickly.

At the end of the dance he gathered her hands, kissed both of them, and made a magnificent leg. “My title, Lady Roberta, is the Duke of Vil iers. I fancy I may see you one of these days, as I have undertaken to play a prolonged chess match with your hostess.”

Of course she knew he was the top chess player in London; but now it occurred to her that he was deeply competitive in al things. And that such competitiveness was a weakness.

She smiled. “I wish you luck.”

“In seeing you, or in playing chess?”

She let her eyes slide away from him. She was playing the game of her life, and it would never do to appear eager. “In chess, of course, my lord. I am frequently absent from the house, and would not wish to raise your hopes that I shal choose to be ruined, as you so charmingly offer.”

She turned and then glanced over her shoulder, caught sight of his white teeth—he was laughing—and slid into the crowd. So far she had been dancing rather indolently with whomever presented himself. But now she realized that in order to catch Vil iers she must be the very top of the
ton
. The catch of the season. The most desired of al marriageable women.

He would have to win her over the hands of many men—or he would show no interest whatsoever.

Jemma’s brother appeared before her around an hour later. She had three young lords vying to offer her gingerbread wafers and champagne. In comparison to Vil iers, they were easy to enchant. Al three of them were giving her swooning looks, and judging from the sul en glances she’d had from young ladies, she was plucking chickens meant for someone else’s supper.

Damon cut her from the crowd adroitly, which she rather appreciated because it was good for her swains to see that she wasn’t theirs for the asking.

“Where are we going?” she asked. He nipped out of the bal room and down a corridor that she hadn’t even known existed.

“To my sister’s sitting room,” he said, grinning down at her. “Back way.”

He pushed open a door and sure enough, there were the mustard yel ow wal s (minus Judith and her platter). But just as Roberta entered, she realized that the room was not unoccupied.

Directly before her, leaning over the arm of a chair, was a woman. Al she could see was a creamy, rounded bottom because the lady’s violet skirts had been tossed over her head, undoubtedly so they wouldn’t be crushed. There was a gentleman there, of course, and he was—

He was doing her a service.

Roberta clapped a hand over her mouth and froze. Behind her, she heard Damon’s low chuckle.

Roberta just stared. It was almost violent and yet strangely intoxicating. The man was caressing his partner at the same time that he…wel , he…The woman, whoever she was, was clearly enjoying herself, given the noise she was making. Roberta didn’t recognize the gentleman; he was rather tubby. But she couldn’t help noting that his thighs were strong, and he too was obviously most happy, and as she watched he shaped his partner’s bottom in his hands and pul ed her higher and—

Damon’s arm came around her waist and pul ed her silently backwards into the corridor. He was stil laughing as he closed the door. Roberta didn’t feel in the least like laughing. She felt odd, as if al the air had been crushed out of her lungs.

Damon peered at her in the dim light of the corridor. “Shocked you to the bottom of your boots, I see. Come along then.

We’l go to the library; there’l be no one there because it’s so damned hard to find.” He took her hand and pul ed her along through a corridor and a turn, and final y through a door.

It was a monstrously big library, al lined with books and hung in somber crimson velvet.

Roberta walked forward feeling slightly unsteady on her legs. There was a sofa before the fire, and Damon pushed her into it. “A brandy, that’s what you need,” he said, going over to the sideboard.

He tumbled a few glasses about and said, over his shoulder, “I take it that was the first tupping you were ever witness to?”

Roberta opened her mouth but no sound came out.

“Poleaxed,” he said cheerful y, coming back and handing her a glass. “Drink that.”

Roberta took a fiery swal ow and coughed. “What is it?”

Damon was laughing again. “First brandy, first tupping.”

“
I
didn’t tup anyone,” Roberta said, taking another sip. She quite liked brandy. Although it made her realize that her stomach was disconcertingly hot, and the drink only made it more so.

“True,” Damon said, throwing himself down next to her. “So, are you shocked, horrified, stricken to the bone?”

Roberta turned and looked at him. He was remarkably like his sister, though his hair was burnished a darker brown, whereas his sister’s was golden. Not that she could see his hair under his wig. He had Jemma’s eyes and her deep lower lip.

“It’s rather unkind of you to make jest of me.”

He grinned unrepentantly. “I don’t see why you should be so horrified. It’s entirely natural, after al .”

But was it? Previous to this, Roberta thought she had the facts of procreation and marital intimacy firmly in mind. One of her father’s courtesans had informed her that the man climbs on top of his partner, inserts his private part into the appropriate area, and continues. What exactly
continuing
meant was rather fuzzy to Roberta, but she certainly understood the mechanics.

Until this.

Because the mechanics might have been—she had to suppose they
were
—reproduced in a different position…

Under Damon’s interested eyes she felt herself going pink in the cheeks. “It works in many different positions,” he said helpful y.

At this evidence that he knew precisely what she was thinking about, she turned pinker stil .

“Any other questions? I am your cousin, after al .”

“Five times removed,” Roberta said rather crossly.

“Actual y, it’s more like seven,” Damon said. “As I work it out in my head, you’re about as much related to me as most of the people in the bal room.”

“Are you implying that I am taking advantage of your sister?”

“If Jemma didn’t want to bring you out, she wouldn’t. Believe me, no one talks Jemma into doing a single thing that she doesn’t care to. Thus, her eight years in Paris.”

“Do you understand why she came back to London?” Roberta asked, desperate to change the topic to something other than tupping peers.

Damon stretched out his long legs. The current fashion for tight knee breeches suited him. His breeches were of a dark crimson and they made his legs, in cream stockings, look remarkably virile.

Roberta caught herself. What was she thinking? It was al the effect of seeing that performance in the sitting room. It made her feel peculiar.
Most
peculiar, she thought, realizing just what kind of messages her body seemed to be sending her.