Desperate Duchesses (36 page)

Without a second’s hesitation four footmen plunged into the water and swam over to the boats. There was a bit of unruly rocking as they clambered aboard Lord Wharton’s boat, especial y when one of them had to swim back to Selina’s boat to get some paddles, but final y al three boats were going downstream at a fine clip.

“We’l find her for you!” Selina screamed. “Little Roberta!”

“Do you know the marquess wel ?” the prince enquired, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“I was the nursemaid to his delightful child, Roberta,” Selina said. “Ah, the sweet days of my innocent youth!”

“You are as youthful as a rose now,” Prince George said gal antly. He was looking a wee bit green in the face from the unfortunate rocking of the boat. But he was holding up wel , under the circumstances. Selina tucked herself next to his considerable bulk and smiled up at him.

“What would we do without our monarch to save us?”

“Nonsense!” he roared.

Jolted out of a lively discussion of the worst blunders they’d ever made in a game, Jemma nor Vil iers said a word as their boat was efficiently turned about by dripping footmen and sent whipping down the river.

Final y Vil iers said, “I believe that this is what they cal an Act of God.”

Jemma looked over and saw he was smiling. “You don’t think that anything happened to Roberta and Damon, do you? Or to little Teddy?”

Vil iers’s lower lip drooped for a moment. “Forgot the child.” Then he brightened. “They must have dropped him off somewhere.”

“Damon did say that Teddy was learning to swim.”

Vil iers’s smile was that of a man with a new belief in deities.

Somewhat farther down the river, and thankful y stil around the curve and out of sight, Damon pul ed Roberta’s gown over her head and laced her up in the front. “I feel boneless,” she sighed. “That was lovely.” A second later, she slid her feet into her slippers, and pinned her hair back, though without the aid of a mirror, it undoubtedly looked a fright. “What shal we do now? I wonder where my father is?”

At that very moment three boats careened around the far corner, tearing toward them. But they were stil far away, and the graceful branches of the wil ow tree blunted sound, so Damon pul ed on his breeches and his boots in happy ignorance.

“What is that noise?” Roberta asked.

Damon swung around, causing the boat to rock violently. But they had both gained a certain adroitness in handling unsteady craft in the last hour, and neither fel into the water. “Bloody hel ,” he said, and snatched up his shirt.

But he barely had it bil owing over his head before Lord Wharton’s boat was upon them.

“Why are you laughing?” Roberta gasped. “That’s my father and Vil iers—who’s fol owing in that boat?”

From his standing position, Damon had a better view than did Roberta. A man natural y feels cheerful when royalty and fate step in to take care of fussy little problems, such as Vil iers. He pul ed the pole from the mud and gave their boat a great heave.

“Oh no,” Roberta moaned, as the prow swept through the long green branches and the third boat came squarely into view. “Who is—”

“The Prince of Wales,” Damon said, laughing like a man possessed.

The marquess was standing in the front of his boat like a rather plump figurehead, his arms crossed and a terrible scowl on his face. “Unhand my daughter, you vil ain!” he shouted.

Roberta moaned again.

Damon saw immediately that his future father-in-law was enjoying himself hugely. “Displaying his considerable skil s in melodrama,” he muttered to Roberta, “the enraged peer advances, blood in his eye.”

“Blood in his eye?” Roberta cried. And then: “Selina!”

“I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Gryffyn,” His Majesty said, standing up. Two footmen quickly moved into a position to catch him should he topple toward the river.

“Your Majesty,” Damon said, “I was overcome by her beauty.”

Roberta buried her face in her hands. She was overcome by humiliation.

“You shal pay for your impetuous fol y,” the marquess said with magnificent emphasis. “You shal marry her!”

“I want nothing less,” Damon said, looking down at Roberta.

Vil iers decided that was his cue. “I relinquish my claim to Lady Roberta’s hand,” he announced. “She is free to wed whomever she pleases.”

There was a slight diversion when Mrs. Grope realized who was in the boat next to her. She too rose to her feet, wobbling with the excitement of the moment and managed a deep curtsy, panniers and al . “Your Majesty,” she cried. “’Tis I!”

“Bless me,” Prince George said, peering at her. “Don’t tel me that’s pretty little Rose?”

“Indeed!”

“A more charming Desdemona you never saw,” he told Selina, who appeared to have divined the reason why Mrs. Grope was in the marquess’s boat, and wasn’t looking too happy about it. “You must al come back to the house and celebrate the nuptial couple!”

Vil iers stood up and bowed, effortlessly holding his balance in his boat. “I fear my dismay would dampen the festivities,”

he said. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I shal return to my house.”

The prince appeared to notice he was there for the first time. “Dismay?” he said. “Dampen? What are you talking about, Vil iers?”

“The duke thought to marry my daughter,” Lord Wharton said, unable to stop smiling now the engagement was safely over.

“You did, eh, Vil iers? I didn’t think you were in the marital line,” His Majesty said. “Never mind. Better to stay a bachelor.

Look how much fun I’m having!” He roared with laughter, and then sobered. “I’ve been meaning to chal enge you to a game of chess one of these days. I’ve got the hook of the sport now and I win almost every match. I’m ready to take you on.”

Vil iers bowed again. “It would be my greatest pleasure.” Then, as the prince settled his bulk back into Selina’s boat, he turned to Jemma. “Would you like to join the others for the celebration?”

“Indeed, I would like to congratulate my brother, so I wil take up His Majesty’s kind invitation.” She lowered her voice. “I would feel worse for you, Vil iers, if I didn’t suspect that you wil break out champagne when you get home.”

“Only to assuage my misery,” he assured her. “And perhaps to dul the thought of that chess game I just agreed to.

Sometimes it’s harder to fix a loss than to win.”

The royal footmen nimbly maneuvered Vil iers’s boat next to Selina’s, and with a minimum of squeaks, Jemma made her way on board and sat down next to the prince, who seemed very happy to meet the lovely Duchess of Beaumont.

“I’ve heard much about you,” he said, “and al of it good!”

Jemma had no doubt but that her reputation was a cause for celebration to this particular future king.

Without further ado, the two boats powered by footmen started to plow through the water, back upstream, while the boat carrying the Duke of Vil iers headed the other way, to the steps.

“Don’t dal y, Roberta!” the marquess shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, looking back at his daughter’s boat.

She didn’t see him. In fact, al that could be seen of her were scarlet ears, peeking out from behind her hands.

There was a moment or two of silence as the boats receded in both directions.

Damon tucked his shirt back into his breeches and pul ed on his coat. Roberta stil hadn’t moved.

He pul ed up the pole, maneuvered the boat back under the wil ow with one great shove, and then tethered the boat again. Final y he sat down before her.

“Roberta, you’re going to have to look up at some point,” he said gently.

“I don’t want to.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.

“I’ve never proposed before,” he said. “I think it would be easier if I could see your face. That way if you look disgusted I can quickly throw myself off the boat and end it now.”

Her hands dropped. “
Please
don’t be melodramatic!” she cried. “I can’t bear it at the moment.” Her face was distinctly pink and her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“I’m just fooling.” He reached out and took her hands. “Are you crying because Vil iers is lost to you?”

“I’m not crying,” she said, al evidence to the contrary.

In one smooth gesture, he slid forward onto his knees. “Roberta, wil you marry me?”

“You already told me that you
were
marrying me,” she said, with a sniff.

He put one of her hands up to his mouth. “But this is a proper proposal. I decided to marry you about twenty minutes after we met, and I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Of course, you were nattering on about Vil iers, so I couldn’t make it plain to you.”

“You didn’t!”

“Roberta, love, do you real y think that I would take your virginity—and make love to you every chance I could get—without planning to marry you?”

“But I was engaged…”

“You were toying with the idea,” he said. “But at the same time, you were surrendering to me.”

“Surrendering?”

Her hands were at his mouth again. “Surrender,” he said firmly. “You’re mine, Roberta. Mine.” He could see a glimmer of a smile in her eyes, so he pul ed her forward into his arms. Which made the boat rock rather violently, but neither of them even flinched.

“I don’t see that I surrendered,” she said.

Her mouth was so pink and delectable that he forgot his point for a while, and only returned to the subject some time later.

“What did you think you were doing?” he asked, his mouth sliding down her neck.

“I was—I was—”

Now that he mentioned it, Roberta couldn’t remember quite what she was doing. Vil iers made her angry and so she decided to lose her virginity…It sounded so foolish. “I was gaining experience,” she said firmly.

“You were surrendering to me. You just didn’t want to think of it that way,” he said, even more firmly. He cupped her face in his hands. “So, wil you?”

“Wil I marry you?”

He shook his head. “You are marrying me. Wil you surrender?”

She put her arms around his neck and those foolish tears were back in her eyes. “I think,” she whispered, “that I already did.”

H
e was free, obviously a reason for rejoicing. The moment the boat poled back to the Fleet River steps, Viliers sprang out.

His heel slipped on the slimy step; he teetered; he fel .

On his bottom.

Behind him he heard a grunt of distress from his footman, who lurched forward to rescue the poor forsaken duke who had slipped in the muck. But Vil iers was already up.

The fal made the rage brewing in his stomach burst into flame. He made his way home, stripped off the coat smeared with green moss and black mud, bathed and dressed again for the evening.

It occurred to him as he pul ed on tight breeches of a glorious canary that without noticing it and certainly without approving it, he had fal en into the way of thinking of himself as a man about to be married. For al of forty-eight hours, he scoffed to himself.

His valet eased a coat of saturated rose over his shoulders; he rejected it as clashing with the breeches. The man brought a waistcoat of mustard yel ow, and Vil iers actual y swore at him. Final y he settled on a ful -cut frock coat with his trademark exuberant embroidery: a tracing of leaves and yel ow roses. It was, perhaps, just a trifle too exuberant, but it had an aggressiveness that pleased.

The valet cleared his throat rather nervously. “Boots, Your Grace? Or the shoes with silver buckles?”

“Red heels,” Vil iers snapped. “I’m to Parsloe’s and then to dinner with Lord Devonshire. I can hardly tramp about in boots.” Rather than his cane, he chose a proper little rapier, designed to swing at his hip. Final y he placed a patch high, just below his eye where it would emphasize his lashes.

He swept a cold look around his chamber, a muddle of rejected coats, cravats, shoes, ribbons spil ing from his drawer.

“Do make yourself useful and neaten this up,” he said softly. “I have a mind to bring someone home later.”

“A bloody animal he is tonight,” his valet said later, in the kitchen with a soothing cup of tea. “As if I didn’t always neaten up. I’m sure I don’t know what’s got into him.”

“The lady’s rejected ’im,” Cook said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’l bet you an apple tart next Tuesday that she’s turned him down flat.”

“You think that because he’s bringing home a dol ymop?”

She had a sound of disgust. “Nothing to do with it. He’s in a foul mood, he is. And he’s not over at Beaumont House, is he? He’s been there for three days running. Mark my words: he’s back on the market again.”

“I don’t think he ever was on the market,” the valet said dubiously.

“Could be he’s not a marrying man,” Cook concluded. “I’d best make up some bits and pieces for entertaining a ladyfriend tonight.”

“Got rid of his mistress and al last week,” the valet said mournful y. “And now the wife drops him. That’s cruel, that is.”

“Not his wife yet, and that’s a blessing in itself,” Cook said. She had firm views about matrimony, and one could not describe them as positive. “Out of the way, wil you? I can’t put a hand on my sugar.”

Parsloe’s, like any organization of its ilk, was ruled by the unspoken hierarchy structuring the members of the London Chess Club. Bril iance ruled. Chess is an odd and unlikely sport: it taxes the brains and the heart at the same time. Even a poor player might sometimes make a beautiful play, or stump a master, and thus the hierarchy is never set in stone. Only at the very top is it unassailable.

Vil iers’s carriage pul ed up at precisely eight o’clock. It was a delicious little carriage, as sleek and beautiful as its master: painted a dark crimson, and picked out in brazen orange accents.

The door was snatched open by the duke’s footman; three others joined in, standing before the door, backs straight, liveries immaculate.

One red heel emerged from the carriage, fol owed by a powerful, muscled thigh clad in canary colored breeches. The duke wore, as usual, not a touch of powder. He walked to the door of the large townhouse that served as the chess club’s headquarters without looking to the left or the right.