Eloisa James - Desperate Duchesses - 6 (2 page)

"I merely intended—"

"But now there's a duke on the market," Anne said, overriding her. "The Duke of Villiers, no less.

Rich as Croesus and apparently just as snobbish as you are, since everyone says he's intent on marrying a duke's daughter. That's you, Eleanor. You. I'm married, Elizabeth is still in the nursery, and there isn't another eligible lady of our rank in London."

"I realize that fact."

"You're the one who announced that you'd marry no one below the order of a duke," Anne continued, scarcely pausing for breath. "You said there were no eligible dukes and then one appeared like magic, and everyone says that he's thinking of marrying you—"

"I don't see anything particular to celebrate in that," Eleanor retorted. "Those same people describe Villiers as quite unpleasant."

"You said you'd marry no one but a duke," her sister repeated stubbornly, "and now there's one fallen into your hand like a ripe plum. It wouldn't matter if the duke were as broken down as a cart horse, or so you always said."

Eleanor opened her mouth and then realized with some horror that the Duke of Villiers was standing just behind her sister's shoulder.

"Remember dinner last Twelfth Night? You told Aunt Petunia that you'd marry a man who smelled of urine and dog hair if he had the right title, but no one below a duke."

Eleanor had never met the Duke of Villiers; nay, she had never even seen Villiers, but she had no doubt but that she was facing him now. He was precisely as described, with the kind of jaw and cheekbones that wavered between brutish and beautiful. By all accounts, Villiers never wore a wig, and this man didn't even wear powder. His black hair was shot with two or three brilliant streaks of white and tied back at the neck. It couldn't be anyone else.

Her sister just kept going, with the relentless quality of a bad dream. "You said that you would marry a duke over another man, even if he were as stupid as Oyster and as fat as Mr. Hendicker's sow."

The Duke of Villiers's eyes were a chilly blackish-gray, the color of the evening sky when it threatened snow He didn't look like a man with a sense of humor

"Eleanor," Anne said "Are you listening to me? Aren't you—" She turned "Oh!"

The Duchess of Beaumont was standing beside Villiers, obviously fighting to suppress her laughter.

"Good evening, Lady Eleanor. And Lady Anne, though I really must call you Mrs. Bouchon now, mustn't I? I have been looking everywhere for the two of you. May I present to you His Grace, the Duke of Villiers."

"Your Grace," Eleanor said, sinking into a deep curtsy before the duchess. Anne gave something of a bob, since she was hampered by her toga. "And Your Grace." Eleanor curtsied again, this time before the Duke of Villiers.

Like herself, the duke had eschewed the compulsory toga, presumably with the same insouciance with which he refused to wear a wig. Instead he was wearing a coat of heavy, brandy-colored silk.

The cut was simple, but the embroidered vine in coppery silk that danced among his buttons and around the hem turned simplicity to magnificence.

"Lady Eleanor," Villiers said. He looked at her from head to foot, his eyes pausing for a moment on the curls next to her ears. A blaze of humiliation went down her spine, but she raised her chin. If the duke wanted nobility, she had it. Elegance, no. Blood, yes.

When Eleanor had fixed on the idea of insisting that she marry a duke or no one, she wasted no time imagining a potential suitor. She had intended her proclamation to reach the ears of one duke—a
married
duke—so he would realize that even though he had been untrue to her, she would hold true to him. It was a stupid strategy that had hurt no one but herself, obviously.

The Duke of Villiers was altogether a different order of duke from Gideon. She had not known, would never have been able to imagine, such a potent mix of elegance and carelessness. It wasn't the silk embroidery, or the sword stick, or the careless power about him. She hadn't imagined the pure raw masculinity of him: the brooding look in his eyes, the jaded lines around his mouth, the width of his chest.

If Gideon looked like a prince in a fairytale, Villiers was the tired, cynical villain who would try to usurp the throne.

"I gather that you heard my sister teasing me about my childhood wish to marry a duke," she said. "I do apologize if you felt your consequence reduced by comparison to

Mr. Hendicker's sow."

"Oh, Villiers never experiences such awkward emotions, do you?" the Duchess of Beaumont said, laughing.

"I was more intrigued by the idea of being stupider than an oyster," Villiers said. He had a deep voice, the kind that made Eleanor instinctively wary. It wasn't the voice of a man who could be led; he would always lead. "How does one determine the intelligence of such a silent creature?"

"Oyster is Eleanor's puppy," Anne put in.

"In that case, it would depend on Oyster's breed," Villiers said. "Unless you have a pet poodle, I am fairly sure that I exceed expectations on both counts."

"I can also assure Lady Eleanor that you never smell like urine, although I gather she is gracious enough to overlook that in a spouse," the duchess said with a giggle. "Now if you'll forgive me, I must introduce Mrs. Bouchon to my second cousin's daughter; the poor dear hardly knows a soul in London. And you must tell me all about your marriage and the wonderfully successful season you've had..." She drew Anne's arm through hers and began leading her away without further farewell.

"It appears that we are both looking for the same thing," Villiers observed.

"A spouse?" Eleanor still felt so shaken by her conversation with her sister that she could hardly formulate a coherent thought. She had thought of herself as presenting a modest appearance.

Demure. Virginal. But Anne made her feel like a balding old maid.

"A spouse of a certain rank," Villiers qualified.

Eleanor felt a stomach-churning qualm of embarrassment and took recourse in sarcasm. "Now all that is left is to assess each other against such criteria as the weight of a sow, or the brains of a poodle."

"In truth, I would rather not marry someone with less intelligence than the aforementioned Oyster."

"I never pee on the floor when irritated," Eleanor told him.

"You can have no idea how pleased I am to hear that," Villiers said. Perhaps his eyes weren't quite as frosty as they first appeared. "In that case, I have no cause to query the intelligence of our future offspring."

Her sister was wrong. She could talk to men without sniping at them. Absolutely she could. "You play chess, don't you?" she ventured. It was one of the few things she knew about Villiers: that he was ranked number one in the London Chess Club.

"Yes. Do you?"

"I used to play with my brother when we were young." "Viscount Gosset? He's a decent player."

Eleanor personally thought that her brother was a terrible player, but she smiled anyway.

"I am more curious about why you set your cap for a duke, to use the vulgar phrase," Villiers said.

"When I first heard of your requirement, I assumed you were driven by pride. But you don't appear to be quite as high in the instep as a young woman with such stringent ambitions ought to be."

Anne was right. Her foolish comment had given her the reputation of a turkey cock. She managed a smile. "Ducal marriages are a matter of precedence and fiscal responsibility. Since I am uninterested in forging an alliance based on anything less practical, I decided quite early that I would like to marry a duke."

"Admirably succinct."

If quite untrue. Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "And you? Why do you care for the status of your wife, given that you will make her a duchess by marriage?"

He looked her directly in the face. "I have six illegitimate children."

Eleanor felt her mouth slip open, and snapped her teeth together. Was she supposed to congratulate him? "Oh," she ventured.

"I wish to marry someone who will not only mother my bastards, but launch them into proper society when the appropriate time comes. The Beaumonts have assured me that no woman below your rank will be able to cow the
ton
to the extent that I demand. You needn't look so surprised. I assure you that many men at this ball have a bastard or two being raised in the country."

There was something extraordinarily annoying about the way he paused after that, as if expecting her to scream and faint. "One or two... versus
six,"
she said musingly. "I gather you have led a life of rather extraordinary dissipation."

"I'm not as young as I look."

"You don't look very young," she observed.

"I see you're not expecting to charm your way into a title."

"Given your family situation, I think most people would agree that the burden of charm falls on you.

Are you planning to legitimize your children?" "I couldn't do that without marrying one of their mothers." "More than
one
mother is involved?"

"Dear, dear," Villiers said. "That was almost a yelp, Lady Eleanor. We seem to be attracting some attention; perhaps we might stroll down a path."

She glanced to one side, only to meet the avid eyes of Lady Fibblesworth standing with the Earl of Bisselbate. Of course, their meeting would be extraordinarily interesting to most of London, given the rumors about Villiers's hunt for a wife. She threw the couple a stiff smile and tucked her hand into the duke's arm.

"I had assumed that the children were the offspring of your mistress," she said a moment later, when they were far enough away to be out of earshot.

"Oh, they are," he said. "Four mistresses. Have you examined the baths yet?"

"The baths are not open to the public until after restoration," Eleanor said. "I understand that the tiles are in delicate condition."

"Surely you know that marriage to a duke allows one to flagrantly ignore rules of this sort?" he asked, turning toward the ruined baths at the entrance to the gardens.

"My father is quite punctilious."

"No breaking the rules constructed for ordinary mortals?" He sounded bored. "And no illegitimate children," she said, allowing her voice just a touch of frost. "Touché!"

The Roman baths were guarded by a phalanx of footmen, but apparently they knew the duke. At any rate, they moved silently to the side as Villiers approached. Eleanor looked about her with some curiosity. The baths had been fully enclosed at some point in the past, of course. But now a wall had fallen in and was replaced by a thick hedge of what seemed to be lilac, though it wasn't blooming.

The duke led her across cracked tiles scattered higgledy-piggledy on the ground. Eleanor slipped her hand from his arm and stooped to pick one up. It was indigo blue and painted with a silver arabesque.

"How lovely!"

"That deep blue color seems to be rare," Villiers said. He looked around on the ground. "Pity, I don't see more of the same."

Eleanor sighed and bent to put it carefully in its place. "Don't you like it?" "Of course." "Take it."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "We're at a ball to benefit the baths' restoration. As I recall, the king just described it as one of the nation's greatest unknown monuments. And you're telling me to steal part of the floor?" She began walking forward again.

There were fewer torches here, and the sound of a minuet being played by the orchestra grew fainter as they walked among the pillars. Some were broken, but many remained, the starry sky seeming to offer a fanciful roof.

"The actual bath is down here," the duke said, taking her arm again to steer her down a shallow flight of stairs.

"It's delightfully warm." Moist air was rising from below. Eleanor walked down the last step and stopped. "And beautiful. Like a purple sea."

The bath was a large square basin, surrounded by soft cushions. Its entire surface, every square inch of water, was covered with violets. Their scent rose gently from the warm water.

"I gather that Elijah plans a private celebration this evening," Villiers said behind her. She turned her head. "Elijah?" "The Duke of Beaumont." "Of course."

"I expect you don't know his personal name since he married years ago and thus wasn't eligible as a husband." His voice was silky but annoying. She cast him a glance. "I don't know your name either."

"That seems remarkably careless," he remarked. "Narrowing your choices to dukes, and then not bothering to investigate their personal details." "There aren't so very many of you," she observed.

"But I would have expected that fact might make your research on the subject more passionate.

After all, you are no debutante, Lady Eleanor."

Apparently he also shared Anne's opinion of her advanced age. "I am two-and-twenty. I will be three-and-twenty in a matter of a month or so."

"And you reached this age without investigating the limited group of men into which you had vowed to marry?"

"Yes." She walked down the last few steps. Pulling back her skirts, she scooped up a few violets in her hand.

He followed her. "You're not really interested in marrying a duke, are you, Lady Eleanor?"

"Not particularly." She pretended to smell the wet blossoms in her hand. "Why not?"

The words hung in the damp air. She instinctively looked about the baths to see if there was anyone who might be able to hear them.

Villiers descended another step and stopped beside her. "Are you already married?"

She smiled faintly. "No." She met his eyes. "Quite the opposite."

"The opposite?" He knit his brow. "Am I to understand that you have announced your intention to marry a duke so as to lower expectations regarding your availability for marriage?"

"Exactly."

"And yet you are willing to consider matrimony with me? After all, you didn't turn on your heel, not even after my alarming revelation."

She let one of the flowers drift from her fingers, watching it rather than meeting his eyes. "I was young and impetuous when I announced my ambition to marry a duke."

"Surely you knew that the chance of a nobleman of the correct rank declaring himself was slim."