Mr. Slyte also doted on his aunt, for all he said to the contrary. People, Elizabeth decided, were altogether strange. Nigel bemoaned his Aunt Syb’s whimsies and doted on her at the same time. St. Clair lamented Magda’s arrival, yet made no move to oust her from his house.
“Is it true that Birdie has had her portrait painted?” she asked.
Gracefully, Lady Ysabella accepted this change of subject. She was still speaking of the macaw’s colorful history when Nigel escaped the dance floor. “What have you done with Augusta, you scamp?”
“A hornet remains a hornet, no matter what you call it,” Nigel retorted, as the duke presented Lady Ysabella with her tea. “I left her speaking with Melchers. I wouldn’t be surprised if she persuades him to stake her to a game.”
“Don’t look so bloodthirsty,” Lady Ysabella scolded the duke, while Elizabeth reflected that Augusta was less particular about who she rubbed elbows with when it came to playing cards. “Conor won’t oblige her. Gus is hardly in his style. Go fetch him to me, Nigel. I’m of a mind to be entertained by gossip about our mutual acquaintances. Then you will dance with Magda. Saint, it’s past time you paid some attention to your wife.” She patted the duke’s cheek, and drew him closer to speak softly in his ear.
Nigel winked at Elizabeth. “Saint ain’t stiff-rumped by nature. He came into the title so young he had to act top-lofty to be taken seriously, and he’s got in the habit of it now. You’ll do us all a favor if you can persuade him there is more to life than duty and responsibility.
I’ve
tried, but he don’t take me seriously.”
Elizabeth’s husband would dislike being talked about like this. As he gave every indication of disliking what Lady Syb murmured to him now. “I suspect you don’t want anyone to take you seriously, Mr. Slyte.”
“Ah, you have learned my secret, Duchess. I beg you will it to yourself. It would be beyond embarrassing were word to get out.” Nigel flinched as his aunt snapped shut her fan. “I’m going!” he said, and went.
The duke felt as if he were still in the schoolroom. So strong a peal had Lady Syb rung over him that his ears still burned. Before she could prod him with her fan, he approached his wife and bowed. Prettily, Elizabeth curtsied, but didn’t meet his eye.
Why wouldn’t she look at him? Must he stand on his head? Justin reined in his temper and led her out onto the floor. It was hardly Elizabeth’s fault that Lady Syb had seen fit to read him a scold.
Nor was it her fault she had worn that shocking dress. He recognized Magda’s work. He glanced at his wife’s neckline—though he tried not to—and wondered how she would feel about having her nipples rouged. Although he hadn’t yet seen her nipples. Perhaps they were so pink and perky that they had no need of rouge. Perhaps if they weren’t rouged, she would let him rouge them for her. The duke gritted his teeth.
If his drawing room was hardly a fit setting for such musings, the Assembly Rooms were ten times worse. Justin searched for something to converse about other than nipples, rouged or no.
He
could hardly tell Elizabeth he wished she would not display to the world charms that he had not yet discovered. She would be startled by this dog-in-the-manger attitude. Justin was startled by it himself. Even in his youth he had not been bit by the green-eyed monster. Maybe this sudden surliness was due to the frustration attendant upon his failure to bed his bride. Prolonged abstinence was unhealthy for a man.
There could be no other cause for his condition. Justin had no time for the gentler emotions, in the normal way of things. His first marriage had been made for love, or what he had believed was love at the time, and never had he been guilty of a more ill-considered act. Abruptly he said, “I have not seen that dress before.”
Elizabeth was gratified. St. Clair had noticed what she wore. However, he did not seem to approve the garment, because he was glowering at her. It was unfair, that glower; if the duke had a mistress, he would have seen her in costumes more shocking than this.
Did
St. Clair have a mistress? According to Maman, most men demanded carnal relations daily. Yet the duke did not seem to be suffering from a lack of marital privilege. Or maybe that lack was what caused him to wear that stern expression. “Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured, and concentrated on the movements of the dance.
So much for doing the pretty. Justin had hoped his wife might be pleased by his comment on her dress, might even favor him with one of her smiles. Instead, she displayed no gratitude whatsoever. Nor did she seem the least bit embarrassed by that revealing neckline.
Already she grew wise in the ways of the world. He would not tolerate it. If anyone were to rip away the veils of his bride’s innocence, it would be Justin himself.
He could hardly do so in the middle of the Assembly Rooms, however. He must be cool and self-controlled. “I understand that you spent some time in conversation with Melchers. Apparently I failed to make it clear that I do not find the man fit to associate with my wife.”
First he ignored her, next he glowered, now he scolded. “Which wife might that be?” Elizabeth icily inquired.
Chapter 15
“A gentleman’s right to chastise his wife is indisputable.”
—Lady Ratchett
The fire was burning, the candles lit, robe and slippers laid out neatly. The duke’s dressing room was quite cheerful, until the duke arrived. One peek at that irate visage was sufficient to alert Thornaby that the duchess’s dance lessons hadn’t achieved the result he’d hoped.
Discreetly, he inspected the ducal shoes. Definitely he must invest in pumice stone. Treacle and ivory black, to boot. He smiled at his unintentional witticism. ‘To boot.’
Justin was annoyed to see his valet so cheerful. “What do you find humorous?” he snapped.
“Nothing, Your Grace.” Thornaby suspected Lord Charnwood would find no amusement in the condition of his shoes. Lord Charnwood wasn’t in a frame of mind to find humor in much of anything, which didn’t bode well for a certain wager. Thornaby helped his master out of his coat.
“Damned right,” muttered Justin, though he would have rather argued. However, it would be shabby in him to pick a quarrel with his valet, because Thornaby wouldn’t dare fight back. Such familiarity would be opposed the valet’s notions of what was proper and what was not. Did a note of censure pass his lips, the man would probably go out and hang himself.
Justin deserved more than a note of censure. He was behaving badly. Lady Syb had said so, emphatically. “You are as busy as the devil in a high wind. Stop fussing, Thornaby.”
Thornaby had indeed been fussing, rather as if he were a trainer preparing his boxer to step into the ring. Unlikely that the duke would appreciate the analogy. At least he had managed to wrestle his master’s jacket off him, his waistcoat and cravat.
The valet got no further. His efforts were interrupted by a noise from the next room. The duke scowled ferociously and strode toward the door.
The knob moved beneath his hand, but the door refused to open. He pushed. Still the portal remained firmly closed. “Thornaby, this door is locked,” he said, through gritted teeth.
Thornaby tried the handle. “It seems to be, Your Grace. Mayhap you should knock?”
Justin would be boiled in oil before he knocked on the door of his own wife’s bedroom. “Do I have a key?”
Thornaby couldn’t decide who was the biggest pigwidgeon, the duchess or the duke. “I believe the key is in the duchess’s bedroom, Your Grace.”
Of course the key was not in the duchess’s bedroom, else the duchess would not have been able to lock him out. Justin put his shoulder to the door, and shoved. The heavy door budged not an inch. “Bring me my pistols, Thornaby.”
The valet’s question was thereby answered. The duke was the biggest pigeonhead. The duchess had but locked the bedroom door, which if not particularly intelligent of her, was hardly a hanging offense. “Mayhap you might wish to reconsider, Your Grace.”
“What I wish to do is throttle someone, and
you
are close to hand.” Justin bared his teeth. “The pistols, and be quick about it, man!”
Thornaby did not want to be throttled. He fetched the weapons out of the drawer where they resided, and opened the brass-bound mahogany case. On the green baize lining rested a pair of fine flintlock dueling pistols with beautifully executed gold inlay on the blued locks, elegant French-style cocks, and browned Damascus barrels. The priming pans and touch holes were also covered in gold. Since the pistols had been made by Joe Manton, they featured such innovations as hydraulic barrel testers, fast-firing recessed birches, and trigger springs.
Expertly, Justin dealt with powder and ball. “Oh, Your Grace!” Thornaby moaned.
“Swoon and you’re dismissed. Without a reference.” The duke approached the closed portal.
Thornaby didn’t swoon. Nor did he tell his master that he was behaving like a loony, though that was what he thought. A valet must have quiet unobtrusive manners, and employ delicacy when speaking of and to the gentleman he served.
The duke raised his pistol. “Elizabeth! Stand away from the door.”
A voice responded from the bedroom “What?”
Justin sighted down the barrel of his pistol. “Stand away from the door. Either that or open it. If you have not opened it by the count of three, I am going to shoot off the lock. One. Two—”
The door swung inward. Elizabeth stood framed in the opening, still wearing her evening gown. Daphne had managed to accomplish even less than Thornaby in the matter of disrobing, due to no lack of effort but because her mistress wouldn’t hold still. Elizabeth wasn’t fidgeting now. Her face was pale.
Justin walked into the bedroom. “How
dare
you lock the door against your husband?” he inquired.
Lock the door? Elizabeth blinked. Someone might have warned her that her bridegroom was prone to go off in odd humors. “I didn’t lock the door. I dislike locked doors. It must have gotten stuck.” Or maybe it hadn’t, and St. Clair had just sought an excuse to wave his weapon around.
Had the door been simply stuck, Justin was making a jack pudding of himself. That realization didn’t improve his temper. “Where is
the key, madam?”
Elizabeth looked blank. Her maidservant scurried to fetch the key from the mantelpiece, and presented it to him.
Justin took the key from her and gestured with the pistol. “You. Leave.”
Abandon her mistress? Daphne contemplated the duke’s half-buttoned shirt and skin-tight breeches, his disheveled hair and the gleam in his eye, and recalled the wager yet to be won. She curtsied and departed, her imagination awhirl with sultans and harems, and the odd circumstance that the concubine selected for the evening’s pleasure entered the sultan’s bedchamber and crawled under the covers from the foot of the bed.
The duke frowned at his duchess, who still wore that accursed gown. He placed the key in his pocket and slammed shut the dressing room door. “Now you will tell me, madam, why I shouldn’t mind that Conor Melchers flirts with you.”
One should remain calm when faced with a madman, Elizabeth told herself. She had never met a madman before, but St. Clair must surely qualify. “What makes you think Mr. Melchers was flirting with me?” she asked.
“He flirts with everyone!” snapped Justin. “The man is a curst menace. He even tries his hand with Lady Syb.”
Elizabeth was briefly distracted. “Lady Syb?”
Justin was also distracted. The bedroom was welcoming. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece. A fire burned in the hearth. The counterpane was folded back as if inviting him into the great mahogany bed.
He glanced from the bed back to his wife, who was staring at him as if he were a madman. “Is that pistol loaded?” she inquired.
Justin realized he was still holding the pistol. He placed it on the writing desk. Lady Syb had been right to scold him. He had lost control of both his temper and his emotions. “Turn around.”
Looking bewildered, Elizabeth obeyed. Justin busied himself with the fastenings of her gown. How could he have ever found her but passably pretty? Half the bucks in Bath had been tripping over their shoelaces for a glimpse of her smile tonight.
Or, rather, her cleavage. “I suppose I needn’t ask how you came by that dress.”
Elizabeth clutched her bodice tightly to her. “Magda vowed it was the thing.”
Justin heard his wife’s voice tremble. She was not entirely indifferent to him, then. “I dislike you making a display of yourself,” he said, as he pushed the fabric from her shoulders. And lovely shoulders they were. If only Elizabeth would let go of that gown she was clutching for dear life.
If he did not want her to make a display of herself, why was he taking off her dress? There was no question of it: he
was
taking off her dress. “It has grown quite warm in here,” Elizabeth squeaked, and bit her lip.
Justin’s fingers slid over her bare shoulders, lingered on her neck. The muscles were tight, which shouldn’t have surprised him; she was unaccustomed to being touched. And now he was touching her, as was his husbandly privilege, and it shouldn’t matter to him if she craved his touch or not.
But it did matter. In an attempt at self-control, Justin bit his own lip. A hair shirt might have been more effective. Mortification of the flesh. The flesh not proving cooperative, he removed his hand from his wife’s smooth skin and thought grimly of sackcloth and ashes and beds of nails.
The duke was staring. Elizabeth could feel his eyes on her, even though her back was turned. Her skin prickled where he’d touched her. She wanted him to touch her more. It was most improper in her. She couldn’t help but wonder how many gowns he had unfastened, to acquire such a degree of skill.
Justin swung his duchess round to face him. Her bare flesh was soft beneath his hands. Her cheeks were pink.
Mere thought of carnal matters was sinful, according to Maman. Elizabeth must be a sinner, then, because she could not stop herself from thinking about the conjugal bed. Would the duke kiss her now? How disconcerting to be standing half undressed in the middle of the bedroom, trying to guess what might happen next.