Justin hadn’t observed that his wife was especially good-natured. “Magda is leading Elizabeth into bad habits, I fear.”
“What manner of bad habits?” Lady Ysabella peered at him. “Gaming? Consorting with low people? Frolicking in the flesh pots?”
Justin dropped into a chair. “Today they went to a fair.”
“It is you who are guilty of high-mindedness if you find fault in a simple fair,” Lady Syb said sternly. “An awareness of your superior standing is one thing; but you must not allow yourself to become pompous,
Saint.”
“It’s not the fair with which I find fault,” retorted Justin, “though I don’t enjoy such things myself. Melchers was there.”
“
You astonish me.” Lady Syb replaced her spectacles on her nose. “Conor at a country fair! Still, what is there in that to make you so cross? Magda and Melchers have a long history. Where you find one you find the other, eventually. No one should know that better than you.”
“Magda may have Melchers with my blessing! It’s Elizabeth I’m concerned about.” Two pairs of bright blue eyes fixed expectantly on him. Nigel’s eyes dropped to Justin’s hands. He raised a brow.
Justin also regarded his hands, which were festooned with kitten marks. “Elizabeth brought home a cat.”
Nigel’s other eyebrow arched to meet the first. “As I recall, you don’t like cats.”
Justin got up from his chair and took another turn around the drawing room. “She named it Minou.”
Lady Ysabella watched him pace. “You
haven’t stewed that wretched parrot, have you? And no, I don’t want it back.”
The duke refrained from kicking a side table. “Elizabeth is fond of Birdie,” he explained.
“Sleeps with it, does she?” asked Nigel. “I should probably tell you that Aunt Syb knows you haven’t— Ah. Unless matters have moved forward?” Expectantly, he paused. “I deduce from your ferocious expression that they have not. Don’t eat me, Saint! Aunt Syb knows about these things.”
Justin leaned against the mantelpiece. Nigel’s aunt knew about a great many things. He wished the non-consummation of his marriage wasn’t among them.
Lady Ysabella cast a shrewd glance in his direction. “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Nigel. This is beyond anything, Saint.”
Why should Justin be made to feel guilty when it was his bride who was at fault? At least he thought she was. For the most part. Admittedly, he might bear a degree of responsibility for this pickle. “Elizabeth married me under duress. I have a strong impression that it was Lady Ratchett’s habit to lock her in her room.”
“Poor Duchess!” remarked Nigel. “Seems to me someone should lock up Lady Ratchett. We might arrange a nice chamber in the Tower. Have you the proper connections, Aunt Syb?”
“Pish!” said Lady Ysabella. “Elizabeth is hardly the first young woman to choose a companion for life under parental compulsion. I myself did so. The first time, at any rate. It is the way of the world.”
It was also the way of the world for a gentleman to enjoy a wedding night. Justin caught Nigel’s knowing smile, and sighed. “I don’t think she likes me much.”
Lady Ysabella snorted. “It’s not necessary that the chit like you, Saint.”
“Am I to hold Elizabeth down and forcibly divest her of her maidenhead?” Justin abandoned the mantelpiece to sprawl in a chair. “Since we are being frank! Thank you, but I would prefer she didn’t detest me for the rest of our lives.”
“You must feel something for her,” observed Lady Ysabella. “How unfashionable of you. And how curious, that you feel you would have to hold her down. I don’t recommend doing so, since you want her to like you. Not during the initial encounter, at any rate.”
Fireplace pokers and pistols, rouged nipples and plump bosoms. There were limits to what Justin was willing to confide. “She asked why I had married her. She also asked if I had a mistress. She said that Conor Melchers was the one person who wasn’t telling her how she should go on.”
Nigel snorted. “Rather, he’s giving the rest of you something more to badger her about. Draw in your horns! I didn’t say
you
was badgering her, Saint. Though if you was, it might be a good idea if you stopped.”
“Lollpoop!” interrupted Lady Ysabella, albeit fondly. “Give us no more of your jaw. Impudence here does have a point, Saint. It may be disobliging of your wife to enjoy Conor’s company, but it is understandable all the same. Even the meekest of fillies will kick over the traces if she feels the sting of the whip too many times.”
Were Elizabeth a horse and he the coachman— Sternly, Justin banished that provocative image from his mind. Was Lady Syb accusing him of mistreatment? He opened his mouth.
Lady Syb forestalled his protest. “If you want someone to like you, you must be likeable. To refrain from censuring Elizabeth’s conduct might make an excellent good start. The chit will have had enough of that already from her mama.”
Justin disliked sharing a paintbrush with Lady Charnwood. “It is a wife’s duty to do as her husband asks,” he stiffly replied.
“Certainly, if those requests are reasonable.” Lady Syb retorted. “As it is his to comply with hers.”
St. Clair stared at Lady Ysabella as if she had suddenly grown a second head. She regarded him like a cat about to pounce on a plump mouse. Nigel looked from one to the other, and cleared his throat. “Cards, anyone? I have several buttons left.”
* * * *
Several hours had passed, along with countless hands of loo, and no small amount of liquid refreshment had been imbibed, before the duke returned to his home in the Royal Crescent. Since the majority of those hands had been won by Lady Ysabella, who along with crowing about her winnings had been prone to philosophize upon a husband’s duty toward his wife, the duke was out of patience with all of female-kind. Were it not for his newly discovered dislike of enforced abstinence, he might have joined a monkish brotherhood. Nor was he of a mind to retire to his accursed dressing room, where Thornaby would be waiting to flutter over him. He retired to the library in search of something with which to divert himself. Justin was greatly in need of diversion. Maybe he would immerse himself in
Plutarch’s Lives.
The fire had burned low on the heath, the candles in their holders. Shadows lurked in the corners of the room. From one high-backed chair issued a gentle snore.
Justin ground his teeth together. Even in his sanctuary, he was not to be left alone. He moved around the side of the chair, prepared to forcibly oust the invader. However, not one of his uninvited guests, but Elizabeth was sleeping there. In her lap dozed the black kitten. On the floor beside the chair lay an opened book. A somewhat naughty opened book, Justin discovered, as he tilted his head to read the title. She was full of surprises, this wife of his. She looked enchanting in her simple white dress, her hair coming unpinned.
This dress, at least, met with his approval. It was high-necked and long-sleeved. Absurd to feel disappointed that he therefore could not view her bosom. Lord, he was in a sad condition. He should seek out a more accommodating female, and thereby relieve himself. But he wouldn’t. Justin reached out and touched his wife’s soft cheek.
Abruptly, Elizabeth awakened. She had been dreaming of St. Clair, and was startled to see him standing by her chair.
Had
he stroked her cheek? Doubtless that gentle caress had existed only in her dream. “I waited to speak with you. I meant to wait awhile and read, but I must have dozed off instead.”
Chivalrously, Justin refrained from commenting on the nature of the book which lay open on the floor. Elizabeth was deliciously disheveled. Lest he succumb to the temptation to take her onto his lap, Justin seated himself behind the writing desk
.
Elizabeth straightened. The kitten stirred and yawned, clambered down her skirts to the floor. She watched her pet make its unsteady way toward the desk, pausing en route to be delighted by the sight of its own tail. “Maman did not like felines. She said they are sneaky, and much too independent, and weave around one’s ankles deliberately to trip one up. I fear I am a gudgeon. Until Katy brought Minou back to me, I feared you had taken him away to drown him, or worse.”
His bride had called herself a gudgeon. The duke was not disposed to disagree. He leaned down and scooped up the kitten, which was attempting valiantly to climb his boot, and leaving behind tiny needlelike scratches about which Thornaby would have a great deal to say. “If I’m to share my home with the wretched creature, it had to have a bath.” He deposited the inquisitive kitten on his desk. “Lord knows where it has been.”
Were those scratches on St. Claire’s hands? Katy had said he bathed Minou himself. Now he was even tolerating the kitten’s fascination with his table globe.
Elizabeth had misjudged her husband. She had behaved badly toward him as well, brandishing a fireplace poker at him as she had. On the other hand,
he
had brandished a pistol first. The house was quiet. She was intensely aware that they were alone together in the room.
Justin was acutely aware of his wife, who was fidgeting in her chair. What did it matter if she had spoken to Conor Melchers, other than that he had said she should not? Of course she should not go against his wishes, no matter Lady Syb’s outrageous opinions on the subject, but the duke would not dwell upon such matters now. What the devil had inspired him to barricade himself behind this infernal desk? He hit upon the brandy decanter as a solution to his dilemma, and moved from behind the desk to pour them both a glass.
Warily, Elizabeth accepted the brandy snifter. One of the reasons St. Clair had chosen to marry her was because she was a model of good breeding, or because he’d been told she was. Elizabeth admitted she hadn’t been behaving lately like a model of much of anything. Perhaps Sir Charles was correct, and she had given St. Clair a disgust of her, and that was why he hadn’t asserted his husbandly rights. But if he disliked her altogether, surely he wouldn’t have let her keep Minou?
If she had given the duke a disgust, then she must make things right. Elizabeth had no intention that Sir Charles should take her home to Maman, and therefore she must somehow persuade St. Clair to make her his wife in truth. But how was she to accomplish that? Sir Charles had also said she should take off her clothes. In the library? Elizabeth chewed her lip.
She was lovely in the candlelight. Justin longed to take her in his arms. Yes, and why should he not? After all, she
was
his wife. Therefore, he took her hand and drew her to her feet. “I wish that you would call me Justin. Why do you look startled? It is my name, after all.”
So he was not altogether disgusted with her? “Thank you… Justin.” Would he kiss her now?
If only he dared kiss her! But in this moment his bride trusted him a little, and Justin did not want to frighten her away. “We have had a great many misunderstandings between us. Permit me to clear up one of them. When I said I did not want my wife to associate with Conor Melchers, I did not refer to Magda. It has been a long time since I considered her anything but a curst nuisance.”
Encouraged, Elizabeth ventured, “She
is
unconventional.”
“Magda has an abominable inclination to meddle. If I may say so, as I should not, I say so to my wife, and nothing that we say or do together may be considered improper.” Ruefully, Justin smiled. Elizabeth’s eyes were opened wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked infinitely kissable.
Well, then, he would kiss her. Surely he had sufficient self-control to kiss his bride without tossing up her skirts and making love to her on the writing desk
.
For that matter, why
shouldn’t
he make love to her on the writing desk?
Elizabeth
was his wife, and this was his house. He raised his hands to cup her pretty face, bent his head and—
“Ah ça!”
Magda
said cheerfully, as she swept into the room. “I see I am
de trop.”
Thus was the moment was shattered. The duke released his current wife and reached for his brandy glass. His previous wife strolled in front of the fire, which outlined her figure nicely through the lace of her negligee, to lean against the writing desk. Her expression was amused.
Elizabeth twisted her wedding ring on her finger. It seemed she was not of sufficient interest that her husband cared to embrace her—or
continue
to embrace her—in the presence of his former spouse, who felt so comfortable in his house that she wandered about the halls in attire
even more provocative than the gowns she wore during the day.
Magda looked very much at ease in the library. One suspected she had been in the room before. With St. Clair, no doubt. Elizabeth thought: a curst nuisance indeed.
Lost in her own thoughts, she had not been paying attention to
Minou. The kitten set the globe to twirling so madly that he became giddy and tumbled off the desk.
“Bravo!”
laughed Magda, and snatched up the kitchen in midair. “This little fellow has much improved since Conor gave him to you,
n’est-ce pas, petite?”
Chapter 20
“Be not curious to know the affairs of others, neither approach those that speak in private.”
—Lady Ratchett
Sir Charles found his host at the breakfast table, sharing a rump steak pie with Birdie and a small black cat. Before his fascinated eyes, the parrot snatched up the last bit of the pie. The kitten spat, climbed into the duke’s plate, and began to lick it clean.
This was the strangest household Sir Charles had ever visited. “Good morning, Charnwood,” he said, as a footman filled his plate with beef tongue and horseradish sauce, sausages and mashed potatoes, fresh bread and orange marmalade from among the selections on the sideboard.
He sat down at the table. Birdie fluffed her feathers, leaned toward his plate, and quivered longingly. Justin snapped his fingers. “No more begging, you wretched creature, or you’ll go back into your cage.” Birdie fanned her tail at him and strutted along the table toward the centerpiece. The kitten, sides bulging with his portion of His Grace’s breakfast, pounced on the parrot’s tail. Birdie snapped her beak and squawked. The kitten hissed and fluffed up like a startled hedgehog.