Justin, too, observed his wife’s bosom. He had spent the entire evening alternately admiring her bosom and his ring upon her hand. “Yes,
you may dance with her. But at the first sign of drooling, I
will
carve out your gizzard.” Conor was smiling as he led Elizabeth out onto the floor.
“I shall never understand gentlemen,” she said to him. “You and St. Clair might almost be friends.”
Conor executed a step and closed. “We are. Almost.”
The movements of the dance took them apart, and then back together. Elizabeth circled to the left. “I want to thank you for not— You know.”
“Don’t thank me, Duchess. Had you really wanted me to, I would have. Indeed, if ever you
do
want me to make your toenails twitch—” He winked. Deliberately, she stepped on his foot. Conor laughed.
The duchess said no more but concentrated on the dance, which she completed without another misstep, with enviable amiability and gracefulness, and a nice suppleness in her limbs. Mr. Melchers danced with confidence, as he did all else. And if any of the other guests found it odd that the duke permitted his wife to dance with a rakehell, none of them were at all surprised when Charnwood reclaimed her immediately she left the dance floor. The rumor of a meeting between the men may have been exaggerated; although the duke was seen to treat his nose in a tender manner, and a fading bruise could be still seen around Mr. Melchers’ right eye.
If the duchess’s
paffions
had been aroused by the dance, it was not Mr. Melchers from whom she sought relief. She placed her lips close to her husband’s ear, and said, “Conor mentioned twitching toenails. Is there something you have not yet shared with me, Your Grace?”
Justin’s own toenails quivered. With heroic effort, he contrived to remain composed. “Any number of things, my darling. I did not wish to leave you so limp with pleasure that you were unable to attend this festivity that Gus has arranged on your behalf.”
Elizabeth looked around the room. “It is an excellent festivity. Augusta has done well. Still, I believe I would like to retire to our bedchamber so that you may teach me about toes.”
That Lady Augusta’s dinner party was a splendid affair, all those privileged to attend later agreed. While some remarked upon the oddity that a macaw and a kitten were permitted to attend the festivities, and others thought it odder still that the duke and duchess abruptly abandoned their guests to their own devices and retired to the ducal bedchamber and did not reappear until the next afternoon, the majority agreed that the reason for their hasty marriage was more than adequately explained by their behavior. It was a love match, after all.
For those who care about such matters, the wager laid belowstairs was won by Thornaby.
Lady Ratchett, most definitely, would not have approved.
Copyright © 2003 by Maggie MacKeever
Originally published by Zebra (0821775650)
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.