Love Match (12 page)

Elizabeth eyed her tormentor. “Fustian! You must read the same romantic twaddle as my maid.”

Augusta opened her mouth to deliver a blistering set-down, then realized she dared not. Fortunately, Magda returned just then, a gentleman strolling by her side. A gentleman so handsome that even Gus stared.

It was difficult to say what precisely made him so appealing. If he was tall and broad and muscular, so were many other gentlemen. And if combined with that enviable physique he had a swarthy complexion, and unruly black hair that tumbled over his forehead, and strong white teeth that flashed when he smiled—

One thing was certain. No man could be trusted who had such amused dark eyes.

Amused dark eyes that were fixed on her. Augusta turned away.

Magda was performing introductions. “Elizabeth, allow me to present Conor Melchers. You must beware of him
,
because his intentions are of a dishonorable nature, and he has no conscience whatsoever in matters of the heart. Conor, make your bow to Saint’s duchess.”

The amused dark eyes rested on Elizabeth. He bowed. “Your Grace.”

Before Mr. Melchers could say more, as inevitably he would have done, and something most provocative at that, an interruption occurred. The crowd parted to allow passage to an elegant woman wrapped about in sapphire blue, on her golden curls a village hat made of straw, twist and leghorn. Her delicate features were perfection, her eyes the brightest blue. Trailing after her was a weary-looking maid. “One
does
meet all one’s acquaintances in the Pump Room,” murmured Augusta. “Lady Ysabella. What a surprise.”

 “I don’t know why you should be surprised,” Nigel’s Aunt Syb responded. “Since we’re both in Bath, we were bound to meet. You
shouldn’t
be here, Gus. Were you mine, I’d slap you black and blue.”

Augusta tightened her lips against an imprudent comeback. Elizabeth hid a smile. Lady Ysabella was neither so old as Mr. Slyte had painted her, nor half so ill. And Lady Augusta was like to become sick herself, from the swallowing of spleen.

In point of fact, Lady Ysabella was no more than fifteen years older than her nephew and also, but only when it suited her, in the best of health. She was also as irrepressible as a force of nature, and had been known to flatten anyone so unwise as to try and bar her path, including the Prince of Wales and several senior statesmen.

Madame de Chavannes stood in her pathway at the moment. Said Lady Syb, “I’faith, Mouse. I never thought you had more hair than sense.”

Magda dropped a pretty curtsy.
“Bonjour!
I am happy to see you, too, Lady Ysabella. I trust I find you well?”

“Who said anything about being happy? If you don’t cover up your chest, you’ll be the one drinking tar water for an inflammation of the lungs. ‘The sight of a beautiful bosom is as dangerous as that of a basilisk.’ Abbe Boilleau. 1673.”

Elizabeth was amused to see Magda fasten her cloak. Her amusement faded as Lady Ysabella’s blue eyes fixed on her. “You’ll be Saint’s little wife. Or not so little, are you? Since these two peahens between them haven’t the wit to introduce us, I’ll do it myself. Lady Ysabella Ravensdale. I was a countess last time I looked. Have you seen my nephew? He is avoiding me. Hello, Conor. You should not be clasping Saint’s bride like that. You will all join me at the Assembly Rooms this evening. Nigel wall escort me there. Come along, Throckmorton. We have much to do.” The maidservant trailed after her mistress through the crowd.

Elizabeth had quite forgotten that Mr. Melchers still held her hand. Hastily, she reclaimed it. “Nigel,” commented Gus, “is probably hiding under his bed.”

“
Et alors?
She will drag him out, you’ll see! And now we are to go to the Assembly Rooms.” Magda twinkled up at Conor Melchers. “You will join us. Lady Syb has said so.”

Mr. Melchers smiled lazily. “Sweeting, did you ask me, I would accompany you to the gates of Hell itself.”

Magda dimpled. “And it amused you, perhaps. Else you would fling me to the wolves. At any rate, it will not be so bad as all that.”

Conor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And if it turns out to be?”

Magda twinkled at him. “I shall owe you a forfeit,
mon cher
.”

“Then I shall eagerly anticipate to this evening when I may collect my winnings. Until then, ladies.” Mr. Melchers bowed and strolled away.

If this was the sort of gentleman Magda kept dangling at her slipper strings, Elizabeth must hold her in awe. “I don’t dance,” she protested.

Magda clapped her hands together. “Let me guess: Maman did not approve. Come along, Gus! Lady Syb is not alone in having many things to do.”

Chapter 12

“A very fulfilling union can be formed by a man and a woman who enjoy each other’s company, and can provide comfort and support through both the happy and difficult times in life.”
—Lady Ratchett

The Duke of Charnwood returned to his home in a somber frame of mind, as well as perhaps a little bit under the influence of the grape, for the gentlemen had imbibed copious  refreshment during their conversation, which had left His Grace more puzzled than ever, and not at all convinced that he wasn’t a coxcomb. He was not so cup-shot, however, that he failed to realize the absurdity of applying to Mr. Slyte for advice that did not involve the drape of a jacket or the tying of a cravat.

Better he had spoken with Lady Syb. Now there was a sobering thought.

Chislett opened the front door. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Justin eyed his solemn butler. “You are distressed, Chislett. Has some other disaster struck? I hope you do not mean to tell me that we have another houseguest.”

The butler’s thin lips quivered. “I was not aware that you were expecting additional visitors, Your Grace.”

“I’m not.” Justin allowed himself to be divested of hat and coat. “However, neither was I expecting the ones I already have. Nor am I particularly grateful for them. Is that piano music I hear?”

The butler inclined his head. “It is, Your Grace.” Again that strange quiver of the lips. “The ladies are in the drawing room.”

The ladies were up to something, judging from Chislett’s odd behavior. Justin mounted the stairs. Piano music issued from the drawing room, accompanied by parrot squawks. He paused unseen on the threshold.

Gus sat at the pianoforte, her fingers on the ivory keys. Birdie fluttered on her perch. Elizabeth and Thornaby stood facing each other on the Moorfield carpet. The duchess wore a determined expression. Thornaby looked as if he longed to be elsewhere. Magda was pacing back and forth in front of the instrument, in her hands a small book.

“
Retardante,
Gus! A slower tempo,
s’il vous plaît.
We are not teaching Elizabeth a country dance.” She applied to the book. “ ‘The motion of the arms if af effential, at leaft, as that of the legs, for an expreffive attitude; and both receive their juftnifs from the nature of the paffions they are meant to exprefs.’ ”

So enthralled was Lady Augusta that she stopped playing. “ ‘The paffions’?” she echoed.

“The paffions.” Magda brandished the book. “Mr. Gallini says so. ‘The paffions are the fprings which muft actuate the machine, while a clofe observation of nature furnifhs the art of giving to thofe motions the grace of eafe and expertnefs. Anything that has the air of being forced, or improper, cannot fail of having a bad effect. A frivolous affected turn of the wrift is surely no grace.’ ”

“My machine isn’t being actuated,” remarked the duchess. “What has all this to do with the minuet?”

“We are coming to that.” Magda paged through the treatise. “ ‘It should alfo be recommended to the dancers of the minuet ever to have an expreffion of the fort of gaiety and cheerfulness in the countenance, which will give it an amiable and even a noble franknefs.’ You must not look too forward or pensife. ‘Twould be displeafing. And you must avoid that bathfulnefs which arises from low breeding, wrong breeding, or no breeding at all.’ ”

Gus played a sprightly arpeggio. “You
would know about that.”

“This is all well and good,” interrupted Elizabeth. “But while I am being gay and cheerful and not bashful, what am I to be doing with my feet?”

“We shall get to that,
ma petite.
The dance is not about your feet, but your attitude, expression, the graceful motion of your arms.” Gracefully, Madame de Chavannes moved hers. “One measure of determining a gentleman is by his ability to dance with confidence, stand well, enter a room gracefully, move easily without calling attention to himself. Yes, Thornaby, we know you are not a gentleman, but you are the best we have right now, and it is incumbent upon us all to make sacrifices for the general good. Elizabeth, you are expected to have on hand a repertoire of light conversation, with which to pass the time while you stand and watch. The minuet is a dance for one couple at a time.”

“I have the standing part of it down pat, I think,” said the duchess. “
Why
must I dance?”

The duke had stood easily for several moments without calling attention to himself. Now he demonstrated the gentlemanly quality of his spirit by strolling gracefully into the room. “Excellent question. Why
must
Elizabeth dance, pray?”

Augusta switched to a lively march. “Because Lady Syb says so. We are required to attend her at the Assembly Rooms. Along with Conor Melchers. I am surprised that you encourage him, Magda. Melchers is a rakehell. Justin will not approve.”

Magda fanned herself with the little book. “Then it is fortunate I do not answer to Saint.”

Elizabeth was tired of Lady Augusta’s constant trouble-making, and shy of her husband, toward whom she had been acting with not the slightest modicum of dignity and grace. “You know so much about rakehells, do you, Lady Augusta?”

Augusta struck a discord. Magda laughed. “Children! Play nicely together. Conor will debauch no one in the Assembly Rooms.”

Justin’s own brief amusement had fled at the mention of Conor Melchers. His cousin had been correct when she said he’d not approve. So much did he disapprove that he had briefly lost his powers of speech. He was also now entirely sober. “Melchers?
Good God, Magda. The man is—”

“My oldest friend, other than yourself,” Magda informed him. “You must not fear that Conor will make a scandal. At least not a scandal of the sort you so dislike.”

The duke’s reservations were not allayed by reassurances from this source. His cousin’s eyes were on him, however, and he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him react. “Lady Syb requires our attendance at the Assembly Rooms, and consequently my wife is being given a dancing lesson. I see. You may enjoy the Assembly Rooms, Elizabeth. Maman would not approve of them. I believe the lesson might progress more quickly if I take Thornaby’s place.” The valet cast him a grateful glance.

Magda waved an airy hand. “We will be glad to have you, Saint. Thornaby was the best we could find.
Hélas,
he is a perfect stick.”

The valet flushed. Elizabeth frowned. “Unfair, Magda!
You
are the one who has had us standing here while you amused yourself reading to us from your treatise of the dance. I daresay that if we ever got around to dancing, Thornaby would prove more graceful than I. Thank you for your patience, Thornaby. I fear we are a trial.”

“Mon Dieu!”
cried Magda. “I did not mean to say that Thornaby is a stick. Simply, he does not know how to dance. I shall teach him. He will like it of all things.”

Thornaby greeted this suggestion with a shudder. Did he not already tend to his master’s clothing, brush and shave and trim him, clean his combs and brushes, and perform miscellaneous other chores? To be inveigled into dancing in the drawing room was the outside of enough.

On the other hand, as concerned a certain wager, it might prove to his advantage were the duchess to learn to dance. With the duke. Which meant Thornaby must remain in the drawing room to see the thing properly done.

Magda watched emotions play across the valet’s face. “You will not enjoy the minuet.
Eh bien!
I suggest a country dance.”

Thornaby brightened. He already knew several country dances. An animated discussion ensued, involving the Fandango, Greenwich Park, Greensleeves, and Yellow Lace. Lady Augusta struck up a lively tune on the piano. Thornaby demonstrated his ability at the Scotch reel. Birdie squawked and jiggled on her perch. Elizabeth watched, a smile on her face.

Justin’s duchess was a lady, whether or not she could dance with confidence or move easily without calling attention to herself. “I do not know why you should accuse me of comparing you to a chamber pot,” he said softly to her. “I wish you would explain.”

Why it was so difficult to hold a conversation with her husband, even in this moment when he was fully clothed? Oh, drat! Now Elizabeth had reminded herself of how he looked when he was not.

Her cheeks burned. “If not a chamber pot, precisely, still a distasteful duty. I do not aspire to be that, Your Grace.”

Justin winced. He
had
said ‘duty.’ “Forgive my poor choice of words. I meant that I had allowed certain matters to go too long undealt with. I am not usually such a cod’s head, Elizabeth.”

Nor did Elizabeth care to be considered an undealt-with matter. “I don’t believe I’ve heard you called a cod’s head before.”

“I don’t think I want to know what you
have
heard me called. Your mama doesn’t approve of dancing. I distinctly remember you said so.” Slow going, this courting of one’s wife. Cautiously, Justin took her hand. Neither of them was wearing gloves.

St. Clair’s hand was warm. Nearly as warm as when he had touched her in the bedroom. One butterfly somersaulted in Elizabeth’s belly, then another, and then an entire performing circus troop went tumbling heels over head.

She swallowed. What had the duke said? “You told me to ignore Maman, as I recall.”

Justin would have liked to ignore the other members of his household. Alas, he could not, no matter how dazed the expression in his wife’s gold-flecked eyes, or how very right her hand felt in his. Concentrate on the moment, he told himself, and cease these untimely thoughts. “The minuet consists of a fixed sequence of figures. It is not difficult to learn.”