Love Match (27 page)

“We will give Gus to Lady Syb. That will keep them both occupied, as well as Nigel. We will be alone together. Perhaps I will even dismiss the staff. ‘Elizabeth’ is so formal. Do you have another name?”

“My middle name is Ermyntrude. I wouldn’t care to be called that.”

“Ermyntrude.” Justin savored the word.

Elizabeth swatted him. “Nigel calls me Duchess.”

“The whole world calls you Duchess. I was had something more intimate in mind. I believe I shall call you darling, if that’s all right with you.” Silence descended while the duke kissed his wife again. “And now before I do my husbandly duty, I must have a bath. Yes, I know I used the word ‘duty.’ You need not frown. It is my duty to give you pleasure, as it is your duty to do whatever you please to me.” He tugged the bellpull.

Footmen arrived with copper tub and pails of water. Elizabeth watched the bath being prepared. The footmen left the room. She started to follow. Justin said, “Stay.”

Stay in the room while her husband bathed? He would have to take off his clothes. St. Clair wanted her to stay in the room while he took off his clothes?

Elizabeth’s knees felt weak. She dropped into a chair. As Justin disrobed, he watched her, less in anticipation of her reaction than in fear she’d bolt for the door.

Elizabeth didn’t bolt. She wasn’t capable of bolting, even had she wished to, which she did not. The duke had a nice, smooth, muscular chest. She had seen his bare chest before, as well as Mr. Melchers’, which was also nice. However, she had an opportunity to study that chest at leisure now, as she had not in the field. Along with the rest of him. St. Clair pulled off his boots. His hands moved to the fastening of his breeches. Oh, my.

Elizabeth swallowed. She must say something. That, or faint dead away. “Your poor nose. Mr. Melchers was trying to help us. He said you wouldn’t like it if you knew.”

Justin paused, half in and half out of his breeches. “Help us
how?”

Elizabeth wasn’t so naive as to inform her husband that a rakehell had kissed her, especially now she understood it hadn’t been a proper kiss at all. “He said that you would like it if I showed you some affection. And that I should let you know that I admired you a little bit.”

Justin shucked off his smallclothes. “
Do
you admire me a little bit?”

Gracious! How could a woman not admire a man who looked like a Greek god? A very naked Greek god? It wouldn’t be good for the duke if she told him how much she admired him. “Sir Charles told me I should take off my clothes,” Elizabeth said.

Justin was reminded of a certain lecture. Black ants and camel grease. “Satisfy my curiosity. What
did
you tell Sir Charles?”

“That you said you couldn’t do it.” Elizabeth blushed. “But clearly you can.”

Clearly he could. But his duchess didn’t deserve to be introduced to matters marital by a man smelling like a sheep. Justin entered the tub so quickly that water splashed everywhere. He didn’t appreciate Conor Melchers giving Elizabeth advice, but he was grateful to the scoundrel all the same. He might even permit Elizabeth to speak with Conor, after all.

Whom was Justin kidding? His wife would speak to whomever she liked. He was grateful that, after all his prosing and posturing, she was speaking to
him
. If he tried hard, he might hear what she was saying, rather than contemplating her perfect bosom, and wondering how he could persuade her to throw away her stays.

She was not only speaking, she had risen from the chair and was walking toward the door. Surely, after all his efforts, she was not going to leave? Astonishing, how one’s heart could sink down to one’s toes.

Justin would not allow her to leave him. If necessary, he would chase after her dripping wet and naked through the house. “Elizabeth! Come back here!” he said.

She turned, key in hand, and inserted it in the lock, to the great relief of Thornaby, who was hovering in the dressing room, prepared if necessary to knock both the duke and duchess unconscious and lock the door himself. After the door was locked, she tossed the key onto the writing table. “You were saying, Your Grace?”

Justin grimaced. “Did I sound like a pompous ass? It will be a hard habit to break. Nonetheless, I shall try. In the meantime, you will put up with me. Won’t you? I won’t let you leave me, Elizabeth.”

The duchess cocked her head to one side. “I believe, Your Grace, that you have just said that I suit you to a cow’s thumb.”

The duke, who was making an attempt to wash his back, paused in mid-scrub. “A cow’s thumb at the least. Where did that come from?”

“Mrs. Papplewick.” Elizabeth circled the copper tub, staying out of St. Clair’s reach, her hands behind her back. “She was speaking of Magda, I believe. I also believe that I recall you saying you would not marry for love again.”

Justin craned his neck and twisted in the tub. Elizabeth was still moving, and shedding garments as she went. First the gown was tossed aside, and then the petticoat. Fascinated, he watched as she untied her stays. “I didn’t marry for love the first time, though I thought I had,” he said, huskily. “As for the other, I didn’t want to love you, or expect to love you, but there it is. I do love you, Elizabeth. More than words can express. More than I will ever love anyone again. I would never even consider loving anyone else, because I have seen a pistol in your hand and do not care to have another such fright. What are you doing now?”

Clad in her chemise, the duchess knelt beside the tub and took up the sponge. “You were saying something about how I might do whatever I wished with you, Your Grace. I believe I will first wash your back. Then I will shampoo your hair. And after that I will climb into the tub with you, and we will both be overcome by lust.”

Could one swoon from sheer pleasure? Hopefully not, because one might miss what happened next. Said Justin, “My darling, I am yours to command.”

And so the Duke and Duchess of Charnwood enjoyed their wedding night at last, even if it was in the middle of the day, during which they progressed from the copper tub to the writing desk and at last to the bridal bed. The matter involved a goodly amount of kisses and caresses and other stuff which the reader will not want to hear, but yet must be assured that the duchess did indeed close her eyes and clenched her teeth, and wished herself nowhere else in all the great wide world.

Epilogue

“A
roof to cover you, and a bed to lie;

Meat when you’re hungry, and a drink when you’re dry;

And a place in heaven when you come to die.”

—An Old Wedding Wish

The dinner party planned by Lady Augusta in honor of the new Duchess of Charnwood went forward without unseemly incident, despite the expectations of at least one of the guests. There were no errors of precedence, in arrangement of status and rank; no fault to be found in the ten-course meal—which included a
supreme de volatile aux truffles,
a sweetbread
au jus,
lamb cutlets with asparagus,
african-deau de veau à Voseille:
stewed beef
à la jareiniere;
a Turkey poult, peas and asparagus; a marasquino jelley, a chocolate cream and
meringes à la creme;
two ices, cherry water and pineapple cream, and fruit; sherry, Madeira and champagne—and only the most critical remarked that the great many-armed epergne placed in the middle of the table made it difficult to observe one’s fellow guests.

After the meal, the ladies retired to the drawing room, while the gentlemen enjoyed their port, and refreshments were brought around. While there were no cards provided for the guests’ entertainment—and who could marvel at it, after the dèbâcle at Catterick’s—this was more than compensated for by the presence of musicians, who soothed the guests with melodic strains, and provided dance tunes. Lady Augusta was noticed to be in looks this evening, dressed in pale green silk trimmed with black. The Duchess of Charnwood, however, was the focus of all eyes. She wore a gown of rose pink sarcenet with tiny puff sleeves, a narrow skirt trimmed with a double pleating of ribbon, and an amazingly low neckline. Her hair was parted in ringlets and bedecked with flowers. It was evident to anyone with half an eye that the lady wore no stays.

If all the gentlemen present this evening admired the duchess’s costume, at least one of the women did not. That lady was Elizabeth’s own mama, who thought she had done a much better job of installing the principles of propriety in her daughter’s head than apparently she had, because the girl had left her chamber half dressed. “Elizabeth!” she hissed. “Cover yourself! A correct taste is ever the concomitant of a chaste mind.”

The duchess smiled and tapped her foot in time to the music. “I find that my mind is not particularly chaste, Maman.”

“And glad I am of it,” remarked the duke, who had joined the duchess in time to hear this last remark. “If you do not cease to harangue my wife, I will see that you are locked in your room, madam.” Lady Ratchett gasped in indignation and added her son-in-law the duke to the long list of things that she disliked.

Nigel Slyte was dashing in dark blue and light sage green, and a white striped Manchester dimity waistcoat trimmed with a small white fringe. To his arm clung Lady Syb, who had recovered sufficiently from her illness to don a petticoat and robe
à la Turque
of white satin, trimmed with a black fringe intermixed with gold. Upon her golden curls she wore a black velvet
bandeau
set with pearls, which boasted one white, one black, and two white and lilac feathers, and a large diamond pin placed on the right side. More diamonds sparkled in her ears.

“I see you’ve overcome your dislike of Bath, Geraldine,” remarked Lady Syb, as she and Nigel joined the small group. “Or is it that you knew you must seem a paltry thing if you failed to attend a dinner party held in honor of your daughter the duchess?”

Lady Ratchett turned a violent shade of puce that clashed violently with her purple gown. She bore a vague resemblance to her daughter, had Elizabeth aged thirty years and taken to sucking on sour lemon drops. “Outrageous!” she gasped.

Lady Ysabella smiled. “Yes, I am.”

Mr. Melchers strolled up in time to hear this last exchange. “And we adore it in you, Lady Syb.”

Lady Ratchett looked at this tall, broad stranger with dissipation writ all over his face, and amusement in his eyes, and promptly recognized a gentleman prone to nourish improper notions, who would encourage ladies to have such notions about him. Propriety was offended. She gave him a withering glance. He gave her a dazzling smile. Mr. Melchers quirked an amused eyebrow. Lady Ysabella took his arm.

“Lady Syb is feeling better,” Justin remarked to Nigel, who was observing this byplay with a bright malicious eye.

Nigel nodded. “She’s decided to take Gus and me with her to London for the Season. I’d take to
my
bed if it would do me any good.”

Lady Augusta was enjoying this last occasion as her cousin’s hostess. However, she conceded that Saint deserved to be private with his bride. Not that he
hadn’t
been private with her already: the duke and duchess had taken to spending a prodigious amount of time in their bedchamber, from which strange noises and shouts and groans frequently ensued. It was most embarrassing. The servants went about pretending to be deaf as posts.

A London Season would be interesting. There would be gambling, of course. Gus signaled to the orchestra to play a country dance.

The duke signaled to his servants. Two footmen entered the room, bearing the parrot’s cage between them, followed by little Katy carrying Minou. “They have taken a fancy to each other,” explained Justin. “Birdie begins to pull out her feathers if Minou leaves the room.”

Head cocked to one side, Lady Ysabella observed the parrot. Head cocked to the other, the parrot regarded her.
“Zut!’
squawked Birdie, and turned her back, and fanned her tail. “That bird,” remarked Lady Syb, “has got quite fat.”

The duke and duchess exchanged glances. “Biscuit!” they said, as one.

“Pish! You have indulged her shockingly, the pair of you. I suggest you concentrate on indulging each other—” Lady Syb cast the duke a fond glance. “And leave the bird to Minou.”

“Beg pardon, milady,” said Katy, who was attempting to prevent the kitten from climbing onto Birdie’s cage. “But it should be Minette.”

Nigel eyed the kitten. “A feline Chevalier d’Eon! Will it reproduce?”

Lady Syb rapped him with her fan. “Since Birdie has fallen in love with your kitten, Elizabeth, I shall give her to you as a bride gift. However, you must allow her no more treats.” Birdie squawked and swooned in the bottom of her cage. “Give it up, you feathermop, or I shall take you out of the cage and use you to dust the room. Yes, Geraldine, I know you disapprove. What a dreary life you lead.”

Lady Ratchett’s complexion changed from puce to plum. More than one observer expected to see smoke issue from her ears. It did not, of course. Smoking ears would not be ladylike. She elevated her nose and turned pointedly away.

Now that he considered the matter, so did Sir Charles lead a dreary life. At least that part of it he spent at home as opposed to interrogating mysterious temptresses who knew things they should not. He said, “I believe I would like a kitten. Or maybe two.” Lady Ratchett sputtered and he added, “Locked in your room with bread and water, madam! I have but lately come to realized that I am your husband, and you must therefore obey. Elizabeth doesn’t obey Charnwood,
but that’s different.
You
are a stickler for things being what they should.”

Lady Ratchett subsided—a lady did not make a public spectacle—but with an incensed expression that suggested the subject was not closed. Justin said to Conor Melchers, “Sir Charles will pay for that.”

“Sir Charles has sufficient blunt to buy any number of garish carriages,” Conor responded. “He deserves to have a dashing high flyer in his protection, don’t you think? Your wife is particularly fine tonight. I see you have allowed her to display her bosom. It’s damned generous of you, Saint.”