The Ugly Duchess (7 page)

Nine

B
y the time the meeting was drawing to a close, James felt like jumping out the library window and running into the street, screaming. He was an idiot who would never be able to manage his own estate because he couldn’t bear thinking or talking about numbers. As Reede prosed on, his entire body tensed with the fervent wish to get the hell out of the library.

So it had been Daisy—Daisy, whom he had betrayed—who spent two hours going over figures, coming up with idea after idea to repair their finances. At one point he had sat down at the table again, but the numbers had flowed past him as relentlessly as when he paced the room.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t do mathematics or accounting; he’d learned both in school. But his concentration constantly slipped in the face of such calculations, and he found himself thinking not about selling horses for profit but about the ways he planned to repair the stables. Daisy and Reede talked about the tons of hay produced by the south field compared to the west, and whether the disparity had to do with runoff from the stream; his only contribution was the comment that scything the west field was difficult because it was on the slope of a hill.

He knew
that
only because he had joined the workers on the estate the previous summer, reveling in the simplicity of learning to lean into the sweep of the scythe, the pleasure of a day spent doing physical labor, even the ache of his muscles at bedtime.

The truth of it was that he was a fool who was really only good for scything, because if he didn’t get into the fresh air and exercise hard every day, he couldn’t control his bloody, bloody temper. And he’d be damned if he ended up endangering his household with airborne china statuettes.

Even so, he could have lived with the brutal truth of his own ineptitude. After all, Daisy—Theo—had made fun of him for years, and her cheerful affection had always smoothed over the fact that he would rather hang himself than attend an opera.

The only time he had sat still long enough to listen to a book being read aloud (let alone read one to himself) was during the bout of ophthalmia, when the doctors banished him to a dark room, threatening that he’d go blind. Even then, he suspected that he would have been up and running about, and be damned with his eyesight, except that Daisy made him laugh, and petted him, and fed him. When Daisy read him Shakespeare, he was fascinated. When he tried to read it to himself, the words jumbled on the page and his mind slipped off to other things.

Finally all the bookkeeping and talking and planning were over, and Daisy said good-bye to Mr. Reede in the prettiest manner possible, James grimly standing at her side in the entryway. Then she pulled him back into the library.

“What?” he said flatly. “I must go for a ride, Daisy. I didn’t have time earlier, and my head is pounding.” He still couldn’t believe that he had a wife. Let alone that the wife was Daisy. His Daisy. He reached out and ran a finger down her face. “You have the most beautiful bones of any woman I’ve ever seen. Like a Russian princess, I think.”

She liked that; he could read it in her eyes. “Kiss me,” she said. “
That
kind of kiss.”

He kissed her.

The damned thing about it was that James had discovered that he actually meant all those things he had said in front of the Prince of Wales that night back in March. Daisy was
his
, and he
was
possessive, and he
did
want her more than anything or anyone in the world.

But now it would never be pure or true between them. And so he kissed her with such a mixture of lust and despair that he fancied he could taste his own misery, so he tore himself away with a muttered comment about his headache.

After riding his horse too fast—which took care of his headache, but not his heartache—he had luncheon in his club and then returned to the house. But rather than enter that blasted library, he fell onto his bed, staring up at the canopy, unable to think or move or even sleep.

His valet, Bairley, appeared after a few hours and inquired about supper. Apparently her ladyship was paying a visit to a modiste and had not yet returned.

“Later,” James said dully. He was in the grip of the kind of guilt and despair that murderers presumably feel. More than anything, he longed to knock his father against the wall with a leveler to the jaw: for ruining his marriage, his love for Daisy, his future. His whole body vibrated with hatred for the man who had so selfishly and carelessly ruined their lives.

Some time later, his valet knocked softly and entered the room again.

James pushed himself upright. “I suppose it’s time to dress for supper.”

“Yes, your lordship. I have your bath ready. But Mr. Cramble thought you should know . . . ,” Bairley began and then seemed to lose steam.

“What is the problem?” James asked. “Has my father returned from the races?”

“No, your lordship. It’s the papers.”

“What about them?”

“Mr. Cramble told her ladyship at breakfast that most of them had not been delivered, though he did put them in the library for you to read.”

“Right. I didn’t get to them. Why on earth did Cramble say such a thing to my wife?”

“It was because of what they wrote about your wedding, that is, about Lady Islay. He meant to show them to you as soon as he had a chance.”

James shook his head. “What in God’s name did the papers say about my wife? Why were they bothering with our wedding?”

“It was the wedding of the season,” Bairley said reproachfully. “The descriptions of the ceremony and reception are quite laudatory. The gilded coach and footmen in cloth-of-gold were universally admired.”

“I feel as though I’m pulling teeth here, Bairley,” James said, stripping off his waistcoat. “Have you chosen something I should put on for the evening?”

“Mr. Cramble thought he would send a meal to her ladyship’s room,” Bairley said, stammering a bit. “And you might dine with her there, private-like. When you ring for it, that is.”

His valet’s English was generally better than James’s own, so that colloquial “private-like” was a sign that something truly was wrong. A flare of anger ignited by fear swept over James. “What in the bloody hell are you getting at, Bairley?” he said sharply.

“The papers are all calling her the ‘Ugly Duchess,’ ” his valet replied miserably.

“What?”

“The ‘ugly duchess,’ a play on that fairy tale ‘The Ugly Duckling.’ My lord, please keep your voice down. Her ladyship is next door. She retired to her room directly after returning from the modiste.”

“When you say the ‘papers,’ which ones do you mean, precisely?” James pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. Daisy must be devastated. They were all blasted liars. He’d kill the scribblers himself. He’d have the presses shut down by the next morrow. He discovered his fingers were shaking slightly with rage.

“All of the dailies,” Bairley replied. “All except the
Morning Chronicle
, which said that she had the profile of a king.”

“That’s all right,” James said, deciding to spare the
Morning Chronicle
. He tore open his breeches and a button skipped across the floor.

Bairley scurried after it.

“I’ll have a retraction and apology from every one of them tomorrow morning,” James said through clenched teeth, “or by God I’ll torch their buildings myself. There’s some power in a dukedom yet, and I’ll use every iota of it to destroy them.”

“Yes, your lordship,” his valet said, having found the button. He turned to pull evening clothing from the wardrobe and lay it carefully on the bed. “Unfortunately, her maid reports that her ladyship saw the papers when she visited the modiste today. It’s not only the papers—there are prints in the stationers’ windows already. They did them overnight because of all the excitement about the wedding.”

“Oh, for—” James broke off. “Lady Islay went out and saw all that, and now she’s . . . where?”

“Next door,” Bairley said. “She went straight to her chamber, her face white as a winding sheet, that’s what Mr. Cramble said.”

“Where’s her mother?”

“Mrs. Saxby left early this morning for Scotland, before the papers were delivered.”

James threw his breeches and smalls on the bed. “I’ll have a quick bath and then pay a visit to my wife. Tell Cramble that I want no one interrupting us until I ring. Not even her maid,” he said to Bairley over his shoulder. Five minutes later he pulled on a dressing gown and headed for the door to Daisy’s room.

Ten

T
heo was in the grip of a desolation so vast that it swallowed any tears she might have felt like shedding. On the way to the modiste’s in Piccadilly, she had caught sight of a cluster of people around a new print in Hatchards window, but it would never have occurred to her that the print had anything to do with her.

Until she was on the way home and the carriage drew to a halt in front of yet another stationery store—and she saw the illustration. Though she only knew the extent of it after sending a groomsman into the store to buy the papers, the same papers that the butler swore hadn’t been delivered.

She would never have imagined that anyone could be so cruel. Let alone ten or twenty someones, or however many had written all those articles, and edited them, and approved them. And then there were the people who stayed up all night etching her likeness wearing that horrendous dress. But of course it wasn’t the dress.

She had only to turn her head to see her face in the glass. It was angular, with the high cheekbones that James liked so much. But she also had a straight nose, and a strong chin, and something indefinable about the cast of her profile, and it all added up to . . . to an ugly duchess, that’s what it added up to.

When the adjoining bedchamber door burst open, Theo didn’t even look up. “I’d rather you left me alone at the moment,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat even though she wasn’t crying. “I’m absolutely fine. I haven’t shed a tear over those silly articles. Just nonsense, that’s all.”

Of course, James didn’t obey her. From the corner of her eye, Theo caught a blur of movement, and suddenly she was tucked against his chest and he was sitting down. “I’m too big to sit in your lap,” she gasped, realizing that his dressing gown had fallen open and the chest in question was quite bare. “And you are not properly attired.”

James ignored that as well. “They’re all insolent bastards and I’m going to chop their printing presses into shards tomorrow morning.” His voice vibrated with anger, an emotion that he was exceptionally good at.

“Destroying the presses won’t help now,” Theo said. But she leaned her head against his bare chest and let him rage on. It was definitely comforting. James, like her mother, truly didn’t see her the way the rest of the world did.

He actually saw her as a
daisy,
for goodness’ sake. A daisy. Theo didn’t care to think overmuch about her profile, but she had concluded long ago that the best adjective that could be applied to it was
severe.

There was no such thing as a severe daisy.

“Do you suppose I could be carrying a child?” she asked when he paused for breath.

James made an odd sound, somewhere between a gulp and a cough. “What does that have to do with anything? I certainly hope not. I’m not ready for fatherhood. Just look at what a miserable job my father has done of it. I may never be ready.”

“I know we’re young,” Theo said. “But if I were carrying a child, my figure would change. I would have more in front. Maybe we should try again tonight.”

James frowned down at her. “You mean you want to develop that bovine look that some women have?
Udders?
”

His shudder was obviously genuine and highly satisfactory. “This is the perfect size,” he added, putting a hand directly on her breast. “Just right for a man’s hand. My hand.”

Theo was wearing a walking dress that flattened what little she had in the front, but even so, James’s hand seemed to curve around her breast quite nicely. She felt somewhat calmer, until it all flooded back into her head. “I don’t think I can ever leave this house again. Everywhere I go people will be calling me
the ugly duchess
, you just know they will. Even if they don’t say it to my face, they’ll be thinking it. I cannot bear it. I don’t have the courage.”

His hand tightened on her breast for a moment and then he wrapped his arms around her again. “They’re all idiots,” he said into her hair. “You
are
beautiful.”

“I’m not,” Theo said miserably. “But it’s nice of you to say so.”

“I’m not just saying it!” He was at a near bellow again.

“Remember how you resolved to control your temper now you’ve turned the grand age of twenty?”

“Any man alive would be enraged by this kind of lying insult to his wife. Tomorrow I’m going into the office of each one of those rags that call themselves newspapers, and I shall put my hands around the neck of the proprietor, and—”

Theo put a hand over his mouth. “There’s no stopping it, James. The illustrations are everywhere. I saw people all around Hatchards, gawking at the window. And on the way home, I realized that a portrait of me in that ghastly dress is in the front of every store. I’m stuck with the label.
For life.
”

“Nonsense,” James said, more quietly. “Lots of people acquire unpleasant nicknames that are soon forgotten. Richard Gray was known as Little Dick for a while. And Perry Dabbes—Lord Fentwick, now—was Periwinkle. Then everyone forgot about it.”

“Apparently, they didn’t,” Theo pointed out. “You remembered both of those names without hesitating. And what’s more, I bet there are lots of men who think Periwinkle every time they see Lord Fentwick.” She hesitated. “Is that a reference to the size of his male organ?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I should think small would be a benefit. I’m certain most women would prefer it. They should boast about those nicknames.”

A little laugh exploded from his mouth. “Am I to take it that you’re sore from last night?”

“Yes,” Theo admitted. “I wish you had a periwinkle.”

“I’m glad I don’t, even though I
am
sorry if I hurt you in any way, Daisy.”

“My point is that no matter the size of their organ, at least they’re not ugly. It’s the worst thing you can say about a woman.”

James’s arms tightened again. “You are not ugly, Daisy. Do you think that I’m ugly?”

She glanced up at him. “You are breathtakingly handsome, and you know it. I’m very irritated just by the sight of you.”

“I may know it, but I don’t give a damn,” he said. “Still, a man’s got some pride. Why on earth do you think that
I
would marry an ugly woman?”

Theo thought of saying
Because you just did
, but she choked back the words. She didn’t really want to convince him that she was ugly. He and her mother were the only people in the world who idealized her this way. It was comforting to have a few people blind to reality.

“I would never marry an ugly woman,” James continued with the superb confidence that came from being born not only handsome, but the heir to a dukedom as well. “I have some pride, you know. I married you because you are delectable, and beautiful, and also because you don’t look like all those other girls.”

Theo sniffed. She hadn’t cried over the prints, but James was making her feel like crying now. “What do you mean when you say that I don’t look like the other girls?”

He frowned. “All pink and puffy.”

“But that’s what Bella looked like,” Theo objected. Then she stiffened. “Bella
is
part of your past, is she not?”

“I said good-bye to Bella the morning after I proposed to you. I gave her an emerald, though I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known how Father played ducks and drakes with the estate.” He was stroking her hair the way you might soothe an agitated cat.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Theo said, feeling a swell of generosity. “I’m sure she doesn’t have an easy life. But I have to say that she doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to me, James.”

“A mistress is one thing,” James said stubbornly. “A wife is quite another. I couldn’t bear having all that pinkness around every day. And besides . . .” His hand slid from her shoulder back to her breast. “I didn’t care for her bosom, to tell the truth. A man could suffocate if he wasn’t careful.”

Theo gave him a cracked bit of a laugh. “Must you do that?” she asked after a while as he continued to caress her breast. “It’s making me feel rather odd.”

“Why don’t you remove your clothes and we can make each other feel odd?” he suggested.

“James! People don’t do that sort of thing at this hour.”

“It’s almost evening,” he said, glancing outside. “And I’m pretty sure that people do it all day long if they’re lucky enough not to live with a passel of servants.”

“Do you wish you didn’t have servants?”

He rubbed a thumb across her nipple, and even through the layers of cloth she felt it so keenly that she actually jerked. “Do you like that?”

“I suppose,” she said uncertainly.

“I wish I’d been born a laborer,” James said suddenly, and quite ferociously. “I would be able to do just as I wish, and marry whom I want, and work in the outdoors and
never
have to spend hours with a man like Reede. Let alone have him look at me as if I were a veritable idiot. Which I am.”

“You are
not
,” Theo cried. “You know perfectly well that you could have had a first at Oxford if you’d cared to stay past a year.”

“Except I’d have jumped in a lake with stones in my pockets first.”

“That’s irrelevant. My point is that you were the top of your class at Eton, when you could be bothered.”

“Thank God that’s over.”

His hand started moving again, which Theo had to admit she rather liked. In fact, she was actually considering removing her gown, scandalous though it would be. “So you would truly like to be a laborer?”

“Yes.”

“You did choose your own wife,” Theo said softly. “You shocked everyone with your declaration.”

His hand tightened for a moment. “Yes. I suppose I don’t feel that I’m ready for marriage. If I have to get married, I wouldn’t want anyone but you.”

“Well, I would hate being a laborer’s wife, so I’m glad you were born to be a duke. It would be so exhausting to cook and clean and lay fires all day, and then just wake up and do precisely the same the next day. I would rather be planning a ceramics factory. And what did you think of my idea for having Ryburn Weavers specialize in re-creating the kind of figured fabric they wove in the time of Queen Elizabeth?”

“I think it is brilliant. I suppose what I most want is to be outdoors, and not suffocating in ridiculous neck cloths. I loathe starch.”

“We are so different,” Theo exclaimed. Even though it was something she’d known practically her whole life, it struck her anew. “I love thinking about clothing, and judicious use of starch can have such a gorgeous effect. Madame Le Courbier—that’s my modiste—and I came up with a wonderful plan to use blue starch to stiffen some fine pleats. She’s putting them at the wrists and the neck of a walking dress of cherry-colored twilled sarcenet with cord trim that will make it resemble the uniform of the Queen’s Household Cavalry.”

“I don’t recall any pleats on their tunics,” James drawled. He had tipped Theo forward, away from him, and now she realized that he was deftly unbuttoning her gown in the back.

“James, we can’t possibly do this,” she said, twisting about to look at him over her shoulder.

“What are we doing? I fancy sitting around with my wife while neither of us has any clothes on. You know there are religions where people behave like that all the time. ‘The Family of Love,’ I think one of them is called. My cousin was telling me about it in the club the other day.”

“Not your cousin Pink,” Theo said, allowing him to continue unbuttoning, because no matter how calm her tone was, her heart sped up at the very idea of sitting unclothed on James’s lap.

“He prefers Pinkler-Ryburn,” he replied, undoing the last button and pushing her gown forward, down her arms.

Theo pulled the gown farther down so that she could free her arms. “I really can’t bear him.”

“I can’t imagine why. After all, he’s as interested in fashion as you are.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just a heedless follower of other people’s ideas. He looks absurd. At the wedding his collar was so high that he couldn’t turn his head at all. And did you see the absurd coat he was wearing? It was lined in pink satin, and he kept fidgeting with it to make sure that everyone saw inside.”

“He’s a macaroni, but he isn’t a bad fellow once you get to know him,” James said. “Why aren’t you wearing one of those corset thingies?”

“I don’t need to,” Theo said with a flash of pride. “They’re meant to keep in one’s stomach, but I don’t have one.”

“You have one,” James said, easing her back against him. He slid his hand down over her chemise, from her neck, over her breasts. “Right here.” His hand slid a little lower. “Like a path leading right to where a man most wants to be.”

Theo squirmed, half wanting his hand to slide lower, half wanting to jump from his lap. “I have an idea,” she said, rather breathlessly.

“What?” His hand slid a little lower.

“Well, the ugly duckling turned into a swan, didn’t she?”

James stopped what he was doing. But then he lifted her up and tugged her gown straight down to the floor. “How does this chemise come off?”

“There are just two buttons,” she said, lifting her hair to show him.

“Tell me about the swan,” he said, pulling her back down onto his lap.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Theo mumbled. She changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking about ideas for months, actually, ever since I debuted and Mama made me wear all those white ruffles.”

“Like the gown you threw out the window.” Nimble fingers brushed her hair to the side, leaving warm sparks wherever they touched her skin.

“Yes, like my wedding gown,” Theo said, bending her head forward. “Are you really unbuttoning my chemise?” It was a stupid question; she could feel his fingers at her neck.

“Yes.”

“But Amélie might enter any moment,” she said, rather panicked. “It must be time to dress for supper.”

“I told my valet to keep them all away until we ring. We will be dining here.”

“Oh.” The very idea of eating with James in such an intimate setting—though surely they would dress again—made her breath quicken. “I intend to develop my own set of rules for fashion,” she said, changing the subject. “The opposite of your cousin Pink. He merely imitates whatever the other fops are doing.”