by Eloisa James
She smiled at him, a different smile than the one she normally gave him. It wasn’t a cringing puppy smile, begging for love. “Yes, Fletch?”
“I need you to come home now.”
“I won’t be coming home,” she said, seating herself. “I’m staying with Jemma for the foreseeable future. She won’t retire to the country until December because of Beaumont’s involvement in the House of Lords; I shall stay with her.”
“Couldn’t we just skip all the fuss, please, Poppy? Surely we’ve known each other long enough so that you could simply forgive me and come home.”
“I do forgive you.”
“Oh good,” he said, looking as if he’d never had a doubt of it.
“Although you were abysmally rude to me in public.”
“I did apologize. I will never do such a thing again.”
“And you were flirting with one of my friends.”
“I hadn’t the faintest idea—” he said, and stopped.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, tapping her finger on the chair, “that one is a bit more difficult to explain away, isn’t it? It is true that Louise is one of my friends. A dear friend, unfortunately for you. But of course there are many women in London with whom I am positively unacquainted.”
“Yes,” he said, looking uneasy for the first time.
“So I think we can both agree that you should simply look farther afield,” she said gently.
His mouth actually fell open a bit, which was very pleasant to observe.
“We should make some plans,” Poppy said. “Obviously, we shall have to co-habit again at some point in the future…shall we say five years or so? When you feel that the question of an heir becomes pressing, I assure you that I will be compliant. I had felt that I wanted a child early in our marriage, but now I realize that it would be far, far wiser to wait. I have things to do.”
“You do?” He sounded stunned.
“Yes. You and I have separated in an amicable way, and so we can plan everything without acrimony. I would suggest five years and then we shall have to live in the same house hold again.”
“You what?”
“We could plan for more than five years, but we run the risk of childlessness. After all, we have been married four years with no issue.”
He just stared at her.
“We can discuss these arrangements later,” she said with another encouraging smile. “Fletch, was there something you wished to say at this point?”
Though she was being tremendously cheerful, the hot little coal of rage was still under her breastbone. She paused, but he seemed to have been struck dumb.
“Jemma assures me that she would love me to retire with them to the country for the Christmas season. She will be bringing a large party with her. After that, I thought I might return to France for a few years, but I’m not certain of my plans yet. I hope to travel widely.” The little coal of rage prompted her to say, very sweetly, “But never fear, Fletch, I will be certain to give you my direction. I know it would be most incommodious if you had no idea where your wife was. No one wants to have to track his wife like a grouse in hunting season.”
He finally opened his mouth. “I didn’t mean the comment in this light.”
“I will tell you where I am going, and you won’t have to worry about me. Oh! I forgot. You never do worry, do you?”
His brows knit. “You sound most unlike yourself, Poppy. I am truly sorry that I have made you angry.”
He looked so perplexed that she actually laughed, a genuine little laugh. “I’m angry, Fletch, but I’m as angry at myself as you. I should never have married you.”
“You shouldn’t?”
“I think I married you because my mother told me to do so.”
“You—you married me because you were in love with me!”
She smiled again because it felt good to tell him the truth. “No, I wasn’t, Fletch. My mother told me from the moment I was seven years old that I was to marry a duke. You were the first English duke who arrived in Paris, and so I married you. Yes, I thought myself in love with you, but now I’ve discovered that I made a mistake. Which is”—she pointed out—“a very good thing, as you clearly made the same discovery some time ago.”
He opened his mouth.
“Didn’t you?” she prompted. “Because it seems to me that you not only realized you were not in love but you decided to seek companionship elsewhere.”
The silence grew between them until she couldn’t stand it. For all she wasn’t in love with him, it was terribly humiliating to have one’s husband be so uncaring. “I really don’t see any point in our discussion continuing.”
“We haven’t discussed anything yet!” Fletch protested.
“There’s not much to discuss.”
“You need to come home now,” he said, exhibiting the kind of stubbornness that characterized little boys in the orphanage.
“I’m not coming home.”
“You must.”
“Why?” For a moment, the world froze on its spiral. Because, despite herself, despite her talk and her bravery and her lack of love, there was a little part of her heart—
“Your mother,” he said.
“My mother.” The aching part of her heart closed its doors. For a second she thought she might cry and then she grabbed control. “What about my mother?”
“You knew quite well that your mother has moved into our house,” he said, glaring. “It’s been two months, and she shows no sign of leaving.”
Poppy was very pleased to discover that Fletch’s glare didn’t bother her in the least. “I’m certain that you can handle her.”
Fletch’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Poppy? Where is all this wild talk coming from? Did the Duchess of Beaumont put you up to this?”
“I haven’t spoken to Jemma about my plans,” Poppy said truthfully. “Beyond asking her if I could stay with her through Christmas. And I certainly haven’t told her the conclusions I’ve drawn about our marriage. Naturally, she knows what you think of our marriage. Most of London has heard it by now.”
“You sound spiteful,” Fletch said.
“Oh dear,” Poppy said. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to. I’ve spent so much time trying to charm you that I suppose it was bound to wear thin.”
“Your mother—” he said, helplessly.
The coal of rage got a little larger as she realized that the only thing he really gave a damn about was the fact that her mother was living with him. Poppy knew perfectly well that her mother was a rather unpleasant person to live with.
“I’ll speak to my mother,” she said, resolving to do just that. She would thank her for staying with Fletch.
“Poppy!” he said, sounding urgent, for once.
But Poppy was done. He could go to hell, him and his black clothes and the pure beauty of him. She turned her back to him without even saying goodbye and walked to the door.
“Poppy!”
She left.
Chapter 18
Beaumont House
That evening
Jemma was setting up the pieces, Beaumont opposite her. “I’m happy to hear that Villiers is better.”
“I wouldn’t describe it as better. He’s still in the grip of a fever most of the day, according to a note I had from his valet this morning. He may be out of immediate danger, but he still has to beat the fever. Shall we begin our second game of the match?”
“I don’t think we should start a second game until Villiers is capable once again.”
“Why not? Simply because the first two games played in tandem doesn’t mean that the others have to. It was proximity that lent itself to the distasteful supposition that you were choosing between myself and Villiers.”
She glanced at him, but he was studying the black queen. His eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheek. “You challenged me to a match only on hearing of my match with Villiers,” she said. “That parallel was in your mind, and thereafter in the minds of Londoners.”
“If we play our game now, while Villiers is incapacitated, it will quell the feverish interest in the next occupant of your bed.”
It must be the politician in him; he was utterly dispassionate in discussing his wife’s bed. Of course, his reputation was all important. “Is there a chance that Villiers will not survive?” she asked, fiddling with a bishop.
“The fever has a grip on him. I would think him a lucky man if he lives.”
Jemma felt sick at the thought. “Oh God…” she whispered.
He still didn’t look at her. “Will it break your heart, Jemma? Because if so, I’m truly sorry for it.”
“Break my heart? No. I haven’t known him long. We were getting to be friends, though, and I enjoyed that. I am so sad to hear that he is dying.”
“Perhaps more than friends,” he said. His voice was wooden.
“My heart is a singularly strong instrument,” she said, resenting the conversation, resenting the way he was prying into her feelings. “You broke it long ago, Elijah, and I’ve never given it away since.”
He looked up. “I?”
“Did you not think so?”
“No. You—we shared little, I thought.”
“That’s the worst of it, perhaps,” she said sadly. “We shared little and yet I built a castle out of it. I suppose the word marriage has that nonsensical effect on women sometimes. But it was a salutary lesson.”
“I apologize.”
Jemma studied her husband from under her eyelashes. He didn’t have that whip-thin exhausted look to night, the one where his eyes turned shadowed and his cheekbones stood out. He looked a bit tired, but not sick to the bone. “What’s happening in the House of Lords these days?” she ventured.
“Scots and brandy.”
“Scots? Oh, because of the Scottish representation in Lords?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading about that tangle? I thought you weren’t interested in politics.”
“I am as interested as any sensible person,” Jemma said, startled. “I haven’t a great deal of time to study all the newspapers, but I do my best.” She couldn’t stop herself. “Though I’m sure I have less understanding than your Miss Tatlock.”
“She is an extraordinary woman,” Elijah said, with a hint of pride in his voice. “For someone of her sex and age, she really has an intuitive understanding of politics. She made a suggestion at the Royal Society today that made Lord Rollins take notice.”
“Oh?” Jemma decided she quite disliked Miss Tatlock. “How did that come about?”
“I gave a lecture there today,” Beaumont said. “That’s why I’m not in parliament. Miss Tatlock runs the Ladies’ Membership. Most lectures are reserved for regular members, but the ladies are invited to join us on occasion.”
Jemma thought about whether she was supposed to know about her husband’s lecture and decided not, since no one had bothered to tell her. “How enterprising of her to attend your lecture. Dare I wonder whether she had a hand in your invitation?”
He looked at her. “Enterprising?”
“Is it too harsh a word? The two of you were linked again in last week’s Morning Post, you know. Apparently you drew eyes by having an intimate conversation at Lord Rochester’s musicale. I wonder what she thinks will happen to me if she manages to impress you with her manifold virtues?”
He surprised her by not pretending to obtuseness. “Perhaps she thinks you might be fading due to a wasting illness. I notice that young women in the grip of love have no difficulty thinking that miracles will happen.”
“I feel perfectly healthy,” she said lightly. “Shall we play chess?”
“If you would prefer not to resume our match,” Elijah suggested, “perhaps we might play a game on the side.”
Neither one of them said the obvious: if Villiers could not play out his match, the appetite for their parallel match would die with him.
“A sound idea. We’ll play a game or two for the plea sure of it, and wait for Leopold to improve.”
“Leopold?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Villiers’s given name…surely you knew it?” Jemma asked, her face carefully innocent. “I thought you two were the best of boyhood friends.”
“I had not realized that you were quite as intimate as that.”
Jemma moved a pawn forward, the lovely rhythm of pawn to king, queen and castle swelling into her heart and soul and stealing away all those elusive worries about Beaumont’s health and Miss Tatlock, and Villiers’s fever.
An hour later she grinned at her husband. “Now I feel better,” she observed.
“I don’t,” he said sourly.
“You won our first game,” Jemma said, “the one that counted. This is a game which naught sees but us, and yet I am very pleased to have won.”
“Let’s begin our second game in the match,” Elijah said. “Please. I don’t want to wait for Villiers to die. It’s too ghoulish.”
She nodded, set up the board quickly, and moved a pawn to Queen’s Four.
He moved his pawn to the same position and that was that. For today.
He uncoiled himself from the chair, and stood up, all six feet plus of him. Jemma stayed where she was. Her husband was a tremendously handsome man. It was no wonder, really, that he cut such a wide swath through the Parliament.
“I came here to ask you a question, Jemma.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You returned from France so that we can create an heir. I wondered if you had any schedule in mind for that?”
In other words, when would they go to bed together? Despite herself, Jemma felt a little prickle of interest.
But he kept talking. “I ask because if Villiers were to win his match, Jemma, I think it should alter our plans.”
She stiffened. “You assume that I am the prize for the match, and I assure you that I do not wager myself nor my body on the chessboard.”
She couldn’t read his eyes at all, and cursed silently at his politician’s face.
“Our problem is not whether or with whom you share your favors,” he said evenly, “but the fact that should Villiers win this chess game, all of London will think you are bedding him. Whether you do so or not is irrelevant.”
“I hardly think it’s irrelevant,” she answered, stung. “You’re suggesting that your heir might end up being of Villiers’s blood.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said, patient as always. “I am well aware that you are not the sort to accidentally grow large with child.”
It was a notable insult, delivered with all the calm precision of an arrow to the heart. And yet Jemma always found herself warring between truth and logic. The truth was that she had been unfaithful to him while living in Paris. And of course she had no children of those unions. The fact that he had been blatantly unfaithful to her—and presumably was to this day, with one mistress or another—didn’t carry the same weight.
“If you and I were to conceive a child during this period of intense interest in Villiers,” he continued, “I fear that most people would consider that child a cuckoo. At the very least, they would show an unbecoming interest in the child’s heritage that could damage his or her future happiness.”
She nodded. “I can see that.”
“I thought of asking you to give up the match, but I have made a practice of never asking politicians for the one thing I know they will not give, and I am holding to that policy in the home.”
“If you are feeling unwell,” she said, “I will resign from the match. Have you fainted again, Beaumont?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“In that case, I believe you are right and it would be best to wait until the match is over before we engage in…intimacies.”
He bowed. “In that case—”
“That does not mean,” Jemma said, looking at the chessboard, “that you are free to engage in a flirtation with the estimable Miss Tatlock. I am not like to die of a wasting disease; I feel entirely healthy.
”
“I am enchanted to hear it.”
“Somehow I feel that the young woman will not share your plea sure.”
His chuckle was rare and all the more welcome for that. “The Duchess of Beaumont jealous! I never thought to see the day. I must say that this makes me feel even kinder toward Miss Tatlock.”
She rose to her feet. “I’ve never been any good at sharing, Elijah. Surely you noticed that from our early marriage?”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t want his politician’s words, his apologies. She gave him the smoky kind of look one gave a lover, reached up and pulled his head toward hers.
He tasted wonderful, like blackberries and spice. She meant to kiss him as a warning, as a promise, as a way to control him. But the moment after her hand curled around his neck, and their kiss deepened, she remembered the one important fact she’d managed to forget while living in Paris: Elijah’s kisses weren’t like other men’s. They did something to her. Melted her defenses, remade her into a foolish, vulnerable girl who cried for months after they separated.
She jumped back so quickly that she almost knocked over the chess table, then made sure her face reflected nothing of the utter panic she felt.
“A warning?” he asked, eyebrow quizzical, eyes dark.
He always knew…he always knew what she was thinking. For a moment the pain revisited her like a slim shaft to the heart. Then she smiled. “Precisely, Elijah. Precisely.”
Chapter 19
The same evening, in a far less fashionable part of London…
When Miss Charlotte Tatlock stopped to think about the last few weeks, she got such a giddy feeling that her head spun. Giddiness was not her sister May’s reaction, alas. May was in a frenzy of doubt and apprehension; she couldn’t countenance the fact that Charlotte’s name was being linked with the Duke of Beaumont. “I just can’t believe it!” she had squealed, over and over in the past fortnight. “As if you ever would…thank goodness, Mama is dead. Oh, thank goodness, Mama is dead!”
After the fourteenth reiteration of May’s gratitude in their parent’s demise, Charlotte almost started wishing the same about the rest of her family: that is, May herself.