Duchess in Love

  His eyes changed. “I must admit, my lady, that I thought it lost long ago.”

  “Not necessarily,” she whispered, lowering her eyelashes.

  A finger touched her cheek, whisper-soft.

  “Then I shall endeavor to handle my rod with flair,” he said. “As Finkler admonishes one to do.”

  Carola took all her courage and raised her head. She could tell that crimson patches were burning in her cheeks. But she refused to flop into his arms like a dying trout. “He also says that fish must be courted.”

  There was a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. “It must have been too long since I read his book. I confess I don’t remember that part.”

  “It’s a whole chapter,” Carola said. “Another fisherman is always waiting to steal your fish.”

  “Ah,” Tuppy said. “I stand corrected, madam. I shall definitely have to consider my science more closely.”

  Carola was feeling much better. She took a deep breath and didn’t even look to see whether her breasts had popped free of her bodice. “I have found this fishing excursion quite exhausting,” she said. “I shall take a rest. No, you needn’t accompany me.”

  She turned with a swish of petticoats. She could feel his eyes on her back, so she turned around after a few steps. He was standing there, brown curls all messed, looking so dear, and ungentlemanly, and beautiful, that it was all she could do not to run back down the slope and leap into his arms.

  He raised his hand, so she waved as well.

  “I will see you tonight,” he called.

  She turned faintly pink.

  “At dinner,” he finished.

  “Yes,” she said. “Isn’t it providential? Lady Troubridge told me this morning that she has moved dear Neville to sit at my left. My two favorite”—she paused—“fishermen, on either side of me. What a lovely meal!”

  He looked as if he was grinding his teeth. She hoped he was grinding his teeth. She waved again and walked back to the house.

  20

  In Which the Question of Marital Beds and Bedchambers Comes to the Fore

  Gina didn’t see Cam again until early afternoon. Lady Troubridge had arranged a piano recital to be given by some of the young ladies attending the house party. Miss Margaret Deventosh was pounding out Handel with far more flair than talent when Cam slipped into the seat beside her.

  “Have you seen the Aphrodite?” he asked.

  She frowned at him. “Hush!” She turned back to watch Miss Margaret beat the keyboard into submission.

  “The girl has even more spots than she had three days ago,” Cam whispered.

  At that, she glared at him. “Be still!” On her other side, Sebastian stiffened.

  “Have you seen the Aphrodite since your room was robbed?” he asked, quieter this time.

  This time Gina took in what he said. She shook her head. “But I’m quite certain it’s there,” she whispered back. “Who would want it?”

  “I would, for one. For all you know, madam, that Aphrodite was sculpted by Cellini himself.”

  “I have no idea who Cellini is. But my statue is rather slapdash. I was looking at it carefully just last night. You can see lines where it was put together.”

  “Put together?”

  Sebastian tapped her arm with a finger. Gina gave her husband another frown and turned back to the music. Miss Margaret was just winding to a tumultuous conclusion with a great slamming of her feet on the pedals.

  “God in heaven, who taught her to play?” Cam groaned into Gina’s ear. He was clearly unmoved by the fact that people all over the room were sending them disapproving little glances.

  Margaret wound up her song with a heavy emphasis on the pedal.

  “Thank God!” Cam dragged Gina to her feet. “We must check on the Aphrodite.”

  “What?”

  Sebastian was looking at Cam with a darkening frown, but he ignored it. “We have to make certain that your Aphrodite was not stolen.”

  Gina helplessly waved goodbye to Sebastian.

  “Your chamber was the only one ransacked by thieves, although it would have made a good deal more sense for a thief to toss a room occupied by an elderly lady. Everyone knows they leave their jewels about and sleep with money under their mattress. Just from the look of you, anyone could tell that your jewels are safely locked up.”

  “And what do you mean by the look of me?” Gina demanded.

  He snorted. “Have you ever left a string of emeralds hanging about while you slept?”

  “Well, perhaps not, but—”

  “Have you ever hopped into bed before washing and creaming your face and applying Lord knows what other cosmetics?”

  “I don’t wear cosmetics to bed,” she snapped.

  “Have you ever slipped into your sheets naked? Rushed outdoors in the morning before brushing your teeth? Danced on the lawn in your bare feet?”

  “A good many of your fantasies seem to involve being both unclean and unclothed,” she replied with dignity.

  He laughed and started up the stairs. “Come along then, duchess.”

  “I often rise early in the morning. Just last week I went into the conservatory at three in the morning.”

  “That would be the meteor shower that led to you and poor Mr. Wapping being suspected of extramarital pleasures?”

  “Yes,” she said. “No stars fell, even though the almanac announced they would.”

  When he turned into the corridor she stopped and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. “For goodness’ sake, Cam! I can’t imagine why we have to rush up the stairs in this helter-skelter manner. I’m certain that Lady Troubridge and her guests are wondering what on earth came over you.”

  “Oh, I’m certain that they know precisely what came over me.”

  “No one knows about the Aphrodite except you and Esme,” she pointed out. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish.

  “Come along, then.” He held out his hand to her.

  “Do you ever wear gloves?”

  “Never. I dislike cloth between me and the world. You women seem to wear them constantly. Don’t they bother you?”

  She looked down at her pearl gray gloves. “No, although I do grow annoyed if I am wearing a pair with too many buttons. I’m particularly butterfingered and I can’t undo the right hand without a maid. Eating while wearing gloves is quite tedious.”

  They were at her door. The room was neat as a pin, and looked as if nothing had occurred, thanks to the ministrations of Lady Troubridge’s maids.

  “Where is it?” Cam demanded.

  “The Aphrodite? In its box.”

  Cam strode across the room and flipped open the box. The froth of red satin no longer cradled a naked woman.

  “Oh my,” Gina breathed. “It was stolen.” But something was nagging at her mind. “No, I stuck it under here last night.” She bent down and plucked out the figure from under the ruffled skirt of her fireside chair.

  “You left a priceless statue under a chair?” Cam bellowed.

  “No one says it’s priceless except for you. And she was quite safe.” Her fingers instinctively curled around the poor woman’s waist to hide her naked state.

  “May I hold her for a moment?”

  “I’m not interested in her value,” Gina said, her jaw setting mulishly. “You can see for yourself that she hasn’t been stolen.”

  “This statue has to be the reason your room was torn apart. As I said, yours was the only room searched, which is unusual. In general, thieves strike three to four rooms when they rob a house party. The thief had to be looking for the Aphrodite. Except it never occurred to the poor sod that you, who would never leave a paltry string of emeralds on your bedside table, had flung the statue under a chair.”

  “I didn’t fling her. And I think your scenario is extremely unlikely. How would a thief know that I owned the statue in the first place??
??

  “Perhaps the statue and your blackmailing letter are linked.”

  “Even more unlikely. Why would my mother give me a priceless statue? She never bothered to answer a single letter I wrote her. Why would she leave me anything of value?” She looked down at the Aphrodite. “This is a salacious little object to decorate my bed table. An afterthought on her part.”

  Cam looked at her but she turned away. “The countess was a fool not to answer your letters,” he said bluntly.

  Her eyes prickled but Gina bit her lip hard. She refused to become a watering pot before her husband.

  “She may not have written back, but I expect she read them,” he said. “She may have left you the statue in gratitude.”

  “Absurd! If she were the least bit grateful, she would have bothered to dip pen in ink and say so herself.”

  “Perhaps…May I see the statue?”

  At first Cam said nothing. He looked at the Aphrodite’s face for a long time, and then turned her over and over, his large fingers soothing every curve. He held the figure up to the sunlight. He even pried at the crack that ran down her sides.

  Finally Gina joined him at the window. “Is she priceless?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cam admitted. “I don’t recognize the artist’s initials: FF.” He showed her where they were scratched in the base. “She’s beautifully made though. See the upturned arm, almost hiding her eyes? And the way her hair splashes down her back? It’s very difficult to fashion alabaster in such fine detail.”

  “I knew she wasn’t valuable,” Gina said, feeling cross.

  “She’s oddly made, as you noticed. It looks as if she was fashioned from two pieces of stone. I’ve never seen such a clever fit, as a matter of fact. There is absolutely no give in the join.”

  Gina took her back. “I like her face.”

  “I like her body, myself.”

  “She looks embarrassed. I don’t think this Aphrodite likes being naked.”

  “I would guess that she is fleeing from Vulcan’s bed. She has just been caught by her husband, and she’s taking one last look back at her lover. Aphrodite is generally depicted either rising from the waves or fleeing from Vulcan’s bedchamber. Here the artist was thinking of the latter situation because she is looking back, over her shoulder.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Bitterness sharpened her voice. “My mother sent me a statue of a naked woman caught in the moment of adultery.”

  Cam’s large hand came under hers and pushed the statue into the sunlight coming in the window. “Your mother gave you an object of great beauty.”

  They stared at her together for a moment. Sun beams played over marble, making the pink alabaster glow as if rosy blood danced just under the surface of Aphrodite’s skin.

  “You think she is looking back because she misses her lover. But I think she’s sad because she betrayed her husband.”

  A wry smile lit his face. “There’s my moralistic little duchess. For goodness’ sake, woman, uncurl your fingers!” With an exasperated noise, he unwrapped her fingers. “She has lovely hips. It’s a sin to cover them up.”

  “Have you made Aphrodites like this one?” Gina asked.

  Cam shook his head. “Marissa has a much lusher figure here”—he pointed to her breasts—“and here”—he touched the statue’s thighs.

  Gina’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps you could make me an Aphrodite,” she remarked. “Then I’ll have a statue from each of the people who—” She caught herself.

  “Who what?” he asked.

  “Who are related to me,” she said lightly.

  “That’s not what you meant,” Cam observed.

  She shrugged. “I have a nonmother and a nonhusband. It just seems odd that both of you chose to send me naked statues. Do you remember the naked Cupid you sent for my twenty-first birthday? If you fashion me an Aphrodite rising from the waves, I’ll have a matched pair.”

  “Your future husband will love that,” Cam drawled. “Your bedchamber will look better than a brothel.”

  Gina put the statue down with a little click. “Our bedchamber,” she corrected him. Then she colored. “I didn’t mean ours as in yours and mine, but Sebastian’s and my bedchamber.” She turned around briskly, pretending her cheeks weren’t on fire. “Don’t you think we should return to the musicale now?”

  “You mean that you and the stuffy marquess are planning to share a room?”

  “Certainly. And I would prefer that you did not add insulting epithets to my fiancé’s name. Are you coming?”

  “We can’t leave the Aphrodite. The thief might return. By rights, it should be in Lady Troubridge’s safe, tucked snugly next to your emeralds.”

  “I would prefer that she not know of its existence. At any rate, if the thief was looking for the statue, he has surely given up.”

  He frowned.

  “You can put it back under the chair, if you like.”

  There was nowhere else to hide the piece so Cam bent and tucked the statue back under the chair ruffle.

  He walked silently down the corridor. When he spoke, it was in a tone of casual curiosity. “When did you and Bonnington discuss your future bedding arrangements?”

  She consciously emptied all the irritation out of her tone. “I’m afraid that is none of your business.”

  “It will be an unusual arrangement. You do know that, don’t you?”

  Her shoulders grew a little stiffer. “Of course I am aware of that fact.”

  “Most couples sleep in separate rooms, if not in separate houses.” There was something in his tone that made her skin prickle. “And then, once a month or so, the husband knocks politely on his wife’s door and requests fulfillment of marital duties. After all, one must produce an heir, no matter how unpleasant the task.”

  “Sebastian and I will have a different sort of marriage,” Gina snapped, starting down the stairs. “This is a most improper conversation.”

  He caught her wrist. “It’s just me, after all. What makes you think that your marriage will be different?”

  “Because Sebastian and I are in love, you idiot!” she hissed at him. “Now, will you have done with your questioning?”

  “No. I’m agog to hear how you managed to talk the stuffy marquess into sharing a bedchamber. I would have written him off without a second’s thought as the once-a-month type. With a mistress on the side, of course,” he added.

  “He will not have a mistress on the side!”

  “No? Well, you know best, of course.” He began walking down the stairs before her.

  She rapped him sharply on the shoulder. “You should not say those things! Sebastian will not have a mistress. And we will sleep together more than once a month!”

  He grinned at her over his shoulder. “Given your behavior last night, perhaps I should warn the poor marquess to throw over his mistress and get into fighting shape before the annulment takes place.”

  Gina blinked. Before she could untangle the metaphor— fighting shape?—they were back in the entranceway. She wandered back into the long drawing room.

  Sebastian was still seated in the middle of the parlor, but her seat had been taken by Esme. As she watched, Sebastian bent his head and whispered in her ear. She was obviously laughing, from the way her shoulders were shaking. Gina sighed.

  This always happened. Just when she would start to think that the two of them hated each other so much that they would never speak again, they would about-face and talk as if they were the best of friends. Until the next spat.

  At any rate, it would be best if she returned to working on the estate papers. She had promised to practice the play with Sebastian, and she still hadn’t read the Machiavelli chapters that Mr. Wapping had assigned. Silently she backed out of the room, found a footman, and sent him to fetch her papers.

  Then she retired into the library with a tea tray. It was very pleasant, alone in the hushed room. She spread her papers out on the long oak table and wrote letters for almost an ho
ur. Dusty sunlight spread over her shoulders from the high mullioned windows behind her. Mites danced in the rays, pranced over the papers, swirled in the air when she lifted her quill or put it down again. The light was just starting to fade when Sebastian strode into the library.

  She smiled up at him. “Can you give me one moment? I am just answering the estate manager’s questions about sheep breeding.”

  “Why on earth haven’t you given these questions to your husband?”

  “I could have,” Gina said, finishing the letter. “But I actually enjoy managing the estate. I’m afraid I’m a managing sort of woman. Will you be able to bear it?”

  He bowed gallantly. “I should warn you that I am lucky enough to have two excellent estate managers.”

  “Shall we practice our lines, then?” She walked over to a sofa.

  Sebastian joined her, opening his Shakespeare.

  “I believe I have finally memorized the opening scene,” Gina said. “This is my favorite line: I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

  “I can see why,” Sebastian said. “It suits you.”

  “Suits me?” Gina repeated, startled.

  “Your wonderful air of independence,” Sebastian explained.

  “Oh.”

  “I too have my part memorized,” he said, leafing through the later scenes. “However, Lady Rawlings informed me during the musicale that she has not even begun to work on her part. Perhaps since you seem to know your lines, I should seek her out. She’s so flighty that I wouldn’t be surprised if she never learned her lines without explicit guidance.” He smiled down at her. “Not a bit like my duchess.”

  Gina sighed. “In that case, I will write a few more letters.”

  “Your sense of responsibility is admirable. But you need more light,” Sebastian said, jumping from the sofa and ringing the bell. He bowed and strode over to the door. “I’ll instruct the footmen to bring you plenty of candles.”

  Gina stared at the closed door with a sense of mild shock. Sebastian couldn’t have made it clearer that he had better things to do than sit about with his future wife. Slowly she walked back to the library table and sat down, pulling another sheet toward her. Bicksfiddle wrote that the bridge spanning Charlcote Stream appeared on the verge of collapse. Would she like to repair the existing span, or tear it down?