An Affair Before Christmas

  “What you need is a mistress. For Christ’s sake man, you’re going to wither up and blow away. You’ll be sprouting bubbies, if you don’t watch out.”

  Fletch curled his lip. “I’ll tell you what. If I grow breasts I’ll let you have a look so you can finally see what a woman’s chest looks like.”

  Frederick Augustus Gill, the future Earl of Glasse, responded with an amiable curse, and they went back to leaning against the wall and watching the exuberant, chaotic scene before them. The room was full of titled gentlemen, shouting about the Earl of Gryffyn’s victory in a duel with the Duke of Villiers.

  “Five minutes!” Fletch heard one red-faced man shout to another. “That’s the way to do it!”

  Gill shuddered and took a deep swallow of brandy. “Did you see the moment when Villiers brought out that pass in tierce? I thought Gryffyn was a croaker for sure.”

  “Gryffyn had Villiers from the beginning,” Fletch stated. “It was all a matter of his deciding the moment to take the duke out.”

  “They’re saying Villiers lost a lot of blood before the surgeon got himself together.”

  “He should be all right. It was a clean blow through the shoulder.”

  “Gryffyn is a lucky man,” Gill said with a little sigh. “You should see the way his fiancée looks at him.”

  “What a romantic,” Fletch sneered.

  “You didn’t used to be so hard-edged,” his friend said, startled into a rebuttal. “You act as if you’ve got a stick up your ass. For God’s sake, get yourself a mistress! So your wife’s not interested in your bed. Practically every man in this room has experienced that. You could give the average English gentlewoman fifteen quinces, and they wouldn’t strike up a flush.”

  “Back to the mistress you think I should take,” Fletch said, with deadly boredom in his voice. “I had no idea you were so interested in my bedroom activities.”

  Gill’s face flushed; he said something unrepeatable. And left.

  Fletch sighed and drank from his glass again. He was a fool. It had been years. He needed a mistress. He needed to admit to himself that his marriage was a failure. He needed to…

  Poppy floated by on the far side of the room. Her breasts swelled from the stiff little bodice of her gown. He hardened instantly. It was like the tortures of Tantalus to desire someone who never desired him. To be married to someone like that was like being tied to a well and never allowed to drink.

  Yet the very idea of going to her chamber door made him wilt instantly. She would let him in, of course. Oh, her mother had tutored her in that. She would chatter and smile, but he was no fool. He could read the wary resignation in her eyes. Not to mention the way she would slip off her nightgown, lie down on the bed (his only triumph: she no longer insisted on being inside the covers) and suffer his attentions.

  He drank again.

  Suffer was the right word.

  No matter what he did, she just lay there. In the beginning he had lavished time on her breasts, hoping that she would suddenly start panting and writhing beneath him, the way Élise had when he barely touched her. Élise had directed him about her body as if he were learning a new sport. “There,” she said softly, and then, “harder,” and then, “oui!!”

  For God’s sake, he was sick of thinking about Élise.

  Poppy, on the other hand, sometimes stroked his head. She would kiss him, even allow him to put his tongue in her mouth occasionally, but she never responded to anything. In the beginning, he thought she was inexperienced.

  Then a year passed, and another year, and she never grew any more interested, never raised a finger, never turned pink—let alone calling out “Yes, yes!” His thinking had changed.

  Now he was pretty certain that it simply would never work with Poppy. He stopped going to her chamber a few months ago. She said nothing; he said nothing. She was secretly relieved. She was probably celebrating it with all her friends.

  And yet he still loved her.

  Which was hell. She floated by again, laughing. Everyone loved Poppy. What was not to love, with the sweetness of her eyes, and the kind way she listened to every foolish complaint anyone told her? She never told her dragon of a mother to take herself to the devil, even when the woman ran Poppy from pillar to post, so pleased to have a duchess for a daughter that she showed her off like a trained monkey.

  Poppy never rebuked her, never said a word.

  In short, she was an angel.

  Bloody hell, angels were boring to take to bed.

  Still, his innards revolted at the idea of paying a woman to bed him. Take a mistress, take a mistress—that was Gill’s advice. He’d be paying a woman to fake interest then. Paying her to pant and moan.

  Yet there were other English gentlewomen…women who were interested in bedding and even, perhaps, in him. The Duchess of Beaumont had just returned from Paris, and the whole world knew that Jemma and Beaumont never slept together and hadn’t in years. What’s more, she had been playing a scandalous game of chess with the Duke of Villiers—and everyone knew that if Villiers won two out of three…the duchess herself was the prize.

  Well, now Villiers was incapacitated. Lost a lot of blood, they said. Probably be in bed for weeks, if not a month.

  Fletch pushed himself away from the wall and twitched up the high collar of his coat. The duchess had an eye for male finery; Villiers was the best-dressed man in London. But Fletch had brought over his own French tailleur; he thought he had a bit of an edge.

  He stood up, and put down his empty glass. Walked forward. Very few would have recognized the fresh-faced young Englishman who walked the Pont Neuf only four years ago. Back then he had been sweet-faced, as Poppy had told him, with a dimple in the middle of his chin.

  Now…

  His hair was pulled back in a sleek tie that emphasized his cheekbones. In a fit of anger at Poppy he had grown a little, close-trimmed beard, covering the dimple she loved. And he walked with the controlled, hungry prowl of a man who hasn’t had decent sex in years and is thinking of doing something about it.

  He couldn’t help but acknowledge how ridiculous it all was. As his marital life had dwindled to a visit a month and even less, he had fashioned himself ruthlessly into the kind of man who drew all women’s eyes.

  Except his wife’s, of course.

  He wore one color only—not for him the bright extravagances of the Duke of Villiers. For Fletch, clothing was not about making a statement about one’s aggression, but about making clear his erotic appeal. His breeches were almost sewn on. They slipped, smooth as silk—and they often were silk—over thighs bulging with muscle from his daily pounding rides. His coats were designed to display his shoulders, to flaunt his chest, cut away from his flat stomach.

  The only thing left from the unassuming duke who first arrived in Paris and fell in love with an English girl was his habit of wearing his hair unpowdered. He still did, but less from a dislike of the powder itself than from the realization that when he pulled his hair from its ribbon, unruly locks tumbling to his shoulders gave the impression that he just rose from a bed in which he had been well pleasured.

  In short, Fletch knew perfectly well what an elaborate façade he had created. Only Gill knew he was a fraud. Only his old friend Gill knew how shocked the women who followed him with hot eyes, dreaming of his acrobatic stunts in the bedchamber, would be if they knew he was practically…practically a virgin, it felt sometimes.

  Poppy played her part; he had to give her that. She even blushed in his presence sometimes. He had no idea how she held up the charade, and could only think that duplicity came naturally to her.

  He could see her in the corner of his eye—to his disgust, he always seemed to know where his wife was—but he didn’t walk in her direction. Instead, he started to move deliberately in the other direction.

  In that moment, he gave up.

  He needed a lover.

  Now.

  Chapter 3

  THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)
br />   The Duchess of Beaumont, recently returned from Paris, is playing an intimate game of chess with Villiers…and reportedly with her husband as well. There has been some suggestion that these games are played in the bedchamber—even in the bed itself! This paper is moved to query the effect on the country’s moral fiber of the host of female libertines recently returned from Paris…

  “What’s the matter with my party?” the Duchess of Beaumont demanded. “There are no naked singers, and I promise you I’m not planning to strip off my own clothing. Though if it wasn’t such a cold morning I might consider it, just to vex Beaumont, since he has condescended to attend with all his parliamentary types.”

  “Well,” her brother Damon said wryly, “let’s just say that it’s the first party I’ve ever attended in celebration of an illegal duel. I suspect there are those who might—just might—think it in rather poor taste.”

  If there was one thing Jemma was absolutely certain of, it was that she never displayed poor taste. Outrageous taste, yes. Occasionally vulgar taste, because there is nothing more delicious than an occasional dollop of vulgarity. But poor taste? Never!

  “You are mistaken,” she stated. “The people who decry this festivity will be only those whom I did not invite.”

  “Invite?” Damon said. “How could you invite anyone? I thought these people just followed us home from the duel.”

  “Quick,” Jemma said, taking her brother’s arm. “Let’s move toward the other side of the room. Lady Chaussinand-Nogaret is approaching, and I can’t bear the way she always chastises me for dressing in an overly Frenchified manner.”

  “She looks French to me,” Damon said, with a characteristically ignorant view of clothing. Lady Chaussinand-Nogaret was wearing a dress of French violet, but it was trimmed with puckerings of blue satin that no Frenchwoman would tolerate, let alone paired with a hat ornamented with marabou plumes.

  Jemma steered him to the right. “Of course these people didn’t follow us home from the duel,” she said. “I invited them all. I had my secretary up half the night writing out cards, and they were delivered an hour before your duel began.”

  “And what did those cards say?” Damon said, starting to laugh. Mr. Cachemire paused before him and congratulated him on an excellent bout.

  “Did you note his wig?” Jemma said, after Mr. Cachemire drifted on, trailing perfume and hair powder behind him.

  “Two pounds of false hair at the least,” Damon said. “But really: what on earth did your invitation cards say?”

  “They invited everyone to a festivity in honor of your success,” Jemma replied, tapping him with her fan. “You see how much sisterly devotion I show you. I anticipated your win before you reached the field.”

  “There’s your husband,” Damon said. “I must remember to thank him for attending the party. Though perhaps I should apologize for issuing the challenge at all. I know how fiercely Beaumont feels about illegalities.”

  Jemma spied her husband in a huddle of men, and then noticed Miss Charlotte Tatlock in the midst, her thin hands flying in the air as she said something. She must have made a salient observation, because even Lord Manning was nodding with approval. Tatlock or Fetlock, Jemma thought to herself. The woman looks like a horse. I don’t care how intelligent she is.

  Deciding there was nothing more pretentious than a woman who claimed to love politics—or politicians—she moved in the opposite direction, dragging Damon with her.

  “What are you scowling at?” he enquired.

  “My husband’s propensities.”

  Damon groaned. “There’s nothing worse than the inner details of a marriage; please don’t tell me.”

  “Only matched by brothers who engage in scandalous duels,” she added. “Villiers is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “Of course he is,” Damon said. “I was very careful; the blade went just where I planned and didn’t touch the bone. The truth is that your party will likely cause more scandal than the duel itself. Poor Beaumont.”

  All morning the ducal butler, Fowle, had been opening the grand salon doors and droning out names of various peers. But at this name Jemma’s and Damon’s heads both swung around.

  Fowle spoke rather louder than he needed to, and as the ballroom had gone suddenly silent, his voice boomed over the heads of the assembled.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Villiers.”

  Chapter 4

  THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)

  The host of female libertines recently returning to London is not limited to the Duchess of Beaumont, though perhaps she carries with her the most notorious reputation…reportedly, the duchess’s friends of the same rank are as untamed and unprincipled as she. In short, duchesses of a desperate disposition…wild to a fault and liable to obey no man’s word.

  Fletch knew exactly the type of woman he wanted to find. Someone who would be interested in plea sure, but not love, someone who would come with no emotional ties. Someone who would actually touch him.

  The thought steeled his determination. Damn it, he’d spent enough nights lying in an empty bed, pleasuring himself by thinking—like a paltry, fourteen-year-old—about his wife’s delectable little body. He had to get over that. He had to leave that behind.

  What he needed was a bout of enthusiastic sex with someone. Anyone who desired him. He met Lord Randulf ’s eyes and changed that sentence. Any woman who desired him. His crafted eroticism, he had quickly discovered, pleased indiscriminately.

  He saw the Duke of Beaumont in a cluster of politicians to the side, doubtless poring over tedious matters of state, as that type were always wont to do. Fletch had yet to take up his seat in the House of Lords. He was too busy riding off his sexual frustration.

  And mooning over Poppy, he said to himself with a sickening jolt of self-hatred. Beaumont looked up and welcomed him with a smile. “Do you know Lord Holland?”

  “I was a great supporter of your father’s on the debating floor,” Holland said. “It’s a plea sure to meet you. Your dear wife and mine, Your Grace, serve on the Board of Directors of Queen Charlotte’s Lying-In Hospital.”

  “Really,” Fletch murmured. “My wife is remarkably devoted to her causes.”

  “So’s my wife,” Holland said with a twinkle. “Keeps ’em busy, what? Wish we could say the same about Beaumont’s duchess here, but she dances to her own piper!”

  Beaumont’s face instantly became frigid. “Her Grace’s charitable activities may not be well known, but they are no less bountiful. Not long ago I found my wife closeted with a young woman collecting for Chelsea pensioners, for example.”

  “I meant to imply nothing less,” Holland said.

  But it was obvious in his tone that he felt the Duchess of Beaumont was a liability. That was one good thing about Poppy, Fletch thought. She would never cuckold him.

  Holland turned to Fletch. “Though I hate to say it in front of Beaumont here, since he’s of the de vil’s party, we’d like to see you take your father’s place in the House of Lords. He was a fine debater, never missed a point.”

  “A son needn’t follow his father into the same party,” Beaumont pointed out.

  “Ah, but the smart ones do,” Holland said, beaming at Fletch. “May I enquire whether you will take up your seat with us, Your Grace?”

  “Naturally,” Fletch said. He had no real idea what either party stood for, and at the moment he didn’t give a rat’s ass. His priorities were rapidly becoming clear: he was going to rut his brains out (to use the coarse country phrase) and then he would go to Lords and start being the sort of man his father was. He could figure out the actual politics of the thing later. “If you’ll forgive me, gentlemen?” He swept a bow and wandered on.

  Two rooms later, he found exactly what he was looking for.

  Lady Nevill.

  She was slightly older than he, with precisely the sort of French elegance that he remembered. And he’d heard about her. Her husband had been incapacitated in a carriage accide
nt; who could deny her the plea sure of an affaire now and then? The ton’s pity was such that she was never denied an invitation to any event, although everyone knew perfectly well that she had thrown away her reputation long ago.

  She was luscious, deeper-breasted than Poppy, with long er legs, and a loose-limbed air about her that suggested she would throw her legs around a man’s neck and ride him for all he was worth.

  The lady was talking to Lord Kendrick, who had to be old enough to be her father. He paused to watch and instantly knew that she was aware of him. He could see it in every lineament of her body, all those invisible, sweet ways that women had of registering interest in a man. He was probably one of the most observant men in the world when it came to that sort of thing, since he kept looking for signs of desire in Poppy—and not seeing any.

  It was different with Lady Nevill. She turned her head and met his eyes straight on. No subterfuge, no silliness, no flirtation.

  He didn’t smile. He let his eyes smile instead.

  She said something to Lord Kendrick, moved toward him. He walked a step or two, bowed before her.

  “Do we know each other?” she said, laughing a little.

  “I think not,” he answered.

  “It is much nicer this way,” she said. “One can hardly ever endure the conversation of old friends, whereas that of new friends can be irresistible.”

  Her eyes were a strange dark golden color; she was as sensuous as a purring cat in the dark. “I shall do my best to be irresistible,” he said, feeling as if he were grasping at sophisticated conversation. He and Poppy never had conversations laden with double entendres.

  She tapped him on the arm with her fan. “There is nothing a woman desires more than…”

  He leaned toward her. “Yes?”

  “To be desired.” Her voice was husky and suggestive. Maybe Poppy truly was unusual in that respect. She didn’t want to be desired. He shook the thought off. Poppy was his wife. Lady Nevill was…