Eloisa James
Duchess By Night
This book is dedicated to Georgette Heyer. Though a few writers before her did dress women in male clothing (Shakespeare comes to mind), Ms. Heyer’s brilliantly funny cross-dressed heroines set the standard for all modern romance novelists.
I couldn’t get my characters into clothing at all without the help of three fabulous people: my editor, Carrie Feron; my assistant, Kim Castillo; and my research assistant, Franzeca Drouin. I am enormously grateful to each of you.
Finally, the readers on my online bulletin board (www.eloisajames.com) are a constant delight, provocation, and source for ideas. Please stop by and join us!
Contents
Prologue
Justice By Duchess
Chapter One
In Which Cinderella Dresses for the Ball and Her Fairy Godmother Brings a Goose Instead of a Pumpkin
Chapter Two
Another chapter in Which Breasts Play a Not-insignificant Role
Chapter Three
In Which the Geography of Pleasure is Dissected
Chapter Four
In Which Sin & Silver Boxes are Itemized and Explained
Chapter Five
In Which Masculinity is Described and Detailed
Chapter Six
Justice By Duchess, Part Two
Chapter Seven
In Which Strange Guests Arrive at Lord Strange’s House
Chapter Eight
The Definition of Marital Success
Chapter Nine
Of Mathematical Angles and Men in Flesh-colored Silk
Chapter Ten
In Which Plans are Made for Lord Strange’s Enticement
Chapter Eleven
“Yet Still She Lies, and to Him Cries, ‘Once More!’”
Chapter Twelve
In Which Manhood is Achieved…Albeit With Some Discomfort
Chapter Thirteen
A Chapter in Which the Delights of Swordplay and Manhood are Confused
Chapter Fourteen
Friendship in an Unexpected Place
Chapter Fifteen
The Tahitian Feast of Venus
Chapter Sixteen
The Leaning Brothel of Fonthill
Chapter Seventeen
In Which Harriet Finds Herself Shocked
Chapter Eighteen
Harriet’s Shock, Part Two
Chapter Nineteen
In the Company of Angels
Chapter Twenty
More Buttered Eggs
Chapter Twenty-One
Of Rats and Their Ability to Change Their Spots
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lay Me Down and Roll Me to a Whore. Or Not.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Of Ladies, Amazons, Whoremongers, and Prickles
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Scandal! A Woman in Breeches
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Intoxicating Air of Fonthill
Chapter Twenty-Six
In Which Harriet Joins The Game. Finally.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Leaving the Audience Forever
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Marriage Proposals are So Romantic…Sometimes
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sources of Inspiration
Chapter Thirty
An Unexpected Marriage
Chapter Thirty-One
In Which Lord Strange’s Reputation Takes a Strange Turn
Chapter Thirty-Two
Double the Pleasure
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fear
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hell
Chapter Thirty-Five
Yet Leave a Kiss But in the Cup…
Chapter Thirty-Six
Games
Chapter Thirty-Seven
To Be Better Than a Game
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Definition of Manhood, Under Discussion Again
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Origins of Paradise
Chapter Forty
Duchess By Day
Chapter Forty-One
A Chapter of Revelations…of Fathers and Brothels
Epilogue
A Note About Card Games, Fashionable Vices, and Family Courts
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Eloisa James
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Justice By Duchess
December 15, 1783
Shire Court
The Duchy of Berrow
Honorable Reginald Truder, presiding
“I didn’t mean to marry both of them!”
“The problem,” said the duchess, leaning forward, “is not marrying twice, but marrying a second husband while the first is still alive.”
“Well, I didn’t want Avery to die,” Loveday Billing explained. “I just wanted to marry John, that’s all. I couldn’t stop myself. I was that tired, and lonely, and he…he sat with me of an evening.”
The judge snorted and Loveday thought he might have woken up, but then he started snoring again.
The Duchess of Berrow had very kind eyes, but she shook her head at Loveday. “You were already married to Avery, that is, Mr. Mosley, when you married John.”
Loveday hung her head. “Avery left me three years ago,” she said. “I didn’t know as how he wanted me anymore, because he said I was stupider than a sow in springtime.”
The duchess had a quiet sort of prettiness about her, like a preacher’s wife. Her gown was black, but it had a shine to it. Her hair was lovely too, looped and frilled and ruffed over her head, the way fine ladies did those things. And her eyes were so forgiving that Loveday suddenly felt like telling the truth. It was as if she were a youngster back in her mother’s kitchen, having stolen a cake.
“I ain’t really married to Avery Mosley,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Avery swing up his head. “I was already married before I married Avery. And I didn’t really marry him because it were an Irish minister named Usher and he told me privately that it weren’t a real marriage.”
Avery probably fell off his chair at that news, but Loveday was focused on the duchess. “My da married me off the first time, when I was twelve.”
“Twelve!”
The duchess looked a bit stricken, so she tried to explain. “It wasn’t so bad. I had developed, you see, and I was worth something, and it wasn’t so bad.”
“What is his name?”
“That was Mr. Buckley. But he died, so after Mr. Buckley passed on, I married Harold Eccles.”
“I don’t suppose that Mr. Eccles is dead?” The duchess sounded hopeful.
“He’s about as alive as anyone could be in debtor’s prison. I always visits him when I’m in London. Two hatbands and a coat, they got him for. He’s been there almost eleven years now.
“So I married—” she paused for a moment, just to get it right “—Monsieur Giovanni Battista. He was an Italian man, and he said he’d take me away. But he gave me a pair of gloves, and then he went away instead.”
“And then Mr. Mosley came along?” the duchess asked.
Loveday nodded. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “I knows as I shouldn’t have. But I didn’t know what to do, and he asked me. But he left.”
“You were in a difficult position,” the duchess said. “If I have this right, your first husband died, the second is in prison, the third went to Italy, the fourth was not a real marriage, and the fifth—”
“I had no one to care for myself and the babes because my dad doesn’t speak to me after the Italian man.”
“Children?” The duchess looked through the long pieces of paper that w
ere floating around the table. “There’s no mention of children in these pleadings.”
The fancy London man standing next to John answered. “It was not considered relevant to the matter at hand, Your Grace. My client married her in good faith as the certificates indicate. And may I point out that these court proceedings are highly irregular? Surely the Honorable Judge Truder should be roused?”
The duchess ignored him. Loveday could have told the London man that in Berrow, this was the way of it. Truder was a drunk, but it didn’t really matter as he and the duchess did the business together, just as it was in the old days, and that was good enough for the town of Berrow.
“Whose children are they?” the duchess said, turning back to Loveday.
“All of them, really,” Loveday said hopelessly. “I gave them each one. Except for John, of course, because we only married a bit ago.”
“You have four children?” the duchess asked.
“Five. Harold, him as is in prison, has two.”
There was silence in the courtroom. Loveday could hear John moving his feet. If only…but it was too late.
“You are really Mrs. Eccles,” the duchess observed.
Loveday nodded. “I know as how you’re right, Mrs. Duchess.”
“Your Grace,” a man next to her hissed.
“Your Grace,” she said obediently. “But Harold is in debtor’s prison.”
The duchess looked over at the box, so Loveday looked too. There was John, with his blue eyes. And Avery with his angry small mouth, just like always.
“Why did you pursue this indictment, Mr. Mosley?” the duchess asked.
Avery burst into words, but the gist of it was that he wanted her back, even after the things he said about her.
The duchess looked at him steadily. Then she turned back to Loveday. “Have you any money?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Loveday said. “I’ve no money but what my husbands give me.”
There was quiet for a moment, and then the duchess said, even more gently, “Is your father still alive, Mrs. Eccles?”
“Yes, but he—” and she stopped.
The duchess folded her hands and looked so sweet. “He’s ill, isn’t he?”
“I heard so,” Loveday whispered.
“And your father has some money that he might leave you?”
Loveday looked back at John’s blue eyes, and she felt like a fool. “That’s why Avery wants me back. Because of the mill. And John…I suppose that’s why John courted me. For the mill.”
John got up and left, so that sort of spoke for itself.
Avery left too, so Loveday cried for a little bit, and then the duchess said, “You were very wrong to marry so many men, Loveday.”
“I know,” Loveday said, sniffling.
“I’m going to advise the judge to acquit you. But you mustn’t marry again. I want you to bail out Mr. Eccles. And then live with him.”
“I will,” Loveday promised.
The duchess reached over and poked the judge. He snorted once or twice and woke up. She said something to him and he snorted again and said, “Case dismissed!” Then he slumped back down in his chair.
Loveday stood there for a moment before she realized she was free to go. Except the duchess wanted to see her. So she went to the front, and the duchess took her hand. She told her a fairy tale, about how Mr. Eccles—that would be Harold, in prison—should treat her like a princess, because she was to be a mill owner.
Loveday just smiled and smiled. That duchess was the most lovely, best-smelling woman in the world. She had a funny way of talking, and daft ideas, but you couldn’t help liking her. Especially when she sat right there, holding Loveday’s hand—Loveday, who everyone said was as stupid as a sow though she wasn’t.
And finally the duchess gave her five pounds, which she could use to get Harold out of prison right away. Harold didn’t owe more than a pound or two, even counting charges for board, so Loveday tried to give some back, but the duchess wouldn’t take it.
Then the judge woke up again and he seemed to have a terrible problem with gas, so the duchess smiled at Loveday just as if she were a normal person, and they both left the room.
Loveday Billing had never been so happy in her life.
A duchess liked her, and had quitted her, whatever that meant, and told her what to do.
And she did just that.
Chapter One
In Which Cinderella Dresses for the Ball and Her Fairy Godmother Brings a Goose Instead of a Pumpkin
January 6 (Twelfth Night), 1784
A Costume Ball
The Country Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
Nursery tales are full of fascinating widows, although they aren’t always the nicest characters. Cinderella’s stepmother likely put on a dazzling gown for the prince’s ball, even if her daughters did inherit her big feet and sharp tongue.
Harriet, Duchess of Berrow, realized soon after her husband died that there are glamorous widows, and then there are widows who live in shoes with too many children, like poor Loveday Billing. There are widows who dance all night with younger men, and then there are dowdy widows who are offered only pinched smiles.
Harriet had no illusions about what kind of widow she was. She was the kind who lived in a shoe, and never mind the fact that she had no children and her estate was much larger than a shoe.
Her husband had been dead for two years and no younger—or older—men were lining up to ask her to dance. Most of her acquaintances still got a tragic sheen in their eyes and promptly moved away after greeting her, as if sadness was catching.
Apparently, if one’s husband committed suicide, one automatically became the unappealing type of widow.
Partly it was her fault. Here she was at the Duchess of Beaumont’s impromptu costume ball—but was she dressing as a glamorous character? Or even an evil one?
“Who are you?” her friend Jemma (the aforesaid Duchess of Beaumont) asked.
“A nursery rhyme character. Can you guess which one?” Harriet was wearing a motherly nightgown of plain cotton that her maid had recruited from the housekeeper. Underneath she had three petticoats, as well as four woolen stockings in her bodice. Just to show off a bit, she arched her back.
“A nursery rhyme character with big breasts,” Jemma said. “Very big breasts. Very very—”
“Motherly breasts,” Harriet prompted.
“Actually you don’t look motherly as much as wildly curvaceous. The problem will be if one of our houseguests lures you into a corner and attempts a cheerful grope. Wasn’t there some nursery rhyme about lighting the way to bed?”
“I’m not on my way to bed,” Harriet said, somewhat deflated. “And no one ever tries to grope me. What character are you?”
Jemma’s gown was made of a clear pale pink that looked wonderful with the dark gold color of her unpowdered hair. There were small silk poppies sewn all over her skirts, and poppies tucked in her hair. She managed to look elegant and yet untamed, all at once.
“Titania, Queen of the Fairies.”
“I’m Mother Goose. Which fairly sums up the difference between us.”
“What are you talking about!” Jemma scolded, wrapping an arm around Harriet. “Look at you, darling. You are far too young and fresh to be Mother Goose!”
“No one will know who I am,” Harriet said, pulling away from Jemma and sitting on the bed. “They’ll think I’m a fat white ghost.”
Jemma started laughing. “The ghost of a murdered cook. No, all you need is a clue to your Mother Goose status, and people will admire the cleverness of your costume. Wait until you see Lord Pladget as Henry VIII: he has a hearth rug tied around his middle and he looks as big as a barn.”
“I already look as big as a barn, at least on top.”
“A goose!” Jemma said. “Of course, you need a goose and I know just the one!”
“Oh, but—”
Two minutes later, Jemma was back. With a goose.
“Is that r
eal?” Harriet asked warily.
“In a matter of speaking. I’m afraid it’s a little stiff. It usually flies along the wall in the south parlor. My mother-in-law has a morbid attitude toward decorating that involved arranging all kinds of dead animals on the walls. You can use the poor goose tonight, darling, and then we’ll set him free to fly to a better place, if you understand me.”
Harriet took the goose in her hands rather dubiously. It was stuffed so that its neck stayed stiff, as if it were in flight.
“Just tuck it under your arm,” Jemma said. Harriet stood up and tried it. “Not like that. Here, turn his head upright so he looks like a friend whispering in your ear.”
Harriet stared down at the bird’s glossy eyes. “This is not a friendly goose.” It looked ready to lunge from her hands and peck someone.
“There is no such thing as a friendly goose,” Jemma said. “I must go see how Isidore is coming with her costume. I checked on her earlier and her maids were frantically tearing apart two dresses. She says she’s going to be a queen, but I’m afraid she’s going to enter the ballroom wrapped in a handkerchief.”
“Why doesn’t Isidore go by her title of Duchess of Cosway?” Harriet asked. “Last night she was announced as Lady Isidore Del’Fino.”
“I don’t think she’s ever met the duke. Her husband, I mean,” Jemma said. “Or if she did, it was for five minutes years ago. So she uses her own title, although for tonight she’s the Queen of Palmyra.”
“If you had told me that you were planning a Twelfth Night costume party,” Harriet said, putting the goose down, “I could have been a queen as well.”