Duchess by Night

  On the dance floor, Strange was bowing before Isidore. She turned away from him as if he didn’t exist, straight into the arms of another man. That was pure Isidore. She never, ever let the man in her sights know that she was interested in him.

  Strange actually stood still for a moment. His face was unreadable.

  “Look at that,” Nell said, her fingers gripping Harriet’s arm painfully. “She left. Maybe she’s not interested after all.”

  “Perhaps,” Harriet said.

  “She’s dancing with Lord Winnamore now,” Nell said. “He’s a roué, if you know what that means. Why, I heard that he took three of the Graces to bed at the same time.”

  “The Graces?”

  “A musical troupe,” Nell said, wrinkling her nose. “There are eight of them. I have to admit that they sing very well. But they spend most of their time on their backs. You’re fencing with Strange tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Harriet said.

  “Then you could give him a letter from me.”

  “I—”

  The fingers on her arm tightened. “You will, won’t you? I’ll stay up all night and write it, and put it under your door tomorrow morning. Won’t you? Please? As a friend?”

  Were they friends?

  “I’ll do something for you in return,” Nell said. She dropped Harriet’s arm and pulled back. “Are you interested in women?”

  Harriet was so startled that her mouth fell open.

  “You’re such an innocent,” Nell said, shaking her head. “It’s a fair question, Harry. You have a look about you that is very attractive to certain men.”

  Harriet gulped. “I do?”

  “I suppose that means you do like women?”

  “Oh, definitely!” Harriet babbled. “Definitely. Of course. All the time.”

  Nell laughed, but it was a nice laugh. “I’ll do something for you too, Harry. You get my letter to Strange—and make sure he reads it—and I’ll introduce you to one of the Graces. A friendly Grace, if you take my meaning.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Harriet said hastily. “I’d be happy to bring the letter. What sort of thing do you plan to write?”

  “I’ll tell him to visit my room,” Nell said, brightening up. “Men like women to be very straightforward about these things.”

  Harriet shot a look at Strange. He was dancing with a young woman who was smiling at him lavishly. She was exquisitely dressed in a cream gown embroidered with flowers, worn with an overskirt of puckered gauze in a ruby color. The flowers shimmered under the gauze. Harriet felt a stab of pure feminine longing.

  “I can see what you’re thinking,” Nell said, giggling. “You can’t possibly afford her. That’s Sophia Grafton. She’s monstrously extravagant. I heard that she sometimes visits the mercer and pays thirty or forty guineas for a coat of winter silk, and then purchases two or three more. And she doesn’t even wear the extras, just gives them to her maids. She has four maids, just for herself. Can you imagine?”

  “But you said there weren’t ladybirds at Fonthill?” Harriet asked dubiously.

  “Well, if you want to be strict about the label,” Nell said. “But you’d never win Sophia Grafton with a simple offer of money, if that’s what you’re thinking. At the moment she is accompanied by Lord Childe. See, he’s over there on the side of the room, talking to one of the Graces.”

  The Grace in question had a blowsy, huge hair style with six or seven jeweled combs stuck in at various angles.

  “I expect Sophia Grafton would drop Childe like a scorched potato if Strange showed any interest.”

  “Well, that’s my point,” Harriet said. “I’m not sure that a simple letter inviting him to your bed will be sufficient. Surely Miss Grafton has also issued such an invitation, in writing or otherwise.”

  Nell looked offended. “I hardly compare myself to Sophia Grafton! Why, she has to be twenty-six if she’s a day. I’m sure she has wrinkles around her eyes. Just look at her. She’s the sort who lies around on a couch all day long and sighs. Not very much fun in the bedchamber, if you’ll excuse the familiarity, Harry.”

  Harriet saw exactly what she meant. “But I still think that Lord Strange has received many an invitation. You need to intrigue him somehow. Make yourself stand out.”

  Nell was silent for a moment. “I know! I could paint myself all over with gold and stick pearls on my body. Lord Strange’s new secretary is a Frenchwoman, and she was telling me that Frenchwomen sometimes do that.”

  “But…” Harry said dubiously.

  “I could have myself brought to his room in the guise of a statue,” Nell said. “And then the statue could come to life! And do such things as he would never forget!” She was grinning. “It would be positively Shakespearean. Shakespeare wrote a play where a statue comes to life, you know.”

  Harriet was starting to feel very affectionate toward Nell. She’d never met anyone like her. “Just what sort of things do you have in mind?” she asked curiously.

  But she’d forgotten that she was dressed as a man, and Nell burst out laughing. “You’ll have to discover those from some other woman, Harry my dear.”

  “I think gold paint sounds sticky and uncomfortable,” Harriet said. “And while you may be thinking that I have little experience, Nell, that is not the case.”

  Nell hooted. “You’re a regular rakehell, Harry! I can tell it just by looking at you.”

  “My point is that it doesn’t sound very comfortable to be made love to if you have pearls glued to your body. Nor yet to kiss gold paint.”

  “No kisses?” Nell said, horrified.

  “I suppose your lips won’t be painted,” Harriet said, “but I doubt that Strange would kiss you anywhere else.”

  Nell pouted. “I may be planning to make it a night Strange won’t forget, but I certainly didn’t plan on skipping my own pleasure.”

  “Write a letter that will intrigue him,” Harriet suggested. “Keep him guessing about who you are. Perhaps with a riddle, or something of that nature.”

  “A riddle?” Nell asked. “The only riddle I know has to do with a chicken and an egg and I forget what all.”

  “Then perhaps not a riddle, but how about a poem, some sort of verse that he can’t understand immediately?”

  “I’m not very good at poetry,” Nell said dubiously. “I can read and write, you know. But poetry might be a little…” She looked at Harriet. “You could write a poem.”

  “This is your seduction, Nell.”

  “He would never know. And I think you’re right. Look at him now.”

  Strange was still dancing with Sophia Grafton.

  “He looks bored,” Nell said. “Even if Sophia pasted herself all over with pearls, he’d still be bored.”

  Harriet had to agree. Strange looked like a man who had bedded many a woman and lost interest in it, pearls or no. She had thought she had no interest in bed too, ever since Benjamin died. But now she couldn’t help looking at Strange’s muscles and wondering…

  “I hope you’re looking at Sophia with that look in your eyes,” Nell said. “Because otherwise you are truly unlucky. I never heard a peep about Strange being a molly, if you don’t mind my bluntness.”

  “So you really don’t think I can afford her?” Harriet asked, making herself sound wistful.

  “Never,” Nell said. “Not unless your father owns forty flour mills, or something of that nature.”

  Harriet shook her head.

  “Then don’t even look at her again,” Nell advised. “Think about her wrinkles. Meanwhile you can plan the letter we’re writing Strange.”

  “We?” Harriet asked.

  “We, or rather you,” Nell said. “The more I think about it, the better your suggestion is, Harry. Of course you should write the letter, because you can make it intriguing and intelligent and mysterious. Whereas I would just ask him to pay me a visit. Which,” she added, “works for most men, I assure you.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Harriet
said. “But I can’t write your letter, Nell.”

  “Yes, you can. If you do, I’ll introduce you to my favorite Grace. Her name is Kitty and she’s lovely. If she were an actress I would be hideously jealous of her.”

  “So the Graces are not actresses?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t enquire too much about what they do in their performances.” Nell grinned. “They pose for gentlemen’s paintings. If you have enough money, you can have all of them pose for you at once.”

  “Naked?” Harriet squeaked.

  Nell giggled. “How else?”

  How else indeed? It was fascinating to see how much more open relations between men and women seemed to be in Lord Strange’s world.

  “I believe they employ some gauze scarves here and there. But I am going to get you—” Nell paused impressively “—a private showing with Kitty. She generally plays Erato…do you know what she inspires?”

  Harriet shook her head.

  “Erotic poetry,” Nell said cheerfully. “Apparently she knows realms of it and can recite in three different languages.”

  “That’s it!” Harriet said.

  “What?”

  “Erotic poetry. You need to send him snippets of verse. He’ll be intrigued by it.”

  “Not if he thinks I’m Kitty, he won’t. Kitty would be lovely for you, but she’s a bit of a giggler. I don’t think Strange—”

  “We can make that clear,” Harriet said. “But don’t you see how well this will work? You can send him a verse or two a day for a time, and then fix a place to meet. Then you can do all those things you won’t tell me about, and you won’t need letters any more.”

  “You are wonderful, Harry!” Nell said. “Wonderful! And it’s so useful that you know about that kind of poetry. I suppose it’s because you’re a man. No one ever writes me poetry.” She looked rather wistful.

  “I’ve never read any,” Harriet said bluntly.

  “Oh. Never mind,” Nell said, patting Harriet’s hand. “I’ll ask Kitty to share some of her books with you. I think she travels with them all the time. You can pick something out.”

  “Shouldn’t you pick the poem?” Harriet asked.

  “Too busy,” Nell said quickly. “We have to rehearse first thing in the morning, you know. In fact, I’d better go to bed. I’ll ask Kitty to bring you a book of verse this very evening. In your bedchamber. So think about that, Harry. And you will deliver my letter in the morning, won’t you?”

  And with that she pressed a kiss on Harriet’s cheek and left.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Yet Still She Lies, and to Him Cries, ‘Once More!’”

  Kitty turned out to be a lovely little person with pale gold hair with a faintly brassy tone that suggested it didn’t come from nature. She had the air of someone with no ambitions to be a lady, but a good many ambitions to enjoy herself.

  She appeared at the door of Harriet’s room, thankfully before Harriet had disrobed. “Nell told me as how you did her a favor,” Kitty said with an enchanting giggle. “Do you mind if I sit down? I’m that tired from all the dancing.”

  She sat down—on Harriet’s bed.

  Harriet backed up so that she was against the door. “It is very kind of you to lend me a book.”

  “It’s one of my favorites. Gentlemen like me to read it out loud. You do know that I’m the muse of erotic poetry, don’t you?”

  Harriet blinked. Did Kitty really think she was a muse?

  Kitty was busy ruffling through the book. “Would you like me to read you a poem?” She looked up with a mischievous smile. “It would be absolutely free, of course. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to read for a gentleman for whom I personally could not feel a bit of attraction.”

  Her smile broadened, and Harriet realized with a little burst of panic that apparently Kitty had no problem feeling attraction for Mr. Cope.

  “This is a funny one,” Kitty crowed. “It’s all about a man’s yard. Listen to this line: ‘It is a pen with a hole in the top, to write between her two-leaved book.’ Isn’t that clever?” She laughed merrily. “Two-leaved book!”

  Harriet smiled stiffly.

  “It is a dwarf in height and length, and yet a giant in his strength,” Kitty read. “You know, I’ve really come to know something of men. I know if a man is a dwarf.” She got up and drifted toward Harriet. “Mr. Cope, you don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you?” She stopped just in front of Harriet and ran a hand along her cheek. “Your skin is so smooth; it’s as if you never had a beard at all.”

  “Umph,” Harriet said, moving quickly away. “That’s a very humorous piece of verse, Miss Kitty.”

  She followed. “What I was saying, Harry, is that I can tell when a man is a dwarf, and you’re more along the lines of a giant, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Less padding in the front was definitely called for.

  Harriet turned around and cleared her throat to say something, but there was a brisk knock on the door. She swung around to find Lord Strange in the doorway.

  He looked from Kitty to Harriet, and then raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me, Mr. Cope. You truly do.”

  Kitty dimpled at him. “I was just lending Harry a book to read, Lord Strange. From my special library.”

  A flash of something crossed Strange’s eyes, but Harriet was too embarrassed by the fact that her face was growing hot to interpret it. Did men blush? She couldn’t remember seeing a man blush, but Harry Cope was definitely turning red.

  A second later Strange had Kitty by the arm and was escorting her from the room, telling her that she needed her beauty sleep.

  Then he put his head back in the chamber. “Don’t invite women to your room until you can control your blushes—though that’s not as bad as losing control of your timing, if you understand me. I’ll see you in the morning. We are going riding.”

  Harriet would have been angry at his high-handedness, except that she was so grateful to have Kitty removed. She had the distinct impression that Kitty was about to make a grab at her supposed pen and try to get her to write. One had to think that her visitor would be surprised to find herself holding a rolled-up woolen stocking.

  Lucille helped Harriet take off her tight jacket and the roll of cotton bands that kept her breasts trapped. Finally Harriet climbed into a steaming tub of water with a grateful sigh. “Lucille, would you give me that book of verse on my bed?” she called.

  Lucille was darting around the room, grumbling to herself. She wasn’t used to “doing” for two young women, let alone one who was dressing as a man, but they could hardly have brought along a separate lady’s maid for Mr. Cope.

  “Don’t worry,” Harriet said. “You take care of Isidore. I’ll ring for someone to take away the water.”

  Lucille whipped around, hand on her hip. “And how will you do that, Your Grace? One look at you in that nightgown of yours, and the footmen will know what’s up.”

  “It’s quite plain,” Harriet protested. “It could easily be a man’s gown.”

  “It’s not the design, it’s what you can see of your legs when you stand in it,” Lucille said, exasperated.

  “Oh,” Harriet said. “I am sorry to be so much work.”

  “I’ll just run over to the other chamber and take out her night clothes,” Lucille decided. “Here, you read your book and then I’ll wash your hair later. That’s the one blessing about all this foolishness. Your hair is so short that it doesn’t take me more than a minute to wash.”

  She handed over the book.

  Harriet skipped over the poem marked “A Man’s Yard.” She couldn’t see Strange being intrigued by a bawdy poem about a man’s pole, no matter how cleverly it rhymed.

  The following page was a song called “Walking in a Meadow Green.” It seemed there were lots of primroses in that meadow, but also a lass and a lad lying together.

  Fine, except…

  The lad performed once…the lass wanted more. Harriet could hardly believe what she was rea
ding. “Yet still she lies, and to him cries, ‘Once More!’”

  It was like reading about a different world than the one she had inhabited during her marriage. In fact, the contrast made her smile. What on earth would Benjamin have done if she lay under him and cried, “Once more!” She couldn’t even imagine it.

  And…why would she say that? The way she’d always understood it, it was men who wanted to make love over and over.

  It wasn’t that marital intimacies were unpleasant. She always enjoyed it. She loved being with Benjamin, and every time she could pry him away from the chess board felt like a personal victory.

  She shook away that thought and turned the page again, to find another poem about a penis, and then a third. She was starting to think that men mostly wanted to hear songs about their own accoutrements, when she finally found a song for a woman’s voice. “His lips like the ruby, his cheeks like the rose, He tempts all fair maids wherever he goes.”

  Strange certainly didn’t have cheeks like a rose, but he did seem to be tempting all the maidens. Not that Nell was a maiden, of course. And neither was Harriet. It was just…for some reason, she couldn’t stop looking at him if he was in the room.

  Earlier, when he suddenly appeared in the door of her bedchamber, her heart had started beating so quickly that she thought it might be visible. Even his voice seemed deeper, huskier, than other men’s were. That wicked voice, combined with the stark intelligence in his eyes…

  As far as Harriet went, put the voice and eyes together and it was far more tempting than a man with cheeks like a rose.

  She kept reading. What the lass said she wanted to do to—and with—her lover made Harriet’s heart start beating fast again.

  No wonder Villiers thought she was a tiresome old woman when he touched her—and she slapped him. According to these verses, women kissed men everywhere and they returned the favor. All he’d done was touch her.

  Still, the song was unlikely to tempt Strange. All this bawdy, silly talk about women’s and men’s privates was fun, but she thought of the look on his face when he danced with Sophia Grafton and shook her head.