“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 pleasure, 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.