This Duchess of Mine(21)

“While your point about elegance is absolutely fair, some Englishmen have a kind of masculine beauté that I find appealing,” Jemma said. “I have always thought that my husband, the Duke of Beaumont, looks rather like Gerard de Ridefort, but with less affectation. And you know that Marie Antoinette herself called de Ridefort the most beautiful man in Paris.”

“Your husband,” Louise said broodingly. “Dear me, I remember the strangest rumor. But I am sure it is no more than that.” She opened her fan and waved it just below her eyes.

Jemma shrugged again. “Any scandal that involves the duke is surely untrue.”

“I know!” the marquise cried. “’Twas the reason why you moved to France, all those years ago. The foolish man declared himself in love with someone else.”

“His mistress,” Jemma said, her tone pitched to perfect indifference.

“But what an excellent decision you made to come to Paris. I remember the first year when you arrived; you had no poise, none of the charm that comes with sophisticated taste. And now look at you!” Louise raised an eyebrow. “So much older, and yet still with that sprightly, artless mode of dressing.”

“I learned so much in Versailles,” Jemma said. “Why, you have no idea how innocent I was. I truly believed that the duke loved his mistress. I can hardly believe that I was so foolish as to flee to another country over a matter as paltry as a husband’s lover!”

The marquise took a moment to compose herself. “Dear me, all that agitation for a mistress,” she said, fluttering her damaged fan vigorously.

“I was very young.”

“How fortunate that you retain your memory. So many people find it difficult to think back over that many years.”

“Of course, I am very possessive,” Jemma added.

“What is mine, is mine. I would naturally consider it the worst of insults if a woman dared to approach my husband. Even though my husband merely thought he loved his mistress, I could hardly contain my anger. Very childish of me, I know. In Paris I learned that the way to my husband’s heart was to ignore his unrefined behavior.”

The marquise picked up her third tart. “I consider mistresses to be part of a man’s world, a necessary adjunct, as it were. They parade and trade them the way women might trade fans. They are necessary to their sense of—I don’t know the word in English—amour propre?”

“Their sense of vanity,” Jemma translated. “Yes, I suppose you are right. But I was young and rash, and so I fled to France. Luckily, Elijah quickly learned his lesson. His eyes never stray to other women. I credit that to the fact I went to France and had a few dalliances of my own. He learned that what is sauce for the gander is even better for the goose.”

“I fail to see how your dissipated behavior turned him into a saint,” Louise said acidly.

“Ah, well,” Jemma said. “Just think, Marquise. Your husband has never had to worry that your affections were caught by another man, one who would be a worthy competitor to himself. No, he is free to stray about, to fall in love, to act as foolishly as he wishes—confident that you will be at home waiting for him.”

The marquise chewed her tart rather savagely. “I would never lower myself to his level!”

“I expect you have never met a man whom you considered his equal,” Jemma said soothingly. “I myself am so fastidious about a man’s appearance that I could not countenance your husband’s adorable way of finishing every scrap of food that strays onto his plate. He has such an appetite! It’s admirable in a man, of course,” she added unconvincingly.

“Do you dare to suggest that Henri is fat?” Louise inquired.

“Of course not, of course not!” Jemma said. “Why, a man his age should have a belly. It shows gravity of purpose. Seriousness. That sort of thing. Please do continue to eat, Marquise. I myself never eat sweet things in the morning.”

They both looked down at the plate. “Dear me!” Jemma said. “I hadn’t even noticed they were all gone. At any rate, as we were saying, I do admire your husband. He’s so modest…of course, he has much to be modest about.”

There was a rigidity about the marquise’s jaw that suggested to Jemma that perhaps she should stop before a plate broke over her head.

She sprang to her feet. “What a lovely conversation this has been. I would give you the name of my mantua maker, but I never share her address, even with my very closest friends. She’s by far the best in London, and if I pay her three times the price, she plucks gowns literally out of the air. I’ve had a gown made for the following day!”