When the Duke Returns(39)

“Fans are a popular gift at the moment,” Jemma said. “This came from Villiers. He gave it to me a few days ago.”

“I didn’t know he paid you a visit.”

Jemma felt a strange qualm. It was all so difficult, having her husband’s boyhood friend trying to seduce her. “He came by to tell me of the strange doings of the Duke of Cosway.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Elijah toss the fan dismissively toward one of the footmen. Of course, that left her without a fan for the evening. No one was ever without a fan. But she could say that she left it in the carriage.

She climbed into the carriage and sank into the corner, suddenly struck by a profound realization. It was too late for Villiers, fan or no. She would never drag him into the bushes. When she first returned from France, she was so angry with Elijah that she thought to have an affaire with Villiers, but he had refused her.

And now, now that Villiers had changed his mind…it was too late.

Elijah had kissed her a few weeks ago. He had kissed her twice, actually. It was absurd, it was deluded. She was riveted by the memory of those kisses.

He was her first, her only husband, her…

Whatever he was to her.

The truth was that she was infatuated. She spent her afternoons in the library, waiting for him to return from the House of Lords. She secretly read all the papers so that she could engage in clever conversation about the events of the day. She thrilled when reading accounts of his speeches, and trembled when he set out in the morning on a day that included a talk before Parliament.

Not that he knew it, of course.

She would rather die of humiliation than let her husband know that she was infatuated by him.

She kept telling herself that Elijah never bothered to come to Paris to bring her home when she had fled there as a young bride. She kept reminding herself of his mistress, but somehow she had lost her rage, or perhaps her enthusiasm for that rage.

It was gone, tucked away in a faded box of memories. And the only clear thing she knew about her marriage was that she was married to a man who was so beautiful, with his sharp cheekbones and English grace, his tall, strong body and intelligent eyes—so beautiful that she would do anything to lure him back to her bed.

She was aware, while dressing, while putting on lip rouge, while putting on her shoes, that she was playing the most serious game of her life. He had to come to her. She could not chase him, beg him, or by any means at her disposal make it clear that he was welcome to her person…to her heart.

Though he was.

It wouldn’t work, not for life.

She wanted Elijah—not the way she had him when they were first married, not with the genial affection and enthusiasm he showed for their awkward couplings. She wanted him, the Duke of Beaumont, one of the most powerful men in government, at her feet.

And she wouldn’t settle for less.

Villiers would be useful in her campaign. He and Elijah had been childhood friends and were now estranged. Good. She would use him. She would use any man in London who asked her to dance, if it would fan a spark of jealousy in her husband’s civilized heart.

But it wasn’t jealousy that could do it. It was she: she had to be more witty, more beautiful, more desirable than she ever had been.

Elijah was seated in the opposite corner of the carriage, looking absently out of the window. As always, his wig was immaculate and discreet. Not for the Duke of Beaumont were pyramids of scented curls or immovable rolls perched on top of frizzled locks. He wore a simple, short-cut wig with curls so small they hardly deserved the label.

Underneath, she knew, he had his hair clipped close to his skull. It was a style that would destroy the appeal of almost every man. But on Elijah it brought into focus his cheekbones and the gaunt, courteous, restrained masculinity of him.

By the time they arrived at Lady Feddrington’s soirée, the receiving line had broken up and the ballroom was crowded. They stood for a moment at the top of the steps leading down into the room.

“It’s a bit overwhelming,” Elijah murmured. “How on earth do you ladies manage to move about a room like this, given the width of your panniers?”

Jemma smiled at him. “’Tis only the unfashionable who have very wide panniers this season. Look at myself, for instance.”

He looked, and she felt his glance as if it were a touch. Not that she showed it. She had spent years in the court of Versailles; if those years had taught her anything, it was that she should never reveal vulnerability.

“Your skirts look as wide as a barnyard door,” he said to her. But she saw the laughter in his grave eyes. He needed to laugh more.

She met his eyes with the kind of smile that told a man she liked him. It felt odd to give it to her husband. “Narrower than many,” she told him.