Did he have any choice?
A man always has choices. If you tell yourself you have no choice, you lie…you lie in the worst possible manner: because almost always a man who tells himself that he has no choices has already made up his mind to the wrong choice. Valamksepa’s voice sounded hateful in his ears, even as he recognized the truth of it. Of course, he had a choice. He knew that he could have the marriage annulled, just as the solicitor admitted, and damn the laws of England. He wasn’t a duke for nothing. As the highest in the land, just under royalty, he could wield his money and power like a club and achieve what other men were unable to do.
But was that the right thing to do? Was it the ethical thing to do? Isidore would no longer be a duchess. But then, it rankled him to hear that she had ever introduced herself as Lady Del’Fino. She was—
He pulled himself back together, realizing that he was clenching his teeth. She was only nominally his. Nominally.
Chapter Twenty-two
Mansfield Place, Number One
London Seat of Lord Brody
March 2, 1784
It was Lord Brody’s soirée in honor of his nubile daughter—a spotty little horror with frizzled hair—and Jemma was wandering the various rooms, trying to look as if she were not searching for her husband.
Madame Bertière hailed her. “Your Grace, do come see who’s just arrived from Paris. Of course, you two know each other so well.”
Jemma’s heart sank. It was the Marquise de Perthuis, one of her least favorite people in all of France. Jemma and the marquise had been viewed as great rivals in the French court, though Jemma was never quite sure what they were competing for. But their undoubted dislike for each other kept people like Madame Bertière happily gossiping.
As always, the marquise was dressed in such a way that she took up more space than the Tower of London. Just to make a point, Jemma looked slowly, deliberately, up the wadded length of the marquise’s wig, pausing on each of four stuffed birds. They were rather charming little birds, black and white, of course. The marquise wore only black and white.
Jemma sank into a deep curtsy. “But of course I am acquainted with the marquise,” she said, her smile hitting a perfect register between indifference and recognition.
The marquise had the near expressionless countenance of a woman who understood face paint and used it with consummate skill. In fact, she would have been alluring except that her penchant for black and white drew attention to her costumes rather than her face. Those affectations, Jemma thought uncharitably, made her appear much older than her twenty-seven years.
“Ah, the délicieuse Duchess of Beaumont! How happy were all the ladies of the French court when you returned to England. As you know,” she said, turning to Madame Bertière, “the duchess provides such formidable competition for the gentlemen!”
A nice hit, Jemma thought. She managed to praise me and yet note my adulterous tendencies. She unfurled her fan and smiled over the edge of it. “What a delightful costume you are wearing, madame. I wish I had the courage to go against fashion the way you do. I’m sure I would be sadly clumsy if my hips were quite as wide as yours, and yet you manage with such grace.”
The marquise was far too sophisticated to stiffen; instead, she threw Jemma a sweet, roguish smile. “And I adore those delicious little flowers on your gown, duchess. I can certainly understand why you keep your panniers so small…when a woman has been gifted with such an ample bosom, large panniers inevitably make her look like an hourglass. Or a haystack. Your skill in dressing is so admirable!”
“Do you intend to pay us a long visit?” Jemma inquired.
“Ah, one travels to escape the ennui of life,” sighed the marquise. “In truth, without your entertainments to enliven Paris, it is a tediously puritanical place.”
Another hit, Jemma thought. Not as potent, though. There was something a little tired about the marquise, as if she had lost interest in the verbal fencing matches, the flares of witty comments, that had shaped her days in Versailles.
In fact, now that Jemma looked beyond her face powder, she saw that the marquise’s cheeks were rather gaunt.
Jemma slipped her hand through the marquise’s, an action she would never have taken in Versailles. She waved off Madame Bertière. “The marquise and I will take a turn or two and allow everyone to admire us. ’Tis an act of great kindness on my part, given the marquise’s elegance will so put mine in the shade.”
Previously, the marquise would have laughed in a way that indicated her complete agreement. Now she said nothing. It was almost unnerving.
They walked through the crowd, lowering their chins at acquaintances. Jemma made her way unerringly toward the ladies’ salon. They entered to find three chattering debutantes, who wisely fled. Jemma turned to the attending maid. “I am feeling quite faint. Please stand outside the door and make certain that no one enters.”