“The Marquis de Perthuis?” Villiers said. “In Lincolnshire…the wilds of the British countryside? Surely not.”
“Perhaps no,” the marquise said, putting another spoonful of sugar in her cup, although it was already, by Jemma’s reckoning, sickeningly sweet. “I cannot sit about London and be pitied.” Her voice was calm but her eyes weren’t.
Villiers met Jemma’s eyes over the tea tray and she read in his the pity she felt. In Villiers’s eyes! Was that possible? The duke was known for his cruel indifference.
The marquise stirred and stirred her thickened brew of tea, as the three of them sat in silence and stared at her spoon. Then she raised her head and looked to Jemma. “Would you do it again?” she asked. “Your marriage, if I remember correctly, was arranged for you. If you were given the choice, would you marry your duke?”
“Yes,” Jemma said without hesitation.
“Then you’re a fool in love,” the marquise said bitterly. “As was I. They say—” her voice was savage—“that it’s better to have loved once and lost, than never loved at all. They are wrong. You should warn this Cosway, if he’s a friend of yours.”
“I don’t believe he’s in love,” Villiers said tranquilly, “which should protect him from any storms of emotion. The marriage was arranged in his youth.”
“When I have children, I shall establish all their marriages at an early age,” the marquise said, still stirring. “I shall choose their spouses on the basis of ethical worth.”
“Are you so sure that Cosway is not in love, Villiers?” Jemma put in. “I had a letter from his wife-to-be that suggested otherwise, if one read between the lines.”
“Who is this wife?” the marquise asked. “Has she ever travelled to France?”
“She lived in Paris for some years. Lady Del’Fino.”
“Ah, yes.” The tea stirred faster. “Henri took some pleasure in her company.”
“As does every man,” Jemma said. “Yet Isidore has waited patiently for her duke to return from his excursions about various continents.”
“I have never heard otherwise,” the marquise allowed.
“Cosway is not in love,” Villiers said. “In fact, I believe there may be a question about whether he will go through with the wedding.” The marquise put down her spoon, and sadness fled her eyes immediately. “The marriage is, of course, unconsummated.”
“Ah,” the marquise breathed.
“Though I tell you this in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course!”
Villiers leaned toward the marquise. “I really mean that, Louise.”
Jemma blinked in surprise, but Louise—the marquise—merely rapped him on the hand with her spoon. “I beg you to tell me the details, Villiers. I am quite languishing for something interesting to think about.”
“I noticed,” Villiers said, sitting back. “You must practice putting your husband out of your mind, my dear marquise.”
My dear marquise? Louise? Jemma couldn’t remember ever hearing a shred of gossip to do with the Marquise de Perthuis and the Duke of Villiers.
The marquise started giggling. “Do you know what I thought when I entered the room?”
“If only the duchess would grant me an indiscretion,” Villiers said with a comic emphasis. But there was something serious in his voice, and the marquise’s eyes narrowed. “The dear Marquise de Perthuis is my second cousin twice removed,” Villiers said, turning to Jemma. “We were thrown together on more than one occasion as children.”
“Hardly children,” the marquise said, shrugging. “Infants more like. My mother never let me near him after I reached a certain age.” She smiled, and Jemma realized that she was likely quite beautiful when happy.
“Base rumors,” Villiers said tranquilly. “May I trouble you to pour me another cup of tea, duchess?’
“Rumors!” the marquise said, chortling. “Since we are so very intimate, my dears…you were rumored to have a by-blow at the tender age of eighteen, Villiers. It cannot be so many years ago that you have quite forgotten?”
“Rank gossip,” Villier replied.
“How old were you when you had this child?” Jemma asked curiously. It fascinated her, the way men sprinkled illegitimate children around the countryside.
“Something over two-and-twenty. A distasteful subject, and redolent of my many youthful stupidities,” Villiers said. “Please, may we speak of other subjects?”
“Yes,” the marquise said. “You can tell me why the Duke of Cosway wishes to dissolve his marriage. After all, Lady Del’Fino is quite lovely. I cannot conceive of the man who would not wish to marry her.”