When the Duke Returns(96)

“I’m not sure that Isidore wishes to marry Cosway either,” Jemma said, feeling that she should defend her side of the conundrum. “He picked up some disagreeable habits while living abroad.”

The marquise wrinkled her nose. “Did he lose the inclination to bathe?”

“No, but he trots around the countryside in a pair of short trousers,” Jemma said, “and no stockings.”

“Does he display himself for a reason?” the marquise enquired.

“I believe he considers himself to be taking something of a constitutional,” Jemma explained.

“I look forward to seeing it,” Villiers put in.

“At any rate, Cosway is being a fool. Of course he must consummate his marriage,” Jemma said. Her tea was cold and she put her cup down untouched.

“I don’t agree,” Villiers replied. “If he feels no touch of partiality for the lady—and he has suggested to me that he does not—then it would be better for both of them if they seized the opportunity to dissolve their union  , such as it is.”

The marquise opened her mouth to say something and thought better of it.

“He has no right to talk of love and such foolishnesses,” Jemma said, rather more vehemently than she intended. “He agreed to marry her years ago. She waited for him and very kindly did not create a scandal. He has no right to back out of the agreement now. None!”

“It would not be the most honorable thing to do,” Villiers said. “But honor is not always the best criterion by which to judge a lifetime’s worth of happiness.”

“If he does not honor his wife,” the marquise interjected, “the marriage will not be a happy one.”

“Perhaps marriage is not meant to be a happy state,” Jemma said. “When did we all become so foolishly emotional, so childish in our thinking? Cosway has an obligation to marry Isidore and follow through with his promises.”

“It is not as if Lady Del’Fino will lack for a spouse,” Villiers said. “She is both beautiful and rich. She will not be left at the wayside.”

“That is hardly the point,” Jemma snapped. “Will she be a duchess? Will she regain the years that she spent waiting for him to return from his explorations?”

“I agree absolutely,” the marquise said. “An arranged marriage, in which neither member feels an embarrassing excess of emotion, is a thing of beauty. Never will Cosway feel anxiety about her whereabouts. Or vice versa.”

“But you were in love with Henri, Louise,” Villiers said, going on the attack. “I remember your wedding, and you were every inch the enchanted—and enchanting—bride. Would you tell Cosway that he has no right to that joy?”

Jemma met Louise’s eyes over the table in perfect agreement. Never having married, Villiers had no idea what he was talking about. “We must wait until Villiers marries,” Jemma said to the marquise, ignoring his naïve question entirely.

“Yes,” the marquise replied, her smile widening. “A perfect revenge! Perhaps there will be someone at Cosway’s wedding, if it takes place. My cousin will fall helplessly in love.”

“Then, alack, she must wait for me,” Villiers said.

Jemma raised an eyebrow.

“I just remembered an appointment in London.”

“How peculiar of you, Villiers,” Jemma said. “You remembered this appointment just now?”

“He is afraid,” the marquise said, stirring her tea. “Afraid he’ll be overcome by sentiment during this touching reconsecration and end up married himself.”

“I believe that it would take more than an idle threat to frighten the duke,” Jemma said. “Do tell, Villiers. What earth-shakingly important appointment slipped your mind until this very moment?”

Leopold Dautry, Duke of Villiers, would have been the first to say that idle threats were not enough to frighten him. But he had just discovered, to his discomfort, that fear is part of the human condition.

If Jemma were on her way to visit her sister-in-law, then Elijah would be alone tonight. And Villiers found that intolerable. It was foolishly emotional, and yet he was helpless to dismiss the feeling. Elijah would not die alone, not as long as his oldest friend could prevent it.

“Nothing earth-shaking,” he said, putting his spoon precisely by his cup. “Nothing more than a game of chess promised to your husband, m’dear.”

“To Elijah?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re turning back to London and ignoring the missive sent to you by the Duke of Cosway for fear of missing a game of chess with my husband?”