Chapter 4

 

“A licentious style of dress is as certainly a token of like laxity in manners and conduct.”—Lady Ratchett

 

Contrary to the opinion of at least two members of his household (or in truth just one, because the second was unsure what she thought), the duke was not amusing himself with his unexpected guest. Or the least unexpected of his guests, because he had anticipated that his cousin would try to interfere with his honeymoon, and that Nigel would descend on him with that accursed bird. Magdalena, however, Justin had not expected to see again in this life and hopefully not in the next, he having ever followed a conventional path that was unlike to lead him into the fiery depths where such a schemer must eventually reside. But here she sat, in the book-lined library, curled up in one of the stuffed wing chairs, as at ease as if they were old friends, and he didn’t trust her one inch.

The years since their last meeting had been kind. Magda remained one of the most beautiful women Justin had ever known. He couldn’t help but notice she wasn’t wearing a corset under that flimsy gown. She should have been wearing a corset, though only the most uncharitable of persons would have called her plump. Yet Magda’s face was thinner than he remembered, the bones more defined. With her high cheekbones and pointed chin and slanted green eyes, she put him in mind of a cat. The duke didn’t care for cats, considering them sly, deliberately charming, self-serving creatures that swiped against one’s ankles and purred until picked up, then when tired of being petted, unsheathed their sharp claws.

This was an apt description of the woman occupying his wing chair. Justin regarded her without appreciation over the cold compress he held to his nose. “What do you want, Magda—I assume that is still your name?”

She dimpled. “Unkind, Saint! Of course I am still Magda, Magdalena Delacroix now, Madame de Chavannes. Zut! I do not think I have ever seen you quite so angry. You might at least pretend to be glad to see me, you know.”

“But I’m not glad to see you!” the duke retorted. “I have recently got married. How dare you come here like this and push your way into my house?”

Magda wrinkled her nose at this inelegant turn of phrase. “But I didn’t push my way in! Chislett recognized me immediately he opened the door. He must have thought he saw a ghost because he turned white as one himself. Then he whisked me inside before I could say a word.”

Justin reminded himself to speak sternly to Chislett. “What devilment are you up to, Magda? You needn’t deny you are up to something. I know you of old.”

Magda stretched languorously, stood up, and crossed the room to stand before him. “You were fond of me once,” she murmured. “Have you forgot?”

Justin looked down into her exquisite little face. “Don’t waste time playing off your airs on me. I am immune.”

“Are you, I wonder?” Magda ran her fingers down the lapel of his coat. Justin caught her wrist and held her motionless.

She made a moue. “Très bien! I shall stop toying with you, though I vow you provoke me to it, you are become so monstrous starched-up. The truth is that I wanted to come home. Impossible to make exact arrangements; I had no notion of when or even if I would arrive. When I did reach England, I had no place to go, and I thought immediately of you.”

Justin doubted that. He wondered what, in fact, her first thought had been. “And Monsieur de Chavannes?”

Magda’s piquant features sobered. She pulled away from him. “It is most off-putting to see one’s husband’s head atop a pole. I did not desire that mine should join his, so I fled. Do not look so disapproving. It is not unusual to take along a friend on the honeymoon, n’est-ce pas?”

She was beautiful, clever, and ruthless. And acted as if she had nourished some genuine feeling for her departed spouse. “A friend of the bride,” amended Justin. “You are hardly that. And now, if you will excuse me? Elizabeth waits.”

Magda moved to the fireplace. “Your bride may wait a while longer. Can you not see the humor in the situation, Saint? I gather from that dreadful expression on your face that you do not! You have Gus here with you also. You shan’t convince me she’s a friend of the bride.”

Justin could hardly argue with this. He resigned himself to a few moments’ more conversation. “Dare I ask why your husband lost his head?”

“Let us merely say that Jules was indiscreet.” Magda gazed into the flames burning on the hearth. “Mon Dieu, the rumors I have heard since I came back to England. General Bonaparte has under construction a monstrous bridge by which his troops will pass from Calais to Dover, directed by officers in air balloons. Alternately, a tunnel beneath the Channel is being engineered by a mining expert. The Corsican has disguised himself as British and is patrolling English shores aboard a fishing smack. Absurdités, but you may be sure Bony hasn’t given up his invasion schemes. Anyone who can defeat England will be master of the world.”

Clearly there was to be no more discussion of the Chevalier. “You retain your interest in politics.”

Magda sank back down in the armchair. “Only a fool is not interested in politics. Revolutions are periodic outbursts following always the same curve from rebellion through chaos to dictatorship. History is a circle. Only a monarchy can restore order and security to France.”

“In other words, you support the Bourbons.”

Magda toyed with the cameo around her neck. “I will support anyone who promises to return my husband’s properties to me, mon cher.”

The compress was no longer cold. Justin set it on the massive mahogany writing desk alongside a table globe, quill pen, and Sheffield plate wax jack. He poured brandy from a decanter into a glass.

Magda gazed pointedly at the decanter in his hand. Justin poured a second glass of brandy and carried it to her.

She smiled up at him. “The elusive Lord Charnwood has taken a wife at last. Your affections are fixed.”

His affections were nothing of the sort. Now it was Justin who watched the fire burning in the hearth. “Elizabeth is a good biddable girl with a proper way of thinking. She will make me a comfortable wife.”

Magda swung sideways in the chair, the better to observe him. “You danced attendance on her at least a little bit, I hope, my Saint. Stood up with her at balls. Sent her posies, paid her distinguishing attentions. Perhaps”—she looked roguish—“stole a kiss?”

Justin felt queerly guilty that he had neglected to kiss his intended wife. It was Magda’s damnable influence; he knew he had been most correct in his conduct toward Elizabeth. As it was Magda’s fault he wasn’t kissing Elizabeth right now. Still, he found he didn’t dislike speaking with her, which astonished him. “That is none of your concern.”

Magda rested her chin on her hand. “Naturally it is my concern. You may not realize it, but I am your friend. Come, Saint, tell your Magda all.”

She was not his Magda, for which Justin was immensely grateful. “I began to feel mortal, I suppose. One can’t get an heir without first getting a bride.”

“Some do,” observed Magda. “But I perfectly understand that you are not among them. When did this mortality come upon you?”

Justin drained his brandy snifter. “On my thirtieth birthday.”

“And it took you two more years to screw up your resolve? Oh yes, I recall perfectly your age. Nigel and Gus are a mere year younger, and I am two. Tiens! You picked out a paragon of virtue with a handsome dowry, who will never allow passion to get the better of reason, or enact you dramatical high flights. Your proper little English miss will suit you well enough. Who knows, you might even come to like her a little bit.”

He might come to strangle this intruder. “This is none of your concern.”

“Whereas you have become shockingly sober,” Magda continued, ignoring his displeasure. “I remember when you were much more fun.”

Justin stood up. He was in no mood for a discussion of old times. “As you pointed out, I cared for you once. Because of that, and because I know damned well you will revenge yourself if I refuse you, I will permit you to stay here for a time. But understand this: you will cause Elizabeth no distress. Moreover, you will not permit my cousin to do so. I trust I make myself clear.”

Magda raised her glass to him. “Clear as a windowpane. I would have no bad feeling between us. In case I have not said it, I wish you happy, Saint.”

The hour was much advanced when Lord Charnwood climbed the stairs, the matter of Magdalena having taken up no little time. He had approached his marriage in his usual reasonable manner. How had matters gone so wrong? Instead of gently introducing his bride to the realities of matrimony, he had been closeted in the library. Hopefully Elizabeth had been appeased by the presence of the bird.

Thornaby waited in the dressing room, where a cheerful fire burned in the hearth. The valet’s expression was mournful. “I fear, Your Grace, that the cravat could not be saved.”

“Then I shall have to buy a dozen others, shan’t I?” The duke sat down in a carved chair. “You will forgive me for putting you to the blush. It isn’t every day I take a bride.”

For that, Thornaby was grateful. He laid his master’s appalling appearance smack at that young woman’s door. Never in all the years of his employment had the duke been so careless of his person. Thornaby glimpsed the bramble scratches on His Grace’s boots, and moaned.

“Not another word!” said Justin. “Or I’ll have Mrs. Papplewick fetch the vinaigrette. Think of the reaction belowstairs.”

Thornaby was jealous of his superior position in the household. That standing could only suffer if a housemaid was called to wave burnt feathers under his nose. Tight-lipped, he made no further comment as he wrestled the duke out of his tight boots and clothing and into his satin dressing robe. The valet departed, cradling the misused coat as tenderly as if it were a babe.

Of all times for Magda to return! Justin’s recent tête-à-tête had given him a new appreciation of his bride. He regretted having left Elizabeth to her own devices on their first night in Bath.

He didn’t expect so well-bred a miss to stage a scene that shook the rafters. Still, she must feel some chagrin. How would she greet him? Justin was curious to find out.

The bedchamber was softly candlelit. A fragrant scent sweetened the air. Birdie dozed in her shawl-draped cage, head tucked under her wing, standing on one leg. With a certain anticipation, Justin looked around. Then he saw the little lump huddled in the middle of the bed.

Had his reassurances been for naught? Was she hiding from him, foolish child, with the covers pulled up over her head? Lord Charnwood had little previous experience with green misses, much preferring knowledgeable women of the world who could be trusted to enjoy his favors for as long as was agreeable to them both, and afterward bid him an unemotional farewell. Not that His Grace would be sufficiently lost to propriety or common sense as to marry a woman of that sort, and had very rightly left behind his mistress for the duration of his honeymoon.

A gentle snore issued from beneath the bedcovers. The duke moved closer, pulled back the counterpane. His wife looked even younger in her sleep, her features softer and more relaxed, her hair in charming disarray, her nightdress slipped open to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of one tender breast. Justin felt the stirring of desire.

He would be getting no future children on his bride if he didn’t first persuade her not to fear him. Or he could, but that would be the act of a knave.

Justin glimpsed the laudanum bottle sitting on the table. Was the chit so frightened of him that she must drug herself?

If not his bride, he had woken up Birdie. The parrot sidled along her perch. “Biscuit?” she inquired.

Had Elizabeth been given no choice but to marry him? Was her sense of duty so strong? Justin would not have his bride behave toward him merely from a sense of duty, which was odd in him, but there it was. With mingled annoyance and frustration, the duke retired to his dressing room.