The Accidental Duchess Read online

  “Y’do look a bit peaked,” he said as he fished out his quizzing glass and surveyed me.

  I sighed and said that surely a rest would be all that was needed to put me to rights, and headed up the stairs. I slept fitfully through the afternoon, finally waking into the blue dark of early evening. The fire had been lit, so I knew that Crewes must have checked in on me at some point. I sat up and drank some water from the jug by the side of the bed and then rang for her. I told her that my headache had grown worse, and begged off going to the Delameres’ for supper, and to please tell Lord Milburn and Therèse to go on without me.

  “The countess,” she told me, “has found that one can overcome the headache by simply refusing to countenance such a thing.”

  I felt too miserable even to try to annoy her over this, but asked her to see to the preparations for a hot bath. Afterward, I sat by the fire to dry my hair, and then picked at my supper on a tray, before once again retiring to my bed. I wondered, as I lay there, and not for the first time, whether sending Cambourne and Therèse off together, on their own, was a particularly wise course of action. I had the idea that it was not, and resolved to avoid it in future. Eventually, my thoughts began to blur into nonsense and I fell back to sleep.

  When next I awoke, the fire had gone out and my room was in complete darkness. I lay there, listening as Cambourne and Therèse made their way up the stairs, laughing and talking companionably, no doubt about their evening, as Cambourne and I had many nights these past few months. I lay utterly still until I heard the sounds of two distinctly separate doors being closed. Therèse’s chamber was across the corridor from mine, as I had specified, and Cambourne’s was on the same side, and down a bit, since our dressing rooms and the connecting sitting room lay between. Reassured that nothing untoward was occurring, I settled back into my pillows.

  A little time later, though, I heard another door close. I sat straight up, my heart pounding, but then let out a breath when I realized by the purposeful footsteps that it was only Therèse’s maid leaving her room. This was followed shortly by a door closing that I took to be Milburn’s valet leaving Cambourne’s room. With everyone present and satisfactorily accounted for, sleep should have come again, but would not.

  Perhaps it was because I had slept too much during the day, but it was clear that I was going to be awake for quite some time. I lit the candle by my bed, propped the pillows behind my back, and picked up Cambourne’s Corn Law tract. I was deep into a digression concerning the practicability of effecting an independent supply, when I heard the sound I had been both dreading and anticipating: stealthy footfalls in the corridor.

  The blood thundered in my ears as I sat, in suspended motion, holding the page I had been reading in midair, and trying my hardest not to breathe. But, alas, I could hear nothing further. After sitting for a while, debating, I came to the decision that I had been appointed chaperon, and as such, it was my job—no, my obligation—to ensure that nothing untoward was taking place. And, if it was? Well, I should have a thing or two indeed to say about it.

  I was feeling very righteous as I pulled on my old green wrapper, picked up a lamp, and tiptoed to my dressing room. What could he be thinking to be conducting a dalliance right under my nose? I was never that biddable! I pulled open the door, and tiptoed in. Then crept stealthily through my dressing room, and, holding my breath, yet again, turned the knob to open the door into the sitting room.

  I was holding the lamp with extreme care. My hands were shaking badly, and I was certain that it would not be at all the thing were I to drop it, and set the house on fire. I lifted the lamp and stepped into Milburn’s dressing room. Right, I told myself. There was business at hand: breaking up an illicit rendezvous between my husband (or possibly my brother-in-law) and his sister-in-law (or possibly his wife). Whoever they were, in relation to me or each other, I thought I could safely say it was time to forge ahead. How dare Cambourne dally with Therèse under the circumstances? For that matter, how dare she dally with him (particularly after I had been so kind as to introduce her to the best modiste in London!)? They positively deserved to be caught!

  I was almost looking forward to the opportunity, I told myself, of giving that arrogant, perfect, nonhusband of mine a piece of my mind. That thought whipped my fury to an even higher pitch (and if it also happened to fan the jealousy in me, well, I was not going to think about that). I put my hand on the knob that would open into Cambourne’s chamber. I paused, listening for any gasps, or whispers, suddenly not so certain that I wanted to know. After a moment or two, I had heard, precisely, nothing. I took a deep breath, and in one motion flung the door open.

  And saw, precisely, nothing.

  His fire was lit, the covers on the enormous bed had been turned back but the curtains stood open, and the room was silent and empty. It occurred to me, in an excessively delayed rush of common sense, that the footsteps had likely been Cambourne going in search of a book or something equally innocuous. And with that came the thought that had they had an assignation, exactly how awful it would have been to have burst in. Likely much more mortifying for me than for them.

  And yet, even worse than having burst in on them in flagrante, would have been to find Cambourne sitting alone, watching me come flying out of his dressing room like an avenging Fury. Relief at being able to creep out, undiscovered, washed over me, as my gaze strayed to the bedside table.

  I had been over every inch of this house in my search for clues as to why he had married me—I mean, I knew the gist of it certainly, but I also knew there had to be something specific. Every inch, in fact, except for that one. And feeling a perfect fool for not having done this sooner, I crossed to it, jerked the drawer open, and my breath caught. It looked remarkably similar to the letter that had pulled Cambourne away from our wedding breakfast.

  Still holding my breath, I reached out, snatched it up, reclosed the drawer, and had taken one step toward the door, when I heard the unmistakable sound of someone approaching from the corridor. If I could only have compelled my feet to obey me, I probably could have escaped undetected. I did have the presence of mind to smooth the folds back into the letter and place it in that time-honored hiding place—the bosom of my night rail. Fortunately, the gathered empire waist just below my breasts ensured it was held securely. I was reclosing my wrapper as the door opened; I had already decided that the best thing to do was to throw myself on Cambourne’s mercy and confess that I had been undertaking my chaperoning duties perhaps a tad overzealously. A little embarrassing, but, all things considered, better than admitting to my pilfering of his correspondence.

  “I can exp—” I had started to say when Therèse put one delicate, scandalously bare, foot through the door. I watched in horror as the rest of her equally elegant self followed.

  We faced each other. “Oh dear,” she said. “Gwen. This, it is a very awkward thing, n’est-ce pas?”

  To say the least, is what I would have said, had I been able to articulate anything. “Gahrgh,” is what I did say. Or something equally eloquent. I couldn’t help myself: I stared. Therèse en déshabillé was a sight to behold. Her hair had been brushed out so it hung loose in lustrous black waves of ringlets down her back. Her complexion looked positively translucent in the firelight, her lips just as cherry-red as in daylight, and those stunning eyes glowed.

  The night rail in and of itself was a confection that I assumed would likely cause grown men to stutter with lust. It had filmy little straps that were sliding down her smooth shoulders, open work down around the scooped neckline over which her breasts seemed to be in grave and imminent danger of spilling, and slits up each side to the thigh. And the few parts of the garment that were actually sewn closed were so sheer as to make me doubt their existence. And she was planning to use all that on my husband!

  I turned away, a furious blush racing up my skin. Not only was I embarrassed beyond description, and so angry I could hardly breathe, but on top of that I felt like a dowdy, English … c
abbage, swathed in yards of crumpled fabric. My toes peeped out from beneath my hems, but not so much as a glimpse of ankle was to be had, not to mention a hint of shapely calf or so much as a suggestion of voluptuous thigh. My arms were covered by long sleeves, and while I suppose most people would have guessed there to be a bosom concealed beneath it, there was absolutely no creamy, spilling evidence of such to be seen. What man, I thought glumly, would possibly want cabbage for dinner when he had just been offered a ripe, succulent, smooth, sun-warmed peach for pudding.

  “Gwen?” Therèse had a little frown between her beautifully arched brows. “I say, ‘This is a very awkward thing, no?’ It is only the good manners, I think if you say, ‘Yes, Therèse, it is’!”

  I knew she was correct on her point of etiquette, but I didn’t much care, since it was only the good manners for her to keep her hands off my husband.

  Questions rattled around in my head. They had an assignation. Was this the first? Where was Cambourne? Were they embarking on an affaire? Or were they planning a more permanent liaison? Where did that leave Milburn and me?

  “You are dressed to … go out?” I said, with an extremely insincere smile.

  “I am not,” she replied, as she swept her gaze up the length of me. “I am dressed to—I think you would say it—stay in.”

  “Shall I tell my husband you called to see him?” I asked.

  After a moment, Therèse gave one of her little Gallic shrugs. I had to restrain myself from squeezing my eyes closed, horrified that her gesture might well send the night rail slithering to her waist. She smiled, and bent her head toward me, looking conspiratorial. “You have been very discreet. I will not say to you that I am not disappointed, but,” she said, “you will have to tell me what this one likes. We shall compare the brothers, perhaps.”

  I gave her a long look while I thought. What right did she have to ask me that? None whatsoever. I was absolutely not compelled to answer. But, part of me was thinking, if I did … well, it could go a long way toward convincing her that Cambourne was not unclaimed property.

  “He likes,” I said, trying hard to marshal my nerve, “things.”

  “Things!” said Therèse. “You intrigue me! What kind of things does he like?”

  “Er,” I said, looking around for inspiration, and unfortunately finding none. “Ah. Well … kissing,” I suggested.

  Therèse looked amused. “How unusual,” she said.

  In desperation, I cast my mind back over any and all marital advice I had been given. “He likes being trussed like a chicken!” burst out of me. I clapped a hand over my mouth. Where had that come from?

  “Yes, but of course he does,” Therèse purred.

  “Absolutely, that’s my favorite,” agreed Cambourne, at just that moment stepping through the door. “Nothing, nothing sets a man’s blood afire more than being compared to poultry.”

  And right there, right then, I thought death was undoubtedly a much better thing than staying where I was. Cambourne was very much Cambourne at the moment. His hair had slipped back into straightness and was falling across his forehead. And he was still wearing his stockinet breeches, but the waistcoat and foam of cravat had been dispensed with. He looked sleek and powerful and tired, I thought.

  “You’re early,” he said to me, and I wondered why he was playing along with me.

  “I, er, well, yes, I am.” I hauled myself back from the brink of death by embarrassment and congratulated myself that I was growing more articulate by the moment. “I understand that you aren’t ready for me. So I shall just, leave, shall I?”

  “No,” he said, reaching out and circling my wrist. He pulled me closer to his side. “I’m always ready for you, darling. What man would not be?”

  I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “And what woman could let such a paltry thing as the time keep her from you?” I said, and then, recalling his last remark, added, “Darling.”

  His eyes went slowly from my head to my toes, as Therèse’s had, and I felt yet more color flood my face. He raised a brow. “And now that I’ve glimpsed you in your seductive glory, how can I let you go?”

  “Yes,” I said, glancing down at my enormous wrapper. “I wore it specially. I know it’s your favorite, dearest.”

  “Are you feeling modest, darling?” Cambourne said, the glint really coming back in full. “I own myself a little surprised that a woman so obviously dressed for seduction, with such a bag of tricks up her sleeve, would be so shy.” He looked around. “Where is your bag of tricks, by the way? I shall be vastly disappointed if you did not bring the feather duster as you promised.”

  I glared at him. “Yes, well, do you know, I was in such a rush I forgot to ask the chambermaid if I could borrow one.”

  He raised a brow. “You were planning to use a dirty feather duster?”

  I glared at him.

  “I can see we shall need to discuss this in private,” he said, putting his hand on Therèse’s elbow and steering her toward the door.

  She looked up at him through her long lashes. I’ve tried that a time or two, with no success. The only thing it does for me is to roll my eyes up into my head so only the whites are showing and I look demented. On Therèse it worked, though, especially as her shoulder strap slipped just a tiny bit more. “Good night, Therèse. Sweet dreams,” he said, gently pushing her through the door. “What I plan to do calls for two, not three.” Then he closed the door.

  I had taken advantage of his back being to me, and had wasted no time in retreating. I was just about to close the door to his dressing room on my way out, when his voice halted me in my tracks. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said.

  I came slowly out of the dressing room. “I was just—”

  “Yes. I know what you were just.”

  “Perhaps you should be grateful that I appeared when I did. It would have been a bit awkward for you otherwise.” I crossed my arms, hoping that the letter would not crackle.

  He looked amused. “Do you think I would not have been able to take care of Therèse?”

  “Actually, I was more concerned that you would have been able to take care of her only too well,” I told him. “That’s why I am here, after all.”

  “Perhaps I should amend that, then,” he said. “Do you think I would have had difficulty sending her away on my own?”

  Difficulty in execution or inclination, I wanted to know, but only said, “Well, I’d best be getting back now.” The letter was starting to become itchy.

  “I do not think I can let you go, just yet,” he said, and I looked up at him in surprise. “I suspect Therèse would find it a bit odd if you were to hare out of here so quickly,” he said. “Why don’t we sit for a while until a decent interval has passed. Then you may retreat,” he suggested.

  I could not resist. I smiled at him. “Or an indecent interval, perhaps?”

  “If you prefer,” he said lightly, as he handed me into a chair and took one opposite me.

  “Decent will be fine,” I said hastily, although to be perfectly honest, the prospect of any interval was a little alarming. “Why do you want her to believe we are lovers?” I asked.

  “Why do you?” he returned.

  “I thought it would be unseemly of you to have an affaire with your purported cousin, who might or might not turn out to be your brother’s wife.”

  “Ah, so your motives were completely selfless,” he said, in a bland voice. “Saving me from myself, as it were.”

  “Yes,” I said, righteously. “As it were. And your motives?”

  “Mostly selfish,” he replied. “It’s not that she’s not enough to tempt any man, but it’s one too many complications at the moment, if she thinks I am, ah, interested.”

  Oh. Talk about a lowering response! “Cambourne?” I burst out, and when he looked at me, continued, “I could accompany you, when you play the cello, on the pianoforte. The Beethoven sonatas were written for accompaniment, I think.”

  He looked momentarily surprised. I would i
magine he was wondering where that had come from, as I was myself. And then—sounding just as awkward as I felt—he said, “That would be very nice. Your headache is better?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, thank you. And how was your evening?” I inquired politely.

  “Tolerable,” he said with a notable lack of enthusiasm. He stood, again, and poured two glasses of brandy, and, wordlessly, handed me one. Then he sat back and sipped his drink with the air of a man completely comfortable with the silence. I thought of a few more remarks in the same light, desultory vein that had characterized our last attempts, but discarded them.

  He broke the silence. “I trust that fetching confection was not part of your trousseau?”

  I looked down and blushed. “No,” I said.

  “I am relieved,” he said. “A man would need a great deal of fortitude to attempt to breach that fortress.”

  I was insulted. “You would not attempt it? I am asking only hypothetically, of course.”

  “You question my fortitude?” he said. “Even if only hypothetically?”

  “Well, how much fortitude are we discussing precisely?”

  He smiled as he eyed the wrapper, and then lifted his glass to me. “Not more than a bottle’s worth. Maybe two.”

  “Shall I hide the rest of the decanter?” I asked.

  “I shouldn’t think it necessary. I’m barely one glass into this one.”

  “I had not thought that I would be creeping about when I retired,” I said, coldly, stung by his attitude.

  “I see,” he said, with a sudden grin. “If you had, you would have worn something more … enticing?”

  “Of course not,” I said, severely. “But more attractive. Every woman has her vanities, after all and I—I look like a cabbage,” I said, unsure why I felt compelled to continue with such honesty. “Therèse looks like a peach.”

  “I’ve had a peach or two in my life,” he said, lightly. “They can get cloying after a time. Good old, plain, English, boiled vegetables are more … sustaining.”