Duchess Decadence (8 page)

Sophia leaned over the upper banister to peer down into the hall and the gallery beyond. “It
is
quite a crush down there.”

“And a failure all around,” Thea said.

“What do you mean?” Sophia asked.

“Each and every perfumed viper came to witness scandal. They have been terribly disappointed, excepting the appearance of Lady Scandal herself, of course.”

Sophia laughed. “The night is young.”

“The night is a grousing hag.” Thea’s eyes flashed. “I will not give it satisfaction.”

Sophia leaned back over the banister. “And what of your own satisfaction?”

Thea followed Sophia’s gaze to Wynchester, now speaking to a foreign princess from—oh, she could not recall. Papist, certainly. German, perhaps.

The princess was accompanied by the Marchioness of Hemingford and her utterly gorgeous daughter. Thea frowned. She’d forgotten the young lady’s name, too. Then again, the girl had not been out the last time Thea had attended Proper Society. She shrugged and abandoned the exercise of memory. Instead, she concentrated on the duke.

She imagined the kind of life he might have lived if he had been free to follow his inclination when he chose a wife. Even if they had not married so young, and if he had not acceded to the dukedom too soon after, he would never have had the carefree youth of a rake. Seeking pleasure for pleasure’s sake was simply not in his character.

He would have looked for a wife with sober intention and earnest concern…and the innocent, willowy blond with pale pink flowers woven into her hair would have been just the thing to stir his admiration.

She sighed. “Wynchester would have done better without me.”

“Maudlin nonsense.” Sophia
tsked
. “And absent your usual spirit.”

“True, none-the-less.”

“Do you really think so?” Sophia asked.

“I think he’d appreciate a young lady impressed with his consequence.”

“And
I
think you need to roughen up his awful white wig.”

Thea smothered a laugh.

“And,” Sophia continued, “I
also
think His Grace would like you to take note of his roses.”

“I was,” she quipped. “One perfect English rose.”

“Put out your hands, dearest.”

Sophia pulled a flower from her pocket and dropped it into Thea’s cupped hands. She lifted the petals until they tickled her nose.
Ah
. She knew that rich scent.

“Rosa Moschata,” she said with some surprise. “Musk rose.”

“Musk rose,” Sophia repeated. “Is that of any significance?”

“My father gave me plants from my mother’s garden when I married. They were trampled in the Gordon Riots.” She frowned down into her hands. “Where did you get this?”

“His Grace’s courtyard.”

Thea looked back down at Wynchester, her heart twirling like a girl in the sunshine. First the Broadfield, now this. Perhaps Eustace had distracted him during these past two weeks, but, for Wynchester, he had made astounding effort.

He bowed to his party and then turned to join another. The princess, the marchioness, and the young lady proceeded to the stairs. Not wanting to face anyone in her current state, Thea drew Sophia into the darkness of an open, adjacent room.

“A charming man,” the princess said with a heavy accent.

“Truly charming,” agreed the Marchioness.

“How lucky his is,” added the English rose, “to be matched with such a beautiful wife.”

The Marchioness clucked with disapproval. “Do not mention her name.”

“She is our hostess,” the daughter protested.

“You may greet her with civility—for the duke’s sake. But if she caught a fever, he would be much better off.”

“Mama!” Her exclamation sounded no less shocked for its whispered tone.

“Your kind heart does you justice, my dear,” the princess said. “The duchess seems amiable.”

“But of course she would, Princess. She is on her best behavior. But mark me well—she has shown her true color and true color is never long hid. Her wildness will not remain tamed. She will be the end of them both.”

Neither the princess nor the daughter commented.

“See there?” The marchioness continued. “There is Lord Eustace. Should
he
show you favor, Juliet, you will respond.”

Thea leaned as far as she dared and they came into shadowed view.

“I thought you wanted a title, Mother.”

The mother-to-daughter glance was withering. “This
reconciliation
cannot last long. Like as not, as Lord Eustace’s wife, you would be mother to the next Duke of Wynchester.”

Thea exchanged a furious glance with Sophia and then tucked the rose in her hair. Sophia placed a restraining hand on Thea’s arm.

“What are you going to do?”

“Watch me,” she fired back.

Thea waited until the trio had entered the retiring room and then she strode down the steps and toward the orchestra with confident grace. She had shown her true color, had she? The harpy had not seen anything yet.

“If I may,” she said to the maestro, “I would like to make a change.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” the conductor replied in French-accented deference.

“I require a dance. One which encourages,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “romance.”

The conductor thought for a moment and then broke into a smile.

“An Allemande,
non
?” He winked. “I know just the one. Allegro, of course.”

“Thank you.” She returned his smile. “I will return to the floor with the duke.”

She and Wynchester had opened the first dance—a stiff, formal affair.
Not this time
.

She headed toward her husband while stoking her courage with memories, not of the cold duke who had reigned over their marriage, but of the other one—the one who’d clasped her in a desperate, hungry kiss. The one who’d growled when he’d drunkenly swept her off her feet. The one who’d touched his temple to hers with tears in his eyes.

…The one who’d grown hot with dazzled enchantment when he’d finally taken note of her dress.

That
duke was, as men spoke of young ladies,
ripe
and ready to be picked. If she was wild,
that
duke was even more so.

“Wynchester,” she interrupted his conversation with Randolph and Harrison—she need not observe formalities in their presence, “this dance is mine.”

His right eyebrow lifted, but he displayed no further sign of surprise. He simply offered his arm and led them both to the floor while the dance was called. The musicians lifted their violins.

She locked eyes with her husband, diving without thought into their dark depth, willing away his cold, distant shell. Without shame or restraint, she let that untamed part of her the marchioness so derided call out to his hunger…but the wild in him, though aware and alert, remained cautious.

She could not blame him.

Curious stares fixed on them, radiating malice as strong as the heat from the hundreds of candles burning in the sparkling chandeliers. They wanted her to fail. They wanted her to slink back into the darkness, so their perfect duke could be absorbed into their numbers once again. They wanted to titter behind raised fans at the failed attempt of the disgraced duchess to capture her duke’s regard.

She would silence them. She would deny them their sneering triumph. She
would
. If she was a duchess good enough for Wynchester, she was a duchess good enough for them.

“Shall we, Wynchester?” she spoke in her huskiest voice—not the wife he had known but the woman the years of independence had forged—Duchess Decadence.

Wynchester wanted her to be good, did he? She’d be more than good. She’d be
remarkable—
in the very best sense.

The music, made faint by the noise of silk against silk and muffled whispers, began. They led the promenade, and she executed each step with grace. They did not speak. She danced, not as much
with
him as
for
him. Boldly, she seized every opportunity to meet his gaze.

Come out—
she spoke to the wild within him
—come out and let us tangle.

The next sequence required she turn, while he placed one of his hands on her waist, and joined the other in an arc above their heads.

She was tall. The duke taller—proudly she realized there wasn’t a woman in the room who would fit him with as much perfection. Together they made lovely form.

He placed his palm against her back. And as he drew her into a mock embrace at the next turn he inclined his head to whisper in her ear.

“What are you about?” His voice was low.

She glanced up beneath her lashes. “Must I have motive?”

His mouth bore a not-quite-smile, the shadow of dark amusement.

“If I follow,” he made a masculine pivot, “where will you lead?”

“It is you,” she curtseyed and looked into his eyes, “who guide this dance.”

He chuckled. “I think not.”

Thrill—torrid as melted wax—trickled down inside her chest. The scald melted away the matron’s censure and the ill-concealed malice in Eustace’s face.

She swept away from Wyn in perfect time. The color in her cheeks was not due to the exertion of the dance. When he took her hands in his, she missed the next cue and she flushed deeper. He modified the steps, drawing her into another arched twirl, and as the music ended, he held her close, skipping the final bow and curtsey.

“Forgive me,” she said breathlessly, “the heat…a misstep…”

“You were perfect, Your Grace,” he said.

“You are pleased?” she asked.

He touched the flower above her ear. “Very.”

“As am I, Your Grace.” She stepped back. Her eyes fluttered down as she made her curtsey. “As am I.”

…

Before the clock chimed two, Harrison conveyed Lavinia to the dowager duchess. And well past four, Thea ordered Sophia and Randolph to do what they both clearly wished to do—depart to a place where they could be alone. The duke, of course, remained ever the accommodating gentleman, even to the final guest.

And, to Thea’s great annoyance, those most unwelcome were the last to leave. Her enamel smile graced her lips as Wynchester took the arm of the German princess, leading the Marquess, his wife, and their daughter to their conveyance. He paused on the threshold, to better discern something the princess was saying. He turned back and spoke to the daughter. The rose curtseyed with a radiant expression. A curious feeling curled around Thea’s heart.

She could not be
jealous
, could she?

The door closed behind the exiting party.

Well, she pat her hair,
jealousy
was certainly something new.

After the dance, she’d been left with a heady feeling—womanly power and promise. Now, the Marchioness’ words festered in her mind, stealing her happiness when she should have felt triumph.

“If looks could kill, sister dear.”

Thea turned to Eustace. “Wyn is absent. You may drop your mask.”

“As you have dropped yours?”

Too late, she realized her mistake.

“You have recently taken,” he continued, “great pains to reestablish yourself in your domain. Does that have something to do with my return?”

She shrugged. “Wynchester won a bet.”

“I hear,” Eustace said lightly, “he was well into his cups.”

“Good thing for him,” she smiled sweetly, “dice requires no skill.”

“Are you
certain
, skill was not involved?”

She did not bat an eye—Eustace had
no
grounds to suspect false dice. “Wynchester has always been a lucky man.”

“On that one point,” he said roughly, “we can agree.”

“I do not care for your tone, Eustace.”

He laughed. “Oh?”

“Wynchester deliberates carefully. He acts methodically. He has been,” she paused, momentarily stunned, “an excellent duke.”

Eustace snorted. “But he has not been an excellent husband.”

“He is a fine husband,” she said, not liking the look in Eustace’s eye. What was keeping Wynchester? Where was Bates? There must be a footman nearby. Or at the very least, a maid.

“So excellent a duke is our dear Wyn,” Eustace said with a knowing gleam, “that he sent unnecessary, weary staff to bed.” Eustace folded his hands together and stepped forward. “I think we should take this opportunity to become reacquainted.”

She lifted her chin, though her heart beat fast. “I daresay we know one another well enough.”

“Ah, but you’ve been busy since last we met.” He studied her as if she were a common strumpet and he a panderer. “Tonight, you should know, I was privy to more than one suggestion Wynchester would be better off without the embarrassment of his disgraced duchess.”