Villiers bowed again. “It would be my greatest pleasure.” Then, as the prince settled his bulk back into Selina’s boat, he turned to Jemma. “Would you like to join the others for the celebration?”
“Indeed, I would like to congratulate my brother, so I will take up His Majesty’s kind invitation.” She lowered her voice. “I would feel worse for you, Villiers, if I didn’t suspect that you will break out champagne when you get home.”
“Only to assuage my misery,” he assured her. “And perhaps to dull the thought of that chess game I just agreed to. Sometimes it’s harder to fix a loss than to win.”
The royal footmen nimbly maneuvered Villiers’s boat next to Selina’s, and with a minimum of squeaks, Jemma made her way on board and sat down next to the prince, who seemed very happy to meet the lovely Duchess of Beaumont.
“I’ve heard much about you,” he said, “and all of it good!”
Jemma had no doubt but that her reputation was a cause for celebration to this particular future king.
Without further ado, the two boats powered by footmen started to plow through the water, back upstream, while the boat carrying the Duke of Villiers headed the other way, to the steps.
“Don’t dally, Roberta!” the marquess shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, looking back at his daughter’s boat.
She didn’t see him. In fact, all that could be seen of her were scarlet ears, peeking out from behind her hands.
There was a moment or two of silence as the boats receded in both directions.
Damon tucked his shirt back into his breeches and pulled on his coat. Roberta still hadn’t moved.
He pulled up the pole, maneuvered the boat back under the willow with one great shove, and then tethered the boat again. Finally he sat down before her.
“Roberta, you’re going to have to look up at some point,” he said gently.
“I don’t want to.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.
“I’ve never proposed before,” he said. “I think it would be easier if I could see your face. That way if you look disgusted I can quickly throw myself off the boat and end it now.”
Her hands dropped. “Please don’t be melodramatic!” she cried. “I can’t bear it at the moment.” Her face was distinctly pink and her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
“I’m just fooling.” He reached out and took her hands. “Are you crying because Villiers is lost to you?”
“I’m not crying,” she said, all evidence to the contrary.
In one smooth gesture, he slid forward onto his knees. “Roberta, will you marry me?”
“You already told me that you were marrying me,” she said, with a sniff.
He put one of her hands up to his mouth. “But this is a proper proposal. I decided to marry you about twenty minutes after we met, and I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Of course, you were nattering on about Villiers, so I couldn’t make it plain to you.”
“You didn’t!”
“Roberta, love, do you really think that I would take your virginity—and make love to you every chance I could get—without planning to marry you?”
“But I was engaged…”
“You were toying with the idea,” he said. “But at the same time, you were surrendering to me.”
“Surrendering?”
Her hands were at his mouth again. “Surrender,” he said firmly. “You’re mine, Roberta. Mine.” He could see a glimmer of a smile in her eyes, so he pulled her forward into his arms. Which made the boat rock rather violently, but neither of them even flinched.
“I don’t see that I surrendered,” she said.
Her mouth was so pink and delectable that he forgot his point for a while, and only returned to the subject some time later. “What did you think you were doing?” he asked, his mouth sliding down her neck.
“I was—I was—”
Now that he mentioned it, Roberta couldn’t remember quite what she was doing. Villiers made her angry and so she decided to lose her virginity…It sounded so foolish. “I was gaining experience,” she said firmly.
“You were surrendering to me. You just didn’t want to think of it that way,” he said, even more firmly. He cupped her face in his hands. “So, will you?”
“Will I marry you?”
He shook his head. “You are marrying me. Will you surrender?”
She put her arms around his neck and those foolish tears were back in her eyes. “I think,” she whispered, “that I already did.”
Chapter 36
He was free, obviously a reason for rejoicing. The moment the boat poled back to the Fleet River steps, Villiers sprang out. His heel slipped on the slimy step; he teetered; he fell.
On his bottom.
Behind him he heard a grunt of distress from his footman, who lurched forward to rescue the poor forsaken duke who had slipped in the muck. But Villiers was already up.
The fall made the rage brewing in his stomach burst into flame. He made his way home, stripped off the coat smeared with green moss and black mud, bathed and dressed again for the evening.
It occurred to him as he pulled on tight breeches of a glorious canary that without noticing it and certainly without approving it, he had fallen into the way of thinking of himself as a man about to be married. For all of forty-eight hours, he scoffed to himself.
His valet eased a coat of saturated rose over his shoulders; he rejected it as clashing with the breeches. The man brought a waistcoat of mustard yellow, and Villiers actually swore at him. Finally he settled on a full-cut frock coat with his trademark exuberant embroidery: a tracing of leaves and yellow roses. It was, perhaps, just a trifle too exuberant, but it had an aggressiveness that pleased.
The valet cleared his throat rather nervously. “Boots, Your Grace? Or the shoes with silver buckles?”
“Red heels,” Villiers snapped. “I’m to Parsloe’s and then to dinner with Lord Devonshire. I can hardly tramp about in boots.” Rather than his cane, he chose a proper little rapier, designed to swing at his hip. Finally he placed a patch high, just below his eye where it would emphasize his lashes.
He swept a cold look around his chamber, a muddle of rejected coats, cravats, shoes, ribbons spilling from his drawer. “Do make yourself useful and neaten this up,” he said softly. “I have a mind to bring someone home later.”
“A bloody animal he is tonight,” his valet said later, in the kitchen with a soothing cup of tea. “As if I didn’t always neaten up. I’m sure I don’t know what’s got into him.”
“The lady’s rejected ’im,” Cook said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ll bet you an apple tart next Tuesday that she’s turned him down flat.”
“You think that because he’s bringing home a dollymop?”
She had a sound of disgust. “Nothing to do with it. He’s in a foul mood, he is. And he’s not over at Beaumont House, is he? He’s been there for three days running. Mark my words: he’s back on the market again.”
“I don’t think he ever was on the market,” the valet said dubiously.
“Could be he’s not a marrying man,” Cook concluded. “I’d best make up some bits and pieces for entertaining a ladyfriend tonight.”
“Got rid of his mistress and all last week,” the valet said mournfully. “And now the wife drops him. That’s cruel, that is.”
“Not his wife yet, and that’s a blessing in itself,” Cook said. She had firm views about matrimony, and one could not describe them as positive. “Out of the way, will you? I can’t put a hand on my sugar.”
Parsloe’s, like any organization of its ilk, was ruled by the unspoken hierarchy structuring the members of the London Chess Club. Brilliance ruled. Chess is an odd and unlikely sport: it taxes the brains and the heart at the same time. Even a poor player might sometimes make a beautiful play, or stump a master, and thus the hierarchy is never set in stone. Only at the very top is it unassailable.
Vi
lliers’s carriage pulled up at precisely eight o’clock. It was a delicious little carriage, as sleek and beautiful as its master: painted a dark crimson, and picked out in brazen orange accents.
The door was snatched open by the duke’s footman; three others joined in, standing before the door, backs straight, liveries immaculate.
One red heel emerged from the carriage, followed by a powerful, muscled thigh clad in canary colored breeches. The duke wore, as usual, not a touch of powder. He walked to the door of the large townhouse that served as the chess club’s headquarters without looking to the left or the right.
As he climbed the stairs, a footman swept open the front door. Inside, he handed his hat to one, and his cape to another.
“I shall keep my sword,” he said to Parsloe, who was bowing. “I am not in the mood for killing tonight.”
The rules of the chess club insisted on no weapons, but what could Parsloe say? The duke ruled. And not because of his title, either.
Villiers strolled into the main room, knowing that anger was burning within him like a slow coal, and rather relishing the pure stupidity of it. He didn’t want the girl, never really wanted the girl, and now he was angry because he no longer had her? Such is the foolishness of men.
Lord Woodword Jourdain looked up when he came in. “Villiers!” he cried. “You’re just in time to try my new chess game.”
Villiers strolled to his side and looked down at the cacophony of pieces. “How many pieces in this version, Jourdain?”
“Twenty-eight,” Jourdain said eagerly. “Ten rows and fourteen columns. I had to make up a special board.”
“This piece?” Villiers put a beautifully manicured forefinger on a piece.
“The concubine,” Jourdain said.
“An errant piece, no doubt.”
“Only held in check by two additional bishops.”
“And these?”
“Crowned rooks.”
“I think not,” Villiers said, turning away. “I’ve had enough of females, concubines or otherwise…they are all so tiresome, are they not?”
Jourdain huffed in annoyance, but Viscount St. Albans looked up. “Do tell,” he said with his usual lisp. “Has true love tarnished so quickly?”
“Ah, what is love?” Villiers said. The only person sitting before an unattended chessboard was Lord Gordon. “A game, my lord?”
“My pleasure, Your Grace.”
“I’ll give you a rook advantage,” Villiers said gently.
Lord Gordon’s face showed no response at all to this insult, merely a bovine gratitude, and Villiers felt his temper slip a notch higher.
“What is love, ’tis not hereafter,” St. Albans said. “I believe that’s Shakespeare, but even so, Your Grace, your experience of love must have been remarkably brief. It’s been no more than a day since I heard you were engaged.”
“I give you the joy, St. Albans, of being the first to know that I am no longer engaged,” Villiers said.
“At least try a few of the pieces,” Jourdain said, suddenly appearing at his shoulder. “You’ve no idea how interesting it makes the game, Villiers. Take the concubine.” He plumped the piece down in the middle of the board. “Here’s another for you, Gordon. She moves all directions, of course, just like the queen. Her special touch is that she can take two men in a row, but she never takes the king or the queen.” He giggled madly. “She’s not that sort of concubine.”
“What?” Gordon’s pink lips flapped like a fish on the dock, Villiers decided. “We can’t play with a piece like that.”
“You play with pieces like that all the time,” Villiers said sweetly. “That was you I glimpsed with Mrs. Rutland the other night?”
Gordon was rearranging his pieces and didn’t look up. Villiers could only hope that he remembered where they all went.
“The concubine goes in front of the king’s rook,” Jourdain instructed. “She’s on her knees already, you understand.”
It wasn’t that he wished to marry. But there had been something interesting about the last few days, during which he felt part of something—of a family, one had to suppose. Yet what a family? Who would want to tie himself to that ridiculous marquess? Clearly, the man felt the same about him.
“I don’t want to play with this piece,” Gordon said, jutting out his lip. “I’ve a good shot at winning with a rook advantage. This piece will just mess it all up.”
“Concubines always do,” St. Albans said. He had pulled over a chair. “You should watch out for Mrs. Rutland, Gordon. Her husband was swearing to revenge his horns the other night.”
“He’ll have a pretty time deciding which man to challenge,” Villiers said idly. He hadn’t really decided whether to play with the concubine. On the one hand, it was a silly piece. On the other, it would irritate Gordon and Lord knows why he had sat down in front of the moribund fool.
“Mrs. Rutland is a praiseworthy woman,” Gordon said.
“Well, you should know,” Villiers said. “You may begin, Gordon.” He placed his concubine in front of his king’s rook. “Quite a brave little piece, isn’t she?”
“She can turn the entire game,” Jourdain said.
“I’ve no doubt. Your move, Gordon.”
Gordon pushed forward a pawn and said with his customary obstinacy, “Mrs. Rutland is no concubine.”
“No one said she is,” Villiers said. It was his move and he decided to try out the concubine by taking one of Gordon’s pawns and then his king’s rook. Why not?
Gordon breathed heavily through his nose in a revolting manner. “Look here, Jourdain,” he said, “how can we play a proper game with that dreadful concubine going about and sweeping up pieces right and left?”
“So true to life,” Villiers said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have thought you capable of it, Jourdain.”
Jourdain turned a little pink. “Go on, Gordon,” he urged. “Just think it through, man.”
Gordon was incapable of thinking anything through, including his relations with Mrs. Rutland. “You might want to turn the lock next time you decide to shed your breeches in public,” Villiers said, just when he considered that Gordon might be actually concentrating on a move. “Your wife would have been most distressed to walk into the sitting room and see you rutting away like that.”
“Rutting Rutland,” the viscount said with a simpering laugh, showing that he was ever a man who had to say the obvious.
“I don’t care for your phrasing,” Gordon stated, looking up at Villiers.
Villiers felt a lazy spur of interest. Finally the great walrus was listening to him. “But rutting is such an evocative phrase,” he complained.
Gordon pushed back his chair with a scraping noise, shocking in the small room.
Parsloe rushed forward. “My lords, may I remind you of the rules of the London Chess Club? Physical interaction of any kind and the participants lose their membership.”
Gordon paused. Villiers could almost see the cogs turning in his head. Finally he pulled back to the table and said, “At least I didn’t almost marry her.”
Villiers lifted his eyes from the chessboard very slowly. “Since I gather you are unlikely to be talking about your virtuous wife, would you like to clarify yourself?”
Gordon bent over, huffing a little, and swept his concubine forward to take a pawn, followed by one of Villiers’s bishops. “After I left Mrs. Rutland at the ball, I happened into the library. My guess would be that you, Villiers, have lost your fiancée to the Earl of Gryffyn. Of course, I would never soil a lady’s reputation by saying anything about…rutting.”
Villiers knew quite well that the wave of rage he felt was unfair and improper. It was just that if Gordon saw Roberta in the library with Gryffyn—that would be before he asked her to marry him, before he told her to lose her chastity, before he decided to end their engagement. At the very moment she was doing her best to lure him to the point.
There are times when irrational feelings are insuppressible. He
felt sick. That was it—sick. He looked up to find St. Albans’s avid little eyes fixed on him like a pig spotting a rotten apple. Albans was watching for the slightest trace of emotion, he knew. He’d be damned if he allowed anyone to think that he cared.
“Queens are so unstable,” he said sweetly. “They careen across the board, and sometimes turn into concubines before one’s very eyes.”
St. Albans laughed. Gordon shook his head. “You’re unnatural, Villiers. You really are. You don’t give a damn, do you?”
Gordon moved forward a rook, so Villiers took it. “Check.”
“Where?” Gordon bleated.
“My queen.”
“I have a bishop.”
“Ah, but I’m afraid the concubine will take care of the bishop, as they so often do,” Villiers pointed out.
“One might say that concubines conquer all,” St. Albans said, with his high cackle.
Villiers pushed back from the table. He couldn’t take another moment of this god-awful idiocy. “Gentlemen, at your service,” he said, bowing.
Gordon looked up from where he was glowering at the board. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, his pale blue eyes wide. “There wasn’t any rutting involved. In the library, I mean.”
“But there so clearly was this afternoon,” Villiers said gently. “A concubine, you see, will always display her nature, and I am happy to pass my ownership to Gryffyn. Your new piece,” he said, turning to Jourdain, “is dangerous.”
Jourdain shook his head. “You needed the extra bishops to keep her in check.”
Viscount St. Albans’s laugh said it all.
No number of bishops could keep a concubine in check.
Chapter 37
April 20
Day nine of the Villiers/Beaumont chess matches
From Damon Reeve, Earl of Gryffyn, to the Duke of Villiers:
Your description of my future wife is all over London. Your seconds?