The Very Daring Duchess Part 45

"But Your Grace," protested Albani, still looking longingly at the diamond plume, even now unable to accept that he'd failed. "If your wife-"

"No more, signor," said Edward firmly. "No more. Now you'll excuse us, signor, but I'd prefer being with my wife alone. Isn't that so, my love?"

"Veramente," she said softly as they turned away. "Do you know that is what Lady Hamilton told me? Not the part about Hades, but the rest. That once I'd find my true love, I'd be willing to risk everything else to be with him. And I will, Edward. That is, I do."

"And so do I, my brave little nymph." He took the diamond plume and pinned it to the front of her gown. "I believe that Lady Hamilton is the wisest of women and a deuced fine matchmaker, too, to realize how exceptionally well we'd suit."

She grinned shyly, aware that here in the middle of the Westminster Bridge, her husband was regarding her with the same wicked intent as the centaur had the nymph in her drawing. "But we will be a most uncommon duke and d.u.c.h.ess, caro mio. I don't believe we could be any other kind."

"Ah, Francesca," he said as he bent to kiss her. "I wouldn't want it any other way."

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The Very Comely Countess

MIRANDA JARRETT.

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London May 1799

The Duke of Harborough's carriage lurched to a rumbling start, or at least as much of a start as any vehicle could make for itself so close to Whitehall in the middle of the day. The iron-bound wheels sc.r.a.ped over the cobblestones and the springs sawed back and forth with a queasy rhythm as the driver tried to make his way through the carts and chaises and wagons, porters and sailors and apprentices and idlers, that always crowded the streets near the Thames. The sun was too bright and the river too rank, and, with a groan, William, the present Earl of Bonnington, sank back against the leather squabs and pulled his hat lower over his eyes, trying to keep out every last ray of the infernal sunshine that was making his head ache even more.

"Will you tell me now what ails you, Bonnington?" asked Edward, the seventh Duke of Harborough, Earl of Heythrop, Baron Tyne, and a gentleman who, unlike William, never shied from the midday sun. "Aside from your usual depravities, that is."

"I would not dream of keeping anything a secret from you, you insufferably cheerful b.a.s.t.a.r.d," said William, without raising his hat from his eyes. "What ails me is simple, and not in the least depraved. I am in great need of a new woman."

Edward chuckled, more amused than a true friend had any right to be. "Having finally wearied of Emily, you are in the market for her replacement?"

"I did not 'weary' of Emily," said William. Emily had been his last mistress, a luscious little dancer he'd set up in keeping for nearly two years, until her avarice had finally counterbalanced her uninhibited imagination and abilities, and with a parting gift of rubies, William sent her on to an older marquis. "One was wearied by Emily, but never of her. It is Jenny I must replace."

"Ah." Instantly Edward sobered. "Jenny."

"Yes, Jenny." William pushed his hat back from his face; there'd be no hiding in any discussion of Jenny Colton. "Have you any notion of how close she came to getting us both captured?"

Uneasily Edward nodded. Jenny had been his idea, and now she'd be his fault as well. "I'd some idea of the problems, aye. Your report made it clear enough that the arrangements had not gone, ah, exactly as planned."

" 'Exactly,' h.e.l.l," said William with disgust. He hadn't wanted to mention this in the Admiralty Office, not knowing who might be listening even there, but here now in Edward's carriage he had no such qualms. "She decided she was far too intelligent to follow orders, and began plotting and playing games she'd no notion how to finish. If we hadn't been able to clear the French coast three nights ago, then Robitaille and his men would have swept us up for certain."

There wasn't much cheerfulness to be found in Edward's face now. "Where is she at present?"

"Back in the theater at Bristol," said William, "where I fervently hope she remains for the rest of her mortal days, or at least for mine. I've no great desire to explore French republicanism through the wonders of the guillotine on account of some third-rate actress."

He could make light of it now, but the Fancy had barely slipped beneath the French guns and into the safety of a dense fog. It had been close, d.a.m.ned close. No wonder his head ached.

Edward frowned, restlessly tapping his fingers on his knee. When he'd given up active duty to a.s.sume his t.i.tle, he'd also given up wearing his gold-laced captain's uniform except for dress, but the years he'd spent in the navy still showed as much in the formal, straight-backed way he carried himself as it did in his sun-browned, weather-beaten face. He didn't look like any of his fellow peers in the House of Lords, and his experience was beyond theirs, too, having served with honor at the Battle of the Nile with Admiral Lord Nelson.

"I am sorry, William," said his friend now. "I thought you'd find Jenny amusing. I thought she'd be to your, ah, taste."

William allowed himself a small, exasperated grumble. It was bad enough that the scandal sheets breathlessly painted him as a sinfully charming rakeh.e.l.l, a carefree despoiler of maidens and defiler of wives. It simply wasn't true. Not entirely, anyway. He was very fond of women, and women in turn were very fond of him, and he'd never seen the wickedness in obliging their fondness, or letting them oblige his. But to have Edward believing these exaggerations and treating him as if he were no better than a stallion in perpetual rut-well, enough was enough.

"I am not insatiable, Edward," he said testily. "And I do not regard these runs across the Channel as pleasure-jaunts filled with drinking and whoring. I know that is precisely what we wish the French to believe, but if I begin to believe it, too, then I'm as good as dead. h.e.l.l, if you chose Jenny only to warm my-"

"She came highly recommended," said Edward defensively. "For her reticence, that is. Not her other, ah, talents."

"Oh, no, of course not," said William with a certain resignation as he settled back against the cushions, arms folded over his chest. "Spoken like the old married man you are. You're so blessed content with your new little wife that you can't bear to think of us wicked old bachelors behaving decently at all."

"My contentment has nothing to do with this." Irritably Edward tugged at one white linen cuff. "You know d.a.m.ned well I'd never willingly put you at risk, not after you've already done so much for the Admiralty and the country as well."

"I know, Ned. But do recall that you're the great hero, not I." William sighed. No one who knew them both would ever make such a mistake, which was exactly why he had been so successful with his missions. Who would believe anything so patriotic, so selfless, of the Earl of Bonnington? "I am simply tired and cross, and I want nothing more than a drink to settle my temper. But I do believe I shall choose the next hussy myself."

"I wouldn't wish it otherwise," said Edward, grumbling but still clearly relieved that William wasn't going to raise more of a row about Jenny than he had. Not that William would. He and Edward had known one another since they were boys running wild together through the Suss.e.x countryside, nearly thirty years ago now. While their lives since then had taken very different turns, that bond would always be there between them, and was certainly not worth straining for the sake of a self-centered chit like Jenny Colton.

"And no more actresses, Ned," warned William. "They're too d.a.m.ned caught up in preening over their own beauty to be trusted. You cannot imagine the strain of being penned up in the Fancy's cabin with Jenny Colton for a fortnight of dirty weather."

Edward nodded. "But a woman won't be much use to you as a distraction if she's not beautiful."

"A different kind of beauty, then. More subtle. More like a true lady." William sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd shaved and washed and changed his clothes before he'd called upon Edward, but he still felt gritty and edgy from lack of sleep. "A lady who'll understand that there are perhaps times when she would do well to be quiet and listen."

Edward snorted. "The woman will be posing as your mistress, Will, not your wife. Though to hear you, perhaps that's what you're finally searching for, eh? A lovely demise to your overrated bachelorhood?"

"Oh, hardly." William grimaced, for ever since Edward had fallen in love and married last year, he'd become the most earnest of matchmakers. It wasn't that William had any real argument against marrying-his own parents had been happy enough models for him-but he simply couldn't see any reason for it, either, not just yet. Eventually, when the time was right to sire an heir, he'd have to find himself some well-bred young lady to carry the family name, but not in the immediate future.

"All I wish for now is a replacement for Jenny," he declared, "a sweet-tempered little hussy with a strong enough stomach for the sea, one who will take orders like a soldier and be willing to risk her pretty neck for the sake of her king and country. I'll know the woman when I find her, Ned. Perhaps she'll even find me first."

Edward groaned, reaching for his hat from the seat behind him. "Oh, aye, most likely she will. They always do with you, don't they? But at least she'll have two months or so to chase you down."

"Two months?" repeated William with surprise. "I thought I'd head out again Monday, to finish-"

"Two months," said Edward firmly. "Maybe longer. After this last adventure, I think it best to let the French forget about you for a bit. Ah, here we are, home at last."

Harborough House had been built by Edward's grandfather, in a time when all the grandest houses were made to rival, and sometimes outdo, the royal palaces themselves. Outwardly it was also one of the most grim, built of grey stone made gloomier still by the city's constant rain of soot.

But while the exterior of the house remained stark and severe, the inside had blossomed under the fresh touch of Edward's wife, a lady famous for her great artistic gifts. Francesca had transformed the house into a place that fashionable London loved to visit, and William was no exception. The hall was cool and inviting after the noisy, dusty streets, and while Edward quickly sifted through the small pile of letters and cards presented by a footman, William's gaze rose to the painting hung in a place of honor and attention between the twin staircases.

It was, of course, painted by the d.u.c.h.ess herself, for she always placed her newest work there for her guests' amus.e.m.e.nt, admiration, and criticism. The paintings changed often, for Her Grace was prolific as well as talented, but in all his visits to Harborough House, William had never been struck so instantly, or so intensely, by a picture as he was by this one.

The subject was simple enough, a beautiful young woman painted as a pagan G.o.ddess Venus, seated on a bench with her hands resting loosely in her lap. Her round cheeks were deliciously rosy, almost flushed, and wisps of her auburn hair had escaped from the ribbon around her head to curl around her face and neck. Her gaze wasn't directed at the viewer, but at something beyond, the unguarded expression in her wide, gray-blue eyes so rapt and joyful that William nearly turned to look behind him.

"So you like my new picture, Bonnington?" asked the d.u.c.h.ess, suddenly there at his side. "It pleases you?"

If Edward was an unusual duke, then his wife was a thoroughly unusual d.u.c.h.ess, not the least because she'd hurried to greet her husband here in the hall instead of waiting to receive him in her own rooms. She'd obviously come directly from her painting studio, for she wore a paint-stained striped half-gown over a full-sleeved chemise, her dark hair tied back and gold hoops swinging from her ears, more like a gypsy than a peeress.

"This new picture does please me, Francesca," said William, his gaze already wandering back to the painting, "so much so that I'm neglecting you entirely."

"William is feeling churlish, my dear," said Edward, looping his arm fondly around his wife's waist as he bent to kiss her. "He even admits it. He is tired, and ill-tempered, and thirsty, and therefore cannot be responsible for his behavior."