Not that duke, p.30
Not That Duke, page 30
“I will?”
Blanche flipped open a powder pot. “I’ll be damned if you are pitied by all those idiots out there.”
Stella’s throat was thick with tears. “It’s nothing new. He loves her, you know.”
“So what?” Blanche began expertly dusting Stella’s face with powder. “Who gives a damn whom a man loves or doesn’t love? My father loves French prostituées.” She shrugged. “All we can ask is that these fools keep their entertainments to themselves. That is not too much to require.”
“Silvester would never be unfaithful,” Stella mumbled.
“You can believe that if you wish. But really, who cares? He humiliated you in front of your friends, in front of society. That is not done.” Blanche’s voice grated with fury.
The door slammed open, and the dowager walked in. She narrowed her eyes at Blanche. “You’re not making things worse, are you?”
“She’s not,” Stella said. “She’s . . . she’s being very kind.”
Blanche dropped the powder and picked up some lip salve. “I was just telling the duchess here that she is going to return to the room with her head held high. She will dance with every attractive man in the room, most of them twice, perhaps a third time if there’s a pretty one on offer.”
“My son is a fool,” the dowager said, advancing just enough to wrap her arms around Stella’s shoulders and give her a brief squeeze.
Stella stood still, made uncomfortable by the unfamiliar experience and grateful when the dowager stepped away.
“More than a fool, he’s cruel,” Blanche snapped.
“He’s not cruel,” Stella said, her voice choked. “He can’t help himself.”
“A grown man can’t help himself?” Blanche said, at the same moment the duchess snorted loudly.
A huge lump was lodged in Stella’s chest. She took a deep breath, telling herself again that dignity was everything. “I suppose I can’t call for my carriage?”
“Absolutely not,” the dowager said. “You will dance the night away. My nephew Harold is a worthless fellow, but tonight his penchant for you is useful.”
Blanche was painting Stella’s lips dark crimson; Stella caught sight of it in the mirror and shuddered, thinking of Mrs. Thyme. If she were in London, she would be horrified by Stella’s new wardrobe, let alone this bold lip color.
Her aunt’s weekly letters were thick with advice drawn from ancient books of etiquette. Surprisingly, Mrs. Thyme’s weekly letters never mentioned a wish to return to London; mostly she wrote about her kitten, Sparks. But Stella could read between the lines.
In her own way, Mrs. Thyme loved her.
Unfortunately, “in her own way” was the only way anyone ever loved Stella: as second choice, second best. Not that Silvester loved her even second best, because if he did, surely he wouldn’t blithely humiliate her. Stella felt like an orphaned girl once again, her throat so raw with tears that she couldn’t speak.
“All right,” Blanche said. She stepped back. “Did you know those Frenchmen out there refer to you as a Vénus de poche, a pocket Venus?”
Her accent was perfect. Stella cleared her throat. “Didn’t you tell me that you could scarcely remember how to say hello in French?”
“Of course I can speak French; I’ve had years of lessons. But I refuse to admit it. My father is maddened that I can’t speak the language. He loves everything about the country, including, obviously, the women.”
“Stop shaking, Stella,” the dowager ordered. “I’ve had a life full of humiliations, and while this is embarrassing, my son will not return home with Yasmin. As I informed him long ago, she doesn’t share his absurd adoration.”
“Obviously, since she chose a man of lower rank,” Blanche agreed.
Stella took a deep breath. She’d made a fool of herself, thinking that shared pleasure in the bedchamber would make a difference to Silvester’s feelings. Love wasn’t like that. It wasn’t logical.
“He has never lied to me about his feelings for her,” she said, her voice cracking despite herself.
“My father has never hidden his conviction that French women are the most delightful creatures to walk the earth,” Blanche said. “But at least he doesn’t flaunt those women in front of my mother. He gives her that much.”
The dowager nodded. “Order my son to be a better actor. Or I will tell him.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Stella needs to lay down the rules of their marriage, not you,” Blanche said. “My mother has kept her head high because in the first week of their marriage she directed my father to keep his Frenchwomen in the outskirts of London, or she would scratch their eyes out.”
She met Stella’s and the dowager’s eyes with a shrug. “I’ve known my whole life that marriage requires backbone.”
“You have backbone,” the dowager said, looking rather fascinated.
“Not really, but I am learning to have one,” Blanche replied. “I am trying to change my ways.”
“All right,” Stella said. “I will inform Silvester that he can’t show his emotions so plainly now that he’s married.”
She felt as if her heart was cracking. Her husband was a consummate actor, capable of hiding every emotion. The fact he didn’t manage to, in this particular case, was evidence of the strength of his feelings for Yasmin.
She refused to think that it was due to disrespect for her, for his wife. Silvester did respect her. She was certain of it.
He just loved Yasmin . . . that much.
Stella squared her shoulders.
Blanche finished painting her own mouth and nodded at her. “You are a duchess. Be a duchess.”
“Thank you,” Stella said. She hesitated. “I really mean it. I was close to tears out there, thinking I was a useless button.”
“I’ve been a pouffiasse to you in the past,” Blanche said. “But if you’ll give me a second chance, Stella, I can be a true friend. I promise.”
“I would like that,” Stella said.
“Come along, you two,” the dowager said. She eyed them. “I suggest you get rid of that green ruff,” she said to Blanche. “It looks like a wilting head of lettuce.”
Blanche paused, then she gave the duchess a smile. “Nonsense,” she said, holding open the door. “I look beautiful.”
“I shall address you as Blanche,” the dowager announced. “I am startled by my own modernity.”
Blanche curtsied. “I should be honored, Your Grace.”
Thankfully, a crowd of young Frenchmen surged toward them when they returned to the ballroom. The expatriates had turned Stella into their mascot, their petite duchesse. Stella glanced to the other side of the room just long enough to see that Silvester was still seated beside Yasmin.
She danced the next two sets, including a perfectly executed quadrille, after which Harold begged her to sing another duet.
Stella shook her head, but Blanche appeared beside her and hissed, “You’re going to sing, Stella. It’s what you do best.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “What if my voice shakes?”
“I’ll sing with you.” Blanche grabbed the sheet of music Harold had in his hand.
“Your father is on the other side of the room,” Stella pointed out.
“I haven’t been a good friend. I mean to change.” Blanche smiled at Harold, showing all of her teeth.
Not being entirely foolish, he flinched and said, “A trio!”
Blanche’s smile grew. “We have a lovely surprise for you,” she called, clapping her hands. She waited until guests broke off their conversation. “This song was written by Madeleine de Scudéry over a century ago. She dedicated it to les amoureaux. The lovers.”
Her French accent was flawless. Stella saw her father’s mouth fall open.
“L’eau qui caresse le rivage,” they sang. Harold’s voice supported from below, and Blanche’s beautiful soprano arched over Stella’s husky tones. “Tout dit qu’aimer est un plasir.”
Everyone says that love is a pleasure, or so Madeleine de Scudéry claimed.
Stella didn’t agree. But singing? Despite her sadness, she felt a wash of pleasure at their three-part harmony. Blanche smiled at her as they launched into the second verse about two lovers.
Harold’s guests were utterly silent. Silvester was still seated by Yasmin, but his eyes were riveted on Stella. She forced herself to look away.
When the song finished, the room broke into wild applause. Blanche wound an arm around Stella’s waist. “Merci beaucoup,” she told the room. “We are happy to have given you such pleasure.”
I am worth loving, Stella told herself. I am not a useless button.
I am worth loving.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I had no idea that Stella could sing like that,” the Earl of Lilford remarked.
“Nor Blanche Boodle!” Yasmin exclaimed. “I’m surprised she hasn’t accepted any proposals, but I would guess there will be a line in front of her father’s study tomorrow.”
“An exquisite soprano,” Giles agreed.
Silvester gave him a ferocious look. “No one sings as beautifully as my wife,” he stated. It wasn’t just Stella’s husky voice either. Her red lips, and her curves, and her joy as she sang?
He’d never be free of those Frenchmen now.
“Of course not,” Yasmin chirped.
Silvester liked her; he truly did. But how did he ever think he could put up with all that sunshiny cheer, day in and day out?
“Our marriage would have been disastrous,” Yasmin said, guessing what he was thinking.
“Because he’s a damned fool,” her husband growled, drawing her to her feet. “It’s time for you to rest.”
Yasmin smiled again. “Good evening, Silvester.”
Silvester stood up belatedly, thinking about the fact that he genuinely liked Yasmin, but the emotion wasn’t love. He might well have been influenced by the fact that Giles wanted her. Perhaps their marriage would have been disastrous.
But his with Stella would not be.
One thing was clear. He had to convince Stella that he chose her.
That he would choose her next time, the next day, the next year, in another life. That she was the only one he ever truly wanted, and the only woman he could have lived with.
That they were not golden girls and boys, as the Shakespeare verse had it. They were sweaty and testy and real. Laughing in bed. They were so damned lucky.
Set upon his plan, he was blindsided when he escorted Stella into a carriage only to discover that his wife was furious. She sat on the opposite seat, her eyes hard, her arms closed over her chest.
For his part, he looked at her wrapped in her pelisse, and desire rose thick and hot in his body. Normally, he would catch her in his arms and bring her to his lap, and then amuse them both by kissing her with such carnal intent that they would stumble from the carriage and straight to the bedchamber.
Not tonight.
“What’s the matter?” he asked cautiously.
“The matter?” Her laughter had an acidic edge. “What could possibly be the matter?” Her wide eyes usually met his with a glint of shared desire. Now they were steely cold.
“I don’t know.”
“For all your faults, you are rarely unkind.”
He frowned. “Are you referring to when I compared you to a hammer?”
Stella leaned toward him. “Unkindnesses are not merely spoken. Your true love walks into the room, and instantly you trot to her side. You don’t think that was unkind?”
“I didn’t trot to her side. You were dancing.”
“Yes, I was dancing. You couldn’t wait to greet Yasmin until I was free, knowing that the world was watching to see your reaction? Not even to spare me that humiliation?”
She dashed away a tear with a jerky movement, and Silvester’s gut screwed into a sickening knot.
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“As everyone surmised. You saw Yasmin, and she was all you thought about, so you went directly to her side. I might have expected it, but I didn’t anticipate that you would show the world. You? The man who lies every day about who you are? You, who created that romantic charade after our wedding? You couldn’t be bothered to put up a bit of a facade when it came to Yasmin?”
Silvester choked. He was never without words, except in the grip of emotion. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll get over it,” Stella said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t expect . . . Well, that’s not fair because I didn’t think ahead. But I would have thought that you didn’t want people to know that you’re still in love with her. After all, Yasmin is married to Giles. You lost that contest.”
Her words were whipping past his head so fast that he could hardly make sense of them. “It wasn’t a contest.” But then he remembered his own conclusion about his courtship. “Perhaps my courtship of Yasmin was a contest, but I’m not in love with her.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re the only one who believes that. Your mother gave me a hug. Your mother! Also she said that you were a fool.”
“My mother said that?”
“Astonishing, isn’t it? For all she loves to scold, you are her golden boy. She adores you. Do you know how many sympathetic glances I received tonight, not to mention outright expressions of sympathy—along with an indecent proposal, given that your lack of interest is so clear that men feel you don’t give a damn what your wife does?”
Silvester’s back stiffened. “I give a damn.”
“I know you do. I also know you won’t be unfaithful. You did nothing that I shouldn’t have anticipated. But in the future, I would ask you to hide your emotion.”
“I scarcely chatted with her,” Silvester said, stunned. “I was talking to Giles about banking regulations. Stella, you have to believe me. I don’t give a damn about Yasmin being back. It was nice to see her, that’s all. I like her smile—”
He instantly realized he’d made another mistake.
“She has a lovely smile,” Stella said evenly. “Truly lovely. We’d better stop talking now, don’t you think? It’s hard enough making my way in this marriage without enumerating Lady Yasmin’s best qualities.”
The carriage drew to a stop before Silvester could marshal words. What were the right words? Being around Stella seemed to strip away his sophisticated rhetoric, leaving him in a jumble of words punctuated by “mine,” which was entirely unhelpful.
Silvester pushed open the door and, once on the ground, turned to give Stella a hand. She flicked a glance at him and ignored his hand, missed the step and plunged down with a faint scream. Silvester caught her just before she hit the pavement.
“Thank you,” she said with frigid emphasis.
He put her back on her feet and followed as Stella greeted their new butler, handing him her reticule and assuring him that it had been a most pleasant evening.
Pleasant?
Silvester felt as if he’d been flayed. She walked directly into their bedchamber, but the dowager jerked open a door farther down the corridor and glared at him.
He obeyed her silent command and walked toward her, bowing. “Mother.”
“You fool.”
She slammed the door in his face.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Stella put her spectacles to the side before she scooped up Specs and sat down on the edge of the bed, burying her face in warm fur. Her cat broke into a purr like the rumble of a tiny locomotive. At least one person loved her best.
Though perhaps a cat didn’t count as a person. She really had to stop being so sorry for herself. She was a duchess in love with her husband. That should be enough.
Silvester walked through the door, his face wiped of all expression. Without speaking, he leaned over to pull off his boots.
“I would like to sleep alone tonight,” Stella said, knowing her eyes were glossy with tears that she couldn’t allow to fall. Her throat ached with sorrow.
Her husband dropped one boot on the floor. She knew he was about to launch into an argument meant to convince her that he had done nothing wrong. Silvester hated criticism.
“I am not punishing you,” she said, clearing her throat. “Tomorrow, I promise that I shall be entirely back to normal. We have no need to speak about this evening ever again.”
“I am not in love with Yasmin,” Silvester said. “I never was.” He dropped his second boot.
“That’s marvelous,” Stella said, not believing him for a moment. “That will make it easier for both of us as the years pass, I’m sure. Please, Silvester. I’d like to be alone.”
He walked across the room and threw open the sash, staring out into the dark trees, all that was visible of Hyde Park at this hour. “I don’t want to sleep apart from you. May I say again that I never loved that woman?”
Stella looked down at her cat, wondering how Silvester could utter those words, when the evidence was so clearly against him. She took a deep breath. “I’m tired. Please, please can we just—”
“I need to—” He turned to face her and started again. “I need to explain.”
Raw panic clawed at Stella’s throat. She didn’t want to hear his explanation.
“I want you to understand.”
“I do understand,” Stella said quickly.
Silvester had that stubborn look that suggested he would refuse to give up.
Fine. She had offered him a civilized silence, and he had rejected it. “I understand that my husband adores another woman. I also understand that he is an honorable man, who will not betray me. Do you think that fact makes me feel better?”
“I just said—”
“I don’t care,” Stella cried, dashing away tears that insisted on falling. “You’d think I’d be used to being second choice, but I’m not. I looked at you snuggled on the couch beside Yasmin, and I felt so angry I couldn’t even breathe.”
“I was not—”
She took a deep breath. The bleak feeling in her gut? She had to live with it. Get through it. But she couldn’t stop herself. “You forced me to marry you, even though I warned you that you might feel differently after Yasmin returned to London.”
