Duchess By Night (Desperate Duchesses #3)

Duchess By Night (Desperate Duchesses #3) Page 5

Harriet blinked at her. It sounded as if Isidore were voicing the same things she had just been thinking to herself.

“To be brutally honest,” Isidore continued, “I’m tired of sleeping alone. If Cosway turns out to be a horrible sort of man with whom I don’t want to spend time, well, then I might leave him and return to Italy. But at least I won’t have this talismanic virginity any longer. And I might have a child.”

Harriet choked, and even Villiers opened his eyes. “Did I hear the word virgin?”

“Isidore, you are being deliberately provoking,” Jemma said, handing her a small ruby glass of cordial. “You are trying to shock us. I assure you that I am horrifically shocked, so you can relent now.”

“Virginity is a woman’s most valuable possession,” Villiers said, looking not in the least shocked.

“Nonsense,” Jemma said briskly. “Since we’re all being so remarkably intimate, I don’t mind pointing out that a virgin without a brain is a useless creature.”

“Ah, but a virgin with a brain is beyond the price of rubies.”

“I have beauty too, I might point out,” Isidore said.

“Vanity, thy name is woman,” Villiers said. But he was smiling. “I gather you intend to impress upon your husband the possibility that you might birth a cuckoo to inherit his dukedom.”

“More to the point,” Jemma put in, “impress it upon his mother. Because if Cosway were interested in his estate, he would have come home years ago.”

“You truly mean to lose your virginity?” Harriet asked. It was so fascinating to see another woman face loneliness—and do it with all the courage that she, Harriet, lacked. Isidore wouldn’t sit around on the side of a ballroom weeping onto a stuffed goose.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Isidore said airily. “I shall make that decision based on how long it takes my husband to return. I just need a potent kind of man.”

“In order to father your child?” Villiers asked. “May I say that this is a fascinating conversation? I can’t say I’ve ever seen adultery planned with such ruthless lack of emotion.”

“I’d prefer he were potent in terms of scandal,” Isidore said. “Someone like you, Villiers. If I were flirting with you, the news would travel to Africa by the end of the month. Harriet, you must know who’s the most scandalous man in England besides Villiers.”

“Oh, Villiers isn’t truly scandalous,” Harriet said.

Villiers opened his eyes. “You surprise me, Your Grace. Truly, you do.”

“I don’t know why. You never really step beyond the bounds of the commonplace.”

“I have children out of wedlock,” Villiers said, looking slightly wounded.

“What nobleman doesn’t?” Harriet retorted.

“I am lowered by a sudden sense of my own inadequacies,” Villiers said. “Not truly scandalous. Commonplace. My pride is dashed to the ground.”

Harriet ignored him. “There are no interesting men in the ton.”

“Worse and worse,” Villiers mumbled.

“Then who is the most scandalous man in England, to your mind?” Isidore asked.

“Lord Strange, of course,” Harriet said.

“Lord Strange?” Isidore asked, knitting her brow. “Surely a lord is part of the ton.”

“Not Strange,” Villiers said, sipping a glass of water. “Strange is the richest man in England, give or take a shilling or two. At some point the king gave him a title. After all, he keeps rescuing the English economy. Strange could certainly afford to pay for a dukedom if he wished, but he told me that the only reason he accepted the title was because he liked the sound of Lord Strange.”

“He’s odd, very intelligent, and truly scandalous,” Harriet said. “Not like the men who claim to be rakes in London but really just trot around after opera singers—”

Villiers groaned.

“He’s mad for architecture, by all accounts, and has built his own replica of the leaning tower of Pisa,” she continued.

“I’ve seen the original,” Isidore said. “Surely Strange didn’t gain his interesting reputation by copying defective Italian architecture?”

“His reputation stems from the motley collection of loose people with whom he lives,” Harriet said.

“Actors and actresses,” Villiers put in. “Those who work the streets, and those who work the court. Inventors. Scientists. Strange boasts that every interesting person in the country passes through his estate at some point.”

“It’s true,” Harriet said. “I no sooner read about someone powerful in government, or at one of the universities, but the gossip columns note that he’s visiting Strange.”

“How did he come by all his money?” Isidore asked. “Is he a merchant of some kind?”

“Oh, no, his father was a perfectly respectable baronet,” Villiers answered, “with a beaky head, like an old eagle. There was some sort of problem with the family years ago. Could be his mother flew the coop. Or a sister. Perhaps an aunt? At any rate, Strange is a gentleman born and bred, but you’ll never seen him in the normal haunts. He goes where he wishes, while hosting an endless house party.”

“I would love to pay him a visit,” Jemma said. “I bought a gorgeous little chess queen that he had sold to a curiosity shop. He promised me the whole set if I gained the courage, as he put it, to pay him a visit.”

“Brilliant!” Isidore said. “I shall travel there at once!”

“Oh, but—” Jemma said.

“But what?” Isidore interrupted. “I wish to make a scandal, and this man appears ideally suited to create one for me. I shall brush shoulders with all those light-skirts and theater people and have an excellent time doing so. And meanwhile I shall flirt madly with my host, thereby creating a scandal that will burn its way straight to my husband’s ears.”

“You’re planning to flirt with Strange himself?” Harriet said. “Your reputation could be ruined throughout England, merely by walking through the doors at Fonthill, let alone by flirting with Strange. No one flirts with Strange.”

“Why on earth not?” Isidore asked. “Is he hideous? I flirt with everyone! Unless—” she wrinkled her nose “—is he shorter than Lord Beesby? There are certain physiques in which I cannot feign interest.”

“Oh no, he’s actually quite good-looking,” Harriet said.

“Then I shall be the first to flirt with him. In a very public way, naturally.”

“He doesn’t flirt,” Harriet explained. “From what I understand, he beds women but doesn’t toy with them.”

“He shall flirt with me,” Isidore announced. “I’ve yet to meet the man who couldn’t be taught to flirt. All one has to do is lead him to think that bedding is a possibility and voilà!”

Harriet laughed. “I’d love to see your lessons!”

“Then you must come with me,” Isidore said, grinning at her.

“I? I could never do such a thing. You couldn’t really mean to visit Fonthill. It’s just not done. Not done by—by us, I mean.”