When the Duke Returns Page 29

  “I just want to make it clear to everyone that I’m—it is ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Everyone knows how much you’re worth, darling,” Jemma said soothingly. “I like the glittering look. It’s a public service. You’ll reflect the candlelight so no one falls overboard. You know, last time the king had a gathering on his yacht, Lord Piddle tripped over his own feet and somersaulted into the water.”

  “Did he come back up again?”

  “Naturally,” Jemma said. “He floated like a cork.”

  “If I fell overboard,” Isidore said, “I would sink like a stone. These diamonds are quite small but put together, they’re quite heavy.”

  “I suggest you sit in a throne to receive the admiring hoards.”

  Isidore bit her lip.

  “Villiers went to fetch him,” Jemma said, guessing exactly what she was thinking.

  “What if Villiers can’t convince him?” Isidore said, fear welling up in her heart. “What if Simeon is perfectly happy without me, and has decided I’m just too much trouble?”

  “Then we’ll auction your dress in the marketplace and you can buy yourself a new husband.”

  By ten in the evening, Isidore was beginning to accept that even the Duke of Villiers couldn’t work miracles. King George III had come and gone, giving his assurance that the bill of divorce her solicitor had submitted would be approved speedily. It should have warmed Isidore’s heart to realize that even a happily married monarch found her bosom appealing, but it didn’t.

  Why didn’t Simeon come? She stood up listlessly and put her hand into the hand of some gentleman. She couldn’t even remember his name. There had been so many suitors that she’d taken to describing them to Jemma by their clothes. This one wore a turquoise coat with green buttons. Not a good combination. She managed to find a smile for him.

  Turquoise Coat bowed with a great deal of unnecessary hand flourishing, and they eased their way onto the crowded floor. The yacht was ample for a boat, but the king had been lavish with his invitations and there were (in Isidore’s opinion) far too many people onboard. Her panniers kept knocking against those of other ladies, necessitating a constant flow of apologies. What’s more, the gentle rocking motion of the river made dancing all the more difficult, especially when dressed in perilously delicate heels and a cumbersome gown.

  She was just twitching her hem out from under the clumsy feet of one of the royal dukes when there was a sudden thump and the entire yacht bounded in the water, as if a giant’s hand had thrown it in the air an inch or two.

  The duke frowned as though her gown were to blame and lumbered off to the deck, followed by most of the dancers.

  “Peculiar,” her partner remarked. “I wonder what that was about. I suppose we could go look at the water.” The musicians produced one screeching discord, and then settled back to finish the measure.

  Some people continued to dance, though most had drifted through the doors that opened onto the deck. She could hear a few shouts from outside. Jemma appeared at her shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “I think another boat has hit us,” she cried over the noise. “I’m looking for Beaumont!” And she was gone.

  Turquoise Coat started a running complaint. Drunken river boat captains presented a hazard to everyone on the river…Isidore had a headache, and it wasn’t getting any better listening to prognostications about the rightful punishment that would be meted out to the drunken captain who struck the king’s own yacht.

  “If you’ll forgive me, my lord,” she said, “I must retire to the lady’s salon for a moment.”

  “I doubt if that is entirely safe,” Turquoise Coat said. “What if the boat has suffered some damage? We should make our way outside.”

  “If the boat were damaged, we would be listing,” she pointed out.

  “I do hear some shouting and such.”

  Isidore slipped her hand out of his arm. “It has been a pleasure, my lord.”

  He said something, and she turned about. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not a lord,” he snapped, looking distinctly put upon.

  She turned away without answering, which made her feel guilty all the way back across the now empty ballroom floor. The boat was still rocking from side to side. Her guess would be that it had burst free of its moorings and was drifting in the Thames. Which meant that it would strike one or the other bank in a matter of five minutes. Hardly anything to worry about.

  At any rate, she didn’t see any reason to join the crowds on deck, where doubtless her gown would be trod on and she might even fall overboard, given the fact that the heels of her diamond-encrusted shoes had proved to be far too high for comfort. She teetered across the polished floor and finally made her way into the ladies’ salon.

  The maids had deserted their posts, naturally. She sat down on a chaise-longue and stared at the opposite wall.

  She loved him, and she’d lost him. She’d lost him by being a peremptory dragon. “Arrogant,” she muttered to herself. “Fool.” She’d dropped her handkerchief somewhere so she resorted to pulling up her jewel-encrusted skirts and wiping her eyes on her chemise.

  “Lost your way?”

  She hadn’t heard the door open. She hadn’t heard any footsteps, or sensed eyes watching her. She hadn’t planned anything to say, which was almost the worst of it.

  He looked like any other duke of the realm, dressed in a gorgeous coat of dark blue satin, embroidered with pomegranates.

  “That’s not your coat,” she said.

  “It belongs to Villiers.” He didn’t take his eyes off her.

  “You look like a duke,” she said, sniffing a little.

  Being Simeon, he didn’t bother with flummery about clothing. “You are free to choose a husband, or so they tell me,” he stated.

  She swallowed. Her heart was beating so fast that she could hear it in her ears. “Yes.”

  “I could offer myself as part of the horde that Villiers assures me is sniffing about you.”

  A tiny tendril of hope sprang up in her heart.

  “You could,” she said, nodding. “You’re wearing breeches. I’m sure that was one of my requirements.”

  “And powder,” he said, “for meeting royalty. But—”

  “But?” she whispered.

  “I’m not offering myself.”

  Her stomach twisted on a great wave of nausea and shame. “I see,” she said faintly. He was looking at her closely so she couldn’t, she couldn’t cry. She mustn’t. She didn’t.

  “Surely that doesn’t surprise you,” he said, moving into the room and closing the door behind him.

  “This is the ladies’ salon,” she said. Her voice cracked, which was stupid. She was swamped by a feeling of bewilderment, like a child who just lost both parents in one moment. She had believed him when he said he loved her. Her eyes blurred and she had to bite her lip hard. She turned away from him. “I think it’s time to leave,” she said, forcing the words out of her throat. “Jemma will be wondering where I am.”

  He didn’t answer, so finally she turned back. Simeon was busy jamming a gilt chair between the closed door and the dressing table.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I’m not offering for your hand,” he said, walking over and towering above her.

  “There’s no need to emphasize your decision!” she snapped. “I fully understand your reluctance.”

  “Do you, Isidore? Do you really?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course I understand. I gave you scant courtesy when I made those decisions about the house, for which you were justly angry.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not offering for your hand, Isidore, because I’m taking it.”

  She blinked at him.

  “I’m not a tame dog to follow you to London and paw at your skirts. I want you,” he said fiercely. “Because I love you, and you love me. And damn it, you’re going to be the very devil to live with. But you’re my devil, a
nd I can’t let anyone else have you, and I can’t imagine life without you.”

  Isidore took one sobbing, song-filled breath. “I thought—”

  “You thought I didn’t love you enough to stay with you,” he said. “And you tested me by taking off to London and expecting me to follow.”

  She lurched to her feet like an ungainly adolescent, literally throwing herself into his arms. “I love you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “I thought I couldn’t follow you because it meant I was your inferior.”

  “I never thought that!” Isidore said.

  “I couldn’t accept the truth,” he said. “You rule my heart, Isidore, and there’s no shame in that.”

  She took his face in her hands. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He kissed her so hard that her hands slipped around his neck. He kissed her so sweetly that her heart was never the same. And he kissed her so fiercely that she knew that a lion had voluntarily walked into the circle of her arms. Isidore Del’Fino, Duchess of Cosway, never forgot that last lesson.

  His hands were roaming. “You can’t,” she said breathlessly, thinking of all the people on deck—and he did it anyway. “You shouldn’t,” she gasped a few minutes later—but he already was.

  Her bodice was designed to cover her breasts, no matter the circumstances, but it gave way before Simeon’s determination. The breath caught in Isidore’s throat when she saw his face.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said. His voice was hoarse and his hands hovered above her, as if he were afraid to touch her. “Ripe and delicate and as beautiful as a rose.”

  They didn’t have time for poetry. So Isidore caught him by the hair and said, “Simeon.”

  He looked at her, his eyes dark as a moonless night. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

  “Like this?” he asked, a glimmer of laughter in those wicked eyes of his. He dropped a polite little kiss on her nipple.

  She shook her head.

  “Like this?” he inquired, giving her a tiny lick.

  Her hips bucked, but it wasn’t enough. “Simeon.”

  So he laughed and suckled her, shaping her other breast with a rough hand. All thought of possible interruptions flew from her head.

  It wasn’t many minutes later that Simeon found himself on his knees before Isidore. Her skirts were thrown up and she was lying back on the chaise-longue, making the sort of moans that only a woman in a very, very pleasurable state might make.

  She was so beautiful. Her hair had toppled out of its coiffure of elaborate curls and puffs, and fell about her shoulders. Her lips were a deeper red than any ruby; her skin was peaches and cream. She tasted like nectar, but the true aphrodisiac was the look in her eyes.

  He drew his fingers down over creamy flesh and began sweetly circling a bit lower. She trembled and then begged, finally propping herself up on her elbows and scowling at him, which was just what he wanted.

  He loved her scowl. So he dipped his head and gave her exactly what she wanted, drove her to the very edge of abandonment, kissed her until cries tumbled from her lips like a song…and pulled back.

  Sure enough, he got the scowl back. “You’re trying to make me addled,” Isidore said, catching her breath.

  He soothed her with his fingers until she writhed under his touch. “I’m just making sure that you know who I am.”

  “Simeon,” she breathed. “My husband.”

  It was at that moment he heard a dim banging noise behind him. He ignored it, concentrating on giving Isidore exactly what she wanted. Sending his beloved toppling into the kind of chaotic bliss that poets dream of. Except—

  It was more than a distant annoyance. There was a chaotic shouting and crashing from the boat deck. And then the pounding was on their very door. “Come out!” a voice called out, high and alarmed. “The prison ship, the hulk, hit the yacht and prisoners—”

  “What?” Simeon said sharply, lifting his head. One had to expect that at some point the king’s servants would desire entrance and he meant to deny them. But this sounded more serious.

  “He said something about prisoners,” Isidore said, her breath catching in a little pant. “A prison ship. Simeon…don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

  But his entire body had gone on alert in the time it took for her to say the sentence. “Up,” he commanded, jerking down her skirts as he spoke.

  “What?” Isidore stood up, but her legs were wobbly and she clung to his arm.

  “One of the prison boats moored in the Thames must have struck this yacht. Or we struck it.” He wrenched on his breeches.

  “Oh.” Isidore stood for a moment, trying to catch her breath. “I suppose we’d better leave then.” She found one of her shoes and turned it right side up.

  “Can you run in those?” Simeon was listening at the door.

  “No.”

  “Leave them.” He tossed Villiers’s beautiful coat into the corner.

  “But the diamonds—” Isidore looked about swiftly, and then flung her shoes under the sofa. She could always retrieve them later.

  Simeon pulled the chair out of the way. “I think from the noise the prisoners have escaped and are getting onto the yacht,” he said. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Couldn’t that chair protect us?” Isidore asked longingly, running her hands up his chest.

  “Not if they fire the vessel.”

  Isidore’s eyes rounded. “I can’t swim in this gown, Simeon.”

  “Do you remember that conversation we had, back when I was afraid of crises and you told me there weren’t any in England?” He couldn’t help it; she was so delicious that he had to kiss her again.

  “You’re my bally- something,” Isidore said a moment later, looking a great deal less frightened. “Just tell me what to do, capo.”

  “We’re going overboard,” he said. “We can’t stay here, with you in that gown. And we need to get off as quickly as possible.”

  Isidore nodded and put her hand in his. He pulled the door open cautiously and looked out. There was no one in the ballroom. But with the door open, the sound from the deck swelled. There was screaming and the unmistakable sound of swords clashing. “They’re fighting,” Isidore breathed.

  “The king’s own guard is likely here. Not to mention parish constables, the Watch, and guards from the prison ship.” But he didn’t really give a damn about that. The only thing he cared about was the most precious bundle of his entire life, her hand trustingly clasped in his. “Don’t worry,” Simeon said fiercely.

  The smile she gave him blinded him. “I’m not.”

  They walked silently into the ballroom, keeping to the edge of the wall, heading to the doors on the other side of the room, away from the deck. Once through the door, Simeon made his way swiftly through the corridors until he came to the staircase at the very end of the yacht.

  “We’ll go up here,” he said in her ear. “We have to go straight over the railing, Isidore. If they see you, they’ll fight to the death to have you.”

  She nodded. He wrapped his hands around her and gave her one last, fierce kiss.

  “I’ll go off the railing to the left and distract them. I doubt they can swim, and at any rate, I don’t think they’ll bother. But they’ll certainly come to the railing on that side.” His voice was just a thread of sound. “Stay behind this door and count to twenty. Then run through the door and over the railing to the right without pausing to think or listen. Promise?”

  She nodded again.

  He eased open the door and launched himself through it. Isidore began to count. Don’t listen, she told herself. You said you wouldn’t listen. You just count to twenty, and then run. That’s all—

  She couldn’t help it. Ears were made for listening. She heard Simeon’s footsteps and a splash and then shouts. Happy shouts in rough accents. With a leaden feeling of terror, she realized that Simeon had dived overboard but that a ruffian already in the water had grabbed him instantly.

  She
crept to the door and peered through it. A few ragged men were hanging over the railing, then a head appeared and they were hauling up Simeon, dripping and furious. They had his arms behind his back.

  The prisoner who’d caught Simeon climbed over the railing. “Kicked me right good, he did,” the man said, adding a word that Isidore had never heard before. “I’ll have my own back for that.” And before Isidore could draw a breath he pulled back his arm and socked Simeon in the cheek. Simeon fell backward against the deck, pinned by the two men holding his arms.

  Isidore almost screamed, but stopped herself. Simeon didn’t deign to say a word in response to the blow. He just looked deliberately from face to face, studying the five men clustered around him.

  “Here, what you doing then?” one of the prisoners said, obviously uncomfortable that Simeon didn’t make a sound.

  “Memorizing your faces,” he said. The rage so potent in his voice made Isidore shiver.

  “I’ll just give him two black eyes, why don’t I?” the man snarled. “That’ll stop him.”

  Isidore’s stomach lurched. She couldn’t stay here, hidden, while they beat Simeon. She had to startle them enough so that they would drop his arms, because then he could knock them all out with his kick. Soundlessly, she crept back down the stairs. She needed a weapon. Unfortunately, the king’s yacht didn’t seem to have any weapons. She couldn’t even find a heavy candlestick.

  Suddenly, she had an idea, and flew back into the ladies’ salon, retrieving her diamond slippers. These should get their attention. She ran up the stairs again, breathing hard, and found that not much had changed.

  The same two ruffians were clutching Simeon’s arms, though thankfully he didn’t seem to have taken any more blows. From what she could understand, they were going to bargain his life for their freedom.

  She waited for the right moment, eased open the door, and tossed out the diamond shoe.

  It somersaulted in the light of the torches illuminating the deck and landed just in front of the group. For a moment they all stared at it, as if a bird of paradise had landed on the deck. The shoe glistened with jewels.

  Then, with a muffled shout, all five men dove for it.