Duchess by Night Page 7

  She tried to think about men’s bottoms but couldn’t remember that she’d ever seen any that were quite as—as curvy as hers appeared to be.

  Would everyone know the moment she walked into the dining room? If they discovered her secret, she’d have to go back to wearing a huge wig and panniers. The very idea struck ice to her backbone. She couldn’t do that yet. Not when she felt beautiful and powerful and free—for the first time in her life.

  Harriet pulled back her shoulders. If anyone suggested she was a woman, she would deny it with her last breath. She hesitated for one moment, wondering whether to add a bit more padding down there, in front.

  She couldn’t bring an image of the front of a man’s breeches to mind either. Had she ever really looked at a man’s body?

  Apparently not. Likely it was better to be discreet about the size of her pizzle, then, at least until she had a chance to investigate male breeches.

  She marched out of her room, hesitating when she reached the top of the stairs and realized that Lord Strange was lounging at the bottom, almost as if he were waiting for her.

  Of course he wasn’t waiting for her. He probably greeted all his guests there. He had remarkably broad shoulders for a man who was so lean through the hips. What she’d really like to see was his bottom, but he was leaning against the railing, staring intently at a sheet of foolscap.

  She walked down the stairs as solidly as she could, squaring her shoulders. At the bottom, she swept an acceptable bow, flourishing a hand before her forward knee, just as Villiers had taught her.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said, deepening her voice.

  Lord Strange looked up. “Mr. Cope.” He folded the sheet.

  “If you’ll point the direction to your drawing room, I’ll join your other guests.” She could hear a clatter of laughter and voices coming from the other end of the corridor.

  “I’ll escort you,” he said, looking irritated for some reason. But he didn’t look as if he suspected her of being a woman, so Harriet felt a surge of triumph. She automatically reached out to take his arm, and then quickly dropped her hand. Thankfully, he didn’t see her error as he was tucking the paper away in his waistcoat pocket.

  “What are you studying?” she asked, moving to the side so that their shoulders wouldn’t touch.

  “An auction catalogue I just received from London. A man named Bullock is selling off his collection of hummingbirds.”

  “What a lovely name, hummingbirds,” Harriet said, before realizing that men didn’t use the word lovely. “I mean, the name is enjoyable…the hum and so on.” She sounded like a fool.

  “Hummingbirds are small birds from the Americas,” Lord Strange replied, ignoring her stupid comment about hums. “I am curious about them.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-two.”

  “That many birds! Dead?”

  He glanced at her. “Quite dead. Stuffed.”

  She managed not to shudder. Men liked to kill things and stuff them. Even Benjamin had given up the chess board now and then to tramp around the woods with a gun over his shoulder. “Excellent!” She said as heartily as she could. “I love to shoot partridge myself.”

  The sardonic lines by his mouth deepened. He was probably laughing at her, but he didn’t say anything. They reached the door of the salon, and a footman whisked it open. He stopped her for a moment.

  “Mr. Cope.”

  “My lord?”

  “Villiers asked me to look after you. I shall endeavor to note your whereabouts, but I must ask you to seek me out if anything happens that seems uncomfortably novel.”

  Harriet was practically dancing on her toes, she was so anxious to see something novel, uncomfortable or not. “Thank you, Lord Strange,” she said. “Please—” and she gestured toward the door.

  After a lifetime of sailing through doors ahead of men, she wanted him to go first. So that she could examine his bottom.

  He shot her a look, and there was something curious there, something she didn’t recognize. “Don’t play the fool too exuberantly.”

  “I shall endeavor to do otherwise,” she said, giving it a chilly emphasis.

  “Excellent.” He turned away and walked through the doors, only to disappoint.

  His coat fell lower than his bottom. True, it was a glorious coat. The sleeves were pricked out in a faint tracing of metallic embroidery. His sleeves ended in lace, lace of a dull gold color. The combination gave him the dark brilliance of a pirate king, Harriet thought with a thrill.

  He was everything she would have thought a man of his reputation to be: dangerous, sullen-looking, probably tired from all the degenerate orgies in which he’d participated. He looked like someone who never found himself surprised. Even the sensual line of his mouth signaled he had experienced all the pleasures life had to offer.

  It was really a shame that his coat fell so low. His breeches were quite as tight as hers, but of an even finer fabric, and his legs were far more muscular. In fact, her muscles were feeble compared to those defined in his legs. It was fascinating. How could she not have noticed men’s legs before?

  He turned around, eyes indifferent. “Come on, then. Villiers says that you need to turn into a man, and my house is certainly the place to do it.”

  Her mouth fell open. “He said—”

  Lord Strange shrugged. “Nothing embarrassing about that. We were all urchins at some point.” He eyed her from head to toe. “I know all about your mother and how close she kept you. The fact you’ve had no male companionship shows in the way you walk. And talk.”

  “He told you?”

  “We’re old friends.”

  Harriet gulped.

  “I’ll help you,” he said, turning away. “Tomorrow. Tonight, try not to get yourself over your head. Do you have a French letter?”

  Harriet blinked at him. “What?”

  “A French letter,” he said impatiently. “Tell me you know what that is?”

  She shook her head and he made a sound, half a groan, half a sigh. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, try and keep yourself out of anyone’s bed, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she managed.

  “Damned if you don’t stand like a woman,” he said, sounding appalled.

  She pulled her shoulders back. “Better,” he said grudgingly. “Do you know how to fence?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll teach you how to fence tomorrow. You need to move like a man, not like a molly. Maybe having a weapon in your hand will help.” He looked rather unconvinced. “And for God’s sake, remember that men don’t smile at each other the way you’re doing now.”

  “Why not?” Harriet said, the smile dropping from her face. It was a fake one anyway, since she was getting more than a tad annoyed by Strange’s arrogance.

  “You look like a lounger,” he growled at her.

  She blinked.

  “Look, you’re at a disadvantage.”

  She put her hands on her hips and then dropped them when he gave her a disgusted look.

  “Trust me, you just are.”

  “You could at least clarify your criticism.”

  His jaw set. “Let’s just put it this way: nature gave you a raw deal. It’s not your fault.”

  “What sort of deal? What are you saying?”

  “Your lashes are too long,” he said, leaning toward her. “And your—your—” He waved at her figure. “You just don’t have the physique of a man.”

  Harriet was conscious of a bubble of laughter inside her chest, but she put on a look of furious dignity. “I assure you that nature has given me everything I need to play a man’s role.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he said, sounding horrified.

  “Good,” Harriet said. And then, to prove her point, she deliberately adjusted the button-placket on her breeches, as she’d seen men do hundreds of times.

  “We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” he said, stepping back. “Villier
s asked me to help and I will. But it’s going to be a hell of a task. I suppose we might as well start by introducing you to a woman.”

  “I can manage on my own.”

  He snorted, and then turned away, eyes searching the crowd. They didn’t look like the cluster of degenerates Jemma had described. In fact, they didn’t look very different from the people who attended Jemma’s Twelfth Night ball. Of course, they weren’t wearing costumes, though there was a young lady off to the side who appeared to be dressed as a shepherdess. No shepherdess on Harriet’s lands wore her gown open to the waist.

  Strange followed her glance. “Good choice,” he said. “You’ve picked out a lady who would likely be quite happy to usher you into the throes of manhood. And I believe she might even do it without giving you a disease. Just don’t look so eager, for God’s sake. No woman wants to bed a man who pants at her hem.”

  Harriet swallowed. This was going a bit faster than she had anticipated.

  “Come on.” He strode off, and she followed, to find herself bowing before the young shepherdess a moment later. She had strawberry red hair and breasts that burst from her costume. In fact, she was just the kind of woman who normally made Harriet feel miserably inconspicuous.

  “May I introduce Miss Nell Gale?” Strange said. “Miss Gale, Mr. Cope.”

  Normally a woman like Miss Gale would get terribly nervous talking to a duchess. Yet if she happened to actually look at Harriet, she would instantly label her a woman who was neither a challenge nor a confidant. Then Miss Gale would curtsy, rather clumsily, and flutter away to laugh with more interesting women, the kind who knew scandal.

  But Mr. Cope, it seemed, was not as intimidating as a duchess, and certainly more interesting. Harriet guessed this because Miss Gale—or Nell, as she quickly asked to be called—immediately did a complicated little maneuver with her hip that made her chest jiggle in a startling manner.

  Strange drifted away a few minutes later, and Harriet found herself chattering to Nell about her shepherdess costume, which was for a play she was rehearsing.

  It was surprisingly fun. Nell had a wonderful gift: Harriet found herself convulsed with laughter by the way she imitated a stuffy matron’s distress when her dog peed on the Lord Chancellor’s robes. They both accepted glasses of wine, and before long were seated cozily in a couch at the side of the room.

  Harriet was so entertained that she almost forgot she was dressed as a man, except when she crossed her legs. That was so much fun she kept crossing and uncrossing until Nell asked her if she had a strained ankle.

  “No,” Harriet said, remembering again to deepen her voice.

  “I expect you’re nervous, it being your first night here,” Nell said encouragingly. “Don’t worry. It’s not nearly as bad as I thought before I came. I thought there would be an orgy before my very eyes.”

  “Hum,” Harriet said. “So did I, of course.”

  “Well, being a man, you’re probably looking forward to that,” Nell said, dimpling in the most delightful manner.

  “Not really,” Harriet ventured.

  “I believe we must be the same age,” Nell said. “Or perhaps I’m a bit older. I shall be your tutor, for I can see that you aren’t quite ready for this life.”

  “Are you?” Harriet asked.

  “If you’re asking whether I’m a courtesan, I’m not,” Nell said readily. “I’m an actress. Lord Strange owns the Hyde Park Theater, and he likes to have final rehearsals at Fonthill. And just so you know, Lord Strange doesn’t allow true ladybirds in his house. People do get up to all sorts of naughtiness—” she lowered her voice “—but there’s no exchange of money, if you see the difference.”

  Harriet did. “What does your family think of your visit here?”

  “I don’t have much of a family,” Nell said, dimpling. “You don’t think that I’m a good girl, do you, Harry?” For she had promptly discarded “Mr. Cope.”

  Harriet couldn’t help smiling. She’d never met anyone like Nell before, anyone so cheerfully sinful.

  “I’ve no need to be a courtesan,” Nell said. “I’m a very good actress. I’d never want a man to support me; they’re an erratic bunch. I don’t mind telling you, since I can see that you’ve yet to come to London, that I mean to be a lead actress some day. But even now I earn a pretty penny.”

  “I can imagine,” Harriet said.

  “There’s only one man here whom I truly have a fancy for,” she said, leaning confidentially close.

  Harriet breathed a little sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure that she was ready to fend off Nell. She had the distinct impression that if Nell decided to join someone in bed, that man would have little choice in the matter.

  “It’s Strange. But he’s impossible to approach. I’m sure I could make him love me. You saw how he looked at me, and how he brought you over to me directly. I think he has a secret affection for me, but he doesn’t know how to express it.”

  “You think he can’t express himself?” Harriet asked dubiously. Strange struck her as the kind of man who would know exactly how to express any emotion he wished. In fact, the very idea of Strange expressing desire made her feel a little weak behind the knees. He would look at a woman and she would—she would—

  “I think he desires me, if that doesn’t shock you too much, young Harry,” Nell was chattering. “But I’m young and beautiful, and he’s old, you know.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-two,” Nell said. “I looked him up in this book full of birthdays and he’s thirty-two. Really old. He has a daughter, you know, though I’ve never seen her. I’ve heard she’s absolutely brilliant and speaks in mathematical equations.”

  Strange was five years older than Harriet. Which did not feel old. Quite the contrary.

  “The problem is that he doesn’t have much to do with women,” Nell was saying. “I’ve been watching him for the last week, ever since we came here.”

  “He never has anything to do with women?” Harriet said. “I thought he was notorious for his liaisons.”

  “He is, but I can’t understand why. Well, you only have to look at him to know that he’s had lovers,” Nell said. She had an utterly blunt way of talking that Harriet found enchanting. No woman in the ton ever spoke like this.

  “Perhaps he does have a lover,” Harriet suggested. “Look at him now.” Strange was dancing with an older woman. She was beautiful in a terrifying sort of way.

  “Mrs. Cummingworth,” Nell said, with a curled lip. “She’s ancient. She’d fall into a dead faint if he’d even give her an interested look, but he won’t. Look at his face. He’s listening, but he doesn’t give a damn. He looks like that quite a lot of the time.”

  It was true. “How peculiar,” Harriet said. “How long has his wife been dead?”

  “Eight years. She died in childbirth. He can hardly be mourning her. Besides, everyone knows that he had an affaire with Corisande de Grammont.”

  “Now Lady Feddrington?”

  “Yes. She never comes here any more, but apparently before she got married she was so desperately in love with Strange that she threatened to throw herself off a bridge if he didn’t sleep with her.”

  “And?”

  “He slept with her. But he said afterwards that if anyone forced him to spend a second night with her, he would be the one to jump off a bridge.” Nell gave a little shiver. “It’s a challenge. I know—I just know—that if I could have him in my bed for one night, I could make him love me.”

  Harriet thought Nell was an adorable, funny actress. And she thought that if Strange ever found himself in Nell’s bed, he would be bored.

  How she knew that, she couldn’t quite say.

  “I wonder who that is,” Nell said sharply.

  Harriet looked up, to find that Isidore was in Strange’s arms. Compared to Nell, Isidore was like a vivid flame. Nell was pretty; Isidore was beautiful. And more: Isidore had a wild intelligence about her that made watchers think she was about
to throw off her clothing, do something daring, kiss the man before her.

  Harriet felt a pang of envy. She herself wouldn’t have a chance interesting a man like Strange, and yet how could he resist Isidore? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  “Just look at the way she’s smiling at him!” Nell said. “She’ll discover soon enough that Strange isn’t taken in by such obvious maneuvers. He’s not—”

  She stopped.

  Isidore’s hair was piled in towering curls above her head, and if Harriet’s face looked overpowered by that kind of hair, Isidore’s just looked more beautiful. It was as if a queen had entered the room and chosen her consort.

  Everyone was watching them. All eyes saw how Strange smiled back, the way she had him laughing by a moment later.

  Harriet sighed inside. Of course, Isidore said that she meant to flirt with Strange. And Isidore had yet to meet the man whom she couldn’t entice.

  It seemed Strange was just as much a man as the rest of them.

  She glanced sideways at Nell. Poor Nell…her mouth had turned into a hard, glum little line.

  “She’s going to take him before I even get a chance,” Nell said. “It’s not fair. I know I could make him laugh. I was planning on sending him a letter. But I couldn’t figure out how to get the letter to him. You only have to look at Mr. Povy to know that he doesn’t deliver a lady’s letters. But mine would be different! I could truly make him fall in love with me, not like those others, who just want him because he’s so rich.”

  She sniffed. “I don’t even care that he’s rich.”

  Harriet patted her arm.

  “It’s the way he moves,” Nell said. “I don’t know why but I just can’t stop watching him. And the way he looks amused, mocking, as if the world were happening only for his entertainment. He’s inaccessible, you know? I want to make him come to fire, wake up, look at me. I want—”

  “He’s teaching me how to fence tomorrow,” Harriet said.

  “Lucky you,” Nell said longingly. “I’d love to see him with a sword in his hand.”

  Harriet thought that was a double entendre, but she wasn’t sure.