Chapter 9
Nine
Lexham House
The Duke of Marchmont didn’t know where Zoe had found the dress. It looked like Vérelet’s work, but he was positive he’d had nothing to do with ordering it.
He would never have ordered the corsage to be made so tight or cut so low. If there was an inch of lilac-colored satin covering her bust, it was the narrowest inch he’d ever seen.
And there were Adderwood and Winterton, on either side of her—the golden-haired half-naked angel between two leering dark devils.
Not that they were obvious about it. But he knew that they—along with Alvanley, who sat opposite her—were staring at her breasts while pretending not to. He knew how to do that, too.
He emptied his glass.
The dessert course was in the process of being set out, and he was well on his way to being drunk.
Other men.
Lexham had decided to err on the side of caution.
Ten guests only. Of the men Marchmont had suggested, Lexham had selected only Alvanley and Adderwood, the two youngest. Marchmont had put Adderwood on the list only because he couldn’t not add him.
The stout Alvanley was less of a problem.
No one could ever accuse him of being handsome.
But Lexham had discarded the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, along with several other steady, older gentlemen. He’d invited Winterton instead.
In addition, he’d invited Adderwood’s sister Amelia, Lady Lexham’s sister Lady Brexton, Marchmont’s spinster cousin Emma—one of the indigent relations he supported—and the American ambassador, Mr. Rush, and his wife.
With only a dozen at table, the conversation was general, ranging freely up and down and across the board.
The meal had reached its last stages, and Adderwood was running the show, thanks to the opening the American ambassador had given him.
Rush had marveled at the British press and its propensity to tell everybody everything about everybody and everything.
From newspapers, Adderwood easily turned the conversation to books.
He was at his most charming this evening, the lecherous swine.
“Walter Scott seems to be highly popular here,” Rush was saying. “I heard of a dinner at which the hostess asked each of her guests to write down on a piece of paper the Scott novel he liked best. She received nine slips of paper, each one with the name of a different novel.”
“I heard of that,” said Adderwood. “The guests she asked were all men. If one were to ask women to name their favorite books, I suspect the slips of paper would bear the titles of horrid novels.” He turned to Zoe, using the opportunity, Marchmont had no doubt, to ogle her assets.
“What do you say, Miss Lexham? Scott or a horrid novel?”
“What is a horrid novel?” said Zoe.
“A book in which a lot of bizarre and terrifying events are told in a desperately romantic fashion,” said Winterton.
Before he could continue, Marchmont said, “Typically, an innocent maiden finds herself in a decaying castle where she is hunted by depraved men, haunted by ghosts, locked into dungeons, attacked by vampires or werewolves or both. There’s usually a madman in the picture.”
“It sounds like Cairo,” she said. “Afreets everywhere.”
“Afreets?” said Adderwood.
“Demons,” said Winterton, the know-it-all, before Marchmont could answer.
“Everyone there believes in ghosts and demons and giants and jinn and the Evil Eye,” said Zoe.
“Good heavens!” said Cousin Emma. The only excitement in her life was the periodic summons from Aunt Sophronia to accompany her somewhere—excitement that even Emma, whose life was numbingly dull, would rather do without.
“They think all sicknesses can be healed with magic spells and charms,” said Zoe. “I don’t need to read a horrid novel. I’ve lived in one.”
“No, no, Miss Lexham, you want something more improbable than that,” Marchmont said. “Pieces of gigantic suits of armor appearing in the garden. Corpses resurrected via dismemberment, neat stitchery, and electricity. You are too real.”
She frowned. “Too real?”
“Not at all,” said Adderwood. “Miss Lexham is precisely real enough.”
“I meant that the rigors of your ordeal might be too painful for some of the ladies,” said Marchmont. He couldn’t believe she was going to talk about the harem after all his work trying to put it out of people’s minds.
“I wasn’t referring to an ordeal,” said Zoe. “I thought we were speaking of the absurd things in these stories. Ghosts and such. It’s the same elsewhere. The Thousand and One Nights is famous in Egypt. I saw that my father has this book in his library, but in French.”
“Oh, yes,” said Amelia Adderwood. “I’ve read those stories.”
“I’ve read them, too,” said Cousin Emma. “Magic lamps and flying carpets.”
“To us, all those impossible things are make-believe, fantasy,” Zoe said. “To those among whom I lived, the stories are true.”
“Very well, then, Scheherazade,” said Marchmont. “Tell your tales. I’m sure everyone here is longing to hear the secrets of the harem.” He emptied another glass and glanced at the nearest footman, who quickly refilled it.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said.
“Sometimes you speak English and think in Arabic,” he said. “It’s charming but confusing to some of the company.”
“I think we all understand Zoe well enough,” said Lexham.
Marchmont heard the reproof in his voice, but the doting smile Adderwood bestowed upon Zoe—or her breasts—put it straight out of his mind.
“Then I shan’t recommend Frankenstein to you,” Adderwood told her. “You may find Pride and Prejudice more to your liking. The heroine is an independent-minded young lady of wit and charm. You are sure to find more in common with her.”
I’m going to be sick, Marchmont thought. Who’d ever have guessed that Adderwood could be so treacly? The breasts under his nose must have turned his brain to syrup. Marchmont said, “That one I found more harrowing than Frankenstein.”
“You’re joking,” said Miss Adderwood.
“He usually is,” said Alvanley.
“Not at all,” said Marchmont. “Frankenstein was too improbable to alarm me. Pride and Prejudice, however, was all too probable. It had me on tenter-hooks: Would this one marry that one? And so many marriages to fret about. So many choices. Would the ladies choose well or ill? Would Fate intervene, and destroy this one’s chance of happiness?
Would the aunt get her way? Would the sister—But I don’t want to spoil it for you, Miss Lexham. ”
“We may be sure, given your observations, that Miss Lexham has not the smallest inkling what the book is about,” said Adderwood. “Meanwhile I’m all agog to learn that you’ve read a book.”
“You do me a shocking injustice,” said Marchmont. “I most certainly did not read it. I allowed my valet to tell me the story, while I was dressing for dinner at Carlton House. A lengthy and tearful process, I regret to say—tearful on his part, that is.”
“Marchmont’s valet is famous,” said Adderwood. “He’s been known to faint at the sight of an over-starched neckcloth.”
“He cries when Marchmont puts anything into his pockets,” said Alvanley.
“He wept while he related the tale,” Marchmont said. “Whether it was the story or my buttons that made him sob, I cannot say.”
“What a remarkable servant he must be, to entertain you while he dresses you,” said Mr. Rush.
“I should never let him make a habit of it,” said Marchmont. “On this occasion, I invited him to tell me. Miss Austen’s books were favorites of the Prince of Wales, Miss Lexham, and one wishes to appear au courant when one attends His Highness.” Again he emptied his glass. Again it was refilled.
“Everyone knows what the Regent’s favorites are,” said Adderwood. His gaze reverted to Zoe’s breasts. “But Miss Lexham is terra incognita.”
And if you think you’re going to explore that territory, Marchmont thought, think again. He said, “By terra incognita, Adderwood means—”
“I know what he means,” Zoe said. “Do you not remember, Marchmont? How dreadful I was at French, and how Papa said I might study Greek and Latin, as the boys did?”
“Ah, I recollect,” he said. “I recall your French tutor saying that when you spoke his beautiful language, he had only one desire, and that was to have his ears cut off. I used to picture him holding his ears and screaming in pain whenever you attempted to parler.”
“Marchmont will have us believe he knows everything there is to know about you, Miss Lexham,” said Adderwood. “As though he wasn’t conceited enough before. It gives him an unfair advantage.”
“Adding insult to injury,” said Alvanley, “he’s kept you to himself for all this time.”
“An eternity,” said Marchmont. “A whole fortnight.”
And I’m the one who kissed her first. I’m the one…
The thought fell away as he realized the occasion on which he would not be the first.
Other men. She wanted to meet other men. He’d offered to marry her and she’d said no. She wanted to meet other men.
And that was when she said, “But Marchmont is one of the family. He’s like a brother to me.”
He froze.
She beamed at him.
“I should call that a decided disadvantage,” said Winterton.
Before Marchmont could lunge across the table and strangle Zoe, her mother rose. The other ladies instantly heeded the signal and followed her out of the room, leaving the men to their port…and mayhem and murder if they so chose.
One hour later
“‘Remembered an appointment,’” said Adderwood as he followed Marchmont into the drawing room. “You sly devil. She’s the peach.”
Adderwood was still alive. Marchmont wasn’t sure why.
Oh, yes. Because she wanted to meet other men, and how could she meet them if Marchmont killed them? However, she’d met Adderwood this evening. Technically, it would be all right to kill him.
Later, though. Mustn’t get blood all over the drawing room.
“Appointment,” he repeated blankly. “The peach.”