Chapter 9 #2
Madeline flinched. “You must be mad.”
“I am not.”
“I have been engaged to him for several days. Nobody said…”
“That was an engagement. This makes it all official. You are the duchess. You are the wife of the Duke of Tolford. Half of the women here will be looking at you with envy. They will be thinking of the times they tried to attract the duke’s attention, only to fail.
They will be thinking that they are prettier than you, or more charming, or cleverer, or have a nicer figure.
They will be thinking that they deserve to be in your shoes. ”
This was something of a blow. Madeline blinked at her friend, struggling to find something to say.
“Are you telling me that countless women all over the city are now looking at me and trying to find fault?” she managed at last.
Charlotte winced. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, heavens.”
“And beware. If the duke is known to have mistresses openly, you’ll be an object of pity and ridicule, too. I would keep an eye on him if I were you. Don’t let him flirt in public.”
While Madeline was wrestling with this last comment, a trio of ladies—none of whom she recognized—headed toward her, eyes bright, lips parted to speak. Charlotte intervened, stepping neatly between Madeline and the interlopers.
“Not now, ladies,” Charlotte said sweetly. “The duchess is taking a moment to compose herself. The dancing begins shortly, you know. Do you have partners? If not, now is the time to secure them, don’t you think?”
The ladies paused, glancing worriedly at each other. One of them mumbled something and began to drift away, and her companions hurried along after her. Charlotte glanced back with a wry smile.
“I am sorry to give you such bad news,” she murmured. “But that is just the way it is.”
Madeline swallowed, nodding. Her mind worked furiously.
Tristan and I agreed to live our separate lives. What if he does take a public mistress? Will I be a laughingstock?
The answer came to her at once. Of course, she would be a laughingstock.
There were always a few ladies of the Ton who were whispered about as they passed by.
Pitying looks and smiles were shot their way, which they studiously pretended to ignore.
They kept their heads high, kept firm smiles on their faces, and acted as if they did not know that their husband, while drunk in his club, had proclaimed that he was in love with an opera-girl.
Sometimes several opera-girls, or a series of them.
It was a common enough thing. The woman was always pitied, and the man’s misbehavior was determinedly ignored.
He would soon tire of his opera girl and take another.
Perhaps a ballet dancer, or some lady in a lower circle, a widow of dubious reputation.
The waves of humiliation would keep coming for his wife, and she would have no choice but to weather them.
It was not a pleasant state of affairs, and not one that Madeline had ever imagined herself in.
“Not to trouble you,” Charlotte added, glancing off to the side with a frown, “but Mrs. Francis is talking to your husband, and she is entirely too close to him.”
Madeline followed Charlotte’s eyes and clenched her jaw. The crowd parted, and there he stood.
Tristan looked magnificent in his wedding suit. Somebody had given him a carnation ahead of time to put in his buttonhole, so that he matched her bouquet.
Tall, broad, and handsome, he stood a head and shoulders above the other men. At that moment, he was leaning down to listen to Mrs. Francis, a petite woman of about thirty with an enormous bosom. Really, it defied all laws of physics that the woman remained standing upright.
She looked tremendous in a dampened white gown, which clung to her curves. She was looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes.
“Excuse me,” Madeline muttered. “I won’t be a moment.”
She walked away before Charlotte could reply, shouldering her way through the crowd with more boldness than before.
This is not jealousy, Madeline reminded herself. It is simply a matter of avoiding humiliation for myself. I do not care who he flirts with—really, I do not—so long as it isn’t under the eyes of all our friends.
Yes, that was an entirely suitable motivation. She was not jealous, and the tingling sensation in her gut was probably indigestion. Nothing more, nothing less. As she approached, her ears pricked up at the sound of their conversation.
“I suppose you know that I haven’t danced since Mr. Francis died,” Mrs. Francis remarked, smiling coyly up at him. “But I might be convinced to stand up with such a handsome man as yourself. What an honor to dance with a groom on his wedding day.”
“An honor indeed,” Tristan laughed. He was smiling at her. Was he really allowing a woman to flirt with him, today of all days? Madeline bit the tip of her tongue to keep from shouting something improper.
“I hear the musicians starting to tune up their instruments,” Mrs. Francis added, dropping her voice to a seductive whisper. “The ball will open soon. Perhaps you and I should begin the dancing. We should lead the dancing. What do you say?”
Madeline stopped dead, equal parts furious and incredulous.
Is this woman really trying to dance with my husband on my wedding day? For our first dance, no less?
Yes, it appeared that she was. Mrs. Francis shuffled a little closer, laying a hand on his arm.
It was entirely too much. Madeline had seen quite enough. She stormed forward the last few feet, elbowing her way between them. She put her back to Mrs. Francis, who gave an outraged squeak, obliging the woman to jump backward a few paces.
Madeline looked up at Tristan, who was looking down at her with an expression of pure amusement in his eyes.
“Husband,” Madeline shot out, teeth gritted. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
He appeared to be holding back a laugh.
“Why, of course,” he responded, eyes widening innocently. “I do hope everything is all right.”