Not to mention the fact that she was a brilliant chess player, a fact that fired him with a roaring lust, deep in his loins. In fact, the emotion was so ferocious that he didn’t dare look at it too closely.

“I’m enjoying this,” he remarked, watching as she shook down her ruffs. “Which is a terrifying thought.”

“Why? I always enjoy well-played chess, even when I’m losing.”

“The chess, certainly. But also”—he leaned forward—“talking to you.”

Jemma hid a smile. Villiers was most seductive when he was the most straightforward, if only he knew it. She felt unshaken by his practiced raillery about her ruffs and her beauty: but when he grinned at her, and told her frankly about pensioning his mistress—then, she was in danger.

Yet she had no intention of succumbing to Villiers’s wiles. All the more so now that he was almost affianced to Roberta.

She met his eyes and saw disappointment flash.

“You unman me,” he said gravely.

“You think me capable of such disloyalty to a friend?”

“And you think me foolish if you wish me to believe that you have no interest in me due to my possible marriage to your ward.”

She didn’t answer that, and he felt a flash of anger at his own stupidity in declaring himself. Did he really want to marry? Of course, he would have no hesitation dropping the country miss as quickly as he picked her up.

Yet Roberta was exquisite. And capable of a witty rejoinder, which was rare. She was young, likely fertile, and all the rest of it. He needed an heir, for God’s sake. Plus, his mistress was gone now. He needed a bedpartner.

“So you won’t have me?”

Jemma smiled at him, and her beauty was almost like a blow in the face. “You’re getting married.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “The lady may not have me.” He knew that was a falsehood as well as Jemma did.

It was damnably true that it is hard to desire a person who wants you. Roberta made no secret of her desire for him. Her eyes grew slightly dreamy at the very sight of him.

He preferred Jemma’s clear-eyed look.

It was also bitterly true that a person who doesn’t want you is twice as desirable.

Chapter 22

T he invitations were delivered by footmen.

“I simply can’t believe you’ve been invited!” May said with a little gasp, looking at the card her sister held. “Do you have some acquaintance with the duchess of which I knew nothing?”

Charlotte shook her head. “The duke asked me to dance at the ball, but I never spoke to Her Grace.”

“The duke?” May’s round face look scandalized. “Why on earth would he invite you?” She peered at the card. “It all looks most respectable, doesn’t it? I would have expected her to announce a Feast of Venus, or some such thing.”

“I doubt they would invite me if they wished for nymphs,” Charlotte said dryly.

“True. But how queer it is to invite you and not me. Don’t you think that’s queer? You don’t think that he’s thinking of setting you up as—as an intimate!” Her voice was horrified.

Charlotte allowed herself just one longing thought about the duke’s lovely, tired eyes before she said, “Don’t be a goose, May. Do I look like the sort of woman whom the duke would set up as his courtesan?”

“I should hope not.”

“At least my life would be more interesting than it is now,” Charlotte said, just to provoke her.

But May was not a bad sort, and having got over her first surprise at the invitation, was beginning to count its blessings. “You must have a new gown,” she said firmly. “We’ll send a message to Madame Hayes and tell her that we need that gown you ordered last month by Thursday.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Yes, she will. She will once she hears that you are invited to this particular party,” May cried. She was getting giddy with it now and waved the invitation over her head like a flag. “Perhaps Town and Country will produce sketches of every person invited; they might well. How exciting it all is!”

And Charlotte had to admit that it was exciting.

She kept her own preparations for the event secret from her sister; she sent a footman out to buy every political newspaper and commentary he could find.

The Duchess of Berrow’s response to the invitation was rather less celebratory. With a sigh she changed her gown, had horses put to the carriage and set out for town. A mere hour or two later the butler ushered Jemma into the drawing room where Harriet waited for her.

“Darling,” Jemma said, “you’re just in time. I’ve decided to catalog all the paintings of Judith and Holofernes in the house and I would adore some help.”

Harriet rose to her feet. As always, the force of Jemma’s personality made her feel like a faded cutout, a cartoon from the illustrated papers. “I came to ask about this,” she said, taking out her invitation.

Jemma grinned at her, leaned closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Our plans are in full force!”

“The chess game? Are you winning?” Harriet asked hopefully.

“I have every expectation,” Jemma said. “In fact, though it’s vain of me to say so, I would bet on myself. Despair is circling Villiers on all sides. He’s going to ask for Lady Roberta’s hand in marriage at this very dinner party.”

Harriet’s mouth fell open. “Villiers? Getting married?”

“I can’t think of a better revenge, can you?”

“But—But—are you saying that you don’t like your ward?” Harriet asked, bewildered. “I thought she was a lovely person, whom—”

“Oh, she is,” Jemma interrupted. “In fact, Villiers is extremely lucky to have her. No, it’s marriage itself that is a punishment. He has no understanding of the state, you know. He thinks his life will hardly change: I can see that in his eyes. He’s a babe in the woods.”

“Not everyone’s marriage is unpleasant,” Harriet ventured.

“You think that I should not extend the example of my marriage to all such unions?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, look at your marriage,” Jemma suggested. “It was the best of matches; you both had great love for each other.” She stopped.

“And?” Harriet asked dangerously. It was one thing if she bemoaned the rift between herself and Benjamin, but—

“Were there not great moments of humiliation?” Jemma asked.

Humiliating moments raced through Harriet’s mind in an exhausting stream. “Yes,” she said faintly.

“It’s part of marriage. Inherent to the state of matrimony.”

“So Villiers will be at this dinner party,” Harriet said. “And I—I am to be there too? I can’t.”

“You must,” Jemma said, taking her arm and walking into the entryway. “Now we are going to walk through this entire house and spy out all the paintings of Judith. Fowle, will you follow us and note down the pieces?”

Harriet tried to swallow her frustration. “Jemma,” she hissed, “must your butler follow us? I just told you that I am not going to attend your dinner party.”