“You!” she said. “You are going to lead my poor little duchess on a chase, are you not?” Her black eyes snapped, but he could feel the rigid backs of her girls relax.

“It is a man’s duty when faced with such beauty as graces my wife,” he said solemnly, reaching down and bringing her hand to his lips. “Of course, had I seen you in my youth…”

Signora bounced to her feet. “As if I could have been tempted by such a callow young thing as a raw duke!” She clapped her hands. “Lucia! Bring me that bolt of tiffany.”

“Dare I hope the tiffany harks from the looms of Margilan?”

“You will see!” she crowed.

Isidore sat in her chair, stunned into silence. After that, Signora Angelico was putty in Simeon’s hands. He rejected the tiffany as too harsh; they finally found a taffeta he found acceptable. It was cherry red, with only a touch of stiffness to it.

“I see it falling to the ground with a froth at the feet and a small train.”

“But the color…” Signora Angelico shook her head. “If only I had a—”

“Wash it in tea.”

“Wash this fabric in tea?” She looked down at the fabric. It looked as if it had been woven by fairies; if you let it fall through your fingers it sounded like a whispered song.

“Of course,” Simeon said. He kissed her hand again, and that was that. Isidore was to have a gown of tea-washed taffeta, edged in a thin border of glossy lace made in Brussels.

The signora was drunk with the garment she saw in her imagination. “Coming to the mid finger,” she murmured to herself, “décolletage, of course.”

“Are we finished?” Isidore asked, standing up.

“Tsk, tsk,” Simeon said. “These things take time.”

“Not for me,” Isidore retorted, looking to make sure that Signora Angelico wasn’t listening. She wasn’t; she looked as dreamy as her aunt had while practicing a new sonata. “The first cloth would have been just fine. I can’t imagine why you took such an interest, since the nightdress will presumably be for another’s man’s pleasure!”

Simeon opened his mouth—and closed it. She had a point. Isidore was intoxicating; he tended to forget everything in her presence.

“We could have been home by now,” Isidore said. “I have another appointment.” She glanced down at the watch she wore on a ribbon and gave a little shriek. “And I’m late. If you please!”

“I must return to Revels House immediately,” Simeon said in the carriage. “There are a few outstanding problems with the estate. I’ll return to London next week and we can continue the discussion of our annulment.”

Isidore looked at him. “Certainly,” she said. “If I happen to be in residence.”

He looked absurdly surprised, given that her tone had been quite mild.

Chapter Eleven

Gore House, Kensington

London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont

February 27, 1784

The Duke of Beaumont had had a detestable day. His wife had not appeared at breakfast, and though Jemma rarely made an appearance, he had rather hoped she would. The House of Lords was erupting into all sorts of strange battles to do with Pitt’s India Bill and the Mutiny Bill. The king had said Fox was trying to reduce him to a mere figurehead. Fox was trying to force the resignation of the ministry…

He was tired. He was so bone-tired that he actually wavered a bit as he descended from his carriage. One of his footmen darted forward as if he were a man of eighty, and Elijah had to wave him away. It was humiliating.

His body was failing him.

Oh, he’d never fainted in public again, as he had last year. Right on the floor of the House of Lords, he had collapsed.

These days, to everyone’s eyes, he seemed absolutely fine.

But he knew he wasn’t. He felt a clock ticking over his shoulder, and its tick was louder since they’d returned from the Christmas holidays. Perhaps because it had been so relaxing to go to the country for the holidays, to wander through one of Jemma’s outrageous masquerades, to play chess with his wife, to bicker amiably about politics with acquaintances who didn’t think the outcome of any particular vote was of much importance.

Returning to the seething brew that was the House of Lords was difficult.

No, he hadn’t fainted since the first time.

But he had passed out, just for a second, now and then. So far he had always been sitting down, and no one had realized.

But the truth—the truth was that he needed to talk to his wife.

Jemma had come back from Paris so they could create an heir. He could hardly bring the words to the surface of his mind. This wasn’t the way he wanted to bed Jemma. They had engaged in an elaborate, intricate ballet over the last year. They were beginning…

He wasn’t sure what they were beginning. But he knew that it was important. More important than anything before.

And still his body failed him.

“You work too hard, Your Grace!” his butler scolded him. “Those rapscallions in the government need to learn to do without you for a time.”

Only he knew that he had already cut back his workload. He smiled at Fowle, handed over his greatcoat, inquired of the duchess’s whereabouts.

“In the library, Your Grace,” the butler said. “With a chess board, and waiting for you, I believe.”

He walked into the library and paused for a moment just to savor what lay before him. Jemma was heartbreakingly, astoundingly beautiful. She was sitting in a patch of light cast by many candles, examining her chess board. She had her hair swept up in some sort of complicated arrangement, but not powdered. It was the color of old gold, the deep happy color of sunshine. She was wearing an open robe of flowered gauze, worked with gold twists, that came to a deep V over her breasts.

The pulse of longing he felt was for everything about his wife: her wit, her beauty, her breasts, her brilliance…

How in the hell could he not have realized it when they first married? How could he have wasted those years, thrown them away on politics and his mistress? Couldn’t he have thought—just imagined—that perhaps time wasn’t a gift one had for the asking? Couldn’t he have remembered that his father had died at thirty-four?

And he was thirty-four, as of this month. Time wove its changes, marched apace…he would give anything to have back those first weeks of marriage when Jemma looked to him for advice, when she cuddled beside him in the morning, asking questions about the House.

Great fool that he was back then, he had leapt from their bed eager to be at the House, not sitting about with a wife whom he barely knew. Off to his mistress, who appeared during the noon hour on Tuesdays and Fridays. That was part of his routine: emerge from the House of Lords and exhaust himself with Sarah, right there in his office.

Good old Sarah Cobbett. She loved him; he loved her in a way. One had to hope that she was happy.

He’d pensioned her off after Jemma caught them on the desk in his chambers.

The stab of guilt was an old friend, though it seemed to grow fiercer with the years, not less so.

For her part, Jemma seemed to have forgiven him. Perhaps.

She looked up at him, and her smile made his heart stop.

Life had given him a woman who was—he knew it with a bone-deep certainty—the most intelligent woman in Europe. And he had thrown her away to rut with a kindly woman whose only claim to intelligence was that she was never late to their twice-weekly appointment, not once during the six years in which Sarah was his mistress.