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She wanted Elijah—not the way she had him when they were first married, not with the genial affection and enthusiasm he showed for their awkward couplings. She wanted him, the Duke of Beaumont, one of the most powerful men in government, at her feet.

And she wouldn’t settle for less.

Villiers would be useful in her campaign. He and Elijah had been childhood friends and were now estranged. Good. She would use him. She would use any man in London who asked her to dance, if it would fan a spark of jealousy in her husband’s civilized heart.

But it wasn’t jealousy that could do it. It was she: she had to be more witty, more beautiful, more desirable than she ever had been.

Elijah was seated in the opposite corner of the carriage, looking absently out of the window. As always, his wig was immaculate and discreet. Not for the Duke of Beaumont were pyramids of scented curls or immovable rolls perched on top of frizzled locks. He wore a simple, short-cut wig with curls so small they hardly deserved the label.

Underneath, she knew, he had his hair clipped close to his skull. It was a style that would destroy the appeal of almost every man. But on Elijah it brought into focus his cheekbones and the gaunt, courteous, restrained masculinity of him.

By the time they arrived at Lady Feddrington’s soirée, the receiving line had broken up and the ballroom was crowded. They stood for a moment at the top of the steps leading down into the room.

“It’s a bit overwhelming,” Elijah murmured. “How on earth do you ladies manage to move about a room like this, given the width of your panniers?”

Jemma smiled at him. “’Tis only the unfashionable who have very wide panniers this season. Look at myself, for instance.”

He looked, and she felt his glance as if it were a touch. Not that she showed it. She had spent years in the court of Versailles; if those years had taught her anything, it was that she should never reveal vulnerability.

“Your skirts look as wide as a barnyard door,” he said to her. But she saw the laughter in his grave eyes. He needed to laugh more.

She met his eyes with the kind of smile that told a man she liked him. It felt odd to give it to her husband. “Narrower than many,” she told him.

“I’m sure you are precisely à la mode,” he said, taking her arm again. “Shall we?”

They reached the bottom of the steps just as the first notes of a minuet sounded. “Would you like to dance?” he asked her. “I realize it is a great faux pas to dance with one’s husband, but you could always say that you got it out of the way.”

She looked up at him and had to swallow because of the beauty of his eyes. She put her hand in his. “You do me too much honor.”

He bowed before her as the music continued, and they moved smoothly, together, into the steps of the dance. It separated them; she felt it as a physical ache.

It brought them back together; she was afraid that her pleasure showed too much in her eyes, and she refused to look at his face. “Look!” she cried, her voice witless, “there’s Lady Piddleton, dancing with Saint Albans. He must be gathering material…he is always so cruel about her.”

Elijah didn’t reply. When she stole a look at him, he met her eyes and there was something there.

Surely he would speak to her. Kiss her again. Tell her…

The dance ended and he bowed. Saint Albans was at her right elbow, her friend Lord Corbin at her left. Lord Sosney walked up with Lord Killigrew, veritably shouting over the din, “Duchess!”

She caught Elijah’s eye for a moment, but he turned away.

And she turned away.

A chess player never shows the moment when she realizes that she might lose a game. That the board has turned against her; the black pieces are clustered for attack. The very best chess players revel in the chance to save themselves.

Jemma reminded herself that she was the very best.

She turned, laughing, to Lord Corbin, holding out her gloved hand to be kissed.

Chapter Seventeen

The Dower House

February 29, 1784

The table gleamed softly with old silver. Honeydew had conveyed Mrs. Bullock’s promise that the food would be exquisite. The butler referred darkly to some exigencies in the recent past, but Isidore did not inquire further. She found that a combination of blissful ignorance and high expectations was the best policy when it came to household problems.

She was dressed in an informal open gown of the finest wine-dark silk. The overskirts pulled back into great loops of nearly transparent fabric, tied by forest green knots of silk. It was an unusual and charming garment—and perhaps most importantly, the bodice was cut extremely low.