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“But what do you hope to—”
“Repentence,” the marquise said, “is too much to ask. No one repents anymore. It is as out of fashion as fidelity. But he has degraded me, brought me to his level. He must—”
She stopped.
Jemma nodded. “I faced the same problem, many years ago. My husband had made clear to me his utter lack of respect, his love for another woman. I lived in France for years as a result. It took me a great many years to understand that marriage lines do not control the heart.”
The marquise’s face twisted.
“My husband was in love with someone else,” Jemma repeated. “There was nothing I could say or do to change that circumstance. My advice, and I mean this seriously, is that you do not choose to follow him. Fashion a life of your own. I was not always happy in Paris, but I was often content.”
The marquise snapped open her fan, but not before Jemma saw the glint of tears in her eyes. Jemma rose to her feet and held out her hand.
“We must return to the ball. It is too demoralizing for the men to discover that women are talking amongst themselves. Their fear of conspiracy moves them to overprize virtue in the female sex. They grow more conservative as a result.”
The marquise chuckled. It wasn’t the laughter that Jemma remembered, but it was a reasonable approximation.
Elijah was leaning casually against the wall just outside the door when they emerged. Jemma couldn’t help it; a smile leapt from her heart to her lips. The marquise threw her a sour look. “It seems that men are not the only ones with ambitions to virtue,” she said. “Beware lest you grow conservative, duchess.”
It was almost worthy of her former waspishness.
Elijah was bowing before the marquise, taking her hand to his lips. “You are as exquisite as ever,” he said, using his politician’s voice, the one that sounded as sincere as if he were prophesying rain while drops fell on his hat.
The marquise sauntered away. She looked back, over her shoulder, and caught Jemma’s eye. There was something like envy—or rage—on her face.
“Do not ever imagine yourself comfortable, duchess. A mistake I committed.”
Then she turned with a swish of her skirts and disappeared into the ballroom.
“Dear me, what an uncomfortable woman she is!” Elijah says. “All in white and black like that. She reminds me of a chess board.”
Jemma closed her fan. “She’s beautiful, though. Don’t you think?”
“Undoubtedly.” He hesitated. “Villiers is here. He asked me whether you and I had begun our third game in the match.”
“And you told him?” She looked up at Elijah’s face, at his stark cheekbones, deep eyes, tired intelligence.
“I told him that I only wished I had you blindfolded and in bed,” he said, looking down at her. It should have been a joke…
It wasn’t a joke.
His eyes were serious.
“You do?” she said. It was hard even to force the air into her lungs to say that.
“And I told him that I would prefer that he complete his game immediately, under the circumstances.”
“You mean because if people suspect that I am having an affaire with him, they will not countenance our child as our own.”
He nodded. But there seemed to be so much more going on in the conversation, so much that was unsaid. Jemma’s heart was beating rapidly in her throat. “I don’t…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t wish to play that final game.”
His face went utterly still. He stayed there for a moment, looking down at her. Then his utterly charming smile appeared and he bowed.
“In that case, my lady, I certainly will never urge the unpleasantness on you.”
He was gone, Jemma staring after him.
“The game with Villiers,” she clarified. But he was gone.
