Private Arrangements (2 page)

The prototype of the new stamping machine Lady Tremaine had ordered for her factory in Leicestershire refused to live up to its promise. The negotiation with the shipbuilder in Liverpool dragged on most unsatisfactorily. And she had yet to answer any of the letters from her mother—ten in all, one for each day since she'd petitioned for divorce—in which Mrs. Rowland questioned her sanity outright and fell just short of comparing her intelligence to that of a leg of ham.

But that was all expected. What made her head pound was the telegram from Mrs. Rowland three hours ago:
Tremaine came ashore at Southampton this morning.
No matter how she tried to explain it to Freddie as something par for the course—
There are papers to sign and settlements to be negotiated, darling. He has to come back at some point—
Tremaine's arrival portended only trouble.

Her husband. In England. Closer than he had been in a decade, except for that miserable incident in Copenhagen, back in '88.

“I need Broyton to come in tomorrow morning to look at some accounts for me,” she said to Goodman, handing over her shawl, her hat, and her gloves as she entered the town house and walked toward the library. “Kindly request Miss Etoile's presence for some dictations. And tell Edie that I will wear the cream velvet tonight, instead of the amethyst silk.”

“Madam—”

“I almost forgot. I saw Lord Sutcliffe this morning. His secretary has given notice. I recommended your nephew. Have him present himself at Lord Sutcliffe's house tomorrow morning at ten. Tell him that Lord Sutcliffe prefers a man of sincerity and few words.”

“That is too kind of you, madam!” Goodman exclaimed.

“He's a promising young man.” She stopped before the library door. “On second thought, have Miss Etoile come in twenty minutes. And make sure no one disturbs me until then.”

“But your ladyship, his lordship—”

“His lordship will not be taking tea with me today.” She pushed the door open and realized Goodman was still there, hovering. She turned halfway and glanced at him. The butler wore a constipated expression. “What is it, Goodman? The back troubling you again?”

“No, madam, it's not. It's—”

“It's me,” said a voice from inside the library. Her husband's voice.

For a long, stunned moment, all she could think was how glad she was that she had not invited Freddie home with her today, as she often did after an afternoon walk together. Then she could not think of anything at all. Her headache faded, replaced by a mad rush of blood to her head. She was hot, then cold. The air about her turned thick as pea soup, fine for gulping but impossible to inhale.

Vaguely, she nodded at Goodman. “You may return to your duties.”

Goodman hesitated. Did he fear for her? She entered the library and let the heavy oak door close behind her, shutting out curious eyes and ears, shutting out the rest of the world.

The windows of her library faced west, for a view of the park. The still-intense sunlight cascaded through clear glass panes at an oblique angle and landed in perfect rectangles of warm clarity on her Samarkand carpet, with its poppies and pomegranates on a field of rose and ivory.

Tremaine stood just beyond the direct light, his hands braced against the mahogany desk behind him, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He should be a figure in relative obscurity, not particularly visible. Yet she saw him all too clearly, as if Michelangelo's Adam had leapt off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, robbed a Savile Row bespoke tailor, and come to make trouble.

She caught herself. She was staring, as if she was still that nineteen-year-old girl, devoid of depth but full of herself.

“Hullo, Camden.”

“Hullo, Gigi.”

She had allowed no man to call her by that childhood pet name since his departure.

Forcing herself away from the door, she crossed the length of the library, the carpet beneath her feet too soft, a quagmire. She marched right up to him, to show that she did not fear him. But she did. He held powers over her, powers far beyond those conferred by mere laws.

Even though she was a tall woman, she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like malachite from the Urals. She inhaled his subtle scent of sandalwood and citrus, the aroma she had once equated with happiness.

“Are you here to grant me the divorce or to be a nuisance?” She got to the point right away. Trouble that was not confronted head-on always circled around to bite one in the bum.

He shrugged. He had taken off his day coat and his necktie. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. His shirt of fine cambric draped over him lovingly, caressing his wide shoulders and long arms.

“I'm here to set conditions.”

“What do you mean, conditions?”

“An heir. You produce an heir and I will allow the divorce to proceed. Otherwise I will name parties to
your
adultery. You do know that you cannot divorce me on grounds of adultery if you happen to have committed the same sin, don't you?”

Her ears rang. “Surely you jest. You want an
heir
from me?
Now?”

“I couldn't stand the thought of bedding you before now.”

“Really?” She laughed, though she'd have preferred to smash an inkwell against his temple. “You liked it well enough last time.”

“The performance of a lifetime,” he said easily. “And I was a good thespian to begin with.”

Pain erupted inside her, corrosive, debilitating pain she'd thought she'd never feel again. She groped for mastery and shoved the subject away from where she was most vulnerable. “Empty threats. I have not been intimate with Lord Frederick.”

“How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams.”

She sucked in a breath. How did he know? She'd been ever so careful, ever so discreet.

“Your mother wrote me.” He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. “Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I'm sure you will forgive her.”

If there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she'd set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland's prized greenhouse. Then she'd corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots.

“You have a choice,” he said amicably. “We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers.”

She blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record?

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. “I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus.”

“And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea.”

“I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!”

“I'm worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn't a sou, that's not quite enough for me to stand before Her Majesty's magistrate and swear that I never touched you. We both know perfectly well that I shagged you to a fare-thee-well.”

She flinched and grew hot. Unfortunately, not entirely from anger. The memories of that night—no, she would not think about it. She had forgotten it already. “This is about Miss von Schweppenburg, isn't it? You are still trying to punish me.”

He gave her one of his cool stares that used to turn her knees to pudding. “Now, why would you think that?”

And what could she say? What could she say without dragging up their entire complicated and bitter history? She swallowed. “Fine,” she said, as indifferently as she could. “I have an evening engagement to keep. But I should be home about ten. I can permit you a quarter hour from half past ten.”

He laughed. “As impatient as always, my dear marchioness. No, tonight I will not be visiting you. I'm weary from my travels. And now that I've seen you, I'll need a few more days to get over my revulsion. But rest assured, I shall not be bound by any asinine time limits. I will stay in your bed for as long as I want, not a minute less—and not a minute more, no matter how you plead.”

Her jaw dropped from sheer stupefaction. “That is the most rid—”

He suddenly leaned toward her and placed an index finger over her lips. “I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you. You will not enjoy eating those words.”

She jerked her head away, her lips burning. “I would not want you to remain in my bed if you were the last man alive and I'd had nothing but Spanish flies for a fortnight.”

“What images you bring to mind, my lady Tremaine. With every man in the world perfectly alive and no aphrodisiacs at all, you were already a tigress.” He pushed away from the desk. “I've had all I can take of you for a day. I wish you a pleasant evening. Do convey my regards to your beloved. I hope he doesn't mind my exercises in conjugal rights.”

He left without a backward glance.

And not for the first time.

Lady Tremaine watched the door closing behind her husband and rued the day she first learned of his existence.

Chapter Two

Eleven years earlier . . .
London
July 1882

E
ighteen-year-old Gigi Rowland gloated. She hoped she wasn't too obvious, but then, she didn't really care. What could the bejeweled, beplumed women in Lady Beckwith's drawing room possibly say? That she lacked becoming modesty? That she was hard-edged and arrogant? That she reeked of pound notes?

They had predicted, at the beginning of her London season, that she would be an unqualified disaster, a girl with no class, no comportment, no clue. But lo and behold, only two months into the season and she was already engaged—to a
duke,
a young, handsome one no less.
Her Grace the Duchess of Fairford.
She liked the sound of it. She liked it tremendously.

The same women who had scorned her had been forced to stand before her and offer their felicitations. Yes, the wedding date had been set—in November, just after her birthday. And, yes, thank you, she already had her first consultation at Madame Elise's for the wedding gown. She'd chosen a lush cream satin, with a twelve-foot train to be made of silver moiré.

Secure in her soon-to-be exalted status, Gigi settled deeper into the bergère chair and snapped open her fan as other, fiancéless debutantes prepared to entertain the ladies with their musical skills—Lord Beckwith being notoriously lengthy with his postdinner cordials and cigars, sometimes keeping the gentlemen for more than three hours.

Gigi turned her attention to more important matters. Should she do something fantastical with the cake, have it done in the shape of the Taj Mahal or the Doge's Palace? No? Then she'd have the layers made in an unusual shape. Hexagons? Excellent. A hexagonal cake covered in gleaming royal fondant icing, with garlands of—

The music. She looked up in surprise. The performances usually ranged from acceptable to execrable. But the creamy, exquisite young woman at the bench was as adept as the professional musicians Gigi's mother sometimes engaged. Her fingers glided across the piano keys like swallows over a summer pond. Crystalline, sumptuous notes caressed the ears the way a good dish of crème brûlée caressed the tongue.

Theodora von Schweppenburg. That was her name. They'd been introduced just before dinner. She was new to London, from a minor principality on the Continent, the daughter of a count, by right a countess herself—but it was one of those Holy Roman Empire titles that went on to all descendants, so it meant little.

The performance ended, and a few minutes later Gigi was surprised to find Miss von Schweppenburg at her side.

“Many congratulations on your engagement, Miss Rowland.” Miss von Schweppenburg spoke with a light, pleasing accent. She smelled of attar of rose underpinned with patchouli.

“Thank you,
Fräulein.”

“My mother would like me to do the same,” Miss von Schweppenburg said with a small, self-conscious laugh, sitting down on a straight-back chair next to Gigi. “She has ordered me to ask you how you accomplished it.”

“It is simple,” Gigi answered, with practiced nonchalance. “His Grace is in financial straits, and I have a fortune.”

It was less simple than that. Rather, it had been a campaign years in the making, waged from the very second Mrs. Rowland at last inculcated in Gigi that it was both her duty and her destiny to become a duchess.

Miss von Schweppenburg would not be able to duplicate Gigi's success. Nor would Gigi herself. She knew of no other marriageable duke with such overwhelming arrears that he'd be willing to marry a girl whose only claim to gentility was her mother, a country squire's daughter.

Miss von Schweppenburg's eyes lowered. “Oh,” she murmured, turning the handle of her lace fan round and round within her palms. “I don't have a fortune.”

Gigi had guessed as much. There was a sadness to her, the somber melancholy of a high-born woman who could only afford to have a parlor maid come in every other day, who moved in the dark after sunset to save on candle wax.

“But you are beautiful,” Gigi pointed out. Though long in the tooth, she thought, at least twenty-one or twenty-two. “Men like beautiful women.”

“I don't do it very well, this . . . beautiful woman undertaking.”

That, Gigi had seen for herself already. At dinner Miss von Schweppenburg had been seated between two eligible young peers, both of whom had been piqued by her beauty and her shyness. But there'd been something glum about her reticence. She'd paid scant attention to either man and, after a while, they'd noticed.

“You need more practice,” said Gigi.

The girl was silent. She drew the tip of her fan across her lap. “Have you ever met Lord Reginald Saybrook, Miss Rowland?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar. Then Gigi remembered. Lord Reginald was her future husband's uncle. “I'm afraid not. He married some Bavarian princess and lives on the Continent.”

“He has a son.” Miss von Schweppenburg's voice faltered. “His name is Camden. And . . . and he loves me.”

Gigi smelled a Romeo-and-Juliet story, a story whose appeal escaped her. Miss Capulet should have married the man her parents chose for her and then had her torrid but very discreet affair with Mr. Montague. Not only would she have stayed alive, she'd have realized, after a while, that Romeo was just a callow, bored youth with little to offer her other than pretty platitudes.
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun
indeed.

“We've known each other a long time,” continued Miss von Schweppenburg. “But of course Mama would not let me marry him. He has no fortune either.”

“I see,” Gigi said politely. “You are trying to remain true to him.”

Miss von Schweppenburg hesitated. “I don't know. Mama would never speak to me again if I don't marry well. But strangers make me . . . uncomfortable. I only wish Mr. Saybrook were more eligible.”

Gigi's opinion of the girl deteriorated rapidly. She respected a woman out to marry to her best advantage. And she respected a woman who sacrificed worldly comforts for love, though she personally disagreed with such decisions. But she could not tolerate wishy-washiness. Miss von Schweppenburg would neither commit to this Camden Saybrook, because he was too poor, nor commit to her husband-hunting, because she enjoyed too much being loved by him.

“He's very handsome, very sweet and kind,” Miss von Schweppenburg was saying, her voice reduced to a whisper, almost as if she were talking to herself. “He writes me letters and sends lovely presents, things he'd made himself.”

Gigi wanted to roll her eyes but somehow couldn't. Someone loved this girl, this utterly useless girl, loved her enough to go on wooing her, even though she was being paraded before all of Europe for takers.

A moment of stark despair descended upon her that she would never know such love, that she would go through life sustained only by her facade of invincibility. Then she came to her senses. Love was for fools. Gigi Rowland was many things, but she was never a fool.

“How fortunate for you,
Fräulein.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. I only wish . . .” Miss von Schweppenburg shook her head. “Perhaps you might meet him at your wedding.”

Gigi nodded and smiled absently, preoccupied once again with the structural elegance of the cake to be served at her imminent wedding.

But no wedding ever took place between Philippa Gilberte Rowland and Carrington Vincent Hanslow Saybrook. Two weeks before the wedding day, His Grace the Duke of Fairford, the Marquess of Tremaine, Viscount Hanslow, and Baron Wolvinton, after six hours of solid drinking in honor of his upcoming nuptials, climbed up to the roof of his friend's town house and attempted to moon all of London. All he accomplished was a broken neck and his own demise by tumbling four stories to the ground.