Love Match by Maggie MacKeever Page B

Grace?”
    “So you weren’t.” Elizabeth sat down at the writing desk and picked up a quill. “I must inquire of Maman how I am to properly deal with the inclusion of St. Clair’s former wife in our honeymoon.”
    Divorced! Lady Elizabeth was as sore beset as any romantic heroine. Or maybe worse, because Daphne had never read about anything like this. Poor thing, married for her dowry to a man who had his previous wife in the house. Thornaby thought himself so superior. Daphne didn’t see anything superior in being valet to a divorced man. Even if he was a duke.
    “Mrs. Papplewick was talking about that Magda.” Daphne peered over Elizabeth’s shoulder to see what she had written. “She didn’t say as they were wed.”
    Elizabeth set down the pen, to Daphne’s relief. If Her Grace sent off that letter, Lady Ratchett would descend upon them like a whirling dervish—the abigail was partial to romantic novels of an Eastern flavor—and Daphne would have to explain why she hadn’t kept Herself apprised of what was going on in her daughter’s house. “What did Mrs. Papplewick say?” Elizabeth asked.
    Daphne struggled with her conscience. Or rather, her sense of which side her bread was buttered on. Best her mistress knew the truth, even if she didn’t like it. Which she wasn’t likely to. “According to Mrs. Papplewick, Miss Magda was a gay, lively lass. Adored by servant and lordship alike. And if no one can say for sure what had happened between them, it is Mrs. Papplewick’s opinion that it was his lordship as decided they wouldn’t suit. A queer thing in and of itself, she said, since it was obvious to one and all that once Miss Magda had suited St. Clair to a cow’s thumb.”
    As Elizabeth clearly did not. Maybe the duke might be persuaded to divorce a second time. But in such a case, he would hardly return her portion. Elizabeth had no desire to return penniless to her mother’s house. “Well,” she muttered. “That is that.”
    What that was, Daphne didn’t ask. She coaxed her mistress out of her clothes and into the sheerest of nightgowns, powdered her and creamed her and took the pins out of her hair.
    Deep in a brown study, Elizabeth allowed her abigail to dress her like a doll. When Daphne was done with her at last, she walked toward the hearth. The Axminster carpet was soft beneath her bare feet. Daphne moved quietly around the room, fussed with the candles, plumped up the pillows on the bed, folded back the coverlet.
    She picked up a scent bottle. Elizabeth waved her away. “I do not want to be perfumed, Daphne! You may go.” The abigail doused her with scent, all the same. Elizabeth sat down in front of the fire and began to brush out her long hair.
    No wonder Maman had been so insistent that Elizabeth be a model of all the virtues. The duke would also turn off Elizabeth, did she fail to suit. And how could she help but fail, when even the glorious Magda had fallen short of the mark? St. Clair must have loved Magda once. She had, after all, suited him to a cow’s thumb. Did Lord Charnwood still nourish a tendre for his former wife?
    The door to the dressing room opened. St. Clair stepped into the bedroom, for all the world as if Elizabeth had conjured him. He wore his dressing robe of lustrous rich satin, a deep wine in hue. Did he wear anything beneath it? Elizabeth suspected he did not. For that matter, neither did she wear anything beneath her gossamer nightgown. She hoped the duke would attribute her reddened cheeks to the warmth of the fire.
    How somber she looked, thought Justin. Elizabeth could hardly be blamed for holding him in low esteem—it was her wretched mother’s fault, for not explaining things—but still, his pride was stung. Justin had ever conducted himself with the utmost propriety, especially toward his bride. He walked toward the hearth, where Elizabeth perched on a stool. The firelight caused lovely lights to dance in her long thick hair.
    The room was warmly