“What?”
“You are a woman with a past, Jemma. And better than that, you have a reputation.”
She knitted her brow. “He doesn’t like my past. And he never liked my wilder parties. Some years ago he paid me a visit in Paris over Twelfth Night. You should have seen his face when I informed him that all the gentlemen were to come to my ball dressed as satyrs! He refused, of course. Every Frenchman wore a satyr’s tail, but Beaumont was in a frock coat, precisely as if it were not a masquerade at all.”
“Naturally. And I’ve never heard a breath of scandal attached to the duke.”
“He had a mistress, but no one considers that scandalous,” she said, dropping the ribbon in a tangled heap back on her dressing table.
“Because it isn’t. Mistresses are commonplace. And for a man of Beaumont’s character, the presence of such a woman in his life must have been shaming after a time.”
Jemma raised an eyebrow.
“They’re paid,” Corbin said. “Paid to play out the fantasies every man has in the back of his mind.”
“Fantasies!” Jemma cried, revolted. “He had a regular appointment with her, in his chambers at the Inns of Court, at lunchtime yet. How could that possibly stem from fantasy?”
“That’s just business,” Corbin said. “He likely made the arrangement before marriage, and simply forgot to change it. How old was the duke when he inherited the title?”
“Oh, quite young,” Jemma said. “Haven’t you ever heard of the late duke’s death? I’m afraid it was quite a scandal at the time.”
“Of course! He died in flagrante delicto with—was it four women?”
“Two,” Jemma said. “Only two. But I gather that The Palace of Salomé catered to rather specialized tastes, and it was the duke’s favorite establishment.”
“No wonder your husband made his mistress part of his public life,” Corbin said. “Where better to prove that his tastes were not deviant than in his own office?”
Jemma’s mouth fell open. “Elijah said he loved her,” she added in a smallish voice.
“If you challenged him on the subject, he may have said that from rage. But it is very difficult to love someone whom one pays for the most intimate of pleasures. The money kills joy.”
“You are rather terrifying,” Jemma said, eyeing him.
“I try,” Corbin said smugly. “Do you see what I am suggesting?”
“No.”
“If you wish to rouse passion in a husband of so many years, I think you will have to show him the side of yourself that you have flaunted only in Paris.”
“The chemise dress?” Jemma said, pleating her brow.
“No. That’s boldly sexual. For Beaumont, you will have to be imaginative. Playful. Joyful. All the things that never, ever happen in the halls of the House of Lords, and certainly have never happened with his mistress. You need to be spontaneous, naughty, and fun.”
“I can’t imagine Elijah—”
“Having fun?” Corbin folded his hands. “Neither can I, Duchess. Neither can I. Therein lies your challenge. Oh, and I think he needs to choose you.”
“Do you mean that I should encourage Villiers?” She wrinkled her nose.
“Perhaps. But I also mean that someone should flirt with the duke, someone as powerful and beautiful as you.”
“You cannot be suggesting that I encourage another woman to court my husband!”
He shrugged. “No woman in London would dare do so unless you make it clear that you are uninterested, and frankly, indifference will only serve your cause. No man wants the woman who lies prostrate at his feet.” Corbin’s eyes drifted down to his feet, as if seeing feminine hands curled pleadingly around his ankles.
“I would never plead,” Jemma stated.
“I am merely suggesting that you do not inform the world of your newfound passion. Let the duke come to you. Win your attentions from another man, if possible. Beaumont married at a young age, and for obvious reasons he never indulged in any sort of exuberant naughtiness.”
“He did have a young woman pursuing him last year,” Jemma pointed out. “Don’t you remember Miss Tatlock?”
“The one you called Miss Fetlock? She of the long nose and abrasive intelligence? Please, Jemma. A true rival would have to be someone of your stature in beauty, wit, and status.”
“His mistress’s name was Sarah Cobbett,” Jemma said.
“That speaks for itself, doesn’t it? The poor man has experienced nothing but well-meaning intimacies with a woman graced by the name Cobbett. I am moved near to tears at the thought of it.”
“Are you certain this is necessary, Corbin?”
“Absolutely. The man has never had women vie for his hand before. He will love it, if only because you are one of the two.”
Jemma thought he might be right. “What makes you so wise?” she inquired.
“I take my pleasure in watching others,” he said as a shadow passed over his eyes. “Some of us, like yourself, my dear duchess, fling themselves into the midst of life. Others, myself included, spend their time watching.”
“I knew it,” Jemma said. “You should be taking up a seat in Parliament and manipulating all the poor people like myself who never take the time to develop wisdom.”
She’d never given much thought as to why Elijah was tupping his mistress on his desk all those years ago. It was simply the event that tore their marriage asunder, broke her heart and drove her to Paris.
But of course most men did set up their mistresses in houses in the suburbs. They didn’t make appointments for them in their offices, appointments that every man working in Elijah’s parliamentary chambers must have known about.
Brigitte entered with a silver tray and Champagne glasses.
“Thank goodness,” Corbin sighed, accepting his glass. “All this deep thought is making me quite thirsty.”
“I’ve decided on the green,” Jemma told Brigitte, standing up so her maid could tie on her panniers.
“Two patches,” Corbin said decisively. “A kissing patch near your mouth, and another below your eye.”
The watered silk fell over her panniers with the gentle swish. The bodice plumped her breasts and pushed them forward. She raised an eyebrow to Corbin.
“Perfect,” he said. “Delectable yet legal. And since you do not clash with my coat, I shall allow myself to stand next to you on occasion.”
Jemma smiled at the glass. There was a small tendril of joy in her heart. “Crimson lip color tonight, Brigitte,” she said.
“Naughty,” Corbin observed.
An hour or so later, that is precisely how she looked. Her curls were powdered and adorned with green roses that glinted mysteriously from their emerald depths. Her eyes laughed above a small patch that drew attention to her crimson mouth. She looked naughty—not overtly available, not scandalous, but mischievous.
“You’re perfect,” Corbin said, rising to his feet.
“And you’re a miracle!” Jemma cried, giving him a kiss.
Corbin’s smile was smug. “I have always found it best to create my own entertainments,” he remarked. “This evening should be truly interesting, Duchess.”