Almost as difficult as being married to Fletch.
She froze for a second. “Are you fatigued, Your Grace?” Beaumont asked, pausing. “Would you prefer to sit down?”
“Oh no,” she said, pushing thoughts about her marriage away. “I am so looking forward to seeing Jemma. I haven’t seen her since before I married, when we both lived in Paris. She must be happy to find that her brother won the duel.”
“Naturally we are all relieved that the occasion ended without undue bloodshed,” Beaumont said evenly, his voice showing how much he disliked the idea of celebrating his brother-in-law’s illegal foray into dueling. “And here is the duchess herself.”
He bowed, and left. Jemma looked even more elegant than she had four years ago in Paris. Though she was wearing panniers too, her skirts weren’t stiff like Poppy’s but soft and flowing. And whereas Poppy’s hair was curled into rigid little snail shells, Jemma’s hair was shaped into soft curls, so lightly powdered that its natural gold color shone through. Her beauty had deepened; the sensual air that Poppy remembered was even more pronounced.
“Jemma,” Poppy exclaimed. “How lovely you look!”
Jemma turned and gave a little shriek of welcome. “It’s Poppy!” she cried, snatching her into a hug. Then she backed up and narrowed her eyes. “What has happened to the little mademoiselle I knew so well in Paris? You are exquisite! You put us all to shame. Look at us, three duchesses, and you are the only one who looks the part.”
Poppy had already realized that she had grotesquely miscalculated the formality of the party. No wonder Fletch said nothing of her gown. Poppy smiled apologetically at the lady standing beside Jemma. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”
“We’ve never met,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “Jemma is engaging in hyperbole. I am no duchess. My name is Lady Isidore Del’Fino.” Lady Isidore was wearing a gorgeous costume of soft rose-colored crêpe-de-chine. If Jemma was all sleek perfection, Lady Isidore looked like a ripe cherry, seductive and delicious. Poppy’s heart sank even deeper.
“Isidore, this is the Duchess of Fletcher. Isidore is almost a duchess,” Jemma said, giving Poppy’s arm another affectionate squeeze. “She married by proxy and is just waiting for her duke to return from his travels.”
“I might add that I’ve been waiting ten years,” Isidore said, with such a funny wrinkle of her nose that Poppy started laughing. “I’m very happy to meet you, Lady Fletcher,” she continued. “I’ve heard so much about your charitable endeavors.”
“Which I shall not be joining,” Jemma said. “I ought to make that clear to you now, darling, before I disappoint you. I’m no more charitable than I was when we knew each other in Paris. In fact, probably less so.”
“How can you be less so?” Isidore demanded. “I’ve been living in Italy for the past three years, but I paid many a visit to Jemma,” she explained to Poppy. “I can’t say that I ever saw her exert herself to sew a charitable seam.”
“I have my moments,” Jemma said. And then added: “I consider charity to gentlemen my particular area of expertise.”
Her look was so mischievous that Poppy broke out laughing.
“It’s so strange to think of you married, darling,” Jemma said. “You would hardly believe it, looking at her now, Isidore, but Poppy was the sweetest little poppet you ever saw. She used to wander around the French court with her eyes as round as—as plums.”
“While everyone laughed at me,” Poppy said to Isidore, snapping open her fan. “To call me naïve would have underestimated the truth. I was in a stupor of surprise most of the time.”
“They never laughed!” Jemma cried, loyally. “They were too riveted with jealousy to laugh. You see,” she told Isidore, “Poppy appeared in Paris with her mother and within a week—nay within the hour!—she snapped up the most eligible bachelor in the city, the Duke of Fletcher.”
“I have seen him!” Isidore said, giving Poppy a smile. “In Italy we call such a man bellissimo.”