ever been.”
Not? Go shoe a goose. “Forgive my presumption in asking, but what is she, then?”
Definitely she had a temper. Those big brown eyes spit fire. “Your mama didn’t tell you, I credit,” Justin said dryly. “No doubt it didn’t signify to her because I am a duke. At any rate, it happened a long time ago. Magda and I were both young.”
Elizabeth’s patience, such as it was, was wearing thin. “Maman didn’t tell me what?”
Her eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved. Justin would have preferred to have this conversation somewhere more secluded than an open carriage, in the middle of Bath. “That Magdalena is my first wife, from whom I have long been divorced.”
Divorced? Elizabeth gaped. “But how—”
“I traded her for a horse!” snapped Justin. “In the usual way, of course. I had not yet come into the title, and my father paid well to have the business quickly done with. Now let us have no more of this nonsense, if you please!”
Chapter 7
“As a woman grows older, she should assume a graver habit and less vivacious air.” —Lady Ratchett
The Duke of Charnwood’s previous wife, who had not been traded for a horse, or divorced on grounds of temporary insanity on the part of her spouse (though he had considered it), surveyed the interior of the Pump Room. This was a splendid structure with great columns, and curved recesses at each end, thronged already with visitors come to drink the first glass of water of the day. In their gallery, musicians played. Among the crowd were professional men and philosophers and rakes; rheumatics, gout sufferers, people afflicted with unsightly skin diseases; snobs, social climbers, and upstarts of fortune; ladies, both respectable and not; invalids in wheeled chairs.
Accompanying Madame de Chavannes was Lady Augusta, who grimaced as she sipped the nasty-tasting beverage. “I don’t know,” she muttered, “why you were so determined to come here.”
Magda sampled her own water. “Z ut! It does taste very bad. That London doctor must have made good his threat to cast toads into the spring.” Augusta choked. Magda grinned.
“You did that on purpose!” accused Augusta. “I don’t see how anyone can stomach three glasses of this stuff a day. And I shan’t have a bath, no matter what you say.”
Magda idly touched her cameo. “Never? You will eventually reek.”
“You are being deliberately provoking. Which shouldn’t surprise me. I’ll make you a bargain. I’ll go into the Baths when you do.”
Magda had no intention of going into the Baths with Augusta. Or anywhere else, actually, which went to show how easily one’s intentions could be overset. “The scandal of nude bathing has been removed, and along with it my interest. Do not stand there gaping! Come along, ma chère.”
Madame de Chavannes threaded her way through the crowd, glancing with keen interest at the various faces around them. None were worthy of her attention. She cast a quick eye over the book designated for the registration of the city’s more worthy guests.
Magda did not add her own name to those pages. She turned to Lady Augusta, who trailed in her wake. Augusta was almost winsome in her short robe of white muslin, trimmed round the neck with lace, worn over a striped muslin petticoat; her Dunstable hat trimmed round with a narrow blue ribbon, across its crown a wreath of artificial flowers. Or she might have been almost winsome if not for her expression, which was fierce enough to frighten off anyone. “It is your own fault if you are unhappy. You insisted on coming with me,
Gus.”
Augusta’s elegant nose twitched in irritation. “Don’t call me that!”
Magda returned her attention to her surroundings. “Better Gus than some of the other things Nigel has called you. I especially recall the episode of the hornet’s nest. Poor boy, he was badly bitten. Unfair of him to blame you when we were all equally at fault. Eh bien! Those were better
Not? Go shoe a goose. “Forgive my presumption in asking, but what is she, then?”
Definitely she had a temper. Those big brown eyes spit fire. “Your mama didn’t tell you, I credit,” Justin said dryly. “No doubt it didn’t signify to her because I am a duke. At any rate, it happened a long time ago. Magda and I were both young.”
Elizabeth’s patience, such as it was, was wearing thin. “Maman didn’t tell me what?”
Her eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved. Justin would have preferred to have this conversation somewhere more secluded than an open carriage, in the middle of Bath. “That Magdalena is my first wife, from whom I have long been divorced.”
Divorced? Elizabeth gaped. “But how—”
“I traded her for a horse!” snapped Justin. “In the usual way, of course. I had not yet come into the title, and my father paid well to have the business quickly done with. Now let us have no more of this nonsense, if you please!”
Chapter 7
“As a woman grows older, she should assume a graver habit and less vivacious air.” —Lady Ratchett
The Duke of Charnwood’s previous wife, who had not been traded for a horse, or divorced on grounds of temporary insanity on the part of her spouse (though he had considered it), surveyed the interior of the Pump Room. This was a splendid structure with great columns, and curved recesses at each end, thronged already with visitors come to drink the first glass of water of the day. In their gallery, musicians played. Among the crowd were professional men and philosophers and rakes; rheumatics, gout sufferers, people afflicted with unsightly skin diseases; snobs, social climbers, and upstarts of fortune; ladies, both respectable and not; invalids in wheeled chairs.
Accompanying Madame de Chavannes was Lady Augusta, who grimaced as she sipped the nasty-tasting beverage. “I don’t know,” she muttered, “why you were so determined to come here.”
Magda sampled her own water. “Z ut! It does taste very bad. That London doctor must have made good his threat to cast toads into the spring.” Augusta choked. Magda grinned.
“You did that on purpose!” accused Augusta. “I don’t see how anyone can stomach three glasses of this stuff a day. And I shan’t have a bath, no matter what you say.”
Magda idly touched her cameo. “Never? You will eventually reek.”
“You are being deliberately provoking. Which shouldn’t surprise me. I’ll make you a bargain. I’ll go into the Baths when you do.”
Magda had no intention of going into the Baths with Augusta. Or anywhere else, actually, which went to show how easily one’s intentions could be overset. “The scandal of nude bathing has been removed, and along with it my interest. Do not stand there gaping! Come along, ma chère.”
Madame de Chavannes threaded her way through the crowd, glancing with keen interest at the various faces around them. None were worthy of her attention. She cast a quick eye over the book designated for the registration of the city’s more worthy guests.
Magda did not add her own name to those pages. She turned to Lady Augusta, who trailed in her wake. Augusta was almost winsome in her short robe of white muslin, trimmed round the neck with lace, worn over a striped muslin petticoat; her Dunstable hat trimmed round with a narrow blue ribbon, across its crown a wreath of artificial flowers. Or she might have been almost winsome if not for her expression, which was fierce enough to frighten off anyone. “It is your own fault if you are unhappy. You insisted on coming with me,
Gus.”
Augusta’s elegant nose twitched in irritation. “Don’t call me that!”
Magda returned her attention to her surroundings. “Better Gus than some of the other things Nigel has called you. I especially recall the episode of the hornet’s nest. Poor boy, he was badly bitten. Unfair of him to blame you when we were all equally at fault. Eh bien! Those were better
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