by EM BROWN
Though the maid had spoken in a noncommittal manner, Deana respected her reserved nature and did not press for more details.
Bhadra tended to her hair next.
“One does not tend to craving when grateful to be alive,” she said after some silence.
The sentiment tugged at Deana’s heart. She could not despair the inconveniences of her own situation knowing what the maid had had to endure.
“You have family back in India?”
Bhadra nodded. “My mother and grandfather. We write to each other, but letters take so very long to travel between us.”
Deana had a dozen questions at the tip of her tongue, but as this was the most the maid had spoken in one spell, she allowed Bhadra to dictate the pace.
“His lordship offered to bring my family to England, but my grandfather is too old to make the journey.”
“How kind of Baron Rockwell to have offered.”
“His lordship is beyond generous.”
Bhadra spoke with a wistfulness that made Deana suspect that the maid had some tender feelings toward Rockwell. She considered her own experiences with the man and his gift to her of the ivory elephant. While it was true he had the means that made generosity easier, he had had no obligation to do what he had for Bhadra. Despite her earlier anger with his lack of position when it came to Company policy, deep in her bosom she knew he could not possess any evil or he would not have been able to arouse her as he had.
“My mother had watched over him since his days in leading strings,” Bhadra added.
Deana smiled at the thought of a young Rockwell and was about to ask what sort of boy Rockwell had been, but a knock at the door interrupted them.
The Baron was dressed simply in white trousers, a high cravat, and dark cut-away dress coat with high collars. Deana felt a twinge of vanity knowing that she would be escorted to dinner by such a fine specimen of man. From his appreciative appraisal of her, she could be satisfied that she did him some justice as well. He presented an elegant arm. She slid her own between its crook, her heart palpitating a little more rapidly. Perhaps it was the dress, or his fine manners, or the triumph that came from having pleased his eye when no doubt he crossed paths with women who had her countenance tenfold, that made her feel rather like a princess.
The dining room proved more intimate than Deana predicted from such a stately structure, but she found the lack of fancy appealing. The table was adorned simply with two vases of roses spaced perfectly so as not to obstruct view and discourse across the table and china that gleamed with luxury but averted the ostentatious. The proprietress, wearing a feathered tocque and large gold hoop earrings, presided at the head of the table. To her left sat a pretty young woman who seemed to have eyes only for Madame. To her right sat an officer of His Majesty’s Army in full regimentals. Beside him was a brunette who could not stop giggling.
Though she did not think to find anyone she knew, Deana was relieved to find her hope confirmed. After seeing her to her chair, Rockwell took his seat opposite her. Lord Devon and Lady Isabella were similarly situated across the table from one other with the former beside Deana and the latter beside the Baron. Deana could not help wonder if that had been by design. A server came to pour her a glass of wine. She glanced at Rockwell, who nodded his head ever so slightly.
Sitting across the table, Lady Isabella appeared nothing short of radiant in a gown of embroidered tulle, breasts pushed high above the décolletage as to almost touch her chin. She leaned in close to Rockwell and spoke in low tones. Unable to hear, Deana could only observe Rockwell respond with equal intimacy. Lady Isabella smiled. Deana took a long sip of her wine.
“Miss Sherwood,” Lady Isabella said, “I could not help but think on the remark you made regarding gaming hells. Are you yourself a patron of gaming hells?”
Her ladyship arched a shapely eyebrow. Deana smiled politely. “With such frequency, they could pass as a second home.”
Their exchange perked the interest of others around them.
“You must be an accomplished gamer,” Lord Devon noted.
“Lady Luck has been more often gracious than not.”
She felt but avoided the gaze of Rockwell.
“How refreshing that your admittance is given so freely. You must be quite daring to be an unmarried woman patronizing a gaming hall,” Lady Isabella commented before turning to Rockwell. “I had no idea you trolled such places.”
“If my gracious hostess will allow,” Deana said, “what infamy may come from frequenting a gaming hall could hardly be compared with a visit here.”
“Too true, my dear!” cried Madame Follet, “and I should be deeply saddened if my Chateau could not best a gaming hell.”
The guests chuckled. Lady Isabella did not laugh but maintained a tight smile.
“How interesting you are, Miss Sherwood,” she purred. “Pray tell us more about yourself.”
“On the contrary, I am most uninteresting.”
“Surely you do not mean to insult the preferences of Baron Rockwell? He is quite a selective man and of exceptional taste.”
Lord Devon had clearly partaken of an aperitif or two for he exclaimed with a broad smile, “And you mean to praise yourself by such a statement, Isabella, for he courted your favors not so long ago!”
Her ladyship frowned for a second but regained her composure. “I assure you, Miss Sherwood, I am old news. The Baron clearly favors companions of an entirely different flavor.”
Before Deana could respond, Madame Follet intervened, “I forbid talk of old lovers. ‘Tis tres tiresome. Let us have a toast instead.”
“Indeed!” seconded the army officer. “To our lovely mistress of Chateau Follet. Our unequivocal gratitude for your hospitality.”
They all raised a glass to her. Deana took a hearty gulp. At another time, she would have savored the quality burgundy, but she barely tasted it. She was, at least, relieved from the attentions of Lady Isabella during the first and second courses. Rockwell looked at her often, but she could not discern his thoughts.
The wine flowed freely throughout dinner, and Deana noticed Lady Isabella laughing with greater frequency and volume, leaning in often toward Rockwell, close enough to touch him. Deana reminded herself she had no cause to be jealous. She had no claims upon the Baron, not even for the time that they were to be at the Chateau. But rather than bear witness to Lady Isabella fawning over Lord Rockwell, Deana turned to Lord Devon.
“Are you new to Chateau Follet?” Deana asked of Lord Devon.
“Au contraire. I am a frequent guest,” Lord Devon responded proudly. “Perhaps with as much occurrence as you patronize your gaming hells. I confess I am not that lucky in cards or dice. Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two. Which card game do you favor?”
She named the game that had led to her encounter with Rockwell, “Vingt-et-un.”
“Simple and straightforward.”
Glancing across the table, she saw Rockwell eyeing her with a frown. She dismissed his look and turned her attentions back to Lord Devon. “Yes and no. I have established certain rubrics depending on which cards I hold, but they have permutations depending on what cards are visible among others.”
“This is why I have no talent with cards. The very word ‘permutation’ puts to mind a dull and dreary science. My penchants tend toward a more active persuasion.”
“Sports?” she offered, though she knew full well what he meant by the salacious gleam in his eyes.
“Of a kind, I suppose.”
He grinned at her and leaned toward her. She could smell the wine upon his breath. A server came by to fill her glass. She saw Rockwell shake his head. Lady Isabella chose that moment to put her hand upon his shoulder and whisper into his ear. Deana decided to ignore him and allowed her glass to be filled.
“Have you enjoyed your stay here thus far?” Lord Devon asked her.
She wondered if she ought to encourage the drunken attentions of the man, but he had an affable demeanor to him and the redhe
ad sitting on the other side of her showed no interest in conversation as the woman had her head in the lap of her companion.
“The grounds are beautiful and the dinner impressive,” she replied to Lord Devon.
“And the company? Has our friend the Baron been a skilled host?”
Deana took a sip of wine to avoid answering. She was also saved by the dessert service.
Distracted, Lord Devon forgot his question and instead asked, “Are you staying in the West or the East Wing, Miss Sherwood?”
“The West Wing.”
Her answer attracted the attention of Lady Isabella. She raised a brow at Rockwell. “Only the West Wing? Have you no courage to attempt the East Wing?”
“Are you in the East Wing?” he returned with surprise.
“Of course,” Lord Devon answered. “I never bother with the West Wing anymore.”
Rockwell looked upon Lady Isabella with greater surprise. She blushed.
Lord Devon turned to Deana, “Perhaps you would wish to pay us a visit there?”
“We are not staying overlong,” Rockwell said with a tightness that confirmed he was not too keen upon Lord Devon.
Realizing that her companion had been conversing too much with Deana, Lady Isabella split her attentions between the two men for the rest of dinner. Deana was content to ignore the looks of admonition from Lord Rockwell despite the warning from her wiser self that she was being foolhardy. She knew he was not pleased and suspected it had to do with the nature of the relationship between Lady Isabella and Lord Devon. Well, she did not intend to be the recipient of his frustrations over Lady Isabella.
“Shall I have the card tables brought out?” Madame Follet asked when dinner had concluded and the guests had risen to their feet.
“Surely you will grace me with sitting at the same table?” Lord Devon requested of Deana. “I insist upon a game of vingt-et-un.”
Lady Isabella waivered and had to grasp the arm of Rockwell to steady herself.
Deana smiled at Lord Devon. “Of course.”
Rockwell’s jaw hardened. “Miss Sherwood and I will be unable to join as we have matters to attend.”
Lady Isabella frowned. “Matters to attend? But the night is young yet.”
Madame Follet intervened. “Lady Isabella, as this is your first visit here, I wish to show you my private collection of paintings. I can tell you are a woman of refined taste and will appreciate the artwork.”
Even in her inebriated state, Lady Isabella was too well brought up to refuse her hostess.
Deana wondered if she, too, should attempt to persuade Rockwell to join the rest of the party, but her thoughts were slowed by the wine. She felt Lord Devon at her elbow.
“My invitation still stands,” he purred. “If you find you seek more excitement, the East Wing will provide it. The Baron Rockwell is no stranger there, but neither is his presence required.”
They both looked up to see Rockwell staring down at them. Lord Devon cleared his throat and sauntered to where Lady Isabella stood. Rockwell extended his arm, which Deana took reluctantly.
She swore to herself. It was obvious Rockwell was not happy.
Chapter Ten
WITH MISS HERWOOD UPON his arm, they proceeded back to her chambers in silence. Miss Herwood had defied him twice. Blatantly.
Halsten attempted to calm the boiling of his blood. She was not wholly responsible for his discontent, he allowed, but she had seen his disapprobation and willfully ignored him, partaking freely of drink and encouraging the attentions of that rakehell, Lord Devon. Devon was worse than the Earl of Blythe for the former knew no discretion and chattered away more than a member of the fair sex. How could Isabella have attached herself to such a man?
He had tried to ascertain the answer to that question during dinner, but Isabella had been hell bent on flirting. That she could so easily disengage her attentions from Lord Devon to himself eased his concerns a little, but her unexpected appearance at the Chateau had him taken aback. He recalled their courtship two Seasons ago and could not identify anything that would lead him to believe her a candidate for the Chateau Follet.
The daughter of the Duke of Trent, Lady Isabella was much admired among the ton for her beauty and had no shortage of suitors, especially given her dowry of twenty thousand pounds. Isabella had entertained his suit initially but then waivered in her reception. In retrospect, she might simply have been engaging in one of those courtship games favored by the fair sex wherein the lady encourages a man’s affection and ardor by rebuffing his attentions. A game that Halsten had little patience for.
In contrast, Miss Herwood’s guileless manner appealed to him. Her situation made her an unsuitable mate, of course, and even if he had less regard for how society might receive such a match, he could not entertain the possible negative effects on Lucy’s future. But try as he might, he simply could not excise Miss Herwood from his mind.
Remembering the easy manner in which she conversed with Lord Devon, he said, “I forbid you to speak to Lord Devon.”
She withdrew her arm from his. He knew that she would not take kindly to his demand, but he could not resist the effects of jealousy.
“I speak in defense of your interests,” he added. “He is not a man to trifle with.”
“Because he might taint my virtue?” she replied. “He would not be the only one with such an honor.”
He felt the heat rise above his neck.
“You need not worry of me, my lord. I have seen many a man like Lord Devon. Might I suggest your efforts be better spent protecting the honor of Lady Isabella? She has much more to lose.”
He had been tempted to issue just such a caution to Isabella, and he fully intended to speak with her at a more sober moment. He wondered when to seek such a time and remembered that Lord Devon had referenced the East Wing. Good God, did Isabella know what lay in store in the East Wing?
Gauging his thoughts, Miss Herwood said, “She is quite the beauty.”
“She has more beauty than sense,” he thought aloud, but feeling himself closer to the true subject of discussion, turned the focus back on Miss Herwood. “You should not have encouraged the attentions of Lord Devon.”
“It would have been rude not to speak to him, and as you and Lady Isabella were quite engaged, I had few options.”
The truth of her statement did not satisfy him. “You know the rules.”
“You would rather I sit and twiddle my fingers like an idiot?”
“Yes, Had I not stated that you would not flirt with a member of the opposite sex?”
“What precisely happens in the East Wing?”
He reached for her to lead her back to her chamber. “You need not concern yourself with the East Wing.”
She eluded his grasp. “I confess a great curiosity to see it.”
He felt a tug at his groin. “You are far from ready to be in the East Wing.”
“Lady Isabella is a new guest.”
“If Lord Devon had any consideration, they would not be in the East Wing.”
He took her by the elbow and guided her back to her room more harshly than he had intended, for the thought of Isabella in the East Wing had made him angry.
“I will be back within the half hour,” he told her once they had reached her bedchamber. “Shall I send for Bhadra to attend you?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Her curious gaze at him suggested she wanted to understand his intentions, but he was too agitated to delay the night with explanations.
“Half an hour,” he repeated.
“Is that a promise or a warning?”
“Both,” he growled.
Yanking her to him, he smothered her mouth for emphasis. He worked her mouth in selfish consumption, his ardor fueled by vexation. His tongue delved deep and he paid no heed to the fine lines of her lips. When he was done, the kiss had blurred and dampened the rouge about her mouth.
“Half an hour then,” she murmured between uneven breaths
.
She stepped inside and closed the door slowly between them. He stood on the threshold, tempted to throw open the door and ravish her mouth once more. But he could not leave Isabella to her own devices. With quick strides, he caught up with the group as they made their way through the halls of the East Wing, admiring the many erotic paintings that hung there.
“This painter adored the fleshy figures of Reuben,” Marguerite explained as they stood before a full-length painting of a woman standing naked beneath a waterfall, the water splashing over her heavy breasts.
He came upon Isabella. “A word with you, my lady.”
Lord Devon turned around with the intention of objecting, but Halsten silenced him with an icy stare. Devon moved on with the group as they strolled to the next painting of two men bathing.
“Where is your companion?” Isabella asked with an arched brow.
Ignoring her question, he said in a low and firm voice, “This is no place for you, Isabella.”
She fluttered her silk fan, the upward quirk of her mouth indicated she was enjoying his attention. “You know me too little to make such a statement.”
He had to acknowledge the truth of what she said. He would never have supposed her to be one open to the activities at Chateau Follet. Had he known, he might have pressed his suit with more passion. Though not required in a wife, a shared interest in his libidinous pursuits, married with other qualities he sought, would have made for a perfect match.
“Nevertheless, you know not what you do,” he countered. “The East Wing here is no place for a novice.”
“Ah, you have come to rescue me then?”
“I would have you reconsider. Lord Devon is a rake of the worst kind.”
She tapped her fan against his upper arm and gave him a teasing look that would have melted many a man. “It is not like you to be jealous, Halsten.”
He took in a deep breath. “Please, Isabella. I speak in earnest for your welfare.”
She smiled. “You’ve an interest in my welfare, do you?”
“Does your father know your whereabouts?”
This time she frowned. “Don’t be a fool. I am staying with my cousin in town. She introduced me to Devon.”