‘Relax your shoulders and smile, Piers.’ Faith’s fingers stroked his rigid bicep which instantly deflated at her command. ‘Do not give her the satisfaction of seeing you rattled.’
‘You came!’ Emotion choked him. Relief mixed with hope all wrapped in love. ‘I didn’t think you would after the awful way I behaved last night.’
‘Oh, I am still fuming about last night, be in no doubt about that, and we will be having words about it later, Piers, and you will explain yourself for behaving so out of character.’ She slanted him an irritated glance then softened it with a half-smile. ‘But I couldn’t leave you to face the witch all alone and I made a promise to your mother and to Isobel to protect you, and we Brookeses always keep our promises—even when fuming.’
‘Thank you.’ He was so relieved to see her, he could barely speak. ‘You look beautiful.’
An understatement.
He had never seen anything so breathtaking in his entire life. The plain but bold coral bodice caressed her curves like a second skin, the demure scooped neckline showing only enough cleavage to make his collar feel tight, while the skirt skimmed her hips in a waterfall of liquid silk overlaid with an ethereal, gossamer fabric threaded with filigree strands of gold. A simple, single collar of identical diamonds drew attention to her graceful neck, the matching droplet earrings sparkling in the pale moonlight. But as always, it was her hair which drew his eyes. The wayward copper-gold curls were pinned loosely to her head, the only adornment a single hothouse rose the exact same vibrant shade as her gown. All so typically Faith. However, it was her sheer beauty on the inside which left him entirely undone. It was that which he couldn’t bear to ever lose. And he wouldn’t. Whatever it took, he had to make it right.
She beamed at his compliment, and that gave him more hope. ‘Well… I didn’t want to show you up on your big night. Especially as my presence here is bound to cause a veritable frenzy of gossip for us tomorrow. If one is destined to be a spectacle anyway, one should always stand out, don’t you think? Hope and I both came fully prepared to dazzle.’ She gestured behind with a tilt of her head and he saw her sister. But while the redhead did indeed look lovely, and seemed to draw every male eye in the room, to his she was no match for the woman on his arm. ‘It was her who convinced me to come, in case you were wondering. She seems to think you deserve a second chance.’
‘Do you?’
She poked her lovely nose in the air. ‘I suppose that depends on how pretty your apology is later.’ She had already forgiven him. He could see it in her eyes. Feel it in her touch. Loved her all the more for her benevolence. She didn’t play games and never would.
‘It’ll be prettier than your poet’s was, I promise.’
‘It had better be.’ But she cuddled closer against his elbow, a wall of strength and comfort in his hour of need.
‘Their Graces Dom Alfonso Perreira do Sousa, the Duque do Covilhã of Portugal, and his wife Dona Constança Perreira do Sousa, the Duquesa do Covilhã of Portugal…’
‘And Piers, even though I am still rightly furious at you…’ Faith’s whispered tone so deliciously close to his ear was teasing, pulling him away from the line-up. ‘Do feel free to look longingly at me as soon as the witch enters, so that I can stare longingly back and let her know in no uncertain terms that I consider her loss, my gain. Not that that will be much of a problem because you look exceptionally handsome tonight. A little too handsome, truth be told as it’s giving me some decidedly scandalous ideas…’ Those reassuring, saucy, gloriously flippant words from the woman of his dreams couldn’t have come at a better time.
Because the woman of his nightmares was headed straight for them, positively dripping in jewels and dragging her Duke—and to Piers’s and his stomach’s utter delight, he didn’t feel a damn thing.
Not for Constança at least.
His feelings for the clever, kind, loyal and thoroughly wonderful seductress on his arm was a different matter entirely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
They say there is no smoke without fire, gentle reader, which obviously begs the question… Why did the infamous Lord E. have the newly betrothed Miss B. from Bloomsbury on his arm at the palace last night? And what happened to her poet? After two breathless waltzes in recent weeks, with two entirely different gentlemen, we await further clarification of this intriguing conundrum with bated breath…
Whispers from Behind the Fan
April 1814
‘Olá, Piers…querida…já faz muito tempo.’
For Faith’s benefit, Piers made a point of answering in English. ‘Yes, Constança, it has been a long time. You look well.’
As much as it galled her to think it, his former wife did look well. In fact, to her complete disgust, she was a staggeringly beautiful woman. She was petite, almost a full foot shorter than Faith, with big dark eyes, jet-black hair and overt womanly curves which, frankly, put hers to shame. And she had the sort of effortlessly breathy voice and undulating way of moving which turned every male head in the room.
Her husband was every inch a duke in his bearing, glancing around the room as if every aspect of it and the people within it displeased him. His appearance did not quite measure up to his superior manner though. He was short and poorly proportioned. A pair of skinny legs in shiny satin breeches held up a significant paunch while the padding in his ostentatious peacock coat did little to conceal his stooping shoulders, any more than the fussy lace spilling from his sleeves disguised his dainty, effeminate hands. He was such an underwhelming specimen, it left her wondering what hot-blooded woman in their right mind would ever consider swapping Piers for this?
‘Marriage and motherhood suits me.’ As she purred, she hung on her haughty husband’s arm and openly looked Faith up and down, and despite the vast difference in their heights, still managed to do that while looking down her nose. ‘Is this your wife?’
‘Not yet…’ She had no idea what made her say it, other than she wanted to put her stubby, smug rival firmly in her place. ‘But I will be.’ Beneath her palms she felt Piers’s muscles twitch at her lie, but to his credit, his face did not give his shock at her unexpected outburst away.
‘Your…’ The Duquesa clicked her fingers and turned to Piers. ‘How do you English say noiva, Piers?’
‘Fiancée.’ Piers turned to her and simply quirked one dark eyebrow, his mossy eyes amused, clearly waiting for her answer.
‘I am his particular friend.’
‘Yes…’ Now he looked as if he wanted to laugh. ‘Indeed she is. But where are my manners. You must allow me to introduce you. Constança, this is Miss Faith Brookes. Faith, this is Dom Alfonso, the Duque do Covilhã and his wife, Dona Constança, the Duquesa.’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you both, your Graces.’ Faith slowly dipped into a polite, if begrudging, curtsy while the other two barely inclined their heads in acknowledgement. Clearly already bored, the Duke immediately wandered off to greet the rest of the line, leaving the three of them alone.
‘That is a pretty flower you have in your hair, Miss Brookes.’ The witch flapped her hand towards it smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, then made a show of patting her own artful coiffure, in case Faith hadn’t noticed the enormous tiara dripping with rubies balanced upon it. More rubies shimmered in the chandeliers stretching her ear lobes and a big fat one nestled between the plump, generous breasts straining against the neckline of her heavy crimson beaded gown.
‘Thank you, your Grace.’ She smiled innocently, reminding herself this was a diplomatic dinner before the wasp inside her ran free. ‘As Piers will tell you, I have always loved roses. They are the most beautiful flower, don’t you think? I’ve always much preferred their natural simplicity over fussy, artificial embellishments.’
The other woman blinked rapidly, clearly unsure whether it had been simply a bland comment about a flower or an outright insult ov
er all the flamboyance weighing down her neck, and while she was perfectly content to let her flounder, Piers diplomatically changed the subject.
‘How long are you staying in London?’
‘A week. We sail next Monday. It is nice to be back. It reminds me of our honeymoon.’ Then she reached over to brush his arm, a little too proprietorially for Faith’s liking. ‘It would be good to catch up before I go.’ Then she proffered the same hand like a gift, obviously waiting for it to be kissed. As Piers bent to do so, she flicked Faith a dismissive glance, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she considered her no rival. ‘I shall have the arrangements made tomorrow for a private meeting. It has been too long since we have spent any time alone…querida.’ She allowed her eyes to linger on his for several moments before they turned to her and instantly hardened like jet. ‘It was nice to meet you Miss…er…’ Then the witch clicked her fingers again, pretending she had clean forgotten. ‘Brookes.’
Then she undulated away like a queen.
‘She hasn’t changed a bit.’ Piers smiled, looking a bit bemused by the odd exchange. ‘That’s exactly the Constança I know and loathe.’
‘What does querida mean?’
‘Darling.’
‘Ahh…interesting.’ And completely galling. ‘I assumed it would be something like that by the way she batted her lashes at you.’
‘You aren’t…jealous, are you? Because Constança bats her lashes at every man and tosses around such endearments like confetti…’
‘Of course not.’ Even though it corded around her throat and turned her vocal cords waspish.
‘Are you sure?’ His eyes were dancing with amusement. ‘Only you sound a little peeved.’ And he looked ridiculously pleased that was the case.
‘Of course I sound peeved, Piers. I am still furious with you for yesterday!’ Thankfully, before he called her out on the lie, the trumpets blazed.
‘His Royal Highness Dom João, Prince Regent of Portugal…’
* * *
As Piers had warned, the banquet was a painfully long affair. At least it felt that way to her as she was still too preoccupied with all thoughts of Piers, the events of last night and her feelings towards him to properly enjoy all the pomp, luxury and spectacle. Hope was right, before she bared her heart and confessed her love she needed to know for sure he was over Constança and his outburst yesterday had been triggered by his own insecurities. And if that were indeed the case, which she hoped it was even though the sight of his beautiful former wife had challenged Faith’s own insecurities, she needed to hear that Piers recognised it. As much as she loved him, she wasn’t prepared to enter into a marriage with a man who could never trust her. If he forbade her from dancing with a man, then what would be next? Would he stop her talking to them? Painting them? She had always enjoyed her independence, and had no intention of giving up her artistic ambitions—even for marriage.
After the meal, the tedious speeches seemed to go on for hours, not helped by the fact that many were effectively repeated twice. Once in the native language of the speaker, and then again translated into English, or Portuguese or German or Russian or French. Piers seemed to be called upon to do most of that, and did so with such confident and commanding dignity that she felt immensely proud of him. After an eternity, the guests were left to mingle, and while she and Hope met some very interesting and some very illustrious people, including the Regent himself, she only managed to collide with Piers briefly because his superiors kept him busy. Each time he tried to talk to her, someone stole him away.
* * *
Eventually, somewhere around two in the morning, the crowd began to thin. Certainly enough that she could see him across the room. As their gazes locked and he once again started towards her, Hope yawned.
‘I’m going home.’ Before Faith could argue that she hadn’t yet had the chance to clear the air with Piers, her sister surprised her. ‘Here’s the key to the back door.’ She rummaged in her tiny silk evening bag and slipped it into her hand. ‘Make sure you are back by six at the latest or you know there will be hell to pay.’
‘You cannot go home without me! Mama is bound to be waiting up and she’ll have a fit if she realises I am unchaperoned.’
‘Mama has two performances on a Tuesday and that always makes her tired, and in case she wasn’t, Charity has strict instructions to make sure her traditional night-time toddy is a stiff one. On the off-chance that failed, she was going to send an urgent message here.’ She smiled. ‘Instead, she sent me this an hour ago.’ She retrieved a small folded note from the reticule and waited while Faith read it.
Our mother is snoring next to our father and I should like it noted that you both now owe me.
‘Will you send the carriage back for me?’
‘I figured Lord Beastly would see you home. Once you’ve sorted everything out, of course.’ Hope grinned. ‘He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night by the way.’ Then she kissed her cheek. ‘Nor has he once glanced at his hideous former wife. I’ve been surreptitiously watching him like a hawk…just in case we were both wrong and he isn’t worthy. Goodnight, Faith. And be in no doubt, you owe me too.’
He reached her as Hope disappeared out of the door. ‘Where is your sister going?’
‘Home. Without me. She wanted us to be able to talk.’
‘That was decent of her.’ He looked nervous. Awkward. ‘We do need to talk. I was an idiot and I am so sorry about…’
‘Lord Eastwood…’ The Master of the Household scurried towards him. ‘Might I have a word…’
Piers shook his head and grabbed her hand. ‘Not yet, Sir Hulse… I am a bit busy. I’ll come and find you in a minute.’ Then he tugged her to follow him. ‘I swear I haven’t had one single moment’s peace all day!’
They were headed towards the courtyard, when someone else spotted him and gestured that they also needed a word, and he groaned and changed direction, taking her towards a large winding staircase which they practically sprinted up, and then down a long hallway to a big white door. Impatiently, he unlocked it, then once they were inside, put the key back in the lock and clicked it shut.
The dimly lit room was dominated by a long, narrow dark oak table which filled its centre, strewn with papers and flanked with ten very sturdy chairs. The only other furniture were two huge wingback armchairs and a small occasional table sat in front of an ornate fireplace, above which was an old oil painting of somebody regal looking in the sort of long, curly wig favoured by King Charles II.
‘At least while the door is locked, I can pretend I am not here. Unless you shout too loud of course. I dare say I deserve it.’ He rocked on his heels, looking thoroughly wretched, apparently suddenly having no clue what to do with his hands. ‘The way I treated you was indefensible. I have no idea what came over me.’
‘Yes you do.’ She sat in one of the wingbacks and sighed. ‘And if I am going to forgive you properly, I should like to understand it. Even if I might not like what you have to say.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The plot thickens…as I have it on the highest possible authority that the Duquesa do Covilhã was once none other than the Viscountess Eastwood too! And with the sour looks being exchanged between her and a certain Miss B. from Bloomsbury, who is likely, I am told, the next to hold that tarnished title, this reporter eagerly anticipates the exciting prospect of reticules at dawn…
Whispers from Behind the Fan
April 1814
Where to start? How to explain his irrational behaviour? Baffled, Piers sat in the chair opposite and tried to make some sense of it all. Without thinking, his hand went instinctively to his stomach, waiting for the inevitable biliousness and bile, and when that didn’t come, he sighed. ‘Would you believe me if I said that it was down partly to indigestion?’
She snorted her disbelief. ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting that…but I am int
rigued to hear how?’
‘I panicked, Faith—though you have to know not intentionally.’
‘I don’t think anyone ever panics intentionally, Piers.’
‘True, but…’ He huffed his frustration and reached for her hand. ‘But I am a born diplomat. I use reason and logic. You said it yourself last night, I am instinctively the calm in the chaos. I’ve always been reserved. I don’t like scenes or arguments or enjoy any of the negative emotions which go along with them…so I suppose the most natural way for me to deal with the glut of all that within my marriage was to suppress it all.’
‘And that gave you indigestion?’
He laughed at the stupidity of it all. ‘It was anger. Self-loathing. I felt trapped and foolish and ashamed by it all. I suppose it is also in my nature to endure, because that is what we do here isn’t it? We strap on our stiff upper lips, paste on a brave face and stoically soldier on. The whole of England is stuffed with couples making the best of a bad lot simply because they know they are stuck with one another. But Constança wasn’t from my world, so my reaction to the death of our relationship was anathema to her and because I wasn’t from hers, I couldn’t bear all the histrionics and the fury. Ignoring it all seemed a more palatable option, at least at first.’
‘You hoped it would go away or did you hope it would get better?’
He pondered it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘That’s the thing—I knew then it wouldn’t go away or get better, it was already too far gone for that. But I convinced myself I could carry on and not care.’
‘You still loved her?’
‘Good grief no! I despised her. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her nor she me. But I also couldn’t leave her… I had made my bed.’
‘So you soldiered on.’
‘Rightly or wrongly, yes I did. I didn’t believe I had any other option. But as time moved on, I grew to hate the person I became with Constança more than I despised her. Does that make sense?’
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