As he had slowly planted kisses down Blanche’s smooth, creamy neck and inhaled her musky scent, as his hands had traced the luscious curves of her considerably well-endowed body, he had not thought at all about Isobel. And as Blanche had moaned in pleasure and he had surrendered himself up to sensual delights, he had even forgotten Isobel entirely, until he had awakened several hours later feeling pleasantly tired, but strangely empty in a way he had never before experienced. And in spite of his resolution to push aside all serious reflections, he wondered if this odd sense of hollowness had anything to do with Isobel’s visit to him. As he had pulled on his shirt he decided that possibly it had, and shrugging into his coat, he admitted to himself that he had sought out Blanche to assuage the ache left by Isobel’s departure.
Why was this happening to him now? He had always been able to keep the women in his life separate. Early on, he had discovered that life was far less confusing, and certainly far more peaceful if he enjoyed one woman’s favors at a time, but he had never become so attached to any woman that when the time had come to leave her he had suffered any pangs of regret. Nor had his mind ever strayed back to any one of these women after the affair was over. And he had certainly never thought of one woman when he was in the arms of another.
Christian strolled slowly home, grateful for the bracing air, and the darkness. How could a person with whom he had spent so little time affect him as strongly as Mademoiselle de Montargis affected him? And, furthermore, what was he going to do about it now that he would be seeing less of her. Since the moment she had left his brother’s house, Christian had looked forward to being able to tell her about the appointment he had arranged with Signore Bartoli. After that, he had hoped that she might somehow let him know how the lessons were progressing. She had done that, but in a way that made it clear she was entirely capable of managing both her lessons and her life without any assistance from him. Now he was not even sure how she would treat him should he happen to appear at the de Montargises’ modest lodgings in Manchester Street. Certainly her father would not welcome him, for he had already made it abundantly clear that only his exquisite breeding had allowed Christian into his drawing room in the first place. If the duc had known the true extent of the Englishman’s interest in his daughter, he would have been outraged.
Christian smiled grimly in the darkness. He would just have to rely on his wits to discover an opportunity to see the lovely Frenchwoman again. After all, he had lived by his wits in the Peninsula, and fairly successfully too—the fact that he had survived it was ample proof of that.
Upon reaching Mount Street he hesitated, unsure of whether or not he wanted to turn in. Perhaps he had been mistaken in seeking the intimacy of another woman’s boudoir. Perhaps, instead, he should have sought distraction at the gaming table, or oblivion in several bottles of port. Undoubtedly there would still be a few choice spirits left seated around the gaming tables at Brooks’s. He turned, walked a few steps in the direction of Saint James’s, and paused. At the beginning of the evening he had been avoiding reflection, but now, having sought out the seductive Blanche and discovered that even her considerable charms had only forestalled reflection, he realized that now that he was in the middle of this somber, self-examining mood, he would only be disgusted by the rowdy atmosphere of the gaming room in the early-morning hours. The solitary confines of his own library and the consumption of numerous glasses of brandy in front of his own fireplace were the best remedy for this sort of thing. He knew from experience that on the rare occasion when he could not distract himself from looking deep into his soul, the best thing was simply to sit down and drink brandy until the urge had passed.
Returning to his own doorstep, Christian sent the sleepy Digby to bed, poked the embers in the fireplace into a comforting glow, and tossed off two glasses of brandy in quick succession, trying all the while to blot out of his mind the picture of Isobel as she had stood proudly in front of him, thrusting the bag of coins at him, or poised on the edge of the chair across from him, leaning forward eagerly, her lovely face alight with excitement as she spoke of her lesson with Signor Bartoli. It took a good many more glasses of brandy before he felt a soothing lethargy creep over him. Christian propped his feet up on a footstool, tilted his head back, and waited for oblivion to come.
How many times had he done this in an effort to erase the horrific images of battle from his mind? And when had they become horrific? When had the excitement of the charge and the exhilaration of competing with a foe equally intent on winning given way to the corroding sense of sadness and loss. To be sure, he had mourned lives lost after every battle, but had always consoled himself with the knowledge that his fellow soldiers went, as he himself would have gone, proud to serve in a noble cause.
But over the years the excitement of the battle had dwindled into nothing and the sadness had increased until he had begun to mourn the losses of friend and foe alike. He had seen the weariness in everyone’s eyes and then, as he had told Isobel, he had begun to fight, not so much to drive the French out of Spain and Portugal as to end the war entirely. Now that the fighting was over, enough so that he and parts of his regiment had been sent home, far away from the carnage and the desolation that had begun to haunt him, now he felt useless and bored. In the Peninsula fear and death, illness and hunger, had been constant companions, but at least he had known he was alive. Here in London, everyone seemed merely to be acting in some great and meaningless charade. He had almost been ready to beg Wellington to take him back as a member of his staff, a messenger, anything so long as he was doing something more than wasting time, but then he had met Isobel and things had changed. She was alive and he had begun to regain his interest in life, to feel some of his own vitality returning. Through her he had regained a sense of purpose by becoming her champion. But now that she had Signor Bartoli, a far more useful advocate for her in the musical world, his own part was over.
Christian should have been elated that his plan had worked so well and that she was now well on her way to attaining her dreams. Instead, he felt more alone than ever, knowing that she would achieve what she longed for and, achieving that, would have no need for him at all. What was he to do now?
Christian willed himself to empty his mind, to concentrate on the flickering flames in front of him, and to inhale the heady fumes of the brandy as he sipped it, slowly now. He breathed deliberately, rhythmically, forcing himself to relax as he had done the nights before battles. Finally his eyelids grew heavy and his head sank further back into the chair. The empty brandy glass slipped from his fingers and he slept.
Chapter 17
While Christian might have been seeking to obliterate disturbing thoughts of Isobel by distracting himself with Blanche and dulling his senses with brandy, Isobel was determined to throw herself into her music with so much energy that she would have no time to think of anyone or anything else. She worked tirelessly in her lessons and at home, striving over and over again to make each note perfect, to catch the precise mood and phrasing for every piece of music until even her teacher remonstrated with her. “Signorina, to become an artista one has to work, yes, but you are exhausting yourself. You are pale, you become thin. It is not good.”
“But, monsieur, I feel I have made so much progress that I do not want to slow down. I want to do justice to all that you have taught me.”
“Certo. And that is most admirable, but not to the point of exhaustion. When you do that, then the music becomes only work, no joy, and your singing loses its power to move. Finito! Capisci?” He peered at her anxiously, his dark eyes sympathetic under the bushy gray brows.
“Oui, monsieur, I understand, but time is so precious.”
“But? But nothing. You must not be impatient. Great singers grow. They are not made, they grow, but their growth is like that of a tree, slow and steady, not like that of a flower. They do not grow in one season alone. But they do not die in a season either. Besides”—he smiled appealingly and a crafty gleam twinkled in his
eye—”you must be not only in your best voice, but also in your best looks for the Countess of Morehampton’s musicale. Go out, get some fresh air, get some color in your cheeks. These Inglesi they are mad for the fresh air, but sometimes it is not a bad idea, no?”
“Yes, monsieur.” Isobel knew that her teacher was right. Everything he said made perfect sense, but she needed to throw herself into her music right now. She needed to forget that with every encouraging piece of news from the Continent concerning Bonaparte’s decline in fortunes, her father spoke more firmly about returning to France. She needed to forget how frugally they were forced to live without her regular income from the Duke of Warminster, and she needed to forget how Lord Christian ... No! She would not even think along those lines. Isobel drew a deep breath. “I shall try to do as you say. And I have been driving in the park.”
Signor Bartoli nodded encouragingly. “Eccellente. You have practiced enough this week. Now you must take the air, get some rest. Give yourself time for what you have learned to become a part of you. You will be surprised how much you have absorbed without realizing it. Ah, your face betrays you. It tells me, I will listen to this man about music, but about me, what can he know? I know this, signorina, you are a worker. That is good. Too many people with musical skill think they can become artists without working, but in you, work is too much. It can kill your music. You need to enjoy life more. You are seria, troppo seria, no?” He cocked his head in such a comical way that Isobel could not help laughing. “Vabbene, I have made you smile. And, I will tell you another thing. I will also make you a teacher again. I know that you are no longer with this Lord Warminster, but there are many other rich lords who need teachers for their little darlings. They come to me all the time and I have to say no. Now I will suggest you. Then maybe you will not worry so much.”
Isobel felt warm tears prickle her eyelids. How had he been able, in so little time, to understand so much about her? “Thank you, monsieur. Yes, that would help, though I cannot think why you would help.”
“Signorina, you are modest. You work hard, who would not wish to help you? There are so many in the world who have more and deserve less than you, so many who are so much less gifted and demand so much more in the way of praise and renown.” The music master could see she was perilously close to tears and his heart was touched. “Yes, I will recommend you to Lord Gravetye for his daughter this very day. Mind you, I cannot insure that he will not have a brother also who will come to browbeat me to make you famous.” Signor Bartoli watched with interest as his pupil’s pale cheeks flushed a delicate rose. It was just as he had suspected. Lord Christian Hatherleigh might have recommended Mademoiselle Isobel to him because she had a beautiful voice, but there was more to it than a connoisseur’s appreciation, and Mademoiselle Isobel seemed to be well aware of it. Who could tell, perhaps she returned his lordship’s interest? The music master chuckled softly. “I shall tease you no further. Go, get some rest, some fresh air. We shall have one more lesson and then the musicale. But, remember, for most of these barbarians, your looks will be more important than your voice, so you must look your best.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Isobel tied the ribbons of her bonnet thoughtfully. What he said made a great deal of sense. Fortunately, Jane and Emily had arranged to take her driving in the park later in the afternoon so she would be able to follow this well-meant advice. The two ladies could be counted on for distraction, for if they were not describing the latest antics of their children, then they were recounting gossip about the members of the ton.
“It is so delightful to you have along with us on our drive,” Jane remarked later that day as the barouche rolled along Duke Street toward the park. “For we can talk about how clever our children are without fear of competition. If we are alone together, we wind up pulling caps over who is the better at sums, my Edward or Emily’s Charles, or which child is more difficult at age four, a girl like my Maria, or a boy like her George.”
Emily broke in laughing. “You have no idea how teasing an active four year old can be, Isobel.” Her voice drifted off as she caught sight of the duchess of Warminster’s carriage turning the corner into the park. “That reminds me. I hear that Warminster’s brother is back from the Peninsula. I know that during my first season he was all the rage, but the matchmaking mamas soon realized that no one, not even a diamond of the first water was going to catch him in the parson’s mousetrap. Of course, that did not stop several of them from flirting scandalously with him. He was so devilishly handsome and so determinedly elusive that he drove everyone quite mad with frustration. Why Eliza St. John nearly ruined herself trying to fix his attention. Have you met him yet?”
Isobel admitted that she had, in what she hoped was a manner disinterested enough to end the conversation, but Emily, who saw herself as one of the ton’s dashing young matrons, was not about to be put off so easily. “Is he as handsome as ever?”
“I never consider these things. Perhaps he is handsome, but I really cannot say.”
“Oh, Isobel, you are too provoking! Did you not even notice what a fine figure of a man he makes? So tall and distinctive with that auburn hair and that damn-your-eyes air.” Emily sighed dramatically. “No, Isobel, I will not let you off without a better answer than that.”
“Governesses do not spend a great deal of time with the family, you know, Emily,” she equivocated. Isobel could see, however, that she was not going to be allowed to evade the issue, and the sooner she responded satisfactorily to Emily’s question, the sooner she would be allowed to drop the subject and move on to less dangerous topics of conversation. “He was well-enough-looking, I suppose.”
“Well-enough-looking, indeed. Isobel, you are impossible. Do you pay attention to nothing besides your music?”
“Very little. It is my livelihood, you know.”
Emily was instantly contrite and reached over to pat her friend’s lilac-gloved hand. “Of course, and it is bad of me to tease you, but I do wish you would find some gallant who would make you forget your music just once.”
“But I love my music.”
Emily’s brow wrinkled, making her ordinarily sunny features almost comical in her distress. “I know you do, dear, but you know what I mean. It is not natural to be so serious. I wish you would just enjoy yourself once in a while.”
“We shall just have to take matters into our own hands, sister.” Jane, more perceptive than her sibling, and of a more serious nature herself, could see that the entire conversation was causing distress to their friend. “Why do you not join us tomorrow evening at the opera? We shall send the carriage around for you. It is a new opera by Dibdin they are offering. The Farmer’s Wife, with Miss Stephens performing. It may be too frivolous for your liking, but it will at least provide diversion and an opportunity for you to feel superior.” She flashed a sympathetic smile at Isobel. “Do say you will join us.”
“Yes, do come,” her sister joined in. “You can tell us everything that is wrong with the performance so that we may act very bored and knowledgeable when our opinion is asked.”
“Very well, but if I criticize it and the rest of the world is entirely swept away by it, you may find that your plan has the opposite effect and you are regarded as excessively odd.”
Emily laughed. “Then it is fortunate we are not trying to take the ton by storm and it will be years before Maria has her comeout so the world will have forgotten any faux pas her mother or her aunt might have made. Besides, no one really goes to the opera to listen to the music. They go to see who else is there, what everyone else is wearing, and who is sitting in what box with whom. Your presence in our box alone will cause a stir because no one will know who you are and you are so lovely.”
“But the world will wonder at your being seen with someone as demode as I, for you see,” Isobel looked down at her lavender sarcenet pelisse. “I do not frequent the best shops in Bond Street. I do not even own a proper carriage dress, much less ...”
“Pooh!” Emily int
errupted her. “You are French and the French ladies always have more style no matter what they wear. You always have had style and your face and your figure are so elegant that no one will notice what you are wearing.”
“Emily is right,” Jane chimed in, “You carry yourself with such an air that it does not signify in the least what you have on.”
However, it did matter to Isobel, and not wishing to repay her friends’ kindness by presenting a dowdy appearance, she enlisted the aid of Marthe’s clever fingers the moment she returned home. Fortunately her father was dining with the Comte d’Artois that evening so she and Marthe were able to have the simplest of meals before beginning their task.
In the feeble light of a single guttering candle Isobel removed a length of blond lace from an old evening gown of her mother’s and Marthe trimmed her dress of pink satin with that and a double row of white satin rouleaux which had been carefully saved from another of the duchesse’s gowns.
“Eh bien, with the lace around the neck you be as a la mode as the elegantes I see in Bond Street.” Marthe put a final stitch in the trim. “And no one that I have seen has the figure you do to carry it off.”
“Marthe, you are far too partial.”
Non, mademoiselle. You know I pay attention to these things and I would never let you leave the house if I were not certain you would appear as well dressed as they. Perhaps you are not so richly dressed, but you have true style. The de Montargis women have always been known for their exquisite taste and they will continue to do so as long as I have a breath to draw.”
My Lady Nightingale Page 13