My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  She refused to be daunted in her campaign. Gathering her courage, she declared, brightly, if irrelevantly, “Is it not famous that Isobel has been invited to perform in the New Rooms in Hanover Square next month? It is truly such an honor and, though I have the utmost regard for her talent, I do believe it is owing in some degree to Signor Bartoli’s connections. Isobel says he is very influential in the musical world. It is such a pity that her brother cannot hear her, but I gather it is imperative that he return to France within the sennight.”

  “Her brother? So that was the gentleman ... ah, well, never mind. Yes, that is an honor for her.”

  Emily directed a shrewd glance at Christian under her lashes. The man looked as dazed as though he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. There was more to this than met the eye. She was dying to discover more, but she could see she would get no further in this particular conversation. “I beg your pardon, but I agreed to meet my sister at Madame Celeste’s to look at a particular bonnet that has caught her fancy.”

  “Oh ... er, yes, good day.” Christian remained standing stock-still as the Marchioness of Verwood tilted her parasol to hide a sly smile and sailed up Bond Street.

  Her brother! Good God, what had he done!

  Chapter 25

  But in spite of the enormity of his mistake, Christian felt almost lighthearted as he headed off to Tattersall’s to see the crop of hunters that were being shown there by a well-known Irish stable. Her brother! Then Mademoiselle did not have a lover! She had not been playing him false. He had not been entirely wide of the mark in hoping she was as drawn to him as he was to her. Or at least, she had been. Had his boorish behavior— for there was no wrapping it up in clean linen—ruined his chances completely? There was only one way to find out and that was to put it to the touch. He would just have to wait with as much patience as he could muster until the ball at Carlton House.

  Christian dressed with more than usual care the evening of the ball. His cravat, so skillfully tied, was blinding in its whiteness, setting off the deep tan of his skin and the rich auburn highlights of his hair. The black coat molded to his broad shoulders and trim waist made the cravat appear even more dazzling. He wore no jewelry except for a heavy gold signet ring on the little finger of his finely shaped right hand.

  More than one female drew her breath and eyed him hungrily as he stood somewhat apart from the rest of the elegant crowd that was making its way to the octagon at the foot of the graceful double staircase and upstairs to the state apartments.

  He ignored all of them as he scanned the throng for one slender, elegant young woman with rich brown hair and deep blue eyes. Though his height allowed him to survey the richly dressed multitude without obstruction, he was unable to locate Mademoiselle Isobel and was forced to proceed slowly along with everyone else up the staircase, mustering his patience as best he could. Everywhere blue silk hangings embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis proclaimed the Prince Regent’s intent to honor the restored monarch and his loyal followers, but Christian had eyes for only one of those followers.

  At last, as he shouldered his way into the Great Crimson Room, he saw a small crowd gathered around a large, portly gentleman whose blue uniform was bestrewn with military orders. He was smiling graciously and chatting affably with all those who approached him. A little behind this gentleman, and off to one side, he recognized from engravings he had seen, Monsieur, talking with an older gentleman resplendent in a green uniform reversed with scarlet and laced with silver and gold. But his eye was caught by the woman standing at this gentleman’s elbow. She was standing next to the little group, yet somehow she appeared aloof and remote from it all. The feathers that waved gently in her hair as she turned her head to gaze coolly out over the assemblage added to her height and were held in place by a pearl bandeau that circled her head like a crown. Indeed, of all the royal party assembled around Louis XVIII, she appeared more royal in her bearing than the rest of the party put together. Her dress of white satin trimmed in gold tissue that matched the gold fleur-de-lis embroidered on the white satin train, was cut so as to show off her elegant figure. The Elizabethan ruff standing up around the back of her neck called attention to the long, white column of her throat encircled by a magnificent double strand of pearls. There were more pearls trimming the corsage cut low across her bosom.

  She stood so still, proudly erect and distant, that she could have been a marble statue except for the touch of color on her cheeks. Then she languidly turned her head to observe the crowd pouring into the room, eager to congratulate the king. Christian’s breath caught in his throat. It was Isobel. There was no mistaking the brilliant blue eyes surrounded by a heavy fringe of dark lashes or the delicately arched brows raised in faint hauteur at the ton’s sudden enthusiasm for a man they had, to all intents and purposes, ignored for the past twenty-five years.

  It was Isobel and yet it was not. She seemed to have donned an air of regal aloofness with her finery. She had always carried herself proudly, but there had been an alertness about her, an understanding in her eyes that had made her seem approachable. Now she seemed as remote and unreachable as a goddess.

  Christian swallowed hard. He had always known that she came from an ancient, respected family, but until this moment she had been for him, Mademoiselle Isobel, instructress and dedicated musician. Now it was very clear that she was Mademoiselle de Montargis, daughter of the Duc de Montargis and a member of Louis XVIII’s court. It should not have mattered, but it did, and that, coupled with the memory of the last time he had spoken with her was a little unnerving.

  He grimaced at his own misgivings. Since when had rank and privilege ever meant anything to him? Since when had he ever been unsure of making a woman do exactly as he wished her to? Since when had he been nervous as a schoolboy? He knew the answer—since he had fallen in love. And now, just as he was acknowledging this upsetting truth to himself, the object of all this anguish had transformed herself into someone who was practically unrecognizable.

  To be sure, the beautifully sculpted face, the exquisite complexion, the elegant figure, belonged to Isobel, but the air of a grande dame did not, and it made her seem as though it were a total stranger inhabiting her body.

  Little did he know that Isobel was feeling very much that way herself. When she had surveyed her image in the looking glass during her final fitting at the modiste’s, she had barely recognized the richly dressed young woman who stared back at her. And this evening, as she had glanced at her reflection in the small glass that Marthe held up, the transformation was even more complete. Her father had wished for her to appear en grade tenue and she had obliged. Now she was hating every minute of it, the people who pressed eagerly around the stout monarch, anxious to wish him well and to assure him they had always supported him, the members of Louis’ court and her father’s friends smiling in gracious condescension as though they had left Versailles only last week instead of barely escaping with their lives a quarter of a century ago and existing hand-to-mouth ever since.

  Had everyone forgotten everything? Had no one learned anything? Was she the only one who knew it was all the merest charade until they returned to France, were accepted by their people, and were once again established in their hotels and chateaux, if their h6tels and chateaux still existed. Glancing around at the Comtesse de Sallanches, dazzling in a gown of silver tissue embroidered in fleur-de-lis, or at the Comte de Pontarlier sporting the uniform of the Comte d’Artois guet des gardes as though he had the slightest idea of what to do in a situation that demanded something more courageous than choosing a new tailor, Isobel felt utterly and completely alone. Was she the only one among them who was not looking forward to the return to a life of empty formality, meaningless rituals, and exaggerated civilities?

  And to make matters worse, she had been betrayed by one of the few people who seemed to understand her, someone she had come to regard as one of her closest friends. No, she resolutely pushed aside the image of gray-green eyes boring into her
as Lord Christian had demanded the identity of her companion in the park. No, she would not remember the anger and the hurt she had suffered at his intrusion into her private affairs, his assumption that she had behaved with anything but the utmost propriety. No, she would not think of him again.

  But even as she vowed this, she turned slightly and her eyes fell on a tall broad-shouldered figure making his way through the crowd toward her.

  Isobel clutched the edges of her train with her gloved hands as she struggled for control. Her heart was thudding in her chest, her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and her cheeks felt as hot as though she had just run a race. She was furious at the gentleman, but she was even more furious at herself for reacting to his presence, furious at the uncontrollable burst of happiness that washed over her the moment she caught sight of him.

  “Mademoiselle.” Christian’s voice caught in his throat as he fought to gain control over his own breathing, which had become extremely erratic. Now that he was here, next to her, she did not seem so unreal, but that made it worse. Now he could see the pulse throbbing in her throat and smell the faint scent of rose water that clung to her skin.

  “Yes?” Isobel was pleased with herself for sounding so normal when so many emotions were warring within her. She wished to remain cool and detached, to remind him that she still resented the liberty he had taken in questioning her actions. At the same time, she had to fight to keep from smiling a welcome to him, to keep from laughing with him at the absurdity of the role she was being forced to play, a great lady wearing a fortune of jewels and the dressmaker’s art, when she did not have the wherewithal to pay more than two months’ rent at the most, and very little extra for food and the other necessities of life. Who would understand better than Lord Christian how frustrated she was? Who could know better than a soldier what it was like to maintain a position when there was no guarantee of supplies? He had been in the field long enough to appreciate the difference between appearance and reality.

  “May I have this dance?”

  “What?”

  “We are at a ball, you know. I was wondering if you would care to join me in the waltz?”

  “Papa?” She looked around to see her father totally absorbed in acknowledging the greetings of the ton. In this, his hour of triumph, his daughter, the daughter whose music and French lessons had made it possible for them to rent a house near the Comte d’Artois, the daughter who had looked after him while he wrote his memoirs, was nothing more than an ornament in the kings’ retinue. Once he had assured himself that her costume would not disgrace him, he had forgotten her existence entirely in the festivities being held to honor his king.

  Lord Christian glanced at the Duc de Montargis, whose attention was entirely taken up at the moment by Lady Crewe, and held out his arm.

  As if in a dream, Isobel laid one gloved hand on his arm and he led her to the floor. Even with the prescribed distance between them she felt as though her body were molded against his. She tried to avoid his gaze, to glance over his shoulder at the bejeweled throng, but despite her best efforts, she could not look away, could not free her gaze from his and the questioning look in his eyes.

  Skillfully he guided her to the stairs and down them toward a doorway opening into the garden.

  “My lord, I thought you wished to dance.”

  “Shhh.” He pulled her into the shadows. “I did, but I wish even more to apologize to you for my incredible effrontery in asking you the identity of your companion. It was none of my affair and I am fully sensible of the offense I gave you, first, in assuming that it was my concern and second, in assuming that your companion was one with whom you... er... enjoyed a certain degree of intimacy.

  Isobel did not know whether she felt gratified or infuriated. “You are correct. It was none of your affair. And yes, you are also correct in assuming that there is a degree... in short, it was my brother, Auguste, who had his own reasons for walking with me in the park.”

  “I know that now, and that...”

  “You know! That is why you are apologizing. It is not that you came to the conclusion that you could trust me to behave honorably and respectably, it is that now you know the identity of my companion you feel ashamed enough to apologize for your ill-bred behavior. But if you had not discovered that singular fact what then, my lord?”

  “Isobel, please try to understand.”

  “I am trying, my lord. And what I understand is that you do not trust me to behave honorably, that...”

  He held up a hand. “No, Isobel, you do not understand. I barely understand it myself. But what I know now, and it is not to my credit, is that I was jealous. Purely and simply put, I saw you laughing and talking with a man as though he belonged together with you and I realized that for some time I have been thinking that we, you and I, belong together.”

  “You presume a great deal, my lord.” But Isobel’s protest lacked conviction and she could not move or break her eyes away from his steady gaze, though she knew she should have.

  “Yes, I did, but I do not think that I was mistaken, was I, Isobel?” His long fingers tilted up her chin and he pulled her close to him.

  “You ... you, had no right.”

  “I know I had no right except that I have shared more of myself with you than I have with any other human being, and I think—I hope—you feel the same way.”

  “I...”

  “Do not deny it, please do not.” His lips came down on hers and he felt the warm response in her lips as they parted underneath his. She yielded for just a moment and then he felt her struggle to pull away.

  “I... you... you have no right to ...” She wrenched herself from his arms and he barely caught the look of desperation in her eyes as she whirled away and fled back toward the brilliantly lighted staircase, leaving him with the taste of her on his mouth.

  “No, I have no right, only the hope that you will understand someday that we belong together. But how is that to happen?” He addressed her retreating form. Then, with a sigh of despair he made his way to the door and, welcoming the blast of cool evening air on his face, he began to walk home.

  What was he to do? It would take a long time to explain it all, to prove to her that he was right. Did he have that time? Political events were crowding one upon another—Napoleon’s defeat, the Congress of Vienna—they were all against him. At any moment Louis and his court, the de Montargis included, could be returning to France, and he needed time. Would he get it?

  Chapter 26

  Isobel was shaking as she reached the stairway. She grabbed the railing and, gasping for breath, slowly mounted the staircase, trying desperately to look normal, as though she had been forced to retire from the ballroom for nothing more serious than the adjustment of her coiffure or the repair of a torn flounce, instead of the way she felt, which was that her entire world had suddenly turned upside down. For the first time in her life, she truly did not know what to think or how to feel. For every other upsetting situation in which she had found herself she had always possessed a clear picture of what she should do. Her idea of what this was might not be something that other people considered proper or fashionable, but she always had known what felt right for the sort of person she was. Now she did not have the faintest idea of what to do. She felt as lost as a sailboat that she had once seen on a seaside visit with Jane and Emily. It had come loose from its mooring and bobbed away from the shore, driven by the wind and the tide. She was much the same as the sailboat, caught off guard by the tumultuous forces of emotion that she had not even known existed.

  She had never experienced such hurt and fury as she had suffered when Lord Christian, a person who had in so short a time seemed to understand her better than anyone she had ever known, not only appeared to think so ill of her that he assumed she had a clandestine lover, but then had had the impudence to think he had the right to question her about her conduct. Isobel had told herself again and again that she did not care about the opinion of a man who misread her so and she ha
d spent several sleepless nights trying to adopt her own coolly rational advice without much success.

  Just when she thought she was able to put him out of her mind, he appeared and she found herself reacting to him so strongly that she knew she had been deluding herself completely. To make matters worse, he had not only proven to her that she was not immune to his charm, but that she was far more drawn to him than she had even realized. The touch of his hand on her waist as he had led her out onto the dance floor had made her knees weak, and when he had pulled her away from the crowd toward the garden she had found herself longing for him to hold her closer. At last, in the shadow of the doorway he had held her close and she could feel his heart beating against her breasts, and revel in the strength in the arms that drew her closer to him. Still she had wanted more. And when he had turned her face up to his and kissed her slowly, languorously, she had barely been able to breathe with the longing that washed over her. So overwhelmed was she by all these sensations that she had hardly heard his words I had been thinking that we, you and I, belonged together.

  For her entire life Isobel had been desperate to belong to something. She had longed, as only an exile could long, for a home, a country, a sense of place. Until that moment, however, only her music had given that to her, and even her music had not exerted the powerful urge that this man did over her. But she was afraid. To give her life to her music was one thing; to give it to a man was another, especially a man who, according to Emily, made a practice of loving women.

  Music enlarged her soul; this man might diminish it; he might take it away altogether. How much she had already been hurt by his mistrust of her. Her pride had been insulted, and pride was what gave her much of her strength. It was not a pride in external things—birth fortune—like the pride for which she condemned her father and his friends, but a pride in herself, her independence, her ability to work hard, to learn, to sing, to make a reputation for herself. In her anger over the misunderstanding with Lord Christian she had very nearly forgotten all this. She could not risk forgetting that again. Unconsciously Isobel knew that this justifiable pride was something that drew him to her and that if she allowed it to vanish she would not only lose herself, but him in the process.