Promise Me Heaven

by Connie Brockway

  There had to be some way to extricate her from the potential danger. He knew that a letter from him demanding she come back to England immediately stood no hope of being obeyed. She probably wouldn’t even read it. Besides, how could she feel endangered with every titled fool in England parading through Paris? Why, the whole bloody world was in Paris.

  God help him, he would have to go himself and fetch her back.

  He had thought himself done with Cat. Or, more to the point, he admitted with harsh humor, he’d thought to allow her to be done with him. It had been with masochistic pleasure that he’d read the accounts posted him by the friend he’d set to watch over her. The friend had written nothing suggesting that Cat suffered. Perhaps Thomas had done her some small service. Perhaps she would abandon her scheme and find herself some smooth-cheeked boy to beguile.

  She was so damn young. She would mend. As would he. And if the long, hollow days that each morning threatened to devour him showed no signs of relenting, well then, numbness had kept pace with the emptiness. It would be interesting to see if that kind opiate relinquished its hold when he had to see her, talk to her, persuade her to come with him.

  Thomas sat down at his desk, penning a terse note to another well-placed and influential friend, outlining his requirements. After ringing for Bob, he barked out orders for immediate travel arrangements.

  Chapter 18

  March 1815, Paris

  By Jove, she was a desirable woman.

  Giles Dalton, Marquis of Strand, watched Cat circulating through the crowded ballroom of Merton’s rented Parisian town house. Yes, indeed, Catherine Sinclair, or Lady Cat as fashionable society had taken to calling her, was well on her way to becoming the reigning toast.

  She caught sight of him, and her full lower lip bowed out in plump invitation. Or was it a smile? He’d be damned if he knew. There was a lot, apparently, he did not know about the fascinating Lady Cat. And he’d been so sure he’d taken her measure during the past few seasons. So sure that he had been on the very precipice of bowing to convention and marrying the girl.

  Lord Strand was finally growing weary of all the well-rehearsed lures cast his way. It had been fun for a while, but as with anything too easily attained, it had begun to pall. A practical, unsentimental man, Strand had turned his attention to a careful consideration of the candidates for his future marchioness. He had taken several seasons to study his choices, finally fixing his attention on Lady Catherine Sinclair.

  She seemed perfect: lovely, amusing, pragmatic, and serene. He had even thought he’d sensed the potential for more than pure expedience in their marriage. He’d considered it possible he might come to love her.

  And then she had appeared in Paris, changed.

  But was it change, Strand asked himself, or playacting? Or even something else? Had the girl he’d thought to offer for simply matured into a woman? He could not tell, and ever a careful man, he waited until he had a better grasp of the situation before acting.

  Because, were he not so cautious, he admitted wryly, he would have had her to an altar—or a bed—some time ago. She was enchanting, delicious, her bon mots were occasionally sharp, but the barbs were most often self-directed. He did not understand her, and he was wary of that which he didn’t understand. Meanwhile, she would probably drive him mad, though it was an enjoyable madness.

  With increasing frequency, Cat allowed his touch. Her lips were honey-sweet, her body lithe. Yet Giles did not detect a trap baited with her willingness. Nothing she did or said hinted at marital expectations. On the contrary, if anything, her reaction to his caress held a hint of impatience, a frisson of desperation, which manifested itself as a readiness to learn lessons he was afire to teach. If only he were not certain she was, in spite of her sophisticated veneer and come-hither eyes, quite unimpeachably, and regretfully, a virgin.

  A young woman on the marriage mart had two things to recommend her: wealth and a maidenhead. As Cat Sinclair hadn’t the first, he wasn’t going to divest her of the second. Besides, Thomas Montrose, being obstinately oblique on all other matters, had been crystal clear about Cat going to the altar in her untouched state.

  Characteristically enigmatic as to his own motives, Thomas had been explicit in his request: Strand was to set himself up as sentry over the physical well-being of Lady Catherine Sinclair, protecting her from any would-be assailants, including those who would try her virtue. Little did Thomas know, thought Strand with an inner sigh, he’d set the seducer up as guard.

  If Giles hadn’t such a profound respect for Thomas, he’d have suspected a scheme hidden in the request. The betting books at White’s had Giles withstanding yet another season of Lady Catherine’s siege. Anyone winning the wager stood to gain a large sum of money. Giles knew the wagers were based to a large degree on the lady’s own orchestrations. It seemed all of society knew Lady Cat had set her cap at Lord Strand. Except, lately, Lady Cat herself. She had ceased pursuing him with the single-minded and amusing determination that had distinguished the previous seasons. It was beyond puzzling.

  But Giles’s obligation to Thomas was deep and their friendship deeper. As a military attaché to Sir Knowlton, Giles had been introduced to Thomas. He had been surprised to recognize one of Sir Knowlton’s premier agents as his school companion. They had rekindled their childhood friendship. Later, at Salamanca, Thomas had risked his life to save Giles’s.

  So Giles complied with Thomas’s written request, never mentioning to Lady Catherine his association with Thomas. In turn, he never heard Thomas’s name pass her own lovely lips. Attending Lady Cat was simple, the job merely asked Giles to follow his own inclinations. Only the gutter-mouthed Hellsgate Barrymore threatened Cat’s new, urbane composure, and he was easily avoided. Except at the larger parties, such as this.

  With that in mind, Giles looked around the milling crowds. He saw Hellsgate at once, his whip-thin figure clad in black, his pale countenance turned with snakelike fixation on Cat. There was nothing for it, thought Giles with a quick grin. He would have to remove his negligent seductress from Hellsgate’s too interested gaze.

  “Lord Strand,” Cat answered in reply to Giles’s formal bow.

  “Would you care to dance, Lady Cat?”

  Lord, he does have pretty manners, thought Cat before saying, “A week ago I would have sent you over to my great-aunt for permission, as we have already been partnered once. But the last time I sent someone to her with a similar petition, she fixed the poor fellow with a glare and said, ‘Why the deuce don’t you ask the gel, you ninny hammered pup!’

  “Sir Hale will never recover,” she added sadly. “He didn’t know whether to flush with delight or outrage. He is, after all, but ten years Aunt Hecuba’s junior.”

  Strand joined in the laughter of the other bucks and ladies surrounding Cat.

  “You are making this up,” a young man protested.

  “Just embellishing a bit… Sir Hale is quite fifteen years her junior,” Cat said. A teasing smile curved her lips, a smile that never reached her eyes.

  For four months, Cat had dined out on her social triumph. It tasted of ashes. She continued with the charade because she knew no other course to follow. It was still the most direct way to her goal. A goal, Cat reminded herself with increasing frequency, that was still essential in providing for her family.

  She could have kicked herself any number of times. She almost asked Fielding to do so last week. Strand had been so close to proposing. With just a small bit of encouragement he would have. But no. The moment his careful, smooth expression took on a serious, intent aspect, she had divined his intent. And, like the fool she was, she had smiled, blinked, tittered, and fled. Idiot!

  She didn’t recognize herself. Indeed, everything and everyone she had been so confident she knew seemed to be changing. Even Great-Aunt Hecuba.

  A fortnight ago, Cat had gone to fetch Hecuba for the evening’s entertainment. Her great-aunt had come to the door not in her usual endless layers of black
bombazine, but in a gown of cerise satin with jet beads embroidering what looked suspiciously like a décolletage. Only the heavy crucifix, half-hidden beneath a layer of lace, told Cat it was Lady Montaigne White and not some impostor. Tonight the crucifix had disappeared altogether. Along with another three inches of bodice.

  Cat peered over the shoulder of one of her companions, searching for her great-aunt. By heavens, if Hecuba wasn’t smiling! And her cheeks were rosy with more than the powder Cat had glimpsed her furtively applying with a rabbit’s foot. Hecuba was positively glowing at the wizened old Marquis de Grenville, who had taken to dogging their footsteps.

  Giles’s voice recalled her from her speculation. In a trice her forehead smoothed to bland serenity.

  “Shall we risk Lady Montaigne White’s considerable ire, and dance?” he asked.

  Cat nodded. Placing her hand in Strand’s outstretched one, she moved forward, catching the first movement in the intricate steps of the quadrille. Giles was an accomplished dancer. His trim length perfectly suited the graceful motions. As he bent his dark blond head toward her, she remarked anew the fine texture of his clear, pale skin, the silky wealth of waving hair.

  There was no intriguing break to the faultless conformity of his features. His almond-shaped gray eyes were perfectly spaced above full lips and a square jaw. His ears lay flat against his well-molded head. His throat was strong. He was a purebred through and through, she thought as the dance ended and he escorted her to one side.

  “Merton is quite proud of his newly acquired paintings. Would you care to see them?” he asked.

  Again? She paused a second before agreeing. It was becoming an open ploy on Strand’s part. Cat had spent an inordinate amount of time viewing statuary, painting, and book collections during the past few weeks. She was disappointed Giles was so obvious. She was certain Thomas would never… Damn! With an effort, she kept her smile in place.

  Giles led her to a gallery running off the hall’s open stairway. True to his word, he pointed out a few desultory, poorly lit paintings hanging on the wall. But Strand was always true to his word.

  “This is by Jacques David. He handles the modeling of light on the torso superbly, don’t you agree?” His voice was intimate.

  “Yes,” Cat replied, feeling the warm touch of his breath caress her neck. He stood behind her, delicately trailing his fingers from her wrist to her upper arm. Willing herself to respond to his expert touch, she stood still beneath the familiarity.

  Leaning forward, Giles laid his lips gently on her neck. She turned slowly, reaching up to embrace him. His kiss was a sigh on her lips, sweet, tender. Controlled. In frustration, she moved her own mouth more fully under his. He answered her unspoken request, deepening the kiss, splaying his hands across her back to press her more fully to him.

  His pulse quickened as she melted in his arms until, with a ragged breath, he recalled himself. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he held himself back from her just a little. She did not contest his drawing away with so much as a frown.

  “You make a man forget himself.”

  “And here I thought you had remembered yourself.”

  He regarded her with some perplexity and tried a smile.

  “You are right, of course. Let us say I remembered my obligation as a gentleman.”

  “I know enough of the breed to realize if that were your only consideration, then indeed my situation would grow dire.” She was being too flippant but she could not help herself.

  Taking her once more into his arms, he traced his forefinger over her lower lip. “Would you really like to experiment, m’dear? Because I could not deny a lady’s request.”

  The heat in his eyes alerted her to the underlying promise in his bold query. She found herself nodding mutely, hoping his passion would set her afire, freeing her from the memory of another’s touch. His brows drew together for the space of a heartbeat, and then his mouth was on hers, the tip of his tongue gently prodding her lips apart. She opened to him, and his tongue delved quickly in, plying hers with lavish expertise.

  She could not help the subtle tightening of her muscles, a drawing away of the spirit more than the flesh that somehow translated itself to Giles, piercing his own pleasure. Being a man well attuned to the nuance of physical pleasure, and more, being a gentleman, he released her.

  “And now, it appears, an apology really is required. Allow me to escort you back to the ballroom, Lady Cat,” Giles said.

  Cat came close to weeping. The handsome, the refined, the elegant Marquis of Strand had just had his tongue in her mouth, and now he was using her formal title. He had wanted her. If only her own wayward heart hadn’t refused to comply with the demands of her mind. She had spent months throwing herself at him, seeking to gain his undivided attention.

  Oh, he was intrigued right enough. But she was not. In her frantic efforts to purge from her mind the memory of Thomas’s firm mouth, she had allowed Giles a few overly warm embraces. Each new liberty only pointed up how his caresses failed to elicit an answering heat in her.

  He was still a paragon amongst his countrymen, still as slender, elegant, and refined as in previous years. His gilt masculine beauty was as startling, his urbane wit as amusing, his manner as cosmopolitan. And yet, Cat found, to her growing dismay, Lord Strand’s mouth was cool. His arms, though strong and quite willing to pull her close, did so with measured determination rather than helpless need. No amount of his fondling would awake in her the fire kindled by Thomas’s restraint.

  She laid her fingers lightly on Giles’s proffered arm.

  Damn her memory. Damn her stupid heart. Damn Thomas Montrose!

  Chapter 19

  Hecuba looked up from her conversation with the old Marquis de Grenville, her eyes bright, her cheeks as pink as a maid’s. The smile faltered on her lips.

  “Back already, are you?” she grumbled at Cat and Giles.

  “I beg you to bear my company a short while, Aunt. Lord Strand has offered to fetch us a refreshment,” Cat said, as Strand bowed himself away.

  Hecuba, having spent as much time on Cat as she felt common courtesy demanded, turned back to her companion, ignoring her niece completely. Looking around the ballroom, Cat recognized many of the same people she had spent the past four seasons with in London.

  English society had invaded France. In closed company, the English strolled the streets of Paris, exclaiming over Napoleon’s artistic embellishments to the fabled city. They adopted French dress, savored French foods, and drained stockpiles of French wine.

  Though the recent war had left the defeated French officers sullen, the tradesmen were delighted with waves of rich foreigners, hungry for the styles, the flair, the savoir faire, of previously forbidden Paris. There were, unfortunately, “difficulties” with the discharged French officers. The English treated them with barely concealed contempt. Only the dispossessed French aristocracy, many of whom had familial ties to England, were treated with any respect.

  The situation had degenerated to a shocking state; reported confrontations between French and English were becoming common. Increasing numbers of young men ignored the laws against dueling and were left bleeding to death on the grassy verges just outside of town. In order to traverse the great, dirty, dark network of twining alleys that was Paris, armed guards had to be hired to protect private coaches.

  France grew to feeling increasingly unsafe to Cat. There were rumors Napoleon had escaped from Elba and was planning a march on Paris. Most of her countrymen sniffed at the suggestion. The little emperor’s back had been broken. He would not soon come to the site of his ignominy. Cat was no longer so sure.

  But the thought of returning to England and the small, though real, chance of encountering Thomas, caused Cat to extend her stay. She was a coward. However, her lengthy visit did have an unforeseen boon. She had received a letter from her erstwhile parent. Her mother and Philip planned to arrive in Paris in a few days. Because the missive had been posted some time ago, it ha
d found its way to Cat with England’s latest diplomatic attaché, Colonel Seward. She found herself hoping that she might not have to wed at all or at least not yet, not until her memories had faded.

  Cat made her way to a withdrawing area for the female guests. Nodding in recognition of an acquaintance, she settled herself in front of a mirror. A maid offered her a small sachet, which she dabbed on her throat. After her unproductive encounter with Strand, she needed a few minutes in which to gather her resolve.

  The gentle, polite murmurings of refined beauties closeted together without the benefit of friendship was interrupted by a sharper voice breaking through her preoccupation.

  “Sinjin will have to look to his laurels. He won’t have the ladies fawning over him quite so easily, now that some real competition is here.”

  “Oh, surely Monsieur Ruin is a bit too old to cause much fluttering amongst the current flock of chicks,” a bored voice drawled.

  “You haven’t seen him yet, have you?” came the openly amused reply. “A great, dark, dangerous-looking animal, he is. Beautiful, not in the languishing, self-aware manner of Byron, but beautiful like a bold, blooded steed. Oh, I assure you, he is quite capable of causing a stir amongst the youngest chicks… as well as the older hens.”

  “Why did he quit the ton?”

  “ ’Tis said he found it too tame. I know he was rumored to be a member of the more dissolute circles of Europe. It stands to reason naughty Paris would charm him. I am not at all surprised to find him here.”

  The voices faded as the two ladies left. Cat stared unseeingly at her own image. Desperately she told herself she was growing obsessed with Thomas. There must be any number of large, dark males in Paris. The overheard remarks need not be about him. She smoothed her hair, fidgeting with an escaped tendril. After all, when she had found him, Thomas had been in Devon firmly planted in his pasture, not in the corrupt courts of foreign princes.