by Darcie Wilde
“Oh. Well. Perhaps I will have a slice of the ham.”
“It looks very fine.” He laid one of the thick slices onto a fresh plate. “And this sauce.” He poured a healthy dollop over the salted meat. “It’s unusual to find such an excellent sauce in England.”
“Our cook is French.”
“That explains it. Now, as to the walnut cake . . .”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
He sighed and laid down the server. “Then I can’t, either. More’s the pity.”
She frowned, and for a moment he saw a flash of her real spirit. “How long are you going to play this game?”
“Until I see you with a meal you will actually enjoy, Lady Adele.”
“Why do you care?” She blurted the words out and instantly regretted them. That, decided James, would not do at all.
“Because I like your smile,” he answered her, simply and directly. “And I like your eyes. I suspect they shine when you are happy. I’d like to find out if I’m right.” He slowly cut out a slice of cake and laid it onto her plate and favored her with his most sultry smile.
The results were not as he might have hoped. Instead of smiling and blushing and allowing him to see that bright shine in her eyes about which he fantasized, she turned her face away. “Lady Adele?”
She did not turn around. Her back had stiffened, but if it was in anger or determination, he could not tell.
“You don’t have to be nice to me, Monsieur Beauclaire,” she said. It was anger. No. It was rage, quiet, suppressed, but very real.
“Pardon?” he whispered.
“Flirting with me won’t help you win Patience. My sister doesn’t care for my opinion or my feelings.”
Of course. Of course that was it. She thought he paid her court in order to gain a good opinion that he could use to advantage with Lady Patience. And why shouldn’t she? What reason had he yet given her to believe otherwise?
At last she did turn. That rage blazed in her deep eyes, burning away all trace of her earlier bashfulness. She lifted her chin and waited for his answer, imperious and certain she was in possession of the truth.
He should have been angry at her dismissal of his motives, but anger fled him as he gazed into her eyes. Did he think that a man might drown in those eyes? He was drowning now. But her eyes were no more dangerously, magnificently alluring than her full mouth and soft, pale skin. He was standing too close. She was shivering inside her overly elaborate morning dress. Shivering because his nearness affected her, as it had when they’d hidden together. He should back away. It would be kinder to them both. He should not think about wrapping his arms around her, about relieving her of that dress, about kissing her mouth and her throat and her breasts, about discovering the whole of her body and her desire, and hearing her cry out as he fulfilled every need and wish.
But he wanted to. Immediately. Painfully. His prick was at attention, and every nerve was on fire, and it made no sense at all and he didn’t care. He did not want Patience, or the card tables, or a life of convenience and duty well done. He wanted Adele. Whether it was love or lust or insanity at first sight, he did not care about that, either. All he cared about was that he would be the one to remove the anger and despair from Adele’s beautiful face.
No, he would remove it from her life. He would begin today. He would begin this very moment, with one touch, one word. Now.
“Ah! Good morning, Monsieur Beauclaire,” cried Mrs. Kearsely as she threw open the doors. “And Adele, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted a word with you.”
VII
Numb, dazed, Adele stumbled after Aunt Kearsely as she marched up the stairs, dismissed the maid, and shut them both into Adele’s little sitting room.
He was going to kiss me.
She was sure of it. The way he looked at her, the way he stood so close. There had been an expression on his face—indecision mixed with desire. She had felt the warmth of his skin, and her heart hammered. Every part of her reached forward, even though she didn’t move. Even though she knew he wanted Patience, not her.
Except in that one instant, she’d been sure he did want her. He looked at her. He saw her for herself, and he desired all he saw. She’d seen her reflection in his bright eyes, felt his warm breath against her cheek.
Then that instant shattered, and now here she stood in her rooms, facing her fuming aunt.
“What on earth am I going to do with you, you silly girl!”
It was too much. All Adele’s nerves were still on edge, and her mind was whirling from James’s almost-kiss, from the almost-fulfillment of the restless dreams and imaginings that had haunted her all night.
“Why do you have to do anything with me?” she cried. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
She’d expected Aunt Kearsely to be shocked at her outburst, but her aunt did not even flinch.
“Despite what you may think, Adele, I do not delight in being harsh, but neither will I let you make yourself ridiculous.”
Oh. Oh, of course. “Patience has been talking to you.”
“Your sister is rightly concerned, but I have eyes in my own head. And I am not the only one.”
Exhaustion flowed through Adele. She was starved, and she was shaking from the way she’d been whirled from one emotion to the next. She groped for the chair near the hearth and sat. “No one cares what I do.”
“They do care. You are the eldest sister of the Duke of Windford, and the world cares very much! That is why it has been so much work to shelter you!”
Adele’s head snapped up. “What?”
“My goodness, girl, what do you think I do with myself! I’ve spent four seasons working every minute to keep the fortune hunters away from you! It’s been maddening, making sure you’re safe while making sure Patience has her chance.”
“You’re saying . . . all those dances . . . all those parties . . .” All those dresses!
Aunt Kearsely drew herself up to her full height. “I have done nothing that was not for your own good. You are too eager, too trusting, too friendly with anyone and everyone! On top of that you are stubborn and naive, and never give a thought to the reputation of this house! Just this morning, what do I find? You, alone, in the breakfast room, with Monsieur Beauclaire, who has been blatantly and obviously chasing your own sister!”
Adele tried to speak. There must be some way she could fling her aunt’s words back in her face.
“Thankfully, I found you before any real damage was done,” her aunt huffed.
Before he kissed me. Before I could find out whether he really did want me, or whether I am what you say. A silly girl.
“Now, Adele, I am willing to draw a veil over this entire distressing incident, but you must let it serve you as a warning. This is your last chance. If you cannot conduct yourself as your situation demands, I will see that you stay in the country for the season.”
Adele looked up at her, mute, furious, lost.
“I have no wish to pain you, my girl, but you have forced my hand. I will speak to your brother if I must. He will listen to me.”
Yes, he will. “Why would you treat me this way?” she croaked at last.
“Because it is what your mother wanted.”
The words hit her hard, knocking her back and leaving her jaw hanging open. “I don’t believe that!”
“You should,” said her aunt stonily. “It was the last thing she asked of me. Almost the last thing she ever said.” Her aunt’s eyes went distant, and Adele found herself surprised at the genuine grief she saw there. “I can still feel how her hand gripped mine. She’d been so weak, and yet she almost bruised me. I had to lean over to hear her, and she said . . . she said, ‘Patience is safe. Patience can be trusted to find her own way, but you must promise that you will protect my Adele. Men will prey upon her good nature, and you must save her from that.’ She begg
ed me to swear to it, and I did.”
“It can’t be true,” Adele whispered.
Aunt Kearsely pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “It is entirely true, and I have done my utmost to keep that vow.”
Adele tried to picture her mother, lying back on her pillows, holding Aunt Kearsely’s hand, but no image came. She’d always loved her mother, but they’d never been close. She and Patience had been raised by nurses and governesses in the usual way. Her memories of her mother seemed to be mere glimpses; Mother poring over letters at her desk, Mother dictating orders to the servants, Mother waiting alone at the table when she and Patience were brought in to say good night and get two kisses each, because Father was away, again.
“But why would she?” Adele hated the plaintive note in her voice, but speaking calmly in this moment was beyond her. “Why would she trust Patience and not me?”
“Because she was your mother, Adele,” said Aunt Kearsely sternly. “She knew you, and she knew the hazards you faced. It is not for you to question her decisions, but to trust in her love and care and obey.”
How did she know? What did she know? Adele bit her tongue. She didn’t trust her voice. Tears prickled hard against her eyes. If she spoke at all, she risked crying, but the question wouldn’t leave her. Why? Why did you do this?
Aunt Kearsely sat down across from Adele and patted her hand.
“Now, now, you mustn’t think I’ve no care at all for your future. Once Patience is properly settled, we will find you a steady widower with his own fortune. We need not be as concerned about rank. Since you will be an older bride, that will not matter so much.”
“Because that’s the best a girl who looks like me can hope for,” said Adele dully.
“Best and safest. Yes, Adele, it is.”
There it was. Finally, she had her explanation, and it was all spelled out as plainly and clearly as she could wish. She was too plain, too unsophisticated, too stupid to be trusted. She must be hidden away, broken down, set aside. It was for Patience to make an exquisite marriage, and once that was done, Adele could be handed off to someone who could be trusted manage her money and keep her foolishness in permanent check.
Because that was what her mother, her sad, distant mother, had wanted.
But as she struggled against tears, confusion, and anger, a knock sounded on the door. A bare heartbeat later, the door opened.
“Lady Adele . . . Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Kearsely.” Miss Sewell, without any hesitation, breezed into the room. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Lady Adele had promised to show me the duke’s famous library, and knowing that she’s an early riser like myself, I suggested it be this morning. I thought she might have forgotten, but I ran into Monsieur Beauclaire, and he said he was sure she was awake, so I took it upon myself . . . but that’s neither here nor there. I have interrupted, and I can come back.”
Adele watched the silent internal war raging inside her aunt. The need to hammer home her lecture fought desperately against the need to cultivate this fashionable, if unconventional, personage. Fashion, as usual, won out. “Oh no, Miss Sewell. I insist you stay. Adele will be glad to show you the library.”
“Yes, of course,” Adele murmured. Never mind that she hadn’t made any such promise.
Aunt Kearsely curtsied to Miss Sewell and took herself off back downstairs, leaving Adele alone with the lady novelist.
“Monsieur Beauclaire thought you might be in need of rescue. Miss Sewell shook her head at Adele and the closed door equally. “I see he was right.”
“James sent you?” Adele was glad she was already seated, otherwise she might have collapsed from the weight of her emotion.
“He did.” Miss Sewell smiled, and while it was a kind smile, it was also too sharp to be entirely comfortable. “He in fact barged into my room and all but shook me by the shoulders and insisted I interrupt the . . . discussion you were having with your aunt.”
“Oh.”
“I have known James Beauclaire for several years,” Miss Sewell went on, cocking her head to the side as if to better examine Adele. “But I have never seen him so agitated.”
He was going to kiss me. In the breakfast room. He was going to touch me, and I was going to let him. Again. He was going to tell me . . . to tell me . . . She swallowed. Her mouth and throat had gone entirely dry. “Do you know where he is now?”
“I told him to give me ten minutes and then meet you in the library.”
“Oh.” All at once her mind cleared, and the memory that had been held back by the events of the morning poured in. “Oh! No! He mustn’t! You must tell him . . . tell him I will find him later. Please.”
“I will, if you tell me why.”
Adele clapped her hand over her mouth to keep in her sudden burst of hilarity. “Because I’ve already agreed to one secret meeting in the library this morning.”
VIII
“There you are!” cried Helene as Adele slammed into the library.
As Adele feared, the other two girls had already arrived. There was no evidence of James, but the drapes were drawn shut across the window alcove.
“What is the matter?” asked Madelene.
“Nothing,” lied Adele. “I just. It’s close in here, isn’t it? I’m just going to crack the window.”
She hurried to the drapes and peeked between them. There was the window seat, quite empty and innocent. “Oh, it’s still snowing,” she remarked. “Perhaps we’d better leave it closed.”
“If you’ve quite made up your mind about the window,” said Helene with forced patience, “perhaps you’re ready to hear what I have to say. We don’t have much time before the house is up and about.”
We’ve less time than you think. Adele did not turn at once. She could not do so until she’d composed her manner. She desperately wished she had a moment to think. Too much had happened in the space of a short hour. James. Aunt Kearsely’s revelation about Mother. Could she possibly have been telling the truth? There was no way to know.
“Adele?” asked Madelene. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter.” Adele made herself cross to the sofa and sit down. “What is it you wanted to tell us, Helene?”
Helene and Madelene settled onto leather armchairs on the other side of the coffee table.
“I have been thinking,” Helene said, “about how Almack’s was founded.”
“Why would you?” asked Adele.
“Because it is significant,” she answered loftily. “Almack’s used to be just a gambling club. It was not, however, as fashionable as some others, and it was losing business. Then, along came the board of lady patronesses, and all of a sudden, people were clamoring to get in. Seven women, working together, took Almack’s from being a second-rate club to the most exclusive and revered set of rooms in the fashionable world.” She paused and looked at them.
Madelene twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry, Helene, I know I’m very slow, but I don’t understand.”
“I propose we do something similar.”
“You want us to set up a club?” said Adele.
“Not quite. I suggest we three work together to transform not a club, but ourselves. We take ourselves from wallflowers to triumphs.” Helene leaned forward, her amber eyes shining. “You said it yourself, Adele. You should be in charge. You’ve got everything needed to be a success. You’ve got wit and personality and social standing. Why aren’t you as much of a success as your sister?”
Because my mother didn’t trust me. Adele winced, but of course she couldn’t say that out loud. She didn’t really know these two. Not yet.
“It’s not possible,” Madelene said.
“Madelene’s right,” said Adele hollowly. “Society has made up its mind about us.” Has sheltered and sabotaged us, has beaten our futures into the shape they bel
ieve best . . .
“And why is that?”
“Because I look like a dumpling!” Anger, unreasonable and petty, surged through Adele. What was the matter with this girl? There were things that could not change. Ever. It didn’t matter what one person wanted when the whole world—strangers, family, everybody—wanted something different.
“That shouldn’t matter. You’re a duke’s daughter, and your brother has not only salvaged the title, he’s made the family rich. You should be fighting off every fortune hunter in England, plus new ones from the Continent.”
“It does matter.” Adele tugged futilely at her ruffled sleeves. I shouldn’t have come. I’ve got too much to worry about without listening to Helene Fitzgerald’s madness. “Everybody says so.”
Triumph sparked in Helene’s eyes. “That’s exactly it. Everybody says so. Like they say I’m a shrew and Madelene’s a . . .”
“Disappointment,” said Madelene.
Helene took her friend’s hand and squeezed it gently. “So, how do we change what they say about us? We get together, and we do it.” She shifted in her chair so she faced Adele squarely. “You said you used to dream of the dances you’d give and the dresses you’d have. Could you actually do it? Could you organize wardrobes for the season? And perhaps even a ball?”
Adele opened her mouth and closed it again. No. Of course not. Except that wasn’t what she said. “I . . . well, I’ve imagined doing so . . .”
“Like you imagined those dresses? With the suppliers and the costs and all of it?”
“Well, yes.” She’d spent enough time sitting near the chaperones and hearing them pick apart the dances and parties, talking of all the things that could have been done better. She’d listened to Aunt Kearsely as she gave orders to the servants for the entertainments in the country and the city. She’d made notes and lists of dreams and ideas and guests—all the things she’d do when she had her own house.