Charles had not pointed a gun at anything but a human in his life, and he truly did not want to blow some poor bird to bits to prove himself to anyone. His aim would be off now anyhow. He brought Louisa’s hand to his lips and gave her a heated look. “I’m not sure what our plans are, Sir Richard. My wife might want to return to France directly after Christmas. I have a small château in the Loire Valley and we both may be homesick by then.”
The gray eyes narrowed. “Ah, France. But you are English?”
“Yes.” Charles was saved from dragging out the dead expatriate parents and his odd upbringing by Griffith’s announcement of dinner.
A strict order of precedence into the dining room was orchestrated by Grace Westlake, and Charles was separated from Louisa. He found himself escorting Isobel Crane into a banquet hall big enough for all the crowned heads of Europe and their entourages. There was a blinding array of silver and crystal on crisp white linen, and epergnes filled with lush hothouse flowers and fruit. Quite an impressive show for the boy who once worked in a pottery factory. Charles’s stomach clenched at the heavy scent of lilies. Somehow they always reminded him of death—not that he needed much reminding.
This extravagance was ridiculous. For a mad moment, Charles wanted to sweep the china and glassware to the floor. While these pointless people had been cosseted by such luxury, he had been burying and burning the emaciated corpses of women and children.
But Maximillian Norwich knew nothing of such things. He lived safely in his château in the Loire Valley, surrounded by beautiful paintings. He would think nothing of fishing out the fish fork from the rigidly arranged place setting and sipping fine wine. His pretty young wife was an heiress and his days were filled by one pleasure after another.
But night would come.
Chapter
9
Aunt Grace was a fiend. She had placed Sir Richard at the head of the table, with Louisa seated to his right. Charles—Maximillian—Max!—was all the way down at the other end, sandwiched between Grace and dotty Isobel. She hoped he’d hold up to her aunt’s scrutiny and her cousin’s likely under-the-table squeezing. Louisa couldn’t even catch his eye—Grace had them on the same side of the table. At least she lucked out with her other dinner partner—it was Great-Uncle Phillip, who was mostly deaf and too indifferent to be bothered to do anything about it. He gave her a nod and then dug in to his first course.
“I thought you were on the outs with my aunt,” Louisa murmured to Sir Richard.
“So did I. What has it been—ten years since I was invited to Rosemont?”
“Nine. I’m surprised you came. After all, we’re just jumped-up bourgeoisie. We made our money in trade.” Louisa tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. If it wasn’t for her grandfather’s bank, she would not be spearing her oysters with a silver fork.
“You haven’t forgiven me, I see. You must realize I had an obligation to the ancient Delacourt name. I hear one can buy a title now—the king is most accommodating. Maybe you should look into that for your new husband. Where did you find him, anyway? Does he know about us?”
“There is no ‘us,’ Richard.”
“Not for lack of you trying. You were like a little spaniel, all brown eyes and golden curls. You rolled over, but you certainly did not play dead.”
Louisa examined her knife and wondered if it were sharp enough to cut through Richard’s evening clothes to his heart. Not that he had one.
“Do you intend to blackmail me, Richard? I thought Lady Blanche solved your financial difficulties.”
“Poor Blanche. She was quite overset she couldn’t join us tonight.”
Lady Blanche Calthorpe, now Richard’s wife, had once been Louisa’s school friend. During the one glorious year she had been sent to Miss Edwin’s Seminary for Young Ladies in Bath to be “finished,” they had formed an unbreakable bond.
Or so Louisa had thought.
“Is she ill?”
“Let’s not talk about her. We have a great deal of catching up to do.”
“I have no interest in your life at all, Richard.”
“I see you haven’t changed a bit. Rude as ever. How did you manage to capture this Maximillian fellow? Ah, but perhaps he values a lady of experience. Some men don’t mind another’s leavings.”
Louisa set her wineglass down. “It is the twentieth century, Richard. Women have as much right to enjoy themselves as men, not that being with you was remotely enjoyable. I know that now, after all my experience. You should really get a few tips from Max. I’m sure Blanche would appreciate it.”
Richard’s face darkened to the color of his wine. “You bitch.”
“Well, you did call me a spaniel. I really don’t see how we are going to be able to get through the next seven courses, do you? Which of us shall leave the table? I can plead exhaustion from my travels, or you can pretend to be concerned for Lady Blanche. Or we’ll vow to stop speaking altogether—I am hungry and the food is always good at Rosemont even if the company isn’t.”
“You’ll pay for your insolence. Do you think just because you ran away for a year that people have forgotten your reputation? Don’t think you can come back here and start fresh.”
“I have no wish to remain at Rosemont under the present circumstances. Max’s château is heaven on earth.”
Richard snorted. “I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Oh, don’t bother—he’s a very happy man, if you know what I mean. Thank goodness. Here is the footman with the next course. Work your charm on Mrs. Naismith and I’ll watch Uncle Phillip chew.”
How had she ever found Sir Richard Delacourt attractive? Louisa had no excuse for herself, except that she’d been trapped at Rosemont with little to amuse her and she had been hopelessly young. Seventeen-year-old girls were idiots, full of romance and possibilities that had no relation to the real world. Richard had been tall and didn’t have that horrid curly red beard then, and his haughty gray stare had made her want to appear worthy of him. However, getting down on her knees and getting caught was not the way.
Oh, it had been so mortifying. Aunt Grace had been wild with fury. Dr. Fentress was called for to examine her in the most humiliating way. Her party was canceled and her freedom curtailed. Louisa had not even been allowed to ride for fear she’d venture onto Priory land and disgrace herself further. She was locked in at night, although eventually Louisa escaped now and again.
Grace had blamed it all on Louisa’s “American blood,” although the Americans Louisa had met in her travels were nowhere near as stupid as she had been. In fact, she had admired them. They were fresh-faced, confident, lively. Courageous, too, for leaving their homes in Boston, New York, or Philadelphia to marry some impoverished, inbred lord. Money for a title—it’s what her mother Lily and her cousin Isobel had been after two decades ago in that first wave of American brides. Byron Stratton had no title but captured Louisa’s mother’s heart nonetheless.
Maybe Louisa should reverse the trend and go to America, find a nice young man from a good middle-class family and settle down in one of the leafy suburbs that were springing up. Garden cities, where everything was new and one did not have to get tangled in the past.
Once she got rid of Maximillian Norwich. Max would eventually have to die as originally planned, perhaps tumble down the château stairs like Antoine—only he’d break more than a leg. It did seem a shame to have to get rid of him, though—Captain Cooper was a very dashing man. She hoped he was enduring being partnered with Aunt Grace and Isobel. Between the two of them, he was earning his hefty fee tonight alone.
The table was suddenly quiet, and Louisa looked up from her champagne sorbet. All eyes were upon her. Now what?
“Louisa, your husband was just telling me the most shocking story about your stay in Monte Carlo. Do tell me it’s not true,” Aunt Grace said in ringing tones.
Louisa le
aned forward but could not catch a glimpse of Charles. “M-Max is generally truthful, aren’t you, darling?” She sat up as tall as she could and could see only the top of his dark head over Mrs. Merwyn’s feathers.
“I only lie when you instruct me to, my love,” he replied, turning so she could see him. Louisa could only describe his expression as naughty, and knew at once she was in trouble.
“Why don’t you tell me what you said, and then I can attest to your veracity.”
“Oh, you tell the story so much better than I, mon ange.”
Louisa was going to kill him off right here at Rosemont. She wondered if he could hold his breath long enough to fool the undertakers.
“She wouldn’t tell me earlier, and now I can see why,” Grace said.
“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as all that, Mrs. Westlake. In fact, it was rather endearing if you think about it.”
“Come Louisa, don’t hold back,” Sir Richard sneered. “We all want to know what you were really up to while you were away.”
“We—we spent our honeymoon in Monte Carlo,” Louisa began. At least that’s what she’d written to Aunt Grace.
“We met, you know, at the Louvre,” Charles interrupted. “Under that ugly, dark Rembrandt, isn’t that right, Lulu?”
Oh yes. Death to Max, and possibly even to Charles Cooper.
“Anyway, neither one of us could see a damn thing—pardon me, ladies—a blessed thing in it. What was all the fuss about, anyway? All that brown and black paint, as if we were staring into the bottom of a barrel. We had a few laughs over that, and one thing led to another. I was the happiest man in the world once I convinced her to marry me, and we headed to Monte Carlo directly after the ceremony.”
“Where was the ceremony?” Mrs. Naismith asked, just as a good vicar’s wife should.
“St. George’s on the Rue Auguste Vacquerie,” Charles answered promptly. “It is the oldest Anglican church in Paris, although of course the building has not always been on that site.”
So he had been paying attention. “Louisa drove, of course. I must say I was tempted to kiss the ground once we got there. What a little daredevil she is behind the wheel, but I have limited peripheral vision—she’ll wear the goggles in our family.”
“I would never permit my wife to drive,” Sir Richard said.
“As if my wife would ever ask for permission,” Charles said, chuckling. “She is a very modern, independent woman in every respect. An original.”
Louisa could almost forgive him, but she had no idea what was yet to come. So she reserved her beneficence and examined her sterling-silver spoon. What an ornate pattern, so very many nooks and crannies. It must be a trial for the footmen to clean and get it to gleam so.
“Get to the heart of the story, man!” Dr. Fentress urged.
“Ah yes. The heart. How fitting you should mention that, Dr. Fentress, for it was hearts, or lack thereof, that caused the whole thing. We were playing bridge in our hotel suite, you see. Just a friendly game with another couple we met, Baron and Baroness von Steuben.”
“Germans?” Aunt Grace made a moue with her carmine lips. She might serve German Mosel wine at the table, as was the fashion, but she held the country in contempt.
“Austrians, I believe. Charming couple, weren’t they, Louisa?”
Louisa had never played bridge in her life. She knew it was gaining popularity and similar to whist, but she didn’t play whist, either. She had no head for cards—she’d spent most of her time in Monte Carlo admiring the jewels and dresses of the other travelers and sticking her toes in the sand instead of gambling.
“Very nice. Although Hans was a bit of a bore.” She might as well get into the spirit of things.
“But Minna made up for him, don’t you think, darling? What a little apfel strudel. Anyway, hearts were trump, but Louisa miscounted. She lost the last three tricks and was forced to pay the forfeit.”
“Someone could have seen you.” Grace clutched at her heart.
Goodness. Now Louisa was interested in finding out exactly what scandalous thing she’d done. “Max, you’ll have to say it. I’m much too embarrassed.”
“Nonsense. You’re among family and old friends. Nothing you could do would surprise us anymore, Lulu. You are so like your dear mother,” Isobel trilled. “Such a scamp.”
Charles came to her rescue at last. “It’s all right, darling. I’ll finish the story. We had a wager—the loser was to do something outrageous in a public place at the winner’s bidding.”
Louisa shut her eyes. If Charles Cooper had her dancing the cancan, she would kick him in a private place when she got him alone later.
“The baron insisted,” Charles continued, “that she sneak onto the stage of the Opera de Monte Carlo and sing one song. Of course, the building was quite empty, save for the cleaners. But they put down their brooms and mops and swore Louisa rivaled Nellie Melba. They had never heard ‘Good King Wenceslas’ sung with such panache.”
Really? That was it? Louisa was sorely disappointed in herself.
“A Christmas song in August. How brazen, my dear,” Mr. Naismith said, teasing. “You will get your chance in a few weeks to sing carols to your heart’s content.” He lifted his wineglass. “A toast to the return of the prodigal daughter and her new husband! Cheers to Mr. and Mrs. Maximillian Norwich. May you share many happy Christmases ahead.”
“Hear, hear!” Even Uncle Phillip raised his glass. Charles rose and moved down the table until he was behind her, his warm hands on her bare shoulders. “My own songbird. Thank you all for your welcome. I find I’m quite overcome, so overcome I want to kiss my wife in public, even without the Baron von Steuben’s urging.”
Louisa twisted her head to stare up at him. She wanted to beg him to please sit back down at once. But she wasn’t fast enough. He bore down on her with all the graceful intent of a practiced predator, and his lips touched hers.
All right. This wasn’t so bad. A brief, dry peck—
And then his tongue insinuated itself between the seam of her mouth.
Oh. This wasn’t so bad at all. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she leaned into the kiss against all good sense. Well, Aunt Grace said she didn’t have any, so why fight it? Captain Cooper was the most marvelous kisser, gentle yet firm, his mouth moist without being mushy. He seemed to know just where to touch her tongue with his, and she felt herself melting like her champagne sorbet.
Golly, but this felt divine. She hadn’t let a man come anywhere close to kissing her in ages. Louisa flushed hot and cold, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the dining room. Her hand lifted from the tablecloth so she could touch his face, feel the dark bristles that were already colonizing his jaw despite his afternoon shave.
The sound of silver spoons against crystal reverberated around the table but failed to break the captain’s delicious, insidious spell. Louisa knew she should stop, but she couldn’t think how to begin to retract her tongue, to shut down the sweep of sensation that tingled down to her toes. Couldn’t think at all. Might never want to think again.
Oh, damn. This kiss meant nothing to him—he was just earning his pay. But wasn’t he so very good at his job?
Chapter
10
She smelled of violets and tasted like wine. Charles knew he was breaking all the rules, and he didn’t much care. She had told him no public displays of affection, but these people needed to be taught some kind of lesson. They’d all underestimated her, still saw her as the incorrigible hoyden she was as a young girl. How could they not see that she’d grown up and had a good mind of her own? Yes, she talked one’s ear off, and perhaps they didn’t like all the things she believed and said.
But they were here on her sufferance, living in her house, eating her food, drinking her wine. And nearly every word he’d heard most of them speak of Louisa had been somehow dismissive. Belittling
. Even Isobel, who seemed to hold Louisa in some affection, had blurted out things she shouldn’t.
He’d been a bit mischievous setting her up with that Monte Carlo story, but Mrs. Westlake had badgered him about it in her poisonously sweet way. Charles had to think of something, right? The few times he’d been able to swivel around like a doorknob to see her, Louisa had looked miserable sitting down at the other end of the table. Charles didn’t care for the way that blighter Sir Richard was talking to her, either. He could tell from the man’s expression that whatever had once been between them was still festering. Louisa must have said something to the baronet to finally put him off, for he had devoted himself to the vicar’s wife for the last three courses.
Charles was more than a bit mischievous now. He steadied himself on the back of Louisa’s chair, for he was in danger of sliding down to the carpet and bringing Louisa with him. He could not recall when a mere kiss had been this explosive.
Of course, he couldn’t remember when he last kissed a girl—
Oh, yes, he could. Charles wobbled and carefully withdrew from Louisa’s upturned face.
She was flushed pink, her brown eyes unfocussed, lashes batting like butterfly wings.
“Mr. Norwich!”
“Oh, Grace, don’t get your feathers ruffled. They’re newlyweds, after all.” Isobel laughed, but Charles could hear an edge of hysteria. It must cost the residents of Rosemont to go against Grace.
“Please forgive my shocking behavior. I have no excuse, save that I’m in love with my wife,” Charles heard himself say.
“Bah,” the old gentleman next to Louisa grumbled. “You’re delaying the next course, young man. Sit down, sit down.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered to Louisa. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She straightened, reaching for her water glass. Her hand was trembling. “Think nothing of it. I don’t.”
In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) Page 7