Chapter Two
Virginie finished applying her rouge before she waved her maid away. Virginie needed Fenton, even though she was a mortal—nobody styled hair as she did, and she had the most exquisite taste.
“That will be all, Fenton,” she said.
The maid bobbed a curtsey. “If you please, ma’am, there’s a gentleman waiting in the drawing-room.”
Her heart leaped; it could only be one person. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, you foolish girl!” She bounced off the stool and gave her skirts an impatient shake to settle them. She had dressed in her new lemon-yellow sacque this morning, the better to enchant her lover. Without another word to her irritating maid, she seized her fan and raced from the room.
Outside the drawing room, she took a few seconds to calm herself. In a few moments she’d be in the throes of passion. As Venus, she was supposed to know all about this. But she was a young goddess, born thirty years ago, and married for much of her adult life to an older man. Her personal experience was limited. She had never known anything this powerful, and she determined to learn from it. Something this strong had no chance of lasting, but she would enjoy it in the meantime.
The doorknob slid in her hand. She had to take a firmer grip to turn it, but she completed the suddenly difficult task and entered the room.
A man stood inside, his back to her, facing the window. The strong sunlight put his herculean body into silhouette, his dark coat only just visible as maroon in colour. The narrow gold braid edging it appeared dull next to the brilliance of the sun streaming around him. He was well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, potent in thigh and arm. She longed to rest her head on his powerful chest and find the solace that only came after a vigorous bout of lovemaking.
He didn’t turn around when she came in, not immediately anyway. Virginie crossed the room and slipped her arms around his waist, leaning her cheek against his back to soak up his body heat. Marcus was always hot, and she loved it.
“You didn’t tell me you planned to call so early,” she murmured, and then registered something different about him. He had a cane, a silver-topped ebony stick that appeared sturdier than the slender canes men of fashion sometimes carried. “Are you trying out a swordstick? Surely you don’t have to go to such lengths to bear weapons in town.” Aristocrats could wear their swords in town, after all, and most availed themselves of the privilege.
“It is not a swordstick.”
She sprang away as he turned around to face her, leaning heavily on the cane, his movements not at all graceful. He made one step and then another, and then a third before achieved his aim.
Her heart pounding, Virginie gasped for breath. “Who are you?”
The man grimaced. It did not improve his appearance. He was olive-skinned, with eyes the colour of a stormy day, the grey so dark as to be almost black. “You would not have noticed me last night, but I saw you. I was in the theatre when you created chaos.”
Virginie drew herself to her full height. She was accounted a tall woman, but he still towered over her. In Marcus that made her feel cherished, but this man intimidated her. He was hard-edged, his features craggy rather than handsome, his brows heavy over his deep-set eyes.
“That does not answer my question, sir. And what makes you think you can enter a lady’s parlour without a chaperone?”
“Our shared heritage.” He executed his bow slowly, and with care. Had he hurt himself recently? She could not tell, but the silver tip at the base of his cane showed signs of scratches and parts of the silver were dull with use. He was dressed plainly but richly, his waistcoat and breeches the same colour as his coat, embellished perfunctorily. It held none of the diamond buttons and fancy embroidery many men preferred to employ, especially in town.
“You are English?”
He nodded. “As are you. I’m also immortal.” He kept his face neutral, but something boiled inside this man. Of course, she’d have given off desire when she entered the room. She’d been expecting Marcus, after all.
“You’re controlling your emotions very well.” She worked hard to put the feelings away, to contain them. At one time she could release or hold them in, but her joy in her affair had made the task harder.
He smiled at her, his teeth flashing white. “I thought so. Madam, I am Henry Bannatyne, Earl of Valsgarth. Otherwise known as Vulcan. Or Harry, if you prefer.”
Gasping, she put her hand to her throat, the pulse throbbing double-time. “Why haven’t I heard of you before?” How could it be possible? She’d studied all the literature about her goddess, and she knew about the miserable, ill-fated marriage between Venus and Vulcan.
“I preferred to keep myself quiet in the country,” he said, his face grim. “I considered it politic not to make an appearance until I wished to, and my mother, who is a minor immortal, prefers to live quietly. But Mercury asked for my help.”
“You know Amidei?” Her breath came easier now. His gaze strayed to her bosom, then back to her eyes. Despite having her chest decently covered, albeit with fine lawn, Virginie felt as if he’d stripped her and found her wanting. Her!
“He discovered me years ago, but I begged him to leave me alone. I could do nothing for his cause. It was enough that I was safe and cared for.” His mouth hardened. “My birth came as a shock to my mother. She wanted a child, not a god, and I have done my best to oblige her in that and give the appearance of a mortal, for the most part. I let too much time pass. However, it is past time I took up my duties, whatever they might be, so when I received his summons, I travelled up to town.”
“W-what does he want you to do?” Virginie stepped back, wondering if she could get out of this room before he caught her. This man made her uncomfortable.
“What do you think? This cripple is supposed to claim you. Or perhaps reclaim you.”
“Don’t call yourself that!” Her response was instant and unthinking, but deep inside a jolt of pain struck her when he called himself by that name. “You’re nothing of the kind. But I fail to see why Amidei would call you for this. I am not doing anything wrong, merely enjoying myself.”
“And dragging half of London down with you.” He took a step forward. This time she didn’t step back. “This state of affairs will worsen. You know this is a dangerous enchantment, do you not?”
She shook her head. “How can it be? It’s pleasurable, but we are both single and hurting nobody. Eros merely cast an infatuation spell on us.”
His eyes narrowed. He was close enough now for her to see where his irises ended and his pupils began. The circles reflected images, shimmering. Images of her. She hated the way eyes did that. If she wanted to see herself, she’d use a mirror.
“You are injuring many people. Though I cannot understand why you don’t just marry and have done with it.”
His words came as hard as a physical blow, but she showed none of that in her outward demeanour. She had practice at hiding her emotions. “And break with tradition?” She gave a tinkling laugh, but even to her it sounded hard-edged. “Why ever would I do that?”
“You want to marry me, then?” His mouth turned up in something perilously close to a snarl. He seemed all wrong in this delicate room, with its gilded furniture and pale blue upholstery. He didn’t fit here. “That’s what Venus did in myth, did she not? Jupiter made them marry as penance for the affair between Venus and Mars.”
“Except it would be Mercury doing the forcing,” she said lightly. She unfurled her fan with a snap. “No.”
She spun away, facing the fireplace. Someone had lit a pastille in the little china cherub sitting on the mantel and scented smoke emanated from his mouth.
She stared at the flowers set in a vase next to the cherub. Pink things. Ah yes, they were called pinks, weren’t they?
She addressed the cherub. “You may put his mind at rest, and anyone else who asks you. This is a brief liaison with Marcus. Eros informed me that it would run its course and burn out.” Like the cherub on the mantel, who w
ould eventually stop smoking and return to his shiny, static self.
Beauty needed feeding if it was not to become a parody of itself. When she turned back to him, Valsgarth glowered at her. She didn’t respond well to being glowered at. She put up her chin. “I will not accept anyone dictating how I should conduct my behaviour.”
“Even if it results in your ejection from society?”
She shrugged. “What do I care? I married a Frenchman. I can always go back to the French court.”
“According to d’Argento, you were rarely there. You preferred to live in your chateau.”
She raised her brows. “D’Argento has very efficient spies.”
Valsgarth gave a quick, tight grin. “Mercury, remember? He has taken it upon himself to locate all the gods after the disaster thirty years ago. He has spies all over Europe.”
She did not like the idea of d’Argento’s agents spying on her, but she could do little about it at this stage. “I went to Versailles when I wanted to. The conduct there outstripped anything I have done. In this life, at any rate.” The last was an admission she had not intended to make. She wanted the world to see her as a confident widow, one with experience and wisdom. Otherwise she’d attract too many fortune hunters and charlatans.
Valsgarth bared his teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl. “I have never been to Versailles. Perhaps one day you will introduce me there.”
“There is nothing for most of us. Any but the ones who wish for empty power. King Louis keeps all who have real influence away from the deadly rituals. His grandfather instigated the levee. Instead of using it as a useful time to conduct business, as the British do, he surrounds himself with aristocrats who hand him his waistcoat and jewellery.” Her lip curled. “It’s a way of keeping them from doing any mischief.”
“And depleting their wealth, one presumes,” he said.
“Indeed.” She closed her fan and gave him more attention than she had up to now. Up until then, he’d been another obstacle to surmount, another man falling to the lure of the spell she cast, whether she meant to or not. That spell was nothing to do with her, Virginie. It happened, and until recently she could control it. Now it amused her to see the people tumbling all over each other. What harm was there in it? Why should they not enjoy themselves?
But looking at this man’s craggy, harsh face, she regained a sense of who she was, the Virginie under the mask of Venus. They were both, it was true, but sometimes the immortal overwhelmed the woman. He steadied her. What was it? Why should this man, a stranger, do this?
She could think again, of something other than the pleasure she took with her lover, how his presence excited her, made her life worthwhile.
He was gazing at her as if she was a person. Goodness, when had that last happened? The only people she could have a decent discussion with were of the female persuasion. Men spent all their time flirting with her and staring at her, but this one regarded her as if he saw through Venus’s allure to Virginie.
With a decisive nod, she crossed the room to the broad sofa set against one wall and patted the seat next to her. “Come and talk.”
He eyed her warily. “What brought this on? I thought you wanted me to go. If you want to turn London into a hedonistic city, it’s your concern, not mine.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Let’s say that you interest me. Yes, that. I find you intriguing.”
Watching him cross the space, she became aware of leashed power in him, but he held it under such tight control she suspected most didn’t notice it. He walked smoothly, but slower than an able-bodied man.
With that bared-teeth, predatory grin, he propped his cane by the sofa and leaned back against the corner. Not next to her or resting his arm on the back of the seat, as other men did with tedious frequency, but giving her plenty of room. In theory it was large enough for three, even four, but with her wide skirts and his size, they shared it with little space to spare. But they did not touch.
“What happened?”
His eyes widened now. The dark blue depths glittered. “Not even d’Argento asked that. Nothing happened. My leg grew that way. It’s twisted and ugly. It goes with the rest of me, I suppose.”
“It’s what you are,” she said, not bothering to correct his inaccurate description of himself. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, but she guessed his opinion of himself ran deep. She would not engage to change it, although one day someone would. “You are Vulcan, ergo, the leg.” She indicated the offending appendage. His left limb appeared perfectly fine under the clean line of his breeches and stockings, but perhaps he had the garments specially designed. “It looks as strong as the other.”
He raised a brow. “As you say, it is what it is. I need the cane, but not as much as some people suppose.”
She liked his sardonic expression when he did that. Liked, not loved, or wanted, or appreciated. Such an odd emotion to have about a man. “I know what you mean. Who knows what I might have looked like if I hadn’t received the essence of Venus?”
He laughed, a short bark. “That sounds positively obscene. And I obtained the essence of Vulcan, I presume?”
“You must have done. The same way I did.” She didn’t like to think about that night, the ultimate betrayal when god turned against god. Not that their rivalry was new, but the night the Titans set a trap to destroy the Olympians marked a depth in their relationship that was rarely, if ever, equalled.
“Not precisely, I think. And you went to France.”
“I grew up in England until I met the Duc de Clermont-Ferand. He was some years older than me.” She extended her hand before her, long fingers, smooth skin and perfectly manicured nails. “Would I have looked like this had I not inherited the attributes of the goddess of love and beauty?”
“And lust. Don’t forget that.”
“You seem immune to it.”
His slow smile could have melted silver. “Don’t be too sure. I wouldn’t say I had immunity. The thrall you cast in the theatre yesterday—no, I wasn’t resistant to that. Nobody was.”
“A few people were,” she said. “True love always overcomes lust, for instance, so a couple in love may overcome my enchantments. Any kind of love will do. Parent to child, man to woman, man to man, or even the love of a pastime or learning. Any of that will lessen any effect I have. What is your passion?”
Tilting his head on one side, he regarded her closely without speaking for a moment. “I believe I will not answer that. You may discover soon enough. Perhaps I love dancing.”
She burst into laughter, but almost immediately clapped a hand over her mouth and stopped, appalled at her tactless outburst.
He shrugged. “Don’t concern yourself. I barely notice anymore. People jibe, but what does that matter? It doesn’t interest me. Perhaps one day I’ll trip a measure on the dance floor, but it would take someone remarkable to persuade me to do it. And a singular person to do it with me.”
How he could joke, she didn’t know. She loved dancing, setting her body in perfect lines, creating the flawless curtsey or extending her hand in exactly the right way. He might not appear graceful or elegant, but he could demonstrate the leashed power inherent in every line of his big body. She had never been drawn to larger men, but first Marcus and now Valsgarth—what was the world coming to?
“How do you manage—” She broke off with a slight laugh, heat rising to her face. “With intimate relations?”
He laughed too, but his fingers tightened on the arm of the sofa. “I do well enough.” He smiled, and by the expression she knew she’d revealed too much, but she wasn’t sure what. “Why do you feel embarrassed talking about the act of love? Is that not what you are? Are you not supposed to be an expert?”
With less grace than she’d used in her life before, Virginie got to her feet. She moved away, letting her skirts settle and turned her back on him. “We have talked for long enough. People will think I have started something new, and too much scandal is attached to my name alr
eady.”
“I’m glad you think so.” With more swiftness than he’d shown before, he walked across the room. He passed her without touching her, his stride firm, despite having to use his cane. “I will take my leave, but I hope to see you again.”
“No doubt you will,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “But not like this.”
“We shall see,” he answered, but he didn’t look at her before he left.
Harry returned to the club, hoping for an hour to himself before he reported his lack of success to d’Argento. But as he got to the top of the stairs leading to the floor housing the male guests, he almost collided with Amidei. The owner of the club was leaning against the banister, clearly waiting for him.
A woman followed, the redoubtable housekeeper, Mrs. Davenport, who glided on silent feet through the house, ensuring nothing was amiss. She carried a tray of tea-things.
Outside his private apartments, a man waited. Someone he had never met before in this life, but for all that, he recognised him. How could Vulcan fail to recognise the king of the gods, Jupiter?
The man had thick, dark hair, which he wore without the benefit of a wig, and fine but plain clothes. His size rivalled Harry’s own, although Harry wagered he’d have beat him on the size of his hands. For the rest, it was touch and go. He bowed. “Sir.”
He received a more graceful, but courteous bow in exchange while Amidei introduced his lordship, the Earl of Ellesmere, heir to the Duke of Boscobel. Gerard. “Shall we go in?” Amidei suggested.
Sighing, Harry led the way into the small parlour he could call his own while he resided here. Every room had a powder room, a dressing room and a parlour, with accommodation for servants, which made the club a cut above the average inn. For that reason alone it was more convenient to stay here. Although if Harry received many more visits from fellow deities, he’d ensure he found somewhere else quick sharp. A place he could close the door and gain some measure of privacy.
Mrs. Davenport followed them in and placed the tray carefully on the table by the window. “Shall I pour, sir?”
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 2