“Rather than run an extensive estate and pay heed to affairs of national policy?”
“You attend Parliament?”
His face darkened. “You know what I mean.”
Yes, she did, but she wouldn’t give way.
When a familiar voice said her name, in the low, throbbing way that turned her limbs to jelly, she forgot the blacksmith. She turned to Marcus, catching herself before she spoke his first name. Society might forgive much, but not flaunting her familiarity in that way. “M-my lord, what a pleasant surprise!”
“Take me away from here,” she begged him, mind-to-mind.
He extended his arm, smiling fondly. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Duchesse.” He nodded to Valsgarth. “Good evening, my lord.”
Valsgarth gave a short bow. “Good evening, your grace.”
“I trust you will excuse us if I escort the duchesse on to the dance floor.”
“By all means, but I would crave a word with you in private, as soon as you can spare me the time.”
Marcus paused and gave Valsgarth a direct glare. “Do you have a particular matter to discuss with me?”
“A most particular matter, sir. Of the utmost importance and urgency.”
She stiffened. Marcus must have felt the rigidity of her fingers on his sleeve or the tension in her mind. His attention went to her, and then back to the earl. His eyes were hard. “If you mean to make personal remarks or cast aspersions, I should tell you I would not take such interference kindly.”
“Not the remarks you mean.”
Something passed between them; she felt the slight hum that indicated mental communication, but she wasn’t privy to it. That annoyed her, having these two men tussle over her. She would not become a bone between two dogs.
An unpleasant description, but appropriate in the circumstances. “Gentlemen, I believe our business is done.” She meant she wanted no meeting and she reinforced that with a savage reminder to both of them. “You forget who I am. You do not subject yourselves to unseemly displays in public and you will not fight over me.”
Valsgarth bowed. She couldn’t help admiring such a practiced gesture from a man with a noticeable disability. She curtseyed in return. “If you will excuse us, my lord. Did I not hear you say you planned to leave town soon?”
“As soon as I can deal with the unexpected business that occurred today.” He glanced at Marcus. “The business has to do with you. It is probably a small matter that has escaped your notice.”
Valsgarth’s eyes flashed, but he veiled the expression so quickly Virginie wasn’t sure she’d seen that spark of temper.
“I see. Well, since nothing here can be called small, I will see you. Then I trust you may be on your way.”
“So do I.”
Valsgarth was in the process of moving away when a commotion erupted from the door. A woman’s voice called out, “No, let me pass!” An odd snuffling sound accompanied her, disrupting the careful civilisation of the elegant room. People murmured to each other and fans snapped as women hid their conversations behind them.
Valsgarth closed his eyes and a pained aspect crossed his face. “No, dear God, no,” he muttered before he took two deep breaths as if bracing himself for an ordeal.
A remarkable sight met their gaze, something that should grace no fashionable ballroom. A woman marched towards them, her jaw set, eyes sparkling with fury. She wore ordinary day clothes, the hem stained, as if she hadn’t anything else to wear. She still had her hat pinned to her hair and a cloak drifted from her shoulders.
More remarkable were the babies. She had two shawl-wrapped bundles, one in the crook of each arm.
Virginie stared at the children, then at the woman. She didn’t know her. Automatically she stepped back to let the madwoman pass, for surely she had to be mad. Was she a nursemaid, exasperated by the babies? But they appeared perfectly at ease, and the snuffling was the sound of a sleeping child, not a crying one.
Their fat faces were creased in sleep and Virginie had the urge to stroke one soft cheek with her finger. Babies had that effect on her sometimes, but she had resisted the urge to bear a child herself. If she wanted to touch something soft, she had plenty of velvet gowns she could fondle, should the fancy take her.
But what were they doing here? Those admittedly sweet bundles of humanity?
This promised to be an interesting show. A rarée show, like the puppet theatres on the banks of the river.
Marcus had stood his ground and now stared at the woman as they all did. She came to a halt before them. “My lord, I present your children to you. Twin sons, fine boys. I can no longer care for them on my own and I see no reason why I should.” Having completed what was obviously a prepared speech, her chin trembled and tears trickled from her eyes. She could not wipe them, not with her arms occupied.
At first Virginie thought the woman meant Valsgarth. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had a by-blow or two, although she had never imagined a display like this. The man seemed to appreciate order, from what she’d learned of him. He’d have had a mistress neatly stowed away somewhere and her children provided for.
Perhaps he had emotions that went deeper.
Then she realised the woman wasn’t facing Valsgarth, although he had shown the greatest reaction to her. She was looking at Marcus.
“What does this mean?” She stepped forward, refusing to accept what the woman was saying.
Marcus was frowning and turned bewildered eyes to her. He shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ve never met her before.”
“How could you be so churlish?” The woman was crying openly, tears cascading down her cheeks to fall on her bodice and the children’s blankets. “You caused this to happen!”
Marcus tilted his head to one side. “Has Lord Stretton been at you?”
“What is this?” Their host, Lord Ellesmere, arrived, his wife hurrying behind him. He looked at them all, and took in the situation at a glance. “Dear God, do you wash all your dirty linen so conspicuously? Come with me.” When Marcus began to protest, Ellesmere broke into whatever he was about to say. “I will hear no more, sir. Come!”
“She did it!” the woman screeched at Virginie. The woman shoved her children at Lady Ellesmere who caught them neatly, passing one to her husband. Even holding a baby, Ellesmere appeared regal.
Virginie shifted her skirts, but she wasn’t quick enough. The woman’s day gown reached to her ankles, but Virginie had a ton of floor-length silk to kick aside. “You did this, you bewitched him, you took him away from me! How could you hurt a poor respectable female in such a way?”
The woman closed on Virginie, and fear overtook her, instinctively freezing her mind and her reactions. What had she to do with anything?
“One look at you and he forgot his wife and children! What, you did not know?”
Helplessly Virginie looked from the woman to Marcus. “This is not true.”
“Not another word,” Ellesmere commanded, but not before another female voice broke into the melee. The quartet had stopped playing and everyone in the room attended to the scene going on before them.
“Better than the theatre,” someone said, and received the rejoinder, “Better than that play the other night, at any rate.”
“Wh-what is this?” Virginie found her voice and her senses. “I know nothing of this.” Not that it would have contained her. Nothing would stand in the way of two lovers pierced by Eros’s arrows. Shame tinged the edge of the bubble she lived in these days.
“Madam, control your emotions.” The babies had started crying, and they would not be quietened although Lady Ellesmere was frantically jiggling them in her arms.
At last part of Virginie’s mind began to work. She used it to send a sense of harmony to the squalling children. To her relief, and she was sure that of the people around them, the babies subsided back to a series of snuffles.
Could Marcus be capable of this? Marrying a woman and abandoning her? Not the Marcus she knew, but w
hat did she truly know of him? They’d exchanged precious little conversation in their passionate encounters.
A chill as potent as clear water poured through her and she saw the affair for what it was. A sordid relief of lust, blatantly conducted, offensive to some.
This was not a gift, it was a punishment.
Without realising her actions, she’d taken two handfuls of fine yellow silk and clenched them hard. Her gown would be ruined, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Tears blinding her, she turned her head and met the dark, fulminating gaze of Lord Valsgarth. “Is this true?”
“The woman spoke to me today. It is the business I wanted to discuss with the duke, but not like this. Come away.” He touched her elbow and leaned closer. “And she didn’t tell me they were married. Just that he’d fathered children on her. I promised her I’d look into the matter.”
Somehow it made it better that someone else knew.
That was, until a person she had reason to know more than most others pushed through what had become an unseemly throng of openly agog spectators and faced her. Another woman dressed in plain clothing, undoubtedly a housekeeper’s costume.
“Mrs. Davenport—” Valsgarth began, but the newcomer ignored him.
“Come away, Virginia. You do not belong with these people. This scandal is nothing to do with you. Come, my child. I’ll take care of you now.”
“Mama!” The cry came from her childhood, when she’d had to remain below stairs, seen but not heard. Noises were forbidden, as was any reminder of her presence.
Forgetting all but the longing to feel the warmth of someone who cared, she fell into her mother’s arms. This was too much. She could take no more.
As unaccustomed weakness swept over her, she allowed her mother to lead her from the room. She was done with this mess. Whatever it took, she would never reject her mother again.
Chapter Five
If Harry had expected to see Virginie at the Spenlove’s musicale the afternoon following the night of the fateful ball, then he was to be disappointed. In fact he had gone with exactly that hope. The woman he knew would have held her head high and stalked through the rooms, at her magnificent best, not a hair out of place. A tactic that would have worked, considering how much their peers had forgiven already.
Virginie was a monstre sacre, one of those people society thrived on discussing. But he had reckoned without society’s expectations of birth.
Last night she’d acknowledged that her mother was a servant. How could she come back from that? She could appear at court naked and live down the scandal, but inferior birth made the prospect unlikely.
Harry hated that attitude. Such a waste of talent and potential. For that alone he would have supported her. Her absence sent a flicker of anger through him, but what fanned it into full flame was the gossip.
“Such a shock, my dear!” Lady Spenlove said to her very especial friend while Harry was helping himself to a glass of wine from the buffet. “She appeared of such a refined countenance too!”
“She was always risqué,” Lady Trent answered. She stuffed yet another oyster patty into her mouth but didn’t bother clearing it before she spoke. “Now we know why. You can never breed the traits from someone of that nature.”
With his stomach churning in reaction to the appalling comment, Harry passed on. Only to be drawn into another group, also discussing the latest on-dit. He’d come here in the hope of finding Virginie, since she’d been invited, but failing that, to collect gossip. He wished he could be anywhere else. But he gritted his teeth and continued.
This time the parent of a young and extremely silly woman spoke. She flicked out her fan and swept it before her face as if the thought of the duchesse heated her blood. “Dear me, she surprised us all, did she not?”
Harry steamed, but he kept his voice steady. Barely. “Her mother appears to have occupied a respectable profession. I see no harm in it.”
Lady Joyce gave him a look of pure pity. “Sir, a woman need but to be attractive for a man to accept them.”
“I hardly think that some of the ladies the gentlemen prefer would dare to appear here.”
“Her mother is a common servant!”
They were escalating this so fast he could feel the wind go by. “I believe she was anything but a common servant. And has anyone received confirmation that she is her mother? The lady was distressed, and the woman merely escorted her out.” He attempted to turn the talk to someone he had no sympathy for. “Lyndhurst had given her a great shock. Maybe she turned to the first sympathetic shoulder.”
“That could be so,” Lady Joyce said, but her sympathies were more for Harry than for Virginie.
That was the way he could manage this. He was an eligible bachelor. They wouldn’t want to upset him. Her ladyship simpered at him and glanced across the room to where her daughter stood by a handsome youth Harry didn’t recognise. Her face fell when her mother raised a brow.
He endured that introduction and several others, for Virginie’s sake. Then he bore another presentation to a decidedly buck-toothed young woman. Then to a female he’d been avoiding since she’d set her sights on him when he attended his first ball.
Why such women should want him beat his understanding. His only explanation was his title and wealth. Truly that would amount to a multitude of reasons as far as society was concerned.
At the end of the musicale, Harry knew he was a marked man. He had shown himself willing and they were delighted to follow his lead. At the next ball he would be pursued relentlessly. A chase to the kill.
He would have to take care. Matrons were planning traps as he spoke and even flirted with one or two of the more spirited ladies.
None appealed to him. He’d come to London with an entirely different plan. He hadn’t even planned to enter society in any significant way, but to meet his fellow immortals. Most of whom were conspicuous by their absence today. Silently he cursed them while he smiled and conversed and agreed with everything except any condemnation of the Duchesse de Clermont-Ferand and her behaviour. He allowed criticism of Lyndhurst. He owed the man nothing, immortal or not. He merely admitted that he knew very little about the woman who claimed he’d fathered two children on her.
Having set on his course he had no choice but to continue. He appeared at the theatre that night, newly reopened after the scandal. After, he attended two balls, assiduously promoting Virginie’s cause without making his points too obvious.
At the second ball, finally he met a fellow immortal. D’Argento, resplendent in ice-blue velvet, nodded graciously then sauntered across the room to greet him. “I thought you’d all gone into hiding,” Harry grumbled to him, sotto voce.
“On the contrary, dear boy, we are scattered throughout the favourite haunts of this fair city, doing our best to spread the word.”
That was the first he had heard of it. “So you didn’t think to tell me?”
“You have hardly stopped. One would imagine the cause was close to your heart.” D’Argento lifted his quizzing-glass and peered around the room. “I see Lady Spenlove heading this way.”
“I saw her and her beautiful daughter earlier in the day,” he said grimly, picking a tiny pink feather off his dark brown sleeve. “Since I have done my duty in that direction, and I have no wish to be seen with the same woman twice in one day, I’ll take my leave of you.”
D’Argento, at his most effete, stepped forward and presented her ladyship and her daughter—daughters tonight—with a flourishing bow which incidentally prevented him from reaching her initial target.
Perhaps she would consider an Italian count worth her while. A fabulously wealthy one, anyway.
Harry retreated to pastures new.
And through this tedious day he worried. That scene had disturbed him in more ways than he could explain. At a deep level of his soul, he ached. Since he’d arrived in London he’d heard about Virginie’s beauty, her elegance, her taste, but nobody seemed to want to know w
hat lay beneath. She wasn’t just Venus; she was somebody else, somebody new. Like him, she’d taken the essence of the deity she was born with and made something fresh from it.
How did the woman, Virginie, feel tonight? What would she do? Perhaps something rash, considering the way she’d behaved with Lyndhurst.
Harry sent his card ahead of him, and called on Virginie at the earliest correct hour the next day. At first the butler informed him her grace was away from home, but when Harry showed no sign of leaving, he took the card inside the house. Harry carefully folded down the corner, to tell her he was waiting.
His patience was rewarded when the butler returned to his carriage and loftily bid him egress to the modest house Virginie had hired for the season.
Inside he discovered, if not chaos, then certainly disorder. Travelling trunks stood in the black and white tiled hallway, one open, revealing a barely half-full space. The servants were more evident, the discretion usually demanded of a good domestic temporarily absent. A housemaid scuttled from the door under the stairs to the parlour at the front of the house, bearing a hastily set tray containing tea things. Harry hoped that was for him.
“Would you come this way, my lord,” said the butler, and Harry followed him the short distance to the parlour he’d noted before.
The room was typical of the comfortably furnished places available for the season. Many preferred their own furnishings, but Virginie wouldn’t have had time, since she had lived at the club for the earlier part of the season.
He took in the room in a swift glance, then concentrated on the woman who had risen to greet him.
He bowed over her hand, trying to make his gesture as graceful as he could, because she cared about such things. She was paler than usual, and dark shadows traced her eyes below a light coating of face paint.
She was dressed in dark blue, a silk that rustled seductively when she moved. He saw nothing in her expression except what she wanted him to see. He hated that. Either she was deliberately masking it or he was not skilled at detecting the real person behind the mask. Immortals wore two. The polite society mask every member of the upper tier cultivated, the one that prevented too much prying or showing more than one wanted to. And the other, the one that separated the person and the god, that concealed the utter power lying under the fine silks and satins.
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 5