Still giddy and grinning, Coralie leaned over, grabbed the bell pull, and rang for tea. “I will, and perhaps you can offer me some advice. I find myself sadly in need of some.”
* * * *
Tuesday, October 26, 1813
Rainier tensed again as Hortense leaned forward and pulled back her shoulders, flaunting her cleavage to half the dining room. Well, to the male half, where Franklin Busche and Cumberland sat, spooning soup. “Thank you again for the charming invitation, Mr. Busche. Lucia and I are so looking forward to knowing Miss Busche better.”
Busche’s glance flickered from Hortense’s offering, to Rainier, to Miss Busche, to Cumberland, and finally, discreetly, back to his meal. “You’re welcome. It’s a pleasure hosting you.”
At least he didn’t say having you. Rainier hadn’t spent much time in Franklin Busche’s company for several years. The Mayfair wags said the garrulous young man had begun guarding his words since he’d joined the War Office, and the careful wording he’d just displayed seemed like proof. Besides, the dining room was furnished in excellent taste, simple white walls rising above dark maple paneling, matching molding and floor-boarding, broken pediments above the doors, and Romantic landscapes in decent number without crowding. Any man who decorated his dining room so well had to be respected. Or any woman, for that matter.
Hortense’s smile seemed glued on, even more than the row of dark curls across her forehead, and the glitter in her eyes could light Soho. “I’m sure we’ll all be excellent friends.”
Rainier refused to grit his teeth; no matter how many waves of mortification splashed over him, he’d give no indication of inner turmoil. Only Hortense could turn a simple thank-you into something oily. At least Miss Busche, sitting to his right at the table’s foot, resplendent in her gold and white gown — at least she hadn’t screamed in fright, swooned, or raced in panic from the room at the very suggestion, although he’d have forgiven her in a heartbeat for escaping Hortense’s benighted attentions.
The little smile on Cumberland’s face seemed much more natural, much more masculine, and his eyes… well, it was difficult to fault a man for examining what Hortense so blatantly offered. The duke’s lingering stare didn’t shift from the flesh above Hortense’s dark red gown until she belatedly straightened, then he said, “I’m sure we shall.”
And she deserves no better.
The fury behind his sudden thought surprised Rainier. Usually Hortense aroused some anger within him, yes, laden with a fair share of disgust or impatience, but rarely any stronger emotion. But in this dining room, this situation, her behavior was more than an irritation. It carried true danger for him. If his sister’s actions sent his chosen wife running, then he’d cheerfully throw Hortense to Cumberland’s mercy, separately or together with Lucia. Cumberland, he didn’t doubt, could take care of himself.
Rainier cleared his throat. “So, Miss Busche, are we going to organize an outing to the Theatre Royal next month? I’ll undertake to keep George Anson from snoring.”
Hortense’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “What’s that? The Theatre Royal?”
Curses. Not the smartest move he’d ever made. Rainier forced himself to set his spoon down in the bowl, rather than throw it across the cloth at her, and flexed his aching fingers beneath the tablecloth. Perhaps Busche would offer lessons in minding his tongue. Perhaps being forced to haul Hortense to the theater would teach him without a tutor.
“It’s said they’re reviving Romeo and Juliet,” Cumberland said. “It’s one of my favorite plays, of course. Has there ever been a courtship to rival the balcony scene?”
“Never.” Miss Busche shook her head. “I love the way she keeps leaving then coming back to speak with him one more time.” Her gaze met Rainier’s then danced away. Warmth ebbed into his midsection, spread lower, and drove out the exasperation.
With grace and tact she’d welcomed him to her home, welcomed Cumberland, even his sisters. Unlike Lucia, Miss Busche hadn’t been struck dumb, barely able to contribute a coherent sentence to the conversation; unlike Hortense, she didn’t put herself forward or pay too much attention to the men, including him. But the heightened color in her face, the quick shallow breathing that stirred her white silk bodice, and those quick glances she kept aiming his way, all convinced him she was as aware of his presence as he was of hers, and that she didn’t dislike it.
For his part, he loved the sweet torture. He could sit there all night beside her, never touching, or all week. She was as unlike any other woman he’d ever met as—
“The Theatre Royal?” Hortense repeated.
The week in question would be especially delightful if Hortense vanished. He clenched his hands on his knees and concentrated on keeping his face from cracking. Since they’d arrived in Berkeley Square, he’d been alternately flooded with ecstasy by Miss Busche and with aggravation by Hortense. Surely it was an efficient and proven method of driving a man mad?
“The joyous abandon of the lovers.” Cumberland’s smile took in all three ladies in turn, Miss Busche, Hortense, then Lucia, silent and big-eyed beside him. “If only the cruel world hadn’t forced them apart.”
Lucia swallowed, her throat rippling. She seemed overwhelmed by the nobleman beside her and hadn’t spoken more than two sentences since sitting down. “Like Lovers’ Vows,” she whispered.
Rainier wanted to groan — could her taste be any more appalling? any more embarrassing? — but managed to suppress it.
Cumberland’s smile didn’t falter. “Rather like it, yes.”
He’d never again doubt Cumberland’s standing as a gentleman. “The poetry in any of Shakespeare’s plays is brilliant,” Rainier told Lucia, “far above Mrs. Inchbald’s best.”
“The emotions, however, are similar,” Cumberland said, “as both deal with love.” This time, he reserved his glance and smile for Miss Busche alone.
Fingers of temper roved up Rainier’s spine, hotter than any caused by Hortense’s flirting.
Busche set down his spoon. “The morality’s a bit different, though.” He glanced around at his guests and sat back. “Go ahead and clear away, Severidge.”
The butler moved in and began collecting the soup bowls.
“There can be no doubt of that.” Cumberland’s gaze lingered on Lucia until it seemed his sister’s face would burst into flame. Finally he turned back to the table at large, leaving Lucia gasping and staring at the cloth. “As for Romeo and Juliet,” he continued, “the only possible improvement would be for the attachment to occur in real life, rather than within the world of stories. And of course, for it to have a happier ending. A tragedy isn’t to be desired in love.”
The butler brought a silver platter from the sideboard and set it at the table’s head. When he lifted the lid, the spicy, humid scent of sliced roast filled the dining room.
Hortense cleared her throat. “When is this outing to be, the one to the Theatre Royal?”
Rainier gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He had to find some way to be rid of her, preferably before he wound up in Bedlam, and murder was frowned upon. What on earth could he do?
* * * *
Midnight again on Piccadilly, church bells tolling the hour, and another elegant party left behind in the looming fog. An elegant and mainly successful party, rather, and he’d never forget the gentle color touching sweet Coralie’s face as she gazed with bated breath at Kenneth Rainier. Now, if only the man would show some sense behind his pretensions. He’d certainly had a good education, but still he showed no recognition of reality—
Ahead, the fog swirled, as if something liquid, rain or splashwater, perhaps, had cut through it. But no carriage had trotted by and the rain had mainly passed, with only a few drops still falling through the night to tap his shoulders. Besides, the spiral had traveled upward, whereas rain usually fell downward.
No, that had been caused by something moving through the fog. Perhaps a hemline, from a cloak or a gown, whirling up and around the w
earer as he or she turned quickly away. A graceful movement — his thoughts had fastened onto the word swirled, rather than the more ungainly billowed — a trait that best described the woman he most wanted to see.
Ursula, the woman who reigned unchallenged in his heart. If only… His Grace sighed. Two of the saddest words in the English language, very close to the heart-rending passage and shortest verse in the Bible, Jesus wept.
If only the woman he loved were here with him. She’d adore the heavy fog weighing down his topcoat and glistening on the paving stones… the strange pockets of silence in the teeming city, certainly not asleep at such an early hour… the sudden clop-clop-rattle-jingle of an approaching carriage, echoing from the tall town houses and shops on either hand.
She’d danced just that gracefully at their last ball in Dresden, seven years and one month ago, her skirts swirling around her like enchanted water and very nearly the same pale blue-green color. She’d turned to him with such confidence, snatching his hands from the air, entwining their arms into a lovers’ knot, skipping in step together between the watching lines. Or at least he presumed the other dancers had been watching; he’d not been able to look away from the perfection of her. Had anyone ever doubted she was the only woman for him? How was it the entire world didn’t know of his devotion to her?
The rain began again, the first fat drops splatting onto his coat, and it was like the first deep breath after awakening from an improbable dream. After all, if she were here with him, they’d be riding in the carriage, not walking in the rain. It would mean they had married, as the behavior that aroused tolerant smiles in Saxony (such as picnicking without a chaperone) would cause the scandal of the year in London. And it would mean the war was over, Napoleon finally defeated, and that would mean he’d returned home, not brought her into his exile.
The one thing he wanted, the presence of his beloved, was the one thing he could not have. An exquisite form of torture, that.
Romeo and sweet Juliet’s love had burned as brightly as Ursula’s and his, had blazed through the night like a bonfire — and yet they’d been doomed from the start. Did the same fate await them?
The rain’s tempo increased from fat drops to a strengthening patter, and again he started awake from his gloomy thoughts. Ridiculous, such imaginings were. He could no more foresee the future than avoid the rain, if he insisted upon walking without an umbrella. He’d let himself be influenced by the weather, the superstitious time of year — All Hallow’s Eve yet approached, the darkest night when the barrier between the world of the living and that of the dead weakened and thinned. He worried about the war, its armistice abandoned, battles in and surrounding Dresden, bloodshed so close to the family, the citizens, the people he loved.
He worried about Ursula. But even if she were dead, her unhappy spirit haunting him, would she not remain and let him see her, at least? Surely she’d permit him a glimpse.
No, it was no more than his imagination, flavored by moodiness and yearning. Nothing more.
His footsteps echoed from the row of closed shops as he continued down Piccadilly through the fog.
Chapter Ten
Thursday, October 28, 1813
Rainier sat entranced, his heart pounding. On the dais in the Maynards’ music room, Miss Busche hit the high note perfectly and held it, strong and clear, as the young lady playing the pianoforte for her rippled down the keys to the lower register. They ended together, at the same moment, as if they’d practiced the song hundreds of times, and the instrument hummed down to silence.
But the pounding of his heart continued, as if something incredibly important had just happened. He’d presumed, when he’d first heard her lovely speaking voice, that she would be a strong singer, as well. But if that was merely singing, then Michelangelo daubed and Shakespeare versified. Any reasonably accomplished gentlewoman could sing.
That had been melodic magic.
And there she stood in the spellbound silence, on the dais, as calm and unruffled as if she sat in her favorite chair at home rather than within the soiree’s concentrated focus; the audience’s staring attention didn’t disturb her composure. Her natural elegance gave her the grace to handle it well. And the audience included her own set of young ladies with Lady de Lisle, a number of eligible gentlemen of means, and half the cynical codgers of the ton — and every one of them sat as silent, as entranced as he. She’d sung a love song, of course, slipping the occasional sly, serene glance his way, and—
Had she been singing to him?
He blinked at the sudden, unbidden thought that flashed through him, closely followed by the most amazing and astonishing sensation of rightness. Something within his chest swelled. But from the audience behind him, someone began applauding, breaking the hush that had held everyone in its clutches, and the sound swept his mind clear. Belatedly, he joined in. The loudest clapping came from the corner where Lady de Lisle’s harem sat; no one could accuse those girls of petty jealousy.
If he intended to lay claim to this beauty, he should escort her back to her seat. Rainier rose, elbow already crooking—
—and Cumberland stepped around him. The duke paused long enough for a courtly bow, his midnight blue tails draping around his white silk breeches, then he gave Miss Busche an impish smile and offered her his arm.
Blistering, overweening, presumptuous, outrageous — if he ever got his hands on that duke, he’d—
A flash of disappointment came and went on Miss Busche’s angelic face. He’d seen it, Rainier knew he’d seen it, but of course she was too well bred to display more than a moment of such an emotion. She accepted Cumberland’s arm, returned his smile, and together they walked to Lady de Lisle’s corner.
But in passing…
It lasted only a second, but oh, there was that glance again, the smoky searching one she’d first given him back in Trent’s coffee house. Then he’d been so callow, it had merely gotten his notice and prickled his interest. Now it felt as if a few coals from the grate magically transported themselves into his veins, scorching his body and searing his soul. And if his heart, his suddenly serious, hungering heart showed in his face for all of Mayfair to see, well, he’d not regret it, because that would be regretting her and what she’d done to him.
She completed him. It was a mesmerizing, frightening thought, and as astonishing as the sense of rightness he’d felt a few moments earlier. She called to something buried deep inside him in a way he couldn’t comprehend. The soaring yearning he felt could only be Plato’s ideal of love, the Romantic perfection of a soul mate and loving partner. He knew, to the depths of his soul, that he wanted her. Not as a cold statue to be collected, not as a mercenary merger of estates, but as the other half of his self. Later — no, tomorrow he’d speak with her brother. For now, he needed to speak with her.
And if Cumberland didn’t like it, he could go hang.
Fired by determination, quivering inside with shaky nerves, heart still pounding like a madman’s, Rainier waited until Cumberland bowed again over Miss Busche’s poised hand and returned to his seat at the back of the room. Then Rainier wended his own path through the seating, through the knowing stares and coy smirks, to Lady de Lisle in her comfortable padded chair. The good dame eyed him in a no-nonsense manner. But Miss Busche glowed like a candle.
How on earth was a man supposed to manage such overpowering emotions? For some reason, his tongue seemed to be in the way of his words, his mind frightened and confused by the outpouring of feelings that overwhelmed his thoughts. Rainier swallowed. “Good evening, Lady de Lisle. Your little corner, tucked off over here by the hearth, seems to be the most delightful and inviting in the room. Will you have pity on a lonely man, and may I join your party?”
Across the room, someone laughed, too loudly above the Bach prelude being performed. He tensed, suddenly defensive — but no, he’d spoken in a murmur and his words couldn’t have been overheard, certainly not through the pianoforte. And didn’t he know that shrill laugh all
too well? Yes, over there near the dais, in a clustering of over-trimmed bodices and glued-down hair, there sat Hortense, telling some tale through the music, one hand gesturing with elaborate curlicues.
Her glance cut sideways and meshed with his, an amused and mocking smile stretching her lips. A second later, the woman sitting beside her glanced his way, then another and another, until the entire chattering covey watched him, all wearing the same derisive smirk. Without looking away, Hortense leaned into the circle’s center. She spoke and her lips exaggerated the words, “Five thousand pounds. Can you believe it?”
Ice water drenched the fire in his veins. How dare she? Hortense had managed to ruin so many things in his life, including his very peace at home; he wouldn’t allow her to destroy this as well. No, he’d destroy her first, beginning with her assumption of superiority over Miss Busche. Dowry be hanged!
Turning his back on her, Rainier tugged an unoccupied chair from the arranged seating, dragged it across the carpet to beside Miss Busche, and without waiting for Lady de Lisle’s answer, he sat down.
Hortense could make of that whatever she chose.
* * * *
Mr. Rainier seemed somehow off.
Prickles of unease danced up Coralie’s arms, which was silly of her. The evening had been splendid, a gossip over tea with Lissie, preening together for the outing, then laughing with the entire harem in the de Lisle carriage over Deborah Kringle’s latest prank with George Anson. The Maynards’ dinner had been lovely, she’d been the first one asked to sing afterward, and not only had she hit every note, Mr. Rainier hadn’t looked away for a moment. Every time she’d glanced at him, he’d been staring and smiling as if ready to burst into applause, a possessive glint in his eye she couldn’t miss. It had felt as if she performed for him alone, as if no one else crowded the big parlor.
Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 8