“I’m thinking of spending more time at the school,” she said. “Do you suppose any of the boys might benefit from a class in sketching and drawing, or perhaps even watercolor painting?”
“You wish to teach them?”
“I want to do something useful,” she said. “Apart from putting money into the school, that is.”
“Speaking of money,” he said, “if we continue as we’re going, we’ll need more. I know of two more boys who would benefit from our schooling, but we’re full as is.”
She bit her lip at this. “I don’t think I can manage much more.” Her income was respectable, but it only went so far. She had her own house and servants to support, and . . .
“Might Mr. Bridge be willing?”
“He might,” she said dubiously. “More likely, he will urge me to find some other patrons or patronesses.”
“If we could rent a nearby house, we might be able to expand and breathe a little,” Mr. Alexander said.
He had suggested this before, and so far, she had always refused—because of Philippe, because she didn’t want to admit to him, or to the world at large, that he was right. Well, to the devil with that. She’d had enough being a hypocrite. No more putting on an act.
“Yes, I suppose I must. I can think of any number of people who might help.” If she could convince them the school’s purpose was worthwhile, that is. She would have to do a complete about-face, or so it would seem to society: from a die-hard supporter of the rigid class system her mother had upheld, to a firm believer in equality of opportunity, regardless of birth.
She would look quite the idiot, but what choice was there? The welfare of the orphans came first.
“I expect some of the boys would benefit from drawing and painting, as long as they don’t see it as a feminine sort of activity,” Mr. Alexander said. “They weren’t much interested in making paper flowers even after they realized there are willing buyers out there. They prefer to stick to furniture. They believe it is manlier.”
“They should be required to do both,” she said. “The flowers can be made much more quickly, thus contributing to their immediate upkeep.”
He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”
She sighed, knowing how stubborn the boys could be in their notions; in fact, they were as bad as adults. “Perhaps we could have someone in to introduce them to marquetry and inlay work. There are sure to be a few who wish to pursue it. And to produce their own designs, they will have to learn to draw.”
“An excellent notion. I know just the man, but that will cost money too.”
“I’ll find some.” It was time to show the world who she truly was. If Philippe found out and regretted his insults, so much the better.
Not that she cared what he thought.
“Could you teach a drawing class . . . twice a week, perhaps?” Mr. Alexander asked.
“Perfect. I’ll purchase sketchbooks and so on.” She spent a few hours going over the accounts and then returned to London for supplies. A fortnight passed, during which she spent two days a week at the school, rather than her usual once a month when she was in Town. Wisely, she related the drawing class to future lessons in marquetry and inlay, and the boys who possessed aptitude progressed quickly.
She reveled in being useful, and since London was thin of company, she saw little of Lord Hythwick and nothing, thank God, of Philippe. As she expected, Lord Hythwick treated her with his usual pompous civility. Relieved, she followed his lead. What friends she met were unsurprised that she and Hythwick were not to marry. A few even congratulated her on escaping a tedious fate.
She sent for her coach one evening after a long day at the school, and waited on the doorstep. Birds twittered and cheeped their evensong. Leaves rustled in the chestnut tree, heavy with conkers promising autumn fun for the children. Several boys played marbles in the dust, while a few girls from neighboring houses skipped rope. Contentedly, Gloriana pulled a few weeds from the tiny flowerbed beside the footpath.
A curricle-and-pair wheeled into the street. The children scattered before the glossy matched chestnuts. Gloriana raised her eyes and found herself staring into the cold gaze of Philippe de Bellechasse.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, but he had already driven past. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her.
He pulled up a few houses farther down the street. Oh, perhaps he had recognized her; perhaps he would speak; perhaps he had even come to see her . . .
Philippe jumped down. He ordered his groom to take the curricle to the Angel and arrange for stabling overnight.
Overnight? At . . . at Madame Brun’s house? She gaped at him, transfixed.
He rapped on the door, then turned as if he sensed Gloriana’s stare. Their eyes met for a long moment. He turned away.
He had given her the cut direct.
The worst possible insult. Why? He had never done that before.
The door opened and ten-year-old Elise Brun danced up to the marquis, clutching his coat. “Have you brought sweets?”
The marquis laughed, and then swept her up and kissed her. Next came her brother and mother with more bises in the very French fashion and many happy smiles.
“Philippe, mon cher, what a delightful surprise,” Madame Brun said. “The children have missed you.”
Gloriana felt the blood drain from her face. No wonder Charles’ Gallic features seemed somehow familiar—because Philippe was his father. Madame Brun was no widow. She was the mistress of the Marquis de Bellechasse.
All these years, during which Gloriana had loved Philippe with all her heart, he had been with another woman . . .
Revulsion washed over her, partly at him, but mostly at herself.
Madame Brun spied her watching, smiled, and beckoned. “Ah, Philippe, I must introduce you to my friend. She—”
“No,” he interrupted, “let us go indoors.” He herded the children ahead of him into the house, while Madame blinked, wide-eyed, at Gloriana.
Offering the slightest of shrugs, Gloriana took ahold of herself. She managed a vague sort of smile, and then, thank God, her carriage drew up and bore her away.
Chapter 4
“How could you be so impolite, Philippe?” Sophie asked.
They had dined en famille and sent the children off to bed, during which time Philippe had had plenty of opportunity to form a response to the inevitable questions. Eventually, he settled on the truth.
Or some portion of it. He’d regretted his behavior almost immediately. He would have to get accustomed to meeting Gloriana from time to time.
But not in Islington, curse it. Not just down the street from the house of his sister, Sophie. What the devil was Gloriana doing here?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t intend to apologize to her, but he would muster a degree of civility in future. “I was taken by surprise.”
Sophie huffed. “What sort of excuse is that?”
“A feeble one,” he admitted, not knowing how to explain the feeling that his privacy was violated by her presence. That he had sworn to avoid her as the best method of forgetting her forever. That the sight of her shook him to his very soul. “I am sorry if Miss Warren is your friend, but—”
“Miss Warren? Who is that?”
“The lady whom I so rudely ignored this afternoon.” When she frowned, he added, “Tall for a woman, auburn hair, quite pretty when she isn’t ranting.”
This confused Sophie even more. “She doesn’t rant. And her name is Miss Glow.”
He gave a derisive snort. “A nickname, I suppose.” Her maid had addressed her that way. Your friend—” He regretted his caustic tone of voice. No useful purpose would be served by upsetting Sophie. He cleared his throat. “She is Gloriana Warren, the sister of Lord Garrison.” Since Sophie did not move about in society,
this meant nothing to her. “She and I have been acquainted for a number of years. We disagree on many fundamental matters.”
“You do? Such as what?”
“The role of the aristocracy. The education of the masses. The fundamental equality of all people.”
Sophie was frowning again. “How is that possible? Her school is founded upon principles you hold dear!”
“Which school?”
“She is the owner of a school for orphan boys only a few doors from here. She was leaving it as you arrived. She recruits her students from the dregs of society—thieves, mostly—and provides them with an education fit for gentlemen. She seeks to prove that the circumstances of one’s birth have little relation to one’s fitness for a responsible position in society.”
“Impossible,” he said, confused. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not,” she said indignantly. “Miss Glow and I have discussed this subject at length. One of her boys, Thomas Walters, shows great facility with languages, and he is by far the top pupil in the French classes I give at the school—although I suspect he learns more from Charles, with whom he is the best of friends.”
“Charles’ close friend is a thief?”
“A former thief. Thomas is an excellent boy, and is appropriately grateful for his good fortune. If he lapses at times into London cant, which I do not comprehend at all, I believe such knowledge will be useful to Charles, for he intends to become a solicitor and will benefit from some understanding of the lower classes. Thomas wishes to join the diplomatic corps, which may perhaps be too ambitious, but fluent French will certainly prove useful once this horrid war is over.”
“You teach at the school run by Miss Warren? Miss Glow, as you call her.”
“Why yes, you have known this forever. She opened it a few years ago after inheriting some money from an aunt. I wrote to you about it. I teach French, and in exchange Charles attends the school.”
“I suppose you must have told me.” He hadn’t paid much attention, assuming Sophie knew what she was doing. He certainly didn’t wish to send his nephew to one of the schools for gentlemen’s sons, which perpetuated the old, corrupt social order. The boy would be Comte de Ste-Anne one day—might already be if his father was dead—but Sophie agreed that he must not be raised in an atmosphere of unjust privilege.
“What reason do you have for thinking Miss Warren would not found such a school?” she asked.
“She consistently disagrees with everything I say,” he said. “She holds firmly to the conviction that the aristocracy are superior beings, divinely ordained to rule the masses.”
Sophie burst into laughter. “What nonsense. She believes exactly the opposite, and her actions prove it. The school’s headmaster, Mr. Alexander, ventures into the worst areas of London in search of worthy students. She feeds and clothes them out of her own fortune.”
He shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. This made no sense—none at all.
“She must have been jesting, cher Philippe.”
He raised his head. “Jesting for five years?” he jeered. “I think not.”
“Then she was misleading you on purpose, although I cannot see why . . .” The light of comprehension appeared in her eyes. “Five years?”
Merde. He shouldn’t have said that.
“‘Quite pretty when she isn’t ranting,’” she quoted. “She is very pretty, even striking, and you know it. In fact, she’s the loveliest woman you have ever known, if I recall your words of, oh, about five years ago.” She paused. “Miss Glow—Miss Warren, rather—is the lady who stole your heart.”
~ ~ ~
That night, when she lay naked and satiated beside her lover, Sophie said, “I believe my brother is in love with Miss Glow.”
“They are acquainted?”
Eric Alexander had never met Philippe and mostly likely never would. Her liaison with Eric must remain a secret. She was doing her best not to fall in love with him, for she could not marry him—not now and maybe never.
“It seems they have known one another for years, but they are estranged. It is a story of passion and tears.” She snuggled closer and wrapped herself around him. Eric was a virile man, often ready again soon after the first time. “So romantic, n’est-ce pas?”
He snorted. “Sounds plain foolish to me.” He toyed with her available breast.
She squirmed. The other breast, which was pressed against his side, made its desire for fair and equal treatment known. She rolled to her back and gave his roaming hands access. He was a truly excellent lover, worthy of his reputation. “Mais oui, foolishness of the most absurd. My brother lusts after her, but instead of taking her to bed, he insults her and does his best to avoid her.” She hoped Miss Glow wouldn’t hold her brother’s stupid behavior against her.
“Truly idiotic.” He moved lower to kiss and suckle her breasts.
She moaned, writhing beneath him. “It is most strange. I understand that a man has needs—and occasionally Philippe has a mistress—but he avoids the ladies who pursue him. There are many, for he is a handsome man.”
He halted. “Miss Glow is pursuing him? That doesn’t sound like her. Nor does passion and tears, if you ask me.”
“No, she insults and confounds him, but who knows how she feels deep inside?”
“No one, I assume. She is a well-bred virgin. Which you are not, thank God. I know how you feel deep inside.”
She giggled and caressed his growing erection. She settled him on top of her and spread her legs, sighing with desire as he entered her. “Ah, and do you like it there?”
After that, they didn’t speak.
~ ~ ~
Two days later, Gloriana returned to the school, anxious but in control of herself. If she encountered Philippe again, at least it wouldn’t be unexpected. Nor would losing Madame Brun as a teacher or friend.
No one had ever given her the cut direct before. She’d battled nausea the entire ride home. Was this how her brother, Lord Garrison, had felt when most of the beau monde turned against him several years ago? For her mother’s sake, she’d had to pretend to reject him as well. It was part and parcel of the role she’d been playing—her hypocrisy, as she saw it now—and after a month into the season, she’d simply refused to discuss his scandal. She’d nursed a short-lived rage against her dear but shameless cousin Daisy, and then had stopped discussing her too. She couldn’t bear to think and say cruel things about the brother and cousin she dearly loved.
So why had she remained unkind to Philippe for five whole years? She’d believed she loved him too.
Well, it hardly mattered. This encounter had given her more reason than ever to put Philippe out of her mind.
“Madame Brun wants to see you,” Mr. Alexander said in his brusque way. He was the son of a wheelwright and had been adopted upon his father’s death by the local vicar. He’d been educated as a gentleman and ordained in the Church of England, but had never quite shed his working-class origins. He dispensed with formality whenever possible, teaching the boys proper manners and forms of address, while at the same time ensuring they retained an appropriate cynicism. “She seems worried. Shall I send for her?”
“No, I shall call.” Forlorn but resigned, Gloriana walked a few doors down to get it over with. Hopefully Philippe had left by now. She put her head high and her nose in the air—what a familiar, regrettable posture, dictated by pride—and rapped on Madame’s door.
The maid who answered it gave no sign of a change in attitude within the household. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Glow.” She ushered Gloriana into the drawing room.
Madame Brun set down her stitchery and rose to greet her. “Bring coffee, Anne-Marie,” she said, and after the maid left, she continued, “I am so glad you have come. I worried that you might refuse to see me.”
&nbs
p; Gloriana found that she was wringing her hands and clasped them tightly behind her back. “Pray get to the point quickly, Madame. If you can no longer teach at my school, please say so.”
The Frenchwoman’s eyes widened. “I am happy teaching at the school, but I feared you might dismiss me.”
“No, no, I would prefer you remain.” Gloriana paused, awkward and uneasy but doing her best to mean what she said. Madame Brun was a lush brunette whom any virile man might desire, but such stupid emotions as anger and jealousy had no place here. It was common knowledge that Philippe took a mistress from time to time, as any gentleman would, but not someone with whom Gloriana might be acquainted. Not someone he had loved and had children with for years and years. “The Marquis de Bellechasse . . . dislikes me intensely. I thought he might forbid our association.”
Madame rolled her eyes. “My brother is a fool. All he forbade me to do was apologize on his behalf, but I shall do so anyway.”
Flabbergasted, Gloriana could do nothing but stare. “Your brother.” I’m such an idiot. Here was a perfectly logical explanation for the resemblance between Philippe and young Charles, but she’d jumped to a stupid, insulting conclusion. She hastened to cover her confusion. “I wondered, but since he wouldn’t allow you to introduce him, I could do nothing but guess.”
Madame Brun tipped her head to one side, her gaze very French and disconcertingly shrewd. Suddenly she laughed. “You thought I was his mistress!”
Heat swarmed up past Gloriana’s ears.
“Oh, là, là, I have guessed correctly, n’est-ce pas? You did not know I have a brother. You were jealous! I do not blame you. He is a very good-looking man. All the young ladies sigh for him.”
Gloriana clutched her hands tighter and shook her head. “There is no attachment between the marquis and me.”
The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4) Page 5