by Enslaved
She flew toward the bedroom door. Halfway there, she turned about. “Gavin?”
“Yes.”
“Can there be champagne? Not the dreadful pink kind they served up at The Palace but real French champagne?”
“Sweetheart, if it means seeing you smile as you’re doing now, I’d buy you French champagne sufficient to fill the Thames.”
CHAPTER TEN
“If the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack, in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect!”
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Rosalind,
As You Like It
By the time Daisy was dressed to go, it was still light outside and the weather had settled into a fine evening. In no rush to eat, they found themselves strolling along Brook Street in the West End of town. Gavin told her Rourke’s townhouse was nearby in Hanover Square.
“That’s not Rourke’s, is it?” She paused to point to the Palladian façade of a large red brick mansion.
Gavin smiled. Seeing the city through Daisy’s eyes was proving to be a magical experience. In high spirits after her audition, she was eager to take in as many new sites as she might.
“That’s the Claridge Hotel. It’s something of a London institution.”
She mounted the front steps and peered inside the long window to the chandelier-lit lobby. Turning back to Gavin, she said, “It looks very grand. Can we go in?”
He hesitated. If he took her inside, he would likely encounter half a dozen people he knew. Even so, it wasn’t as if it was a crime to be seen dining á deux with an old friend, even if that friend wasn’t old at all but rather a dazzling young actress with a bright future and a notorious past.
She turned back to him, smile dimming. “Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking. If it’s fashionable, that means you’re likely to see people you know and then you’d have to explain me.”
If she was testing him, he was determined to pass, to prove to not only her but to himself he wasn’t such a snob after all. “Nonsense,” he said, seeking to reassure himself as much as her, wishing he might feel as unfettered and gay as he hoped he sounded. “I should be proud to be seen in your company and more than happy to introduce you to anyone we might meet.” He extended his arm and, taking it, Daisy followed him up the marble steps.
The hotel’s tearoom was crowded when they entered but there were still vacant tables. The maitre d’ walked up to them and asked, “Have you a reservation?”
Gavin turned around, and the man’s face flushed a vivid scarlet. “Mr. Carmichael, forgive me, I didn’t realize it was you. I’ll be most happy to seat you and the young lady immediately.”
Once they were seated at a window table overlooking a most pleasant view, Gavin ordered a bottle of the finest champagne and the waiter went to fetch it, leaving two menus behind. Daisy was too busy remarking on her surroundings to focus on selecting her food.
“Oh, Gavin, this is so lovely, so elegant. And yet it feels odd to be sitting at a table and ordering rather then being onstage. In Paris, my friends and I used to meet at cafes sometimes for a café au lait or a glass of wine, but I’ve never sat in a real restaurant before, not as a patron, at any rate. I … I rather like it.”
He smiled over at her, ashamed for having hesitated about bringing her in. “You might as well become accustomed to it, sweeting, because as a leading actress this is what your future holds. By the by, Sir Augustus mentioned your recitation was most unique.”
She hesitated and then admitted, “Instead of dressing in street clothes to audition, I wore a flesh-colored body stocking. I wanted to play on Jacques’s reference to life coming full circle from birth to death.”
So that explained her death grip on her cloak that afternoon. She hadn’t wanted him to see what she wore under it—or rather didn’t wear. In retrospect, he was glad she hadn’t apprised him of her plan because he likely would have tried talking her out of it. He suspected there was a lesson involved, but at present he was in too good a mood to risk pondering it.
Instead he smiled over at her and said, “Well, that certainly qualifies as unique.”
Relaxing back into her chair, she studied the menu. As Gavin’s guest, she’d been given the ladies menu, of course. The Claridge was a stickler about such things.
Leaning over to him, she whispered, “Gavin, there aren’t any prices.”
He hid a smile. “No matter. Order what you like.”
He wanted her to become comfortable with dining out, but mostly he wanted her to become comfortable with the notion of being with him, not just for the month but for the foreseeable future or better yet for all time. Holding himself back from making love to her the night before numbered among the most difficult things he’d ever done, but he still hadn’t given up on winning her over in the end.
Harry’s words from earlier that day rang through his head like the chiming of Big Ben. Marriage to the right person is the nearest thing to bliss on earth.
He glanced across the room to signal the waiter they were ready to order when his gaze connected with that of Isabel Duncan, and he felt his smile drop as though the corners of his mouth were weighted with stones. Bloody hell! Of all the people he might have encountered, did it have to be her? The woman was a notorious gossip but worse than that she’d set her cap for him. Everyone—his grandfather, the Duncans, and Isabel herself—thought they should marry—everyone, that is to say, but him. She had a perfunctory prettiness about her and yet she held no appeal for him at all, not because she was lacking in looks but rather lacking in soul.
The one time he allowed himself be cajoled into calling on her, they’d gone for a stroll in Hyde Park. At Isabel’s insistence, they stepped off the main path, ostensibly to examine the roses, though Gavin suspected her true intention was to trap him into kissing her. The approach of a beggar child had saved him from an embarrassing situation. Isabel had shrieked at the boy for accidentally brushing against her skirts. Though Gavin took care to treat her courteously during their subsequent encounters—and given the small, elite social circle in which they both traveled, he encountered her far more frequently than he would have liked—he refused to ever call on her again.
The one saving grace was that she was seated across from a young man whom Gavin didn’t recognize but heartily hoped was her beau. Who knew, but perhaps his luck would hold and she’d miss seeing him entirely.
Across the room taking tea with her escort, a blubbery young baronet she’d not the slightest intention of marrying, Isabel looked from Gavin to the cinnamon-haired creature seated too close for comfort beside him and felt a stab of powerful, piercing dislike.
She’d sooner perish than admit it, but she’d been angling for Gavin for nearly a year now—and a year in the life of a young woman skirting the line between debutante and old maid counted as a considerable period of time. She’d planned her strategy like a trophy hunter stalking some elusive African prey, taking care to put herself in Gavin’s path whenever possible and making careful note of his preferences in food, entertainment, and even politics. But no matter how many tiresome facts she crammed into her head concerning the forced resignation of Prince Bismarck in Germany or British imperial policy in South Africa, he never exhibited more toward her than a vague politeness.
His attitude toward his dining companion was a far different affair. Watching him over the top of her teacup, she didn’t miss the warm glow in his eyes when he looked at his dining companion, bending his ear to her indecently sensual mouth as though whatever she had to say was of the utmost interest.
Unable to bear it any longer, she turned to her escort and demanded, “Who is that woman with Gavin Carmichael?”
Popping a piece of whitebait into his mouth, he twisted his head to look in the indicated direction. Turning back to their table, his plain face wore a silly smile. “That’s Delilah du Lac. Fancy that.”
“A Frenchwoman,” Isabel hissed, horrified to think of he
r potential place being usurped by a foreigner. Really, was there no such thing as national pride?
“English, actually, though she’s lived in France for years. She’s an actress in the musical reviews. I read somewhere she was playing a supper club in Covent Garden a few weeks ago. Imagine us seeing her here.”
“Take me over there. I want to say hello.”
“But our food will go cold.” He cast a rueful look to the substantial repast their waiter had recently laid out.
Isabel was already on her feet, leaving him no choice but to rise as well and accompany her. “Nonsense. We’ll only be a minute.”
For appearance’s sake, she took his arm and steered them across the room. Stopped at Gavin’s table, she looked down and said, “Why, Gavin, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Isabel.” She didn’t miss the pained look that crossed his face before he set aside his napkin and rose.
Glancing at Daisy, she said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … lady friend?”
Looking supremely uncomfortable, he hesitated. “Isabel, allow me to present Miss Daisy Lake. Daisy, Miss Isabel Duncan.”
The two women eyed one another, Isabel making a mental note of the showgirl’s offstage name. “You’re an actress in one of those musical reviews, aren’t you, only you go by another name, a stage name—isn’t that what you people call it?”
“You’re Delilah du Lac, aren’t you?” Isabel’s escort piped up.
The actress shifted in her seat. “Yes, or rather I was. Now I’m pursuing a theatrical career.”
Gavin spoke up, “Actually we’re celebrating. Daisy’s just been given the part of Rosalind in As You Like It.”
That took Isabel aback. “Surely not the production Drury Lane is putting on?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Daisy answered. Rising from the table, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to visit the ladies'.”
How vulgar, Isabel thought. Not about to let her rival march off in triumph, Isabel said, “I’ll go with you.”
Leaving the two men staring after them, they filed through the dining room. “The ladies’ retiring room is just down that side hall,” Isabel informed her. “I don’t suppose you’ve been here before to know where it is.” Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the Lake woman’s flushed face and smiled to herself.
Once inside, they went their separate ways, meeting up again at the washstand. Isabel walked up as Daisy reached over to take the towel the attendant, a young Irish girl, held out. “Thank you,” she said with a smile, obviously too ill-bred to know one never directly addressed lesser servants if it could be helped.
Standing before the gilded wall mirror, Isabel made a show of powdering her nose. “You should know that Gavin and I have an understanding.”
Daisy regarded her in the glass, a deep flush riding her cheekbones. “Excuse me?”
“We’re to be married,” Isabel said. It was a bald lie but then whoever had said that all was fair in love and war certainly had the right of it. “It’s been arranged between our families for ages.”
“I see.” To Isabel’s delight, the bitch looked as though she might puke in the washbasin.
“No worries.” Isabel reached up to pat a light brown curl into place, feeling better with every passing moment. “I’m a modern girl. I understand men like Gavin must have their bit of fun and flirt before they settle. The two of you, well, it doesn’t have to mean anything and in Gavin’s case I’m quite certain it won’t.”
It doesn’t have to mean anything. Daisy had said those exact words to Gavin the previous night, but only now did she understand why he looked so hurt.
Smiling, Isabel took a step back from the mirror. “I’m so very glad we had this little heart-to-heart. I should be getting back to my escort. Toodolu.”
Feeling as if the champagne she’d drunk might come up at any minute, Daisy leaned over the washstand and splashed cool water onto her burning cheeks. To think she’d been worried that Gavin might become too serious, that at the end of their agreed-upon month, he might balk at letting her go and all along he’d been using her. Using her as every other man in her life had done.
She found Gavin sitting alone at their table. Catching sight of her, he rose and held out her chair. “Is everything all right?”
Heart in her throat, she slipped into the satin-covered seat. “Of course, why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “You and Isabel disappeared for some time.”
Their waiter chose that moment to roll by the dessert cart. Turning to Daisy, Gavin said, “If you fancy chocolate, you can’t go amiss ordering the mousse.”
She shook her head, for once not remotely tempted by the sweet. “I don’t care for anything more, thank you.” Catching Isabel’s smug smile from across the room, she added, “Can we please just go home?”
Isabel slipped back into her seat. When the dessert cart was presented, she decided to save worrying about her waistline for another day and ordered the lemon tart and the chocolate mousse. Settling in to savor the sweets, it occurred to her that if she couldn’t have her happiness in the form of Gavin Carmichael, at the very least she could share her misery.
Delilah du Lac, or Daisy Lake, showgirl or actress, whatever else the woman was, she was a poacher, a thief.
The bitch deserved whatever mischief came her way.
Gavin thought Daisy unnaturally quiet on the carriage ride home. They’d started the evening in such high spirits, but with Isabel’s arrival the tempo of their celebration had taken a decided downturn. Wondering what might have passed between the two women, he asked Daisy if anything was the matter not once but several times. Each time, she answered with a tight-lipped “no” and a shake of her head. Finally she’d turned way from him to stare out the window though the darkened streets didn’t afford much in the way of a view.
Once inside his flat, however, it was a different story entirely. They barely crossed the threshold when Daisy slammed her reticule down atop the marble-topped hallway table, so hard Gavin was amazed the impact didn’t send glass beads flying.
“What the devil was that about?” he asked, reaching for her wrapper.
Pulling away, she yanked it off herself. “What the devil, indeed? You and Miss Pinch-Face seem to be on mighty chummy terms. When I excused myself to go to the ladies', I’d half a mind to find my own way back here, not that I flatter myself you would have noticed.”
“Daisy, you’re being absurd. Isabel and I have known each other for ages. Her father and my grandfather have gone grouse hunting together in Scotland every year for the past twenty-odd.”
She answered with a huff. “Someone has gone hunting all right, only her quarry isn’t any game bird—unless you count a certain blue-eyed peacock.”
That got his attention. “If you’re implying what I think you are, you really are being absurd.”
“Am I now? Pity you weren’t standing before one of those many full-length mirrors so you might have seen how you preened. And she fawned all over you, the perfect peahen.”
For a moment Gavin could only stare at her. Could it be Daisy was jealous of Isabel Duncan? She certainly sounded so. Isabel was a passably pretty girl though she’d never particularly appealed to him. Certainly she couldn’t come close to matching Daisy’s flamboyant good looks. If there was a rivalry afoot, and it seemed as there was, it couldn’t be over appearances. It must be over … him.
The realization struck him like the proverbial thunderbolt from above, and he had to make a conscious effort to tamp down his sudden soaring sense of satisfaction. These past weeks he’d been working to make her see him as someone more than a mentor she felt obliged to repay with soulless sex, and all it had taken to turn the tide was another woman showing interest in him. Jealousy, it was such a sublimely simple yet tried-and-true tactic, why hadn’t he thought of it before? For the first time in their acquaintance, he would have been most happy to walk up to Isabel Duncan and plant a smacking kiss on her thin
, pallid lips.
Deciding to let her stew a while longer, he said, “What do you mean?”
“That milksop debutante has set her cap for you, as if you didn’t know.”
He forced a shrug and asked, “And what if she has? Unlike certain persons, Isabel is most certainly a marrying woman.”
That took her aback, he could tell. She opened her mouth as if to answer and then clamped it closed again.
“Quiet now, are we? You’ve as good as told me you’re not the sort of woman who willingly links her future to that of any man for long, certainly not for life. We all haven’t the luxury of living so footloose and fancy free, you know. Being a free spirit is all well and good for you actors, but for a barrister, bachelorhood beyond a certain age is a definite liability.”
“Gavin, what are you saying?”
He couldn’t be sure, there was only the light from the gas wall sconces to rely upon, but he thought he caught her bottom lip trembling. “Only that I’m coming on thirty. At some point, I’ll have to give serious thought to settling down.”
She arched a brow. “At some point or soon?”
He shrugged. “That all depends on circumstances, I suppose.”
Arms crossed, she tapped a foot on the floor. “Don’t be coy, Gavin. Do you mean to wed that whey-faced bitch or don’t you?”
“If not Isabel, then I suppose I shall wed someone like her. Will you mind terribly?”
For once no glib reply or saucy retort rolled off her tongue. In the dim light of the single tabletop lamp, her eyes looked unusually bright.
She shook her head. “I’m tired. I’ve drunk too much champagne and my head aches. I’m going to bed.” She turned to go to the hallway leading to her room.
“Daisy, wait.” He came up behind her, covering the tops of her shoulders with his hands. How small she felt, how fragile. He leaned close, his cheek brushing against the softness of her hair. “You’ve not answered my question. Would you mind if I married?” When she was silent still, he turned her slowly about. Lifting her chin on the edge of his hand, he saw the tears streaking her cheeks and felt his heart lift with hope. “Daisy, what’s this? Why tears on what was to be such a happy night?” He reached out and caught a fat droplet on the pad of his thumb.