Bound by Duty

by Diane Gaston

  Not leaving her would have been ideal.

  ‘This invitation will lead to others,’ he said. ‘It should at least please Amelie and my mother and make your time in Brussels more pleasant.’

  The invitation did not please Tess. She would never have sought it. ‘They talked about me in London after you left me,’ she told him. ‘Let them talk about me in Brussels, because you are forced to be with me.’

  ‘I am not forced to be with you, Tess.’ He paused. ‘And I am profoundly sorry you were the object of gossip because of me.’

  He looked at her with regret in his eyes, but should she trust how he appeared?

  ‘Oh, how can I ever believe you?’ She stepped away. ‘About anything.’

  He caught her and forced her to stop. ‘We must learn to get on together.’

  She raised a brow. ‘Must we?’

  He squeezed her arms. ‘I know I hurt you by leaving, but it was an unhappy accident of timing.’ Caused by Napoleon, as a matter of fact.

  She gave him a scathing look. ‘I am certain leaving me right after our wedding night seemed like a sensible choice to you.’

  ‘Let us drop this.’ His tone turned soft. ‘I have thought of another site to show you.’

  They started back the way they’d come and he resumed his discourse on Brussels.

  When they again passed the Cathédrale des Saints Michel et Gudule with its imposing two towers reaching to the sky, she asked, ‘Why do you know so much about Brussels? Have you been here the whole time?’

  He paused before answering. ‘No. I have spent time here before, though.’

  ‘When?’ He’d been in Scotland before they met. Before that was the war. Who could have travelled to Belgium during the war?

  ‘Some time ago,’ he answered non-committally.

  Was there no end to what he would not tell her? Secrets and lies had been a part of her parents’ marriage and now it was part of hers.

  They did not turn back to the Parc de Bruxelles, but continued to the Grand Place. The Grand Place was a square surrounded by buildings that might once have been grand, but now looked as if they had seen better days.

  ‘This used to be in better repair, they say,’ Marc told her as they walked through the square. ‘But revolutionaries sacked the buildings a couple of decades ago.’

  The buildings reminded her of herself. When she was little her life had seemed so shiny and perfect, but time chipped away at what was once beautiful, leaving mere memories of what was now gone.

  She was glad when they continued past the Grand Place.

  ‘Was that what you wished to show me?’ she asked rather peevishly. Sad, neglected buildings? ‘May we return now?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He smiled. ‘What I want to show you is meant to amuse.’

  She wished he would not smile like that. It made her insides flutter as if thousands of butterflies were trapped inside her. He looked even more handsome when he smiled, less like a buccaneer and more like someone who could make the sun shine brighter.

  She did not want to think of him as handsome. She did not want to remember how it felt for his arms to hold her, his fingers to stroke her skin. He seemed to be trying so hard to please her. It would be so much easier if he simply left her alone.

  She pressed her lips together.

  They turned a corner and after a few steps he said, ‘Close your eyes.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ she muttered, but she did as he demanded, mostly as an excuse not to look at him.

  He led her further. ‘Now open.’

  She opened her eyes and laughed aloud.

  Before her was a fountain made from a statue of a little boy, the water shooting out in a stream from a very particular part of his body.

  ‘He is relieving himself!’ she exclaimed.

  He stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. ‘He is called Mannekin Pis and he has been in this spot for two hundred years.’

  His hands almost made her forget anything else. She forced herself to speak. ‘Why would anyone erect such a fountain?’

  His voice turned deeper. ‘The true meaning is lost, but there was a statue before this one dating back to the twelfth century.’

  He moved closer. Or had she been the one to move? She could feel his breath on her neck. He smelled of lime and bergamot—and a fragrance that made her body ache in response.

  She did not want to feel this way. And she did not want to move away from him.

  A church bell rang the noon hour.

  He released her and stepped back. ‘I must return you to the hotel.’ An urgent tone entered his voice.

  ‘You have somewhere else to go?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He offered her his arm.

  They started walking. ‘Where?’

  He frowned. ‘To meet someone.’

  Her throat tightened. Someone? If it was not a woman, then why not simply tell her?

  Let him go, then! She wanted to be rid of his disturbing company.

  ‘Why did you have me accompany you?’ she snapped after they’d gone several steps. ‘I do not understand at all.’

  His muscles tensed under her fingers. ‘We must start somewhere, Tess.’

  * * *

  Marc’s spirits plummeted. As soon as matters calmed between them, he did something that drove her away again.

  Damned meeting. He could not explain to her why it was so important or why the information he was likely to gather might help keep her and his family safe.

  If he could be honest with her, it would help a great deal. The Tess he knew would understand how duty could take him away from her, even the morning after their wedding night.

  He’d spent many a night thinking about her, yearning for her and fearing he’d lost her forever because he could not be honest with her. Her delight at Mannekin Pis filled him with a little hope.

  Even though she stopped speaking to him.

  What would heal the wounds between them? Time? Time certainly had not healed his parents. They were as angry at each other today as when he’d been a child.

  Tess held his arm as they walked, but in a perfunctory way that was like a knife thrust to his heart. He hated this silence between them, but he’d exhausted his knowledge of Brussels. What else could he talk about when almost everything about him must be kept secret?

  It left too much to the imagination. His father, for one, imagined he was being unfaithful to Tess with Doria. He hoped Tess no longer believed that, but who knew what she thought he was hiding from her?

  It would solve everything if he could simply tell her he was employed as a spy, that his contacts in Brussels were Mr Scott and the Duke of Richmond, that his need for secrecy had to do with duty to his country, not infidelity, not rejecting his wife. He’d come perilously close to saying too much to his father. Marc understood now how Rosier could have broken his oath of silence. It merely cost Rosier his life. Somehow Marc felt his choice, to honour his oath and do his duty to his country, might cost him something more precious. His marriage. Tess’s happiness.

  Was it futile to hope to win her back? As they walked together through the beautiful streets of Brussels, she would not speak to him.

  He grasped at straws, or rather at a topic he knew she would dislike, but at least answer. ‘Will you call upon your mother?’

  Her hand tensed. ‘No.’

  He pushed. ‘Even though your brother resides there?’

  ‘He can call on me.’ She took several steps before speaking again, but, then, it was more to herself than to him. ‘I cannot understand him. She was not his mother. He was only there two or three years before she left. I never noticed her pay much mind to him at all.’ She slowed and glanced to some unseen place. ‘She did not spend much time with us. A visit to the schoolroom when she was home.’

  ‘The time she spent with him meant something to him, apparently,’ he said—to keep her talking.

  ‘She was always charming.’ Tess continued to walk. ‘I suppose it drew
even little boys to her.’

  ‘And little girls,’ he dared to add.

  Her hand on his arm tightened.

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘When Mama was there nothing else mattered.’

  Poor hurt little girl!

  He wanted to keep her talking. ‘When Amelie, Lucien and I were children, my parents were always too busy fighting each other to pay a great deal of attention to us.’

  She glanced at him with a surprised expression.

  He looked at her. ‘Surely you have noticed that they skirmish all the time.’

  ‘They are unhappy,’ she admitted. ‘But I am surprised you say they did not pay attention to you. They dote on Amelie.’

  He nodded. ‘I guess they do. Coming to Brussels certainly is greatly indulging her.’

  She actually went on. ‘They have been remarkably in concert about Captain Fowler. And they do not bicker when he is around.’

  Marc was encouraged. This was almost comfortable conversation. ‘What do you know of this Captain Fowler?’

  ‘He’s the younger son of Lord Ellister, a man your father esteems a great deal, apparently. From your father’s account, it is a good family.’

  ‘No scandal?’ he asked with a wry smile.

  To his delight she answered in like manner. ‘No scandal.’

  His spirits rose.

  ‘Do you like Fowler?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘He seems besotted with Amelie.’

  He frowned. ‘But you are not certain of him?’

  She looked into his face. ‘How can one ever be certain?’

  That dagger thrust was meant for him.

  They walked on.

  ‘Is Amelie equally as besotted?’ he finally asked.

  ‘More so, I am afraid,’ she responded.

  ‘Wait.’ He stopped. ‘What do you mean afraid? I thought you believed in such love.’

  She looked away. ‘Not any longer.’

  The dagger twisted.

  * * *

  This talk of love was too painful. Tess wished he would stop.

  ‘Should I be concerned about Fowler?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course you should,’ she snapped. ‘He has the power to hurt her terribly.’ Just as Marc had hurt her. ‘Love, I’ve learned, has that sort of power.’

  He frowned.

  Did he even realise she spoke about how he hurt her?

  They walked in silence after that. Good. She did not want him to say anything to her.

  But she hated his silence.

  What did it matter? Soon he would leave her to meet this mysterious someone he refused to tell her about. She would be free of his company.

  He suddenly asked, ‘Do you know why my friend Charles volunteered for the Forlorn Hope?’

  He’d startled her. ‘Why?’

  They walked a few more steps. ‘Charles became besotted with a Spanish woman. He was mad for her—at least that is what he said in his letters about her.’ He took a breath. ‘She threw him over for another man, so he volunteered for the Forlorn Hope. He wrote to me about it. Said he might as well, because he no longer cared if he lived or died.’

  How awful! She’d felt close to that level of despair because of him, not that she’d ever let on.

  ‘Charles thought himself in love,’ he said in a bleak tone. ‘He was so obsessed by her, he lost all reason.’

  Her brows knit. ‘Sad. But why—’

  He did not let her finish. ‘My brother was no different,’ he went on. ‘Lucien lost his head over a young woman whose parents refused his suit. He eloped with her and was racing to Gretna Green when his carriage wheel broke and pitched him to the ground.’ He swallowed as if it became difficult to continue. ‘He lingered for several weeks. I was called home from my regiment.’ He could not finish.

  Her voice softened, ‘So you concluded love kills?’

  ‘Well, love killed my brother and my friend. It doomed my parents to unhappiness—’ He stopped abruptly as if his emotions prevented him from saying more.

  No wonder he did not believe in love.

  She wished he had not shared this with her. It chipped away at her defences against him. If she allowed herself to feel his pain, her protection could vanish. She could be hurt once more.

  They reached the Place Royale before she spoke again. ‘Do not worry too much about your sister and Captain Fowler. They seem to have the happy combination of being well suited in temperament and situation. I suspect they will be the lucky ones.’ She paused. ‘That is, if he is not killed in a battle.’

  Neither spoke more. They reached the Hotel de Flandre and Marc escorted her to her room.

  At her door, she took out her key and put it in the lock.

  He reached into his pocket and handed her the invitations to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. ‘Here are the invitations to the ball. Will you pass them on to my parents and Amelie and Captain Fowler?’

  She looked at him with suspicion. ‘Why? Will you not be giving them the invitations yourself?’

  ‘In case I do not see them...’

  She felt her entire body turn rigid. ‘Are you planning on disappearing again?’

  He seized her shoulders. Their bodies were mere inches from touching. ‘I will come back for the ball.’

  She raised her gaze to his eyes. ‘But not dinner tonight?’

  He looked away. ‘If I am able, I will escort you to dinner.’

  She could not believe him. ‘Unless a trip to Switzerland comes your way.’

  She opened the door and slipped inside before he could see that holding her so close had caused her face to flush and her body to come alive with sensation.

  * * *

  Marc tore himself away from Tess’s door. He’d not planned to hold her so close. His body had ached for more of her. Would he ever earn that right?

  He hurried to his hotel to transform himself into a Bonapartist with no ties to the British aristocracy and on to the meeting where six other men gathered. One claimed to have some news from another man who was in communication with Napoleon’s aides-de-camp. Marc said all the right things and was apparently accepted, because this man spoke openly.

  He said they must prepare for Napoleon’s triumphant return to Brussels. Napoleon might appear at any moment, he said, while the British and their Allies attended parties and staged military revues rather than preparing for battle.

  His information was second hand at best, but these Bonapartists took it seriously enough to design handbills and set in stores for a victory dinner.

  Marc promised he would be ready to pass out fliers or help in any way possible when the time came. There was much shaking of hands and clapping each other on the back and shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’

  When Marc left he was careful not to appear suspicious, or to lead them to Mr Scott or the Duke. He spent an hour visiting shops, stopping for ale and otherwise looking as if he were having an ordinary day.

  * * *

  Eventually he made his way to Rue de la Blanchisserie and found Scott.

  Scott summoned the Duke and the three of them met in the Duke’s library.

  Both Scott and the Duke were grim-faced as Marc told them what he had heard.

  ‘Can we reach you at your hotel?’ Mr Scott asked.

  ‘At my hotel or my wife’s.’ But would she want him to stay? He could hope. ‘She is at the Hotel de Flandre.’

  ‘If what you report is correct, Glenville,’ his grace said in a grim tone, ‘Brussels may soon become a very dangerous place for Englishmen.’

  And everyone Marc cared about—including the woman he loved—was in Brussels.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That afternoon Tess brought the invitations to Lord and Lady Northdon, finding them in their sitting room. Amelie was there, as well.

  ‘The Duchess of Richmond’s ball?’ Lady Northdon exclaimed.

  Lord Northdon looked sceptical. ‘Marc arranged this? How could he?’

  ‘He arranged
it through the duke’s secretary,’ she explained. ‘A man who, I gather, is a friend.’

  ‘The duke and duchess know of this?’ Lady Northdon asked.

  ‘The duke’s secretary said they do.’

  Amelie stared at the invitations. ‘This is the most wonderful invitation I ever received. Everyone is talking about this ball and we actually will attend.’ She clasped the invitations to her breast. ‘Even Captain Fowler!’

  Lord Northdon crossed the room to where his wife was seated. He lowered himself into the chair next to hers and leaned towards her. ‘Do you wish to attend, Ines?’ His tone was surprisingly mild.

  Lady Northdon glanced at him in surprise. ‘Do you?’

  He actually touched her hand. ‘Only if it pleases you.’

  Amelie stared at her. ‘Maman! Please say yes!’

  Lady Northdon glanced from her husband to her daughter and smiled, showing every ounce of her beauty. ‘Bien sûr.’

  Amelie ran over to her and hugged and kissed her, then hugged and kissed her father.

  She covered her cheeks with her hands. ‘What will I wear? Maman, come look at my dresses and tell me which will do for a duchess’s ball.’

  Lord Northdon stood and extended his hand to Lady Northdon to help her up.

  She looked at him with adoring eyes. ‘Merci, John.’

  Tess gaped at them. They were acting civil to each other even though there was no one to impress. Had the world gone topsy-turvy?

  ‘If I may have your leave,’ she asked, ‘I should speak with Nancy about a gown for me.’

  ‘Oui, chérie,’ Lady Northdon said. ‘À bientôt.’

  * * *

  When it came time to dress for dinner, Tess dragged her feet. It was silly of her, she knew, because Marc would not show.

  ‘You are quiet today, ma’am,’ Nancy said as she pinned up Tess’s hair.

  ‘Am I?’ She’d said nothing to anyone, not even Nancy, about Marc wanting to share dinner with her. Why would she?

  Nancy twisted a strand of Tess’s hair and secured it with a hairpin. ‘What would you say to my sewing an overdress of Belgian lace for your ball gown?’

  ‘In one day?’ She spoke to Nancy’s reflection in the mirror.

  ‘I could do it,’ Nancy insisted. ‘It is just a few seams and I sew seams very fast.’