"I see you are becoming acquainted with one another," he said smoothly, noticing Elysia's flushed cheeks and flashing green eyes, and the sullen look on Mariana's face. "I want you to meet someone, my dear," he said, guiding Elysia away smoothly. "Lady Woodley, if you will excuse us."
"One of your amours; M'Lord?" Elysia asked curiously, forcing her voice to sound casual.
"Possibly. Not jealous are you, M'Lady?"
"Not at all, M'Lord. Although I am told there are a number who will be."
Lord Trevegne laughed heartily, drawing the attention of several people, surprise on their faces at seeing the haughty Marquis laugh. "I seem to recall a line from an unknown poet that expresses my sentiments exactly. Let me see . . . how does that go?" he paused thoughtfully, "ah, yes, it begins 'You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.' Do you agree?" He looked at her provocatively. "I’m not the one to turn down an invitation to dine—especially if it is well-prepared."
"Are you sure, M'Lord, you did not just happen to think that up one evening in one of your clubs, after boredom and drink had claimed your wits?"
"Ah, you've a genius for making light of my finer accomplishments," he grinned.
"I wasn't aware that you had any, M'Lord."
"I need never fear hearing honeyed words full of cajolery from you, M'Lady–but remind me never to ask you to deliver a eulogy for me, or indeed I shall be damned and sent straight to hell,"
With that parting shot he left her with the Squire, who escorted her into dinner. Elysia found herself seated on the right of her host, and Alex opposite her on the Squire's left. The only two people with whom Elysia thought she could have enjoyed the dinner, were lost to her view down the great length of table among the other guests. Charles and Louisa were placed at the end with the less important personages,
Elysia avoided looking across the table where Alex was sitting with Lady WoodIey next to him–a smug look on her beautiful face. Like the cat that swallowed the canary–and would choke on it, Elysia thought, as she watched Lady WoodIey flirt playfully with Alex. Elysia's eyes narrowed as she stared at the dark-haired woman in speculation. So . . . she was a widow. The Squire had been a fountain of information–especially about the lovely widow who was a favorite of his and was considered a nonpareil in London. And, it was obvious even to the casual observer, that the Widow was interested in Alex–and knew him quite well.
"Please to allow me to speak to you. This r-roast beef, c' est magnifique, n' est-ce pas? The Frenchman sitting next to Elysia started a conversation, half in French, half in English. His accent was thick, and he rolled his R's off his tongue in a rhythmic fashion. "Viola, Lady Trevegne!” he declared theatrically as he passed her the salt.
"Merci monsieur, mais je ne sais paš vôtre nom?" Elysia apologized for not knowing his name, her French accent perfect.
A look of utter delight passed over the young Frenchman's dark features. "Ah, Madame, vous êtes enchantée," he crooned. "le suis Jean-Claude D'Aubergere, Comte de Cantere. To speak to me in my native tongue gives me such pleasure. I feel not so much the foreigner here in this cold land—it warms me as if I were back under the sunny skies of France. For this gesture, Madame, je suis vôtre servant devoue. You are the beautiful Lady Trevegne, of course. We were introduced–but I do not think you remember so insignificant a Frenchman," he said sadly.
"Oh, but I do remember you, Comte, for you most opportunely interrupted a tiresome monologue on the finer points of embroidery by the Vicar's wife."
"Then, it was my pleasure to rescue you from cette dame formidable," he grinned engagingly. "It is kind of you, Lady Trevegne, to take pity on this sad Frenchman, who is homesick for the sounds of his homeland. Your enchanting voice reminds me of other mademoiselles, laughing and chatting in gaiety. But alas, it is no more," he said shrugging his shoulders in a very Gallic manner. "C'est un tragedie, et maintenant, je suis un beggar."
"You are an émigré, Count. It must be difficult for you here in England. But you mustn't consider yourself a beggar. Were your estates confiscated?"
"Vraiment," he sighed, "that is unfortunately the sad truth for me. And now Le Petit Corporal has ruined any hopes I had cherished of returning to' my home."
"Napoleon!” a shrill voice echoed from the Comte's other side. "Monsieur le Comte, do you believe he will attack London?"
The other guests near them stopped their light chattering to listen to the Count's reply to the question asked by the nervous looking gentleman with the high, stiff, pointed collar that stood up starchily about his chin, withstanding his futile efforts to turn his head.
"Non, this I do not believe. ]e pense qu'il est un rumeur. He is not strong enough this 'bourgeois Général to conquer the strong-hearted Anglaise, non?"
A loud cheer of stout approval was sent up along with numerous toasts to England and the King, and anything else that entered some guest's mind.
"I doubt whether Napoleon would seriously try it. We've the strongest navy in the world, and you must remember Napoleon is fighting on many fronts. We have only the Channel as a serious threat. He would not dare to attack from the North Sea with winter coming on, if indeed, he is of a right mind–which I sometimes suspect he isn't." Lord Trevegne spoke quietly, in a bored voice, selecting a small pheasant from a platter a footman held.
"But here along the coast we are so unprotected, T-those French could come across the Channel and murder us in our beds before we could even open our eyes!” the Vicar's wife added hysterically, as several voices chimed agreement.
"Nonsense!” Squire Blackmore said vehemently. "The Navy wouldn't allow it. Damn fine bunch of men." He flushed, and glanced about apologetically. "Your pardon, ladies, but it gets my blood to boil to hear us talkin' scared."
"Navy too busy trackin' down smugglers to catch any. Froggie sailor that sails up the Thames, even. Probably think they were actors from Covent Garden, putting on a performance," someone from down the table drawled in a bored voice, as loud guffaws followed his comments.
Elysia glanced at the Count, whose lips had tightened at the derogatory reference to French people, his chin lifting higher in arrogance.
"You mustn't allow them to offend you, Count," Elysia spoke sympathetically, placing her hand on his arm, feeling the rigid muscles, "I do believe they hide their fears with laughter."
He stared into her large, green eyes with their softened expression and friendliness, and raised her hand to his lips with a dark glow in his Latin eyes.
"Thank you. Vous êtes une ange, et je t’adore," he breathed softly, passionately under his breath, as his fingers tightened over hers.
Elysia gently loosed her hand from his, and looked away from his amorous gaze with embarrassment straight into Alex's angry, golden eyes as he watched her intently, a frown drawing together his heavy, black brows.
"If it were not for smugglers you'd not be sipping that excellent brandy you have in your cellars," the Marquis commented sarcastically, to no one in particular, "nor that fine tea your lady sips elegantly in her salon."
"I'll ,wager you've a few renegade bottles tucked away," a dissipated-Iooking man added slyly.
"Hardly. You insult me, Lord Tanvil, for I only drink what was set down by my father, and my grandfather before him. Can you imagine my drinking anything more recent? You do me an injury," he declared in mock affront.
"Trevegne'd probably have the effrontery to invite Napoleon to sample some of Louis XVI’s finest brandy. Wasn't your family given a case from Versailles?"
"Well don't let Prinny know about it, or His Royal Highness will have it for himself," Lord Trevegne said among the laughter, and then added as an afterthought, "and, on the day Napoleon sits down to dine at Carlton House, I'll give everyone here a bottle of that very excellent brandy." A chorus of acceptances followed his offer, and other wagers of ridiculous notions were added to it.
"Well, I think a lot of this talk of invasion and smugglers is
a storm in a teacup," the Squire's voice filled the silence when the laughter had died down. "Can't be as many of them rascals smuggling about as people say–about as true as a traveler's tale. The way people talk you'd think everyone was a smuggler. Why, I might even be one," he laughed in disbelief at the absurdity of the idea.
"With your sense of direction you'd probably end up in Marseilles rather than Dover," someone predicted as uproarious laughter engulfed the table.
After that, the conversation changed as often as the many dishes that were brought in. If it had not been for the attentions of the Count and Alex, Elysia doubted whether she would have tasted anything, what with everyone choosing from the main platters of beef, veal and fish, covered in sauces and jellies, as soon as the creamy soups were finished and the plates taken away. Then side dishes of game birds and poultry, and dozens of vegetable dishes and salads were brought in, and the meal was finished off with spongy Genoese cakes with coffee filling and little chocolate soufflés. All this was accompanied with various wines for each course. The crystal goblets kept brimming, despite the guests' constant attention to emptying them.
Feeling quite satiated, Elysia retired from the Banqueting Hall with the other ladies, leaving the gentlemen to sit over their port and cigars.
Elysia accepted a small glass of Madeira and sat silently listening to the frivolous chatter of the women as they gossiped and giggled over juicy tidbits about their friends and, no doubt, about the latest hot item–herself. She felt isolated from the rest. They weren't really the type of people that her parents entertained. They seemed to be a raffish set of people–not the social elite of London, she thought shrewdly. She knew that Alex had only come to introduce her to these ladies and gentlemen from London—assured that the news would get back to London about her, and this time accurately–scotching any false rumors that might have spread about them. The Marquis seldom, if ever, socialized with the Squire and his set of hangers-on.
Elysia glanced about for Louisa, finding her held captive by a large matronly-looking woman on the far side of the room. Seeing Elysia's glance, Louisa sent her a smile, grimacing as she turned back to the garrulous woman wielding her lorgnette, like a rapier. Elysia drifted over to a display of porcelain, feigning an interest as she overheard a conversation between two flashily-dressed young women from London.
"Can you imagine—a redhead! Not at all the fashion," said the young lady with her curly, blonde hair and china-doll features, and catching a reflection of her face in the mirror opposite, smiled smugly.
"I know, and such a surprise," her plump friend said, adding confidentially, "and we had been told to expect an announcement any day between the Marquis and Lady Woodley. Why, John said that no man could resist her—even Lord Trevegne."
"She must be absolutely seething," the blonde chuckled gleefully. "I mean after all, she'd been talking about these emeralds, and how well they'd look on her." She glanced at Elysia who was apparently absorbed by the porcelain figurines, and whispered grudgingly, "I must say, she does wear them well, what with her coloring and all."
"Lady Woodley must be as green as the emeralds with envy," the other added impudently as they laughed, casting a glance at Lady Woodley from behind their fluttering fans. .
Elysia moved off, swallowing a smile that became a thoughtful look as she cast a glance at Lady Woodley. So London .had been expecting a match between Alex and Lady Woodley? She now knew why the lovely Widow looked daggers at her–she had expected to become the next Marchioness. What had happened to cause Alex to leave her? Well, she would probably never know, yet she had the uncomfortable feeling that Lady Woodley was not one to lose gracefully, or indeed, to even admit defeat. She had an enemy in the dark-eyed widow.
"Im so sorry I've not been able to talk with you, Elysia," Louisa said, coming up softly to where Elysia stood alone.
"That's perfectly all right. You must entertain your guests, and I've been admiring these porcelains. It's quite a collection."
"Yes, Mama has a passion for them. I do not really mind talking with the guests, it is just that I do not know how to politely excuse myself when I want to get away.
"Please," Louisa said grasping Elysia's hand and pulling her along with her, "let me show you another display of Mama's–we can talk undisturbed in the library."
They left the room unobserved, and Louisa led Elysia to the library, where a large chiffonier stood, with Oriental vases and plates attractively placed. It was not as large a library as Westerly's, in fact, it offered very little reading matter. Most of the room was taken up with assorted displays–one of which was made up of ornately carved knives and rapiers. Elysia shivered and turned away.
"I am so glad that you and the Marquis came tonight, although I am sorry to know of Peter Trevegne's accident. I do hope he will be quite all right."
"Yes, he will recover. Dany, our housekeeper is magnificent, and has more skill than a doctor. Otherwise, I doubt that Alex would have considered coming tonight and leaving him."
"Yes, well . . . " Louisa's voice trailed off with indecision, hesitating whether or not to continue with what she wanted to say, a shy, worried look on her small face.
"What is it?" Elysia asked helpfully, aware that something was troubling Louisa.
"How do you know when you are in love?" she blurted out breathlessly, taking Elysia completely by surprise. This was hardly the question she would have expected from Louisa.
"Well, I-I don't really know." Elysia was forced to admit.
"But you must know. I mean, you've married Lord Trevegne. When did you realize you were in love with him?" Louisa asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy expression. “It must be wonderful to know your love is returned. I've watched the way the Marquis looks at you—why he was positively mad with jealousy at dinner, when the French Count was holding your hand and flirting with you. He constantly watches you when he thinks you are not watching him."
"He does?" Elysia asked in surprise. For she'd thought he had been fully occupied with Lady Woodley, who seemed unable to take a bite without asking his advice first-constantly placing her bejeweled fingers on his sleeve.
"Well?" Louisa persisted.
"Well what?" Elysia answered, her mind elsewhere.
"Well, when did you know you loved the Marquis? Or how did you know that it was true love?"
Elysia looked thoughtfully at Louisa's upturned face–expectantly awaiting an answer. How could she tell her that she didn't love Alex, that she knew nothing about love, that Alex didn't love her? Could she destroy Louisa's romantic dreams? Had she the right to tarnish them with her own bitterness? It was apparent that Louisa was very much in love and for the first time. She had once dreamt the same things as Louisa, but Elysia knew now that they were just an innocent and naive schoolgirl’s dreams.
"To me, love would be when you could no longer think of anyone else but the person you are in love with. You feel bereft when he is not around and giddy and nervous when he is. You want to please that person, make him happy. You feel jealous of others he might be with. But most important, is that you place his health, happiness, and welfare above your own—no sacrifice is too great to bear for him. You worry about him, fear for him," Elysia continued quickly, almost incoherently with the revelations to herself of her own feelings for Alex which had hidden until now, and were being reluctantly revealed to her. "Nothing must ever happen to him to take him away from you—or your world—or your very existence would be at an end."
Elysia stood silently, breathing hard as the truth emanated from her confused and troubled mind. She loved Alex, she repeated to herself in disbelief.
How could it have happened? She had despised him–hated him. She would have escaped from him had she been able. Now she would gladly lock the door to her prison and throwaway the key. When she had thought him injured, she had acted like a woman possessed, or a woman very much in love. The truth had been revealed then-but she had been too blind to see it. She thou
ght it had been desire-not love. She had believed that love could not exist for her.
She paled as she thought of Alex—what good did these feelings do her? They could only torture her, hers was an unrequited love. He desired her, yes, but he didn't care for her-at least not in the way she wanted to be loved by him. In all of their lovemaking, he had never said that he loved her. He had whispered endearments that had thrilled her, but never had he mentioned love. She was just one of his many women, the one he was currently fascinated with at the moment. He would soon tire of her, as he had done with Lady Woodley and so many other beautiful women. Could she bear to see him turn to another woman–go to London, and leave her at Westerly, alone? No, she could not stand that-but it would be even worse if he knew she loved him. How amusing for him—another broken heart! Elysia wondered if it had been her disdain and obvious dislike for him which had attracted him?—he, who had always received and expected admiration and capitulation to his advances, If she kept up her snow of ill–will towards him then possibly he would not tire of her—at least not yet, and she might succeed in capturing his love. But how could she pretend–when she had capitulated so completely to him, and now knew that she loved him beyond all reason. He was so astute–nothing escaped his golden eyes. Although some of the hostility had disappeared in their relationship–she still felt on shaky ground. It was more as if they had entered into an armed neutrality. They teased and traded sarcasms, but with an underlying edge of friendliness. They had entered into a new phase of their relationship-but it could very easily be shattered
Never would she allow Alex to know that she loved him, Elysia vowed to herself–never–unless he returned that love. She would not let herself be vulnerable to that kind of pain. She would play this game out to whatever its end–and by her own roles.
"Elysia. Elysia," Louisa was staring at her with concern. “Are you quite all right, you're pale. You are not feeling ill are you?"
"No, I'm quite well," Elysia answered dully. Or as well as can be expected with a broken heart, she thought despondently.
Devil's Desire Page 20