Duel of Hearts

by Anita Mills

  “Unnnnhhhhh?”

  To her horror, Tony Barsett turned in his sleep and clasped a shirt-sleeved arm across her lap, cradling his head against her hip. She clutched a corner of the coverlet to her chin and leaned to wake him.

  “My lord . . .”

  For answer, he snuggled closer and rubbed his beard- roughened cheek against her thigh in his sleep. His tousled hair was oddly appealing, so much so that she actually had to fight the urge to touch it. Instead, her gaze traveled downward to where his tall body sprawled at an angle, taking all of the length and much of the width of the bed. He looked larger lying there than he did standing, and his wrinkled shirt spanned broad and definitely masculine shoulders. No, Viscount Lyndon was no effete gentleman despite the perfect cut of his clothes. And viewed from above, he had quite long legs, with well- muscled thighs and calves that were defined by the narrow, fitted cut of his trousers above his stockinged feet.

  Seeking to disentangle more of the covers before she attempted again to wake him, she eased the knot of bed clothes from beneath his head and moved her leg away from his embrace. He rolled backward and then turned again on his side, resting his cheek this time almost where her hand pulled at the blankets. She could feel the softness of his breath against her skin, and it sent a shiver up her arm.

  “My lord.”

  There was a faint rigidity, as though she’d penetrated his consciousness, and then his breathing struck up its even cadence again. For a moment she considered just rising, but she would be certain to wake him when she was least covered.

  “My lord!”

  She winced from the loudness of her own voice, and still he did not respond. She was about to give up and get up anyway when she detected the slight flutter of an eyelid. He was shamming now, she was positive. Clutching her coverlet tightly with one hand, she reached quickly with the other, grasped a handful of the thick blond waves, and pulled hard.

  He came fully awake with a start. “What the devil . . . ?” he gasped, rubbing his head. “You had no call—”

  “Get up and leave this room instantly!”

  The answering ire in his blue eyes gave her pause and she shrank back against her pillows, muttering defensively, “Well, you have no business being here.”

  “I could scarce go anywhere else,” he snapped irritably as he sat up and passed a hand over the stubble of his beard. “Unless, of course, you would wish me to jump overboard.”

  “I do not care precisely where you go—just go. But it was all of a piece, was it not—the wine . . . everything? You thought to compromise me,” she accused. As her voice rose, the throbbing in her temples sharpened to acute pain and she dropped the coverlet to press the heels of her palms against the sides of her head.

  He stared where the cover fell away, and his own anger faded. “Got a devil of a head, don’t you?” he sympathized.

  “Just go away! Ohhhhhh . . .” Falling back against her pillows, she closed her eyes against the ache that seemed to reverberate from temple to temple. “I shall never taste that foul stuff again.”

  Reluctantly he eased off the bed and stood to comb his hair with his fingers. “You are merely dog-bit, my dear, and therefore overset.” Turning to pour some water from a pitcher over a washing cloth, he wrung out the excess and proceeded to fold the square. “Here.” Leaning over her, he laid it across her forehead.

  She clasped the cool cloth to her head and groaned. “I am never ill. I don’t …”

  “Poor Leah. I’d give you a few drops of laudanum if I had any, but I daresay that might upset your stomach.”

  “Where’s Jeanne?”

  “Asleep, I should think. You were so tired when we boarded that we could not rouse you, and we did not get you into your nightdress before two o’clock.”

  “We?” Her color heightened beneath the cloth at the thought that crossed her mind.

  “Yes,” he answered conversationally as he opened his traveling case and rummaged through the neatly folded articles in search of his flask. “Jeanne and Blair arrived while we dined, so all was in readiness. When I could not wake you sufficiently to walk, I carried you aboard and laid you on that settee, thinking you would rouse later for bed. Finally I could see that your maid was tired herself, so between us we managed to wrestle you into your rail. ‘Twas not an easy task either, for you had all the animation of a grain sack. Here . . .”He found the silver bottle and unscrewed the lid to pour the liquid into it. “ ‘Tisn’t Madeira, but ‘twill have to suffice.”

  “You looked at me!” she choked. “How dare you! You compromised me!”

  “I did no such thing, Leah. For one thing, one cannot compromise one’s wife, and for another, there’s not much lascivious leering at an unconscious female in the presence of her maid.” Carefully carrying the full lid to the bedside, he leaned over her. “Can you sit, do you think?”

  “For what?” she asked suspiciously, still mortified by the thought that he’d seen her unclothed.

  “Brandy.”

  “You were not supposed . . . you promised you would not—and I will not be drugged with drink again!”

  “Do not be ridiculous, my dear. As you can see if you would open your eyes again, I am clothed except for my coat and my shoes, and so I have been all night. Indeed,” he added with a wry grin, “I’d thought to be noble and sleep on the settee myself, but the prospect paled after an hour of trying to fold my body to fit it. And I knew you were in no condition to mind if I shared one side of the bed, after all.” Balancing the brandy, he reached the other hand to her. “Come on—’twill ease you.”

  “How do you know?” she muttered, struggling up while clutching both cover and cloth. “Lud, but I cannot stand this—I am never ill,” she complained miserably.

  “What you need is a hair of the dog that bit you. ‘Tis a saying far older than I, but I am told that it does help. As for myself, I have not given myself a bad head since Oxford—the trick seems to be that one should eat before one imbibes drink.”

  Sitting down beside her, he held the bottle cap to her lips and tipped it when she sipped. She choked as the liquid hit the back of her throat and she was seized by a paroxysm of coughing. Tears came to her eyes while he pounded her back. “Devil of a way to begin a wedding trip, isn’t it? But you’ll be better in an hour or so and we can debark.”

  “I shall never recover,” she retorted.

  “Aye, you will. Lie back down for a few minutes whilst I am gone, and I will send Jeanne to you. ’Tis cramped and I must be shaved also, so you cannot stay abed all day.” Rising, he went to replace the top of his flask. “I think I shall breathe the salt air to refresh me, as I have never favored close places.” He searched for his shoes and leaned down to slip the polished highlows on. “Try to rest, my dear.”

  She watched him warily until he reached the door. “Do not think for one moment that I do not know what you attempted, my lord, and I will not share a chamber with you again,” she announced flatly.

  He paused, his hand on the door latch. “You mistake the matter then, Leah, for the intent was not mine. Your father booked but one room for us.”

  “Oh.” Mollified, she lay back to ease the pounding in her head, hoping it was the effects of the wine that made her somehow disappointed. Either that or there was something totally perverse about a female who wanted to be wanted by a man she did not herself want. Turning over gingerly, she faced the wall and closed her eyes, remembering how he’d looked lying beside her.

  “Madame?”

  Leah awoke to find Jeanne peering over her shoulder, and for a moment she wondered whom the little maid addressed. And then it sank in. She was Viscountess Lyndon now, a married lady wed to Anthony Barsett. Her head still ached, but with less intensity than before, and she was hungry, a certain indication that she meant to survive.

  “Lud, Jeanne, I must have gone back to sleep.”

  “Well, as we are in Boulogne, madame, Lord Lyndon bade me wake y
ou.” Moving briskly to throw open a trunk, she lifted a sea-green walking dress and unwrapped it from the tissues, shaking the folds from its skirt and holding it up speculatively. “This will do, I think.”

  “Where is . . . where is Lyndon now?” Leah asked.

  “Well, he would not disturb you, and so Mr. Blair shaves him in his berth, I believe. He is so very kind,” Jeanne ventured appreciatively.

  “Who? Blair or Lyndon?”

  “Blair? Bah—what a dour person! Mais non, ’twas the viscount I meant.”

  “Did . . . did he undress me last night?” Leah had to know.

  “Well . . .” The little maid bustled about, selecting a zona, petticoat, and stockings. “He told me to do it, of course, but you were so … so very sleepy, madame, that I could not do it. So,” she explained with a philosophical shrug, “I asked for assistance.”

  “I was disguised, Jeanne.”

  “Oui, but he was most helpful. He stood you up, holding you from behind, and I did the rest.” Her dark eyes met Leah’s impishly. “I did not think it improper—he is your husband, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I don’t know what he is,” Leah grumbled, and then caught herself. It was, after all, highly improper to discuss one’s thoughts with one’s maid. Sliding off the bed, she padded to the washstand and wrung out the cloth Lyndon had left on her head. “I do know one thing, Jeanne: I shall never have any Madeira again. The stuff is positively poisonous.”

  They were interrupted by several sharp raps on the closed door. “I can give you ten minutes,” Tony called through. “After that, I shall have to come in and dress myself. The captain is quite determined to discharge his passengers before noon.”

  “Noon? It cannot be . . . that is, we have not eaten!”

  “We’ll breakfast onshore and rent a carriage for the journey to Paris,” he answered.

  Afraid that he might enter despite his words, Leah stripped her nightrail and fairly dived into her clothing, muttering, “Ten minutes—who does he think he is?”

  Jeanne pulled the skirt of Leah’s gown down over her snowy petticoat and busied herself at setting the toilette to rights. “I believe he thinks he is your husband, madame.”

  21

  The accommodations Tony found for them in Paris were exceptional, a hotel in the Rue de Clichy favored by Lady Oxford, where the rooms were spacious and the atmosphere gracious. As news of their arrival spread amongst the English who’d descended on the city in droves ever since the autumn of 1814, invitations arrived for more receptions and assemblies than it was possible to attend during a two-week visit. And if the ton had been less than enthusiastic about Leah in London, those members in Paris did not seem to know of it.

  The city glittered with gaiety, affording her with amusements she’d only heard of as Tony escorted her to the opera, lavish dinners, and a ball at the British embassy. She gawked at the old Bourbon palace of the Tuileries, the wonderful artworks plundered by Napoleon for the Louvre, Bonaparte’s private apartments at St. Cloud; she walked the wide boulevards admiring the emperor’s victory monuments, she dined on food prepared by one of Bonaparte’s chefs at the Rocher de Cancalle and at the exclusive Beauvilliers until she was ready to seek the English cuisine at the Café des Anglais on, of all places, the Boulevard des Italiens. Within three days of their arrival in the French capital, Lyndon’s lady had been pronounced a social success, a Diamond of the First Water, an Original, so much so that Tony teased her that he was merely “the man fortunate enough to have escorted the Incomparable Lady Lyndon to Paris.” And it was obvious by both the warmth and tone of his voice that he was inordinately proud of her.

  Through it all, Tony Barsett exercised considerable patience and charm, standing in lines, walking block after block as she read the guidebooks to him, listening to her gasp in awe at Marie Antoinette’s gardens, and escorting her to the seemingly endless round of parties. During the days and evenings, she was in perfect charity with him, sharing thoughts, laughing and teasing, and genuinely enjoying his company. But when it came time to seek their beds, she bade him good night outside her door, thanking him profusely for the day’s pleasures, and offering nothing more.

  By the end of the first week, by all outward appearances, they were a perfectly matched pair. And on a particularly pleasant morning, he dropped into a chair opposite hers at the small breakfast table and waited while she poured his coffee.

  “Well, my dear, is there any building, statue, or other work of art left that you have an express wish to see?”

  “Actually, I’d thought to stay in and let Jeanne try the cucumber paste recommended by the Comtesse d’Aubignon,” she answered blithely. “ ’Tis said to clarify dull complexions after excessive partygoing, you know, and I do so wish to be in looks for Lady Oxford’s little soiree. Unless, of course, I might persuade you to take me to the Palais Royal to the shops.”

  “The Palais Royal, my dear, is like the Dark Walk at Vauxhall even in daylight, complete with the demimonde advertising their wares rather openly.”

  “Well, I should still like to see it.”

  “I think perhaps you should try the cucumber paste.”

  “Tony!”

  “For your dull complexion.”

  “Tony!”

  “No.” Reaching for a sweet bun, he looked at her “with a particularly wicked gleam in his eyes. “I cannot think you really wish to see other females strutting about in altogether revealing gowns, displaying their bare . . . er, their bodies in the most vulgar manner, wearing more paste jewelry than clothing, and offering themselves to passing men. And if you tell me you wish to shop there, I’ll know that for a whisker, Leah.”

  “I never thought you so mean-spirited,” she retorted. “If I were not here, I’ve not a doubt but what you’d ogle them yourself.”

  “No. Despite what you appear to think of me, my dear, I am a trifle more fastidious in my liaisons. I do not disappear into bedchambers rented by the hour with just anyone.”

  Sighing soulfully, she pried her own roll apart and slathered butter on it. “There is nothing quite so staid as a reformed rake, I suppose.”

  “The cucumber paste was all a hum, wasn’t it?” He bit off a piece with a currant in it and chewed, watching her. “You really want to see that sort of thing? ’Tis rather sordid, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have heard that all Paris goes there, that ’tis not just the . . . those women that foreigners go to watch like some great fair.”

  “The best time to go is at night, Leah, and we are promised to Lady Oxford. But,” he added as her face fell, “there is nothing to say we must spend the entire evening with her. You must, of course, never tell your father I took you there.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “For someone who claims an inability to flirt, Lady Lyndon, you are mistress of the wheedle.”

  Dimpling in acknowledgment, she appeared to study the linen tablecloth before her. “I shall choose to take that as a compliment, I think.”

  “I ought to box your ears for impudence—but I shan’t. So now that you have had your way quite easily, what else is it that you wish to do today?”

  “Could we walk along the Seine?”

  “ ‘Tis dirty and inhabited by all manner of ruffians—find something else in your guidebook not likely to get us robbed or worse.”

  “But I thought we could see the open markets and buy bread and cheese and picnic beside the river.”

  “It stinks,” he announced baldly.

  “All of it?”

  “Leah . . . Leah. Just because you have seen nothing of the world does not mean you can wish to see everything, does it?”

  “Yes. Tony, if I am to see France, I should like to see it as the French do, and not spend my time with other English merely speaking of it.”

  “And will you hang on my arm and not wander off as you did at Notre Dame? I thought I’
d lost you forever there.”

  “I will positively clutch at you,” she promised solemnly.

  “Until the first time you see something you wish to inspect closely,” he muttered dryly. “You know, I ought to be clapped up for even considering it, but all right,” he relented. “Only the first time you fail to clutch, we are coming back for the cucumber paste.”

  It did not take her long to ready herself. Popping the rest of her roll in her mouth with the exuberance of a child, she washed it down with her cup of chocolate and was off in a trice to find her walking shoes. A slow smile spread across his face as he waited for her. She was an Original, all right, and her enthusiasm was infectious. He’d not thought it possible to relive his salad days, but in her company nothing bored him. If only her father’s health were good, he’d have taken her on the Grand Tour of Europe and shown her everything.

  They departed the hotel arm in arm and walked through the crowded, dirty streets, stopping to peer into shop windows, buying ices in paper cones, a bottle of wine, hot bread, a hunk of cheese, and on arriving on the riverbank, sitting to eat and drink in the shade cast by merchant stalls. The street above them was noisy, dusty, and teeming with people and animals, but Leah did not seem to mind. From time to time she broke off scraps of bread and tossed them at rangy dogs who scavenged behind the stalls.

  Wrinkling her nose against the stench of the water, she tucked her knees more decorously on her spread-out shawl and looked around. “I had always wondered why we English so admired the French, even during the war, you know,” she admitted. “It cannot be the dirt and poverty, for those are everywhere, and it cannot be the buildings, for London has splendid museums and palaces also.”

  “And it cannot be the people, for they are a rude lot,” Tony cut in, grinning at the way they’d been abused at the cheese stall when Leah refused to pay the first price asked.