Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  Aunt Gabrielle’s eyes took on a dreamy, unfocused appearance, as if she remembered an experience of her own with a rake, in her youth. “Opera dancers and the demi-monde, my dear. the world Mademoiselle Garnier inhabits if you like.” Failing to make it any clearer, she kissed Henrietta’s cheek. “Go to bed, it’s very late, and tomorrow you must practice your curtsy while wearing a hoop skirt.”

  Her aunt disappeared into her chamber at the end of the corridor where her dogs waited. Henrietta had only the vaguest notion what that world might be like, but it was most intriguing. A more colorful world perhaps than the mannered and polite world of the ton. Mademoiselle Garnier came from that world that Christian obviously preferred.

  She suspected Aunt Gabrielle had meant to warn her, but her usually sagacious aunt had erred. She had made Mr. Hartley seem even more attractive. A man of mystery.

  Henrietta sauntered into her chamber, remembering Hartley’s smile and the teasing laughter in his eyes. His blue-gray eyes. She was barely aware of Molly helping her prepare for bed. Christian wasn’t conventionally handsome. His intelligent face was narrow, with sharply defined cheekbones and chiseled jaw. But there was something commanding about him that made her heart flutter madly.

  It was likely they would meet again, he seemed certain of it. And, for some reason, she suspected he was seldom wrong.

  * * *

  Verity traveled alone to her hotel in the hired carriage. She had received many invitations tonight, to the horse races, dinner, and parties, plus a few suggestions of something more intimate. It seemed that here in England, doors were opened for actresses where a bourgeois Frenchwoman could not go. She was a novelty, she supposed. Fate had thrown Lord Beaumont right at her feet. When she gazed into his steady brown eyes, she felt the pull of attraction, mutual she was sure. Something told her he might not be a man she might manipulate easily. She sighed and stared out at the dark London streets that were quieter than those in Paris.

  She curled her fingers around her painted fan determined to remain focused on the reason she came to London. Danton had promised to release her father from prison if she brought the viscount back with her to France, and the success of the venture hinged on her taking Beaumont into her bed. An act which would cheapen her and turn her into the kind of woman she’d never wanted to be. Women were born with the knowledge of how to seduce a man. She must offer him the apple as Eve did Adam. But it would take more than a seduction to lure such a man to France. She would have to be clever.

  It began to drizzle, a mist swirling around the carriage, the air murky and damp. She snapped open her fan. If the plan succeeded, she would no longer go unblemished to her marriage bed. What would the future hold for her? Years spent in the theater moving from one lover to the next? She fanned herself vigorously. She had never wished for that. Father would be crushed to know she’d been forced to become a courtesan after his defiant actions led to his arrest. He had nurtured her so carefully, ensuring she was as well-educated as any of the male students at the Sorbonne. But the world had changed. A French woman from a respectable home no longer expected the old courtesies to apply to her. It was hard enough to just stay alive.

  The carriage pulled up at the hotel, and she snapped her fan shut. These fearful thoughts would not deter her from her aim.

  “Please have a bottle of iced champagne sent to my chamber, sil vou plaît.” She cast the porter a grateful glance from under her lashes, and he bent absurdly low from the waist. With the flicker of a smile she climbed the stairs. Exhausted, she doubted she would sleep tonight.

  ***

  Henrietta’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since breakfast, and she had been far too nervous to eat luncheon. Sponsored by her aunt, she waited in the Presentation Drawing Room of St. James’s Palace to be announced by the Lord Chamberlain. She fiddled with her long white gloves, uncomfortable in the embroidered, high-waisted white gown with its awkward wide hoop. It was difficult to hold one’s head up with the headdress of ostrich feathers. She had been made to stand for hours, for no one sat in the queen’s presence. When her turn came at last, she managed her deep curtsy to the queen quite respectably and answered

  her brief questions. She then had to back away without turning. It proved

  appallingly difficult to achieve this with any semblance of grace while carrying the long train over her arm.

  When she walked into the ante chamber where society gathered, her father gave her an encouraging wink and came to kiss her cheek. “You look every bit as beautiful as your mother on our wedding day,” he whispered in her ear.

  She doubted it, but her heart gave a skip of pleasure. Her mother had been just eighteen when she married her father, and it was Henrietta’s eighteenth birthday next week.

  “You are now a candidate in the marriage mart,” Aunt Gabrielle informed her, her dark eyes shining. “I hope it proves to be the beginning of a wonderful life.”

  Henrietta scanned the crowded rooms for a sight of Mr. Hartley and was relieved not to find him there, for she didn’t look her best in this dreadful gown.

  She doubted he was in the market for a wife, anyway.

  “Well, now that’s over,” Aunt Gabrielle said briskly, “Let us enjoy the Season and find Henrietta the most handsome and gallant of husbands.”

  Henrietta laughed. “Oh, yes, let’s.” But her thoughts returned to Christian Hartley.

  * * *

  Verity took her final curtsy to applause which equaled that of Mrs. Siddens, and the curtain banged down. It had gone well tonight. She entered her dressing room where her dresser waited.

  “I heard the ovation, mademoiselle,” Madame Tornet said, taking Verity’s cape.

  “Yes, but I’m not sure Mrs. Siddens was pleased. She would prefer to be playing Ophelia, even though Gertrude’s part is much larger.” Verity stepped behind a screen to remove the filmy white gown. She pulled on a silk wrap and sat down in front of the mirror to remove her stage makeup.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Madame Tornet went to answer it. Lord Beaumont stood in the doorway, hat in hand, dressed in understated evening clothes, his unpowdered dark brown hair tied at his nape with a thin black velvet ribbon.

  Verity’s breathing turned rapid and shallow. “Where is your pretty daughter, Lord Beaumont?”

  He bowed over her hand. “Henrietta sends her apologies. She is attending Almack’s tonight. It is her debut.”

  “Perhaps you should have accompanied her.”

  “She has her aunt, and once the young swains discover her, she won’t notice I’m not there. I enjoyed the play immensely. Although all the cast were excellent, you, mademoiselle, were superb.”

  “Praise indeed, considering Sarah Siddens is in the play,” she said dryly. “I thank you, kind sir.” Verity laughed and motioned to a chair. “Would you please wait? I have not yet dressed.” She gazed provocatively into his appreciative brown eyes and fingered the thin silk barely concealing her chemise and stays. “I am thrilled that you came.”

  “I am delighted I assure you.” His gaze rested for a moment on her hand where she held it at her bosom. When he met her eyes, his were hot and dark, making her shiver with anticipation.

  She stepped behind the painted screen, and with Madame Tornet’s assistance, slipped into a lilac-colored Italian silk gown.

  When she emerged, Lord Beaumont had declined to sit and leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, imposing in his tall black hat and silk evening cape. He straightened. “I shall not keep you above a minute, mademoiselle. I wished only to pay my respects.”

  Verity made a moue with her lips. “Oh, but you must accompany me to supper. I insist on it.”

  He nodded toward the door. “There are many awaiting that privilege. I can hardly claim that honor for myself.”

  “It is I who choose the man to escort me, Lord Beaumont. And I choose you.”

  He smiled. “I’m flattered.”

  “They all go to the Gun
Tavern, so we shall go to the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. Do you agree?” She laughed. “If you will please wait outside, I shan’t be but a moment.”

  Verity rushed through her toilet, adding a touch of lip rouge and powder with her haresfoot. She placed a tiny black patch high on her cheekbone and another at the corner of her mouth. Madame Tornet brushed her long hair, left au naturel for the performance, and fashioned it into a high roll with a ringlet resting upon Verity’s shoulder. She tucked fake violets into the creation. Verity added diamonds to her décolleté and ears, paste, but such an excellent imitation. She donned her swan’s down trimmed cape, preparing to play the part of her life, as the seductress.

  Mohammed had come to the mountain. The rush of excitement was overwhelmed by the ever-present sense of desperation. She must not fail.

  Out in the corridor, Lord Beaumont stood alone. “Your devotees have gone on ahead to the Gun Tavern.”

  “Then we have fooled them, have we not?” she said with a light laugh. She met his honeyed gaze. “My apartments are at the Pulteney.” Her luxurious suite at the Pulteney Hotel was the perfect setting for a seduction. Better than Grenier’s Hotel where the rest of the troupe mingled with French émigrés, who wouldn’t give them a moment’s privacy.

  His gaze travelled over her hair and then into her eyes. “Your eyes are the same color as those flowers in your hair, mademoiselle.”

  “A remarkable coincidence, my lord,” Verity said.

  He laughed and offered her his arm.

  They dined in the hotel dining room. Soft candlelight played across his features as they talked, his eyes filled with frank admiration.

  “Do you miss your home?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I no longer have a real home to miss.”

  He reached across and took her hand. “Tell me?”

  She swallowed. “I’d rather not.” She didn’t want his sympathy; it distracted her from her purpose. And yet, his warm brown eyes invited her to reveal all, and she found it surprisingly difficult to resist.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He still held her hand, and when his thumb stroked the sensitive skin at her wrist, her pulse galloped.

  Verity smiled and withdrew her hand. “You haven’t. I’m delighted to be here in London, in such charming company.”

  With an answering smile, he raised his glass in a silent toast.

  She smiled. This was business she reminded herself. But couldn’t business be combined with pleasure?

  “Care for an oyster, mademoiselle?”

  She screwed up her nose. “I’ve never eaten them, they look unappealing.”

  He popped one in his mouth. “They taste of the sea, delicious.” He laughed at her expression. “Go on, be brave, try one.” He squeezed lemon over the shell and held the oyster out to her on a tiny silver spoon.

  Verity held his wrist, aware of the strength of him and the dark hair tickling her skin. It did smell of the sea. Soft and smooth, the oyster slipped down her throat. “Odd, but not unpleasant.”

  “They are known to be an aphrodisiac.” His brown eyes smiled into hers. “Like silky flesh upon the tongue.”

  It was a perfect description. She raised her eyebrows and shifted in her seat as her nether regions warmed. Was it the oyster?

  They drank another bottle of champagne, as they picked at the light meal. The wine relaxed her, made her bolder. Beaumont talked of his daughter, and his country estate, the needs of his tenant farmers and his fine stable of horses. She thought him a good man, mannered and gentle. He did not attempt to pry into her life, perhaps sensing she didn’t want him to. Strangely, she found liking him made what she must do more difficult. So much easier to manipulate and lie to a scoundrel.

  He escorted her to the door of her suite. “Thank you for a delightful evening.”

  “The evening need not end here.” She placed a hand on his chest, moving over hard muscle. His heart beat fast, like her own. “Will you come in?” Not waiting for his answer, she opened the door and walked inside, dropping her cape onto a chair.

  He followed her in. The room became more intimate and smaller with him standing there, so tall and broad-shouldered. All her senses alert, she breathed in the heady perfume from a vase of roses on the table. Candlelight and the blazing fire, lit in advance of her arrival, painted a seductive glow over the satin and brocade furnishings.

  Beaumont shut the door behind him then stood, studying her. She should say or do something accomplished, light-hearted, and playful, but instead she put a hand to her mouth to hide her trembling lips and fought to overcome her reluctance to betray him. She liked this man.

  As if sensing her inner turmoil, he came and barely brushed his hands over her shoulders and arms. His touch made her shiver. “Champagne?” She motioned to the table where the chilled bottle and crystal glasses stood ready.

  “Haven’t we had enough?” He caught her arm, turning her back to face him. “You are the most beautiful woman I have seen in an age.” His brown eyes glowed with sensual warmth. “I’m sure you’ve heard it said many times.” His hands slid to her waist and drew her closer, his voice husky. “But I wish to tell you, again, and again.”

  A jolt of electricity at his touch stunned her into silence. Verity’s experience of men was somewhat limited. Jacques’ brutish attack on her had scared her. Beaumont was a lord of the realm, born and bred to manage his fortune and estates; that was evident in his manner. But he appeared to be a reasonable man. She prayed he was.

  He cradled her face in his hands and sought her lips, kissing her gently as their breaths mingled. His mouth moved over hers. He tasted of sweet champagne, and salty seafood. She breathed in his clean male scent and a beguiling hint of Bergamot. He held her loosely within the circle of his arms, making her fears decrease. His kisses teased, then grew more insistent. When his tongue explored her mouth, she tensed. He drew away to gaze deeply into her eyes. “You want this?”

  She nodded, now certain that she did. She trusted him. Beaumont was no brute and would not hurt her. Would it be she who hurt him? It would not be easy to carry out her mission. But if she failed, her father would die. She must not forget that for a moment.

  Chapter Five

  Beaumont made no move toward her luxurious bed in the next room. Before the fire, he knelt to remove her shoes while she balanced, a hand on his strong shoulder. Verity must make him believe she’d taken other lovers into her bed. Then perhaps he wouldn’t discover the truth. Some of her actress friends had boasted they’d fooled their lovers into believing they were the first. Perhaps the reverse could also be true.

  His skilled hands as he undressed her banished her nerves. Curiosity and an unfamiliar yearning to be close to him emboldened her. She pulled the ribbon from his hair, running the silken strands through her fingers. She wanted to know more of this man.

  He rose and smoothed back his deep brown locks with a careless hand. The firelight threw his face into relief, high cheekbones, strong brows, and chiseled jaw. His expression was intense, and his actions deliberate. He threw his waistcoat onto the chair, freed his cravat, and tossed it down with a smile. “To undress a pretty woman is like opening the best present a man ever received.”

  Her laugh released the coil of tension in her body. She was an actress, wasn’t she? She could put on a satisfactory performance.

  “Such a pretty wrapping, but the present beneath is exquisite.” As he unfastened her bodice, she wondered how many women he had undressed.

  There was a heated silence, only the crackle of the fire, and the clunk the gilt clock on the mantel. He assisted her to step out of her gown and petticoats which had pooled at her feet. While still in her shift and stays, he cradled her face again and eased her lips apart with his tongue. He gathered her close. His mouth sought and demanded a response and she gave it, the erotic play rending her weak, his quickened breath on her cheek. He dropped a kiss onto her breast where it peeped from the top of her stays before untying t
he strings.

  She should do something. Was her inexperience obvious to him? Oh, but she did want him to continue, more with every delicious moment that passed. His big hands roamed her body, stirring a throb of heat and need. She slipped a hand through the opening in his shirt in cautious exploration, and grew fascinated at the contrast of hard muscle and bone, beneath smooth olive skin. He made a deep sound in his throat when she touched his small brown nipples.

  Her stays gone; she stood in her shift as he knelt and gave his attention to her stockings. His fingers sent tingles along her nerve endings. Verity had never experienced anything so intensely pleasurable. She shivered at the erotic sensation of her ribbon garters falling away and his hands on her skin, peeling her stockings down her legs.

  “Your skin is so soft, Verity,” he murmured. He stroked her bare leg, the lightest of caresses as he fingers roamed over her thigh to that sensitive place between her legs. It was so arousing her knees buckled, and she sought to steady herself with a hand on his shoulder. As his fingers worked magic, she lost all sense of herself.

  He turned his attention to removing the rest of her clothing. Embarrassed, she avoided his gaze obediently lifting her arms as he removed her shift. He tossed it on the chair and his gaze roamed over her as she stood before him naked.

  “You are exquisite.” His voice more like a growl sent a shiver through her.

  Absurdly shy, Verity smiled into his dark eyes finding raw passion. She trembled and exalted in her womanly power, became emboldened, and peeled away his loose cravat. She tugged at his shirt. “Allow me to undress you.”

  He grinned and cocked his head. “I believe you’ve already begun.” Once his shirt had gone, she became distracted by the broad expanse of naked chest. She fumbled at the buttons of his breeches, chewing her lip. A man’s clothing was so different to hers. She refused to meet his gaze as the desire to giggle nervously almost overtook her. Why had she said she would do this? She busied herself, aware of his manhood straining beneath her hands.