Jean-Marc stood. He stood so close they almost touched. She stared down at his booted feet and willed this to be over.
“Do you care for me at all?” he said.
She whispered, “yes,” and wished she were stronger, strong enough to deny him.
“And I care for you. We don’t know what the future may hold. I cannot make the promises you would like to hear, but I can offer myself to you as a companion. As a lover, Meg. I want to be the man who comes to you for comfort, and to comfort you. I will provide for Sibyl. I will give you a house. It will be yours and you will never want for anything again.”
She would not want for anything but respect—and a husband.
He walked around her, and she heard him go to the door and turn a key in the lock. “We cannot be disturbed,” he said. “And you will not leave me until you have admitted that you want what I offer.”
“I want you,” she said, and hugged herself. “I don’t want what you can offer me. Not things and money.”
“You want me?” He stood behind her and jerked her against him. “You shall have me. I will never want another woman as I want you.”
“As a ladybird? As a courtesan with lowly beginnings? As the one you escape to when you want someone other than the woman worthy to be your wife?”
Jean-Marc spun her around. Holding her wrist hard enough to hurt, he loomed over her. “Forgive me,” she said, fighting back tears. “I don’t want you to be angry.”
He loosed her wrist and raised her chin. “But you want me to marry you.”
Meg spread her fingers. “I know you can’t do that. Why would you be so cruel as to tell me I would think of such a thing?”
“You haven’t thought of such a thing?” His cold smile tore at her. “You are a woman. Women always think of such things.”
“Very well. Yes. Yes, I have thought of it. I have thought of you, and dreamed of you, and felt you when you were nowhere near. Everywhere I go, I see you. With everything that I am, I long to discover that I will never have to live without you. But I do not expect the impossible.”
He closed his eyes before he kissed her. The stark lines of his face showed how he struggled. The kiss was not harsh, as Meg expected. He didn’t crush her mouth with his, or attempt to force himself upon her.
Jean-Marc pressed her fingers and palms to his chest, covered and held them there. When his lips touched hers, it was with such lightness as the brush of a butterfly’s wings. His breathing was as labored as hers. With the tip of his tongue he opened her mouth, then pulled her upper lip gently between his teeth. Over and over again he kissed her so, each time more slowly than the time before.
Meg leaned on him, and Jean-Marc slowly drew back until he could look into her face. “Very well,” he said, his voice soft but cold, “you shall have what you want. Perhaps it is as well. You have helped me make up my mind on a difficult matter. I wasn’t certain I should take so bold a step as to offend my father in order to get my own way. You persuade me.”
She watched him speak but could not believe she understood him.
“As I have told you, I prefer England,” he said. “With you as my wife, I will be assured of remaining here. My father would never accept you. In time I will make my peace with him. We will wait until Désirée’s Season is over before announcing my intentions. Until then we should be discreet about our times together. Easily enough accomplished.”
If she attempted to speak, she would surely cry.
“Meg? Do you understand me?”
She nodded and raised her face to the ceiling. Tears ran across her temples to her hair.
His hands came to rest on her shoulders. With his forefingers he stroked her jaw. “What is it? What’s wrong? You have what you want. I have said I will marry you.”
If she relaxed the muscles in her limbs she would collapse.
“I will never understand women.”
“No,” she managed to say. “You never will.”
“Tell me how you think I have wronged you now?”
Meg laughed. She put three fingertips to his mouth. “Thank you for your offer. You mean well. I should even like to accept, but I could not watch you come to hate me. And you would hate me soon enough.”
Gradually his features sharpened. He raised his brows and uttered an oath. “Meg,” he said. “Meg, I am a fool. I have never asked a woman to marry me before. I did it badly.”
“You were honest. Marrying me isn’t what you planned, but it might help you achieve the ends you want with your father. And you do enjoy me.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I care about you.”
“I think you do. And I care about you. But we cannot possibly marry.”
“Meg—”
“No. I am honored, but I must refuse.”
He made to take her in his arms, but when she pushed him away he didn’t persist. “You intend never to be with me again?” he asked. “Because I was clumsy in announcing my intentions, you will deny me?”
Meg walked away and unlocked the door. “I said I will not marry you. I didn’t say I refuse your other offer—yet.”
26
Spivey here.
Be grateful you are not at the mercy of creatures that sense any movement in the dark. One or two members of the new company I keep have taken pleasure in speaking of feline second sight, particularly, they say, when a ghost is clumsy enough to capture the creature’s attention. Piffle! I am not clumsy, or inept—another insult that has been hurled at me. That clawed monster felt my presence…. No…No, surely that cannot be what those noddy cocks spoke of. Can it? Is it possible that cats actually see those on the other side? My, my, I shall have to keep a sharp eye open to avoid future attacks.
To think of it. Only with the utmost difficulty am I able to pass through a closed door, yet a cat manages the feat without effort. Could it be…yes, that’s it, I have something back to front. I am actually drawing things to me—like the wild animal posing as a domesticated pet at Number Seventeen. Dash it all.
I am severely wounded, you know. Of course I was heroic under fire, as it were. But the animal bit me, actually bit and scratched me.
I have to go now. The business with Lady Upworth shocks me, but if it’s the Count she wants, that would be most exceedingly useful. The most pressing task is to change Miss Sibyl Smiles’s mind about that admirable fellow, William Godly-Smythe. To that end, the unspeakable Ash woman must carry out an essential mission for me. Oh, how I detest the thought of working with her again.
I should prefer not to consider the other Smiles girl at all. Shame, shame, say I. Such wanton behavior on the part of a clergyman’s daughter…. Well, enough of that subject. After all, why should I concern myself with her?
Good day to you. Don’t smile like that. You think you have outwitted me, don’t you? You will have to learn a great deal more about covert behavior if you are to best me. No matter, continue to ignore my warnings. Toss your pure thoughts to the wind. Sneak into temples of depravity where the debauched cavort, and take your pleasure in sly observation. Peep away, and on your own heads be it.
27
Rows of ornate gold chairs upholstered in deep blue velvet covered the small ballroom floor. There had been much discussion as to the wisdom of using the large ballroom on the third story instead, but Meg had persuaded Jean-Marc that if some guests were rude enough to talk, those at the back of that room would have difficulty hearing the performers.
She had been right, he decided, particularly since more guests seemed engaged in preening and looking to see who observed them, and in laughing and flirting, than in listening to the music.
Where was she?
“My Lord,” Verbeux said, appearing unexpectedly. “You have a success on your hands. That will stand you in good stead. All of London will talk about this evening.”
“Will they?” Jean-Marc looked sideways at Verbeux, who wore white robes and a wreath of green leaves about his head. “For God’s sake, man, who are you suppose
d to be?”
Verbeux smirked and said, “Caesar—on a visit to parts east, of course.”
“Caesar? Damn, I wish I’d thought of something like that. I feel the fool in this—this thing.”
“May I say you look exceedingly handsome as desert chieftain, My Lord? Or are you a slave trader on the hunt for stock?”
Jean-Marc continued to search the room for Meg. “Your fellow, Pierre whatever, seems a great deal more in evidence than used to be the case. He is never far behind you.”
“It’s important for him to become more sure of himself.”
Verbeux didn’t look in Pierre’s direction. “He continues to apologize for his blunder. I take it Miss Smiles’s hand is fully recovered?”
“I wouldn’t know. She still wears a bandage but doesn’t mention any pain. Can’t say I care for your Pierre. Obsequious fellow.”
“He’s young,” Verbeux said, sparing the briefest of glances for Pierre in his costume of some wandering camp player. “Don’t give him another thought.”
“Go and find someone to peel you a grape, Verbeux, there’s a good man. And arrange for half of the floor to be cleared of chairs. Some seem determined to dance.”
Verbeux bowed and withdrew with his shadow following along. Young Pierre might be, but now he no longer feared retribution, he carried himself with a straight back and was every inch the fit young blade.
The very accomplished pianist, together with a quartet of strings, played valiantly on, and the babble rose to an overwhelming pitch. The costumes were brilliant. Myriad silks and plumes, lustrous velvets, gems winking beneath the crystal chandeliers and swirls of diaphanous stuff of every color whirling about comely limbs. Sheiks and mandarins hobnobbed with members of desert tribes, while harem girls, many of whom had not been girls for a considerable time, enjoyed throwing themselves into their roles. Flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes attested to the triumph of the event. Flunkies dressed as Egyptian palace slaves passed among the throng carrying silver trays heaped with delicacies. Drink, strong and otherwise, flowed.
Ila came toward him. Another harem girl, but what a harem girl. She smiled, sadly he thought. A beauty in daringly sheer scarlet gauze that revealed the outline of her limbs with every step. Her bodice was also of gauze, and some abbreviated garment that barely covered her breasts showed through. Gold bangles ringed her arms and wrists, and gold coins tinkled at every hem of her costume.
When she stood before him, she tucked one pointed-toed gold slipper behind her and dropped into a deep curtsey.
“Charming,” Jean-Marc said, offering her his hand. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“No.”
He looked into her eyes and believed her. “Can I help, Ila? I had thought this would be an opportunity for you to meet old friends, and some new ones. You need to make another life. You told me so.”
“Did I?” She averted her face. “I suppose I must have. How simplistic of me. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done—to be a widow alone at such a gathering.”
“You are a member of my household.”
“You tolerate me and offer me refuge. But forgive me. I must not sound ungrateful when I owe you so much.”
This was not the Ila he knew. “You are changed,” he told her. “Come now, show that pretty smile and look around you. Men cannot take their eyes off you. You have only to give the nod and suitors will be pounding at our doors.”
“You are no longer one of those men you speak of,” she said, her voice flat. “You were, and not so long ago, but you no longer find me inviting.”
“Come with me,” he said, “Allow me to introduce you to some people from Mont Nuages.” He could not be drawn into a discussion of their dead affair, not here and now, perhaps never.
“Jean-Marc, I am not interested in anyone here but you. I thought that if I stopped pursuing you and allowed you to come to me when you were ready, all would be well again. But it is not so. Tell me what has changed your feelings for me.”
He searched afresh but did not see either Désirée or Meg. “Little has changed,” he said. “Our relationship was never what you apparently believed it to be. I am surprised that you insist it was. At the time you did not seem involved other than in the pleasure we shared—physical pleasure.”
“We can have that again.”
“Please, I do not want to hurt you—but neither will I say what I don’t mean.”
Verbeux chose that moment to return. He looked from Jean-Marc to Ila and said, “A stroll about the house? Both of you? Find a quiet spot? They’ll think you’re there. Those who are there will think you’re somewhere else.”
Amazed at his valet’s interference, Jean-Marc said, “I am the host and cannot leave. But I think Lady Upworth is not quite herself and needs one of those quiet spots. Kindly take her there and see what you can do to make her comfortable.” With that he turned from them and began passing among his guests.
From her vantage point behind a marble column, Meg watched Jean-Marc. She had found a sketch of a desert chieftain and then copied it for the Count’s costume. Tall and straight, he wore dark robes that fell to his feet. Beneath a loose outer garment, he wore a tunic with a wide leather belt through which a curved dagger glimmered. Neutral bands of heavy cord bound a black headdress that swept away from his face and shoulders when he walked. He showed no sign of noticing the stir he made, or the jealous glances of men when women whispered and sighed behind their fans when the Count passed.
And this man found something desirable in her? She was a woman who did not pretend; she knew she was attractive, but not a beauty. So, the Count was a discerning man. He saw that her true worth shone from within. She was a prize! Ha. A sense of both humor and of the ridiculous was indeed a great gift, and she would need it in the weeks to come.
Seated beside Meg, Princess Désirée smiled as if the corners of her mouth were tied to her ears, and stubbornly behaved as if she didn’t understand a single word of English. One gentleman after another presented himself. The Princess smiled on and on and allowed her hand to be kissed. Once the hopeful one retreated, she surreptitiously wiped her hand in the voluminous folds of her pearl-studded pink net costume.
“Princess,” Meg hissed. “Your brother is coming this way.”
Yet another man approached, this one young, blond and possessed of his own smile. He bent over the Princess’s hand and looked up at her with bright blue eyes.
“And you are?” she asked with a wicked glance at Meg.
“Anthony FitzDurham, Your Highness. Of the Dorsetshire and Birnam FitzDurhams, but a sultan for tonight.” He ruefully indicated his full white pantaloons, braid-encrusted shirt and feathered turban. “You look delightful, if I may say so, Your Highness. Pink becomes you. Very clever how the costume is made so that you appear…” He flushed bright red and was clearly aghast at his gaffe.
Princess Désirée patted the chair beside her until he collected himself enough to sit down. She leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. Meg observed how at first he frowned, then widened his eyes and, finally, laughed aloud.
This is what came of having someone with little experience of such things to watch over an eligible girl with a very naughty streak. Princess Désirée was unruly. It was Meg’s responsibility to direct and protect her.
“Your Highness,” she said. “A word, if you please.”
Her charge’s and Mr. FitzDurham’s heads remained unsuitably close.
“Princess Désirée?” Meg said.
“Yes, dear Meg?”
“Whispering is not appropriate.”
“Oh.” The Princess stopped smiling. “I didn’t think I should talk loudly about what a waste of time it is for me to wear a concubine costume that is supposed to make me alluring. All these bands, you see, where the silk under the net is rather the color of my skin—well, one is to think they are my skin, and—”
“You are not dressed as a concubine,” Meg said, vaguely certain that it was undesirable to be o
ne of those. “You are a dancing girl, and the costume is wonderful on you.”
“I should say so,” Mr. FitzDurham agreed.
“A concubine,” Princess Désirée insisted. “Although a concubine would have considerably more flesh beneath all this so-called skin, wouldn’t she? There would be curves here and here—and here, and perhaps here.” The mischievous girl undulated her hands over various parts of her person. “A concubine is no better than she should be. Did you know that, Mr. FitzDurham?”
Meg cast her eyes toward the ceiling and registered that a desert chieftain stood before her. She looked at his face through the space in her draping silver yashmak.
“There you are,” he said, and dropped his voice. “One could say we dressed each other. I understand you are responsible for this nonsense of mine. I choose to brag about your costume. You shimmer with every move, Meg, but then, you always do.”
She said, “Thank you.” He should not have the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.
“Perhaps I made a mistake,” Jean-Marc said. “You are far too eye-catching this evening. I don’t like to think of other men looking at you.”
“I doubt they are, but perhaps in future you will allow me to see to my own clothing. I wore this to please you, or rather to avoid offending you. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He had maneuvered her until she was almost out of sight of any other soul but him. “Don’t thank me.” He rested a forearm on the pillar beside them. “I thought you would enjoy something very different to wear when you do whatever it is you do. Your abstraction. This—” he touched the crystal pin that fastened the lower half of the yashmak at her temple “—this can be moved when you wish to cover your eyes.”
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” The hubbub in the ballroom seemed suddenly distant.
“I would rather you never covered your eyes. At least they give me some chance of guessing at your thoughts.”
Meg opened her fan and moved the warm air across her face. She leaned to see Princess Désirée.
All Smiles Page 29