“What matters, may I ask?” Lady Eleanore demanded arrogantly.
Nicole faltered for a moment. What matters, indeed? She would die before admitting to her cousin the fears she felt about Valentin. Her fear that the idol of her dreams would find her wanting. That he would not love her with the same desperate devotion as hers—a devotion born of years of romantic fantasies in which Valentin pursued her, wooed her, rescued her, ravished her, protected her and loved her again and again. It could not be just a marriage of convenience!
“I would prefer to see the Viscount before we proceed further,” Nicole replied with quiet determination.
Lady Eleanore recognized Nicole’s intransigence. “Very well. I will post a letter to my son in Vienna this very night. I had hoped to spare him any unnecessary inconvenience, but I see you are determined to present obstacles. Nevertheless, I must insist that you remain with us at Belmontaine so that the preliminary fittings can be made. Even you must realize that a trousseau is not assembled overnight.” Anger prodded the Viscountess to speak with unconcealed disdain.
Nicole bit back an angry rejoinder as Madame Lafitte grasped her elbow. Now that the gauntlet was flung between them, Nicole, repressed a tremor of fear. Perhaps she had gone too far. After all, her cousin was only engineering the accomplishment of Nicole’s dearest, deepest desire. What was she doing to be throwing obstacles in the way? She would marry Valentin tomorrow, were he to ask her. And even if he did not come to ask her, she would still marry him.
Lady Eleanore rang for the housekeeper. “Madame Dupré, please show my, guests to their rooms.” She turned to Nicole. “If you will follow Madame Dupré, she will see that your needs are cared for. You will find your boxes already unpacked. And now if you will excuse me, I will go write that letter.” She swept from the room just as grandly as she had entered minutes ago with Cecily trailing in her wake.
Once they reached Nicole’s bedroom, Madame Lafitte began to lecture her charge. Although the lady had voiced considerable criticism of the marriage and the bridegroom, she never doubted for a moment that. Nicole would or should marry Viscount Ardsmore. She had accepted it as a foregone conclusion. The marriage represented a heaven-sent opportunity for Nicole’s financial security. Madame Lafitte was conscience-stricken, that she might have contributed through foolish babble to Nicole’s possible rejection of this good fortune. But the girl proudly refused to listen to her.
Chapter II
A pale sunlight filtered into the breakfast room at the back of the house. There was a sideboard amply provided with eggs, ham and kidneys, but Nicole preferred the French custom of coffee and croissants for breakfast. Were it not for the cold winter light, the room surrounded by windows on three sides would be a cheerful retreat, providing, as it did, a charming view of the terrace and gardens to the rear of the house.
The bed chamber in which Nicole had just spent the night was a far cry from the homely little room of her girlhood in Beauvais. It was of immense proportions and luxurious appointments with blue satin paneling on the walls and matching velvet draperies at the tall windows. She had just bathed in comfortable warmth before a substantial fireplace and yet her temper was not that of one well pleased with her changed circumstances. Yesterday’s interview with her cousin still rankled, and Nicole was not in a mood for appreciating her sudden change in fortune.
As soon as Madame Lafitte entered the breakfast room, she resumed her attack on Nicole. She had to convince the girl to accommodate the Harcourts.
“Ma chère Nicole, let me speak to you as your own dear mama would…”
“That is hardly the right tactic to employ, madame, since it is my own dear mama who suffered most at the hands of the cruel Harcourt family.”
C’est vrai, but…”
“But nothing, Fifi. My father was forced to leave London because my mother was scorned for being a ballet dancer. Do you think I can forget that? At last fate has dealt a few trump cards to this side of the family, and I shall play them well. Let them squirm a little. Revenge can be sweet.”
“You sound bitter, Nicole.”
“Why shouldn’t I sound bitter?”
“You must forget the past, child, and think of the future. It could be rosy. Regard your changed circumstances, and furthermore, the young man who came to your papa’s funeral was very handsome, n’est-ce pas?”
“Valentin is another matter,” Nicole admitted. She could still see him standing tall and aloof at the graveside, a fugitive ray of sunlight glinting against the burnished gold of his hair. He had seemed a vision materialized briefly from a girlhood dream of the ideal knight, all strength and beauty and valor. Yet now he was to be hers for a mere nod of assent. It was Lady Eleanore, his mother, who stood in the way. That woman roused all Nicole’s latent bitterness for those years when she and her mother were outcast Harcourts, denied recognition be cause they were beneath family consideration. That the Harcourts might have some justice on their side, considering her mother’s low birth and questionable career, only lent fuel to the fire of Nicole’s wrath.
A young serving girl interrupted Nicole’s ruminations. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but the Viscountess awaits you in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Lily. Tell my cousin I shall be with her directly.” As the door closed behind the maid, Nicole turned to Madame. Lafitte, a sly smile of satisfaction lifting the corners of her mouth. “Anxious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Nicole, take that smug expression off your face,” Madame Lafitte pleaded.
“Why should I?” she demanded tartly. The look grew more pronounced as she walked through the door, Madame Lafitte followed her into the drawing room unable to still the disquiet agitating her bosom.
Lady Eleanore was seated on a divan before the, fireplace looking regal and composed in a morning dress of grey silk, her only ornament a ruby brooch at her throat. She seemed all ice and steel to the girl coming to greet her.
“Cousin Eleanore,” Nicole kissed the proffered cheek and decided on direct attack. “Have you written to the Viscount concerning my desire to see him before wedding plans go forth?”
“So you have not changed your mind?” Lady Eleanore questioned reprovingly.
“I regret that my wishes do not meet with your approval, Cousin, but I muât insist. It does not seem improper to me to want to become acquainted with my prospective bridegroom.”
“I daresay it does not. I suppose one must make allowances considering your unfortunate upbringing.” The Viscountess was prepared to be equally direct.
Nicole’s quick temper flared, and this time she did not bite back her retort. The obvious slur on her background was too much to bear. “My upbringing as a French girl of gentle birth was the equal of any, I dare say. As a matter of fact, there are those who feel that true culture stops this side of the English Channel, dear Cousin. I believe England has been aptly described as‘a nation of shopkeepers, has it not?”
Lady Eleanore’s prolonged gasp echoed ominously about the room. Cold with fury she drew herself up to the full limits of her imposing height. “You dare to speak to me that way?”
Nicole merely stared in return.
“You may be sure Ardsmore shall receive a full accounting of the quality of person, or should I say lack of quality of the person with whom it is his misfortune to be forced to ally himself.”
“I am sure my quality or lack of it will be sufficiently compensated for by the price tag I bear.”
“I find your manner common and vulgar.”
“And do you find the subject of money also common and vulgar?”
“You are insulting as well.”
“The wedding can always be called off,” Nicole stated quietly.
“Do not try to threaten me, you wicked girl. How would you like to return to Beauvais and enjoy the luxuries of French culture that you could afford should you reject the Viscount?”
“There are worse conditions than poverty.”
“Really? And what are they,
pray tell?”
“I suggest you consider a loveless union with a fortune-hunting rake,” Nicole retorted heatedly.
“Nicole, Nicole, taisez-vous.” Madame Lafitte intervened, no longer able to suppress her concern. “Composez-vous. This is not to be countenanced. Lady Eleanore is soon to be your mama-in-law. Only think what you are saying. You must apologize and control your tongue.”
Madame Lafitte’s outburst provided the necessary break in hostilities. Nicole visibly wilted as waves of shame washed over her. How could she have spoken with such disregard for the proprieties? What was wrong with her?
The Viscountess seemed to recover a semblance of her lost dignity. “I think, perhaps, enough has been said. I shall write Ardsmore at once and let him take matters in to his own hands. It is regrettable that you choose to think of the Viscount in such unflattering terms. There are young ladies of breeding among the English ton who would not find your prospects so distasteful.” And having the last word, she flounced through the doors leaving behind a stricken Nicole.|
What devil had prompted her to lash out so wildly? Nicole no more thought of Valentin as a fortune hunter than as a country peasant. With characteristic French practicality, Nicole accepted the contract set up by Aunt Sophie as a mutually beneficial pact. She found nothing distasteful in the fact that both she and the Viscount were in need of the fortune thus supplied. In fact, it created a condition of equality between them. It was Lady Eleanore that she could not abide. But why, oh, why, had she lost her temper? What would Valentin say when he heard about her shocking behavior? She did not wish to offend him, but fear and pride warred within her. What if he reacted to her as his family had done toward her mother? Could she bear it—loving him the way she did?
As the days passed, the atmosphere remained tense between Nicole and Lady Eleanore. Each refrained from causing further rift in the uneasy alliance necessary between them. Almost docilely Nicole submitted to Lady Eleanore’s carefully worded advice about her new wardrobe, and when the Viscountess suggested a series of small dinner parties to introduce Nicole to members of society, Nicole acquiesced without demur.
Nevertheless, it was not without some trepidation that she approached her initial presentation which was to be a dinner party for twelve. Lady Eleanore had prepared well, and the dining room at the Hotel Belmontaine was sumptuously decorated for the occasion. Everywhere were gilt-framed mirrors reflecting a myriad of candles in golden sconces; lavish paintings of ladies in silks and satins disporting themselves amid the shrubberies of luxurious gardens lined the walls. The long dining table was hung with a figured damask cloth bordered by heavy Belgian lace. Dainty pink roses on the gleaming china were complemented by tiny nosegays of fresh roses at each place setting. Lady Eleanore was a true Harcourt when it came to spending money, and she was no less adept at the consumption of fortunes than were her improvident husband, the late Viscount Ardsmore, Harrison Harcourt, and his now-penniless heir, Valentin.
Lord Harrison had been something of a scandal in his day, squandering great quantities of his inheritance in the usual high-born pursuits of gaming and wenching. His credentials of birth and rank were impeccable, and he used them to accommodate his aristocratic pleasures without the slightest nod to propriety. The more outrageously he flaunted decorum, the more society fawned upon him. His wife, Lady Eleanore, a person of great style and rank in her own right, accepted the code of her husband without a qualm and pursued her own pastimes of lavish parties and extravagant intrigues that were equally costly and shocking. However, no outrage was deemed improper as long as it was performed with style.
And now here was Lady Eleanore marshalling all her considerable talents to ram through this marriage with a French nobody. Well, she would do it—gritted teeth or no. The dinner tonight was step one in her campaign. It must provide the seal of approval for Nicole’s candidacy; hence, the guest list was drawn from the ranks of the elderly and respectable. The guests included family friends of the Harcourts lately arrived from England. Among them were two pompous couples, the Montgomerys and the Wexfords. The Montgomerys were so advanced in years that Nicole wondered at their daring to travel from England to Paris during the chill of winter. Roger Montgomery’s every breath was an audible wheeze, and his gaunt-faced wife appeared consumptive. Nicole reasoned, however, that the discomforts of travel notwithstanding, Paris must still be a more pleasant milieu than dreary London with its fog and continual damp. Her recent visits to the houses of Parisian couture had convinced her that half of England’s aristocracy must have fled to Paris since Napoleon was safely removed from the scene. One heard more English than French in the streets these days.
The Wexfords were a contrast to the lean stringiness of the Montgomerys. Both were short and rotund, and Morley Wexford seemed a likely candidate for apoplexy. The Wexfords’ daughter, Karen, who accompanied them, did little to add youthfulness to the gathering with her prissy airs and prim features set in a look of haughty disapproval.
The Envoy Extraordinaire to the British Embassy, Lord Wolsey, an elderly gentleman with a long white mustache, was accompanied by two youthful attachés, Charles Humphrey and Gerold Apley. Whatever natural high spirits they possessed were overshadowed by the presence of their superior.
The gayest member of the party was a snowy haired antiquarian, the Marquis de Crécy, whose distant relation to the Harcourt family entitled him to the familiar address of “Uncle.” The Marquis de Crécy exuded an elegant, if doddering, charm. His old-world manner could still bring sighs of pleasure from feminine lips. He found Nicole to be a visual delight and lost no opportunity of telling her. Ravissante and charmante were but a few of the lavish terms he applied to her, and Nicole, for the first time since her arrival in Paris, relaxed and blossomed under his approving eye.
If the company was dull, the food was superb, and the menu provided by an excellent French chef was delicious and ample. There were multiple courses including poached turbot, dressed Cornish hens. Boeuf Bordelaise and veal fillets in cream. Countless dishes of savory vegetables and relishes accompanied each course along with a sparkling Burgundy and white Bordeaux. The dessert course was replete with crème tarts, jellies, fresh fruits, fragrant cheeses and a superb meringue glacée.
It was Nicole’s good fortune to have the Marquis de Crécy seated on her right and Charles Humphrey on her left. Between them she was able to conduct a pleasant conversation on the entertainments to be found in a Paris recently emerged from the shadows of war.
The Marquis questioned Nicole about the social diversions of Paris while dessert was being served.
“I have not had much opportunity to avail myself of Parisian entertainments, Monsieur le Marquis. As you know, I have spent most of my youth in the. Village of Beauvais where life is quite simple.”
“Ah, then you have many delights in store for you.”
“I am looking forward to the entertainments of the Parisian beau monde with much anticipation.”
“Oh I say, Miss Harcourt,” broke in Charles Humphrey. “I had the good fortune of hearing la Catalani at the Somerset soirée the other evening. What a voice. That is a treat you must give yourself one of these days.”
“I do enjoy the music of the opera greatly, Mr. Humphrey, but I confess that my first love has always been the ballet.” Nicole looked defiantly down the table into the shocked eyes of Lady Eleanore.
“Nicole, dear child,” Lady Eleanore spoke hastily. “Perhaps you would enjoy some of this mousse au chocolate. I do not believe you have tasted it yet.”
“You are very kind, Cousin Eleanore, but I could not swallow another morsel of this divine assortment,” Nicole * replied sweetly and turned back to the Marquis. “Monsieur le Marquis…”
“You must cease this formality, child. I am, after all, a member of the family, however distant. Please call me Uncle Maurice like everyone else.”
“Very well… Uncle Maurice,” she smiled shyly. “Do you ever attend the ballet?” She returned to the for
bidden topic, unable to resist the temptation to taunt Lady Eleanore.
“Frequently, ma chère. You must allow me to escort you to a performance of the Opéra de Paris in the near future. They have a new company recently formed that does a very creditable job.”
“The Opéra de Paris! Why that is the same company my”
“Ladies,” Lady. Eleanore rose from the table almost knocking over her chair and diverting attention from Nicole. “I believe it is time we left the gentlemen to their port.” And without further pause she led the ladies from the dining room into the drawing room. She made certain that Nicole was given no further opportunity to pursue the subject of the ballet. For that evening, at least, Lady Eleanore held sway and squelched the imp of mischief that Nicole had foolishly courted at dinner.
Chapter III
During wedding preparations an unexpected ally for Nicole arrived at the Hotel Belmontaine. Peregrine Harcourt, the Viscount’s younger brother and family scapegrace, barged in on a morning conference. Since he had just arrived on the Continent, Lady Eleanore had no advance warning and was not altogether pleased at this appearance.
“Perry! Good gracious, what are you doing here?”
“Just had to come, mother dear.” He grinned mischievously. “This is where all the excitement is.” He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Couldn’t stay away, now could I, if Val is going to be hog-tied?”
“Don’t be vulgar,” his mother retorted impatiently. Turning to Nicole she announced, “You two have never met. Nicole, my younger son, Perry. Perry, your cousin Nicole.”
“So this is my future sister-in-law! What a lucky dog Val is.” He smiled broadly and bowed over Nicole’s hand.
“Perry,” his mother snapped. “Do you always have to make a display of yourself?”
Sweet Bravado Page 2