“All I am saying, Emily, is that you should take your cue from me. As I said, my family will expect us to be more than civil to each other. They will expect us to be affectionate. They will expect you to defer to my wishes. I don’t intend that they should be disappointed. Do you take my meaning?”
Evidently, she did. In the weeks that followed, she gave him “affection” with a vengeance. Every soft look, every warm smile, her lightest touch—and there were many of those—all had his temperature leaping to boiling point.
He stole kisses in the garden. “Claire is watching us,” he said, without any foundation for his comment. In the carriage, when he fondled her, he was more inventive. “The coachmen will carry tales below stairs.” But in the summer-house, when he pounced on her, with no one there to see them, his imagination completely failed him.
They were both trembling when he brought the kiss to an end. “What was that for?” asked Emily when she finally got her breath back.
He slanted her a lazy grin. “That was for myself,” he said, and slowly drawing her into his arms, he kissed her again.
He had almost made up his mind to swallow his pride and accept her on any terms he could get when matters came to a head. Emily was introduced to Belle Courtney at a ball in the City Tavern.
Emily had not known what to expect when she heard that they were to attend a ball at the City Tavern. The very name made her shudder in revulsion. Her husband had told her that modes and manners were freer in America. She prepared herself for the worst.
It came as a surprise when she alighted from the carriage before what seemed to be the grandest mansion on Broadway. It was a residence fit for a king. Her surprise must have registered, for her sister-in-law made a remark in passing to the effect that, contrary to popular opinion in England, Americans knew how to put on a good show.
“What do you know about England?” Adam Dillon teased, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist as he led her through the great front doors.
Claire’s reply was lost on Emily. Leon bent his head to her. “You mustn’t mind Claire,” he said. “She doesn’t mean anything by it. America has been good to her, to us both. She doesn’t allow anyone to criticize her adopted country.”
“But I wasn’t going to say anything,” protested Emily.
“Weren’t you?”
“No.”
Laughter glittered in his eyes. “Not even, ‘How utterly charming’?”
He had mimicked her accent to perfection. She opened her mouth and quickly shut it. He wasn’t going to make her lose her temper. In any event, she didn’t feel angry. She felt hurt. It wasn’t only that Leon was taking his sister’s part. It seemed that she could not put a foot right with Claire Dillon.
As they deposited their wraps in the ladies’ cloakroom, Emily idly surveyed her reflection in one of the long mirrors. At her husband’s behest, she was wearing her blue silk net, another small evidence to her way of thinking that she aimed to please.
Claire Dillon did not like her. Why? She wracked her brains and came up empty. It was so unfair. She wasn’t a critical girl. She wasn’t above pleasing. Yet, without her saying a word, it was taken for granted that she would find fault with everything.
For the most part, New York pleased her very well. It was a young, vigorous city. She felt quite at home with its Georgian architecture. The inhabitants might easily have been taken for citizens of any town in England if it were not for the odd inflection in their accent and some quaint, archaic forms in the language which had survived in America.
Good grief! They were English, or near enough as made no difference. True, they had their Dutch and French contingents, but so did England. As far as she could tell, only an accident of history and a Fourth of July celebration distinguished Americans from their British counterparts. Not that you could tell an American that. They were extremely sensitive. She wasn’t going to offend them. She had made a resolve and she aimed to keep it. She was going to be the most agreeable girl at the ball.
Leon was indispensable, introducing her to scores of people. She could not help noticing that her husband stood high in the esteem of his peers. This fact was brought home to her once the dancing got started.
She was inundated with partners, all of them gentlemen who had been introduced to her by Leon. It soon became clear to her that the name of Devereux was practically revered. Her husband was a financier, in the great tradition of the Devereuxs in prerevolutionary France. Emily had heard most of the story before from her guardian. She heard it now as if she were hearing it for the first time. Except in general terms, she really did not know what a financier was. Nor did she know very much about Leon’s early years. She knew that his parents had perished during the Revolution and that he and his sisters had been scattered, but that was all she knew. Her ignorance shamed her. A wife ought to know something about her husband’s background. Leon knew everything there was to know about her. Why did she know so little about him?
The thought did not stay with her long. A more disquieting thought took possession of her mind. More than once, the word “war” was said in her hearing, and the speaker was immediately silenced when her presence was observed. She knew, of course, of the present furor over American and British shipping. If it came to a war between England and America, she did not see how she could remain in New York.
“Enjoying yourself?” The question came from Adam Dillon. He had come to claim Emily for a country dance.
Adam had none of his wife’s reserve, and Emily felt quite at ease with him. He was Irish. Perhaps that explained it. He had more than his fair share of Irish charm. “I feel quite at home,” she said, unwittingly bestowing the highest praise she could attribute to anything that was not English. “I might as well be at Almack’s.”
“Almack’s Assemblies? Yes, I’ve heard of them. But they are exclusive affairs, surely?”
“I’d say Almack’s was on a par with the City Tavern.” His look was skeptical and she said gaily, “It’s where the bluebloods congregate. And before you remind me that America is a republic, let me tell you that I can smell a blueblood a mile off.”
Adam Dillon was thinking that his little sister-in-law was quite a taking thing when she let her guard down. “Bluebloods?” he quizzed. “Here?”
With a sidelong glance, she indicated a white-haired, elderly lady who was holding court at the edge of the dance floor. As Adam watched, several fond mamas brought their daughters forward to make their curtsies.
“The dowager Duchess of New York,” said Emily in a confiding air. “A tyrant in her own way, but a benevolent one. On all matters of taste and deportment, the dowager duchess’s opinion holds sway. Am I right?”
Adam’s green eyes gleamed brightly. “You have Mrs. Burke’s portrait to a nicety.” What he refrained from saying was that Mrs. Sarah Burke was as close to him as his own mother and the godmother and namesake of his elder daughter. “What about the young man who has just entered?”
Adam had a particular reason for singling out Gilbert Livingston. Though she was only fifteen, his little Sarah could not hide her partiality for the boy. Young Livingston was too much the ladies’ man for Adam’s taste. He wanted something far steadier for his Sarah.
Emily’s eyes shifted to take in a strikingly handsome young man close to her own age. Her glance was returned with a bold, interested stare. Before Mr. Livingston got the wrong idea, she quickly averted her head. “Viscount Lothario,” she drawled. “Every girl’s secret dream and the bane of her father’s existence.” Her eyes were sparkling. “Young Lothario reminds doting papas too much of themselves in their salad days, you see.”
Adam laughed. “Minx! You know too much.” Then he added slyly, “And what about the lady in conversation with the dowager duchess?”
Emily turned her head and her stare was caught and held by Claire Dillon. Claire’s eyelashes swept down, as though to blot out the sight of her. Emily felt the hurt spread through her like poison from a snakebite. Sud
denly, the game had lost its savor.
“Well?” prompted Adam, unaware of the silent exchange. “What have you to say about Claire?”
She had to say something. She nodded her head wisely. “Lady Claire,” she said. “The daughter of a marquess or my name isn’t Mrs. Devereux.” She meant it to sound light-hearted, but the hurt came through.
The smile on Adam’s lips died. His voice was very gentle when he said, “What has Claire been saying to you, Emily?”
“Nothing…nothing at all,” she answered truthfully. That was the problem. She didn’t know what she had done wrong, so she didn’t know how to put it right.
“You must understand, Claire is very close to her brother. They lost both their parents during the Revolution. Of course, you know this. What none of us will ever know is what Leon was made to endure in the thick of all that bloodletting. His sisters, at least, escaped to sanctuary. But Leon…” Shaking his head, he continued. “Claire wants Leon to be happy, ’tis all. Don’t be too severe on her. Now that you are finally here, Claire will come round, you’ll see.” What he was thinking was that the first chance he got he was going to tear a strip of his beloved wife. He had warned her in no uncertain terms not to meddle in what did not concern her.
Attempting to distract Emily, he said, “What about the lady in the scarlet get-up, the one with the collar of emeralds at her throat?”
Emily reluctantly allowed herself to be distracted. Adam’s confidences respecting Leon mystified her. She would ponder them later.
The lady in question was the only real challenger to Claire Dillon. But where Claire’s beauty was pristine, this woman’s beauty was wanton. The knowledge of Eve was in every look, every gesture. No husband worth his salt would permit his wife to conduct herself with so little regard for propriety.
“Mrs. Worldly Widow,” essayed Emily. “She doesn’t have any female friends, nor does she want any. But the list of gentlemen who beat a path to her door are only to be found in Burke’s peerage or its American equivalent.”
Adam was convulsed with laughter. “Good Lord!” he said finally. “You terrify me, Emily! No, you may not give me my character. I don’t think my vanity could take it.”
“Who is she?” asked Emily idly.
“That,” said Adam, “is Mrs. Belle Courtney.”
Ever afterward, Emily would blame the collar of emeralds for the contretemps which followed. She wasn’t jealous of the woman, she told herself. Where there was jealousy, there must be love, and she knew she did not love Leon. But for certain her feathers were ruffled.
Ruffled feathers be damned! She was ready to spit fire. Belle Courtney had been hovering at the back of her mind since Lord Riddley had referred to her as “Devereux’s mistress.” Leon, so Riddley had intimated, had given the woman a set of gems worth a king’s ransom. Emily believed him. The emeralds at Belle Courtney’s throat would have bought and sold Carlton House ten times over.
She was exaggerating, but Emily wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable. She was incensed. It was her money that had put those gems around Belle Courtney’s throat. It was her fortune that had made Leon Devereux a financier, and the envy of all his peers. Before his marriage to her, he was nothing, a penniless fugitive from the French Revolution. He was to be congratulated on his meteoric rise. He had managed to attach himself to one of the richest heiresses in all of England.
There was no containing her anger. She wasn’t forgetting that where she had offered to put their differences behind them and make the marriage a real one, Leon had coolly informed her that things were to go on as before. He was in no hurry to change their present arrangement. And now she could see why. His mistress was more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. And more vulgar. In all probability, her vulgarity was part of her charm. Men!
There were other feelings Emily was experiencing, but she pushed these to the back of her mind. She concentrated on her sense of outrage. No man of integrity would spend his wife’s fortune in decking out his mistress in such style.
When she finally came face-to-face with Belle Courtney, she was a seething cauldron of hurt pride. Mrs. Courtney was all smiles, and that irked Emily more.
It was Claire who made the introductions over supper. Emily sensed her sister-in-law’s reluctance, and no wonder. She should be ashamed to introduce her brother’s wife to his mistress. Leon and Adam had wandered into the gardens to enjoy a quiet smoke with some of the other gentlemen.
“I’ve been admiring your necklace all evening,” said Emily, showing a perfect set of white porcelain teeth. “I’ll warrant it cost a king’s ransom.”
Mrs. Courtney bloomed with pleasure. Claire slanted Emily an uncertain look.
“I couldn’t say,” demurred Mrs. Courtney, fingering the necklace in question. “It was a gift, you see, from…” Her voice trailed to a halt as Emily started to her feet.
A gentleman, a stranger to Emily, coming up at that moment, said, “What is it, Belle? What’s happening here?”
Mrs. Courtney’s eyes were riveted on the imperious young woman who looked as though she wanted to murder her. Emily’s bosom was heaving, her nostrils were quivering.
The gentleman’s brows came down. “Look here,” he said, addressing Emily, “if you have insulted this lady…”
“Lady!” scoffed Emily. “What lady? I have it on my husband’s authority that there are no ladies in New York, and he should know.”
Mrs. Courtney gasped. Claire made a choked sound of protest.
Brisding, the gentleman demanded, “Who the devil is this chit?”
It was Leon’s voice that answered him. Emily stiffened as her husband’s hand manacled her wrist. “Drew!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations. I’ve only just heard the good news. So you’ve finally persuaded Belle to take that long walk to the altar! Oh, have you met my wife? Emily, this is Mrs. Belle Courtney and her long-standing and long-suffering suitor, Drew Deveril. Deveril,” he repeated for emphasis. “On occasion, people have been known to confuse our names.”
Deveril! It was all coming back to her. Lord Riddley had corrected himself. The name was Deveril, not Devereux and she had not believed him.
Blushing like a guilty schoolgirl, she turned her shamed eyes upon her sister-in-law. Incomprehensibly, the ice in Claire’s eyes had melted. A moment later, laughing, she turned away.
Chapter Thirteen
Later that same night, when Leon walked through the connecting door, Emily stole one quick, comprehensive glance and knew that her husband was in a playful humor. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t say a word. But those black eyes were dancing merrily. She knew that look of old. Leon Devereux was set on tormenting the life out of her.
She swiveled on her chair to face the mirror and indicated to the little maid Lucy who stood behind her that she should continue brushing out her hair. Lucy hesitated and looked a question at the gentleman who reclined at his ease against one of the bedposts as though he had every right to be there.
He had discarded his jacket and neckcloth. Two buttons on his fine lawn shirt were undone, showing the hard column of his throat. His black knit trousers clung to his muscular thighs and legs like a second skin, prompting Emily to wonder how her husband had come by his athletic physique. Financiers, she supposed, must be like bankers. The only bankers she knew spent their days sitting behind a desk.
“I’ll do that,” said Leon, coming forward. “Lucy, why don’t you get off to bed?”
Lucy glanced from one to the other. With a telling smile, she handed him the brush, bobbed a curtsy, and scooted out the door.
In that moment, when neither of them said anything, Emily was suddenly conscious of a number of things. Though she was in her nightclothes, Leon was almost fully clothed. The flickering candles cast a golden, intimate glow. The atmosphere was oppressive. Her skin was too hot. Breathing was difficult. She jumped when he set the brush down on the flat of her dressing table.
His long fingers combed through her hair. “Your
hair feels like satin,” he said. “It always did. See how it clings to my fingers?”
She sniffed, but she did not look up.
“What?” he asked.
“When we were children, you used to pull my plaits till my scalp was sore.”
He laughed softly. “You never knew me when I was a child. I was ten years your senior. In those days, it might as well have been a century.” He grinned wickedly and his voice dropped. “At long last, you have caught up to me, Emily. Sometimes I wondered if you would ever grow up.”
She let that provocation pass. Suddenly determined to get her humiliation over and done with, she raised her eyes to his in the looking glass. “If I made a fool of myself this evening, you must take your share of the blame,” she said.
“If you made a fool of yourself? Oh I don’t think there is any doubt about that. Do you?” Releasing her hair, laughing, he collapsed against the bed.
Emily flushed, remembering how Leon had extricated her from her embarrassing predicament. Though not in so many words, he had let it be known that his wife envied the necklace on Belle Courtney’s throat and had been pestering him all evening for a promise to buy something similar for herself. It had taken some doing, but with Leon’s quick thinking and Emily practically prostrating herself, the irate couple were finally placated.
If anything, her most humiliating moments came on the return carriage drive. Claire Dillon sat in one corner, laughing herself silly behind her hand. From time to time, Leon chuckled. Emily’s cheeks were as red as poppies. Adam looked from one to the other, demanding that they share the joke. This only set brother and sister to laughing harder. Emily felt wretched. She had started the evening with such high hopes, only to become a laughingstock.
Gritting her teeth, she said, “It could have been avoided. You might have told me that the name of Belle Courtney’s lover was Deveril and not Devereux. You wanted me to believe the worst.”
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