Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  "Take your choice, mon amour."

  "I'm not your love."

  "You are," he murmured into her hair. "You always will be."

  She swallowed. "I'm your friend merely."

  "Is it so?" He drew her against him, opening his lips against her temple. "Callie. A mere friend?"

  A tremor went through her, but she was soft in his arms. "Don't," she said. "Oh don't."

  He shouldn't, he knew. But her body pleaded in spite of her words. She wanted him—he could feel her desire vibrate under every touch. She'd be in Sturgeon's arms; the vision froze his heart, crushed what little remained of his tattered honor. His embrace tightened as if he could hold on to her by strength alone. When she yielded and turned and lifted her face, Trev was lost to it.

  He took her to the bed in a swift move, pressing her backward until he tumbled her atop the counterpane. He leaned over her, braced on his hands, looking down at her face. "I want to see your stockings," he growled. "The plain white ones."

  Her lips parted, as if to make a refusal, and then she blinked. Her puzzled look only made her more adorable to him.

  "Yes, I was driven demented in your closet." He bent down to kiss her. "I'm passionately in love with your hosiery."

  She twisted her ankles together. He could see that she tried to frown. Then she clutched his shoulder, tilting her head back as he ran his fingers along her leg and under her garter. She made a breathless sound and drew up her knee when he explored further, following the smooth muscle of her thigh upward. Her petticoat fell back, revealing the curve of her leg, the pale, pure white stocking and simple garter lit by firelight down to shadowed rosy curls, half-glimpsed and half-imagined. For a moment she looked up at him like an innocent, all fresh and maidenly with her shimmering red hair framing her face.

  Then her lips curled and puckered. She began to giggle. "I'm keeping a gentleman in my closet," she said and laughed aloud.

  He gazed at her as the sounds of mirth bubbled up. Her body quivered. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to suppress it, but the corners of her eyelids tilted up with hilarity.

  Trev bent down and put his lips beside her ear, feeling her laughter all the way through him. "My little cabbage," he murmured, sliding his fingers into the warmth of her, "you really aren't supposed to find it amusing when I do this to you."

  She whimpered, arching to him. "Oh don't," she moaned. "It's not amusing."

  He watched her with pleasure. There was nothing and no one in his life like Callie when she giggled. "You don't want me to go about in a mask instead," he said innocently, stroking his thumb over the place that made her shudder.

  "No," she said breathlessly. "Oh!"

  "You could pack me off to your closet, to a cruel sentence of nothing to do but moon over your drawers," he offered.

  She laughed and gasped, holding tight to him. "Trev! We shouldn't."

  "Of course not," he said, bending to kiss her offered breast. "If you'll just release this delicate grip on my arm—"

  She showed no inclination to do so. When he moved atop her, her embrace welcomed him. She smelled of warm skin and female desire, but it was her laughter that impelled him. She was laughing as he kissed her, a sweet shaking deep inside. He pushed into it, into her, a union that carried both of them beyond any doubt or words to pure and simple joy.

  Twenty-One

  CALLIE HAD SLEPT LATE. VERY LATE. NORMALLY SHE was up by dawn to bring Hubert his loaves of bread. His sad, complaining bellow could be heard faintly even now through the closed shutters. She was still trying to sort through her hair to find the displaced pins and make some sense of this à la mode fashion of Hermey's design when Anne scratched at the door.

  Callie blushed and kept her eyes strictly on the mirror at the dressing table as the maid entered. She knew already that Trev had vacated her chambers while she slept, but she seemed to breathe his scent on her and everywhere in the room. If Anne noticed, she made no mention of it, but came quickly to Callie and began to tuck up the trailing weight of her hair. "The countess wants you downstairs directly, my lady," she said. "There's a caller for you, and my lady says you're to be at home to her."

  Callie sighed. "It must be one of her friends, to congratulate me. Are they talking? I'm sure she won't miss me until after I feed Hubert."

  "You're wanted to hurry, my lady." Anne placed a pin and stood back from an attempt to secure Callie's hair that was only partially successful. "There. I'll send the hall boy with some bread to the poor hungry beast. But you must hurry down." She met Callie's gaze in the mirror with an expression that they both under stood. If Callie delayed, the countess would make her life miserable in consequence.

  "Very well." Callie rose. "Thank you, Anne, that will do, then."

  "You looks very pretty, my lady, if I may say. The curls about your face become you."

  "I only hope it won't fall down." Callie cast one last glance in the mirror and was surprised and discomfited to see that she did look rather well, but in a tousled and pink sort of way, very much as if she had just risen from bed after making love to a gentleman. Which of course was quite the fashion according to Hermey, but it was rather unnerving, considering the recent circumstances.

  An impassive footman opened the door of the drawing room, which was even more alarming, since normally John would have returned a nod and smile to her greeting. Instead he stared straight above her head, which meant Lady Shelford was in high force this morning. But as Callie passed, he turned just slightly, lowering his lashes and lifting an eyebrow, and gave her what could only be described as a wink.

  She hardly knew what to make of that. Just as she took in the fact that Major Sturgeon was also present, in addition to Lord and Lady Shelford and several persons who were strangers to her, she recalled that Trev had bribed the servants. The thought, and the footman's wink, combined to make her lose all hope of maintaining any composure as Major Sturgeon rose to take her hand and lead her into the room. She was so f lustered that she hardly knew what she was saying in reply to the introductions.

  "But I'm enchanted to meet you!" A very pretty lady stood up from her seat beside the countess. She was small and fairylike, with a twinkling smile and a confiding air, quite as if she truly had been longing to meet Callie. "The duchesse has told me everything about you!" She turned to Lady Shelford as she caught Callie's hand. "It's most kind of you to receive me, ma'am, out of the very blue this way. But the duchesse insisted that I call on Lady Callista and give her my wishes to be happy."

  "Mrs. James Fowler," Lady Shelford said belatedly. Her demeanor was not quite as coolly restrained as usual, and she glanced from the young woman to Callie in an odd, energized manner.

  It was that peculiar look more than her words that struck Callie first. She was in the midst of some disjointed attempt at a courteous rejoinder when the realization dawned upon her. She stopped speaking, and before she could recover herself, the other woman smiled at her apologetically.

  "Yes, I am that Mrs. Fowler," she said, managing to look abashed and charming at once. "I'm very notorious, I'm afraid."

  Callie was simply speechless. She apprehended that her hand was limp as Mrs. Fowler grasped it warmly; she understood that she had to speak, to appear normal and at ease. But it was utterly out of her power. "Mrs. Fowler," she repeated stupidly.

  She managed to return a slight pressure to the friendly handshake. Next to this delightful and delicate creature, she felt like Hubert standing beside a fawn. She was amazed that Lady Shelford had admitted such an infamous caller, but then Dolly had been fascinated and obsessed by reports of the crime and trial. She had even considering leasing a window overlooking the scaffold, but Lord Shelford had proved too squeamish to allow it and protested that she would be exposed to vulgar crowds. It was uncommon for the countess to submit to her husband's will, but the suggestion of vulgarity had impressed her, and she had reluctantly given up the plan. To have the scandalous Mrs. Fowler drop into her lap, or at least into her dra
wing room, must seem a windfall of no small proportions.

  Callie summoned a shred of self-control, fearing that her shock would appear to be disapproval. "I'm pleased to meet you," she managed to say. "You are a friend of Madame de Monceaux?"

  "An acquaintance merely," Mrs. Fowler said vaguely. "But I was on my way north to reunite with my little boy, and I couldn't but pause to look in on her, she is so amiable, is she not?" She gave Callie's hand a pat and looked directly into her eyes. "She particularly said that I must leave a card on you, Lady Callista." She paused. "Of course I didn't hope to find you at home, but what an honor it is!"

  "Thank you. Pray be seated," Callie said weakly. This was Trev's wife, this exquisite small creature with the pixie eyes. And that pressure on her hand— Mrs. Fowler had been sent by the duchesse—she was here not to congratulate Callie but to find her husband, of course.

  As Mrs. Fowler returned to her chair, a gaunt and balding gentleman stepped forward, the wispy remains of his hair f loating behind his ears. He placed one hand at his back and offered the other to her. "Sidmouth. Your servant, my lady," he said, brief ly bending over her fingers. "Accept my wishes for health and great happiness in your union."

  A large dose of smelling salts would have been more useful to her. "Thank you," she whispered. She sat down abruptly in the chair that the major provided and clasped her hands.

  Dolly turned to Mrs. Fowler and began to inquire about the conditions of women in the Fleet Prison, apparently oblivious to any crudeness in her enthusiasm to satisfy her curiosity and gather some morbid tidbits to spread. Mrs. Fowler replied gracefully and without any sign of resentment, describing her treatment as perfectly humane. She even glanced at the Home Secretary with a confidential smile, as if they were both connoisseurs of prisons, which Callie supposed they were. Lord Sidmouth, however, returned the familiarity with a cool and impassive glance.

  A servant handed Callie a cup of tea. She sipped, finding herself so far beyond frantic that she was almost calm, sitting with her fiancé on one hand, the Home Secretary on the other, and directly opposite—but she could not even quite compose the thought in her mind. Mrs. Fowler kept glancing at her, even while replying so tolerantly to Lady Shelford's questions. With every look, Callie felt more naked, as if her hair had fallen down and her clothes vanished and she were lying tumbled in the bed with Trev the way they had been all night together, with his outraged wife standing over them in righteous fury.

  Mrs. Fowler did not appear furious, however. She couldn't know the truth, of course—though Callie had rather the idea that a wife could somehow deduce these things by intuition or mesmeric currents or something on that order. It was the most disconcerting thing of all, to suddenly think of herself as the other woman, partic ularly in regard to this petite elfin beauty. Callie could perfectly comprehend that a gentleman would sacrifice his life and honor for a woman like Mrs. Fowler. She was a princess from a fairy tale, lovely and sweet and charming, with lips like a rosebud and petal-soft skin. Dolly seemed fascinated, and Callie could hardly blame her. It was absurd to think of this delicate creature sitting in a prison cell, and even more ridiculous to suppose that she could be hung for a crime.

  But for the Home Secretary, who appeared to find her uninteresting, all the gentlemen in the room seemed quite taken with Mrs. Fowler. Only Major Sturgeon made any particular effort to keep himself from smiling foolishly at her. Callie saw him catch himself once and look deliberately away, glancing toward Callie to see if she had noticed. She took a gulp of her tea and lowered her lashes. She hardly blamed him. If Major Sturgeon had not been strongly attracted to Mrs. Fowler, Callie would have feared he was coming on with some sort of condition.

  But while all the masculine attention was fixated on the fairy princess, her attention seemed to be fastened on Callie. After a polite period of bearing with Lady Shelford's avid interest, the infamous caller found some means to excuse herself and come to sit beside Callie, evicting the major from his seat with a pretty pleasantry.

  "Now," she said, sitting down with a bright look, "we must have our private whisper together, as all the ladies do with the bride-to-be, you know!"

  Callie didn't know anything of the sort, but she nodded dutifully. "The picture gallery at Shelford is thought to be of interest. Perhaps you would like to view it?"

  "You're kindness itself, Lady Callista. The duchesse assured me it was so. Of course I should be honored if you'll show me the paintings."

  They rose together. Dolly and the earl both wanted to accompany them in order to acquaint Mrs. Fowler with the illustrious history of the artworks, but she put them off, insisting that they must not desert their distinguished guests for such a nobody as herself. Lord Sidmouth, who seemed a perceptive gentleman, said that he would be glad to view the gallery but only after another cup of tea. So Callie and the nobody were allowed to depart without a full escort.

  The long, gloomy promenade at Shelford, with paintings on one wall and a line of tall, narrow windows on the other, offered an excellent location for a tête-à-tête. The weather still waxed inclement, and hisses of rain added to the usual echoes, creating a suitably murky background for any private exchange. Mrs. Fowler nodded and walked slowly along, pretending an interest in the historical account that Callie pretended to give her, but when they reached a safe distance from the drawing room door, the petite lady paused and turned.

  "The duchesse told me that you're hiding her son here," she said hurriedly, interrupting Callie's mono tone on the comparisons between the Gainsborough portrait of her great-grandmother and the Reynolds of the same subject.

  Callie bit her lip. She glanced along the gallery to make sure they were still alone. She gave a quick nod.

  "Where is he? I must see him," Mrs. Fowler said.

  Callie could not bring herself to say that he was staying in her bedroom. But the woman had every right to see her husband, of course.

  When she hesitated, Mrs. Fowler said anxiously, "Can you arrange it?"

  "Yes." Seeing her fretfulness, Callie felt a sharp wave of guilt. She debated and discarded a number of possible meeting places in her mind. Even the carriage house wouldn't be safe, as all the vehicles were being readied to fetch guests for the masquerade. "Oh!" An impulsive thought came to her. "Mrs. Fowler, can you come by a costume of some sort? A mask?"

  The other woman looked at her and then smiled mischievously. "Can you get me a ticket?"

  An instant after she made it, Callie was already regretting the suggestion. Anyone must recognize Mrs. Fowler, it seemed to her, even masked. And it meant that Trev would have to be abroad at the masquerade too—a thought that appalled her. "I'm not certain. Where are you staying? If I can, I'll have it sent."

  "Thank you!" Mrs. Fowler clasped Callie's hand between hers. "I haven't a room bespoken, I fear. Is there an inn?"

  "The Antlers," Callie said. "In the village."

  "Oh, I do thank you!" Then she fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a note folded over so many times and covered with so much wax that it was only a lump. "Give him this." She pressed it into Callie's palm. "You are a heroine to do this for us! Thank you!"

  By the time Callie reached her bedroom, she had found a target for the roil of emotion in her breast. And he was so amiable as to be waiting for her, stepping out from behind her door to take her about the waist and bestow an ardent kiss on the nape of her neck. As Trev turned her in his arms she trembled with fury, which he seemed to misinterpret as romantic passion, so that he was taken entirely by surprise when she planted a shove in the center of his chest that set him reeling backward.

  "Do… not… touch me," she said through her teeth. As he caught himself on the bedpost, she lifted one eyebrow in scorn. She waited, breathing deeply, until he pushed away from the bed and stood upright. "A Mrs. Fowler wishes to see you."

  He'd glanced down to straighten his coat sleeve. At her words, his body stilled. He looked up at her. "I beg your pardon?"

  She held out the
folded note. "Here."

  He ignored it. "Mrs. Fowler?"

  With a supreme effort, Callie held herself back from a vulgar display of her feelings, such as screaming aloud or stabbing him with a hairpin. Instead, she said with a dangerous coolness, "I believe you are acquainted with her?"

  Trev stood looking at her. "Are you making a jest?"

  Callie had a moment's pause. He made no attempt to soothe her or offer any excuse or explanation for himself. He appeared to have no desire to hurry to Mrs. Fowler's side or even to read her note. He didn't do anything but give Callie a look of slightly affronted disbelief.

  "I am not," she said, maintaining her rigid spine. "I wouldn't jest about such a thing. She wishes to see you." Once again she held out the note.

  He regarded it with all the fondness one might feel for an overripe kipper. They stood facing one another, a few feet apart, as if a bottomless chasm had opened in the f loor between them.

  "She sent this. She wishes to see you," she repeated, feeling he must not properly comprehend the case.