The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  “Get into the curricle,” he said curtly, and Deirdre obediently complied. O’Toole was dismissed and Rathbourne climbed in beside her.

  “I’m not feeling very well,” she told him, and managed a creditable, die-away whine in her voice.

  “By the time I’ve finished with you, madam, how you feel now will be only a pleasant memory! How dared you put yourself at so much risk by exposing yourself in the stews of Brussels?”

  The queasiness returned to Deirdre’s stomach. “Gareth, I can explain everything.”

  “Do so.”

  “What did I do that was so wrong?” she parried, and she cast around in her mind for a plausible explanation for a night of folly that shocked even herself.

  Rathbourne was not slow to itemize her misdeeds, beginning with the abortive duel which was prevented only at the last moment by his intervention, to the round of cafés in the society of a class of women, not to mention rackety ne’er-do-wells, she should be ashamed to give the time of day to.

  “It was O’Toole spying on me, then, wasn’t it?”

  “He was there at my command to look after your interests, not to spy on you. Good God, even he is shocked, and that’s saying something.”

  Deirdre’s back straightened imperceptibly. “What it has suited you to leave out, Lord Rathbourne, is the most scandalous part of the whole affair, when you carried me off to your room.”

  He chuckled. “True. But then it’s not likely that I would look upon that in the same light, now is it?”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Deirdre. “Does O’Toole know about that too?”

  “Possibly. He’s very acute. Naturally, I’ve told him nothing, but there’s not much he misses.”

  “Oh no!” Deirdre’s mortification was transparent.

  “Is that all you worry about? O’Toole’s good opinion? Let me tell you, if I’d had the foresight to collect you in a closed carriage, I’d have blistered your backside by now for these wild escapades of yours.” His anger cooled somewhat, and after due consideration, he gave a low laugh. “That’s not true, and we both know it. If I’d had the foresight to bring a closed carriage, I’d have had your skirts up to your waist and your drawers—”

  “Gareth Cavanaugh!” Deirdre screeched.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said without a pretense of regret. “We shall consider that last remark unsaid, if you prefer it.” He cocked a wicked eyebrow at her, but Deirdre’s expression was not encouraging. Two flags flew in her cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell with the effort to maintain her shaken composure. He thought she made an adorable picture. He was tempted to say more but decided against it, and he recalled his wandering thoughts to a topic he had yet to broach.

  “Have you seen your brother today?”

  “No. Why?” She became alert and wary.

  “He seems to have run to earth. That doesn’t surprise me. He knows that I hold him responsible for your misdemeanors. He won’t escape retribution for this. I have my men out looking for him now. After what has passed between us, I expected better of him. He holds a grudge, I see. I wasn’t blind to the way he encouraged you last night. He knew how I felt, oh yes, he knew!”

  “Don’t be absurd, I’m older than he is. When I make up my mind to do something, Armand knows better than to try to change it. Don’t lay my misdeeds to his account.”

  “You always make excuses for him!”

  “You never listen to reason where Armand is concerned.”

  He said nothing for some moments, his attention occupied in negotiating his team between two stationary wagons loaded with fresh produce which were parked on opposite sides of the narrow street leading out of the square. After the difficult maneuver was complete, he said cautiously, “I’ve received a letter from home which gives me some concern. It mentions your brother.”

  “From whom?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Has St. Jean confided in you?”

  “I wish you would call him Armand,” she said testily. “What has he done now?”

  “I thought you might tell me.”

  She fell into a troubled silence, searching her mind for some clue.

  “No, don’t look like that, Dee! It’s not that serious. Armand and I shall settle this little problem very easily between us. Now there, I gave him his Christian name. Does that please your?”

  But Deirdre had the distinct impression that Armand was in a more serious fix than Rathbourne was willing to reveal, and it vexed her when he would not be drawn on the subject.

  When he drew up at the hotel entrance, he held her wrist in a loose clasp and said in a serious tone, “I shall be out of town for a few days. When I return, God willing, there is much that must be settled between us.”

  “Gareth…” she said uneasily.

  “No Dee, your wishes no longer come into it. If need be, I shall put the whole matter before your brother and Sir Thomas. Now be a good girl until I return. I leave O’Toole to look after you. See if you can win back his good opinion. Expect me on the fifteenth. I shall be at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. And Dee”—one finger tipped up her chin—“make damn sure you save all the waltzes for me—yes, and I had better be the one who takes you into supper, too.” And he kissed her very swiftly before helping her down.

  Lady Fenton observed it all from her chamber window. She staggered back into the empty room, her expression thunderstruck.’ “Well!” she said to herself. “The sly chit! She has fooled us all!” She plumped herself down on the brocade settee, and fell into a brown study. She heard Deirdre’s footsteps pass her door on the way to her own chamber. “Well!” she said again, and absently smoothed the pair of long satin and gauze sleeves on her lap which had once adorned Deirdre’s new sea-foam ball gown. A modiste had been engaged by her ladyship to reset them in Deirdre’s dress for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

  Solange entered with the laundry, and unobtrusively began to put things away.

  “Long sleeves aren’t everything,” said Lady Fenton.

  “Madame?”

  Her ladyship came to herself. She rose and handed the sleeves of Deirdre’s ball gown to her maid. “Dispose of these,” she said regally. She gave the young maid an affectionate pat on the cheek and intoned sagely, “Make a note of it, Solange, where the gentlemen are concerned, long sleeves aren’t everything, no, not by a long shot, long sleeves certainly aren’t everything.”

  She half expected Deirdre to make her entrance with the happy announcement that she would soon become Rathbourne’s Countess. But the door remained closed. Lady Fenton was not unduly put out, thinking that his lordship might first wish to consult with Sir Thomas. Perhaps they might even wish to make the betrothal public at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. The thought of the ball gave her mind a new direction, and she was soon looking through her wardrobe for a gown which would not disgrace her position as wife of a high-ranking diplomat of His Majesty’s Government.

  The ball was far from Deirdre’s thoughts as she threw herself down on her bed and looked up at the ornate ceiling. She could hear the tread of footsteps overhead, and wondered where Rathbourne was off to again, and why he was always so secretive. Sometime later the room overhead became silent. She heard a door open and shut down the long corridor. She imagined the Earl taking his leave of Mrs. Dewinters. Surely not now—not after what had passed between them last night and what he had said to her in the curricle. The thought nagged at her like the pain of a persistent toothache. She had to know if her imagination was running riot again, or if she had grounds for her suspicions.

  She rose and opened her door slightly, then shut it again. This was ridiculous. She must learn to trust him. She took a turn or two around the room and was drawn once more to the door. She opened it and stepped into the corridor, thankful that it was deserted. Step by guilty slow step, she advanced to Mrs. Dewinters’s rooms. On the other side of the door, she could hear voices, but not distinctly enough to make out to whom they belonged. She was on the point of turning
away when the door handle turned. Without conscious thought, Deirdre whipped herself round the corner of the half landing and pressed herself against the wall.

  “I shall see you at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball then,” she heard Rathbourne’s voice say, low but distinctly. And then, adding insult to injury, “I’ve left O’Toole to look out for you. Be a good girl till I return.”

  Deirdre’s hackles rose. Without a second thought, she swept out of her hiding place and turned the corner, running full tilt into Rathbourne. He was holding Mrs. Dewinters’s fingers to his lips. Deirdre’s eyes took in the loose robe that concealed nothing of the actress’s voluptuous figure. It was clear that Mrs. Dewinters had received the Earl in her night attire. The intimacy of their relationship was self-evident.

  The suddenness of Deirdre’s appearance must have startled them, she thought, because Rathbourne’s face registered an emotion that was very close to horror, and Mrs. Dewinters’s eyes were enormous. Deirdre gave a convincing laugh and winked conspiratorially at the Earl.

  “Don’t forget to tell her to save all the waltzes for you,” she said roguishly over her shoulder as she began a slow glide into the long corridor. “And, of course, you’ll be the one to take her into supper.” A few more steps and she would be at her own door. The Earl seemed rooted to the spot.

  She wagged a mischievous finger at him. “Have a safe journey, Rathbourne, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She whisked herself into her chamber and bolted the door. She didn’t wait to find out what Rathbourne’s reaction might be, but took off down the back stairs. Once outside, she dodged behind a milk cart and raced out of sight of the hotel. She found herself in an alley that ran down toward Grand’ Place, and she sheltered in a doorway till she regained her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She remained motionless for several minutes, tensing for sounds of pursuit. When none came, she relaxed and gradually become conscious that she was attracting the stares of tradesmen who were making deliveries at the back doors of the homes and shops that lined the Rue de la Colline. She gave herself a mental shake and returned a serene smile for every raised eyebrow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a slightly disheveled lady to be found traipsing in the back alleys of the city. When she purred a “Bonjour” in a faint English accent, her eccentricity became comprehensible, and shrugs of disdain and rude Flemish jests soon took the place of curious stares.

  She set out in the opposite direction from the hotel, deciding on impulse to go and search out Armand. It would help pass an hour or two until Rathbourne had gone, and she wanted to quiz her brother on Rathbourne’s disquieting disclosure that he was in some kind of trouble at home.

  She returned to the hotel at dusk, and made her excuses to her aunt saying that her morning’s malady had returned in full force and she wished to make an early night of it. Lady Fenton was sympathetic. It was very evident that Deirdre was not shamming. She offered to send for the doctor but was quietly refused, though Deirdre did accept the proffered glass of brandy to settle her stomach.

  A physician would have been able to tell at a glance that Deirdre was suffering from exhaustion and shock. Lady Fenton had no way of knowing it, for Deirdre said very little before retiring to her room, not even to the extent of acknowledging her aunt’s comment that Lord Rathbourne had waited a full hour for her to return from her errand before taking his leave.

  Once she reached the privacy of her bedchamber, Deirdre removed a letter from her bodice and read it for the upteenth time. It had been given to her by the concierge of Armand’s lodgings, and it made no more sense to her now than when she had first scanned its incoherent contents.

  June 12, 1815

  Deirdre,

  Can you believe it? I—a turncoat! Please try to understand and forgive me. And don’t worry. I’m grownup now. I suppose Rathbourne has told you that Caro is about to become betrothed? I hope I shall see you when this is all over, and if not, God bless.

  Affectionately,

  Armand

  She read it again and again, slowly, digesting every word, pulling apart his phrases and substituting her own interpretation. Some of it she made sense of almost immediately. The intelligence about Rathbourne’s sister, Caro, gave her the clue to what the Earl had mentioned earlier that afternoon, something about a letter from home with disquieting news which concerned Armand. Lady Caro and Armand—yes, she could remember how they had looked at each other whenever she had seen them together in London. Strange that she had never once thought to ask Armand about Caro since they had arrived in Brussels. She wondered if they had been indiscreet enough to correspond with each other. She could well imagine how the news of Caro’s betrothal could push Armand to some desperate act. But what?

  Reasoning that Armand’s friends were the likeliest people to approach for a clue to his whereabouts, she left the hotel shortly after noon the following day and systematically began to search them out. They offered little in the way of information or reassurance, though they told her not to worry and that Armand was bound to show up within a day or two. Of the letter he had left for her, Deirdre said not a word, feeling that in some way she could not explain, it was vaguely incriminating.

  She fell into a restless sleep, and wakened sometime during the night with all the pieces of the puzzle having fallen into place. She lit a candle and smoothed out the letter, reading it again but with new insight. Her face drained of color as each word hammered into her brain, confirming what her subconscious mind had grasped at. Armand had gone over to the enemy. The news of Caro’s betrothal had pushed him over the edge. Had Rathbourne taken him to task, as only he could, for presuming to engage the affections of his sister? What a fickle lot those Cavanaughs were! Armand must have been consumed with despair at the news of Caro’s desertion.

  Oh Armand, Armand, she thought desperately. This could not be called a folly, or misdeed, or indiscretion, or by any other of the euphemisms she was in the habit of using to explain away her brother’s foolhardiness. The penalty for this act of defiance was death. She remembered how Armand had told her that Rathbourne hated the French and had two young men hanged when they had gone over to the enemy. And Rathbourne had men out looking for Armand! He had told her so in the curricle. Pray God, they did not find him!

  There was no one she could turn to in her distress, Rathbourne least of all, though she remembered how secure and safe she had felt in his arms in the aftermath of their lovemaking. But that, of course, was her imagination again. He had taken away her innocence, destroyed her honor, and made her a laughingstock, and she was fool enough to think that he had her best interests at heart. Idiot! she berated herself.

  She put Armand’s letter to the candle and watched as it blackened and curled, then shot into flames. She threw it in the empty grate. It was beyond her power to help Armand now. But she would protect him with the last breath in her body, and if that made her a traitor, then so be it.

  Chapter Twenty

  The day of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball dawned auspiciously. The skies were clear and gave promise of a glorious summer’s day. It was remarked with pleasure by mistress and maid throughout the city who were in a fever of excitement as they went about their business. Dazzling ball gowns were unwrapped and shaken out of their tissue paper; flat irons were heated on the black iron stoves and plied with careful vigor to erase each tiny and imaginary wrinkle from the voluminous folds of elegant satin and gauze creations; and large kettles of water were put on to boil for the scented baths of those ladies fortunate enough to have in their possession one of the gilt-edged cards of invitation to what promised to be the most glittering event of the Season.

  Deirdre awakened with the beginnings of another blinding headache. Her first waking thought, as always, was of Armand, and she felt the familiar dread begin its slow seep into every nerve of her body, robbing her of the ability to think coherently. She lay back against the pillows and tried not to think, allowing the comforting noises of the hotel to soot
he the incessant throb at her temples.

  Solange entered on a softly spoken “Bonjour,” and went to the clothes press to unpack Deirdre’s ball dress. She reached for the sea-foam gauze and Deirdre stopped her with a word.

  “No!”

  The maid hesitated, and waited for further instructions.

  “The gold,” said Deirdre firmly. She did not think that she could endure one more facetious remark about the effect the green dress had on her eyes, even supposing the color was all the crack and suited her to admiration. Besides, she had already worn it on three different occasions, and that was bound to be noted by the spiteful tabby cats whose sharp eyes never missed a thing. The simple pale gold satin and gauze would be passable, and truth to tell, Deirdre had lost interest in the trivia of what, in normal circumstances, would have occasioned many hours of pleasurable activity.

  Solange beckoned to Deirdre, holding the dress up to the light for her inspection, and Deirdre obediently got out of bed and smoothed the gown over the front of her nightdress. As she observed herself in the looking glass, a pale shaft of sunlight bathed her in its soft halo, picking up the gold of the dress and reflecting its warmth in her creamy complexion and gold-streaked hair. It reminded her of a game she and Armand had played as children when they had gathered buttercups in the common and held them under each other’s chin to determine whether the day would be fine or foul. It had never occurred to them, as children, that on a bright day, naturally, the yellow-tinted petals would cast a golden glow against the white of their skin. They had thought themselves, then, terribly clever at predicting the weather.

  She handed the dress back to Solange with a murmured, “It will do,” and wondered if there would ever again be another fine day in her life.