Marie-Anne arched her eyebrows at this impertinent question, and then gave a burst of throaty laughter. “The instant he said he would buy me any pastry I wanted, of course, and as much as I could eat of it!”
Phyllida’s face fell at this, either because she knew it was an evasion or because she believed it was true and found it wholly unromantic.
“Well now I have to know – which pastry did you choose and how much did you eat?” asked Mason.
She cut a glance toward the settee where virtuous Mr. Harner sat in earnest conversation with the elder Shipleys. A wonderfully mischievous look came over her, and she raised her voice just enough so that it would carry.
“I have never seen them in England, but they are very popular in France. We call them pets de putain.”
There was a chorus of impressively varied gasps in the room. Dahlia’s was one of simple surprise, Phyllida’s of amusement, Lady Shipley’s of anxiety, and Mr. Harner’s of offense. Amy made a little choking noise and clasped a hand over her mouth, a clear attempt to stifle her laughter.
Marie-Anne simply smiled placidly and said, “I ate more than a dozen.”
Her words lay there in the room, just waiting for him to pick them up. So he called upon his almost non-existent French vocabulary, furrowed his brow, and asked, “Something to do with a whore, is that right?”
“Mais oui!” She nodded approvingly, amid a fresh round of horrified gasps from the settee. “The farts of a whore.” The girls were helplessly giggling now. “A whore’s fart, that is the better way to say it in English. They are delicious. I don’t know why they are called that, but…” She gave a very French kind of shrug.
“Well, because you don’t know if a real whore’s fart is delicious,” mused Mason. “In my experience–”
“Dahlia!” Lady Shipley barked. “I think we would all like to hear some music, if you please. Immediately.” She gave Mason a look of outrage before turning a quelling eye on Phyllida, who had collapsed into a chair with laughter. Dahlia, amused but eager to smooth things over, hurried over to the pianoforte where a purple-faced Mr. Harner helped her to choose a piece to play.
Phyllida recovered herself and began to talk to Marie-Anne about the dresses they had ordered from the modiste, questioning her about all sorts of wardrobe essentials that Mason had barely heard of. It was obvious Marie-Anne loved the topic, though, so he just sat back and listened to them while Dahlia began to play. Amy sat a little apart with, surprisingly, St. James – they sometimes managed to get along when they avoided the topic of poetry.
It was sweet, really. A cozy drawing room filled with a little family, ridiculous parents and silly but loving sisters, with music playing and a disapproving vicar and talk of ribbons and bonnets. Maybe he should just marry Dahlia. It was such a safe and simple life, dressing in fine clothes and eating good food every day and thinking of little more than which social event you’d like to attend next. There were all kinds of idiotic rules, but that was the case everywhere. He could learn them, and make himself happy here.
Then he remembered that there was the little problem of him not actually being a wealthy businessman. And how he was using every person in this room in a way that would appall them. And how, even if he wasn’t involved in this business with Freddy, these people would never invite someone like him to be in this room, much less to be a part of their family. He was getting in so deep he almost forgot it, sometimes. The illusions’s for the gulls, not you, his cousin had always reminded him. Somewhere, that cousin was still creating illusions for whatever poor bastards crossed his path. Cure-alls and card games and schemes he swore would make a poor man rich with no effort – Mason doubted the repertoire had changed much.
“Do you think panniers will ever come back into fashion?” Phyllida was asking Marie-Anne during a pause in the music. “Mama always says she misses them.”
“Oh I would love it,” Marie-Anne sighed at the thought. “But we should speak of something that poor Mr. Mason might have an interest in. I do not think he is fascinated by the fashions.”
“I might be,” he said, “if you tell me what panniers are.”
She lowered her voice to ask Phyllida, “Do we think it is even more vulgar than the pastries, to tell a gentleman what is under a lady’s dress?” Phyllida bit down on another giggle, which Marie-Anne seemed to take as an answer. “Very well, Mr. Mason, we will be shocking. They are a garment that is tied around the hips so the skirt spreads out, very wide. I remember when I was very little, I could hide under my mother’s skirt and it felt like hiding under the dining table. I could not wait to grow up and wear the dresses, and the hats – so elaborate! But the style changed.”
She began to describe a dress in detail, with many sweeping and ineffectual gestures, until she finally went to the writing desk and procured pen, ink, and paper. She set them in front of Mason and said, “You will do some of your scribbling for me, please, so Phyllida understands what I describe.”
He tried to protest, but she was so insistent he gave in. Once he had sketched the outline of what she described, he couldn’t help himself adding more and more detail until it matched her words exactly. When she described a wig and absurdly large hat, he added those too, and then, without thinking, he added a face with just a few strokes.
“But that’s remarkable, Mr. Mason!” gasped Phyllida. “Marie-Anne, it’s you, do you see? It’s only a few lines, but it’s her very likeness! However do you do it so easily? Will you draw me now?”
“I can try.” He concentrated on looking completely unperturbed. He should never have picked up the pen, or admitted to trying his hand at drawing. Nothing of what he’d sketched tonight was in the style he used for the papers, but it was a mistake to show he could make a likeness so quickly and so true to its subject.
He took up the pen and drew how he imagined Phyllida might look in ten years, with more sophistication and polish. They were her features, but he put the focus on the angle of her cheekbones and gave her a serious expression she never wore in real life. If in the future he drew her for the papers, he’d emphasize the roundness of her face, make her more wide-eyed and full of spirit. It wouldn’t look anything like this.
“I’m really not an artist,” he apologized to Phyllida as she frowned in mild disappointment at the little sketch. “Faces are hard. I’ll draw you a bonnet, or a bowl of fruit. Simple shapes are my specialty.”
He did draw a bowl of fruit that night, back in his room alone. It was an attempt to stop himself drawing Marie-Anne’s eyes, the playful gleam in them as she prepared to provoke Lady Shipley, or her disappointed look when Amy’s fiancé failed to be amused at anything. He’d already drawn her mouth a hundred times, and the curve of her neck. She might even inspire him to try painting at last, so that he could spend hours reproducing the way candlelight reflected on her honey-colored hair.
But for now, he made himself draw as perfect a plum as he could imagine. When it was proving too easy, he added a bite out of it and worked long into the night to show the juices glistening and dripping down the velvety flesh. Texture work, he told himself – something that was difficult to get right with only a graphite pencil to create dimension and light, the illusion of moisture on the page.
When it was done, he looked at how the juices trickled in a sinuous line across the tender skin of the fruit. He couldn’t even pretend to himself that it wasn’t the most lascivious thing he’d ever drawn in his life. For God’s sake, he couldn’t draw a still life of fruit without making it about how desperately he wanted to taste her.
“Well, at least I can always start a side business in pornographic art,” he said to the glistening plum before filing the page away.
Chapter Seven
A few days later he was giving excuses to Dahlia and her mother for his failure to make an appearance at some party the night before, when Marie-Anne arrived unexpectedly at their door. She asked if the other Shipley sisters were at home and when told that Phyllida was absent
but Amy was in her room, Marie-Anne shouted up the stairs.
“Amy, ma petite, come down! I have something you will want to hear!”
While Sir Gordon grumbled his disapproval of this “hoydenish” behavior, Lady Shipley fluttered about saying she should ring for tea. Marie-Anne waved her off.
“No tea, I can only stop for a moment. Dahlia, you look very lovely in that green, you should wear it all the time. Here comes Amy,” she said, flushed and smiling, when the eldest Shipley sister finally came in. “Do not look so worried, Amy, it is good news, at least I hope you will think so.” She took Amy’s hand and reached out for Dahlia’s, who grasped it readily. “I am just come from Lady Huntingdon who gives the same complaint you both gave me, do you remember, when we were with the dressmaker? That London has become boring. When the Season is no longer fresh, it is stale, she says, and soon the city will be so hot. So her answer is to go to her estate in Surrey and invite you to come too!”
All the Shipleys gasped. Marie-Anne was practically dancing with delight, so Mason just watched her. She was so good at being happy. She caught his eye, and said, “You too, Mr. Mason, and Phyllida.”
“And you too, I hope?” asked Amy.
“Yes, of course,” laughed Marie-Anne. “The house is very big and she will invite many others.”
“But I thought–” Dahlia’s elated look was suddenly overcast by uncertainty. She shot a worried look at Mason then at Marie-Anne, as though she was afraid to believe this invitation was genuine. “Lady Huntingdon has not invited us to anything at all this season. Amy or me, I mean. I was introduced to her, but…” She didn’t say that Lady Huntingdon had turned chilly the instant she had heard the name Shipley.
“She knows you are very dear to me, all of you,” Marie-Anne assured her. “She will also invite Mr. St. James and she said I must tell you, Amy, that your Mr. Harner may come too. But only if you want him to come! It is for you to say.”
“Who else is invited?” asked Mason. He managed to sound annoyed at the prospect of a social gathering that Dahlia was clearly salivating to be a part of.
“Yes indeed, and when shall we be going?” asked Lady Shipley, in great excitement. “We will need to close up the house and there’s my yellow silk gown, the hem is still being repaired but I must bring it.”
“And my hat,” said Sir Gordon, no less excited. “It’s the latest fashion, I’ll send word to the milliner that it must be completed as soon as–”
“No, no, there is no need to trouble yourselves,” said Marie-Anne brightly, raising her voice so that it cut across their chatter. “It is only your daughters who have been invited to stay.”
Her gaze didn’t falter as she watched the excitement slide from their faces. It was spectacular, how she wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable. Sir Gordon looked like he was slowly suffocating while Lady Shipley had a half-frantic expression, like she was desperately trying to understand. All the while, Marie-Anne – sweet-faced, perfectly composed, the faintest hint of anticipation in her eyes – politely waited for whatever they might say.
“But…but surely…” Lady Shipley looked like she’d had an idea that explained everything. With an air of great relief, she said, “Oh, but perhaps you don’t understand, my dear, that Lady Huntingdon will of course be happy to invite us for your sake. Just as she invited Mr. Mason and Mr. Harner. I’m certain you need only ask her to extend us the invitation.”
“Yes of course, I am very certain of that too,” Marie-Anne agreed. “But I do not want to ask her.”
“But why don’t you want to ask her?”
“Because I do not want you to come.”
“Why ever not?” asked a bewildered Lady Shipley.
“Because I do not like you,” Marie-Anne replied pleasantly. The ensuing silence was so profound that Mason began counting the ticks of the suddenly audible mantel clock. On the seventh of these, she offered further explanation. “And it will be very genteel company, so I am sure you understand.”
Mason thought he might actually injure himself in his attempt not to burst into laughter. Sir Gordon was turning purple and his mouth flapping open and shut like a lake trout. Lady Shipley clutched at her bosom and seemed to be trying to decide between a tirade and a swoon. Amy and Dahlia became fascinated with their own feet, which to judge by their expressions were hilarious and appalling and perhaps a little terrifying. Amid it all stood Marie-Anne, radiating perfect contentment.
“I’m told if you apply yourself with diligence to studying your betters, there’s some hope for improvement,” Mason offered to Sir Gordon, who seemed not to hear it, being too outraged with Marie-Anne to notice anything else. Mason looked to her. “Maybe we should ring for tea? They’re always telling me how it soothes their nerves.”
But Sir Gordon, after giving a kind of gurgling noise, had at last found his voice. “Impertinent little hussy!”
“Papa!” admonished Dahlia, while Amy gasped and put an arm out in front of Marie-Anne in a touchingly protective gesture. For her part, Marie-Anne only looked highly amused as Sir Gordon continued his blustering.
“...Nothing but a filthy harlot from the gutters of Paris,” he was saying, as Lady Shipley nodded along. “Nothing to commend you save that our son was foolish enough to be seduced by a common strumpet–”
“Papa!” Dahlia’s angry shout cut him off decisively. She stepped forward with her chin raised, a supremely disgusted look aimed at her father. “You forget yourself.”
Everyone, including Mason, was taken aback by how positively commanding she was. Her father began stammering, her mother faintly fluttering as Dahlia turned briskly to Mason and said, “Mr. Mason, I would be most obliged if you will escort Madame de Vauteuil home. I’ll not allow her to be exposed to such insult for an instant longer.”
“Dahlia dearest–” began a sheepish Lady Shipley.
“I beg you to keep silent or I will expire of shame right here in the drawing room, Mama.”
And in stifling silence, Mason gathered his hat and gloves as Amy whispered that she would call on Marie-Anne tomorrow, and they hastily made their way into the street.
He considered offering to find a hackney, but he wanted to walk all the long way with her. Marie-Anne looked a little stunned. She uttered something in French that he couldn’t hope to understand but took to be an expression of impressed amazement.
“Well! I have never dreamed that Dahlia is so…” She lifted her hand in an elegant motion, letting the gesture stand in for words. Turning up the street, she set off with him at a leisurely pace. “She was magnificent! I cannot understand why she ever thought she wanted someone like you.”
Mason gave it a few seconds, but she just carried on walking with that confounded look on her face and no sign that she’d meant to give offense. “It’s a mystery,” he agreed, and prayed his flush of mild mortification would not creep too far above his collar.
“Did you see how she looked down her nose at them? She would make a wonderful duchess one day. Even her boasting will not be called vulgar, it would be expected of a duchess! I think she may be perfectly suited for it. It is impossible she could resign herself to be the wife of an American businessman.”
“It’s my fondest wish that she won’t be. I suppose the trip to Surrey will feature this son of a duke in the flesh?”
She burst into a smile. “Yes! I have put Joyce – I mean Lady Huntingdon – to work. She loves to… oh, how would you say, to play the Cupid. She invited Releford and she tells me he was not interested until she told him Dahlia would be invited also.”
“And who else?” He hoped it didn’t come out too eager, but he was more than a little curious. With a hostess like Lady Huntingdon and a guest like Releford, it could prove to be almost as fertile a hunting ground as the opera. Freddy would be in raptures at the possibilities.
“Releford will bring a friend, I think, and of course some of the Huntingdon family. There will also be women for Mr. St. James, to tempt him away from P
hyllida.” Here she looked up at him with that happy mischief in her eyes, clearly bursting with her news. “Maybe a singer, for certain another debutante, and–” She gave a dramatic pause. “A poetess!”
He looked down at her, so pleased with herself. If it wouldn’t cause all kinds of indecent chatter, he’d pick her up right here in the middle of the street and twirl her around in her triumph. Instead, he just smiled back at her.
“You sure know how to make everything fun, don’t you?” he marveled. Then he gave in and laughed, loud and long, and she joined him. When it died down, he asked, “Where in the hell did you find a poetess?”
“In hell is a good guess, if she as bad at poetry as he is.” She affected a soppy look and put a hand to her heart as she recited. “‘Like the breath of the morning dew, like the quivering strings of a golden lyre, kissed by –’ Who were the strings kissed by?”
“Aphrodite, probably,” supplied Mason. He’d managed to tune out that particular recitation of St. James’ latest endeavor. “It’s always Aphrodite.”
She giggled at that as they turned a corner into a less populated street. “He is required to mention Aphrodite in every poem because he is a libertine, I’m sure. Libertine is much more flattering than hussy or – what did they call me? A harlot. No one ever says ‘filthy libertine’ or ‘common libertine.’ A man is permitted to be a harlot, and even proud of it, with a word like libertine.”
She sounded thoughtful and completely indifferent, as though the words and how they were used were merely linguistic curiosities. He might have felt a more urgent need to defend her as Sir Gordon had blustered on, if she had shown anything other than this detached amusement. Of course, defending her would also require Mason to have any idea how a real gentleman would handle the situation. Pistols at dawn, probably, and a lot of fancy words, and other rituals he didn’t know the first thing about.
“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked. “What he said about you, I mean.”
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 9
