Marie-Anne cast a forlorn look at her plate, wishing for some bread to appear. Sadly, it did not.
“My grandfather hired a man to be a hermit,” Lord Releford was saying. He was seated with Phyllida to one side and Dahlia to the other, and seemed very content with this arrangement. “I believe he went through several men, in fact. They found it too difficult to adhere to his strict rules about bathing. After a few months any man would want a wash, but Grandfather said if a hermit didn’t look ramshackle then he wasn’t worth paying.”
As Phyllida assured him her hermit was very clean and perfectly well-groomed, Marie-Anne rallied. She might be failing in separating Phyllida from her libertine poet, but things were going according to plan with the other Shipley sister. Releford was not only a true gentleman, he was utterly taken with Dahlia. Though he was in line to be a duke himself, he seemed less objectionable than most. He could even be forgiven for inflicting the lecherous Duke of Ravenclyffe on them, if he managed to woo Dahlia well enough that she would break off her engagement.
The signs were very encouraging. Telling herself it was entirely for the sake of Dahlia’s romance, Marie-Anne decided to take her aside after dinner to press her on the matter at last. It was past time for them to talk frankly about this engagement. When it came to it, though, it was Dahlia who took Marie-Anne’s arm and asked her if she wouldn’t like to stroll out to the terrace to enjoy the warm night air.
At a sufficient distance from the open doors of the drawing room, where the others were, Marie-Anne spoke freely.
“Now we are where they cannot hear us so I will tell you I do not like this Ravenclyffe. He is the kind of man a woman should be careful of, I think.”
“How do you mean?” A crease of concern had appeared on Dahlia’s brow. “Has Ravenclyffe offered you some offense?”
Marie-Anne patted her arm. “Nothing I cannot manage, little cabbage. A woman of scandal is very experienced in these things. I only mention it to say I am surprised he is a friend of Releford, because they do not seem very alike. Mr. Mason has told me that you know Lord Releford very well?” Even in the dim light, she could see Dahlia was blushing as she nodded. “And I have seen myself how he looks at you.”
“Mr. Mason?”
“No, Dahlia, I meant Lord Releford. In fact, I have never seen Mr. Mason look at you as Releford does.”
“How does Lord Releford look at me?’ she asked, with barely disguised hope.
Marie-Anne gave a snort. “As I look at a cake when someone is too slow in serving me a piece of it.” Dahlia gave a choked sound. Marie-Anne stopped their meandering stroll and faced her. “I hope we are friends enough that I may speak plainly?” At her tiny nod, Marie-Anne went on. “Well, it is simple. I think your affections are not for Mr. Mason. I think they are for this Lord Releford. I am not wrong?”
Poor Dahlia looked like a child afraid of getting into trouble. She bit her lip and gave a sheepish nod. “It’s very bad of me, I know, but I like him so very much and…oh, whatever shall I do?”
She suddenly looked close to tears, so Marie-Anne quickly led her to a stone bench in a shadowy corner of the terrace. “What to do? Exactly what you want to do, of course. You will let Releford eat your cake. After he marries you, of course,” she amended hastily, which successfully banished Dahlia’s tearful expression and replaced it with a strangled laugh.
“But Mason–”
“Mason deserves better than to be the second choice. You must be honest when I ask you this, Dahlia – do you believe you will ever want Mason in the same way you want Releford?”
“I thought…I did think it was possible, truly I did. I do like Mason, and it was very exciting at first. But then it began to feel like the gravest mistake, because we are so very awkward together. And then – well, to own the truth, Marie-Anne, I see how he is with you. So very easy and relaxed, both of you, and always laughing together. Oh, he is amiable enough with me, but already you are better friends than he and I will ever be. When I see it, I am reminded of how Releford and I used to be.”
“Yes, Mr. Mason and I have a natural sympathy as foreigners.” Marie-Anne carefully kept her tone unworried. “But I think it was more than just friendly for you and Lord Releford, no?”
“It was. But then he was very rude about mother and father, and while I cannot fault his sentiments, he was unforgivably harsh. Then he said Phyllida was acting disgracefully and even if it was true – well,” she sniffed. “We had a row and he dared me to find any man more tolerant than he of my family. So I did.”
“Ah. And now you regret it.” She watched Dahlia give a miserable nod, and did not resist the urge to put a consoling arm around the girl. “Well you may take comfort in knowing he also regrets it. I am sure of it. One word from you and he is at your feet. Do it before he becomes so desperate he writes poems to your lost love. We cannot withstand more terrible poetry.”
That earned her a wobbly laugh. “I should have to release Mason from our engagement first. I confess I do not think it will break his heart, but I dread the thought.”
“It is good you did not make the engagement public, so his pride is as safe as his heart. He will not be cruel to you, so why do you dread?”
“Because… what if I release Mason, and then Releford won’t have me?” She was obviously mortified at the possibility. “I can’t bear the thought.”
“Of what, being alone? I promise you there are many worse things. For example, you could hold on to a man you do not want only for fear the other man won’t have you,” she chided, and then patted her arm reassuringly when she saw the girl was a little abashed.
“You’re right,” Dahlia said with a sudden resolve. She sat up and squared her shoulders. “I’ll speak to Mason right away. Tomorrow. I will take tonight to consider my words and then…” Her courage seemed to flag a little. “It’s very daunting.”
“Courage, petit chou. One awkward moment, and you are free.”
She looked up to see others moving to join them on the terrace. Mr. St. James was exhorting Charlotte to be more lyrical in her description of her native Martinique, and Joyce was worrying over her husband’s insistence on walking without aid of his cane. “Only promise me you will not run away with Releford in a fit of passion and leave me here with all of these people. I will be tempted to hide with Phyllie’s hermit.”
Marie-Anne was not used to feeling even a little ashamed of herself, which is why it took her so long to identify the uncomfortable twinge. Once she realized that she was unduly excited about the end of Dahlia’s engagement, and that this excitement came almost entirely from the knowledge that she could soon feel free to kiss Mason, she began to experience a self-conscious touch of guilt.
It always tastes better with a little guilt for spice, is what Aurélie used to say. But dear Aurélie had been the kept woman of a married man, so she would say that. Virtue, Marie-Anne had learned at a young age, was a very relative thing.
All day she had watched Dahlia work up her courage to speak to Mason. If the girl could overcome her indecisiveness and do it, she would surely feel only a deep and abiding relief. And Marie-Anne had no doubt it was the best thing for Dahlia, in every way. Just because Marie-Anne benefitted from it too, that was no reason to feel ashamed.
Or so she told herself as she sat near her open bedroom window that evening, hoping for a breeze as she used a wet cloth to wipe the perspiration from every crease of her body. The maid had helped her to undress but even free from gown and stockings, she felt warm and slightly sticky until she’d rinsed herself off. It had been a very warm day, and very long, and it was only at the end of the night when everyone was preparing to retire that she had finally heard Dahlia ask Mason if she could have a word. Marie-Anne had beat a hasty retreat to give them privacy.
She would have to wait until morning to know if the engagement was ended.
She didn’t want to wait.
There was a glass of wine on her dressing table that had seemed like an exc
ellent idea when she realized she might have trouble getting to sleep because of the suspense. She sipped at it now, but it did little to distract her. The panel of wall that she had fixated on nightly was suddenly irresistible. She pressed her ear to it, hoping to hear something. Then she opened it and listened at the seam of the opposite door, the one that was the only barrier to his room. She heard nothing. What on earth would she even hope to hear?
A giggle escaped her, which only repeated itself more loudly when she considered that Mason might hear his wall laughing.
She put a hand to the latch. What was the use in being considered outrageous if one rarely did anything truly outrageous?
“Well, Joyce,” she murmured to herself as she tied her dressing gown over her shift and drank down the rest of the wine, “Let us make your grandmama proud.”
She lifted the latch. The panel pushed open easily enough but when it issued a loud creaking noise, she stopped. She looked through the crack into what appeared to be a very large room. Of him, she saw only an elbow resting on a desk. There was a lamp next to him, and she watched him stand, take up the lamp, and come toward the door.
He was close enough to touch, but he didn’t look inside or open the panel further. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him. He was very endearing, standing in his shirtsleeves and looking so befuddled in the lamplight.
“Are you home to callers, monsieur?” she asked, and of course he jumped at the sound of her voice. “Bravo,” she cheered, as he barely managed to keep from dropping the lamp in his amazement. She pushed the door open more fully and stepped into his room. “A house fire would be very inconvenient.”
She refrained from laughing – though only barely – as he stared at her and then examined the panel. It was very amusing, his incredulous face going back and forth, back and forth. She smiled and nodded to reassure him he was not imagining her sudden appearance. How refreshing it was, that he too clearly thought this was preposterous.
“That’s your room?” he asked, looking through the panel.
“Yes. Our hostess tells me it is normal for a country house that is old like this. One grows bored in the country, so they build these little diversions.”
He looked at a loss for words. “What kind of…” He shook his head. “But what if…” He gave the open panel a slight push, winced at the loud creak, and finally gave a resigned kind of shrug. Then he began to laugh. It was deep and resonant and utterly sincere, and it was quickly becoming her favorite sound. “Oh god,” he finally said, “these people are ridiculous. How the hell did I end up here?”
“All my fault!” she cheerily reminded him. “But what is this?” She took a step to reach the desk where he’d been sitting, and picked up the paper that had caught her eye. “This is Ravenclyffe. How perfectly you have drawn him.”
All Mason’s laughter had stopped the instant she picked up the drawing. He rushed to the desk and swept up the other papers before she even had a chance to glance at them. She would have felt deprived if she were not so delighted with the sketch before her.
“It’s not even close to perfect,” he said, charmingly flustered.
She waved a dismissive hand. “The features are not exact and it is very simple, but still it is exactly him. His face, the – what is it? The leering, that is the word. But he does not leer here, and still you show that he has a filthy mind. Debauched, you know? Well yes, you must know, you have drawn him that way.”
“Yes.” He was tucking the other papers into a large folder. “He asked if I wanted to see his chestnuts, if you can believe it. What did he say to you?”
“It was not words with me. But what do horses have to do with this?”
He frowned at her, confused. “I don’t know, what do horses have to do with it?”
“You said he invited you to see his chestnuts.”
His look of bafflement persisted a few moments before a look of dawning comprehension took over his face. “Oh!” he cried softly, stretching the syllable out a very long time as though the solution to a mystery had suddenly revealed itself. “Horses. Chestnuts are horses. That makes so much more sense. Because of the color, I suppose.”
“Of course. What did you think they were?”
But as soon as it was out of her mouth, she realized what he must have thought. She could not stop the shout of laughter that escaped her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but could not hope to contain it. He was saying he didn’t know the first thing about horses, which only made her nearly howl with laughter, so she stifled the sound as best she could. Then her imagination served up an image of what he must have looked like in the moment – round, shocked eyes, and that purple flush creeping up his face while Ravenclyffe probably wondered what on earth was wrong. Her sides began to ache.
“Oh mon dieu,” she gasped out as she made her way to chair before the empty hearth, where she collapsed completely. “How did you…why did you think–” She interrupted herself with another snort of laughter.
“Well what else would you think when a man says he’d love to show you his chestnuts?” Which was a reasonable enough question, but it only made her laugh harder. “Especially when he leaned in and whispered it, like it was an illicit proposition. He was downright furtive about it.”
“What did–” she panted for breath, clutching her sides. “What did you answer to him?”
“I don’t remember.” His laughter was not quite as uncontrolled as hers. He sat himself in the chair across from her. “I’m sure I said I was flattered–” She let out a sharp Ha! “…But that it wasn’t a proposition that appealed to me.”
“You have a formidable strength, to resist the invitation. To view the chestnuts of a duke! Mere mortals can only dream of such wonders.”
He was laughing rather helplessly now too, though she suspected it was because she was making such a spectacle of herself. Marie-Anne wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and fought to regain some control. “I would give anything to have been there to see it,” she sighed at last, once she had her breath back.
She settled back in the chair and began to feel the warmth in her belly and the mistiness in her head that said she’d had more wine than she realized. Between that and the laughter, she was very content.
“I complained to myself that this visit was not as amusing as I thought it would be. But I go through a secret door in my wall and I am given this story. It restores my faith.”
She felt him looking at her and knew she was sprawled too carelessly in the chair, and in only her dressing gown. But what did it matter? She felt warm and wonderful, and she loved the feel of his eyes on her.
“You make me want to paint,” he said softly, and she looked at him, looking at her. “I’ve never learned it. I haven’t even tried. But you make me want to put color everywhere.”
His eyes moved across her face and she knew the colors he saw: the amber hair falling against her flushed cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the pink of her lips, the deep burgundy of the dressing gown. It was strange to think of him, with his vivid red hair and his golden freckles and dusky green eyes, sketching with his pencil in just grays and blacks. It seemed to her that everything he touched would have to take on color. She was sure every part of her that he touched would come alive.
“Dahlia said she would talk to you,” she blurted, impetuous words that changed the nature of his look.
She felt the excitement in him, and it was exactly like her own. There was the tiny flare of his nostril, the flick of his glance to her mouth, the heat that rushed through her when he looked in her eyes. He knew now, why she had come to his room.
“She did talk to me,” he said. A slow smile spread across his face, because he was so wonderfully wicked. “I thought I’d have to wait until tomorrow to thank you.”
“It went well? I mean – she was not upset, I hope.”
She wished she hadn’t asked it. It made her think of little Dahlia, nervous and determined, trying to do the proper thing. Marie-Anne did not
want to think of proper things at all.
He shook his head. “She shook my hand, wished me well, and called me a friend. I believe she was greatly relieved.”
“I thought she would be.” She took a very deep breath and gave voice to her doubts. “But she was so ambivalent when she spoke to me. I worry she is not committed to her decision.”
He immediately heard the equivocation in her words. “Now just a minute,” he said, eyed narrowed. “I was promised a kiss.”
Her unruly mouth let a burble of laughter escape. “And you are such a cad you will insist on it!”
“Being engaged is what made me a cad. If I’m released from my engagement, I’m not a cad anymore.”
“Hah. Once a scoundrel always a scoundrel.” To her surprise, he looked a little abashed at that. She softened, banishing the laughter that might hurt him. “Truly, she was uncertain when I spoke to her. When she tells me the engagement is broken, and when she tells her sisters, that will make it absolutely certain.”
He looked a little like the Shipleys had, when she’d said they were not invited to the house party. Well, so much for the happiness of ogres – she was not happy at all. Here she was in perfect déshabille, with a ravenous hunger for the man alone in this room with her.
Oh, virtue really was very relative, she reasoned. And she had never liked it much anyway.
“But perfect conviction is very overrated, I have always said this,” she told him, and he looked up at her. “A kiss, then. Just one.” She smiled her own slow, wicked smile. “For now.”
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 11
