Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You’re wrong, lass.”

  “I happen to be living with another man, Mr. Bond. We’re going to be married.”

  “I’ve always liked a bit of competition,” he confided.

  I had had quite enough of Mr. Jeremy Bond. I gave him a look that should have reduced him to ashes.

  “You haven’t a prayer,” I told him.

  “I’m going to have you, lass. Wait and see.”

  I saw no reason whatsoever to reply to this outrageous remark. Lifting my skirts demurely, I moved up the steps and entered the shop, closing the door behind me. A bell tinkled above my head, and Lucille peered out of the back room to see who had entered. Looking through the glass pane in the door, I could see Jeremy Bond standing at the foot of the steps, smiling a broad, devilish smile. After a moment he shook his head, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and started back down the street with that long, bouncy stride. If he hurried, he should be able to catch up with the blonde in no time at all.

  Two

  Lucille came bustling out of the workroom, gray hair piled precariously atop her head, cheeks heavily rouged, dangling garnet earrings swaying. She wore her habitual black taffeta dress, the full skirt crackling, the long sleeves covering her wrists. Sharp, shrewd, avaricious, Lucille was an artist, creating gorgeous gowns that were shockingly overpriced. She was also one of the city’s great gossips, and little went on in New Orleans that she didn’t know about.

  “Ah,” she said, peering over my shoulder, “I see you’ve met the notorious Mr. Bond. It was inevitable, my dear, a woman as lovely as you, a man as appreciative of beauty as he.”

  She clacked her tongue as he strode on down the street and out of sight. I drew myself up, pretending offense. Lucille smiled. Crafty old meddler that she was, she knew I was interested in the gossip she was ready to pass on, but I assumed an air of casual indifference.

  “Is the gown ready?” I inquired.

  “One final fitting, my dear. I want to be certain the bodice hugs you just so. Do you know him?”

  “Mr. Bond accosted me on the street. He was extremely forward. I gave him a piece of my mind.”

  “Most women would adore being accosted by him,” she informed me. “He has a shocking reputation with the ladies, my dear. They can’t seem to get enough of him, and he treats them wretchedly—a fancy dinner, a shiny bauble, a quick tumble in the bedroom, and then he moves on to fresh territory. Janine Devereaux swallowed poison when he left her, it took them ever so long to revive her. The Devereaux family shipped the poor girl off to Paris. I hear she’s entered a convent.”

  “Pity,” I said. “Shall we move on to the fitting room? I’d like to wear the gown tonight. Derek is taking me out to dinner.”

  “Ah, the handsome Lord Hawke. And has he married you yet?”

  “You know quite well he hasn’t,” I said stiffly. “I told you that we intend to marry in England. Derek wants the wedding to be held in the family chapel at Hawkehouse. It’s traditional.”

  Lucille made a face. “Tradition,” she snipped, “such foolishness. If he had any sense at all he’d have married you in Natchez, as soon as you recovered from that dreadful ordeal.”

  “He explained his reasons for waiting. I accepted them. I think a traditional wedding will be lovely.”

  “A wedding’s a wedding, my dear,” she replied, leading the way into the elegant fitting room. “If it were me, I’d want the knot to be tied as soon as possible. I’d be very nervous otherwise.”

  “It isn’t you,” I snapped.

  Lucille clacked her tongue again. “And when are you going to England?”

  “As soon as he can buy passage for us. It’s extremely difficult, Lucille. This dreadful revolution raging in the East has made passage to England terribly expensive and hard to manage. Everyone wants to return to England, afraid the conflict will reach this part of the country, as well it might.”

  “Pooh, what happens up there doesn’t affect us in the least. These Americans! So unruly, so ungrateful. Not that the English are any better, mind you. He’s trying to buy passage?”

  “He’s been trying for the past few weeks. He had some business to take care of in New Orleans—property to sell, loose ends to tie up—but that’s concluded now. As soon as we can get berth we’ll be leaving New Orleans. I told you all that, Lucille.”

  “And you came to me for your trousseau. A good thing, too, my dear. You were practically naked when you arrived from Natchez. But then all your lovely clothes were destroyed in the fire.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Such a tragedy. Your husband killed, too, though from what I understand that was a blessing.”

  “I don’t care to discuss it, Lucille,” I said, irritated and unwilling to discuss the past. Lucille knew everything, of course. She had made gowns for me back when I was living with Jeff and working at Rawlins’ Place, and she was privy to all the details of my turbulent past. Still, despite her prying and her penchant for scandal, she was the finest dressmaker in the country. The new wardrobe she had made for me was stunningly beautiful, and this last gown was the pièce de résistance.

  “I’ll say one thing for your handsome Hawke, my dear, he pays his bills. I sent him a statement last Tuesday. He paid in full that afternoon. More than I can say for most of my customers. Your Mr. Rawlins was shameless when it came to bills. I had to dun and dun.”

  “Lucille—”

  “Charming, though, so charming. I didn’t mind being owed by a man like that one. Do you remember the gold gown, my dear?”

  “I remember, Lucille.”

  “Quite the loveliest gown I ever created—until now. When your handsome lord sees you in the red—la!” she exclaimed, clicking her tongue. “I shall hate not being able to dress you in the future, my dear.”

  “I’ll never find anyone in England as accomplished as you,” I told her. “I’m very eager to try on the new gown, Lucille.”

  “As well you should. It’s my masterpiece. If you’ll undress, my dear, I’ll fetch the gown.”

  She scurried away, garnet earrings swaying, black taffeta crackling, and I took off my dress, handing it to an assistant who had come in to help. The girl disappeared, and I stood in front of the three-way mirror in my petticoat, examining myself as though the woman reflected were a stranger. The cheekbones were high and aristocratic, the nose finely chiseled, the mouth full and pink, but the sapphire blue eyes were sad and wise, the eyes of a woman who has seen too much and known great anguish. Nothing of the girl remained. There was a new maturity, an undeniable patina of sophistication.

  I ran my fingers through the rich, coppery red waves that spilled thickly over my shoulders. Beautiful? Yes, men thought so. I was tall and slender with a superb figure, the white silk petticoat clinging to my full bosom, snugly encircling my narrow waist. The skirt belled out with row upon row of frothy white lace ruffles. Men found me desirable. They always had. I knew it was as much a curse as a blessing. Had Lord Robert Mallory not desired me, had he not taken me against my will six years ago, I would probably still be a governess, teaching other women’s children to read and write and instructing them in the finer points of deportment.

  I hadn’t thought of Robert Mallory in a long time. When I refused to be the complaisant mistress he required, he and his wife had planted emeralds in my luggage and accused me of theft. I had been convicted, shipped to America as an indentured servant to be bought by the highest bidder. Derek Hawke had purchased me in order to “save” me from Jeff Rawlins, who had wanted to sell me to a brothel and turn a neat profit. Jeff … he had purchased me himself when Derek turned me out, but he had never intended to sell my letter of indenture. He had torn it into tiny shreds, flinging them into the air and giving me my freedom. He had loved me with a passionate intensity few women ever know, and it had ultimately cost him his life.

  I wondered if I would ever be able to forgive myself for what had happened to Jeff. Unable to love him the way he loved me, I had
continued to think of Derek Hawke, and when Derek had come back into my life I had made little effort to resist him. Jeff had discovered us together and had challenged Derek to a duel. How well I remembered the horror of that day, the fog, the oak trees, the terrible blasts of gunfire. I had held Jeff in my arms, hating myself as the life seeped out of him, smiling through my tears as he declared his love for a final time.

  Derek had hated me, too. Incensed because I had caused him to take another man’s life, he had turned against me, had deserted me, and, determined to survive, I had married Helmut Schnieder in Natchez, the gravest mistake of my life. Schnieder was a beast, a sadist who had married me only that I might provide a cover for his incestuous relationship with his own sister. When I had helped the poor girl flee from his clutches, he had gone insane with rage, had set in motion a terrible revenge I had been spared only by Derek’s intervention.

  He had come back for me. He had hated me, yes, or at least he had thought so at the time, but he had discovered that he couldn’t live without me. I was in his blood, he claimed, and without the triumph of winning the Hawke estates back from his uncle and cousins meant nothing. He had returned to America to find me … and now, at long last, we were together. I loved him with all my heart and soul, as I had from the first, and I knew that he loved me as well. Cool, remote, moody, he might not show his love as openly as Jeff had, as other men might, but it was there nonetheless, binding us together irrevocably.

  Of course he would marry me. I understood the delay. I was in agreement. A formal wedding at Hawke house would make our bond even more permanent. If I had ever entertained doubts about his intentions, that merely showed my own lack of understanding. I could see why he wanted to wait until our vows could be said in traditional fashion. I would be Lady Hawke soon enough, and in the meantime we were together, sharing our love. The future was ours. The gnawing doubts and fears that had plagued me since our reunion were sheer foolishness.

  Besides, the delay had enabled me to assemble a suitable trousseau. When I became Lady Hawke I would be dressed in splendor befitting my new position. Lucille had seen to that. I sighed and brushed an errant copper-red lock from my temple. Everything was going to be fine. I had faced a great deal of adversity during the past six years, but that was all behind me. I had found my love at last, and nothing would come between us.

  “These girls!” Lucille exclaimed, coming into the room. “They chat and giggle and never get their work done. I have to stay on them every minute. Here it is, my dear. Shall we slip it on. Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous, perhaps my finest achievement.”

  The gown was a rich, deep red brocade embroidered all over with floral patterns in an even deeper red silk. The full, gathered skirt belled out over half a dozen red lace underskirts, and the bodice with its off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves was cut provocatively low. Lucille helped me into the sumptuous creation, fastening it in back and then stepping off to survey her handiwork, nodding vigorously as she did so.

  “Yes, yes, just right! The cloth, the cut, exquisite simplicity. Those red lace panels I wanted would have spoiled it. You were right to talk me out of them, my dear, but then you always did have the right instincts. Rich, rich red, deeper red embroidery, no frills, no bows, no panels. I thought no my dear, I may as well admit it. Red, with your hair? The color is perfect, and you dominate the dress, my dear. So rich a garment would wash out most women, you know.”

  “You’ve done a superb job, Lucille.”

  “Pompadour would have loved it, but she could never have carried it off. I had to dress her in pale, pale green and pink, the softest of lilacs, the lightest of grays. She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as you are, my dear. Pompadour was never a beauty, you understand, but she had talent. The king was utterly captivated, and there wasn’t a man in France who wouldn’t have sold his soul for one night with her.”

  Lucille loved to babble about her association with the Royal Favorite. I patiently endured a few minutes of scandalous revelations while she tugged at the skirt and smoothed down the waist, critically examining the fit. Satisfied at last, she stepped back and sighed.

  “Perfection!” she declared. “I’ve run up a cloak to go with it,” she informed me. “Dark red velvet lined with paler red silk. I know you didn’t order it, my dear, but the gown cries out for a matching cloak, and Lord Hawke has already paid for it. You’ll want to do your hair up, perhaps a few ringlets dangling in back but no feathers, no hair ornaments of any kind, mustn’t distract from the gown.”

  She began to unfasten it in back. “He always pays his bills on time, too,” she said.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Your Mr. Bond. He’s done business with me on more than one occasion. There was a lovely creature named Therese, magnolia skin, full pink lips, eyes as black as ink and full of allure. He kept her in a plush apartment and was apparently quite fond of her. He certainly dressed her well.”

  I made no comment, telling myself I wasn’t at all interested in Mr. Jeremy Bond.

  “She was a flighty creature, alas. Shockingly unfaithful. Your Mr. Bond discovered her in bed with a handsome young dandy, the lad couldn’t have been more than nineteen. My dear, they were actually performing when he walked into the bedroom. He cocked an eyebrow and told them to go on about their business, and the young man was quite distressed, as you can imagine. He grabbed his clothes and scurried away quick as a flash. Few men care to tangle with Bond, you understand. He has a vicious right and is devilishly accomplished with pistol and sword, as I’m sure you know.”

  “I know nothing whatsoever about him.”

  “Anyway, Therese started shrieking and wailing. She leaped out of bed and tried to throw herself into his arms. My dear, he socked her! She had a black eye for days! Then he took a pair of scissors and cut all the gowns he had bought her to pieces. Calm as could be, he was, destroying all those lovely clothes while she wailed and protested.”

  “Apparently Mr. Bond doesn’t like to be crossed.”

  “Few men do, dear. Bond ran into the young man a few nights later at one of the gambling halls. The youth was terrified, of course, afraid Bond would come after him, but Bond merely smiled that peculiar lopsided smile of his and bought the boy a drink, told him he had extremely good taste in women. You must admit the man has style.”

  “He sounds like a thorough scoundrel.”

  “Oh, he is, my dear. That’s part of his charm. Every woman loves a rogue, and he makes no pretense at being anything else. Half the women in New Orleans are in love with him. They say he comes from one of the best families in England. Disgraced them years ago, they say, got himself thrown out of the Army as well.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He gambles quite a lot, and I understand he’s done a bit of smuggling, but his main source of income seems to come from mysterious jobs. I suppose you could call him a mercenary. It seems that when someone wants a bit of work done that involves danger, they call upon your Mr. Bond.”

  “He isn’t my Mr. Bond, Lucille. I don’t even know the man.”

  “Pity,” she said.

  “He doesn’t even know my name,” I added.

  “He will,” Lucille assured me. “When Jeremy Bond has his heart set on something, he goes after it. It seems he has his heart set on you, my dear. Your handsome Lord Hawke is going to have some competition.”

  I stepped out of the glorious crimson gown and handed it to her. “Jeremy Bond doesn’t interest me in the least,” I informed her.

  “You’re female, my dear. You’re interested, all right. The woman hasn’t been born who isn’t interested in a man like that. He’s handsome, charming, rakish, has a mysterious background—oh yes, you’re interested enough.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “If I were twenty years younger—twenty-five, perhaps—I’d go after him myself. I’d be courting disaster, of course, men like that always spell disaster for a woman, but that’s part of their appeal.”

  S
he sighed, remembering days gone by as she left the room with the gown draped over her arm. I began to dress, irritated by all this talk about Jeremy Bond. I wasn’t interested in him, the man was preposterous, a jaunty, swaggering rogue, yet I couldn’t help but be intrigued by what Lucille had said about him. I stepped into the showroom a few moments later, and Lucille soon joined me, shoving back the stack of gray hair that threatened to spill over her forehead.

  “I’ll have the gown and cloak delivered to you right away,” she informed me.

  “Thank you, Lucille.”

  “It’s been a joy dressing you, my dear. I shall miss you.”

  “You mean you’ll miss the business,” I teased.

  “That, too,” she confessed. “A person has to make ends meet, but mostly I’ll miss my association with you. You’re a rare creature, Marietta. You’ve got that special quality few women have. It’s more than beauty, more than feminine allure. You attract—adventure, tumultuous emotions. Life will never be calm and easygoing for you, my dear. It will always be lived at the highest pitch of emotion—as, indeed, it has been.”

  “That’s over,” I said calmly. “Now that Derek and I are together I intend to live—very quietly.”

  Lucille smiled, clearly not believing me, but she did not pursue the matter. She patted her hair again and adjusted one of the dangling garnet earrings.

  “Did you get the trunk safely?” she asked.

  “Trunk?”

  “Last week. The one the man in the navy blue coat delivered.”

  I caught my breath, a tremor of alarm awakening inside. It took considerable effort to keep my voice level when I spoke.

  “There was—no trunk,” I told her.

  Lucille looked puzzled. “The man came in bold as brass,” she said, “he said he had to deliver a new brassbound trunk to Lord Derek Hawke and had lost the address. He’d seen you coming out of the shop—said you were with Lord Hawke when he bought the trunk—and asked me if I could give him the address. I—hope it was all right.”