by Karen Ranney
He understood in that moment, and cursed himself for a fool. He had thought, somehow, to make the night magical. All he’d done was to illuminate the differences between them.
“I admit,” he said, forcing a smile to his face, “that it looks overwhelming. But think of it as if it were a puzzle. All the various utensils are used for a specific purpose. Such as this, for example,” he said picking up an odd-looking fork. The tines of it were curved at the end, almost as if it were the bowl of a spoon. “A fish fork,” he said.
Again he picked up another item from the table and held it aloft. This fork was as strangely shaped as the other. But the tines were half the length of its handle.
“A fruit fork.” When he proffered a knife that matched the fork in size, Margaret smiled.
“I suppose it would be too common to simply pick up an apple?”
“Exceedingly,” he said with a smile. “Then you would have no reason for this plethora of silverware.”
He held up a large spoon crafted in a perfect oval. “But it is in the spoon that we truly have fine mastery. This is the soup spoon,” he said. “Not to be confused with the dessert spoons.” Another piece of cutlery joined the first. “There is also the custard spoon, and the pudding spoon.”
“So many?” she asked, amazed.
“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s a ceremony of entrance, you see. Once you have mastered the dinnerware, you are considered one of the initiated.” He returned the cutlery to its place.
“When did you become initiated?”
“I was eight, I believe,” he said. “And a very well-behaved child.”
She tilted her head, surveyed him. “I doubt that’s entirely true,” she said. He only smiled in response.
One by one the courses were consumed. He noticed that Margaret only managed a taste of some of the dishes. She was unconsciously emulating those most proper of society matrons who thought it common to partake of every course.
When the meal was over, and Smytheton summoned to convey his appreciation to the cook, they left the dining room. Margaret remained in the foyer, standing silently beneath the shadowed dome while he retrieved his gift from the library.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said upon returning. His words echoed back at him, and he drew her away from the rotunda.
“More than the dinner or the theater?” she asked, surprised.
He nodded, and unfurled the shawl. Its paisley pattern was enhanced by delicate gold threads woven into the design. She reached out her hand, and stroked it softly. Even in the darkness it glittered.
He placed the shawl on her shoulders, discovering in that instant that he liked giving her things. It pleased him on an elemental, almost visceral, level.
Her expression of surprise muted to become pleasure.
“I should not take anything else from you,” she said faintly.
“The nights can be cool,” he softly said, feeling an absurd tenderness. “I would blame myself if you became chilled. Then you would have to remain longer.”
“You make it difficult to refuse you, Michael,” she said, smiling up at him.
“Then you should not,” he said, smiling.
“I will miss you when I leave,” she said. An artless comment, one that he could see she had not meant to say. But it hung in the air between them, lengthening the moment.
“My lord,” Smytheton said, stepping inside the door. “The carriage is here.”
Michael nodded, and held out his arm.
Chapter 22
When tranquility and relaxation are in
abundance, passion is sublime.
The Journals of Augustin X
The theater was so brightly lit it looked to be on fire.
They had to run the gauntlet of street peddlers from the carriage to the doors. Young girls sold oranges, flowers, and matches, while two or three older women hiked their skirts up on one side to indicate their status as prostitutes. But they weren’t the only ones plying their wares or begging for coins on this night. There were pickpockets, grizzled war veterans, and small boys who offered to dust the street or hold a lady’s pattens.
The entranceway, the stairs, and the corridors of the theater were as crowded as the square. A few people greeted Michael. His only response was a quick smile, a wave, intent on their destination. He deliberately did not stop to introduce Margaret. His sudden discomfiting thought was that he did not know a way to do so that would not ultimately shame her. She was not a relative, nor his fiancée. If he simply omitted her status or declared her a friend, the association would be assumed to be one of an illicit nature. By being polite, he would label her his mistress, but by refusing to introduce her, he declared her the same.
As they walked up the stairs, the crowd became less dense. One by one, they parted, as if word was being passed of their arrival in front of them. A few people turned and watched them as they passed.
Once they entered his box, Margaret sat, remaining silent and seemingly unaffected. If she felt it difficult to be watched by so many people, he couldn’t tell. He himself was growing more and more aware of the heads turning in their direction. There were enough interested gazes meeting his that he doubted Macbeth would be as much discussed as he and Margaret.
“Have you ever been to Covent Garden before?”
She glanced at him, nodded. “I saw Don Giovanni once, a few years ago.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I think it would have been better if it had been in Italian. It seemed a little silly hearing it in English.”
Her smile should not have made his loins tighten. That’s all he needed, he thought in disgust. To prove himself a debauched fool in front of thousands of interested spectators. He stared at the stage floor and concentrated on a Trithemius cipher, then a polyalphabetic substitution code.
The whispering began. Like the faintest breeze, it seemed to float through the room, careening from one guest to another. It seemed he had underestimated both society’s curiosity about him and possibly the modiste’s volubility.
Margaret sat, her attention on the stage. There was a look on her face, one of resolve coupled with an undeniable dismay. Wasn’t that the definition of courage, the ability to persevere even when one did not wish to do so?
He had never before had anyone to defend. His sisters had fashioned themselves into a triumvirate early on, protected one another. But Margaret had no such armor of rank or relation.
Her words came back to him. I must be seen in order to attract my next protector. His mood worsened. He had done nothing but ensure that she was the object of censure and gossip. Why the bloody hell hadn’t he realized it before now?
Because you weren’t exactly thinking with your mind, Michael. He frowned at that wry thought.
He had always believed that he was aware of his faults, knew them, attempted to lessen them. However, at this moment, he discovered another niche to his character, one that did not please him one whit. He had only seen his wishes and his wants, an insufferable arrogance. Not once had he considered what might happen to Margaret in these circumstances. Arrogance has a price, one that demanded payment. Unfortunately, in this instance, the bill was not presented to him.
His box was to the right of the stage, selected because of its view of the performance, not those attending it. He knew, however, that until the candles were extinguished, that they would be a focal point of countless interested stares.
“Have I ever told you about the Duchess of Wiltshire?”
She turned her head and glanced at him. “No,” she said softly, “you haven’t.”
“She is an old, crotchety woman who insists upon a diet of cabbage and turnips. No one, however, has the courage to tell her that her company is unbearable for more than a few moments. The Earl of Stonebridge is a man of medium years who loves his port with such fervor that he can be counted upon to drool in his soup and get ill in the bushes. The Marquess of Binsnoble has an affection for his pugs. He ki
sses them on the snout and insists on carrying them about with him at all times.”
There was an expression on her face now, something other than that frozen stillness. It was confusion mixed with the dawning of amusement. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?”
“They’re only human,” he said, looking out at the theater. “Each one of them has his flaws and can be expected to exhibit them, given enough time.”
He sought out the interested gaze of more than one old biddy. His frown, however, had not one deleterious effect. Another example of how he’d misjudged a situation. On the whole, he was not adept at failure. He discovered that it irritated him to be wrong.
“The Countess of Rutledge is ensconced in another century and insists upon revealing her sagging breasts down to the nipple, but everyone politely averts their eyes when she comes close.”
“Are you going to recite all their failings to me?” she asked, her smile broadening.
“If necessary,” he said, perfectly prepared to do so.
“Why?”
“To help you understand that it does not matter what they say.”
“Even if they whisper that you are here with your mistress?”
“I rarely attend the theater,” he said. “People are naturally curious about the woman who accompanies me tonight. I simply misjudged the degree of their interest.”
“Are you considered an enigma, Michael?”
“You look fascinated at the thought.”
“I do not perceive you as being mysterious,” she said.
“I have divulged more to you, Margaret, then I have to any other living soul.” A bit of honesty that silenced him. He realized that she knew more about certain aspects of his life than any other woman of his acquaintance. But more than that, she was privy to thoughts he had not shared with anyone else.
“It is all right, Michael. I knew it would happen, you see. A man and his mistress often cause talk. This is what you want for me, and it’s a life I cannot accept.”
He stared at her, incapable of uttering a word in his defense.
The chandeliers were finally lowered, the candles extinguished by waiting footmen. A few moments later, the curtain rose and the play began. Macbeth. A play dour enough for his mood.
He watched Margaret’s profile in the near darkness.
She leaned forward, had her elbow propped up on the curving wall of the box.
His attention was only peripherally drawn to the play. He had seen it many times before. His reason for being here tonight was not so much to view it again as it was to give Margaret the experience.
Instead, he had only subjected her to ridicule.
He was a debauched fool after all.
Thunderous applause marked the entr’acte. Margaret sat back in her seat, enchanted. Greed, ambition, and murder. Perfectly horrible, and utterly delightful.
Michael ordered refreshments for them, another surprise. As the chandelier was lowered, then raised again, its candles lit, she found herself once again the object of attention.
She turned and glanced at the circle of boxes, at the faces that were turned in their direction It was a unique experience, being the subject of so much discussion. She wondered what held such fascination for them. The fact she was here with Montraine? Or that she was not one of them?
Suddenly, she found herself staring at the Duke of Tarrant across the expanse of the theater. He looked as stunned as she felt.
The Duke had not changed. He still reminded her of a gaunt bird of prey, one who looked at her with loathing. She preferred the curious gazes of the other onlookers to his vitriol.
She heard Michael speaking and she glanced up when he appeared at her elbow. A footman left the box as Michael handed her a glass and a linen napkin.
The privileges of rank, she supposed, to be served while attending the theater. She took the glass from him, stared down at the contents. Something pink and frothy. She couldn’t drink it.
“Are you not feeling well, Margaret?”
She shook her head slowly. “Would you be very disappointed if we left?”
“If that is what you wish,” he said. It surprised her that he offered no objection. Perhaps he thought she wished to leave because of the whispers. She looked over at Tarrant again. Not gossip, but hatred. It marred the rest of the evening.
“Yes,” she said, turning to Michael. “I would very much like to leave.”
She didn’t look at Tarrant again, but she felt his gaze on her back as they left the box.
Aphra Hawthorn, Countess of Montraine, was exhausted. Her feet ached abominably; her face felt as if it were cracking. Charlotte would not cease prattling on and on about the many eligible gentlemen who’d asked her to dance. Ada looked as tired as she felt. Only Elizabeth seemed blissfully untouched by the night’s events. Her youngest daughter did not look as if she’d literally danced until dawn and was now saying farewell to the last of the guests.
Youth. It seemed a weapon at times.
The ball had been a decided success in terms of masculine interest in her daughters, but the sun was on the horizon. Aphra knew that if she didn’t reach her bed straightaway she would simply collapse where she stood. As she waited for her carriage to be brought around, she heard the tittering sound of laughter from the group surrounding Helen Kittridge. She drew herself up to her full height, surreptitiously patted the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck back into place, and girded herself for war.
Ever since she’d come to London all those many years ago, the woman had been a nuisance, an irritant. They had been courted by the same man, each led on to believe he would offer for her. Aphra had long since decided that she had won that particular skirmish and lost a larger battle. If Edward married Helen then perhaps the other woman would have spent the last twenty years being as miserable as Aphra had been.
In thirty years she had rarely spoken to Helen. She had wed a marquis, a delightfully happy union, Aphra was told, and from that had born a litter of children. Their rivalry was currently being acted out between their daughters. Sally Kittridge, Helen’s only daughter, seemed to be a well-mannered, genteel sort of girl with a shy smile and washed out features. The same might be said of her character. The girl was simply bland.
But then, Aphra acknowledged, she probably didn’t worry Helen as her own daughters did. For all her love for them, Aphra was not blind to her children’s idiosyncrasies. Charlotte whined, Ada droned on about her causes, and Elizabeth said every thought in her head the instant it arrived there.
She glanced at the group surrounding Helen Kittridge. The ball was attended by the very same people she’d seen only last night. There simply was not enough time between social engagements to have done something notable enough to mention. Evidently, however, they had found something interesting to discuss.
Aphra studiously concentrated on her gloves, pretending a disinterest she did not feel. She was not only curious but mildly alarmed. From time to time several people in the group would glance at her and then look away, tittering.
What had Charlotte done now? Had Ada solicited funds for one of her causes? Or had Elizabeth offended someone with her honesty?
Where was her carriage? She frowned at the footman, who bowed in response. His servility did not, however, render the line of carriages shorter.
“You’re looking well, Aphra.” She turned her head to discover Helen Kittridge standing beside her.
“And you,” she said courteously, nodding.
Behind Helen stood three women. Far enough that it was not obvious they were eavesdropping on the conversation but close enough so that it would not strain their ears to do so.
The fact that Helen Kittridge approached her now was an omen of the worst sort. Aphra waited impatiently for the revelation that she was certain to come. Some news that absolutely delighted the other woman.
She nearly broke her fan when she heard.
Chapter 23
Violent emotions are disruptive
> to physical pleasure.
The Journals of Augustin X
Michael hesitated in the doorway of the morning room, almost as if he didn’t wish to leave her.
How utterly handsome he was. How perfectly splendid, attired in a deep blue wool coat and trousers, white shirt, and silk cravat. His black leather boots had been polished to a shine. The picture of sartorial elegance. An earl about the business of the Empire.
“I’ll only be an hour or so,” he said, studying her. “Perhaps even less than that.”
He didn’t disclose the reason for his errand, but she suspected that it had something to do with the leather case he held. Even this week of hedonism had not exempted him from a sense of responsibility. Each day he worked in his library for a few hours.
“I shall take advantage of the time to read a bit more,” she said, smiling gently at him.
“Our friend Coleridge?” he asked with a smile. “Or some other volume you chose?”
She smiled. “A tale of a knight,” she said, fingering Ivanhoe.
“Nothing along the lines of the Journals?” he teased.
She shook her head. The Journals offered no further interest. Instead, memories of him would easily suffice.
“Will you be all right here alone?” he asked.
“I shall sit here on the settee and be as quiet as a mouse,” she promised.
“If you wish anything, do not hesitate to ring for Smytheton.”
“I would much rather fetch anything I needed for myself.”
“Has Smytheton been rude to you?” He frowned at her, a glower she’d come to associate with him. Not so much an expression of his mood, she suspected, as his concentration. At the moment, she was the subject of it.
“No. He has been almost punctilious in his regard.”
“You are certain?”
She had the distinct impression that he would not leave her until she reassured him. She had rarely been so cosseted.
“I shall be fine, Michael,” she said.
He crossed the room, leaned down and kissed her. A long, lingering moment later, he stepped back.
