Guy smelled gin on her breath. She looked painfully thin and very young. He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Have a drink on me.” He tipped a handful of coins into her waiting palms. “Better still, have something to eat.”
“A real pity, sweeting, I’d be happy to oblige you.”
Guy raised his hat and smiled. When the carriage pulled up nearby, he ran for it.
The carriage stopped in Whitehall, outside Horse Guards where John was kicking his heels in the street. Guy noted his solemn expression as he climbed inside.
Guy told him the little he’d learned. “And you, John?”
“Not much more than I’ve already been told.”
So, it was true. John had known of this all along. Guy wrestled with his anger. “And what is that precisely?” he asked through clenched teeth.
John stared at him fixedly. “That you’re to be watched as you are suspected of being a French spy.”
“Ridiculous!” Guy grabbed the door handle as the carriage swung around a corner. He fought the temptation to leap out and run away. He pulled his hand from the door and leaned back, casting John a cool glance.
“I don’t distrust you, Guy. I found this hard to believe from the first,” John said with a shrug of apology. “But I was instructed to follow you. I saved you from your attackers in that alley because I was ordered to keep you alive and away from harm until you led us to a nest of saboteurs known to be in England.” He leaned over and placed his hand on Guy’s sleeve. “But the more I got to know you, the more convinced I became that you were innocent of such a charge. It’s a puzzling business. But I would bet my life on it.”
Guy pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “What the bloody hell’s going on, John? I’ve never met Bonaparte, let alone arranged his escape from Elba. And yet, Count Forney has shown me a document from the French foreign office which confirms it.” A moment passed as he searched his friend’s smoky, gray-blue eyes, which revealed little. “You are under orders.” Guy shrugged. “I wonder what you plan to do with me.”
John released a sigh. “You might say I’m keeping you under observation. But that also means I’m watching your back, my friend.”
Guy bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“Until I’m instructed otherwise,” John added, looking grim.
Guy nodded. “I understand.”
Tomorrow he would take Hetty to the park and lose himself for a while in her charming company.
*
“Shall we walk to the lake?” Guy pulled the phaeton over to the side. He tossed the reins to the tiger who had accompanied them today, and after instructing him to walk the horses, helped her down.
With her hand tucked in his arm, they strolled along a path through the trees. Early spring wild flowers added color to the scene while birds fluttered above building nests among the leafy branches.
They entered a copse of silver birch trees where dappled sun sparkled through a filigree of leaves. “Aunt Emily has a visitor this afternoon. The poet, Mr. Wordsworth.”
“William Wordsworth? I met him in Paris.”
“You met the poet?” Another new thing to learn about him.
“He was there to visit his daughter, Caroline. We discussed his interest in exploring the relationship between the human mind and nature and he allowed me to read some of his poetry. Tintern Abbey is quite remarkable. A deeply thoughtful poem.”
Delighted, Hetty was eager to discuss it. “The lyrical ballad is remarkable. The lines “The still, sad music of humanity…” She gasped. “What are you doing?”
After a quick glance around, Guy had drawn her off the path and deeper into the shadowy copse. He removed her parasol from her hand and put it down, then tugged at her bonnets strings. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, and pulled off her bonnet. The look in his eyes was so intense that her pulse fluttered, and she caught her breath.
Guy lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. The intense pleasure of his closeness wrapped around her, and abandoning her demand for propriety, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His tongue teased at the seam of her lips, and she opened to him. When he dove inside, she melted and clutched onto his coat. Their breaths quickened as he pressed her against him. Taking in deep breaths of him, his fresh manly smell, she suffered a strong urge to lie down on the grass and pull him with her. She moaned against his mouth.
“Mon dieu!” Guy groaned and thrust away from her.
Suddenly aware that she’d forgotten her intention to keep him at arm’s length, Hetty pushed at him. “Guy! What is this about?”
He removed his curly-brimmed beaver and ran a hand through his dark locks with a distracted look. “I didn’t intend it to go that far.” He smiled, charmingly apologetic. “I desire you, Hetty.”
She took a deep breath. He was so utterly disarming. “You do?”
“Why do you think I’ve arranged this engagement?”
“Because of Eustace. Because you were in danger.”
“I should have left you safely in Digswell.” Guy shook his head. “But I wanted to get you away from that bean pole.”
“Mr. Oakley?” Hetty was stunned. “But I told you I refused him.”
“We’d best walk.” Guy offered her his arm.
Thrilled as she was to learn how he felt, she told herself sternly that Guy could never marry her. The newspapers would have a field day. She must not forget that she was not one of the Cavendishes that mattered, she was the daughter of a retired army man of modest means. Even her aunt had been astonished at their engagement although Hetty found her abrupt change in attitude difficult to fathom. Aunt Emily did appear quite shrewd when she allowed herself to focus on something other than poetry.
Ahead, sunlight danced on the Serpentine. “Shall we walk to the water?” Guy asked.
“Yes, lets.”
He seemed intent on his own thoughts, and she returned to hers. Had either of them considered what effect a broken engagement would have on her life when the news reached Digswell? They’d hardly been discreet, openly revealing their relationship before the ton. Perhaps these things were done differently in France. The French were so much more relaxed about matters of the heart. It was second nature to them, while the English… Hetty gazed into Guy’s troubled face, a face she’d grown to love. She wanted more of his kisses. Desperately, because soon she would lose him.
If a scandal was to follow her home, why not have a good reason for it? Guy would know how to protect her, and they could both gain much from it. After all, once back in Digswell, she would never marry.
They paused at the riverbank to watch a man propelling a rowboat over the water with strong strokes of the oars. “I quite like the idea of an affair,” Hetty said, testing him.
“Quoi!” Guy swiveled to stare at her.
If she hoped he would fall at her feet with delight, she was mistaken. Although this was hardly the place. As excitement built within her like a fire fanned into a roaring blaze, Hetty continued to stroll along the bank. “I prefer never to marry,” she said bravely. “You must agree I will write far better poetry with some experience of life.”
Guy’s hand on her arm swung her around to face him. His eyes flashed. “So, if not me, then Mr. Beanpole will provide your life experience?”
“Good heavens, no.” Hetty laughed at his description. “You’re not jealous of Mr. Oakley?”
He pressed a kiss on her gloved palm, which produced a cry of encouragement from an elderly gentleman sitting on a seat nearby. “I will be the only one to make love to you.”
“You?” Hetty’s eyes widened. She took a deep breath. “Oh, Guy, I want that, too.” She stared over at the man, thankful he was out of earshot. “But where?”
Guy pulled her by the hand. “Come on.”
Thrilled, she gasped. “Where are you taking me?”
“Back to your aunt.”
“What? Why?” Guy’s stride was so much longer than hers. He drag
ged her along. Her bonnet fell back onto her shoulders, suspended by its cherry ribbons, and she almost dropped her parasol.
“Because if I ever climb out of this mess I’m in, I intend to do the thing properly.”
Hetty wasn’t quite sure what he meant by “the thing”, but she was more than keen to find out, as her intention to keep her heart safe from hurt evaporated.
She was not to learn of it today, however. Guy, tight-lipped, escorted her to the phaeton and drove her directly home. He answered her questions in monosyllables, and she eventually gave up trying. Then he left her with her aunt with a bow and his apologies, murmuring that something had called him away.
Her aunt frowned. “Did you have an argument?”
“No. At least I don’t think so,” Hetty said, bemused.
“A business concern, perhaps?” Aunt Emily suggested with a hopeful lift of her brows. “Never mind, Mr. Wordsworth is to arrive soon. You’ll enjoy meeting him, I’m sure.”
In normal circumstances, Hetty would have enjoyed it immensely, but her own concerns intruded. When Guy had thought her to be Simon, he had confessed to all sorts of amorous adventures. Had she shocked him? Was it possible to shock a rake? Her mind whirled, and when introduced to the slim, brown-haired man of some forty-five years who would once have thrilled her to the core, she offered him an abstracted smile.
All through Mr. Wordsworth’s scholarly conversation and her aunt’s animated replies, Hetty pondered Guy’s behavior. He waged a war within himself. The passionate rake was a conventional man at heart. She wondered which would win where she was concerned.
The week proved busy with trips to the mantua maker and the modiste for further fittings, in between sojourns with her aunt to the museum and the Tower. She saw little of Guy, who came to take tea with them on only one occasion. He was busy searching for a suitable London house. But on Saturday, they were to attend Eustace’s dinner party.
Chapter Fifteen
Hetty wore another of her new evening gowns to Eustace’s dinner, a delicate white silk embroidered with silver thread.
Guy complimented her, spoke briefly to her aunt, then escorted her to the carriage.
“You seem distracted,” she said. He’d merely smiled at her when she complimented him on the clever arrangement of his neckcloth.
He tucked her hand in his. “Not at all. My thoughts are always with you.”
She doubted it, but was charmed by it, nevertheless.
The carriage pulled up at a townhouse in Curzon Street where an elegantly dressed couple climbed the stairs.
Eustace greeted Guy and Hetty at the door, seeming more animated than usual, and escorted them to the drawing room where the guests chatted and drank champagne.
Hetty’s fears that she would face the critical judgement of the Ton again, faded when they were introduced to an interesting group of people: the Earl of Liverpool, England’s prime minister and his countess, a famous actress, the editor from The Times, the reverend from St. George’s in Hanover Square, and a foreign prince who clicked his heels and bowed over her hand.
In the dining room, mouthwatering aromas blended with the scent of hyacinths in a silver bowl. Fascinated, Hetty hung on every word as they conversed during the lavish and delicately flavored courses. Liverpool spoke emotionally about the state of the country, the depression, and political uncertainty, social discontent and unrest and the difficulty of reform, while the dishes were brought and covers removed.
While a footman poured gravy over her veal olives, a rousing discussion began on the veracity of the social movement called the Luddites, who opposed progress and the loss of jobs. Its members were known to have destroyed or damaged machinery in the industrial northwest of England. The unsuccessful march of the Blanketeers was mentioned.
“Blanketeers. That is a curious name, Mr. Randall,” Hetty said to the man beside her.
The publisher from Fleet Street, nodded. He explained how four hundred spinners and weavers marched from Manchester to London to hand the government a petition. They were named thus because they carried their blankets with them. Most were turned back or arrested by the magistrates and yeomanry before they reached Derbyshire.
Hetty was incensed for them. “And not one made it to London?”
“Rumor has it one protestor did arrive and handed over his petition.”
“I’m glad,” Hetty said. She found it terribly sad.
The mention of Bonaparte’s name produced murmuring around the table. While the prime minister declined to comment, Mr. Randall expressed the view that the French general would never escape Saint Helena where he had been sent last October.
Further down the table, Guy remained silent. She thought he looked unhappy. He was yet to reveal his true feelings about Napoleon Bonaparte. The discussion of politics came to a halt when the famous tragedian, Sarah Siddons, a forthright older lady, declared they’d all become too serious. An amusing discussion followed concerning Bertram, the current play on in Drury Lane, which continued through the dessert course. Then the ladies rose from the table and left the men to their port.
After an hour, Eustace’s guests began to depart. He saw them to the door. Rain had begun to fall, and footmen scurried about with umbrellas. Hetty looked for Guy, who had not emerged from the dining room. Finally, she went in search of him. She found him in the library seated behind a satinwood desk, scanning a sheath of papers.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked shocked.
He dropped the papers into a drawer and rose, crossing the room to her. “Now don’t frown at me. We don’t have time for this. Come, we must say our goodbyes to your godfather.”
She stepped in front to him. “Don’t be so insufferable. You were spying on him.”
Voices sounded in the corridor outside. Eustace said in a loud voice, “I can’t think where they’ve gone.”
Guy pulled Hetty into an embrace and pressed his mouth to hers.
“Well, here they are,” Eustace said, smiling, the reverend at his side.
Guy bowed. “I apologize for my poor manners.”
“Young people. So passionate. Best you marry without delay,” Reverend Dewhurst said. “The banns can be read this Sunday. I believe the first of April is free for a wedding.”
“But my parish is in Digswell, Reverend,” Hetty said, embarrassment making her cheeks burn.
“That won’t be a problem if notice is sent,” the reverend answered. “Would you not prefer to be married at St. George’s?”
“We should be honored. Thank you, Reverend,” Guy said. “But I have matters to settle before I can set the day.”
“Very well. Please advise me as soon as you can.”
With the rain loud on the coach roof, Hetty tried to read Guy’s expression, aware they would reach her aunt’s home in a matter of minutes. “Have you altered your opinion of Eustace?”
“I’m beginning to understand how things stand,” Guy answered. The cool tone of his voice made her anxious. “Are you cold?” He moved across to sit beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders.
Hetty laid her head against his shoulder. “Have you learned anything more?”
“Who is behind the attacks? No.”
His voiced sounded strange, tight, unlike himself. “But you don’t think it is Eustace, do you?”
“I don’t know yet, Hetty.” He sounded impatient. Was there something he wasn’t telling her?
“You would tell me if there was another attempt?”
He sighed. “There hasn’t been. Eustace approves of our marriage. Perhaps there won’t be another.”
“Then shall we end this engagement? Everything is becoming too complicated.” She sagged as bitter disappointment took hold. It had cost her a lot to say it.
His arm tightened around her. “I’m aware of how difficult this is. Can you be patient for a little while?”
Hetty nodded. She’d never been so far out of her depth before. She appealed to him with her eyes, wanti
ng to know how he felt.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, Guy tapped on the roof with his cane. The panel in the roof slid back. “Yes, my lord?”
“Drive through the park.”
Guy closed the blinds as the carriage turned into Tyburn Lane and rolled on toward Hyde Park Corner. He pulled Hetty onto his lap. Cradled in his arms, she leaned against his hard, heated body.
He took her chin in his hand. “Hetty,” he murmured against her lips. When his mouth sought hers, demanding a response, she could only obey as her thoughts fled. He drew away and untied her cloak, sliding it off her shoulders, and bent to kiss the hollow at the base of her throat. “You smell so sweet, my love,” he said, “like a flower garden.” His voice was muffled against her skin. She was filled with an odd kind of yearning. She stroked his thick hair, finding it silky to the touch.
Guy undid the hooks on her bodice. When he pulled it down to reveal her chemise and stays, she grabbed his hand as confusion filled her. She wanted to encourage him and stop him both at once.
He paused, his intense gaze searching hers. “If you want me to take you straight home, just say so, Hetty.”
He looked different, dangerous, potent, which both thrilled and disturbed her. Her breath quickened, lifting her bosom as he slid the straps of her chemise further down her shoulders. She stilled, as he bent to kiss the rise of her breast. He traced a line down her throat, his fingers lightly calloused, not the pampered hands of a lord. A cautionary voice entered her mind. She knew so little about him. “Where were you before you came to England?”
He straightened and sighed.
*
“I will tell you, but not now, Hetty.” Hetty’s hair was a halo of rich color in the dim light from the carriage lamps. Heat pooled in his groin, and his determination not to give in to desire, wavered. He could stop. He would. But not yet. Not until he’d tasted her, he would have that at least if his life was to end soon by the hand of an assassin or at the end of a rope. He took a curl and raised it to breathe in the floral fragrance while longing to loosen her tresses from their pins, to slide over her naked shoulders. He trailed a finger down the smooth column of her neck to a brown areola peeping from the top of her corset. He freed her breast and bent to kiss it. This time Hetty didn’t stop him. She pulled him to her.
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