by M C Beaton
“Oh, no doubt some Cit or mushroom fascinated by your title,” he sneered. “No man of the ton would give you a second glance.”
“And you consider it a mark of good breeding to consort with poxy harlots like Harriet Comfort,” said Lucy, suddenly as cold as she had been hot with fury a moment before.
The Marquess drew himself up to his full height. “Harriet Comfort is fashionable,” he said awfully. “You, madame, are not.”
“Oh, Guy,” sighed Lucy. “Do, please do stop making such a cake of yourself.”
“I shall go where I am wanted,” said the Marquess, retreating, stiff-legged, like a hound before a formidable adversary.
“I’m sure every card-sharp and ivory turner and lightskirt in Seven Dials will give you a resounding welcome,” said Lucy sweetly.
The banging of the drawing room door was his lordship’s answer to that.
For a few moments, Lucy felt exultant. The worm had turned. She had told him what she thought of him. But then she was overwhelmed by a great engulfing wave of despair for lost love.
But this time, she did not cry.
Chapter Four
At least Lucy did not wait until the last minute, hoping her husband would join her. She was grateful for the pretty gold mask which hid most of her face. Her hair was intricately twisted up on top of her head and threaded with topazes on thin gold chains. A heavy topaz and gold necklace was around her neck and her tunic dress of white silk was ornamented with a gold key pattern.
The ballroom was crowded. No one—not even Ann—now troubled to ask the whereabouts of the Marquess. But the gossips were busy. Most of the guests had been informed of the Marquess’s appearance in the Park with Harriet Comfort and of how the Duke of Habard had driven Lady Standish away from that shameful sight. Lucy received many looks of pity and began to feel irritated since she did not know the cause. She assumed they were sorry for her because she had had to arrive alone. But then so did quite a number of married ladies—well, one or two. She put on a commendable show of a young matron without a care in the world.
Lady Londonderry was there, wearing so many jewels that she had to be followed around by her footman carrying a chair since her ladyship could only take a few steps at a time, burdened as she was by the glittering weight of diamonds and rubies and pearls.
The Dandies were very much in evidence, polishing their wit at someone else’s expense as usual and talking in their convoluted Tom and Jerry cant.
People came and went. Unlike Lucy, most of the Fashionables prided themselves on accepting at least twenty-four invitations a day and they usually could only manage to honor each occasion with ten minutes of their presence.
Although it was a masked ball, it was not a fancy-dress affair and most people were immediately recognizable. At midnight, there was a general unmasking with everyone exclaiming in surprise as if they were not very well aware of who their partner was.
It was after supper, somewhere around 1:30 in the morning, when most of the Fashionables had returned from their other engagements and when there was a lull in the dancing that the Marquess of Standish made his appearance. He had a female on his arm. Both were masked.
Lucy turned quite white. For the lady on her husband’s arm was wearing diamond earrings and a diamond pendant, the same that her husband had tried to give to her and then had taken back.
The Duke of Ruthfords moved forward to greet the late guests. He had a high penetrating voice.
“Ah, Standish!” he cried. “You are come too late. The unmasking was at midnight, so you see you must unveil.”
The Marquess murmured something. He staggered slightly showing he was in his usual tipsy state.
“No! No!” cried the Duke. “You shall not take away this fair charmer.”
“Unmask!” cried the other guests, crowding into a circle around the Marquess and his companion. Lucy was jostled and shoved to the front of the circle.
Behind the slits of his mask, the Marquess’s eyes held a hunted look, as if he had suddenly sobered up and found himself in the middle of a nightmare.
At least it’s not Harriet Comfort, thought Lucy. This woman has red hair.
The Marquess hesitated, looking this way and that.
“Why not?” laughed his companion. She lifted her hands and untied the strings of her mask.
“No,” said the Marquess hoarsely.
“Come along, Standish,” laughed the Duke of Ruthfords. “We all know it’s you.”
The lady let her mask drop to her side and stood facing them defiantly, the other hand fingering the diamond pendant at her throat.
It was Harriet Comfort in a red wig.
There was a shocked murmur. Standish had gone too far this time. He had brought London’s leading Cyprian to one of London’s most exclusive balls.
“Outrageous!” fumed the Duke, stalking off. The circle of guests began to melt away, talking in shocked, hushed whispers. The Duke of Ruthfords could be heard calling angrily for music. The opening strains of a waltz struck up.
Harriet looked at Lucy with a mocking glint in her eyes. The Marquess flushed miserably and shuffled his feet. Lucy took a step towards them, her hands balled into fists.
“No, I think not, Lady Standish!”
A tall figure blocked her view of her husband and his mistress. The Duke of Habard’s cool gray eyes held Lucy’s burning ones.
“My dance, I think, Lady Standish,” he said. One strong arm circled her waist and bore her off into the steps of the waltz.
“Try to look as if nothing had happened,” said the Duke’s voice in her ear.
“I c-can’t,” said Lucy, her voice breaking on a sob. “I-I’m going to cry.”
“And let that trollop see your distress? They are leaving. Ruthfords has ordered them out and quite right too. No, don’t look!”
“It’s n-no use,” said Lucy pathetically. “I am going to cry.”
The Duke of Habard twirled her expertly straight across the floor until they were at the long, open french windows which led out into the garden.
Holding her arm in a firm clasp, he urged her down the shallow steps which led to the lawn.
“Now you may cry,” he said pleasantly.
But Lucy found she did not want to cry anymore. The cool dark air of the garden closed around her as he led her across the grass, away from the jaunty mocking music of the ballroom.
“Why did you come?” she asked. “You said you would not come.”
“My other engagement seemed flat. I was going home and saw Standish alighting with Miss Comfort on his arm.”
“How did you know it was she? I did not know until she unmasked. She was wearing a red wig.”
“Her figure was familiar,” he said dryly.
“And you came to help me? Oh, thank you,” said Lucy in a muffled voice. “You always seem to be helping me.”
“And I must stop. You are old enough to handle your own marriage, Lady Standish.”
He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and dusted the seat of a marble bench which glimmered palely in the moonlight at the far end of the garden.
“Sit down, Lady Standish,” he said. “I will stay with you until you are quite recovered and then I will take you home.”
Lucy sat down and stared at the grass at her feet. She was consumed with a desire for revenge. She wanted to hurt her fickle husband as much as he had hurt her. How would he like it if she paraded her infatuation for a man before the eyes of society?
And then, clear as a bell, Ann Hartford’s teasing voice urging her to take a lover sounded in her brain.
She turned and looked at the Duke of Habard. He had lit a thin black cheroot and seemed totally absorbed in blowing smoke rings up to the starry sky. The cry of the watch calling two o’clock came faintly to Lucy’s ears.
Why not? Why not ask this fashionable Duke to be her inamorato? Had she not been so overwrought, Lucy would never have considered for a moment asking such a paragon to be her lover.
All at once she said, “My Lord Duke, I wish to ask you a very great favor.”
“Ask away,” said the Duke easily. “Although I cannot guarantee that I will be able to help you.”
“I wish you to be my lover,” said Lucy.
He sat very still, and then he very carefully extinguished his cheroot, turned on the seat, and looked down at her. He was about to say something along the lines of how dare she use him thus to revenge herself on her useless husband. But her hair glimmered in the moonlight like pale gold and her shoulders rising above the low neckline of her gown were very white. She smelled faintly of flowers and powder. He signed a little. She was not serious. Only hurt. He would frighten her out of the idea without humiliating her.
“Very well,” he said lazily. “My servants are very discreet. You may come home with me, or, if you would prefer it, we can find some inn a little out of town and there we may consummate this burning passion which obviously consumes you.”
“No!” exclaimed Lucy. “I mean, that is not the way it should be.”
“Ah, you must instruct me. I am not in the way of having liaisons with respectable married ladies.”
“Well… well… we should flirt a little and… and… get to know one another first.”
“How dull!”
“Oh, Your Grace, you are mocking me. And you are very kind. You know I only asked you because I want revenge on Guy.”
“Yes,” he agreed amiably. “I find it rather refreshing. I am so used to ladies throwing themselves at my title and fortune that I had quite begun to think myself irresistible. You are very good for me, Lady Lucy, rather like rhubarb pills or cold baths or—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Lucy in a small voice.
“There. I will not tease you anymore. I shall pretend to be your lover for a little while, but do not be surprised if that husband of yours calls me out.”
“Oh, Guy would never do a thing like that. Do you think he will be jealous… just a little?”
“I think he will be very jealous. But you must play your part. You must appear to be in love with me.”
“I th-think I could manage that,” said Lucy, her voice breaking on a sob.
“Not if you are going to go around looking sad and haunted. Take my hands and hold them firmly. Look up at me! Good. Now. Pretend you are wildly, madly, and passionately in love with me.”
Lucy looked up into his face. His eyes glittered strangely in the moonlight and she could feel the hard pressure of his hands.
“No. You looked scared and lost,” he said. “You need encouragement. One of your curls has come loose.”
He took off his gloves and gently lifted a long curl from her shoulder, letting his fingertips linger for a moment on her skin. Then he gently wound it back into place among the others pinned on top of her head.
“You must call me Simon,” he said caressingly, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand, “and I shall call you Lucy.
“Listen! Someone is coming. Ah, if I am not mistaken, that high chattering voice belongs to one of London’s worst gossips, Mrs. Partington. She has commandeered some gentleman to show her the flowers but she really wants to find out what we are doing. So we shall not disappoint her.”
Before she could guess what he was about, he had jerked her roughly into his arms and covered her mouth with his own. He pulled away a fraction and said against her lips, “Do not tremble so, dear Lucy. Do act your part. Mrs. Partington will do the rest.” Then his mouth came down on hers again, cool and firm at first, and then burning, passionate, exploring. Lucy’s body was pressed against his—she dizzily felt it was fusing with his—and then she felt nothing but a hectic, burning, passionate yearning. There was a shocked exclamation from Mrs. Partington and Lucy would have drawn away, but the Duke held her very tightly while Mrs. Partington’s companion muttered, “By Jove, I think that’s Habard,” and then Lucy heard the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps.
The Duke had meant to release her as soon as the inquisitive Mrs. Partington had seen enough, but his senses were taking over completely from his brain, and the inside of her mouth tasted sweet to his exploring tongue, and her breasts were pressed so hard against him, and…
He jerked away roughly and said in a rather ragged voice, “I think we performed our parts rather well. That wretched curl has escaped from its mooring again and you look quite wanton. See, I shall pin it back with its fellows.” His voice sounded normal again. “Shall we join the curious gossips in the ballroom? Have you eaten?”
“I tried to at supper, but I could not.”
“Then we shall both eat,” said the Duke lightly.
He helped Lucy to her feet and she took his arm. They moved slowly like sleepwalkers across the grass, each of them stunned with the violence of their feelings.
When they were both seated in the supper room, each studied the other with veiled curiosity.
She looks so fragile and virginal, thought the Duke in surprise. And yet his emotions have never been so overset before. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the garden. She looks so pure sitting there, little more than a schoolgirl.
He looks as cold and formal as usual, Lucy was thinking. What can he be thinking of me. I have never responded like that, even to Guy. It must have been because my nerves were so overset.
To Ann Hartford, standing at the door of the supper room, they seemed entirely insulated from their surroundings by their interest in each other. She took a half-step forward, and then stopped.
“What is the matter?” asked Giles Hartford. “I thought we were to take Lucy home.”
“She is with Habard,” said Ann bleakly. “Oh, what have I done?”
“Done! Done?” Giles peered over his wife’s thin shoulder but did not see what she saw. Lucy and the Duke of Habard looked, to him, totally uninterested in one another.
“You have done nothing,” said Giles Hartford. “If Standish chooses to disgrace himself, it is nothing to do with you.”
“But I said—you know, just as a joke—that Lucy should take a lover just to bring that husband of hers to his senses.”
“Well, if you mean Habard, you are very much mistaken. He’s hardly led the life of a monk, but on the other hand he has never shown a tendre for married women of any kind. You are overtired, my dear, and overworried on behalf of your friend. Let us go home ourselves. You may see Lucy tomorrow and offer her the comfort she needs. We are quite safe to leave her with Habard.”
The Marquess of Standish clutched his head. Harriet Comfort leaned indolently against the blue silk upholstery of her carriage and looked at him with something approaching hate.
Earlier that day she had received a note from Mr. Barrington promising her a large sum of money should she manage to ruin Standish.
She had shrugged and thrown it away, for of all her beaux, she rather liked the handsome Marquess. But he had gone too far. As they had left the ball, he had bemoaned the social ruin he had brought upon himself by taking “a harlot” into society.
The Marquess was too distressed and too tipsy to know what he was saying, but his words had cut deep. Harriet Comfort craved respectability and was, most of the time, able to ignore the fact that she was not comme il faut, soothed and flattered and courted as she was by the most eminent gentlemen of society. Now she wanted revenge on the Marquess and revenge on that silly milkmaid wife of his who had looked at her with such disgust and horror.
“Guy, Guy,” she cooed soothingly. “What a great fuss you are making. You forget who I am. You forget that most men at that ball would give their right arm to spend one night with me. Why! Tomorrow you will be the admiration of the clubs.”
The Marquess looked at her blearily. “Do… do you think so, Harriet?”
“I know so. Have I ever been wrong in matters of fashion? Now I am going to take you someplace quite exotic. Have you ever seen a Chinese woman?”
The Marquess shook his head.
“Then relax, and I shall provide you with such a night of pleasure that you will forget all else.”
The carriage had been traveling for some time and came to a stop outside a huddle of tall buildings.
“Where are we?” asked the Marquess.
“Somewhere near the river.” Harriet smiled. “Come.”
The Marquess followed her from the carriage, shivering as the chill of the night air and the raw damp smell of the river struck him.
Harriet knocked at a low door and waited until the judas was opened. A face stared at her and then the door was unlocked.
The Marquess found himself in a low, lamplit room. There were two mattresses on the floor. And at the far end of the room, a Chinese woman was half lying on a sofa.
He drew in his breath in an alarmed hiss, wondering at first if he were seeing some fantastic statue.
“Her name is Li,” murmured Harriet’s voice at his ear.
She was very small. Her face was a delicate mask of paint and jewels. A heavy jeweled headdress concealed all of her hair. Her eyebrows were two brush strokes. Her embroidered gown shimmered and winked in the lamplight and her fingers with long, long nails seemed too fragile to hold the weight of glittering rings. Her tiny bound feet in their white stockings just peeped below the hem of her fantastic costume. Only the eyes were alive, almond-shaped, burning, watching.
Two Chinese men came quietly into the room and set about placing a little tray of tools, pipes, a lamp, and a glass jar on a lacquered table they had carried in with them.
“We sit down here,” said Harriet, indicating one of the mattresses. “What do you think of Li?”
“Terrible. Monstrous,” breathed the Marquess. The almond eyes blazed like topazes in the light of a fire and then died down to a gold shimmer.
“Does she understand English?” asked the Marquess nervously.
“I do not know,” said Harriet indifferently. “I have never known her to speak.”
“And does she… will she…?”
“Only for a great price.”
“But what Englishman would…?”
