A part of her still couldn’t believe she was hearing such words from Hart, impertinent and delicious as they were. She had hoped for them, certainly, but she had never truly expected them. It was as surprising as his behaviour in the carriage – and almost as delightful. What was he up to?
She glanced nervously at the countess, but the older woman was still deeply in conversation with her friend.
“It won’t answer, you know,” Maggie whispered to Hart.
“What won’t?”
“Your ploy. You are positively and shamelessly flirting with me, Lord Hartley. You are doing it to make me acquiesce and return with you to London. It is most provoking.”
“What a fanciful suggestion! But I own I am quite intrigued: what is it that you are doing here in Paris that has tied you so closely to this city? Is there, perhaps, a gentleman to whom you are attached?” He said this very carefully.
Too carefully, in fact, Maggie thought. She sniffed delicately.
“A gentleman? How quaint. Not everything in a lady’s life revolves around a man, Lord Hartley. No matter what you may wish to believe.”
She wondered idly how Hart would take the notion of her having acquired a paramour. Would it set his back up? Would he play the jealous suitor? It was something to consider, at least.
Hart narrowed his eyes. “My apologies. Has this, then, something to do with your modiste? I have been hearing about her everywhere I go – and one does not usually get to hear all about seamstresses when one frequents a gentlemen’s club. Madame Finette, isn’t it? She has garnered quite a following, my aunt tells me. I find it very curious that, of all Paris, it was you who first wore her creations. Before your arrival, no one had even heard of the woman. I rather think there is more to her than meets the eye. Which reminds me, how is Cecile enjoying the Parisian air?”
Maggie was taken aback at this deduction. Did he know that they were both involved in running the shop? Or was he merely guessing? And did it matter in the least? Her shock must have registered on her face, because the marquess gave a satisfied nod, visibly enjoying his victory. Maggie was utterly at a loss: The Ballroom Etiquette for Young Ladies had certainly never covered this kind of conversational lapse.
He could very easily ruin their whole game. They had spent too long creating the mystery to let it go without a fight.
In a moment of inspiration, she looked at him innocently from under her lashes. “I have heard it said that she is a lost Polish princess,” she told him.
She was spared from hearing whatever cutting thing Hart would have said in response to that, because the countess rejoined them, looking very entertained after her tête à tête.
“Forgive me, my dears. The vicomtesse de Bourgogne-Chauvry does so go on: I could not find any way to cut the conversation short. But I see you have been so good as to engage Marguerite in conversation, Hartley. How very civil of you!” she teased, having noticed the intense silence. “You must know, Marguerite, that my nephew doesn’t mean more than half of what he says, so you are not to mind him. Now, I think we had better have some chocolate with orange blossom before we embark on our adventure – it is very good for the nerves. ”
They ordered coffee, chocolate and some walnut dainties for their breakfast, which came on a silver and porcelain chocolatière service. The countess was a great believer in chocolate as a means to curing all ills and often touted it as the reason for her most excellent health. The warm drink was flavoured with a hint of vanilla and sugar, with light citrus notes, and Maggie found it absolutely delicious – much more so than the coffee.
They discussed Paris, the latest society on dits, and the various patrons that visited the chocolate house. Marie-Josette speculated on the differences between the Promenades and a similar attraction recently constructed in Belleville.
All the while, Maggie wondered how she might determine how much Hart knew about Madame Finette, and what he planned to do about it.
It took all of her control not to drop her delicate cup when Hart casually reminded his aunt that she had yet to pay a visit to the famous modiste. Pausing a moment to take in Maggie’s reaction, he went on to suggest that perhaps she should do so after their outing.
“Oh, what a splendid idea, my boy! How thoughtful of you,” the lady said, well pleased with him.
Hartley gave Maggie a challenging look over his coffee cup and she wondered if there was any way she would contrive to get out of this new bit of trouble. Marie-Josette would instantly recognise Cecile as the baroness’s reclusive cousin, and then the ruse would be up. She would be scandalised that ladies of breeding had ventured into trade. What if she told the rest of society? The shocking matter of trade aside, no one would buy gowns from two dull country girls. This led Maggie to wonder what he might be plotting – for surely this was all connected with his plans to get her back to London.
He wouldn’t hold the secret over her head just to get his way in their quarrell – such behaviour would be utterly contrary to his breeding. But then, what?
But there was no time to dwell on it for the moment.
*
The drive to the Beaujon Gardens, which were situated near the Champs-Elysées gate, was not a long one. By the time they arrived, Maggie was almost restless with anticipation.
The pleasure gardens were quite lovely, laid out in the English fashion, with lots of greenery and little fountains. They even contained a dairy and a menagerie on the territory. On the right, she could see the grey brick windmill that was the Moulin Joli. However, pride of place was undeniably taken up by the new attraction, which stood at over three stories high.
As Maggie descended from the carriage, she felt herself breathless at the magnificence of the sight. She had not even come close to imagining such a wonder of modern engineering. She wished that she knew something of trains and engines, so that she might better understand the Promenades.
She hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect, but now she could see why the countess has been so enthusiastic about the outing. It really would be like flying through the air! The huge, heart-shaped, tracks began at a tall tower in the centre. The little carts sped around the track at incredible speed, headed in opposite directions. They came together at the very bottom and ascended parallel lift hills back to the tower.
“It is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen,” Maggie breathed.
Marie-Josette beamed. “Oh yes. Doesn’t it leave you feeling quite tiny in comparison?”
“Very. And the speed! I have never seen the like.”
They stopped, facing the tower, and watched as cars flew down the rails with an impressive racket. It looked wonderful fun. The ladies and gentlemen in the carts gasped, yelped and laughed.
It was all so extremely modern and very daring, Maggie marvelled, sharing in some of the excitement of the passengers of the Promenades just by watching the carts fly past. It was, to her mind, exactly what Paris was all about.
Each cart sat two passengers and the countess adamantly insisted that Hart and Maggie go first. “I think, my dears, the two of you had much better go before me. I am an old woman, after all, and I should like you to tell me how it is before I venture such a thing for myself. I shall wait right here.”
Her eyes sparkled as she took in the surprised looks on their faces.
Maggie was uncertain for a moment – the carts were very narrow. Yet, she also felt a secret excitement at the thought of sitting so very close to Hart, and when he acquiesced to his aunt’s suggestion and offered her his arm, she accepted brazenly. Her traitorous heart thrilled at his nearness.
The countess took a seat on one of the little wooden benches scattered near the attraction, calmly watching the Promenades and the elegant crowd wandering the park.
Hart and Maggie ascended the central tower to take their places in one of the little wagonettes. Other patrons chattered excitedly around them.
On closer inspection, Maggie felt a little wary of the flimsy contraption, but the quiet
strength of Hart’s arm gave her comfort as they took their seats.
A young man instructed the passengers on how to sit in the wagonettes and assured them that they were quite safe, though it was best to keep their elbows in. Ladies were warned to hold on to their reticules.
Seated in the wagonette, Maggie felt a delicious thrill at the warmth of Hart so close to her. It would be so easy for him to reach out and put an arm about her shoulders. The cart turned out a tighter squeeze than she had expected and she was pressed firmly against him.
The ride began slowly, moving jerkily towards the drop. Realising that she had never before been so high above the ground in so precarious a contraption, Maggie tensed as the cart gained speed. Suddenly, the tracks fell away beneath them, and Maggie’s stomach felt like it was falling too. It was a peculiar sensation: squeaking a little, she grabbed Hartley’s arm.
“I don’t think I’m quite ready to die yet,” Maggie exclaimed, her voice a little high-pitched.
Hart gave a low chuckle, and covered her hand with his – he was clearly enjoying the whole experience as he laughed in a warm, rich voice.
“Then it is fortunate that we won’t be dying just yet,” the marquess told her, shooting her a sideways glance and squeezing her fingers.
His touch brought her a strong sense of giddiness and she found that she could enjoy the ride too, because how could anything be frightening when Hart was so near?
When they came to a stop at last, Maggie was still clutching on to Hart, though she had long since stopped being afraid. Thankfully, he made no comment as he helped her back out of the little wagon. Her legs felt a little like jelly as they descended the tower to rejoin the countess. Maggie didn’t think the sudden weakness in her knees had anything to do with the Promenades.
“Well, and how did you find it?” asked the lady, cheerfully, rising from her bench.
“Remarkable,” said Maggie, which was certainly true. “I have never encountered anything like it. It is both delightful and frightening. I am certain such fun would be considered quite scandalous in London.”
The countess smiled. “Forgive me, my dear, but I would remind you that you are a widow of means: you may do quite as you please. Even have fun in polite society.”
Maggie returned the smile. “But is that not the wrong way around? I distinctly recall learning in an alphabet rhyme in the schoolroom that a widow ought to be quite morose.”
“I know that one!” Hart exclaimed. “Now, how did it go…Ah, yes. ‘D’ is a window decrepit and old.”
“What a notion,” chuckled the countess, who had never truly considered herself either of those things no matter what she’d said about sitting out the Promenades. “One should never be that without good reason – it is quite vulgar. Decrepit and old, indeed.”
“And am I, do you think?” Maggie asked Hart softly, a teasing light in her eyes.
“Not even remotely,” he replied, his voice low and earnest. “Now, if we are quite finished with widows, perhaps you fancy braving the tower, Aunt?”
In fact, Hart and the countess braved the attraction twice. The lady handled herself with a lot more dignity than Maggie could claim and it seemed that Marie-Josette was a much more intrepid soul, too.
“Next, I think, I should like to try one of those air-balloons,” she told her young companions as she briskly adjusted her windswept hair.
“Certainly, Aunt. You will put all adventurers to shame – but perhaps we ought to leave that undertaking for another day,” Hart said.
“I sincerely hope that you were not being smart at me, my boy.”
Hart smiled charmingly. “Never.”
“Now, Marguerite, balloons aside, I insist that you join us for a musicale tomorrow evening, if you have no prior engagement. The guest of honour is the great composer himself, Sir Lucian Blake, and he has promised that he will treat us to something completely new. He is the son of a dear friend of mine. You may have heard of him? Sir Lucian is very much the thing in musical circles right now. I shall host the evening at my townhouse at seven. It would be wonderful to have you among the guests, would it not, Hartley? I hope you have no other engagements?”
Maggie considered this. To spend even more time in Hartley’s company could prove positively fatal. Yet was this not exactly what she had hoped for, from her London Season? And was she not all for being brave?
“None at all! I delight in musicales, Madame, and I am quite at your disposal,” she said, returning the countess’s smile.
“Excellent. What a delightful evening it shall be. I think I particularly wish to introduce you to our composer – a most accomplished gentleman. You know, I am told the ladies quite swoon the minute he walks on stage.”
When they had at last arrived back at the avenue de Richelieu, it was already growing late and Maggie felt rather worn out from the unusual day she had had.
Still, she was filled with an overwhelming urge to write to her brother and assure him of her well-being. Now that Hart had found her, there was no real reason for her silence.
She didn’t quite know where to begin for a moment, as she sat poised at her escritoire, pen raised in mid-air. But that was ridiculous, Maggie reminded herself. Frederick was till her brother, same as he had been her whole life, and if she had nothing to say to him, then that was a poor reflection on her and not at all on him.
Dearest Frederick, she wrote. Do you remember when we were children and I fell out of the oak tree? I cut my knee and you were convinced we’d be in the greatest trouble, but Hart stepped in and…
*
Dressing for the musicale, the marquess of Hartley found his thoughts returning yet again to Miss Margaret Dacre. Of late, his thoughts had shown a very alarming tendency to stray in that direction, when he ought to have been focussed on getting her home as soon as possible, and rejoining the Season.
It was important that he stop noticing her lovely figure and the ease with which she could make him laugh one moment and exasperate him the next. And, most especially, he had to ignore the fact that the time he had spent with Maggie in Paris was a hundred times more fun than any London Season he had ever attended.
She was a breath of fresh air amidst the poised society beauties with whom he had danced so many cotillions over the years.
What would it be like, he wondered, to dance the cotillion with her? Maggie could make even that societal obligation new and enjoyable.
Alarmingly, these musings were becoming a rather common state of mind for him, and they caused him to adopt a certain uncharacteristic carelessness in his dress, which was visibly distressing his valet. Lost in the memory of her windblown tresses and the way she had clung to him on the Promenades, Hart nearly crumpled his coat of superfine as he moved to put it on.
“Is anything the matter, my lord?” asked Marks, his tireless valet, in a very pointed tone of voice.
“Wrong? Not in the least, Marks. Not in the least.” He ignored the man’s doubtful expression.
After all, there really wasn’t anything in the least bit wrong. Except perhaps for the fact that matters were slipping quite completely out of his control.
He certainly had never thought that he would feel in any way enamoured of the girl. She was just Maggie. He had known her nearly his whole life, and had teased her mercilessly for most of it. Granted, now that he gave the question due consideration, she had always been pretty, stubborn and lively, but she was also the younger sister of his oldest friend.
He remembered the way she had looked up at him with wide, worried eyes just before he’s kissed her at Chenefelt. At the time, he hadn’t known what had possessed him to do that, and he still didn’t really know – but whatever it was, it had shaken him to the bone.
Frederick would never accept Hart treating his sister like his latest flirt. And yet, lately, all Hart seemed to do was kiss her, or think of kissing her, or long to kiss her.
He was meant to be protecting Maggie from just such advances – not taking libert
ies himself! Yet, he had to own that he had never thought of Maggie as the sort of girl who’d permit a gentleman unwelcome liberties. Her reaction had been as enthusiastic as his own.
He would simply have to keep reminding himself of his duty as protector.
It didn’t help matters any that the lady in question had put in an unexpected appearance in a dream of his the previous night, dressed in that delightful gown she had worn the day he’d found her again in Paris.
The contents of the dream had been thoroughly enjoyable and astonishingly explicit – enough so that if Frederick were ever to learn of them he would surely call Hart out. And with good reason. It would be nothing less than a matter of honour.
The marquess made his way into his aunt’s music room, arriving somewhat late and finding Maggie already present and engaged in conversation with several dowagers. She gave him a nod and half-smile before returning her attention to her companions.
It was strange, too, to see her take so well in Society: she seemed to be on friendly terms with people he had never even met, and yet he had always associated her with the country – with rowing on the lake and with long, lazy summers at Chenefelt. But here she was, completely at her ease in grand company in a foreign country. He thought wistfully of those days of childish devotion when she had followed him and her brother on all their many mischiefs.
Taking one look at her, Hart knew instantly that she was also the most ravishing woman in the room, though there were many greater beauties present.
Maggie looked suitably striking in a burgundy crepe gown with a slight train. It gave her skin a delightfully warm glow and played off the sparkle in her eyes. She was a tableau vivant, as though a painting had come to life. He could not seem to look away though he knew he had to – for both their sakes.
His line of sight was broken when Marie-Josette began shepherding her guests into chairs.
A quartet of musicians took their place at the front of the room, followed by a tall, handsome man. Hart supposed that he must be the celebrated Sir Lucian Blake Hartley saw several ladies’ eyes widen in admiration as they took in the composer. They looked like they had discovered a particularly choice morsel on the cake platter. Hart was less amused when he realised that Maggie’s eyes were also trained on the man.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 8
