“Thank you all for extending me such a kind welcome this evening, and I am most especially indebted to our charming hostess, Madame la Comtesse de St Mercy, for welcoming me into her home. I shan’t tell you about the music I’ll be conducting this evening, because I believe that it will speak for itself. It is, however, part of my new symphony, which is to be titled The Gloaming.”
A few of the younger ladies exchanged whispers as Sir Lucian turned to the musicians and raised his hands to begin the performance.
*
When the music began, Maggie found herself utterly taken by the delicacy and passion of the composition. She was not truly musical, but even she could tell that there was something special in hearing the work conducted by the composer himself. His interpretation of every motif was sublime, his passion impossible to ignore.
Sir Lucian Blake was one of the most striking men Maggie had ever seen, though very different from Hart, and she found herself admiring the grace of his movements as one would a particularly wonderful painting. Yet, unlike the ladies around her, she did not feel ready to follow him to the ends of the earth for a single smile. She wondered to herself what made her so immune to his undeniable attractiveness, when just the sight of Hart was enough to reduce her to a simpering schoolgirl.
It was not till after the music had ended that Maggie had occasion to learn that Sir Lucian was not only handsome and a talented musician, but an excellent conversationalist and a known patron of the arts. The countess wasted no time introducing the composer to Maggie and informing her that they had just recently founded a joint charity for the widows and orphans of musicians.
“… There are various funds of course – but also music tuition for any children that might wish to learn. Sir Lucian is quite the philanthropist,” Marie-Josette finished.
“You put me to the blush, Madame – I am hardly that. Poor Madame la Baronne will get quite the wrong impression.” His smile was warm and his manner charming to a fault. Maggie discovered that, while Sir Lucian was English by birth, he was very widely travelled and an enthusiastic scholar of the classics. He had, in the years after the wars with Bonaparte, taken up residence in Paris.
“I feel it is a city abloom with inspiration.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, feeling a great kinship with the man, who so obviously shared her own tastes.
“Are you an artist?” asked Sir Lucian with interest.
Maggie chuckled, thinking of Madame Finette. “Oh no. Though I wish that I were. But perhaps in Paris everyone is an artist, a little bit.”
“Bravo, my dear!” exclaimed Marie-Josette.
The composer laughed. “Indeed, I like that! Well said, Madame. Your own talent then must surely lie within the realms of poetry.”
“Alas, no.”
“Ah, but we must test that out to be very certain – just as tonight I tested my composition in front of our little gathering.”
“However shall we do that?”
“It is very simple! I heard that some guests were planning a game of rose rhymes –such a thing would be a trifle for you.”
While she stood chatting pleasantly with the baronet, Maggie could feel Hart’s eyes burning into her. She had begun to develop a very keen instinct for when he was nearby – which, unfortunately, went along with a very sharp sense of loss when he was not.
Hart wasted no time joining the little gathering just as Sir Lucian went solicitously to fetch Maggie and his hostess glasses of ratafia.
“A most popular fellow, certainly,” Hart said. The marquess’s dislike was made extremely plain by his tone of voice and the expression on his face.
Marie-Josette shot her nephew a startled look. “Why, I suspect you are about to be an addlepate about Sir Lucian, my boy. I wonder what he could have done to displease you?”
“I simply find him to be insufferable and a braggart, Aunt, and the particular attention which he has been paying Madame la Baronne is not at all fitting,” Hartley said plainly.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Well, I find him perfectly charming and his music everything which is delightful. I will thank you, Lord Hartley, not to ruin your evening playing the watchdog on my behalf. I am, after all, almost a dowager and perfectly capable of looking after myself. ”
She was delighted to see Hart’s eyes flash at her words. It was a great shame, Maggie decided, that there would be no occasion for dancing with the handsome composer that evening.
Seemingly oblivious to the tension between them, the countess gave a pleased smile. “It is so good to see you play the gentleman, Hartley – one does expect modern men to care much more for themselves and their appearance than the honour of the ladies around them. But you have put me in mind of another thing that is delightful and charming. I went to see your modiste, my dear. I was shown the most wonderful fashion plates by a young lady, who took my measurements. Madame herself was out, but I was told that she would attend to the gown personally, though I am given to understand she is extremely busy. I have chosen an ephemeral silver velvet for a dinner gown. I am quite beside myself to see how it will turn out.”
“Perhaps you ought to go together next time – I understand ladies enjoy company when shopping for gowns and ribbons,” Hart said, baiting Maggie.
Before she had a chance to reply, Sir Lucian came back with the ratafia.
“Mesdames,” he said, proffering the refreshments first to his hostess, then to Maggie.
The drinks were served in crystal glasses decorated with enamelled roses that were quite the prettiest thing Maggie had ever seen. She accepted her glass and tasted the fruity beverage. The liquor was sweet, and filled her nose with citrus, cinnamon and mint. She felt a pleasant warmth begin to spread through her.
“Thank you, Sir Lucian – you are most kind. I have not yet had the chance to tell you how much I enjoyed your composition,” Maggie said. “It was very moving – utterly sublime, I should say.”
“I am deeply honoured to hear that. It is one of my favourite sections of the new symphony: I wrote it in an attempt to capture the first days of spring in the mountains. I had been travelling in Northern Germany when the idea first came to me. There is a most enchanting little town…”
Maggie could not help but be captivated by his descriptions of Germany, though she had never seen that country for herself. Sir Lucian’s stories were witty, his adventures enthralling and he spun a most excellent yarn. Hartley wore an expression of polite boredom.
At the countess’s urging, Sir Lucian then proceeded to describe his favourite corners of Italy. He spoke so prettily that Maggie could almost feel the sun on her face.
She was excessively sorry when he had to excuse himself to greet an old acquaintance who had only just arrived. Marie-Josette slipped away to see whether chairs had been prepared for the game of rhymes, leaving Maggie and Hart completely alone.
Maggie turned to the marquess to find that he was watching her with a contemplative look on his face.
“Perhaps now, Madame, you will be so good as to humour me with a moment of your time? That is, if you are not too taken with thinking of Sicily,” he said quietly, his tone rather blunt.
She gave him a long look. “You are being odious again, Hart. I find I don’t care for it. But I shall hear you out. ”
“How gracious.”
Taking her elbow, Hart quickly shepherded Maggie into the corridor and then into the library, while she sputtered over his unseemly behaviour.
The library was blessedly empty. Hartley shut the door and turned to face Maggie with a stony look on his face.
“Well, my dear, are you enjoying your new flirt?” he asked in a dangerously disinterested tone.
“Oh pish! Is that why you’ve brought me here? It was nothing more than a pleasant conversation,” said Maggie. “Though I fail to see how my flirts are any of your concern.”
“Nothing? Your definition of ‘nothing’ is truly staggering. You have made quite a spectacle of yourself with the gr
eat nonpareil.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed.
“Have I? And here I was under the impression that you are the one set on making a spectacle by dragging me into the library. Is it any wonder that I enjoyed his conversation so very much? Charming company is surprisingly difficult to come by.”
“Is that so? You amaze me. No doubt, then, you wish to see your composer again. A moonlight promenade? Perhaps you will even let him call on you. I gather he is widely known for his preference for wealthy women: I expect he is in want of an heiress. But I am quite sure that that is just coincidence, Madame la Baronne. Besides which, the man suffers from a most coxcombish garrulity.”
Maggie felt her temper rising to meet his. She had had quite enough of his boorish behaviour and his unbearable rudeness. “He does not. You’re only saying that because you are jealous!”
Hart stared at her. “Preposterous! Why should I be jealous of some macaroni musician?”
Maggie felt herself trembling anger. She had quarrelled with Hart many times in the course of their acquaintance, yet never had she been so furious at the careless cruelty of his words. It did not in the least matter what Sir Lucian’s intentions might be. How dare Hart imply that the man could not possibly like Maggie for herself – and that Maggie was stupid enough to let herself be played the fool.
“I can’t begin to imagine where your delusions stem from. That is entirely your own concern, Hartley, but, yes, I do find him to be a fascinating and well-mannered man.”
She lifted her chin in a way that infuriated Hart.
“Do you, now?”
Crossing the room in two brisk strikes, he swept her into his arms. His mouth was suddenly on hers in a kiss that was more passionate and delightful than any of their previous embraces. It was as though he wasn’t able to control himself around her.
Maggie felt herself melting into the strong, warm circle of his arms, which possessively encircled her waist. Her anger was forgotten as his hands roamed her back and she could feel their warmth through the flimsy fabric of her shift and gown.
His desire was made plain by the way he seemed determined to hold onto her, pressing her closer into his broad chest.
“Well,” he said breathlessly, at last. “Will that suffice?”
“Suffice?” Maggie asked, equally breathless and a bit dazed.
“For you to agree to return to England with me. For you to forget all about that absurd composer.”
England? Her temper flared up again with a vengeance.
“England? Is that the only reason you ventured to kiss me, then?” she asked softly. “Well, then I am sorry to inform you that you have wasted you time, my lord Hartley.”
With those words, Maggie swanned out of the room, ordered her carriage and said goodnight to the countess, all in a haze of outrage.
*
When Maggie got home, it was to find Cecile waiting for her in the parlour, already hard at work on the next gown.
“Hello, Cecile! You have begun without me,” said Maggie, in an effort to seem casual.
Cecile, however, lowered her sewing and regarded Maggie carefully in the candlelight.
“Has something gone amiss?”
“Amiss? Oh. No…” said Maggie, even as she was obliged to blink away some tears.
She pulled a face, embarassed, and came to sit next to Cecile. “It is just that Lord Hartley was there, and he was very tiresome – he’s put me quite out of countenance, I’m afraid. Oh, Cecile, I wish you had been there to bring some sense to the occasion. I find that, though I am here now, and I am the baroness, my sentiment for him has not lessened. Indeed, I think perhaps it has grown deeper yet, and stronger. You know that I have always loved him. Which is just appalling because he is behaving like an utter cad. I cannot determine what the nature of the attachment he feels for me might be. This evening, I spoke a while with the composer, Sir Lucian Blake – a charming and handsome man, which Hart took as justification for almost making a spectacle of us in front of the other guests. If you had only witnessed how rude he had been to the gentleman – and then he near-dragged me into the library to chide me! I do not understand. What can he want of me, and why now?”
Cecile looked astonished. “He took you to the library to chide you?”
Maggie coloured. “And to kiss me – but then he ruined the whole by bringing up England.”
She had believed herself quite grown out of such nonsense, but here she was, agonizing over Hart as she had done so often over the years.
Cecile looked hesitant a moment, before appearing to make up her mind to speak.
“Perhaps he cannot help himself, and is conflicted. Certainly, his sudden shift in feeling must seem unconscionable to him because of how he had perceived you before. But you have changed since coming to Paris: you have moved out of reach and become unpredictable – a challenge!”
“A challenge,” Maggie echoed. Such a notion had never occurred to her. Surely it could not be – did Hart spend as much time wondering about her as she did him?
“Sporting men always love challenges,” Cecile confided. Then she gave Maggie a mischievous smile. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to run into Sir Lucian Blake again…”
Chapter 5
In fact, Maggie found it surprisingly easy to run into the distinguished Sir Lucian.
He seemed to attend all the same soirees and she even met him walking in the park – which she might have believed deliberate if it had not been obvious that he had been there long before she had arrived. He was an also an excellent dancer: his waltzing was soon proclaimed the best in Paris by a number of besotted admirers.
Thankful for her immunity to the speechlessness which seemed to strike other young ladies in the baronet’s company, Maggie found his friendship refreshing. It was very easy to talk to him, and their conversation had none of the overwhelming tension which always flared up when she spoke to Hart. It was wonderful to have friends at last, many and varied, after her quiet country existence.
Maggie was very pleased when Sir Lucian came to call on her at avenue de Richelieu. His card arrived on a silver tray, delivered by her butler precisely at the appropriate calling hour. Cecile had left early to await the delivery of some very dear ostrich feathers and Maggie had been seated in the drawing room by herself, occupied with some stitchery, when she was informed of her guest.
“Sir Lucian!” Maggie exclaimed as she examined the card. His name and address were printed on a tasteful cream card, which was framed with a border of dark green ink.
“Just so, Madame,” said Duby.
Maggie had found that the butler was an invaluable source of information on just about any person of consequence in Paris, and she could have sworn furthermore that the man found her own so-called intrigues extremely amusing.
“Very well, please show Sir Lucian in.”
“Very good, Madame.”
She felt rather fidgety as she waited for him. There was nothing particular in the visit, of course, Maggie thought. Only she was still entirely unaccustomed to her new role as a member of Parisian society and she couldn’t quite believe so august a figure would care to include her in his round of morning calls. Imagine, being admired by so distinguished a person as Sir Lucian, she thought, fighting the girlish urge to peer at him through the curtains.
She almost wished her aunt could have been there to witness her triumph! Surely Aunt Verity would have been proud of her, even if she had never finished reading the awful etiquette tome.
Setting aside her sewing and replacing her scissors into the broderie box, Maggie endeavoured to look calm as a footman showed the handsome composer into the yellow room.
“Good morning, Madame. I trust I find you well?” the baronet asked with a friendly smile, bowing to her, and waiting to be invited to take a seat.
“Very well. Please, do take a chair. Might I send for some tea?”
“Ah, yes. Tea would be just the thing – you are most kind.” He sat opposite her, so that s
he could not help looking into his sublime eyes and wondering yet again why she did not feel the least attraction to the man.
Maggie rang for the tea, before turning her full attention to her guest.
“I’m afraid you only just missed my cousin – though she would have dearly liked to meet you.” Cecile had been asking very pointed questions about the composer, and coming to puzzling conclusions which she utterly refused to explain.
“A great shame. She does not seem to have much interest in society?”
“No, she is an artist like yourself, and she is very bookish. Currently, I cannot imagine anything that might have the power to tear her away from her work.” Maggie tried not to smile as she recalled the vehemence with which Cecile had insisted that she could imagine nothing more unpleasant than an evening spent making small-talk with some crusty viscount – especially when she had an autumn selection of gowns to prepare.
The composer nodded seriously. “Then she is very fortunate. What did you make of last night’s card party?”
“Oh, I thought it quite splendid, for a card party. I could not believe it when they set the cake on fire. What a notion. I’m sure that would never hold under the aegis of an English cook. But it was an awful crush, wasn’t it? I am given to understand that that is the surest sign of success. And, of course, your playing was sublime as always.”
“You are very kind,” said Sir Lucian with a warm smile. “I understand ladies often prefer balls to musicales and card parties – one cannot dance at a musicale, after all!”
“That is true – but they are such different things. And one should always have varied entertainments. Monotony, Sir Lucian, is the dreariest thing of all.”
The baronet gave her an interested look. “It seems to me you speak from experience.”
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 9
