The heady scent of roses blew tantalisingly past them as they took in the exhibition. Maggie stood still a moment, admiring a bright pink shrub before moving on to another. This one boasted fat damask roses. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sunshine and the lovely perfume. Pushing aside all thought of shops and marquesses, she allowed herself to forget the world around her. The names and colours of the flowers all mixed together in her head, creating one lovely afternoon.
“Marguerite, my dear are you coming?” Marie-Josette called.
Most reluctantly, she opened her eyes again, letting the pretty images fade from her mind’s eye.
A gust of wind lifted some of the fallen petals and swirled them around in little scented flurries, delighting the ladies.
“I should very much like to render a pattern of these roses in silk thread. Gold and pale pink,” Maggie said to the countess. “I am quite aux anges over the beauty of it all. I do not think I have ever seen so many splendid roses in one place. I should love to plant a few someday. It’s quite breathtaking…”
“Then you cannot have seen the garden of Lord Hartley’s townhouse in London. It would utterly delight you!” the countess laughed. “My sister was quite the collector. I remember it was said that you could smell the roses in her garden all across Mayfair.”
“Is that still so, my lord?” Maggie asked Hart, wondering that she could know so little about him after all these years.
His lordship looked startled. “Indeed, it is. The gardens are still just as they were in my mother’s day. It is a point of pride to maintain them as she preferred.”
“My sister was married in just such a rose garden by special licence last spring,” said Sir Lucian. “She was always very particular that she be wed among the roses – my mother thought it an affectation, but it was very beautiful in the end.”
*
The garden was divided into many sections, including a special area for herbs and a bird garden, with little wicker benches for those who would rest their feet and enjoy the birdsong.
They strolled slowly though the grounds, enjoying the warmth of the day. The apple trees would make it glorious later in the summer and Maggie spotted a trio of blackbirds taking off from the grass. She observed the expression of tranquillity on Hart’s face and it made her long to take his hand, to share this special beauty with him.
When he looked up, she avoided his eyes for fear that he might somehow guess her silly fancies.
They stopped at a wide, airy pavilion just before noon. Here, they partook of lavender ice-cream, served in little glass cones, and claimed a shady bench next to a bed of irises.
“This ice is exquisite,” Maggie said. “Better, I think than the fashionable treats at the Palais Royale.”
“Indeed – a pity then, that it is not illegal,” said Hartley, very much amused.
Maggie laughed. “Voltaire! My father is very fond of that line, though he always means every word of it, I believe.”
Maggie felt her breath catch at the way Hartley’s eyes warmed when he glanced at her.
“I think we might want to wander up to the maze,” the countess was saying to Sir Lucian.
Maggie barely heard his reply to the suggestion. She felt as if her soul was trapped in the handsome marquess’s eyes, and it was impossible to look away.
The reverberating peal of a gong startled her so much that she jumped, nearly dropping her ice-cream, so that Hart reached out a gloved hand to steady her. She felt his touch through her spencer, and barely suppressed a shiver, as she wondered what it would feel like for him to touch her bare skin.
“Ah, that is coming from the labyrinth,” Sir Lucian remarked, unware of the fire that had temporarily flooded Maggie’s entire being. “It sounds precisely at noon every day. I understand that it is powered by some kind of complex mechanism.”
“That must be quite the mechanism,” Hart said, looking away from Maggie as though nothing had happened.
The baronet nodded thoughtfully. “I believe it is powered by the sun through a magnifying glass.”
“Is that not dangerous?” Maggie remarked, still feeling a little dazed. “My brother once started a fire with a magnifying glass he’d pilfered from my father’s study. He had set me to gathering fallen leaves and we received a most terrible scold from our governess when she found us. For a whole month after, we were obliged to read dreadfully moral stories of children who played with fire.”
“And did you learn your lesson?” Hart asked quietly.
“Perhaps not as well as I should have done, Lord Hartley.”
“Well, there are no fires here, thankfully,” Marie-Josette said, rising to her feet. “We really must go and see the maze. I have not been there since I was a girl. In those days, I believed it the most charming place in the world. It is where I met my first husband, in fact. He was in the gazebo at the centre just as I emerged, and he laughed at my flushed face.”
“Not the bookish Uncle Theodore! I cannot credit it,” Hart said teasingly. “By all means, we must go there directly, Aunt, so that I might judge for myself.”
A slight wind picked up as they began strolling towards the maze, bringing with it some rather unwelcome clouds. The old labyrinth sat proudly about the slope of a hill, verdant and compelling.
The gazebo at the very top of the maze appeared deserted. Shading her eyes, Maggie examined the metallic monolith amidst the greenery. It looked like a remnant of a long-forgotten time: strange and mysterious.
“It is just as I remembered it,” the countess said with a soft smile, thinking back to the days of her youth.
Slowly, they made their way along the little path towards where the labyrinth began. There were many trees bordering the maze. Maples, oaks and a few yews ruffled their leaves in the wind, adding to the delightful eeriness of it all.
Maggie shivered despite herself.
The maze looked tall and tangled, and she tried to remember what she had heard about solving such things. There was always a trick to picking one’s direction, she knew. One must always take the left path, or the right.
If only matters of the heart were so easy to navigate, she reflected wistfully.
“I have heard it said that by solving a labyrinth one inevitably gains a new and deeper wisdom,” said Marie-Josette, as though reading Maggie’s mind.
Maggie shot her a startled look, but the countess’s eyes were trained on the tall hedges.
“Even if that wisdom is just a better sense of one’s direction?” joked Sir Lucian.
“Yes, even so!”
“Very well, then we shall be like the flâneurs and the poets. We shall idly wander the maze and forget all obligations as we explore this uncharted wilderness.”
Maggie matched his smile with her own. “How grand, Sir Lucian. In that case, we ought to abandon all thought of maps and clocks. Such things only ruin the romance of adventure.”
“And so we must. In fact, I think that I shall undertake to capture this adventure, this happy state of freedom, in my new symphony.”
“We’ll hold you to your word, my boy. I expect it will be your finest symphony yet,” the countess said, looking very pleased as she unfurled her fan.
“You are most kind. But I must apologise, for now is not the time to speak of work. There is a tree at a grand house I had the good fortune to visit many years hence, on which a lady of a century ago carved some words of remarkable wisdom. Bella cosa far niente – and truer words there cannot be, for there are days when it is indeed beautiful simply to do nothing.”
Sighing wistfully, Maggie thought of the Dacre family motto, which was just as fitting: ‘Live without regret’. Was that not precisely what she had undertaken to do?
“To do nothing and to let the world take us where it will?” she asked softly.
“Just so.”
“But you look a little pale, Madame,” Hart said, his eyes intent on her. “Would you prefer to sit out the maze?”
She shook her head. “
Oh no. I do believe I can solve it.”
“Of course. I have forgotten that you are possessed of a strong taste for adventure,” Hart said.
“Have you, indeed?” Sir Lucian asked, pleased.
“Yes, Lord Hartley, have I?”
“This from a young lady who went on the montagnes russes just a handful of days ago,” the countess chided laughingly.
Maggie chuckled. “Yes, you are right. But that was not so very risky – the gentleman at the carts assured me I was quite tall enough to be allowed. Imagine! They seemed concerned that short ladies would topple out. That, at least, is one thing in favour of stature.”
“Surely there are many more advantages than that,” Sir Lucian said.
“I have not encountered many. Frederick, my brother, would always tease me for being a long-shanks. I was a head taller then he when he turned fourteen and he couldn’t forgive me such a slight. He said I would never, ever stop growing, until I couldn’t even fit in the house anymore and would have to sleep out of doors.”
Hart laughed with a great deal of enjoyment, recalling Maggie’s little face flushed scarlet with anger at her brother’s merciless teasing.
“How dreadfully unkind. And what did you do?” the composer asked.
“Why, I got my own back, of course. That is how things are between siblings. I threw a flower pot at him!” Maggie confided. “Of course, we no longer bicker over height. Perhaps it is because he has long-since overtaken me.”
“Hah. Well, now I am convinced that you do indeed possess a suitably fiery, courageous spirit. Perhaps we ought to have a challenge,” suggested Sir Lucian. “We must split into teams. Whoever makes it to the centre of the labyrinth first will earn a forfeit.”
“That should be wonderfully diverting,” agreed the countess. “Only we had better hurry – the sky looks quite ominous. Hartley, I think that you must take Marguerite. You come with me, Sir Lucian. We can speak more of your symphony as we walk.”
“You servant, Madame,” said the composer with a smile, and offered her his elbow.
The group entered the maze together.
“Shall we venture the right path, or the left?” Sir Lucian said to the countess.
“The right – it looks much broader.”
Wordlessly, Maggie and Hart followed their companions, turning left.
*
As she stepped deeper under the shaded walls of the hedge, Maggie focused on remaining stoic, though the thought of wandering the maze with Hart was doing odd things to her heart. It was very vexing how easily he could annihilate any traces of her hard-earned composure.
The best thing to do was to avoid looking directly at him.
Hart, of course, would make that as difficult as possible. “Well, I suppose you must be excessively proud of the day’s work, Marguerite,” he said in a tightly-controlled voice as they turned this way and that, paying no attention to the direction they took.
Idly, Maggie ran her right hand over the cool, green leaves of the hedge. “I don’t pretend to understand what you mean.”
“You know perfectly well what I am referring to. That game you have taken to playing with your newest suitor.”
“Game? That is preposterous. Are we to have this quarrel again? Lord Hartley. Since we are alone together, just the two of us, there is a matter I wish to address. It seems to me that you have appointed yourself my guardian, despite my having said very plainly that I’ve no need of one.”
“Your scandalous flirtation would suggest otherwise. I promised your brother that I would keep you away from scoundrels.”
She stopped and fixed him with a look, her mouth set in a thin, angry line. “Does that include yourself, do you think?” she asked coldly. “For, as I recall, you have many times showed yourself to have a most pronounced lack of gentlemanly grace. A carriage ride comes to mind…”
At her words, Hart looked utterly, devastatingly furious. Taking advantage of his outraged silence, she carried on speaking.
“Or am I to assume that it is only a friendly feeling that spurs you on to behaving like my guard dog? Brotherly feeling, perhaps. It is in the nature of friends, is it not, to entertain an unjustified aversion to the man who shows a particular interest in one? And yet, again, if that is so, one has to wonder why – ”
He interrupted her. “My feelings are nothing to do with the want of conduct you display by encouraging even half of your besotted companions. A portion of whom are scoundrels who wish only to marry you for your supposed fortune. But you, Miss Dacre, are an utter hoyden and you refuse to see sense. Can you not simply let yourself be protected so that I may have peace again? ”
“No. This hasn’t a thing to do with you. Does wishing to decide my own life maker me a hoyden? I do not pretend to that decorous impartiality to one’s fate which is such an admired trait in young ladies. I am not at all convinced that remaining impartial when one’s life is being decided elsewhere is in the least bit a virtue. Whether you disapprove of my so-called suitors or not, I won’t return with you to marry my cousin, I have already said that.”
“I perceive that you mistake me. I have not said a thing about your cousin. However, I believe it is your candour that is your greatest virtue – you certainly never shirk from listing me all of my faults.”
“If I should suffer by my candour, then I assure you, Hart, I shall bear this suffering most cheerfully. You did not need to mention my cousin any more than you needed to mention England. I understand you perfectly. But I have told you once again that I mean to remain here in Paris. Whatever you choose to do now is up to you, Stanhope be damned.”
“Not Stanhope. No, indeed. Tell me, then, would you marry Blake? I imagine you would have a most fashionable ceremony – by special licence and amongst the roses!”
She did not understand the bitterness in his voice.
“You are confusing ‘fashionable’ with ‘enjoyable’. There is nothing wrong with having a pretty time of one’s wedding. And what of you, then? I suppose you would care so little for your own bride as to present her with a church key in lieu of a wedding ring, or a bed-curtain ring, perhaps, as the Duke of Hamilton did!”
“Why the devil does it matter what I would do? I did not run away to Paris to associate with poets. My reputation is not at stake. Or are you saying, perhaps, that it is me you wish to marry and not one of your army of suitors?” the marquess asked, in a low voice.
Maggie shivered. She had never heard such a tone from him before. The passion in it stirred the very desire she had been fighting so hard to suppress.
Sometime in the course of their argument, the sun had come back out amidst glowering clouds. She had to shade her eyes with her hand to be able to look him in the face. She realised then that she had quite lost track of her direction amongst the tall, green hedges.
As quickly as it had appeared, the sun was gone again, and she saw Hart’s face, stormy and powerful, like some ancient god.
Hart was suddenly very close to her indeed. Maggie read a strange purpose in his eyes and her breath stopped a moment before he reached out and brushed a renegade strand of hair out of her eyes.
Surprising her with his unexpected self-control, he bent towards her and Maggie took an involuntary step forward. His lips had just barely brushed hers, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, when a furious roll of thunder shook the ground and a deluge of rain descended upon them.
Maggie gasped and jumped back. “That is three times now that you have kissed me in Paris, Lord Hartley, and I shan’t stand for any more without an explanation of your game,” she whispered, staring at him out of huge eyes even as the world seemed to be ending all around them.
Hart had stepped back too, with more dignity. “You are quite right. I must apologise,” he said grimly. “I find that the propriety of my conduct towards you is not what it should be. Far from it. But you are virtuous and good to berate me. ”
Maggie shook her head, getting progressively soaked in the cool summer ra
in. She blinked water out of her eyes. “Will you have it as my duty, then, to direct you towards virtue? For, I own, I do not think myself quite suited to the task,” she whispered.
“Right now? I would have you direct me towards a sound roof. The gazebo is our very best bet, I think.”
He took her gloved hand in his, pulling her along after him. They were quite lost, however, and it took some stumbling through wet hedges for them to find their way out. At last, they came to the shelter at the centre of the maze, though on closer inspection it became clear that it could only provide a very meagre cover from the elements.
“You are quite soaked,” the marquess whispered in concern, keeping close to Maggie out of an instinctual need to keep her warm.
Maggie shook her head, waving away the concern and laughing a little. “It is nothing. This spencer is unlikely to suffer much damage from a little water. Though I expect my hair is quite shamefully ruined.”
Hart gazed at her a moment. “It is most lovely, but it is not the state of your pelisse that concerns me. Here, I must insist that you take my coat – for it is certainly much thicker than yours.” Before she could protest, he had removed the heavy coat from his shoulders held it out for her.
Maggie was astonished enough that she accepted it without argument. It hung on her slight frame in a most ludicrous manner, but it was warm and it smelt pleasantly of Hart. It was almost like being wonderfully lost in his embrace. She snuggled deeper into it.
Avoiding his eyes, suddenly shy, Maggie forced herself not to admire the way he looked in his shirt sleeves. What was it about him that made everything he wore seem so shamelessly sensual?
“Thank you,” she said softly, holding the coat even closer to herself. Then, most embarrassingly, she sneezed and was obliged to assure him yet again that she was not at all chilled.
It would have been impossible to be chilled when he had lent her his frockcoat. Her very bones tingled with warmth.
Maggie wondered where the others were, but dared not voice her concern in case it shattered the tentative earnestness that had settled between them. Daringly, Hart put an arm around her slender shoulders.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 12
