by Jo Beverley
Presumably tidying up after garden embraces was part of the skills of a military officer.
“Were there many social events in the Peninsula?” she asked, and to keep the balance, reached up to adjust his cravat, thankful for her gloves. Even so, the sense of his skin, sleek over his firm chin, or the muscles and tendons of his neck, could drive her wild.
Heavens, but she wanted him. Rawly and demandingly wanted him.
“Sometimes,” he said, raising his chin for her. “In Lisbon, mostly. And Paris. And Brussels.”
The Duchess of Richmond’s ball, from which the officers had slipped away, many not to be seen alive again. Yes, doubtless he had experience at partnering respectable young ladies at balls, and occasionally slipping out for a kiss—or even more—in a garden.
Neglected wives and hungry widows. She knew how men saw these things. Maurice had told her that men, too, thought of women as heaven, purgatory, or hell, but in two different ways. They assessed brides that way, but they also used the terms to assess lovers.
In a potential lover, hell was diseased, or married to a suspicious, vengeful man, or tainted in some other way. No wise man chose such a lover, but she could hear Maurice laugh as he quoted that the way to hell was often paved with good intentions.
Purgatory was what most men had to put up with to get sex they neither had to pay for nor marry for.
Heaven was an attractive married woman with a strong sexual appetite and a safe husband. Some widows fit into that category if they emphatically did not want marriage.
She realized that in some ways she was heaven. She was even barren. A distinct advantage.
She gave the starched cloth a final twitch, then they linked arms to reenter the house. She knew the people lingering in the supper room were watching, as were those they met as they went in search of Harriette. Probably everyone knew by now that the Golden Lily had gone into the garden with wild young Lord Vandeimen who desperately needed money.
She caught a few disappointed grimaces from the wasps and their families, and a few looks of concern, or even pity from others.
It was hard not to shout out an explanation.
Of course I’m not bewitched by this young fool! I’m saving him. In weeks I’ll be free, and so will he!
Thank God for Harriette. Maria found herself blank of conversation, but Harriette chattered to Vandeimen without any inhibition at all.
By the time they climbed into their carriage, Harriette had opened the subject of his family and offered condolences on his losses. Along the way, she uncovered the fact that he’d had little contact with the remnants of his family, and hinted that he really should change that.
Maria watched anxiously for signs that his patience with this interference was snapping, but he seemed, if anything, bemused.
Harriette progressed next through the war, gaining a brief account of his career before moving on to her favorite subject, the Duke of Wellington.
Vandeimen seemed indulgent. “If you want stories of the great man, Mrs. Coombs, you’ll have to hope my friend Major Hawkinville returns to England soon. He was on his staff.”
“Really! Then I do hope to meet him.”
“My aunt has a tendre for the duke,” Maria teased, both pleased and disconcerted by the way Harriette could deal with Vandeimen while she could not. Of course Harriette was over fifty and had sons older than this dangerous creature.
She noted his casual mention of Major Hawkinville, who must be the friend the duchess had mentioned. Who was the other? Lord Wyvern. Ah, yes. She’d heard gossip about the recent death of the mad Earl of Wyvern, and the passing of the title to the sane, Sussex branch of the family. Vandeimen needed friends. Perhaps she could find them for him.
At last the carriage drew up in front of her house, and the first battle was over. “Norton can take you on to your place, my lord,” she said.
He had climbed out to help them down. “No need. And it’s somewhat out of the way.”
“All the more need,” said Harriette firmly. “Your place is too much out of the way, young man, and did not look at all comfortable.” She turned to Maria. “I think he should move in with us.”
“Harriette, that’s impossible!”
“Why? We have one unused bedroom, and I and the others can be chaperon if anyone thinks it’s needed. Well, my lord?”
He looked between them. “Others?”
After half an hour of Harriette, the poor man looked like someone swallowed by the ocean and spat out drenched and exhausted.
“Other guests,” Maria said, unable to help a sympathetic smile. “My late husband’s aunt and uncle have lived here for years. They are somewhat invalid, but still present in the house. There is also my young niece Natalie, and my aunt, of course.”
As she spoke, she realized that having him in her house would make it hugely easier to control his way of life. With him off in Holborn she’d be in a constant fret as to whether he was drinking, gaming, or priming his pistol.
“It would be an economy, and my poor valet would be ecstatic to return to civilization . . . if you are sure you don’t mind. It will cause talk.”
“We will cause talk anyway, and it will be a great deal more convenient to have you nearby. Please, let Norton take you to your rooms, and tomorrow, move in here with us.”
He bowed. “Your wish is my command, as always, O ruler of my heart.” There was a distinct edge to the last part, and she wondered if he understood her purpose.
Not a stupid man. Why had she assumed he would be?
Because, she thought, as the coach carried him away, so many of the cavalry officers she’d met had been. Dashing, courageous, but not of sparkling intellect. She rather gathered that those who were clever found themselves seconded to other duties.
“Well done,” said Harriette as they entered the hall. “Everything set.”
“I think him moving here is a bit extreme.”
“Truly?”
Maria shrugged. “There’s a lot of work to be done. But he has friends. That’s a hopeful sign.” She explained what the duchess had said.
“Tattoos?” said Harriette with a grimace. “What were their mothers thinking? But it will certainly be easier for Lord Vandeimen to meet his friends here.”
Maria looked around at pale walls, marble pillars, and discreetly tasteful classical statues—or copies of them, to be precise. Maurice had made every effort to impress, and this house had been his principal point of impression. She had been another. Sadly, all his impressions had been imitation. Even the pillars were faux marble.
He’d taught her many lessons, including that most people had two or even more faces. She’d already seen a number of faces to Lord Vandeimen, but she suspected there were more.
The six weeks loomed in front of her and she hurried to the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom, but even there uncomfortable memories stirred. She’d enjoyed Maurice’s demanding visits to her bed. Once she’d realized the truth, however—that she was merely part of his strategy for entering and using English society—her hunger had shamed her.
As her maid stripped off her finery, she remembered the many lonely nights when she’d longed for him to come to her. She’d often thought of going to him, but never found the courage. How could she? His care for her sprang at best from mild affection, and at worst from a need to keep her pacified so she wouldn’t crack his illusion of perfect success.
Begging for more had been unthinkable.
Though he’d been discreet, she’d known about his mistresses. They had all been lively, colorful women. Not like her.
She knew about his bastards, too, because he’d told her about each one, and the provision he was making. The allowances had been specified in his will. Another inherited burden.
And then there was Natalie.
Natalie’s mother had been Maurice’s aristocratic Belgian cousin, Clarette, but she was also Maurice’s child. When her official parents had died, she had come to live with him. The truth was never spoken, but Tante Louise and Oncle Charles knew that Maurice and Clarette had been in love since their teens.
Natalie was a delightful girl, but Maria had resented having a reproach at her infertility under her roof. Now she’d invited a demon there.
She smiled wryly as she dried her hands and applied cream. No danger in that. If she hadn’t been able to go to her husband demanding sex, she certainly could not invade her hired escort’s rooms with that in mind.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Maria sat at the desk in her boudoir trying to pretend that she was working on her accounts, but with every sense alert for Vandeimen’s arrival. She’d sent the coach and had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t come as arranged. Still, she felt she would not have a moment’s peace until he was here.
Safe.
Oh, what nonsense, but that’s how she felt.
A laugh escaped, and she rested her head on her hand. She wanted to wrap the man in flannel cloth and protect him, like a mother with a delicate child. Was anything more ridiculous?
And yet, it wasn’t ridiculous to see him as delicate, if by that she meant fragile. It was her task to make him robust again—without giving in to other, baser, desires.
A carriage? She shot to her feet and peered out of the window. It was. Her carriage. At last!
Heart suddenly racing, she made herself stand still and take a deep breath.
You make him strong again, Maria, and then you let him go. You mustn’t permit anything to happen that might entangle him with you.
Her throat actually ached, which was an alarming warning.
If he even shows interest in you it will simply be a game, a game to prove he’s your master rather than your debtor. Have some pride!
That worked better to bring her to her senses. She glanced in the mirror to be sure she was her usual cool and elegant self. Her simple morning gown was white with a narrow, pale blue stripe. A fichu ensured modesty, and matched the white cotton cap tied beneath her chin with pale blue ribbon. She looked a perfect, respectable widow, and thus armored, went down to greet her guest.
She almost collided with Natalie rushing toward the stairs.
“I just wanted to see,” the girl whispered, flashing her dimples. “I looked him up in the library this morning. He was mentioned in dispatches four times! He must be very brave.”
“Yes, I believe so.” Instinct made Maria speak coolly even though she knew she should be acting besotted. She looked her sixteen-year-old “niece” over and reset a hairpin to hold up escaping curls. “Since you’re presentable, why not come down and be properly introduced?”
Excited delight lit up Natalie’s face. She was not one to hide emotions. Every one showed, and usually at twice normal intensity.
Being short with mousy hair, Natalie couldn’t claim beauty, but she had enough vivacity and character to become a raging success when Maria let her loose on the world. She was sixteen now. Next year there would be no putting it off. Such a daunting responsibility.
She heard the door below open, and voices, and continued down, aware of Natalie by her side as if excitement gave off noise. Pray heaven she wasn’t as audible. At the bend in the stairs, where the hall came into view, she paused.
He was wearing a brown jacket and buff breeches that could be the same ones he’d worn two days ago, but now they were neat. He looked so perfectly comfortable in them that she felt she was seeing him for the first time. She was caught by the fluid grace in the way he moved, and the effortlessly genuine smile he tossed as reward to the footman who had carried in his trunk.
Such a beautiful young man . . .
She collected herself and moved on, reaching the bottom of the stairs, then crossing the hall, hand extended. “Lord Vandeimen, welcome to my home.”
He turned, still smiling, and bowed over it. “It was kind of you to invite me, Mrs. Celestin.”
His eyes flickered to her side, and she said, “My niece, my lord. Natalie Florence.”
He bowed, and Natalie dropped a curtsy, dimples deep with excitement. Oh Lord, Maria thought, don’t let her fall into an infatuation with him. I can’t cope with that on top of everything else.
Then she realized he was chatting with Natalie in a very easy way, and if he had dimples they might be showing, too.
Oh Lord, don’t let him fall in love with Natalie!
But then, like a cold wind, she realized it was all too likely. They were going to bump into one another all the time. And what would be wrong with it? In a year Natalie would be ready for her season, and if Lord Vandeimen courted her then, it would be completely appropriate.
It would make her his secret stepmother!
See it that way, she sternly directed.
He turned back to her. “The notices have gone to the papers, my dear. I should perhaps seek a private moment for this, but why shouldn’t the world witness our happiness?” He produced a ring from his pocket and held out his hand.
A quick glance showed Natalie standing there, hands clasped in vicarious ecstasy, showing no sign of jealousy. Yet.
Maria hadn’t anticipated this. She hastily twisted off the rings Maurice had given her, and held out her hand. He pushed the new ring onto her finger—with a little difficulty.
He gave her a rueful glance. “I estimated it for the jeweler, but I think it will have to be stretched a little.”
“Easy enough.” She looked at the ring, which was surprisingly modest. The small diamond in the center was surrounded by pearls. She didn’t mind the simplicity, but she’d expected a pretentious statement. Perhaps she’d been remembering Maurice. The ring she’d just taken off held a very large blue diamond.
“The smaller stones were rubies but I had them changed,” Vandeimen said. “Since you have a taste for pale colors.”
She hadn’t liked Maurice’s ring, which had been tastelessly ostentatious, but she didn’t much care for this one either. Not because of the value, but because it was insipid. Was that how he saw her?
She looked at him in buff and brown, and at Natalie in a boldly striped dress with a sky-blue sash.
Perhaps it was time to change. But not for the next six weeks. For this business, insipid was good. Very good.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Now, let me show you the house and your room, my lord.”
She shooed Natalie back to her lessons—she wanted no fledgling love affair for the next six weeks, at least—and led him upstairs.
When Van was eventually alone in his bedchamber, he shook his head. When had he last been in such elegantly opulent surroundings? Had he ever?
Steynings in his youth had been a fine country house, but it had been a country house, a home. The houses of his best friends had been even more so. Hawkinville Manor was an ancient, rambling place, Somerford Court a rather ugly Restoration construction, but wonderfully welcoming. Army living had thrown him into everything from pigstys to palaces, but they’d all been the worse for wear.
This house must be less than twenty years old, and appointed with great wealth and fairly good taste. He didn’t exactly like it—he’d never been in a place before where everything seemed so shiny new—but it was an extraordinary setting.
“Good reminder that it isn’t your setting, Van,” he muttered, exploring his new quarters.
Noons had already put his scant belongings in the drawers, and a table held glasses, a number of full decanters, and bowls of fruit and nuts. A richly marqueteried breakfront desk contained heavy writing paper, and everything else needed. The glass-front shelves above held a selection of books that seemed to be chosen with care to meet every possible taste.
/> By her?
It hadn’t been wise to agree to move in here, but last night he’d not been able to resist. Comfortable living tempted him, but he also wanted to get to know Maria Celestin, to come to understand what was going on here, and the way he felt.
Hades, he’d almost ravished her! It hadn’t felt like that at the time, but it was obvious from her reaction that he’d completely misjudged it. Of course he had. He was a hired servant, nothing more, and he’d attacked her.
He’d gone over and over it in the night.
There’d been pride involved, yes. He’d wanted to master her. Revolting thought. It had spun out of control, though.
Something about her drove him wild. It wasn’t just her coolness, either. Today, when she’d come down the stairs, the way she moved had practically rendered him breathless, even if she had been in a shapeless pale dress and a concealing cap.
Last night she’d worn an elaborate turban. At their first meeting she’d been in a toque. He felt almost rage that she hid her hair so much. Soft, dark blond curls had ruffled out around her cap, and when she’d turned to her niece he’d seen escaping tendrils against her long, pale neck.
Did it curl all over? How was it arranged? How long was it? Naked in bed, would it flow long, loose, and pale around her?
Stop it, Van.
He pressed his fist to his mouth.
Stop being an animal. She’s a mature, respectable widow who would not even let you touch her except for this eccentric plan of hers.
He was rough from war. Broken in fortune. Broken in spirit. What was he doing now, after all, but marching to duty’s drum, left foot, right foot, like the most wretched dullard in the infantry?
In six weeks he’d have enough money to continue the march, that was all, and doubtless he’d never see Maria Celestin again.
They attended two routs and a soirée that night. Maria wanted first reaction over with. She had to endure some sly comments about his youth and good looks, and about his moving into her house, but people mostly seemed to accept the situation, though with amusement.
