Rhyme and Reason

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Emily was not sure whether to give in to laughter or tears. “Mr. Colley, you misunderstand.”

  “Apparently, for I believed we had an understanding. I bid you good evening and good-bye, Miss Talcott.”

  Damon chuckled as the affronted man stormed away. “He enjoys making an exit, doesn’t he?”

  “I am afraid he was beginning to believe what he read in the gossip columns.” Emily shook her head. “I should not say this, but thank you.”

  “For ridding you of Colley?” He gave her a sardonic bow. “My pleasure.”

  Emily looked about the room. “This is odd.”

  “I agree.”

  She glanced at him and saw his smile. That he perceived what she meant was unsettling. Sharply, she told herself that Damon had been a part of the Polite World longer than she, so he could not be unaware of the peculiar lack of interest in their return to the ballroom together.

  Scanning the room, she saw her sister in the midst of a conversation with several friends. Miriam must have sensed Emily’s gaze, for she turned and waved before hurrying across the ballroom where no one seemed to be interested in the music or the food or the wine.

  “Good evening, Miss Talcott,” Damon said with a bow. “It is a pleasure to—”

  “Emily, have you heard?”

  “Please do not interrupt, Miriam,” Emily chided.

  She bobbed her head toward Damon. “Yes, yes. Forgive me. Good evening, my lord.” Turning back to Emily, she could not hide her excitement. “What do you think of this?”

  “This what?” When she looked at Damon, he shrugged.

  Miriam linked her arm with Emily’s and drew her away. “You shan’t believe what I just heard.”

  “About some surprise Valeria has?”

  Her smile became a disappointed pout. “Do you know what it is?”

  Emily did not answer as she heard excited voices on the other side of the room. As Valeria’s guests crowded toward the far doorway, more joining the throng on every breath, she tried to see what the to-do was about. Too many taller people stood between her and their hostess.

  When a hand tugged on her arm, she looked up at Damon. “Come this way, Emily. Over by the balcony door, I believe you shall be able to see Lady Fanning’s grand entrance with whatever she has devised.”

  “So you have no idea whom it is?” persisted Miriam.

  Emily almost retorted that she had been concerned with things more important than their hostess’s attempt to make her party memorable among the many of the Season. She bit back the comment, for Miriam would be scandalized to discover her sister had been in Damon’s arms. “Who? Is the surprise a person?”

  “That is what I have heard.” Excitement filled Miriam’s voice. “Look! There he is!”

  In the doorway, a man stood next to Valeria, his arm through hers. She was smiling with satisfaction as she stared up at the man who was tall and undeniably handsome. He was dressed in spotless white breeches beneath his red coat and silver vest, and his ebony hair glistened like his knee-high boots. A finger-thin mustache accented his full lips.

  “Who is that?” asked Emily.

  The answer came back at the same time from a half dozen people. “Marquis de la Cour.”

  Chapter Seven

  This was impossible!

  Emily stared at Valeria and the slender man beside her. This could not be happening! He could not be Marquis de la Cour! She was the marquis. Coldness sank into her center. She could not say anything. The truth would shame the Talcott family as well as embarrassing Valeria.

  The orchestra fell into discordant silence. When a line formed, twisting through the ballroom, so that everyone might have a chance to welcome the marquis to Town, Emily held back. She should take Miriam and leave, but she doubted if her sister would depart now.

  “Are you unwell?” asked Damon, his smile becoming a frown of concern. “You have no more color than your sister’s gown.”

  Emily fought to force a weak smile. “I simply am overcome at the thought of coming face-to-face with the author who has written the poetry Miriam enjoys so much.”

  “And you.”

  “Yes, and me.” She dampened her lips which were as dry as her palms. She stared at the man by Valeria’s side.

  No question about it, this man perfectly suited anyone’s image of a French marquis who spent his time in the pursuit of the exact word to describe the moment when two lovers’ gazes met. As he bowed over a woman’s hand and kissed it with just the right amount of Gallic fervor that suggested his amorous poetry were reflections of his own affaires d’ amour, Emily cursed the hour when she had devised this preposterous lie.

  Who was he?

  “Emily!” cried Miriam. “Isn’t this wonderful? Let’s go and speak with him!”

  “Yes,” seconded Damon in a calmer voice, “I think we should do that.” He held out both arms, one to her and one to Miriam. “I would not miss escorting the Talcott sisters to meet the incomparable Marquis de la Cour. This should make for a much more intriguing evening than Lady Fanning planned.”

  Emily wanted to retort. Intriguing was not the word she would have chosen. Horror was closer to what was roiling through her stomach.

  When she did not put her hand on his arm, Damon asked, “Why are you delaying? I am sure Lady Fanning cannot wait to introduce her unexpected guest to her best bosom-bow.”

  “In a moment,” she said faintly. Then, noting Damon’s curious glance, she added in a normal tone, “We do not want to overmaster him with welcome.”

  Miriam glanced toward the crowd. “Do come, Emily. By the time we get there, Valeria will sort order out and arrange for all of us to meet the marquis. I own to an incredible eagerness to meet him.”

  “That is no surprise,” Damon said. “Ladies?”

  Miriam reached past Damon and grasped Emily’s hand. With a tug, she snatched Emily away from him.

  “Valeria is motioning to you, Emily,” Miriam said without looking at Damon. “Come! You don’t want to vex her when she must be half mad with anxiety about the turn this evening has taken.” She pulled on Emily’s hand again.

  Looking from her determined sister to Valeria’s strained smile, Emily nodded. Her friend did need her now. And, to own the truth, Miriam’s uncivil behavior gave Emily the excuse she needed to dismiss Damon without bringing undue attention on them. She almost laughed. No one was taking note of anything but the bogus marquis.

  As Miriam drew her across the room, Emily glanced back at Damon. He was smiling coolly. What he was thinking was hidden behind that polite, slightly arrogant countenance he seemed to prefer when they were with others.

  Emily was sucked into the excited crowd. Everyone was atitter with the thrill of speaking to the French poet. She glanced toward the front door. It would be simpler to flee.

  “Isn’t he just the pick?” cooed one dowager.

  “A true clean potato,” announced another. “Who would have guessed we would meet him tonight?”

  “Do you think he dances?”

  A scoffing voice chided the young speaker, “He is French, isn’t he?”

  Emily did not join the eager laughter. If she opened her mouth, she feared she would shame herself by being sick.

  A hand on her elbow startled her. She looked up into Damon’s eyes which were as chilly as his smile.

  When he handed her a glass of champagne, she took a sip and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “You looked as if you could use some fortifying. I had not thought the chance to meet the marquis would leave you as colorless as a corpse.” Before she could answer, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you in greeting this inimitable brother of the quill?”

  His contempt strengthened her more than his kindness. “Am I to believe you are interested in meeting him?”

  “I am interested,” he said quietly, “in discovering why you let your sister drag you away as if I were a demon. Is there something I can say to bring you to your bearings?” The line moved f
orward several steps, but his hand her arm held her back to let several others between them and Miriam.

  “Damon, I need to stay with Miriam. She is—”

  “Pleased to give me my congé. Is that your plan as well?” He ran a finger along the smooth skin behind her ear. “You did not seem anxious to rush away earlier.”

  This evening was whirling completely out of control. She needed to concentrate on what she would say to this fake marquis. She must not think about how wondrous Damon’s touch was and how it teased her to think of other ways he might touch her.

  “Emily!” Valeria’s enthusiastic voice kept her from having to find some excuse. Rushing to where they stood, Valeria wafted a garish fan with pearl spines and glorious purple feathers in front of her face. “I wondered where you might be.”

  Emily smiled as she took her friend’s hand. “I must wait my turn to meet your guest of honor.”

  Valeria’s smile became broader but her eyes narrowed as she looked past Emily. “Lord Wentworth, I am glad you stayed for this surprising turn of events.”

  He bowed over Valeria’s hand. “This evening has been one unexpected pleasure after another.”

  Again Emily was grateful that she did not suffer Miriam’s blushes, for his glance in her direction told her exactly which pleasure he was thinking of now. The same as she was.

  Not now. She could not think of his bold kiss now. She had another problem. As she listened to Damon and Valeria trade polite Spanish coin, she appraised with calmer eyes the man who claimed to be Marquis de la Cour.

  He was in twig, for his ebony eyes had an exotic tilt that crinkled in his well-tanned face each time he smiled. She watched as he, in turn, gauged each of the guests fawning over him. She wondered if he was gripped with a fear that one of them might denounce him.

  As she should.

  She silenced that thought when Miriam edged closer. Her sister was gazing at the marquis with the longing of a schoolgirl watching a soirée from the top of the stairs. Even Mr. Simpkins, who came to stand in his customary place in Valeria’s shadow, did not draw her attention from this impostor.

  Emily resisted seizing Miriam by the shoulders and shaking her. Yes, Marquis de la Cour was present, but … she could not be honest.

  Valeria herded Emily out of the reception line. When Emily tried to demur, Valeria chuckled and said, “My dear Emily, one of the joys of being a hostess is being able to break a few of Society’s canons in order to make my guests happy.”

  “I would be glad to wait my turn.”

  “Do not be a goose!”

  Hearing Damon’s chuckle, Emily silenced her retort. She listened to Miriam’s excited giggle as she joined them.

  “I cannot wait,” Miriam whispered.

  “Look out!” Emily gasped as her sister nearly trod on Mr. Simpkins’s toes. When he jumped aside, Emily murmured, “Miriam, think about what you are doing.”

  “I can think of nothing but the chance to meet the marquis.”

  Emily hoped no one saw her roll her eyes, but she discovered how hopeless that was when they were caught by Damon’s gray gaze. He stood to one side, his arms crossed over his chest, as if this were being staged for his amusement. Blast him! And blast herself for creating the marquis in the first place.

  “Emily!” Valeria poked her in the side before saying, “Marquis de la Cour, this is my dear bosom-bow Miss Emily Talcott. She, like her sister whom you just met, is much a follower of your work.”

  Emily could not keep from staring at the man who should be no more than her imagination. Dear God! This could not be happening! She feared every eye in the room was finally aimed at her, not because she had appeared on Lord Wentworth’s arm but because she was stricken silent.

  The bogus marquis preened as if Valeria’s adulation were his rightful due. When he bowed his head toward Emily, she noted he was inspecting her as he had the other guests. She said nothing until he raised his head, although the guests behind her rumbled impatiently.

  “I am astonished to meet you, mon seigneur,” she said, refusing to let his gaze slide away. In French, she added, “I bid you a warm welcome to our country.”

  “How sweet your words sound on these ears that hunger for the lush tones of my birth tongue,” he answered, but in heavily accented English. “I would answer in kind, but I am endeavoring to learn to speak your language as prettily as you do mine. I fear I shall never achieve that goal.”

  “Do you intend to write your next volume in English?” she asked, waiting for the opportunity to prove he was a liar without revealing the truth that would damn her.

  “Who is to say?” He smiled. “Ah, the muses which whisper inspiration in a man’s ear do not serve him. He must serve them. You do understand, do you not, Mademoiselle Talcott?”

  Emily flinched. Did he know the truth? How could he? She drew in a deep breath, then released it when she realized he was not speaking to her, but to Miriam.

  “I wish I did,” Miriam said, her voice lilting like a bird’s. “Mayhap Emily would understand. She used to pen little stories.”

  “Nothing,” Emily said hastily, aware of the many ears listening, “that could compare with your poetry, mon seigneur.”

  “I would hope not,” came a low whisper near her ear. “I suspect your youthful efforts showed much more skill.”

  Emily looked over her shoulder. In the midst of this turmoil, she had forgotten Damon was a witness to this insanity. He was smiling, clearly amused. Well, he should be, for they all were chuckleheads to pay court on an impostor. Not able to retort as she wished, she watched while the marquis drew Valeria into his conversation with Miriam. He utterly ignored Mr. Simpkins.

  Valeria was unable to conceal her delight. By the morrow, if not before, all London would be agog at learning Marquis de la Cour was in Town. And everyone would know that Valeria Fanning had been his first hostess.

  Emily started to step away. When Damon put his hand on her arm to halt her, she regarded him with astonishment.

  Again she was thwarted from asking any questions, for Valeria said, “Mon seigneur, this is Damon Wentworth.”

  “Wentworth,” the marquis said with a hint of disdain. The two men bowed toward each other, and she realized they were of a height. As he straightened, the marquis smiled at Miriam. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Talcott, which of my poems you love best.”

  Valeria gushed, “Mon seigneur, Lord Wentworth is such an admirer of your work that he left his favorite chair at his club to attend tonight’s reading of your work.”

  “Is that so?” the false marquis asked, turning to look at Damon.

  With no sign that he was speaking anything but the truth, Damon answered, “I doubt if you will find another who views your poetry as I do. Isn’t that correct, Emily?”

  “I have heard you describe the marquis’s poetry with words unlike you have used for any other,” she said quietly.

  “Odd that you should find it so intriguing, Lord Wentworth,” the marquis replied. “I write my poetry to appeal to the ears and eyes of our gentler sex.”

  “Exactly as I mentioned to Emily earlier.”

  Taking her sister’s arm, Emily drew Miriam away from whatever spell the marquis had spun about her. She heard a muffled sound. Damon’s face was contorted as if with pain. She knew better. He was struggling to restrain his laughter.

  As they walked toward where even the orchestra had abandoned their seats in an effort to meet the marquis, someone called to Miriam. Her sister excused herself before Emily could speak.

  Damon laughed as he rested his shoulder against the door leading out to the balcony.

  “If you can control yourself,” Emily said, “I would ask you not to use me to bait that hapless Frenchman.”

  “Spoken like a true heroine coming to the rescue of the weak and simple.” Taking Emily’s champagne glass, he downed what was left in it and set the glass on a nearby table. “However, I was chuckling about your sister. She seems much taken with that frog p
oet.”

  She turned away. “She is young.”

  Damon stepped in front of her. Tipping her face toward him, he said, “Emily, youth is no excuse for being short a sheet. By the elevens, you are no more than a handful of years her senior, but you were not bamblusterated by this marquis.”

  “What do you mean?” She did not dare to breathe. Could he have guessed the truth? Oh, dear God, she prayed not.

  “I can tell you find him as unpalatable as I do.” His fingertip brushed her cheek. “Why are you treating me so icily when but an hour ago we spoke of friendship?”

  “Can we speak of something else?”

  “Of what?” His caress urged her to lower her defenses as he whispered, “Do you wish to speak of how we pledged that friendship with a friendly kiss?”

  Emily could not ignore the banked embers in his eyes. That sweet flame had urged her to melt to him when he drew her into his arms.

  “Emily!” Valeria hurried to them. “The marquis would dearly love to hear you read his poetry in French. Come! Do not make him wait.”

  “Damon and I—we were talking about—”

  “Excuse us, my lord,” Valeria said, smiling. “We must not keep the marquis waiting. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Do I?” he asked, his gaze holding Emily’s.

  She longed to shut her eyes, to close out the promise glowing in his eyes. With a sigh she could not silence, she said, “I am afraid you must understand.”

  “Then I must.” He stepped back and bowed his head with the same derision he had shown the fake marquis. “Read that Frenchman’s poetry with all the fervor it deserves, Emily. I trust I shall hear of your success.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “Lady Luck beckons. As I prefer her chanson to any of de la Cour’s, I ask you ladies to excuse me. Thank you, Lady Fanning, for a most interesting evening.”

  When he turned on his heel, the temptation to call him back teased Emily. But what could she tell him? That she delighted in his company, that she wanted his touch, that she yearned to taste the fervor she had sampled on his lips. As he wove his way through the press of Valeria’s guests, her gaze followed him, unable to resist admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the easy arrogance of his stride.