The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “So there have been no artists,” he said lightly, “no poets—”

  “No.”

  “No composers, no politicians—”

  “No. Richard—”

  “No butchers, no bakers—”

  “No! No one! Honestly, Richard.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I haven’t … what I mean to say is …”

  “You have no reputation.”

  “Exactly,” she huffed. “Are you happy?”

  “Blissful. Although,” he shook his head in mock distress, “we should probably consider my reputation.”

  “Yours?”

  “I used to have one, you know,” he said staunchly. “And damned impressive it was, too. But look at me now. Out in a disreputable garden with a woman with no reputation whatsoever. And not a soul to give it a second thought because I’m considered quite reformed. A man of honor no less, topping your list of husbands.

  “I can hear the whispers now: she’ll be safe with him.” A mournful note sounded in his voice. “What a sorry end I’ve come to.”

  “It’s not that bad. Why tonight alone you have laughed aloud and emerged from the shadows of the room. I daresay everyone in the place is speculating about us at this very moment.”

  “Do you think so?” he said hopefully.

  She bit back a laugh and nodded somberly. “I do.”

  “Then I have nowhere to go but up.” The teasing note in his voice vanished. “And bloody hell, I cannot stand this another minute.”

  Unease stabbed her. “Richard, what are you—”

  With a swift movement, he ripped his mask off like a man escaping from a prison. He pushed his hair away from his forehead, tilted his face up to catch the breeze, and pulled a deep breath. “That’s much better. I detest masks. I cannot abide things pressing on my face.” He shuddered. “Do you think Lady Forester will have me ejected for taking it off?”

  Gillian narrowed her eyes and adopted an overly thoughtful manner. “Perhaps. It could indeed be an unforgivable offense. I’ve heard her say there is nothing quite as attractive as a man of mystery.”

  “Hence her passion for deep, dark secrets.”

  “As well as other things.” She smiled and shook her head. “She may be right, though. What is more mysterious and exciting than a man with secrets? Or a man whose face is hidden? He could be anything. A pauper, a prince, a—”

  “He could be dangerous.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I imagine that simply adds to the excitement.”

  Richard propped his foot on the bench, rested his forearm on his thigh, and clasped his hands. “Do women typically wish for such excitement?”

  “Lady Forester is not at all a typical woman.”

  “Neither are you.” He studied her intently. “Then do you wish for such excitement?”

  “Me? I’ve never especially thought about it. I can certainly understand …” Did she long for excitement? For a man of mystery? A stranger with secrets? Dangerous and irresistible? The possibility had never arisen. She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

  “No, you prefer to know all there is to know about a man before you propose marriage.”

  “It seemed wise at the time,” she murmured uneasily. It did sound rather harsh and calculating when he said it.

  “And extremely practical.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you accept Weston or Cummings? You’ve known them all your life.”

  “Oh, I could never do that to either of them,” she said quickly.

  “However, you could do that to me?”

  “I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded. Perhaps I simply know them too well. They’re like brothers. Besides,” she laughed softly, “at this very moment I suspect Kit is flirting with a rather attractive shepherdess he remarked on earlier and Robin is trying to determine whether or not he should actively pursue a wife or if he can put it off for another year.”

  “They do care for you, though.”

  “And I for them, but …”

  “And I suspect either of them would give you the kind of marriage you want.”

  “The kind of marriage …”

  “In name only.” His eyes smoldered.

  “Yes, well …” She avoided his gaze and stepped away from the statue. She pulled a deep breath and turned to him. “That’s not to be, is it?”

  “It’s entirely up to you.” He shifted his foot off the bench and moved toward her. Her heart thudded in her chest. Was he going to kiss her? Panic surged through her. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

  “Is it?” She choked out the words, her throat abruptly dry. Without thinking she moistened her lips. His gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

  “Isn’t it?”

  She wanted to run. Turn and flee into the night. But she couldn’t seem to move. Couldn’t seem to breathe.

  He lowered his face to hers, his lips a scant brush from her own. “Gillian.”

  “Yes?” she whispered. Perhaps it would be best if he did kiss her and got it over with right here and now. Surely then she would know if she could be the kind of wife he wanted.

  “I was wondering.”

  “Yes?” She braced herself.

  “I find I’m quite parched. Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

  “Champagne?” Her voice rose. “You’re offering me champagne?”

  The corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Unless there’s something else you’d prefer.”

  “No,” she said, her tone surprisingly sharp. With relief? “Nothing at all.”

  “Very well then. You’ll be here when I return?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent.” He started to leave, then paused. “Gillian, I—”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s of no significance at the moment.” He flashed her an arrogant smile, turned, and retraced their steps. She watched until he disappeared up the stairs. Blasted man. Why hadn’t he kissed her? Of course, it was best that he hadn’t. It was far too soon. She barely knew him. Barely knew herself. Still, once again, her relief was mingled with an odd sense of disappointment.

  She hadn’t seen him since his early morning call yesterday, but he was never far from her thoughts. Nor were the conflicting emotions that rushed through her with a mere glance of his dark eyes or touch of his hand. Or the promise of a kiss.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and paced before the bench.

  Since their last encounter she’d done nothing but think long and hard about their arrangement and their possible future together. In the part of her mind reserved for logic and practical matters she’d come to the realization that wanting Richard, even perhaps someday loving him, was not truly a betrayal of what she’d shared with Charles. Indeed, she’d spent so many years trying not to dwell on the past that the brief time they’d spent together seemed often little more than a lovely dream.

  Her emotions were something else altogether and not as easily resolved. She couldn’t deny the sense of guilt that clutched at her heart and tensed her shoulders and sent a rush of panic through her whenever Richard came too close. No man had triggered such feelings in her before. She was as selfassured and confident as ever when they bantered and their comments were lighthearted, but the moment their words took on a deeper meaning, the moment his gaze bored into hers, she was as uncertain and nervous as a green girl. She’d thought her reaction to him was simply because of their situation, their need to marry, but she now suspected there was much more to it all than that.

  Was it indeed guilt? Or was it fear?

  She stopped abruptly and stared unseeing into the night. Not once in the last few moments with Richard had Charles so much as entered her mind. Did her feelings have little to do with her husband and everything to do with herself? Was Charles simply a convenient excuse to avoid—what? Life?

  Or Richard?

  There was something about the man that drew her to him as surely as a leaf caught in the current of a
waterfall.

  Inevitable. And exciting?

  Despite what she’d told him, did she want excitement? Did some part of her long for a man of mystery? Certainly Richard was not mysterious, but he was nothing she’d thought he was. And wasn’t that in itself exciting?

  And terrifying?

  Was fear any easier to overcome than guilt? She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to stop the trembling that swept through her. Realizing the truth made it no easier to manage.

  How had she gotten into this mess? All she’d wanted was her inheritance and, with it, independence and the ability to fully pay a debt of honor. Now she wasn’t entirely sure which prize would be the greater.

  The legacy or the man.

  * * *

  Blast it all, he should have kissed her. Had wanted to kiss her. Why hadn’t he?

  Because when he’d gazed into her eyes he’d seen the terrified look of a trapped animal. Because he’d never forced his affections on any woman.

  Because he wanted her to want him.

  He stalked up the terrace stairs and slowed, searching for the distinctive black cloak, tricorn hats, and white masks that marked the Venetian costumes worn by the waiters. There had been a dozen of them just a few minutes ago. Had they all disappeared?

  He blew a long breath and circled the edge of the terrace. To make matters worse, Gillian hadn’t even mentioned the miniature. He knew she’d received it: he’d refused to pay the boy he’d hired to deliver it until the youth returned with a signature of receipt from Gillian’s morose butler.

  He spotted a servant bearing a tray of champagne and gestured to him. At once the man started in his direction.

  What if she didn’t like it? What if she thought it was a poor likeness—or worse, badly done? How could he find out?

  The waiter wove his way through the crowd toward him, deftly avoiding one guest after the other. An odd, dreamlike figure in the black cape and white mask.

  He certainly couldn’t come right out and ask her. After all, Toussaint had sent her the portrait—not Shelbrooke. Pity Toussaint couldn’t ask her. He supposed he could send a note.

  The waiter reached him and presented the tray. Richard reached for the glasses and paused, his hand hovering in midair.

  “Is something amiss, milord?” the waiter said.

  Behind the mask, beneath the cloak and the hat, the waiter could be anyone. A pauper, a prince … a painter? This was a masquerade ball and costumes were a necessity. A requirement. Of course, it would mean donning a damnable mask. And there was always the possibility of recognition. Still, occasionally a man who could not publicly acknowledge his accomplishments needed to know if a woman he admired, admired him as well. Or at least his work.

  Certainly, there were risks. To his pride and his secret. But it might well be worth a bit of risk.

  “Not at all.” Richard favored the man with his most amicable smile. “In fact, everything may be far better than I could possibly have hoped for.”

  Chapter 6

  This was insane.

  Richard ignored the annoying thought even as he acknowledged its truth. Up to now, his role of Toussaint had been impersonal, with minimal risk. This act tonight was something else altogether. He adjusted the irritating mask one last time, drew a steadying breath, and stepped out of the shadows.

  Gillian paced in front of the bench, exactly where he had left her. She glanced up at his approach.

  What was he going to do now? He hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t considered any course of action beyond borrowing the servant’s costume. At least he’d had the presence of mind to take the waiter’s tray along with his attire.

  Her gaze dropped to the lone glass it bore. “Did Lord Shelbrooke send you?”

  He nodded mutely.

  “I did expect him to bring it himself,” she said under her breath. “I assume he has been detained …” She accepted the champagne and started to turn away, then paused and smiled politely. “Thank you.”

  It was a pleasant dismissal but a dismissal nonetheless and not at all what he’d had in mind. What did he have in mind? How on earth was he going to proceed? Or rather, how would Toussaint proceed?

  Gillian was pacing the length of the bench, already deep in thought. Richard and Thomas had concocted a life for Toussaint, but Richard had never imagined actually pretending to be the man. If he was to act the part of Toussaint he would have to become Toussaint at least for tonight. The son of a noble French line, arrogant in his heritage. An artist supremely confident of his talent.

  She swiveled back and stopped short. He hadn’t moved. Her brow furrowed slightly. “Yes?”

  A man adored by women.

  “Was there something else?” She took a cautious step backwards. At once he realized the attire of a domino was charming and clever amidst the crowd in the ballroom or on the well-lit terrace, but here in the shadows of the gardens the white mask was stark, the black cloak forbidding. A romantic figure no longer, he was now a disconcerting, even threatening, vision.

  He deepened his voice and adopted a heavy French accent. “You need not be frightened of me, madame.”

  “I’m not.” He could see the lie in her eyes and wondered how long it would take for help to arrive if she decided to scream for assistance. “Now, I really must—”

  “Permit me to introduce myself.” He drew a deep breath and tossed the tray onto the bench.

  “I scarcely think—”

  “I am,” he bowed with an exaggerated flourish and what he hoped was a distinctly Continental flair, “Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

  “I cannot imagine …” Her eyes widened. “The artist?”

  “None other.”

  “You’re quite good.” Admiration sounded in her voice.

  “Indeed I am,” he said smugly.

  “And modest as well.” A slight smile lifted her lips.

  He shrugged. “Modesty is an affectation I cannot afford. I must be free to throw aside the shackles of convention if I am to create great art.” Shackles of convention? He groaned to himself.

  “I see.” She studied him for a moment. “And was the miniature you sent me great art?”

  “You are an expert in such matters, madame, what is your opinion?” he said as if her answer didn’t matter.

  “It was nicely done.”

  “Nicely done?” Indignation swept away his accent, but only for a moment. “Nicely done is what one says about a child’s first drawing of a pony.”

  “Oh, it’s much better than a drawing of a pony.” Amusement colored her tone.

  “I am so pleased you think so, madame,” he said dryly.

  “It’s quite an accurate likeness, given that I did not sit for it.”

  “I am an excellent observer of life, and I have seen you many times. In a carriage on the street, on a horse in the park, across a ballroom.” Nicely done? Accurate likeness? What kind of comments were those? He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d wanted her to say, but this certainly wasn’t it.

  She sipped her wine thoughtfully. “It struck me as an extremely personal work.”

  He drew himself up. “A good portrait should be quite personal. It should make one looking at it say, Mais oui, it is she. I sought to capture not merely your beauty but your soul.”

  She laughed lightly. “You have no knowledge of my soul.”

  “Ah, but I do. The world of artists is an intimate one. All who you so graciously introduce to potential patrons have said much about the charms and intelligence of the Lady Gillian. Your actions reveal your soul. As do your eyes.”

  “Do they? And you could see my soul in my eyes from across a ballroom? You have remarkably good vision. Unless,” she studied him carefully, “have we met?”

  “You would never forget such a meeting.”

  “No doubt.” Her smile softened her words. Her gaze traveled over him. “Still, in that costume you could be anyone.”

  “I could indeed.” But for the moment, he was Tous
saint. “I could be a king or a peasant but, alas, I am merely Etienne-Louis Toussaint.”

  “Merely?” Her eyes twinkled.

  He ignored her, clasped his hands behind his back, and slowly circled her. “Tell me, madame, do you think then that it does capture your esprit— your spirit?”

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly. “Perhaps a bit too much.”

  “How can it be too much?”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Is it too much to put the stars of the heavens above in the eyes when you see them there?”

  “I’m not saying—” She turned to follow him.

  “Is it too much to paint lips with the hue of ripe cherries as though a bite had just been taken, if that is what you observe?”

  “Monsieur, I—”

  He stopped in front of her. “Is it too much to color flesh with the tones of summer so that one feels the image itself would be warm to the touch if indeed that is what you imagine?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “It does seem rather too much. I have no quarrel with the liberties taken by artists as a rule. I well understand the nature of creative expression. And most miniatures are no more than keepsakes. But the manner in which you painted it is, well, somewhat intimate.”

  “How do you mean, ‘intimate’?” He stared down at her.

  “I’m not entirely certain. I only know when I look at it …” She shook her head impatiently. “It reveals more of me than I wish to have revealed. It is a measure of your talent, I know, but it is quite unnerving.” A puzzled look showed on her face. He was a mere inch away, yet she stood her ground. “Are you certain we haven’t met?”

  “Only in my dreams, ma chérie.”