MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS

by Margaret McPhee

  * * *

  When Razeby came back into the drawing room Quigley’s chair was empty. Razeby returned to take his seat by Miss Althrope’s side, who was far too well bred to comment upon a gentleman’s absence. Whether she had noticed Alice leave he neither knew nor cared.

  His blood was still pounding from the sight of her, his mind still focused and intent—with lethality towards Quigley and something else altogether for Alice. He could feel her in every beat of his heart.

  It was not supposed to be like this. He was not supposed to feel like this. He knew that, but sitting there with Miss Althrope by his side, his eyes half on Madame Catalani, half on the door waiting for Alice to return, he did, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change it.

  At last Alice slipped into the room, resuming her place beside Kemble once more. She did not so much as glance his way. Just sat there seemingly quietly intent upon Madame Catalani’s performance. But she did not need to look at him. He was so damned aware of her that Madame Catalani could have missed every single note and he would not have noticed. He could feel the sense of Alice thudding through his chest, feel the knowledge of what was between them in his blood and in his bones. He stared straight ahead, as if watching the soprano, but he was watching Alice for every minute of that concert. And he could not look away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alice did not know how she got through the rest of that musicale. Her hands were still trembling when she got home. She told herself it was because of Quigley, but she knew it was not.

  It was wrong on so many levels. Razeby had rid himself of her without the slightest regard for her feelings. What had been between them was nothing more than sex. He was actively searching for a woman to marry. And yet this afternoon in that ladies’ room made her think she had got it all wrong. It was preposterous. Downright ridiculous. But that look in his eyes, filled with meaning, piercing, as if he could see right through to her very soul. As if he felt, really felt, the same as her. The whole experience had shaken her more than she wanted to admit, stripping all her denials away for the flimsy pretences they were.

  And that realisation made her feel weak and out of control and afraid. Afraid that the mask was in danger of slipping, the threat of all that lay beneath exposed to the world.

  Never let them see how much they hurt you.

  The mantra came easily to her lips. She knew it by heart and had said it to herself a thousand times since that night with Razeby. And yet now she was panicking, gathering her armour around her all the tighter. Telling herself that she had been mistaken in what she felt and what she thought she had seen in his eyes.

  He had taken all she had to give, used it and discarded it. She could never allow herself to forget. All she had left was her pride. She would not let him take that. She could not let him take that. She had no choice but to carry on.

  * * *

  ‘So, how was Madame Catalani the other day?’ Venetia took a small sip of coffee and glanced across to where Alice sat on the sofa in Mercer Street.

  ‘She’s got a wonderful voice on her. Magical almost.’ So magical that it could make a woman betray herself and imagine things.

  ‘I heard Razeby was there, too.’

  ‘Was he?’ She tried to sound vague, but she could not meet Venetia’s eye.

  ‘Alice,’ Venetia said softly, ‘there is a rumour going around, about you and Razeby, at the musicale.’

  ‘There are always rumours,’ Alice said flippantly.

  Venetia said nothing, just held her eyes, looking at her, knowing she was lying.

  Alice closed her eyes and gave a sigh. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘It was Quigley. He followed me into the ladies’. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘A lecherous old toad.’

  ‘He made a pass at me. He’s got a strength in him that you wouldn’t credit, Venetia. I thought he was just an old man. I never thought that he’d actually use force.’

  Venetia paled. There was a look of horror in her pale eyes, even though she was trying to hide it and her voice when she spoke was calm. ‘Did he...hurt...you, Alice?’

  ‘No. He tried to kiss me. I don’t know how far he really meant to go, but he got nowhere. Razeby stopped him.’

  ‘And how did Razeby come to be in the ladies’ withdrawing room?’

  Alice glanced away. ‘He was just passing.’

  Venetia raised her eyebrows and Alice could see the scepticism in her friend’s expression. ‘Are the two of you back together?’

  ‘No.’ Alice closed her eyes with a weariness. The confusion milling in her brain since that day seemed like it was sapping the very life from her. ‘How could we ever be back together? After all he di—’ She caught back what she had been about to say and stopped herself. ‘He’s searching for a bride. He was there with Miss Althrope.’

  ‘You still have feelings for him, don’t you, Alice?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ She glanced away. ‘How could I?’

  ‘We feel what we feel, Alice, regardless of sense or logic.’ Venetia paused. ‘I know you have no wish to avoid him, but maybe you should, just for a little while.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’ She shook her head, feeling more afraid than ever. ‘I won’t, Venetia.’ Because to do so would be to admit the truth. Never turn your face from the thing you fear. Be bold and brave. And never, never let them see how much they hurt you. ‘In fact, what I need to do is the very opposite.’

  ‘Alice...’ Venetia cautioned softly.

  ‘He saved me from Quigley. But it doesn’t change anything,’ Alice said. ‘I mean, I’m grateful for his intervention, of course I am. But—’ Her heart was beating faster even at the memory of his eyes staring down into hers, of all that had strained and trembled between them. And the dreams and nightmares that had made sleep impossible. And the thoughts that jibed at her all night and whispered in her ear every day. ‘It changes nothing,’ she said again, more firmly. ‘I have to get on with my life. I have to show them all Razeby doesn’t matter to me. I have to show him he doesn’t matter to me.’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘Then be very careful, Alice.’

  ‘I will,’ she replied softly.

  * * *

  The doors of her wardrobe were wide open. Alice stood before them, looking in at the line of new silk evening dresses hanging there. They were both beautiful and expensive. They were her fresh start, bought with the money she had won at Dryden’s that night.

  Her eyes moved to the emerald silk dress at the very end of the wardrobe, hanging slightly separate from all the others. The one dress that she had taken from the house in Hart Street. The dress she had had made with Razeby in mind. The dress that he always swore he could not resist her in.

  She reached out and lightly touched her fingers to the long flowing green silk of the skirt and the images flashed in her mind—vivid and real enough to make her gasp: Razeby’s mouth on hers, his hands peeling off the bodice to expose her breasts naked and aching for his touch. Her rucking up the skirt and straddling Razeby in his town coach because they could not wait until they got home. Making love across the desk in his study, on the sofa in the drawing room, on the Turkish rug before the drawing-room fireplace. And the time on the staircase and then again on its window seat before they had made it into the bedchamber. The razing intensity of the memories had her shivering. She snatched her hand back as if the cool silk had burned her.

  She forced herself to breathe, to still the tremor that was racing all through her body and deny those feelings that were threatening to escape from the dark place in which she had locked them, grasping at anything to shore up the cracks in the walls of her defences.

  It was just sex. It had always been just sex, and nothing more, for Razeby. And for her. She needed to prove that to herself, once and for all. And she knew the very way she could do it...if she was brave enough.

  Alice took another breath and turned h
er eyes to the emerald-green silk once more.

  * * *

  Wearing the emerald-green evening dress had seemed such a good idea at the time, but standing here on the threshold of the Brewer Street Rooms, with Devlin looking at her with desire so blatant in his eyes, Alice was not so sure.

  ‘That dress, Miss Sweetly...’ Devlin’s eyes dropped lower to the pale swell of her breasts over the tight green silk of her bodice. He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice for her ears only. ‘You look positively irresistible.’

  Irresistible. The same word Razeby always used. She did not want to hear it on Devlin’s lips. It felt wrong. As wrong as wearing this dress in any man other than Razeby’s company. But that was all the more reason to wear it. To take away its power. To take away his power over her. To prove once and for all there was nothing left between them, that there never had been, no matter how he looked at her.

  ‘You certainly know how to make a woman blush, Lord Devlin.’ She smiled.

  He held out his elbow to her in invitation.

  She ignored the unease that stroked like a feather against her skin, closed her ears to the doubts and the discomfort, and the nervousness that was jittering in her stomach. It might feel wrong but it was the right thing to do, she reassured herself. Besides, it was too late to change her mind. She had better just get on with it. Everything would be fine. This was not the place a marquis came to find a bride. With a smile she rested her fingers lightly against his arm and, holding her head up high, let Devlin lead her into the room from which the music was playing loud. Everything would be fine, she told herself again.

  But the minute she walked through those doors she knew it was not.

  On the opposite side of the dance floor stood Razeby.

  Alice felt a sudden panic well up and threaten to spill over. The urge to turn around and run right back out that door almost overwhelmed her. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe, reined herself back under control.

  It should not matter if he was here. It should not make the slightest difference. Indeed, maybe it was even for the best. That he would witness this ultimate show of denial. Denying her feelings. Denying him. Maybe he even deserved it, that taunt of what he had so thoughtlessly cast aside. She had almost convinced herself of it by the time Devlin led her over to him.

  ‘Razeby.’ Devlin bowed. ‘Did not think you would be here.’

  ‘Change of plan,’ Razeby replied and there was a coolness to his voice that stroked a warning down her spine.

  Too many women, young, old and in between, were eyeing Razeby with a barely concealed interest. But Razeby seemed unaware and, notably, Miss Althrope was not by his side this evening. Indeed, there was no sign of a woman. Only Linwood.

  Devlin’s smile was slightly stilted. ‘Not your usual scene.’

  ‘Nor yours,’ replied Razeby. He smiled, but there was something in the way he looked at Devlin, something almost threatening.

  Devlin’s smile faded. ‘Miss Sweetly and I can certainly vouch for the quality of the champagne.’ He took a sip from his glass.

  Alice said nothing. Her glass was still brimful, not one drop had passed her lips, even though her mouth was as dry as a bone and her pulse was thrumming in her throat.

  It was just a dress, she told herself. But it was not.

  She knew that.

  And so did Razeby.

  There was nothing of Razeby’s charm this evening, only a veneer of politeness so thin as to barely conceal a darkness and an intensity that made Linwood look positively light in comparison. She could feel the strain of the atmosphere between Razeby and Devlin, heavy with things that had nothing to do with friendship.

  Devlin slid an arm around her waist, making her jump at his touch. ‘Does not Miss Sweetly look charming tonight?’ Spoken so politely, and yet there was that sense that he was deliberately baiting Razeby.

  Razeby finally moved his gaze to her, letting his eyes wander from the green sparkle of her slippers, slowly up the silky green skirt, over her bodice and her breasts, until it finally met her own. Her heart was hammering harder than a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, her pulse pounding so fast in her throat that she felt sick.

  His gaze was long and cool, his mouth unsmiling. ‘Charming indeed. But it is not the word I would use.’

  Irresistible. The word whispered between them, and all that had passed between them while she was wearing this dress was there in the room, making the nerves flutter all the more wildly in her stomach.

  She tore her gaze away. Swallowed. Oh, Lord! She quailed at the challenge, longed only to walk away. But she knew she could not do that. So, instead, she breathed and she stood there.

  ‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin smiled.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said and she meant it. Anything to get her away from Razeby and that terrible sense of something brewing, and the feeling that she could not have got this more wrong. She forced a tight smile and let Devlin lead her onto the floor.

  Devlin did not return them to Razeby and Linwood. And she did not look at Razeby again, just got on with the evening. Danced two dances with Devlin. Drank half a glass of champagne. Smiled. Pretended she was interested in what Devlin was saying, that she was not conscious for every second of Razeby and the fact that he did not once dance.

  * * *

  Razeby saw Alice the minute she came into the room. He saw the evening dress she was wearing—the emerald silk—and he understood her message too well.

  By his side he knew Linwood was watching her, too. Every man and woman in the room was. How could they fail to? She was the celebrated Miss Sweetly and looked golden and radiant and downright irresistible.

  He thought of the rows of fine silks and satins she had left hanging in her wardrobe in Hart Street, and of the diamond bracelet and cheque that she had turned her back on. He had not understood it at the time. But now he did. She had chosen her weapon well. Saved it. And now she wielded it, pointed and sharp as a stiletto blade.

  Linwood murmured something, but his friend’s voice went as unheard as the music that played.

  He watched Devlin lead her out on the floor. He knew he should go and claim a woman to dance with. Any woman. It would not matter. But he did not. He just stood there and watched Devlin handle her upon the dance floor, wearing that dress.

  He could hear the beat of his own heart, the rhythmic thump so hard that it seemed to reverberate in his throat, through his bones, deafening in his ears.

  She did not look at him. She did not need to.

  And all of the past was whispering through him, taunting him as surely as she was.

  Something inside of him felt dangerously close to snapping.

  * * *

  Alice sipped her champagne and let herself relax a little. They were halfway through the evening. She had got this far. She could manage the rest of it. Just about.

  The notes of the next piece of music began, just those first few notes and her stomach sank and her blood turned to ice. And she was gripping the glass so tight that her knuckles shone white.

  Fate could not be so cruel. Please God, let her be mistaken.

  But the notes played on, blossoming into music, and there could be no mistake. She knew that music, knew that dance. The Volse. Their dance. Hers and Razeby’s.

  Her heart faltered, stumbling over its beats.

  ‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin’s voice was warm and close.

  She felt frozen with horror. No! she wanted to say, categorically, unreservedly. No! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ‘I’m only halfway through my champagne, Lord Devlin. We’ll dance the next one.’ She forced the smile to her lips.

  ‘Come, Miss Sweetly,’ he chided in a teasing tone. ‘Leave the champagne. I’ll buy you a bottle of the stuff when we come off the floor.’ And then to her horror he held his hand out in a gesture that was an obvious invitation on to the dance floor. Anyone that was looking would have known that he was asking her
to dance.

  Her heart felt like it was about to give way. She swallowed. Wetted her suddenly dry lips. Maybe he was not watching. Maybe he had not seen. She glanced over at Razeby.

  But Razeby’s dark watchful gaze was fixed upon her. And so were too many other eyes.

  Her blood was rushing so fast, twisting and turning in such a torrent that she felt dizzy. Beneath her arms prickled with sweat, but her fingers felt chilled through to their bones.

  She knew what she was going to have to do. Knew there was no way out without losing face, without admitting the truth—that this music, this dance meant something to her. That Razeby meant something to her.

  She turned her face from Razeby’s. Laid her fingers on Devlin’s waiting hand. And let him lead her on to the dance floor.

  Her steps in the dance were perfect. The dance she had been so nervous about, the dance Razeby had taught her, the dance they had practised together so many times alone in the drawing room of the house in Hart Street. Their very first public dance as a couple. When Alice had worn this dress just for him. Their dance, their music, their dress.

  She brazened it out the best she could. But there was a cold sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And the smile she wore felt like it was tearing her face apart. She could not look at Razeby. Not at all through the dance. Until the very end, when it was finally over. And then she could not stop herself. Her eyes moved to the spot where he had stood. But Linwood was standing there alone.

  She scanned the room for him, her eyes raking the crowd to find him. But Razeby had gone.

  ‘Now for that champagne.’ Devlin smiled as he led her from the floor and she felt the small intimate stroke of his fingers against her wrist.

  It was done. She had done it. Worn the dress. Danced the dance. Denied him.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin sat her down in her chair. ‘You do not seem to be your usual self. Your cheeks have gone quite pale.’

  ‘If you would be so kind as to take me home, Lord Devlin.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m feeling a little unwell.’