“She may have an innocent air but I’d wager she’s as experienced as any streetwalker. And you were never one to seek the company of whores.”
“You’re sadly mistaken. I fear I’m well known to associate with whores.” Wolfgang’s voice came out little more than a growl as he directed his attention to keeping his spirited horses within the confines of the plodding caravan.
“Why do you treat me so badly?” He could hear the phony tears in her voice and twisted to see her bat damp eyelashes at him. “I only want to be your friend.”
“We both know bloody well what you want from me.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She dabbed at her eyes with her lacy handkerchief, the picture of injured innocence.
His eyes veered back to the road. “We have been over this ground before.”
“Yes, you are willing to use my body but not offer your name or protection.”
“Blessed flames of hell! You entered into our agreement with eyes open and hands out. I made it clear what I offered and what I demanded in return. You were only too eager to comply.” He stared at the tears glistening in her reptilian eyes before turning his attention back to the pair of grays. “You seem to have forgotten your husband is still alive.”
“Not for long. He’s old and sickly.” Her voice softened to a breathy whisper. “I never expected to fall in love with you.”
“Beelzebub’s bootblack!” Wolfgang laughed harshly. “Do you think I’m a babe in the nursery? You love only yourself.” He glared at her. She wasn’t worth losing his temper.
“Wolf?” Isadora inhaled till her breasts nearly popped the seams of her dress. “Do you forget how our bodies fit together?”
“You bore me, Lady Horeton. You no longer have permission to use my Christian name. This conversation is over.” She pouted but to his relief made no further attempt to engage him in conversation. But he knew she hadn’t given up yet.
The mismatched bevy of conveyences clambered along beside the stream that cut gently into the curving hillside. They soon reached a grassy, tree-laden spot halfway to the summit.
As vehicles emptied, the revelers scattered, exclaiming over abundant rhododendrons and fragrant wild lilacs. Wolfgang watched, amused, as Zel made an escape.
Following silently, he slipped behind her and laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. As Zel whirled about, his hand played along her back, coming to rest on the opposite shoulder, and Wolfgang slid his other hand around her slender waist. “Bored of Newton so soon? I would never bore you.”
“I prefer to be alone.” She removed both hands, placing them back at his sides.
His lips twitched as he watched her walk rigidly toward a meadow sprinkled with buttercups and daisies. He would enjoy taking some of the stiffness out of that straight spine.
He caught up to her, matching his stride to hers. “You never wear a corset.”
“And you, sir, are forever saying the most improper things.” Zel’s voice rang out a little higher than its usual throaty tone.
“I haven’t felt one when I’ve touched you.” He scanned her as they walked, sure he’d raised a blush, if only he could see her elfish face beneath the faded chip-straw bonnet. “And there’s no telltale line beneath your gowns, loose as they are.”
“What I wear beneath my gowns is no concern of yours.” Her stride lengthened as they emerged from the trees.
Wolfgang chuckled with devilish delight as he admired the sway of her hips. “Oh, but it is. Sometimes I think of nothing else for hours on end.” He moved close by her side. “I’d place odds you possess strong opinions on the merits, or should I say demerits, of corsets.”
Zel attempted a stern look, then grumbled. “Point to Lord Northcliffe. The corset was designed to restrict a woman and make her appearance more desirable to men.”
“But today’s fashions allow a freer look. I’d wager as many men as women wear the things. And don’t they afford a barrier to a man’s touch?” Wolfgang stood close enough now that he could distinguish her spicy scent from the floral perfume surrounding them.
“Not to anywhere he truly wants to touch.”
“And you call me improper!” His mirthful crow stopped her short. He grasped her arm to keep from crashing into her.
“You started this conversation. I am only making polite response.” He could imagine the little hairs along the nape of her long neck bristling like the quills of a hedgehog.
“I would have a little impolite response then.” With one hand Wolfgang tugged free the ribbons under her chin and hurled the ugly bonnet to the ground. With the other, he pulled off her spectacles and pocketed them. His eyes crept over her face, he could almost feel the smooth coolness of her skin. His mouth brushed hers, a soft question she answered with parted lips. Countering with his tongue, he tenderly outlined the opening of her full mouth, arms pressing her gracile form to his. His senses filled with her pungent spice, tart as gingerbread. Zel’s arms circled his shoulders, fingers tangling in the hair drawn loosely at the back of his neck. He inhaled sharply, her warm breath flowed over his lips and tongue.
A branch crackled behind them. Releasing her, he spun about as Melbourne appeared from the grove of trees beyond the meadow. As he neared, Melbourne was obviously taking in Zel’s flushed skin, Wolfgang’s hand still at her waist, the chip-straw bonnet lying among the buttercups.
He cleared his throat, struggling to suppress a grin. “Luncheon’th ready, if you thtill have an appetite for it.”
Zel bent to retrieve her bonnet, but Wolfgang grasped the hat and placed it on her head, fastening it beneath her chin.
“My eyeglasses, please.” Her voice was a mere husky breath.
Wolfgang lodged the bridge of the glasses firmly at the top of her straight little nose as she reached to wind the temples through her hair and over each ear. She marched past Wolfgang, tucking a hand into Melbourne’s elbow. The foppish man walked her back to the picnic speaking in a stage whisper Wolfgang knew he was meant to hear. “Thtay away from him. Man’th got the motht awful rep. Dangerouth. Not for a thweet thing like you.”
Wolfgang scarcely registered Melbourne’s remarks. He walked several paces behind Zel, focusing on her slender form, the regal set of her head, the narrow, straight back, the unconsciously graceful flow of her hips and legs.
In her venomous stupidity Isadora had stumbled onto the secret to Zel’s appeal, a heady mixture of passion and innocence. A mixture he should have recognized this morning when she brazenly read Rochester’s poem, then ran away at the impromptu embrace. And yesterday when she, without hesitation, undressed him to examine his wound, yet earlier jumped when he touched her lip. Zel was not a libertine, nor was she a naive miss. And, on top of it all she bluntly admitted to being a fortune hunter. The lovely Zel Fleetwood was a hybrid to be cultivated and nurtured, sure to bear a rare fruit. His for the plucking.
Wolfgang slowed as they reached the trees, falling farther behind Zel and her determined escort. Didn’t he deserve a hybrid, in a life populated by weeds? His wife had been a weed, deceptively lovely, yet nothing but a weed. If she had lived, she would have choked all the life and love of beauty out of him.
Gwen, his sister, had been a hybrid. Alive with contrasts he could never understand. She could be so passionate, gay, and fun loving and still so pious, wise, and restrained. How such extremes survived in one body, one soul, he could not fathom, especially in one so young. He had adored her and still felt the pangs of sorrow and guilt he had never been able to bury. If only it had been him that day, instead of her. If only …
He tossed his head violently, as if he could shake off the memories as easily as an animal emerging from a stream could shake off the water clinging to its coat.
Wilmington Hawthorne, Lord Newton, lifted his nose and stiffled a yawn, barely listening to the chatter of Melbourne and Isadora, as he surveyed the occupants of the gilded drawing room.
But Melbourne’s next lisping words, even in an undertone, drew his ful
l attention. “… and she was kithing him back. No little peck on the cheek either.”
“Who was kissing whom?”
“Newton, you haven’t heard a word. You ignore us cruelly.” Isadora simpered from her perch on a spindly legged sofa.
“Don’t try your wiles on me, I’ve known you too long.” Newton emphasized his affected nasal tone. “Now kindly repeat your gossip.”
“Mith Fleetwood kithed Northcliffe in the woodth. They were wrapped up tight and their mouth were open.” Melbourne’s fawning grin looked positively moronic. “He even played her lady’th maid, tying her bonnet and replathing her eyeglatheth afterward.”
“We are due a little more fun.” Newton spotted Miss Fleetwood sitting across the room with Lady Selby, her gaze straying frequently to her side where Northcliffe stood, restless as a pendulum, switching his balance from one foot to the other. “Which would be more amusing, to facilitate or interfere? Or throw in a complication and watch the results.”
“But what complication?” Isadora’s eyes followed Newton’s. “He is acting like a fool over that slut.”
“Tut, tut. Jealouthy ith not becoming.” Melbourne twittered. “Hard to call one a thlut when one’th rigged out like an aging maiden aunt.”
“Ah, Melbourne, you have unwittingly hit upon a plan.” Newton stroked the silk wall covering as he continued to stare at the couple across the room. He scarcely saw Miss Fleetwood, so focused was he on Northcliffe. Northcliffe who took any woman he wished, on his terms, leaving others the remains. “The masquerade. Miss Fleetwood is deserving of a costume that clearly reveals her charms. My valet will call on Lady Selby’s butler and help him find the only costume that will possibly fit her.”
The borrowed maid applied the finishing touches to the plumed headdress and the ringleted, powdered wig.
“Look in the glass, miss. You’re a princess, straight out of a fairy tale.”
Zel turned, afraid to face her reflection. She felt naked despite the yards of rich cloth. Picking up the skirts, she gingerly approached the glass. Lord! She was naked! Pulling at the chiffon-and-lace stomacher was futile, it barely covered her nipples, and the corset pushed her up so high she could almost lay her head down on a pillow of her own breasts.
“I cannot go out in public in this.”
“Miss, there’s nothin’ wrong with showin’ a bit of bosom.”
“But not the whole thing. What a disaster. There must be another costume.” Zel blinked back the threatening tears. “I picked out a shepherdess gown just yesterday.” She had been excited as a child, anticipating this masquerade, and now …
“There isn’t another, miss, I asked the butler. This is the only one left that’ll come close to fittin’ you, you bein’ so very tall and slender and, ah, full on top. And there’s no time before the ball to be takin’ in or lettin’ out seams and hems.” The plump maid curtsied. “Now, miss, I have another lady to dress and the first dance only minutes away.”
“Go ahead.” She sighed, hands brushing over the sleek fabric. “Thank you.”
Zel stood before the glass again, fearlessly taking stock of what she saw. The dress was beautiful. The tight, open bodice and overskirt were of a brilliant aqua watered silk. The ecru chiffon stomacher and underskirt were lightly laced and flounced, trimmed with gold ribbon and underlined with the aqua silk. More of the ribbon-trimmed lace circled her neck and the hem of her sleeves. She did look like a fairytale princess, down to the low-heeled brocade slippers on her feet. That neckline—Zel Fleetwood would never wear a gown cut so dangerously low. But Madame Pompadour would, without a single qualm.
Could she play the part? Could she masquerade as Jeanne-Antoinette, marquise de Pompadour, just for tonight? Be the mistress to King Louis XV?
Zel lifted the aqua demimask to her face. She did not even recognize herself, how would anyone else? With the additional guests from throughout the countryside attending this event, she would be lost in the crowd. She could whirl among the masked and costumed throng, coy and flirtatious as she had never been.
Inhaling deeply, she straightened her shoulders and pulled at the bodice quickly, fearful her breasts would escape the confines of the stomacher, but the gown stayed in place. She bent in a deep curtsy and still the gown clung firmly to her skin. At least exposing herself completely was one less thing to fret over.
She fastened the mask securely, planning not to remove it, even for supper, and strutted out the door.
The orchestra readied to play the opening minuet as she hesitated at the threshold of the enormous Ionic-columned ballroom. Heavy, leafy garlands and huge sprays of spring blossoms assaulted her eyes and nose. She stood her ground as the footman announced, “Madame Pompadour.”
More attention focused on her entry than she would have desired, but her courage did not falter as she skimmed down the staircase. When she reached the bottom a soldier and a pirate vied for the pleasure of her company for the dance.
“You are both so dashing, how can I choose? I must however admit a tendre for pirates.” Did she say that? Smiling, she emphasized the low timbre of her voice. “You, Sir Buccaneer, may have the first dance, the major may attend me on the second.”
As the tall pirate whisked her onto the floor, she found herself searching for another more familiar tall man. Would she recognize him in costume? Zel smiled at her partner. What did it matter? She was determined to have a wonderful time with or without his presence. Turning her attention on the pirate, she resolved to charm him completely.
Zel danced with the pirate, then the major, smiling flirtatiously, gay and confident, as if she were indeed the courtesan to a king. Although she had sipped only one glass of champagne, she felt intoxicated. Dizzy and giddy with the combination of music, lights, and ardent male attention.
As she twirled to a reel with a viking, she glimpsed a somber puritan, his long, broad-shouldered body propped against a column. His eyes were obscured by a black mask, but she knew they followed her, shimmering, luminous as molten silver.
When the dance ended, her partner escorted her back to her growing court. The puritan stood slightly apart from the others. A roundish man in a monk’s robe stepped toward her.
“Sorry, Friar, the lady has already been claimed.” The puritan stepped forward and held out his arm. “Madame?” When she moved too slowly, he grasped her arm, leading her out on the floor to the strains of the evening’s first waltz.
His gloveless hand clasped hers, his other rested at her waist, as he launched into the elegant steps. She felt weightless, floating on a cloud of sound and movement, aware only of the pressure of his hands, the warmth of his body, and the scent of woods and horses.
Zel knew they danced dangerously close, but she did not care. She wanted to press her body against his and forget anyone was in the ballroom but the two of them. The music ended, and too soon she returned to her chair beside the eager monk.
The puritan raised her fingers to his lips, his breath warming the silk of her gloves. “The supper dance is mine.”
Her next partners blurred in a colorful montage of costumes, flattery, and smiles. She played her part well, never forgetting she was Madame Pompadour, employing the wiles of a courtesan, playing the coquette, whispering, laughing, making clever conversation. Tonight was as distant from reality as a dream. Tomorrow she would be ordinary Zel Fleetwood again.
She should be thinking of her brother and the husband who would and could pay his debts. Zel loved Robin dearly but this time belonged to her, her fairy tale, her ball with the prince. But tomorrow there would be no happily-ever-after. Her charming, reckless prince was not the marrying kind. And even if he were, she wanted an older, milder husband, one she could control.
“Jeanne-Antoinette, my dance.” Her puritan-prince’s deep voice vibrated through her body as she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
Zel was grateful for the country dance, fearing her senses could not withstand the full-force assa
ult of another waltz. When the dance ended, they joined the crowd promenading to the supper room. He ushered her to a corner table, then juggled plates loaded with lobster patties, roasted pheasant, stewed mushrooms, asparagus in butter sauce, and fruit tarts.
“A feast for the palate to accompany a feast for the eyes.” He laid out the plates and pointedly scanned her from the top of her feathered headdress to the sharp tips of her slippers.
Flicking her fan coquettishly, Zel attempted to cover the blush she knew tinged her, from stomacher to wig. “Yes, it all looks delicious.”
“But you are the most delectable. Your eyes are a storm at sea, your skin moonglow.” He smiled crookedly. Tonight he would indeed play her prince.
“I am not one to be swayed by pretty words.” She tapped him with her fan. “I demand proof of your devotion.”
“The proof lies beneath this plain puritan dress.” He paused, sweeping his hand down his long torso. “Where my heart beats for you.”
Zel paused, confused, he could not be saying what it seemed he was saying. But Madame Pompadour would never be flustered, so she gamely proceeded with the charade. “Such insignificant proof you offer me.”
“Madame, I assure you my proof is far from insignificant.” His eyes and low inviting tone flashed a challenge. “Would that I could reveal it to you.”
“One cannot show the trueness of the heart.” She tried to avoid his intent gaze so at contrast with his playful words.
“The heart can only be guessed at, but other signs may be more readily observed.” His eyes beneath his black mask never left her mouth. “Meet me later in the garden, and I’ll offer you such proofs, that the most doubting would be convinced.”
“Oh sir, such sweet temptation. Dare I accept?”
His eyes lifted to hers. “Dare you refuse?”
When supper ended, Zel returned to the ballroom, already knowing she feared joining him in the garden. After that interrupted embrace at the picnic she was no longer sure she was the party in control. What would have happened if Melbourne had not happened on them?
The Wedding Chase Page 6
