She shook her head. He was in danger. Less had not been exaggerating that merely to get the two of them together, as she had at first suspected. But Baxter would not tell either of them why. How strange that he would not even confide in Less, his best friend.
“My lady, it gets late, and you have an engagement after dinner,” the maid ventured, coming up behind her on quiet feet.
Emily turned and smiled at the girl, noting for the first time the twilight sky. “You’re right, Agnes. We shall turn back now. Dodo will be wondering what has become of me.”
• • •
Dianne Delafont—Dodo to those who loved her, and for the crusty spinster she considered herself to be, there were a surprising number of those—watched out the parlor window as Emily ambled back across the cobbled street, her maid trailing behind. Agnes handed a tip to the little sweeper boy who doffed his ragged hat and gazed after Emily with undisguised admiration. He was a young lad, young enough to be Emily’s son, and Dodo wondered if the sight of Emily made him think of warm fires and good food, and a blessed refuge from work and worry. She had that affect on people, Dodo thought; Emily had an ability to offer comfort with her words, her sympathy, her presence.
Emily had no idea that what she gave Dodo was a feeling of home and purpose, two ideals she had lacked before becoming Emily’s companion. She had never been able to tell her that, and sometimes she worried, because she knew that Emily felt herself to be the one beholden to Dodo, felt that she was the only receiver of benefit from their relationship. Lady Dianne Delafont, confirmed spinster, was not a talker though, and didn’t think she could express her feelings in any way that would not seem maudlin and, well, spinsterish.
Anyway, she refused to worry about that. Instead, she would worry over Emily, like she always did. Emily had been to see Baxter, that much she knew. But her niece had said little beyond that, cloaking herself in that calm reticence that had become her armor over the years.
What had she and Baxter to say to one another after all these years? She had known Baxter since he was born; had seen him grow from a squawking infant to an impudent boy to a reckless man. Then she had seen the transforming force of love in his life when he and Emily had met and married. It was the making of him in her opinion. But then, over the years Emily and Baxter had seemed to just grow apart, and then came the break. She was not privy to all of the details but Emily had spoken about the final bitter argument that sent her to Yorkshire, and Dodo would never forgive her nephew for his behavior. Men! Once again she was glad that she had withstood the few demands made on her when she was a girl and had decided never to marry.
Emily climbed the outside steps and Trumble opened the door for her as her maid relieved her of her pelisse and headed for the stairs to the second floor. In moments her niece had joined Dianne.
“How marvelous you look, Dodo!” she exclaimed.
Dianne smiled and preened in front of a mirror over the fireplace. “Thank you, my dear. And thank you for lending me that new dresser, Sylvie. The woman is a marvel!” Her silver hair was swept up in an elegant style that took years off her age, or so the dresser insisted. And she wore a royal blue silk gown with silver and white lace edging the neck and sleeves.
They ate supper quickly, and then headed out to a musicale at Lady O’Donnell’s, a scandalous Irish widow who, though not exactly tip of the ton, did have an ear for really good music. Her salons always attracted the best of the new musicians.
As Emily and Dodo walked up the steps, they could hear the light female laughter and low buzz of male voices even before they entered. The windows of the elegant town house were ablaze with sparkling candlelight, and as the butler opened the door for them they felt the rush of heat from the already packed rooms.
Emily smiled to herself. This was what she had missed in Yorkshire. Not that they never had any company, but they were certainly more isolated, which was what she had liked the place for at first, nursing her wounded heart in solitude.
But now she craved company and music and light, frivolous talk . . . dancing and laughter and gossip. She was still young, she wanted to live! She now appreciated all of the things she had at first despised London for, recognizing her past dislike as fear of the unknown. She squeezed Dodo’s arm and they entered Lady O’Donnell’s musical salon.
They chatted with acquaintances, renewed friendships, and then sat together listening to a soprano soloist, an Italian woman whose voice soared and dipped like a swallow in flight. Emily was mesmerized and hardly noticed when Dodo murmured something about retiring to the ladies’ withdrawing room for a few moments.
Her eyes closed, Emily listened, translating in her head the woeful tale of a woman betrayed and scorned by the only man she had ever loved. She followed as the woman fled to the edge of a cliff, and with a final farewell flung to the four winds, leaped to her death.
“Chérie, you look most impassioned,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Emily’s eyes flew open and one hand fluttered to her breast. She glanced quickly to her right to find Vicomte Marchant in Dodo’s chair.
“Ah, Monsieur Le Vicomte!” Her heart was pounding and she realized how completely she had been taken away by the soloist’s story. She had not even heard or noticed the young man take the chair beside her. How cheeky of him to call her his darling on such a slight acquaintance, even if it was in French!
“I startled you!” the young man exclaimed, his dark, soulful brown eyes fixed on her face. “Mille pardons, Madame. I saw you so enraptured, and I say to myself, there, there is a woman with the soul of an artiste!”
“No, merely with the wit to appreciate an artiste. Madame Fabia is splendid.” Emily smiled at him, blushing a little at the admiration she saw in his eyes. So she had not imagined the undercurrents between them at Baxter’s house; he did admire her. How novel a feeling that was, to know herself to be admired by a handsome young man! She had forgotten the tingle of pleasure, the elevated confidence that accompanied such admiration.
The assembled guests were retiring in groups to the refreshment room. Marchant stood and offered his arm, and Emily slid her gloved hand through it. He was just a little taller than she, not a big man like her husband, but with a suggestion of coiled power in his lithe figure. He was most elegant in all black with a Gallic flair all his own. His dark hair curled in a Brutus cut and he smelled faintly of some spicy mixture no doubt concocted by his valet.
Emily found it pleasant to be squired by someone other than Lord Fawley, who though polite had a coolness that left her feeling untouched, as though his very arm was wintry. Marchant was anything but cold. He was full of life and warmth, nodding pleasantly to others but keeping Emily’s arm tucked close to his body as he maneuvered them through the crush and found a table a little apart from the others.
Emily sat down, and he stood in front of her.
“May I bring you something to eat and drink, my lady?”
She nodded, located Dodo in the crowd, and motioned toward her. “Could you also tell my aunt where I am?”
Marchant glanced at the older woman and nodded. “I will ask her to join us,” he said and made his way through the crowd.
Emily could not help but admire the fluid grace of his movement, like that of a wild cat through the thick growth of the jungle. She had a cousin who had been to India, and when he came back he had described the tigers, how graceful their movements, how beautiful their appearance, yet how deadly their ferocity. She laughed to herself to think that she was comparing Marchant to one of those dangerous animals.
“So that is Baxter’s young rescuer?” Dodo said as she came to join Emily at the table. Her niece had told her all about Baxter’s mishap as they ate dinner.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t mention what a breathtaking young man he is,” she said, her eyebrows raised in query.
“Is he?” Emily replied coolly. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Dodo gave a quick bark of laughter. “Then I should start ordering my mourn
ing clothes, for you are half dead, my dear. Every woman in the room is aware of that exquisite young man.”
Emily followed her gaze and saw that her aunt was correct. Many ladies in the room were casting surreptitious glances his way, and there was a subtle preening in his presence. Women stood taller, threw their breasts out slightly, brushed against him “by accident.” He must be used to so much attention, because he knew just how to handle it, how to smile and nod and yet evade collisions with those who would interfere with his objective.
“Well, maybe I did notice,” Emily admitted.
Dodo gave a little wave to a friend and then took a seat. “Good. Then I know you are still alive. I am old enough to be his mother, if not his grandmother, and I noticed him.”
Emily glanced over at her aunt with affection. Dodo made her bow to society long before Emily was even born, and yet she still seemed as fresh as that green girl, knowledgeable but not jaded somehow. “Perhaps he can be the one to finally persuade you to give up your single state?”
It was a long-standing joke between them and Dodo chuckled. “With every woman in London ready to cast out lures in his way? I would stand as much chance as I would of singing like Madame Fabia!”
Marchant came back at that moment with plates for both ladies, and disappeared again in search of liquid refreshment and a plate for himself. He returned and sat down with them, entertaining them with some light stories of his adventures during the war years.
“But you are so young!” Dodo said at one point. “Why, the war must be all you can remember.”
A shadow of bitterness cast a pall over his lively features for a moment, but then a wry smile twisted his well-shaped lips. “Let me say that I try not to remember. At least, not the most terrible parts.”
Emily put her hand over his on the table. He turned his hand and captured hers in his grasp, squeezing it. Dodo watched the interplay with interest, one eyebrow cocked in surprise. In all the years since her separation Emily had shown interest in no man. But between the young Frenchman and her there seemed to be a sympathy, a meeting of the minds.
And there was no doubt the young man admired her, too. Emily had gained weight over the years in Yorkshire, but then, some men admired that in a woman, Dodo knew. Emily had never been thin, but now she was plump and sleek, like a well-fed housecat, and tonight she was in looks, her golden brown hair dressed high with long tendrils curling around her neck, over her smooth, honey-colored skin. She wore an emerald green dress of gold-shot silk, the plunging neckline emphasizing her bountiful bosom. An emerald pendant nestled in her cleavage, and Marchant’s gaze was often on the necklace, or something in that area.
Would she take him as a lover? Dodo had very little use for her nephew, Emily’s husband, having decided that any man mad or stupid enough to let Emily go deserved no consideration. Baxter was too much like his father—her older brother—she thought, too much a Sedgely man, arrogant, strong-willed and supercilious.
Emily deserved a little happiness, and if this young man could give that to her, she would wish them joy. But Em had a puritanical streak and Dodo doubted that even if she took a lover, she would ever allow herself to enjoy the affair. She sighed and finished her lobster patties, drank her ratafia and pushed her plate away.
“May I bring you ladies a cake or other confection?” Marchant asked, springing to his feet.
Dodo eyed him speculatively. “Perhaps you can. Not cakes though. Lemon ice if they have it, any other flavor if they do not,” she ordered.
He bowed and, his gaze softening, turned to Emily. “And you, my lady? What sweetness may I bring you?”
“I . . . I don’t think I want anything,” Emily said, confused as much by his intimate tone as his odd word usage.
Marchant protested but she stood firm. He disappeared into the crowd. Many of the guests were now standing and visiting each other’s tables.
“You snap your fingers and that young man will jump directly into your bed,” Dodo said with an amused glance at her niece.
As she expected, Emily colored, the blush spreading even down her neck and across her décolletage. “Dodo! Really!”
“It’s true! He’s a handsome sprig, and I have heard tell that Frenchmen are the best lovers. Never had the opportunity to test that. He’d warm your bed for you, and don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”
• • •
Emily turned her face away to hide her confusion. Dodo had all the bluntness of a past generation, and she had unfortunately hit on the truth. Emily had thought of it. The young man’s subtle masculinity and obvious admiration for her had sparked something she thought was long dead.
But she was married! That didn’t seem to matter to some women of her acquaintance, she knew. A girl she had gone to school with was now the acknowledged mistress of a well-known speaker in the House of Lords. She dined out on political gossip that everyone knew was pillow talk.
But Emily had never even considered it before. Should she? Knowing that she still loved her husband, but that her love was futile? It had been so long since she had made love; it had been almost seven years since a man had held her in his arms. Her breath came a little faster as she remembered the way Baxter had always approached her, a lusty gleam in his eye, and she had known no matter where they were that he wanted her.
He would whisper an invitation to her and they would drift away, barely able to wait until they were out of sight before giving in to their frenzy of need. Emily sighed. Baxter’s merest glance was like a touch on her skin. She had been so madly in love with him that she had, on occasion, taken chances that would have caused quite a scandal if they had been caught.
Once they had made love in the gazebo of a country estate they were visiting. The sensation of fresh country air on her naked skin had been erotic beyond belief, so much so that they had occasionally repeated the experiment at Brockwith Manor in a little folly that Baxter had fitted up just for that purpose. He would lead her there and make thorough love to her over a long summer afternoon.
But to make love with another man? The thought sent a frisson of excitement, or perhaps fear, trilling along her spine. Maybe she owed it to herself. Could she live the rest of her life knowing she would never make love again?
No, she would not shrivel up and die for lack of her husband. If she could never have Baxter again, then she would find at least physical love in the arms of another man. Had not their marriage vows been sundered when her husband took a mistress, or more likely even long before then, when he had had his first extramarital liaison? She must summon up her courage and let herself live again. She had never met another man who appealed to her the way Baxter did, but Etienne came close. He certainly did come close.
Marchant returned to the table that moment with Dodo’s lemon ice. Emily gazed up at him, and in a soft voice said, “I thought you had deserted us.” She smiled, her full lips parting over even white teeth.
The vicomte stopped, arrested in mid-movement by her expression. His voice fervent, he said, “My lady, if I thought for one moment I was missed, I would never leave your side.”
Dodo smiled.
Chapter Seven
A discreet tap on his door awakened Baxter in the darkness of his room. “What is it?” he mumbled, feeling the throbbing in his foot with a groan of pain.
“My lord, there is a person . . . a Miss Gallant . . . she insists on seeing you. What shall I tell her?” Cromby, Baxter’s butler, spoke in a hushed tone.
“Tell her to go away!” Baxter grumbled, pulling the covers up over his head. He twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable again, but it was useless.
“Sir, I have already told her to leave, but she says she will stand outside the house and sing if she is not admitted. I did not think you would appreciate the scurrilous gossip that type of behavior would incur.” The butler’s voice had a put-upon expression.
“Oh, very well,” Baxter sighed, throwing the covers back. “Send her up here and direct her
to my room.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Baxter struggled up to a sitting position, trying to ignore the persistent ache in his ankle. While Emily had touched it the pain seemed to go away, and the remedy lasted for a while after she left, but now it was back to aching again.
He heard a bouncing step on the staircase, one that could only belong to Belle, and then his door flew open. She twirled into the room, rushed across the floor and threw herself on the bed. Baxter gasped in pain.
“Oh, my poor dear,” she cried. She bounced off the bed, struck a lucifer from the tinder box on the side table and lit a couple of candles of the branched candelabra. Her high color and youthful good looks were thrown into ghostly relief by the sudden flare of light.
“I’ve come to make you all better,” she said, climbing back up on the bed. She crawled up next to him and began kissing his neck with exuberant smacking noises, rubbing her face against him like a cat and pushing the covers away from him.
“You are as high as a kite,” Baxter exclaimed, trying to push her away. It was impossible; she clung to him like a bosky barnacle.
She giggled and snuggled up even closer to him, resuming her enthusiastic caresses. “Just a little, a few ’ittle drinks! Champagne . . . oceans and oceans of it! I was such a success tonight, my Baxter would have been so proud.” Her hand disappeared under the covers.
Baxter gasped as he felt her small, cold hand on his naked skin. “Belle!” he protested. “You are stinking drunk and I am in pain; desist at once!”
“Desist at once!” she echoed, copying his voice but ending with a giggle.
“Belle, behave yourself!” he grunted, grasping her hands and pulling them up from under the covers.
Her only answer was a giggle but she did let go of him and slipped from the bed. He could see in the candlelight as she unbuttoned her pelisse that she hadn’t a single piece of clothing on underneath it; no chemise, nor stockings, nor petticoats. She hopped back up onto the bed. “I am going to make you feel better, you poor baby!”
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