Hostage to Love

by Maggi Andersen

  He spread her thighs with his knee and entered her. With a thrust of his hips, her silken sheath closed around him, drawing him in. “Is this as you requested, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, oui.” She murmured a flood of endearments and entreaties as he drove into her. Her fingers moved over his back, butterfly light one minute, sharp the next and sent what remained of his senses reeling. She was an instinctive lover. A fleeting thought of her ever doing this with another man made him grit his teeth, and he thrust harder, as if to claim her as his own. She bit his earlobe and arched her back, lifting her hips to meet him, uttering small mews. He withdrew and spooned her, entering her from behind, stroking the folds of her sex. She climaxed quickly. Then he rolled her over, thrust inside and came with a roar.

  They lay back while their breathing slowed, he settled beside her. “Such things you do to me. I am almost too embarrassed to look at you.”

  He traced her smile with a finger. Didn’t believe her. He loved that she’d become bold and without shame. “Do you want me to stop doing them?”

  “Non. Never.” As if realizing what her words might mean, she turned her head away.

  He held her chin, forced her to look at him. “Never?”

  She shrugged a slender shoulder. “As long as we are together.”

  He would be content with that. For now.

  She lay back on the pillows with a contented smile and closed her eyes. He raised his head on an elbow. “I hope to persuade you to stay in England.”

  No answer. She slept, her long lashes fluttering.

  Anthony stared at the ceiling. He should walk away now before it was too late. Verity still had not answered his question as to why she’d chosen him when she had half the Romeos in London queuing at her door. But somehow, its significance had faded into the shadows. He closed his eyes and tucked her close, her heart beating in rhythm with his. He would deal with whatever fate had in store for him, but not tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  In the carriage, Henrietta impressed on Molly not to say a word to anyone, about Vauxhall. Molly was to return home with the coach. She eyed Henrietta with a worried frown.

  “I do hope you stay safe, Lady Henrietta. I shouldn’t want to have to tell your father what you’ve done. I’d fair die.”

  “Goodness Molly, don’t fuss so. There is no reason why you should. Mr. Foxwell will take diligent care of me.”

  Doubt filled her maid’s eyes as John Coachman, under instructions to deposit Henrietta at the theatre, pulled up the horses. Patrons gathered on the pavement. The groom opened the door and assisted her down. After assuring he and the coachman her party waited nearby, she turned and walked toward the entrance to the theatre.

  After the carriage rattled its way down the street, she searched for a free hackney. She found one that had just pulled in to disgorge theatre goers.

  Fearful that she’d find Irene and her mother staring after her, Henrietta gave swift instructions and climbed inside. There was no sign of them among the crowd on the pavement. The horse pulled out into the traffic while her heart thudded with excitement.

  A sedan chair passed by, with a link boy lighting the way with his torch, leaving the smell of pitch in his wake. It seemed extravagant with barely a cloud. A full moon like a huge golden ball, hung suspended, turning the night light as day, and revealing soot-stained brick walls and refuse strewn cobbles. Cats yowled and chased each other down an alley.

  Henrietta chafed at the slow trip. She wished she’d arranged to be met at a later hour. It would be well past nine by the time they arrived at Vauxhall Gardens. What if Mr. Foxwell had given up on her? At last, she alighted in Bridge Street and paid the driver. “Could you please return to fetch me at midnight?”

  The jarvie touched his cap with his whip. “I’m off by then, miss.”

  Mr. Foxwell would surely take her home, and if not, there was bound to be a vehicle for hire in such a busy place. But her stomach still clenched with anxiety as the jarvie drove away. What if Mr. Foxwell couldn’t be found?

  A rumble of merriment came from the gardens. The moonlit river was awash with barges and small craft. Henrietta paid her guinea and entered through the turnstile.

  The gothic-styled Grand Quadrangle was just as Mr. Foxwell had described it. Thousands of variegated lamps were festooned among the trees. A man’s voice rang out in a very fine rendition of Nymphs and Shepherds accompanied by an orchestra.

  Henrietta searched for Foxwell, but couldn’t see him among the swirling, brightly colored dominos. The absence of a domino and mask made her conspicuous. She hovered beside a pillar watching people straggle along the paths, laughter erupting as each tried to guess whose face lay behind the masks. A juggler tossing balls walked past, followed by a crowd of admiring revelers.

  She trembled with relief when the tall figure of Mr. Foxwell appeared in a crimson domino. His mask pushed up on his forehead. Henrietta darted out to greet him.

  He bowed. “Lady Henrietta, I’m so pleased you came.” He gazed around for her aunt.

  “I came alone.”

  His eyebrows flew up to meet his mask. “Your aunt permitted you to come unescorted?” He handed Henrietta the lavender mask edged with silver and a matching domino which he carried over his arm.

  “No, of course she didn’t,” she said, eager to don the disguise. “I wanted to come, but she wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I say!” Mr. Foxwell’s Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly. “Your father will run me through. And rightfully so.”

  “Oh, but they don’t know I’m here,” Henrietta said with a grin. She gazed around. “I believe rakes and opera dances come here? Where is your party?”

  He hesitated as if unsure what to do with her. Then he gave a shrug. “We go this way. You’d best stay close to me.”

  A bell clanged. “What is that?”

  “The bell draws people to view the Cascade,” Foxwell said. “It’s a water feature. The most popular display here.”

  “Could we see it?”

  Mr. Foxwell still had not recovered from finding her alone. He shook his head. “No time for that. It only lasts fifteen minutes,” he muttered.

  He took her arm and said they were going to the Grove where the orchestra played. Beneath the colonnades, the boxes were filled with supper parties, Mr. Foxwell explained. His cool attitude thawed as they walked. Henrietta admired the massive Rotunda which she was told held a theatre for two thousand people. She wished her aunt had come with her, she might have enjoyed it more.

  Giggling women and unsteady men bumped into her as they passed. Couples romped and groped at each other among the trees. Henrietta turned to stare and almost lost sight of Mr. Foxwell’s crimson domino. She had to run to catch up with him. They reached the Grove, a square enclosed by walks and the western wall of the gardens, and entered.

  Mr. Foxwell escorted her to his supper box where half a dozen people she’d never met sat eating ham and tiny chickens, and drinking arrack punch and wine. The orchestra played a lively tune. Dancers performed the steps with more abandon than Henrietta thought possible as partners were switched and switched again. Men’s hands clutched where a gentleman’s hands should never go, on bottoms and ladies’ bosoms. There was a great deal of laughing.

  Henrietta lowered her gaze to the glass of spicy strong punch she’d been given. She was glad of her mask; her cheeks were so hot. “They’re a rowdy lot tonight,” Mr. Foxwell said. His tone and expression inferred she was the one at fault.

  He introduced her to the other guests who proceeded to ignore her. He was coerced onto the dance floor by a woman in a purple domino and disappeared among the dancers. As soon as the dance ended, another began. With a deepening sense of abandonment, Henrietta grew more nervous by the minute. And for this, she’d behaved deceitfully toward her aunt. Her father would be disappointed in her. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it with an impatient hand.

  Then Mr. Foxwell stood in front of the box. It must be
he. He wore the crimson domino and held out his hand to her. Henrietta accepted it gratefully, and with a small sniff, allowed him to lead her onto the floor. As they negotiated the steps of the dance, she noticed his unpowdered hair was far darker than Mr. Foxwell’s, although it might have been the light. Below the mask his chin was certainly more chiseled. Serious eyes stared at her through the slits in the mask.

  Her heart began to thud. She studied his neck above his cravat which was stronger and lacked a bobbing Adam’s apple. He was broader in the shoulder. She drew away her hands and stepped back. “Who are you, sir?” She pushed up her mask, which threatened to suffocate her.

  “Why on earth are you here, Lady Henrietta?” He stepped closer and pulled the mask into place again. “You can’t be seen here.”

  “Why?”

  He untied the strings of his mask and it fell away. Mr. Hartley looked down at her, frowning. “Surely your aunt did not agree to this.”

  “No… I…” She was glad that the mask hid her shame. He was so serious and not the charming flirt he’d been on their last meeting.

  He took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his elbow and led her from the dance floor. She went willingly, relieved that they didn’t return to the box. She hadn’t much liked Mr. Foxwell’s friends.

  Mr. Hartley drew her to a seat in the gardens. The yellow moon had turned a ghostly silver, and the air grew colder. Henrietta shivered.

  “So… you came here alone?”

  “Yes, I thought there’d be no harm in it. I expected Mr. Foxwell to take care of me.” Embarrassment made her voice wobble.

  “My carriage is at the gate. Allow me to restore you to your aunt’s care.”

  He treated her like a child. Henrietta suffered a prickle of irritation. She could well imagine what sort of lady awaited his pleasure. A stab of jealousy coursed through her. She ripped the bothersome mask off her head. “What of your party? Surely you are not here alone? I don’t want to take you away from them.”

  “My party will await my return.” He frowned and rubbed his brow. No doubt she was a problem needing to be quickly dealt with.

  A group of revelers approached them, the men holding up a stumbling woman. They called for Henrietta and Mr. Hartley to join them, and one man tried to take her by the elbow.

  Mr. Hartley pushed the man away. “On your way, sir. This young lady is with me.”

  The man, in his cups, looked as if he would like to argue the point. But Mr. Hartley was clearly of some athletic ability and quite prepared to fight, so he changed his mind. He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and staggered off to join his companions who’d disappeared into the pavilion.

  Henrietta, admiring the set of Mr. Hartley’s shoulders, thought the man had made a wise decision. Her admiration faded when he glowered at her. “Allow me to help you replace your mask.”

  “Oh, very well.” She rather enjoyed his hands moving over her head, lightly touching her skin as he straightened the mask. She gazed up at him, but could see little of his face beyond the firm set of his mouth. Did his hands stay a moment too long on her hair?

  He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  This was not the time to fight for her independence. “Thank you. I believe I will go home if you would be so good.” She could be in bed before her aunt became suspicious, and she need never learn of this escapade.

  Mr. Hartley took her arm, and they left the pleasure grounds. She tried to match his long strides while wondering what he must think of her.

  Safe within Mr. Hartley’s carriage, they removed their masks. He gazed steadily back at her, his eyes stern. She felt foolish and wished to rest her head against his broad shoulder. She leaned back against the squabs and gazed out of the window. He must be angry with her; she spoiled his evening. The carriage approached Westminster Bridge. The Thames stretched before them, a dark expanse shimmering like ruffled silk in the moonlight lit by lamps along the embankment. The breeze carried the stench of the river choked with sewage and offal, overpowering at low tide and the city lost some of its allure. She longed for the country where the air was fresh and the rivers so clear you could see the bottom.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid,” she said chastened. “You must consider me not quite grown up and rather silly.”

  He leaned forward, and in the light of the carriage lamps his expression softened. “Grown up is a relative term. I’ve had my share of scrapes when older than you. We all learn by experience.”

  The sky suddenly lit up with the glow of fireworks. Henrietta pressed her nose to the window. “How pretty!”

  “Vauxhall Gardens.”

  She peered back the way they’d come. “And you’ve missed it.” She turned to look at him. “I am sorry.”

  He examined his boot that rested on his knee. “I’ve seen fireworks.”

  He sounded tired. As if he’d seen too much.

  Aware she was chattering to break the troubled silence, Henrietta told him of her uncle’s plight and her fears that her father would go to France. He listened without interruption.

  He nodded. “I hope your uncle will soon arrive.”

  He hadn’t told her she was foolish to worry.

  The carriage stopped outside her Aunt’s house in Grosvenor Square, and he assisted her down the steps.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Henrietta said. She wanted him to take her in his arms and kiss her. The kiss from a rake would give her something exciting to dream about after a horrid, disappointing night. But such an event didn’t seem likely.

  And he did look handsome and rakish, with his hat in his hand, his raven black hair, and serious blue eyes, the crimson domino swept back over his shoulder. “Do take care. London is a dangerous place for a young lady from the country,” he said. Instead of a kiss she got a lecture. Henrietta gazed back at him crestfallen.

  Mr. Hartley must have read the disappointment in her eyes. He smiled. A lovely smile which made her pulse race. He took her chin in his hand, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. Then, as he’d forgotten himself, he drew away. “But do enjoy your first Season, Lady Henrietta. You will be a great success. I’m sorry I can’t help your uncle. But if you should need help while I’m here in London, send a note to forty-five Brook Street.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.”

  As she climbed the steps, she glanced over her shoulder and watched him enter the carriage. He’d been kind. She liked that he hadn’t offered empty words of sympathy. She rubbed her lip where he’d touched it. The carriage disappeared, back to Vauxhall, where a woman would be awaiting him, more interesting than her. A world he seemed to prefer. She sighed and turned to the door.

  Henrietta was admitted by the stern, uppity butler, who looked grave. He had no way of knowing that she hadn’t been brought home by Lady Montague. When his back was turned, she screwed up her nose and ascended the stairs. Two of the servants whispered in a corner. They saw her and scurried away leaving an air of tension behind them.

  With a sense of foreboding, Henrietta leaned over the rail and addressed the butler below. “Has my aunt retired for the evening?”

  “She is unwell, Lady Henrietta,” he called up. “The doctor is with her.”

  Heart thudding, Henrietta ran to her aunt’s bedchamber. She found the doctor leaving the room. He came to her, his eyes grave. “Your aunt has had a bad turn which may have been brought on by the events of this evening.”

  Henrietta gasped. “Is it my fault?” Had her Aunt discovered her trip to Vauxhall?

  She sank onto one of the Queen Anne chairs in the hall fighting tears.

  “No, Lady Henrietta. The news of her brother’s plight, and then your father leaving immediately for France…”

  Henrietta’s mind went blank with shock. She found the doctor was patting her hand. “My father’s gone to France?”

  “I believe so.”

  “May I see my aunt?”

  “Tomorrow. She is sleeping. Go to bed, you need your rest
too.”

  Her maid waited in her bedchamber. “Molly, have you heard the terrible news about my aunt?”

  “I have.” She hurried over. “There’ll be good news tomorrow I’m sure. Let’s get you into your night things.”

  Henrietta sidestepped her. “I know how the servants talk. Tell me what you know about my father.”

  “He left a few hours ago. It was right after a message arrived from France. It was after he’d driven away that your aunt fell ill.”

  “Have you heard what they do in France, Molly?” Henrietta stalked about the room, her stomach churning. “They cut off people’s heads.”

  “Surely not an English lord? Isn’t it the French aristocrats that are guillotined?”

  Henrietta’s skirts swished about her as she walked. “Papa married into a French aristocratic family. Both he and my Uncle Philippe have spoken out against this murderous revolution. Now, they will both be on French soil!”

  Molly placed an arm around Henrietta’s shoulders, trying to calm her. “In the servants’ hall the talk was all about that letter from France that so alarmed your aunt and your father.”

  “I need to see that letter, Molly.”

  Molly’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea where it is. Your father may have taken it with him.”

  “I’ll search his bedchamber and my aunt’s room.” Henrietta gave the maid a push toward the door. “Ask the housekeeper to look for it in the library and the reception rooms. He might have tossed it into a fireplace. Go now, quickly, Molly.”

  “But what can you do even if you find the letter?”

  “Go after him, of course.”

  “What! Oh no, Lady Henrietta.”

  Henrietta threw open the door. “Do as I tell you, Molly, and not a word of my plans to anyone.”

  In her father’s bedchamber, she searched the drawers of his desk, then turned to his armoire and the pockets of all his clothes. Nothing.

  But a jeweler’s box containing the Beaumont sapphires had been left on the bureau with a note addressed to her. “I hope to be there when you wear these,” he wrote. “Enjoy your time in London. I’ll return very soon. All my love.”