All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  This time he flinched. “How would you do that?”

  “By telling him you forced yourself on me, then tried to ensure my silence by threatening to tell him it was my idea.” Her heart beat faster and faster.

  Verbeux frowned, but did not appear as angry as she had expected. “Go on,” he said.

  “He is enamored with Meg Smiles. I care nothing for her one way or the other. She just is. And she is here and in my way. I must have him. You will help me make sure Jean-Marc loses interest in her. Or you will help me make sure she is no longer able to interfere with my plans.”

  Verbeux pulled his arms from around her and sat up. He gripped his knees. “You are in love with the Count.”

  The violence of her emotions shocked her. She could scarcely breathe.

  “Answer me,” he told her quietly but in a hard voice that brooked no argument. “Do you love him? If you do, why do you think you must resort to such measures? Why make love…Why have sex with me? You could have accused me without touching me.” He looked at her and there was pain in his eyes. “You didn’t need me to touch you.”

  “Yes, I did.” She finally managed to speak. The tears that coursed her cheeks felt foreign, but she couldn’t stem them. Wiping at her cheeks, she said, “I never said I was in love with Jean-Marc, I said I must have him. It’s you I love.”

  25

  Virtually the entire house would be open to those attending the musicale. Sibyl stood in the grand foyer and gawked. Gawked was an ugly word, but she knew it was the right one for the occasion.

  Footmen in powdered wigs and green and gold livery stood in a line for Rench’s inspection. Maids in crackling, starched aprons tried not to look flustered as they hurried in every direction. Cook, rarely seen above stairs, bustled to meet yet another group of additional kitchen staff retained for the event. Seamstresses dashed up and down staircases trailing bolts of shining fabrics. Some decorators looped green garlands along the banisters while others tucked a profusion of pink roses into the foliage.

  And from the second floor soared the magnificent voices of a man and woman singing alone or together.

  Sibyl’s head spun. The world was gone mad. How could she think otherwise when she and her sister were here in this house, surrounded by people she had never thought to meet, and beautiful things, and the best of food, extraordinary comings and goings that didn’t happen in the simple lives of a clergyman’s daughters?

  This evening coaches would circle the whole of Mayfair Square, and the line would continue along many roads leading there. Each coach would stop and one of the boys acting as tigers—those who wore their master’s family colors and coats of arms while they clung to the back of the carriage—would leap down and run up the front steps of Number Seventeen. They would knock for admission while their gorgeously attired masters and mistresses prepared to make an elegant entrance the moment the door opened. The door would close behind them, the next coach would take the place of its predecessor, and the ritual would begin again.

  “Good morning, Miss Smiles. And a very good morning it is, don’t you think?”

  Sibyl looked at Count Etranger a little too long before she remembered to curtsey and say, “Indeed, My Lord.”

  “Have you had your final costume fitting?”

  She smiled tentatively. “I hope to watch the arrivals from some inconspicuous place, My Lord. I will not require costume for that, surely.”

  He put his fists on his hips and strode back and forth, looking at her afresh each time he passed. “Mmm, yes, yes. Yes, I believe you will. Go at once to the Princess’s apartments. I will send word that a costume is to be made for you.”

  “Oh, no.” She simply couldn’t go. “That is, thank you, no. It wouldn’t be suitable for me to attend.”

  “Your pupil will play the pianoforte this evening.”

  “Yes, and she will do so very well. She is so talented.”

  “And you will turn the pages of her music, Miss Smiles. And you will enjoy the pageantry of it all.”

  “But—”

  “That, Miss Smiles, is an order. Upstairs with you.”

  She curtseyed again and did as she was told, but her heart beat so very fast.

  When she reached the first gallery, she paused and looked down. The Count mortified her by bowing and raising a hand in a wave. Sibyl waved back and gawked again. Adam Chillworth had been admitted and strode toward the Count with rolls of canvas under each arm and a large portfolio hanging from his left hand.

  The Count still watched her, only he appeared puzzled. Sibyl remembered to close her mouth, only to cover it when Adam’s voice rang out. “I see ye, Sibyl Smiles. There’s a person wantin’ t’see ye. At Number Seven. That cousin of yours.”

  She would gladly disappear. At once. When she shook her head at Adam, it was the Count who drew her attention. He beckoned to her, and there was no question of pretending she didn’t see the gesture when Adam said, “Yes, Sibyl, come down, will ye? That William’s a rare one. Wait till you hear all the plans he’s got for you and Meg.”

  Sibyl crept back the way she’d come, doing her best not to appear as terrified as she felt. Well, bosh to William, anyway. She raised her chin and swayed a little in the manner she’d seen Lady Upworth sway. Well, not quite like that, of course.

  “I brought ye the paintings, M’Lord,” Adam said. “Portraits of those who couldn’t afford to pay, or didn’t like my work.”

  The Count regarded Adam very directly. “You are an honest man, Mr. Chillworth. I like that. We will look at your work in the library. Come with us, Miss Smiles. Oh, Rench.” He called to the butler, who had been about to go down to the kitchens. “Kindly have a message taken to the modistes. Tell them they must make a costume for Miss Sibyl Smiles. For this evening. There are enough seamstresses in this house to outfit an army by nightfall—one, er, something or other for a small woman should be no problem.”

  Rench bowed, but his expression suggested he disapproved of the instruction.

  Count Etranger indicated that Sibyl should enter the library, and followed with Adam. “I will look at your paintings,” he said. “Please give Miss Smiles your message and let her go about her business. This is a very busy day for all of us.”

  Adam and Sibyl looked at each other.

  “Don’t mind me,” the Count said. “Just carry on.”

  As if he were suddenly deaf, Sibyl thought, scarcely able to take her eyes from this man she was certain Meg had come to love. And he had not been clever enough to hide his feelings for Meg from Sibyl, either. She saw how his gaze lingered on Meg’s face, and how it followed her every move.

  “Right,” Adam said. “Well, Reverend Baggs is staying at Latimer’s. But ye know that. And a nuisance the man is, too. He doesn’t try to hide how he’s watching you and Meg for your cousin William. Says he’s doing it out of duty because William’s worried about ye and it’ll be a few weeks before he can move to London.”

  “These are good,” the Count said. “Very good. Unconventional, but engaging.”

  “Thank you,” Adam said, giving one of his rare and brilliant smiles.

  “Move here?” Sibyl said. “Did you say Cousin William intends to move to London? But how can he? Where would he live? And how could he take care of the holdings in Puckly Hinton? He takes his living from them.”

  A hesitant tap at the open door drew the attention of everyone in the library. Meg stood there. Dressed in creamy muslin and matching slippers, and with her hair piled softly atop her head, she took Sibyl’s breath away.

  “Come in,” the Count said, and Sibyl watched yet again as he studied her sister from head to toe. Muscles in his cheeks tightened, and he stood straight to watch while she came toward him.

  “You’re lovely, Meg,” Adam said appreciatively. “Like an angel. One day someone ought to give ye pearls to go with that dress. On your wedding day, mayhap. Ye look as beautiful as a bride.”

  Color rose in Meg’s cheeks. She said, “Thank you
, Adam. What a flatterer you are.”

  “Mr. Chillworth is an honest man,” the Count said, his formidable chest expanding with the deep breath he took. Abruptly, he returned to studying the paintings.

  “Someone just brought a message to the modistes,” Meg said to Sibyl. “You are to have a costume for this evening, and they want you to come now.”

  “Your cousin William says he’s moving to London,” Adam told Meg. “Thought I should mention it to ye. He’s at Number Seven again. Says Reverend Baggs witnessed another carriage disaster—Bond Street, that would be—and sent for him.”

  Meg shook her head. “Holding the sides of his hat,” she murmured. “I saw him, but didn’t really…see him. Then I forgot.”

  “Little wonder,” Adam said. “You’re a strong girl, but you’re just a girl all the same. All this is too much for a quiet one like ye. Mr. Godly-Smythe says he’s going to set up home here and have the two of you move in. Where he can keep you safe, so he says.”

  The Count’s hands were tightly fisted on the edge of his great desk. He leaned to study another of Adam’s paintings. Sibyl noted how his knuckles had turned white.

  “Oh, Meg,” Sibyl said.

  “He can’t,” Meg said shortly. “He has responsibilities in—”

  “He’s going to sell his house, he says,” Adam told them. “His only choice when he’s got to think about you two. If ye won’t go back home. He’s waiting to see ye. Asked me to tell ye that.”

  Only through enormous restraint did Jean-Marc hold his tongue. What happened in Meg’s and her sister’s family was no affair of his and might never be—if Meg continued to treat him with glacial reserve. From the moment the damnable cat had set up its squalling in his bedchamber, Meg had been convinced their lovemaking had been observed, and he had only kept her at his side by holding her there. Once he had fallen asleep, she must have slipped away, and when next he saw her, she dealt with him as she would any stranger worthy of respect.

  She was ashamed. The thought infuriated him. Meg Smiles was ashamed of having made love with him, and now she struggled to regain pride. What did a man have to do to claim the woman he couldn’t live without?

  “Please go upstairs, Sibyl,” Meg said. “Don’t worry, William has no authority over us, and he won’t sell the house—that’s all bluff. He would lose too much if he did so. My Lord, I apologize for the intrusion of our personal affairs. Do you think I could ask the Princess to come down and see Adam’s work?”

  “If you wish.” He would grant her anything. All she had to do was ask, or even convey what she wanted by any means, and her desires would come true. “Sibyl, please find Princess Désirée and ask her to join us.” He turned to Meg. “Tell me what you think of this.”

  As Sibyl left the library, Meg advanced slowly. There was a bloom on her skin, and her hair seemed an even richer red. When she lowered her eyelids and cast a shy glance at him through her lashes, he barely restrained himself from taking her in his arms.

  “A young mother,” he told her, indicating a plump brunet matron holding her child. “The baby is particularly engaging.”

  “Yes,” she said, leaning down at his side.

  She held the edge of the desk, and he contrived to do likewise, their hands just brushing. He expected her to move away, but she didn’t.

  With her head inclined to one side, she studied the mother and child. Her lips parted a little. Sunlight through the windows made her translucent. Her eyes shimmered. “Adam, you are a gifted man,” she said, following the line of the baby’s mouth with a finger just above the canvas.

  “Indeed,” Jean-Marc said. He pointed to the infant’s dimpled arms, settled his hand on top of Meg’s and met her eyes when she looked at him. “I think Mr. Chillworth would do a good job of painting my sister, don’t you?”

  Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. The neck of the strikingly simple gown was low—a pleasing thing on one so worthy of display. “I do think Adam would paint the Princess beautifully,” she said at last, and glanced at his hand on hers. His skin was tanned by the sun and wind, and dark beside Meg’s. Jean-Marc recalled how soft she was, how soft her entire body had felt against his, and how their differences, his hard, long-muscled limbs wound about her rounded paleness, her breasts grazing his chest—how the contrasts had inflamed him. They still inflamed him.

  Meg took her hand from Jean-Marc’s and turned to Adam. Her old friend was a little too slow in disguising his curiosity. “William is at Number Seven now?” she asked. “Well, he will have to wait a long time to see us because this is a very busy day. If he accosts you again when you return, tell him you spoke with me, but Sibyl and I will not return until tomorrow. Sibyl will stay with me. He must not be allowed to remain at Number Seven.”

  “He won’t be,” Adam said. “Leave it to me, Meggie.”

  Meg smiled at that. “Don’t throw him from a window, or anything like that, Adam. A constable might take you away, and I shouldn’t like that.”

  Princess Désirée literally erupted into the library. She trotted and twirled and trotted again. Each time she faced them all, her smile was only for Adam. “Ha, ha,” she said. “I am preparing to be a charming nymph of a thing tonight. I shall smile and smile to please my dear Meg. But I hope they manage to botch the finishings on my ridiculous costume. Unsuitable thing. It would be wonderful on Ila, or on Meg, but on me it is like using a gold platter for oatmeal. I am so bland I disappear inside its glitter.”

  “Fiddle dee dee,” said Meg. “What absolute rubbish. The costume is perfect on you. Now, you are not to say another word, because it is to be a surprise.”

  Adam seemed to have stopped breathing. He had followed the Princess’s unusual entrance with spellbound attention.

  “I have matters to attend to,” Jean-Marc said. He pulled the embroidered bell sash. “And I need your assistance, Miss Smiles. I shall call for a maid to remain with the Princess and Mr. Chillworth. Discuss how you might paint her, sir. She will make the decision, anyway, so I might as well save myself the effort of giving any advice.”

  “Good,” Princess Désirée said. “Thank you, Jean-Marc. I think I shall be painted in my silly costume. What do you think of that?”

  “As you will,” he said, indicating for Meg to leave the room with him.

  Rench arrived and went at once to dispatch a maid to chaperone Princess Désirée.

  “Oh,” the Princess cried, suddenly very serious. “I have the most perfect idea. Mr. Chillworth should attend the musicale this evening. That would give him a chance to see me in my costume and decide if it does become me. Isn’t that a good idea, Jean-Marc?”

  Meg expected the man to refuse. Instead he said, “If Mr. Chillworth considers it a good idea, then so do I. Here’s Millie. Don’t spend too much time boring Mr. Chillworth, Désirée. You do not have the whole day to waste.”

  He crossed the foyer with Meg behind him and went into a small receiving room that was rarely used. The windows were open to let in the spring air, and bowls of roses had been placed on every surface. Tonight this room would also be needed.

  “Please close the door,” Jean-Marc said. “We shall have to watch my young sister. I believe she is starting to notice well-favored men, and she may not yet be discerning enough not to moon over unsuitable companions.”

  Meg wanted to say that Adam Chillworth was a very suitable companion for anyone, but restrained herself. She must not prolong her time alone with Jean-Marc.

  “Is there any question of your cousin having authority over you?” he asked.

  “No.” The question caught her off guard. “William has no right to tell us what to do. I can’t think why he has become so determined to pursue us. It’s true that he showed a certain favor to Sibyl even when she was several years younger. I understand his wanting to marry her. But she will not have him, and I don’t blame her. His talk about moving to London is obviously a ruse. Here he would be unimportant. In Puckly Hinton he has holdings —my father’s holdi
ngs—and is considered a gentleman of note. He would never give that up.”

  Jean-Marc listened in silence. When she had finished speaking, he continued to study Meg. She tried not to return his attention, but failed. As surely as if he touched her, she felt his hands on her body.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She must refuse. She must sever anything personal between them.

  He leaned on the edge of a table and crossed his arms. She glanced at his breeches where they strained over his thighs, and quickly looked away.

  “Meg.”

  “Both Mr. VonWerther and Madame Clarisse Bisset are practicing in the music room. Cook is shouting at everyone, including the extra staff. The florists are everywhere. The roses overwhelm me. There are so many of them. Princess—”

  “Don’t chatter. Come to me, or I must make sure you do. You have nothing to fear from me, Meg, except for the hurt you cause me and its effect on my temper.”

  She approached him with sturdy steps, making sure she showed no particular emotion. “Of course, My Lord. I am at your disposal.”

  “Are you now, cherie? How glad I am to hear it. Are you prepared for your duties this evening?”

  She was anything but prepared to stand with the Princess and act almost as if she were her mother. “Yes, thank you. I’m ready.”

  “You have no questions about my expectations of you?”

  “None, My Lord.”

  “That’s unfortunate. I have a great many things to ask you about your own expectations of me, Meg. Have you forgotten that we lay together only three nights ago?”

  She put a finger to her lips. Her heart beat fast and uncomfortably.

  “Do not tell me to be quiet. Do you expect me to forget how we made love? How you look naked? How it feels to be inside you?”

  “Dreadful,” she said, bowing her head. “This is dreadful. I don’t want you to be angry. I would never willingly hurt you. We should not have done what we did. And I do not blame you more than myself. But despite…Although I am ruined, I must not panic. I must do my best to find a kind husband who will care for me, and look after Sibyl until she is also wed.”