“Monsieur, je suis vraiment désolée. I am deeply ashamed. I cannot ask you continue.” Bella had come across many heartbreaking stories in her time, but the life of the Duke of Malbourne was the darkest she’d ever heard. Charlotte said he looked cold, and now Bella knew why. He had lost everyone he had ever loved.
“By the time my wife breathed her last in childbed, the revolution was already underway. I could choose life or death, and either way, would lose my estate to looters and thieves.”
“Obviously, you escaped.”
“Oui, but my family was spread throughout France, and my agent could not reach them. Like many aristos, they believed the monarchy would soon put down the rabble and there would be the end to it. By the time they would make their escape, it was too late.”
“I am so, so sorry.” He made no response but a tightening of his jaw, so she cast about for a way to continue the conversation without bringing up any further bad memories.
“Why did you choose England, Monsieur?”
He stayed silent a moment longer, but then allowed her to redirect the conversation. “I own an estate here through the late duchess, near Dover. A small manor house, a fishing village, tenant farms. Part of our marriage settlement. I thought England a good place to wait for the unrest to be put down.”
“Is it too forward of me to ask about her?”
She was far too curious about what kind of woman the Duke of Malbourne might marry, and what he might be like as a husband, to leave the topic unexplored.
His nostrils twitched, but he visibly restrained his aggravation. “Non, mon tresor. Of course you wish to know, and with more right than most.”
She suddenly wished nothing more to do with the topic, sure she had committed another faux pas. “You needn’t—”
His smile was craven and eyes dark, but he continued even as she stuttered her apologies.
“Do not fear, ma belle, I loved my wife very much, my divine Amélie, but it has been many years since she was taken; it seems an age since I have spoken of her. She was very beautiful, very… delicate… gentle… in this you remind me of her… a certain… sweetness of spirit. The death of my wife and babe drove me from France as much as the revolution. Too many memories, too many ghosts.”
“No matter my best intention, I bring up painful memories.”
“My story cannot be told without raising phantoms. For you, my sweet, I will suffer it.” His jaw clenched, and his elbow twitched, but he forced a smile. “I have come to enjoy my estate through the years, though it is very lonely now, as I grow older. My consolation is the pristine view of France from the cliffs behind my gardens.”
Bella could think of nothing sadder than this poor, lonesome man, who had lived such a solitary life, walking the shoreline for a glimpse of his homeland. She wished she could do something to ease him, but surely he would be distressed at any pity.
A crowd of tourists came between them for the space of ten steps, and when they were rejoined on the other side of the group, he let the silence weigh heavier until she chose to fill it with some new subject.
She stopped before a painting she couldn’t identify, other than to know immediately it was a floor-to-ceiling representation of Hell. “I wonder, sometimes, what it must be like to be royalty, which you are, I am given to understand. The nobility seems so remote, and now I must find my way among you.”
He stopped and his voice lifted a few notes higher. “You are a noble, my lady, are you not?”
“By marriage alone, I am afraid. I was only a baronet’s daughter, and a destitute one at that.” In the corner of her eye, she saw his nose wrinkle as though he smelled something bad. “I suppose I have done quite well for myself.”
“Oui, Madame la Comtesse. Quite well.”
“How fortunate I am, even now. Our last months in Paris were everything decadent. The food, the music, the art, the books, the palaces.” She spread her arms, encompassing the entire history of Gallic culture. “The most civilized society imaginable.”
“There is nothing like attending the sovereigns of France,” he nodded with conviction. “Your English kings are barbarians by comparison.”
She leaned in as though she would share a confidence, smiling mischievously. “I believe all Englishmen are a bit barbaric, as are all kings, but I pray you not say so to His Majesty.”
The incline of his head and the twinkle in his eye entered into a small conspiracy. Before he could lead her into further unsuitable admissions, however, she stopped before Gainsborough’s oil painting of the Linley sisters, following the brush strokes with her eyes and remarking on their once-feted musical talents. She closed her eyes and could hear a ditty the girls might have played for the artist while he was painting.
For two more hours, their conversation continued as they made four circuits around the museum, discussing the relative merits of each piece of art, every artist, and any number of other topics that arose: his preference for Renaissance works, hers for the new Romantics; his Dover estate yields, her townhouse garden; his priory education, hers at Dame Hester’s Seminary for Young Ladies; his regret he did not attend university, her indignation that women weren’t allowed.
When the light in the windows began to darken, and the rooms began to clear, he gently guided her toward the door.
“It has been a wonderful afternoon, Your Grace—” She dropped her eyes. “I mean, Adolphe.” He smiled when she finally used his Christian name, though he had long since granted her permission. “I think it very bad form to be seen together; this afternoon has surely caused months of gossip. You mustn’t follow after me or someone will notice, but please know this has been so lovely. I wouldn’t have had nearly so good a time with anyone else.”
“Of course, I understand, we must keep our assignations private, the strictest of secrets. I have promised I will not ruin your good name, non?”
“No, that isn’t—I don’t think we should—”
He bent to kiss her wrist, once more running the tip of his tongue just inside the edge of her glove, making her breathing quicken and body shudder.
“I shall make you love me, ma chère. Of this you may be sure.”
Chapter 12
Nick searched along the path through the gardens at St. James’s Palace, looking for a red-gold head among the flowers and trees. Lord Huntleigh was closeted in an unexpected meeting with Lord Liverpool, his wife was known to be somewhere in the vicinity, and Nick had been seeking this chance for weeks. Now here, however, he found only acres of flora in all directions, at least half of it red and gold, and miles of trails on which a person could lose herself, by accident or design.
If need be, he would overturn every blade of grass.
The king had whispered to Nick with a knowing look from the corner of his eye, “I should give you no such boon after you played booty at faro two nights in a row, but Huntleigh won’t be free for hours—I’ve seen to that—and his poor, lonely lady wife is waiting for him in the gardens. Perhaps you have some idea how she might be entertained?”
Nick had nearly swallowed his tongue at the thought. “I am delighted to distract the lady, Your Majesty, and to relieve myself of unjust debt accrued at the card table to appease your pride.”
“No more of your trickery, or I will invite our friends to join me in taking your coin.”
“‘Tis only fair, my liege, given the perfidy. To make amends, I will lighten your purse at your pleasure.”
“I shall take your head next time you lose. Now, go press your suit with Lady Huntleigh.”
For once, Nick was thrilled to follow the king’s directive. Before Prinny’s interference, his afternoon had stretched before him interminably—the endless pursuit of solutions to irreconcilable politics, with his viewpoints always in the minority. But now, if he could find Lady Huntleigh, he might soon be engaged in much more satisfying amusements. He had gone far too long without a mistress; if he could lure her to a trysting spot, this might become the high point of his wee
k.
The king paused and raised a hand to call Nick back, not quite dismissing him, but neither giving any sign what he might say next. “She would make you a fine wife, Wellbridge.”
Nick sucked in a breath. “Perish the thought, Sire. Did you not say only hours ago there is no state so unholy as matrimony?”
Prinny laughed, “But you, my friend, are not a king pledged to marry whichever hag will seal an alliance. You might choose a woman for the enjoyment of her.”
“I need make no choice, Sire, when I can enjoy two or three wives in every Season.”
Although the king chuckled, his forehead remained furrowed, “I find that unseemly for Lady Huntleigh. I shall have to consider whom she might wed.”
“Pray, consider a few weeks, Sire, a month, maybe two…”
“I shall leave it to your conscience, Wellbridge, but be gentle with Lady Huntleigh, as she is not so worldly a woman as you may think, and I would not like to see her cry for unrequited love of a coxcomb like you.”
“Of course,” he replied. “I would never raise her expectations. I deceive ladies’ husbands, not ladies.”
Nick had taken his leave, quivering with thoughts of Lady Huntleigh unclothed beneath him, moaning and calling him by his Christian name. Even better, astride, hair falling loose around her face, over her breasts, legs grasping his hips, fingernails digging into his chest as she lost her head… He would bet she had a good seat in a saddle. She’d even said so in one of her traveling tales—he couldn’t remember the story, only the image of her in tattered trousers, escaping hostiles on horseback.
Half an hour and half a dozen fantasies later, he found her. The weeping willows were thick next to a pond Nick had never seen, cooling the summer heat, screening her from the walking path, her dress disguised in the color of the bluebells surrounding the bench and pergola where she sat.
He left the graveled trail for the grass, to quiet his approach behind the climbing ivy, and by the time he reached her, his mind had already taken her in every position he had ever tried and some he hadn’t.
He leaned over her shoulder and whispered into her ear, “Had I known I was searching for such an exotic bloom, I might have found you sooner.”
She yelped and turned at the first syllable, scooting over to keep him in sight. He decided to take it as an invitation and slid onto the bench next to her, careful not to overset the large, shallow basket at her feet, lined with only a few collected blossoms. She must not have been in the gardens long.
“My dearest Lady Huntleigh, you look so exquisite among the flowers, you fairly take my breath.”
“Duke,” she said, nodding curtly, “I see you have found a new place to disturb my solitude.”
He hated to admit he had been rather haunting her, seeking her company frequently enough to be noticed. Talk was beginning to make its way through the ton, but he still couldn’t manage to stay away. At least he had arranged reason to speak to her husband frequently, so there would be early warning of any trouble on that front. Gossip was only gossip, after all.
She turned her entire body away from him, fiddling with a few wildflowers she must have picked as she walked, holding them to enjoy their scent, rather than losing the perfume among those in her basket.
“I can only hope to disturb your thoughts, my lady.”
He leaned in closer, letting his breath caress the back of her neck. The scents of lilacs and lavender caressed his senses. “Perchance your dreams?”
She waved her hand at him. “Shakespearean fustian? How novel.”
He took up her fluttering fingertips to kiss them, which she allowed, but she did not turn to look. He was burning to kiss her lips, but would rightly be slapped for his effort, and worse, it would set back his suit.
“I hope I have not given you cause to doubt my sincerity, my lady. Rogue I may be, but I do not carelessly bestow my favor.”
She took back her hand. “Bestow, is it? I suppose I should be grateful you grant me your attentions?”
His arm rested easily across the back of the bench, fingers a hand span from her shoulder. The closer his hand inched toward her, the shallower her breathing became, offering hope against her repeated repudiation.
Never in his life had a woman resisted him so cleverly. Every time they spoke, he was forced to begin anew, and each time she was more likely to offer a set-down. It was ridiculous, given she had wanted him since their first meeting, and thought somehow he didn’t know. Even now, her interest was evident in the corners of her eyes.
“Shall I go?” he asked, distancing himself as a gentleman should upon the refusal of a lady. When he sat forward, preparing to leave, her hand involuntarily moved to stop him. She caught and stared at her fingers, placing them back in her lap.
“No, Sir. No. I must beg your pardon. My thoughts have turned maudlin this day, and I have unfairly taken out my temper on you. Please stay, if you will.”
Shifting back into the role of suitor, he offered, “I welcome the chance to share some time with you and hope I may dispel your woes. Might I inquire?”
He sat back down, staying an arm’s length away, and she slowly turned back toward him, catching her gown on a splinter, unnoticed.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, as though judging his truthfulness—and ogling his strong shoulders. He unobtrusively squared them and her smile seemed to see right through his vanity.
“It is nothing.”
When he tugged the loosely woven muslin away from the sliver of wood, her flinch reminded him to keep his movements slow and deliberate, touching only her dress.
“I hardly think nothing,” he said. “When you have all but shredded the poor flowers you’ve gathered.”
The blossoms in her hand were now missing petals and leaves, nervously peeled from their stems in an unconscious game of “He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-Me-Not.” Hair slid from her pins, falling around her face like the willow branches under which they sat. He longed to smooth it away, tug just slightly until her lips fell open, and—
“Only I miss the company of my husband. I am accustomed to being nearer him in small lodgings or on shipboard. A twenty-room house in Town and the halls of Westminster and the ear of the king do nothing but divert his attention from what has, for many years, been quite a close partnership.”
“In what way is he neglectful?”
She squirmed, so he stayed silent, trying with all his might to keep his gaze from raking her body from head to toe. He felt his eyes glaze over, imagining her wriggling on his lap, but she must have seen something in his face, because she tried to distract him. Or perhaps herself.
“We came today for luncheon and now that the meal is finished, His Majesty must adjourn to another appointment, and Lord Huntleigh must speak to the First Lord, and I must feel free to amuse myself in the gardens until such time as someone turns up to collect me. It is very like all of my husband’s diplomatic posts. I had only hoped—”
She stopped, peeking at him again. He wanted to believe she was flirting with her glances and the biting of her lip, but chose not to assume it.
“You had hoped what, my lady?”
“No, I beg you forgive. I should not speak of such matters with any gentleman but my husband. My expectations do not signify.”
“I disagree, Lady Huntleigh. The expectations of one’s wife matter very much. At least if a man hopes to see her smile at table every morning.” He pulled his lips into a half-smile, but her face froze at the falsity, and she looked away, giving an inordinate amount of attention to a small flock of sedge warblers.
She pointed them out in the trees, saying quietly, “They have just come from Africa.” He caught the wistfulness in her tone, but let her direct the conversation as she would. If she preferred to discuss the travel plans of migratory birds, he would be only too happy to participate.
Her gaze dropped to her hands, though, the melancholy more profound now. “I had hoped we would remove to Brairleigh House—Lord Huntleigh�
��s childhood home in Saltash—or the new Huntleigh estate outside Bath. It would be much better for his health and afford us more time together, but he wishes to leave his mark in Parliament.”
Nick inched his hand a bit further along the back of the bench.
“While I cannot gainsay his choice of residence or occupation, perhaps I may help redirect his attention to you? I am told I am well attuned to the concerns of a wife, though I have never availed myself of the institution.”
She snorted in a most unladylike way. “Yes, I have heard you are well attuned to wives, Sir, and I believe I can guess how you plan to redirect Lord Huntleigh’s attention.”
He placed his hands over his heart in a sardonic gesture, falling against the back of the bench as though slain by an arrow. “You wound, my dear Lady Huntleigh! Would that I might recover my honor in your eyes.”
She giggled and swatted at his arm with the last vestiges of her posy. “You are the veriest nincompoop, Sir. I believe you have very little honor where ladies are concerned, and it is the secret of your success with the wives of the ton. You are like a pirate in a book. Were you more principled, you would hold no allure at all.”
He leaned in again, as though sharing a secret. “I believe you are right, my lady, but I beg you not repeat it, or my piratical appeal might be unduly tarnished.”
“Heaven forfend the ladies find out real pirates are unwashed, ill-mannered, stupid, thieving boors, not swashbuckling Corinthians with independent fortunes.”
As he stifled a guffaw, she looked down the winding path. “Will you walk with me?” she asked, “I had planned to see the roses but am not sure of the direction from this end of the palace, and was distracted by the light on the water.”
He held out his arm, but she stayed a few steps away, shaking her head as she picked up her basket.
“No, thank you, Sir,” she blushed, “I should not like to earn my husband’s distrust.”
Gesturing to offer the walkway, he took up a place beside her but slightly behind, so he might catch her arm if she lost her footing, but not crowd her elbow or make her feel overlooked if he forced her to follow.
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