“I’ll take you back to Ch—Lady Firthley. She sent me to find you, and I’m glad I have.” Searching her face, he frowned at her lips, which felt bruised and swollen. Touching them, she found they were, and now she had managed to call his attention to it. She knew the false hair must be askew, but now knew better than to check until he was looking the other way.
“You must assure me you haven’t been hurt.” He set his jaw. “No, I can see you have been hurt. You must assure me you can make it back to your cousin before I seek out a doctor.”
Heartily embarrassed, she turned her burning face away, stumbling into step at his side.
“No. No, I am perfectly well, Your Grace. You can let me go.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast at his elbow, appearing entirely circumspect to the crowds around them, but giving no quarter.
She tried to bring her breathing back under control, but shuddered every time she recalled what she had done. She reached up with her free hand to reattach her mask, so that no one who hadn’t already would identify her, when she must look like she’d just been swived behind the bushes.
He tried to keep his tone light, but as usual, said the wrong thing. If they would make a go of things, she really must work on that. Except now they would never make a go of things.
“When Charlotte told me about your costume, I must admit wishing I’d come attired as the Sultan of Brunei—” He looked down at her dress. “Or the King of the Gypsies—but I would never choose a concubine afraid for her life.”
“I’m not afraid for—Concubine? You are insulting.” Her outrage was forced and insincere, a whine, not a roar.
“Lady Huntleigh, I am as worldly as the next man and have no reason to judge your knowledge of hareem girls, but I am certain no woman runs from a lover as though Satan himself were on her heels.” She started and tightened the grip on his arm, but didn’t otherwise respond. “Will you tell me what happened, or shall I have Prinny send his guards to investigate? It is his party, after all.”
She paled even further, but hissed, “I am quite well. I was only… lost. Release me this instant, you filthy swine.”
“Ah, now there is the lovely Lady Huntleigh I have come to esteem so,” he smiled. “If you will promise you haven’t run afoul of a footpad and won’t dash away or have the vapors and fall at my feet, I will let you loose, but it won’t stop me asking questions.”
“Footpads at the king’s gala.” She managed to bring her voice back to a semblance of normalcy and stop her legs shaking. “What twaddle.”
“Not so, my dear. Vauxhall is filled with miscreants, some rich, some poor.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Some might even say the king himself is one.”
“You are quite bold, insulting His Majesty at his own party.” She tossed her false hair back and set it even further askew. “I can only hope he hears you and sends you directly to the gallows.”
He chuckled as he straightened the hairpiece and the gold chains, “He would be the first to admit he is a scoundrel. You are feeling quite well? You have your breath back?” He ran the back of his index finger along her temple and down her cheek, as though he would loosen the mask to kiss her. She gasped and choked and wrenched her face away, almost losing herself to tears.
“I am perfectly well! Let me loose, you hoddypeak!”
She yanked herself away so fast she nearly lost her balance, arms flailing to find purchase, yet remain completely out his of reach. Feeling a stand of tree bark under her hand, she yelped again, pulling her fingers away like she would from a spider, bouncing from pillar to post like a drunken sailor. Once solidly on her feet, both hands flew to her face to ward off an attack.
When he spoke, without approaching, his voice stayed low and firm, just like her uncle, Charlotte’s father, a tone that would brook no nonsense, but had her best interest at heart. “Lady Huntleigh, you are safe. I shall not harm you, but if you cannot tell me what has happened, I will take you directly to the king and then escort you to Russell Square so you may discuss the matter with Lord Huntleigh.”
“No,” she gasped, her anger gone as quickly as it had appeared. “No, do not, I beg. I was just… lost,” she repeated. Judging from his look, no more convincing the second time. “I wandered off the path and was turned around.”
She stepped back and tucked her hand back under his elbow, suddenly compliant, hysterical eyes looking away into the crowd, studiously avoiding his face. “I should much prefer you to escort me back to my cousin. I am perfectly well. I swear it.”
“You lie, Bell—Lady Huntleigh.” It was like she had travelled back in time ten minutes and again had no words. “You are white as a shriven saint.”
She reached for as many excuses as she could find, hoping there would be enough. “I have been lightening my skin purposefully with Unction du Maintenon and powder. Farine du riz. And it’s chilly. I should have brought my shawl.”
“Liar,” he snarled. “You are trying my patience. Is this about Malbourne?” He stopped short at the cavernous silence, and she shrank. “I will kill him. I will damn well kill him.”
“No. No, Your Grace! He did nothing—it was never his fault—no one did anything.” Her voice rose until she was almost shrieking. “I just got lost!”
People in the crowd were now turning to look, so he forced a smile and patted her hand, pulling her into step next to him. She hoped no one else could tell from their eyes how angry he was and how much more terrified that made her.
“Did he hurt you? Did he—” Nick’s voice broke, “Did he force you?”
She kept her voice low, assuming everyone in the vicinity could hear—probably already had—even through the raucous music. “No one forced anything. No one did anything, least of all Lord Malbourne. Nothing happened except I lost my way on the path and couldn’t find my way back, but you found me, and I am perfectly fine.”
By the time she was finished with this monumental set of lies, her voice and demeanor were almost back to normal. She added some force behind it. “Now, since you are not my husband, nor my keeper, and we are ten steps away from my family, I will thank you to let—me—go!”
She pulled her hand free as Charlotte called out, “There you are, Bella! You’ve almost missed the fireworks entirely. I hope you will join us for the rest of the show, Wellbridge. Alexander, open another bottle of champagne.”
As Bella and Nick stepped up to the box, Alexander exclaimed, “Hare and hounds, Bella! You look like you’ve seen the banshee.”
Charlotte’s face took on the same frantic look Bella was trying to hide, inherited from their shared grandmother. “What is it? What happened?”
Wellbridge handed Bella over to her cousin and said, “Apparently, Lady Huntleigh took a wrong turn on the path and was frightened by the noise and crowds. If you would be so kind as to see to her, Lady Firthley, I have a small bit of business to attend. I will be back in a trice for champagne, and you mustn’t leave without me, as I’ve sent my coachman home.”
Alexander looked back and forth between Bella and the duke and said, “Do you need my help, Wellbridge?”
“That would be most welcome, Firthley, but if you don’t mind, I would prefer you keep an eye on the ladies for the time being. I may have more need of your company in the morning.”
Bella’s head twisted around to stare at him. “Wellbridge! You can’t—”
He took up her hand and kissed it, smiling softly, only his eyes betraying his terrible anger. “Never fear, my sweet. Only a small matter than cannot wait, and I will be back before long to make sure you arrive home safely.”
“But you’re going to—”
“Going to be back here in no time to finish the champagne. Lady Firthley, if you would please keep your lovely cousin from following? I would hate for her to be lost again, in case there might not be someone nearby to effect a rescue.”
Bella watched Charlotte trade dark looks with Wellbridge, then with Alexander, in no condition to add one o
f her own. “Of course I will. Bella, sit down and stay there, or I will find a thousand ways to make you regret it. Alexander, give her a glass of the cherry brandy you think you have hidden in your jacket.”
Chapter 21
Adolphe tapped his toe on the graveled path and checked his fob watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Every time he moved his arm, the red of his costume caused a start. The last time he had worn colors was before his mother died when he was but ten-and-six. Totting up the numbers, it had been almost forty years. Rarely did he feel his age, but since Michelle’s reappearance it had become a regular occurrence—except in bed, where she made him feel like an adolescent.
As though his thoughts had summoned her, Adolphe heard, “Monseigneur?”
He turned his head to peer past the trees and vines effectively hiding him from other couples seeking privacy only a few feet away. “You are late, Michelle.”
She entered the alcove, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one saw her. She curtsied when she saw him and giggled. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur le Diable. I think you will be pleased when you hear why.”
More pleased if she were wearing clothing appropriate to his mistress, on which he had spent a pretty penny, not grey twill and a Holland apron like a drudge. But still, there was something to be said for the memories of Michelle in a servant’s dress.
He reached out, and holding her by the hair on the back of her neck, shoved her backward toward the tree where he had been seducing Lady Huntleigh. Keeping her eyes locked to his by the painful hold, Adolphe backed her against the ruthless bark that would leave bruising, if not draw blood. He used his other hand to undo the buttons of his trousers, then surged forward, holding her body motionless. Pulling up her skirt, he drew her legs around his waist, and took her hard, with no warning.
When she gasped, he growled, “Silence,” hand heavy over her mouth and nose. “Quiet, or I will leave you wanting.”
She ran her hands and fingers through his hair until he grasped both her wrists and held them above her head. Pushing back against him, her mouth, chest, hips undulated, breathing hitched and ragged, the only sound flesh slapping against hers. “Ma bonne fille,” he whispered in her ear as he took his hands from her mouth and her arms and used them instead to heighten her passion. “Such a good girl you are, Michelle.”
When he finished, just after she did, he barely stopped the moan she dragged from him, more pronounced because she still followed the instruction to make no sound at all. His forehead fell against her shoulder; one hand held him upright against the tree trunk. He dropped her legs, then her skirts, and tucked himself back into his breeches. She arranged his buttons, placing a small kiss on the underside of his jaw once they were closed.
He indulged himself in a long, languid kiss, whispering, “Ah, Michelle, you make me feel a boy again, all cock and no intellect.”
“And me, Dofi, I am no longer an old woman with you near.” She nuzzled her face into his neck, biting his earlobe and asking, recklessly, “Shall I come to your rooms once Madame is sleeping?”
He stepped back and put his hand on her shoulder, keeping her at arm’s length. “You will come to my rooms when invited, Michelle, not when you take a fancy.”
“Oui, Monseigneur, I am sorry. I did not mean—”
“Enough,” Adolphe snapped. “What news have you?”
While he watched the disappointment in her eyes warring with fear of his censure and the last vestiges of her pleasure, she sucked in a breath and began.
“The old man’s condition worsens. He has not risen from his bed in four days, the mind foggy like the Vosges in winter. He fights his nurses, and they feed him laudanum to calm him.” She turned her head slightly away, looking out the corner of her eye to seek his approval. When he smiled, she did, too.
“Have they discovered the source of his malaise?”
“Non, Monseigneur. The doctors believe it the same sickness that has always plagued him, and I have been very careful to keep the dosage small. Madame tells them his symptoms are different, but these English doctors do not take the word of a woman, and they are all new men since the earl has come back to London.”
“Good. Very good. You have done very well, ma chère.” He pulled her close and kissed her again, letting the tip of his tongue drift along her jaw to her earlobe, tugging slightly with his teeth. “What else?”
Her quick gasp, and the attempt to keep silent, made her speech breathy and threadbare. “The earl has his solicitors with him often, but—” Adolphe sucked on the spot between her ear and the nape of her neck that always made her moan, but the brief vocalization stuttered to a stop almost before it began. She tried, concurrently, to both twist away and move closer, but he pulled back while continuing the torment. “The doctor, he says His Lordship’s judgment can no longer be defended at the Bar.”
He moved closer, allowing their bodies to touch, opening the high collar of the dingy dress to lick the hollow at the base of her throat. “That is wonderful news, ma petite! But why is the countess not at his bedside if her husband is so close to death? When she claims to have only his concerns in mind?”
“Her husband insisted last week she must accept any invitations from the king, as he hopes His Majesty will offer her his protection.”
“What?!” Adolphe pulled back immediately, steadying her with one hand.
Michelle wrapped both hands around his at her shoulder, turning her head to kiss his fingertips. “Non, Monseigneur, you misunderstand. I do not mean she will be his mistress. The king is amused by Madame, enjoys her conversation and the gossip about her, but like most men, finds her unappealing. Still, he takes an interest in her welfare, and Lord Huntleigh encourages the alliance.”
“It is good you have told me this.” His other hand reached to cradle her face in his palm and her head dropped to the side to embrace the caress. When she relaxed back against the tree trunk, he allowed her to take his fingers between her lips, to remind them both of two nights past. “I had no idea the shopkeeper’s plans reached so high.”
Licking his palm, she continued, “Wellbridge, too, is great friends with the king, the Carlton House set, and Lord Huntleigh is a novelty in The Lords. It is my suspicion—only suspicion, you understand—that these two, and perhaps the king—have been making arrangements they are withholding from Madame.”
He stepped back, disengaging entirely. “Wellbridge has fallen out of favor. She even refuses to dance with him.”
Michelle’s palpable desperation followed his withdrawal, her body arcing toward him, tongue caught between her teeth, eyes beseeching, only speaking when he made no effort to appease. “But still, he visits often with the earl, and Madame’s cousine is most informal. It is my opinion—only my opinion, of course—there is more to him than meets the eye. I would not be surprised if he planned to offer for her.”
“Absurd.” He turned away, pacing back and forth in the very small space, staying her touch by sheer force of will until he saw a tear well up in her eye. “Wellbridge will die a bachelor. He certainly won’t marry a woman who can’t bear him sons, and has no other need for one.”
“As you wish, Monseigneur. I am only saying what I observe.”
The hitch in her breath reminded him of the danger in which she had so willingly placed herself. Were she discovered as a spy in the Huntleigh household, worse yet, the murderess of a peer, her freedom, probably her life, would be forfeit. It would be ironic, considering her role in his sister’s execution after years as Marie’s lady’s maid, but at the thought of how barren his life would be should this end at Newgate, a moment of real grief pierced his heart.
Adolphe stepped back to her, nuzzling against her throat, breathing in the scent of their coupling, the taste of his mark on her, arms wrapped around her shoulder and waist, murmuring softly against her neck, “Of course, my sweet. And you have done so very well.” He tugged her hair back and kissed her deeply, wrenching moans from both lovers. “If you can leave the
house unobserved, you may come to me tonight, but be cautious. It is crucial no one suspect our association.”
“Of course, Monseigneur. I understand,” she gasped, hope and desire flaring in her eyes.
“Go now. I must pay my respects to His Majesty before I can leave this accursed party. À bientôt, mon amour.”
“Bonsoir, Monseigneur.” Michelle slipped through the trees.
Malbourne was not ten strides down the garden path when a hand on his shoulder spun him around.
“Merde! What is this?”
The Duke of Wellbridge appeared rabid as a street dog, barely controlling the snarl in his voice. If Adolphe had ever questioned whether the man were a foul cur, the answer stood before him.
“Leave her alone, you demon-born bastard. One more step toward her, and I will beat you within an inch of your life. If I allow you to live at all.”
Malbourne straightened the cuffs of his jacket. “Your Grace,” he sneered, “How lovely to see you again, mon ami. I’m not certain of what you speak. Is there some way I can assist you?”
“I am not your friend, and you know exactly what I mean. Stay away from Bell—Lady Huntleigh—or I swear, I will take your head off with my bare hands and leave it on a pike. Do I make myself clear?”
“Ah, Lady Huntleigh. She is lovely, n’est-ce pas? So fresh and unspoiled.” Adolphe allowed a hungry leer to cross his face. “I can see you have taken a personal interest. Will you call me out for a friendship as innocent as she? I cannot believe she would thank you for that.”
“She wouldn’t thank you for entertaining another woman in the dark a quarter-hour after you finished whatever it was you did to her.” Adolphe hardened his face to any reaction. “Though, given her state of mind, she should be grateful to avoid your continued attention.”
Royal Regard Page 24
