by Liz Botts
And clearly the two arguing gentlemen had been at the topic for a while and their partisan positions were cast. A typical day at the coffee house, then.
His Grace gave them a thin smile. “Mr. Culver, you are no Romantic. Sir Walter Scott would be profoundly disappointed with you.” Not that I would be. And he settled back with his coffee as Rainier, smiling and satisfied as if he’d gained the point, resumed his arguments.
After a further moment’s indiscreet observation, it became clear that the word beautiful didn’t do credit to Coralie Busche. When she angled her face toward the window’s sunlight, her smoldering dark eyes glowed like the flame on a candle, flared like the blaze of a torch. Blond tendrils curled beside her jaw line, stunning against her rosy cheek, and drifted across her demure white pelisse’s shoulders, over the collar of her primrose yellow gown. Even sitting, even with her shoulder half-turned, her alluring feminine curves could not be missed and should be enough to turn any gentleman’s blood into fire. Classical gentility and natural elegance radiated from her posture and movements as she settled her cup in its saucer and leaned forward, reaching for the teapot.
Not a motion, not a flicker betrayed any concern on her part for the gentlemen at the next table, even as their debate continued. But within her very stillness lay the evidence giving her away. A gentle tension radiating from her hands as she fiddled with her cup, the lack of focus in her dreamy gaze as she sipped, all testified to her blatant and subtle eavesdropping.
How those young men carried on. And not one of them even noticed the flame sitting close enough to scorch.
“One would never expect us to wear the peacock colors and brocades of our grandfathers—” While His Grace had been distracted, Rainier’s part of the argument had twisted and followed an interesting fork in the verbal road. The poor star-crossed lovers, it seemed, had been left behind.
Beyond Rainier’s oblivious shoulder, Coralie’s chin dipped in a nod.
George Anson sniffed. “One would hope not.”
Give Anson credit: within his limited boundaries, he at least knew how to dress well. His studious air and crinkled brow gave every indication of fascination with the debate, but his glassy stare betrayed him. Not that anyone conversant with his company would have believed Anson was actually following the two gentlemen’s convoluted verbal path, although quite possibly he could. For his part, His Grace had never been convinced of Anson’s hopelessness.
The tension within Coralie’s shoulders tightened; the soft line of her jaw hardened, visible beyond the delicate blond wisps caressing her cheek. She’d become aware of His Grace’s attention and liked it not. Yet no maidenly blush touched her face, nor did her natural rosy hue fade to alabaster. No confusion or fear from Miss Coralie Busche at the all-too-direct approach of a degenerate rake. Merely irritation, and perhaps that was all his alter ego deserved.
Perhaps.
Rainier nodded, conceding Anson’s point. “But dressing according to our always-changing fashions is no more than an outward manifestation of good taste — evidence of its presence, if you will. The virtue of good taste, the substance of it, doesn’t alter or change, any more than Shakespeare’s ideal of love and its timelessness. Good taste merely is.”
Parry and riposte; their arguments whirled unabated. His Grace allowed their words to flow around him as he concentrated on Coralie. Her tension hadn’t eased during his moment of distraction. Indeed, she’d shifted in her seat, presenting him with a better view of her shoulder and the spray of yellow roses decorating her bonnet. Quite lovely, both of them, and excellent examples of the virtuous good fashion Rainier argued.
Perhaps someday they’d return to Romeo and Juliet.
Not once since His Grace had entered the coffee house had Coralie even glanced at Kenneth Rainier. But she’d positioned herself just so at every event the three of them had attended for the previous four months. It seemed that, if she couldn’t hold Rainier’s attention herself, she’d be content with merely hearing his words; or as if his words, his conversation, his spoken thoughts, were more important than his visual presentation.
As if she were utterly fascinated by him. Him — his understanding, his tastes, manners, behaviors, beliefs. By the elements that made up the man, apart from the physical.
If Coralie had been hanging on Rainier’s words for four months, and if nothing he’d yet said had caused her to disregard him or cease her indirect pursuit, then the dear young lady was well and truly smitten. Unfortunately, that meant she understood the difficult practicalities of love no more than Rainier. If love were to be more than a fancy or a feeling, if it would become that immortal truth of which the poet spoke, then both of these hapless Romantics needed lessons in reality.
And may the angels rain mercy upon her soul.
For all his engagement in the debate, it was Culver whose expression first sharpened, who first turned and traced His Grace’s stare to its subject. After a moment Culver turned back around with a smile.
No. Not accurate. With a smirk. For ages Culver had longed to be perceived as a rake. Fortunately, he lacked the fortitude for the rôle. Otherwise, he’d make rakes as a class look sad.
Anson, despite his lack of involvement, or perhaps because of it, was the second of the young gentlemen to turn in Coralie’s direction. Rainier was last. But finally, after the most déclassé display of unmannerly attention of which His Grace was capable — and that was saying something — finally, Kenneth Rainier glanced aside and took notice of the glorious beauty hiding in his shadow.
And the game was on.
Coralie angled her teacup, the simple, undecorated white one she preferred. If shifted properly to the light, it showed the next table’s occupants in miniature below the rim, adding a visual element to the overheard discourse. At this afternoon hour the window’s sunlight didn’t stretch as far as the dark paneling, leaving the little cup and its miniature reflected stage the natural subject for her attention. She could only be grateful the gentlemen at the next table had never figured it out.
Beyond Mr. Rainier’s splendid profile, the Duke of Cumberland’s stare bored into her and refused to shift. Coralie fought to maintain her relaxed composure. Surely no tell-tale emotion or passing thought had shown in her stance or behavior and given her absorption away. Could he even see her face? Surely not.
“The Platonic ideals, yes.” The miniature of Mr. Culver replaced his cup in its saucer and pushed both aside. “But what purpose does good taste serve?”
Mr. Rainier flicked his fingers, an economical and dismissive gesture, elegant brevity in motion and a standard to be copied. “What purpose does a rocky promontory serve? It is, and that’s sufficient. However, if one must assign a purpose to all things, then taste, a proper understanding of fashion and poetry and all the other trappings of a cultured life — taste can be used in the same way as manners, as a measurement for breeding. Because one cannot find good taste without also finding good breeding, nor vice versâ.”
Even in miniature, it was impossible to miss the way the duke’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Rainier, your argument seems to equate the appearance of good breeding with its actual being.”
“Naturally.” Mr. Rainier’s smile could only be described as serene, and with her shoulder more fully turned away from their view, Coralie permitted herself an answering smile. “Is the existence of good taste more important than its usage? In this instance, can there be a difference between appearance and reality?”
Coralie pursed her lips. It was an interesting thought. Could a person without inherent elegance put on fashionable attire, behave in a cultured manner, and change himself?
The duke set down his cup. “Ancient Athenian gentlemen smile upon your reasoning no longer, Mr. Rainier.”
A handsome man, the Duke of Cumberland, even reduced to a tiny image on the side of her teacup. And splendidly dressed, his claret-colored cutaway coat emphasizing his athletic shoulders and trim waist. But perhaps he didn’t know as much as her
excellent Mr. Rainier regarding breeding and taste—
That duke.
He was staring at her again, as if she were someone important, someone mesmerizing. Someone for whom he could cheerfully ignore the entire discussion, even whilst taking part in it.
While she’d prefer to ignore him and listen.
She shifted her cup away as Mr. Culver twisted again in his seat. Their gazes met in the teacup’s reflection. Coralie glanced aside — and ran into Mr. Anson’s stare as he turned, too. Drat them all. There didn’t seem to be anywhere she could look without meeting someone’s gaze. Even sweet Mrs. Lacey, sipping her white tea with a gentle, knowing smile, watched Coralie with silently lifted eyebrows.
Vexing man, that duke, for interfering with her enjoyment. Inelegant, despite his attire, which perhaps gave the lie to Mr. Rainier’s argument. Perhaps the duke’s quite impressive standard of dress didn’t testify to manners or breeding; perhaps the evidence didn’t hold, in the case of a rake.
For rake he surely must be. Staring at her in such a forward and indelicate manner — how could he dare? And vexing didn’t begin to describe his interference. She’d managed to keep her stealthy observations unnoticed for months. But finally it was coming to an end.
For Mr. Rainier, her excellent Mr. Rainier, turned once again and looked in her direction.
Coralie couldn’t help it. Without her permission, her gaze left the white teacup’s looking glass, strayed over her shoulder, and meshed with Mr. Rainier’s distracted glance her way. His eyes were dark grey-blue, the color of the sky beneath storm clouds; his hair, the hue of old supple leather, waved about his face in crisp, fluid lines. Heavy eyelids lent a sultry edge to his face, and his lips were surprisingly lush, surprisingly attractive. The face of a dramatist, sensitive and strong, as he poured forth words on the state of the human heart; the face of a Romantic artist as he stared into a mirror, sketching a self-portrait.
The face she’d see in her dreams for the rest of her life.
It was the first time Coralie had ever held his gaze, the first time he’d ever noticed her, and so the first time she’d ever experienced the full power of his focused intensity. The heat in her face, already uncomfortable since the duke had fastened his attention upon her, redoubled until she thought she’d burst into flames. Her blood rushed through her at breakheart speed. Mr. Rainier’s passionate glance, almost a physical force of nature, stroked across her skin.
Like a lover. And she felt that stroke in places besides her skin, unmentionable places.
It was too much, especially for a public place. She rose, fumbling her reticule. Heart pounding, she finally forced herself to look away and smiled at Mrs. Lacey, good patient kind Mrs. Lacey with her silver hair and crinkling crows’ feet eyelids, a wayward young lady’s best friend and unjudging companion. No matter how knowingly she smiled. “Surely you’ve long been ready to finish our shopping. Shall we be off to the linen-draper’s, then?”
Cumberland seemed distracted.
Rainier leaned back in the coffee house chair and considered. The Duke of Cumberland had sat with them willingly enough, sporting his usual complacent air, and he’d quickly joined their conversation. But it seemed he didn’t accept the bases of Rainier’s related arguments, firstly that taste served as a proxy for breeding, secondly that Romeo and Juliet proved love functioned outside the boundaries of time. He’d been curious to learn Cumberland’s opinion of his little theories, especially the first one; the duke’s Continental education had clearly covered debate and logic, philosophy and poetry, and while he didn’t bother to set fashions, doubtless from his position he could if he desired. It had seemed a splendid opportunity to consult a man with first-rate capabilities.
But even as they conversed, Cumberland’s gaze tended to drift, sliding aside over Rainier’s shoulder and fastening onto something behind him. That complacent air turned appreciative, attentive — more attentive than his conversation — and even admiring. It seemed impolite to take note of his distraction. But then both Culver and Anson followed Cumberland’s lead, leaving Rainier the odd man out, and among sporting gentlemen that was intolerable. Besides, if a well-known fellow such as Cumberland saw fit to make a spectacle of himself in a public coffee house, who was Kenneth Rainier to leave such behavior unremarked?
But when he glanced over his shoulder, tracing Cumberland’s gaze—
A young lady.
Rather a pretty one, with a wisp of pale hair drifting beside a rosy cheek. But still, for Cumberland to permit a feminine distraction was disappointing. The man could have been enjoying their spirited discussion — and no one could deny these were important topics. Rainier had studied taste, style, and fashion since his early education and exercised them assiduously, from the saddle on his horse to the art collection in his library, the most complete collection and engrossing library in town. He’d always been determined to display nothing but the best culture and discernment, especially since he’d matured enough to understand his sisters’ deficiencies.
But rakes were incomprehensible that way. Personally, Rainier had overheard too many of his sisters’ dinner table chats, totting up this fortune or that estate, to be under any illusions himself.
Romeo had been lucky; he’d found Juliet, his one true love, that incomparable woman whose specialness set her apart from those surrounding her, even if the world had subsequently crushed them both for such impudence. But every woman of Rainier’s acquaintance valued money, position, security, and power — not the important things, such as poetry, drama, music, and sculpture. Not elegance, and the entire concept of Romanticism, that most exalting of philosophies, fit them as well as a tattered horse blanket.
Indeed, judging from his sisters Hortense and Lucia, even love could go hang when matrimonial possibilities were under female consideration. But only the Romantic definition of love, the Platonic ideal, the perfection of true soul mates, could ever satisfy his heart. Most days it seemed he’d be alone forever, longing to find his Juliet but instead silently and bitterly resigned to his lonely fate. Or, if he did marry, it would only be to provide the estate with an heir, a cold-blooded breeding rather than a shared immortal truth.
And so, considering that impossible contradiction, no reason could there be for Rainier nor any other man to demonstrate more interest in the opposite sex than was necessary beyond the most general of social interactions.
Rainier would dance with a woman, make idle conversation over the dinner table, partner one at cards, even, with the full expectation of losing. But sit and stare at one in a coffee house?
Disappointing, that Cumberland preferred a gallant distraction to an important discussion. And equally it seemed strange, how Rainier had once raged to the heavens at such callous thoughts — talk before beauty — but now they had become his truisms. Classical Romanticism could not survive in the mercenary modern age, and so he celebrated the Platonic ideal of Romanticism and shut away his heart, never to be consummated.
The young lady shifted in her chair, glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes, dark as black drifting smoke, met Rainier’s. She froze.
Pretty, yes. And modest, with a becoming hesitancy in her expression. Well dressed, if unexceptionably so. Under his stare, her chin lowered, those dark eyes flickered, and she turned discreetly away, toward her older companion (her mother, perhaps, or a wise and genteel aunt). She held herself well and her movements flowed with natural grace; she’d be a good dancer, a delight to watch when strolling the promenades. Appreciation stirred within him. Perhaps he shouldn’t shrug her off so quickly, particularly not if she’d attracted Cumberland’s attention; if Rainier couldn’t find undying love, he could at least enjoy a spot of sporting competition, and sooner or later, he’d need to secure a partner for that cold-blooded breeding.
Then again, there were Hortense and Lucia and the entire concept of the mercenary modern age. Perhaps he should keep his enthusiasm in chains.
Besides, the young lady and her companion
were leaving, gathering reticules and gloves. Her companion stood more slowly, leaning on the table for a moment as if easing her aging bones into motion. The young lady offered her an arm and helped support her weight as they started toward the door; add dutiful and kind to pretty and discreet.
But in passing—
She glanced at their table again. Her gaze touched on Cumberland, flitted aside, then lifted and meshed with his. Rainier felt it as much as saw it, experienced it like a touch in his soul. A dark glance. Warm and sensuous, with hidden, underlying strength. And approving. Cultured, appreciative; someone whose good opinion was worth the having. Surely beneath her ordinary attire beat an extraordinary heart?
His breathing hitched. Perhaps she wasn’t like his sisters at all.
And then they were gone, the young woman and the old, the coffee house door closing behind them. And — no surprise — Cumberland rose, made polite excuses, and followed their path, rather like a hound on a scent.
Indecision tugged at Rainier. Perhaps he shouldn’t shrug her off. Perhaps leaving the field of battle to Cumberland without a fight would prove to be a mistake.
But then there was Hortense. And Lucia.
Rainier shuddered.
Chains; he’d keep his enthusiasm in chains until he found his own Juliet. Yes, someday he’d marry. But despite the ugly necessity, he yearned for true love, for the most exquisite woman in the world. Not a casual competition with a rake in a coffee house.
