Again and Again

by Susan Johnson

  No doubt, the man would be elderly if he was Jane’s mother’s cousin, possibly dull-she unfortunately knew diplomats of that ilk-and he may take issue with having a déclassé governess beside him at dinner.

  Reaching her room, she stood in the doorway for a moment repining her fate. She could have spent the evening in her room, taking her heroine to the Parisian opera, a scene she was delighting in writing.

  Moving to her armoire, she drew out her azure velvet gown with a small sigh.

  The evening was going to be tedious.

  When Caroline was introduced to the viscount, she was pleasantly surprised.

  Viscount Fortescue, for his part, was enchanted.

  It turned out, he’d been undersecretary in Constantinople and knew Flora’s husband well.

  It also turned out he was thirty-two, unmarried and boyishly handsome. Not magnificent like Simon. But fair and fine-featured, with deep blue eyes and a smile so sincere, Caroline didn’t wonder that he was successful as a diplomat.

  They shared stories of Constantinople over dinner while the table at large talked of dogs and deer, grouse, and salmon fishing. Later over tea in the drawing room, they discovered further interests: books, opera, cards… Will was first-rate at whist and like Caroline, he spoke several languages. Although he didn’t care to hunt, he rode, and when he learned Caroline liked to ride as well, he insisted they go out the next morning.

  Caroline hesitated. “I’m not sure… my duties__”

  “Nonsense. Jane has enough staff to look after her children.” With a tactful authority, he made his wishes known to his hostess. Turning back to Caroline, a moment later, he winked. “There now. It’s taken care of. We ride tomorrow morning. I suspect, you could use a little holiday from the holidays.”

  Caroline laughed. “It has been rather busy.”

  “And different for you, I warrant,” he said, softly.

  She smiled. “Perhaps, a little.”

  “You should be the diplomat. I doubt you’ve spent your life chasing after little children.”

  “The children are sweet and the earl and countess are pleasant in the extreme.” Her gaze was candid. “I’m not in a position to complain.”

  “I understand.”

  He looked at her with such kindness, she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to cry. It must be the holidays, she thought, tamping down her twinge of sadness. “How early a riser are you?” she asked, quickly, steering the conversation to safer ground.

  “You need but state a time, and I’ll be ready.” “How amenable you are.” Her tone was light and playful and suddenly she remembered another man who was amenable, but in an entirely different way.

  “One learns in the diplomatic service, although tonight, obligation is not an issue.” The viscount smiled. “I’m vastly smitten and more than willing.”

  Chapter 19

  While Caroline was finding Will a welcome change from those at Netherton Castle whose passions were for hunting alone, Simon was being ushered into the Parisian home of the Comte and Comtesse Louvois.

  “I promise we won’t stay long, darling,” the Princesse de Mornay murmured, smiling up at him and squeezing his arm. “I simply have to make an appearance.”

  In his usual intoxicated state-commonplace since leaving England-Simon barely listened.

  “You know most everyone anyway,‘’ she added. ”We won’t stay for dinner.“ Releasing his arm, she unclasped her ermine cape and let a servant lift it from her shoulders.

  Simon handed his hat and cape to a flunky and with the automatic politesse that operated no matter the level of alcohol in his blood, he turned to the princesse and offered her his arm.

  The reception room they entered was filled with guests, bejeweled, well-dressed, their bloodlines representing the oldest families in France. Since the restoration, the ancient regime had returned to the exclusivity they preferred, which meant the more interesting salons were no longer held in the Faubourg St. Germain. The best attended parties were elsewhere, the criteria for admittance not bloodlines but quick wit. Simon hadn’t been to the Faubourg St. Germain since he’d come to Paris.

  Inebriated or not, he knew whose home he was in and a portion of his consciousness was alert to the presence of their host as he followed Estelle on her conversational circuit of the room.

  Not that he knew what he’d do when he met Louvois again.

  Nor whether he even cared.

  Estelle twined her fingers through Simon’s as they left a group of matrons seated on the perimeter of the room who immediately were abuzz with comments on the Duke of Hargreave’s charming address and good looks. “Just a few minutes more, darling, and we can leave. I have to make my bows to Althea and we’re free to go.” She surveyed the crowd. “I can’t believe she’s still dressing.”

  As if on cue, a voice behind them exclaimed, “Darling Estelle! I’m so pleased you could come.”

  When they turned, Simon came face to face with Louvois, and his new wife.

  “What a lovely crush, Althea. But then your salons are always so delightful,” the princesse declared. “Have you met the Duke of Hargreave? Simon, this is my aunt, the Comtesse Louvois. You men are acquainted, I believe.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you,” the comtesse murmured, surveying Simon with a practiced gaze.

  The pleasure’s mine, La Comtesse.“ Simon bowed gracefully over her hand.

  Aunt and niece exchanged quick glances of approval over Simon’s bowed head.

  Louvois’s gaze was chill.

  “We aren’t able to stay,” Estelle explained. “We’re expected at the theater.” She smiled at her aunt. “Not that we’d be missed in this crowd.”

  “You can’t stay? Then you must come for dinner soon.” The comtesse gazed at Simon from under half-lowered lashes, open invitation in her eyes. “Will you be in Paris long?”

  “I’m not sure.” His smile was one of politesse; Louvoise’s second wife wasn’t his style.

  “Simon’s in his vagabond stage at the moment, aren’t you, darling?” Estelle patted Simon’s arm.

  “Tired of English cunt, Hargreave?”

  Shock and affront distorted the comtesse’s countenance. “Henri! That’s quite enough!”

  “I heard you were the one tired of English cunt,” Simon drawled, gratified Louvois had thrown down the gauntlet; his coming here tonight suddenly had reason.

  “One reaches a certain level of boredom, I suppose.”

  “You left her destitute.”

  Even Louvois’s wife who may not have understood the reason for the men’s antagonism, understood the tenor of Simon’s voice meant danger. “Henri, don’t you dare make a scene here.” The comtesse spoke with the authority of rank and personal wealth. “Take this elsewhere!”

  “Simon, please…” Estelle tried to draw him away.

  He shook off her hand. “Here or somewhere else, Louvois. I’m too drunk to give a damn.”

  Louvois turned and walked away.

  “Don’t wait for me,” Simon said, ignoring Estelle’s stricken expression.

  The duke followed Louvois from the room. The men passed down the main staircase, then turned into a corridor leading to the back of the house. Reaching a door midway down the hallway, Louvois stopped and opened it.

  Walking inside, he waited for Simon to enter.

  A moment later, Simon stood facing him, the metallic click of the door latch loud in the silence of the room.

  “You’re a long way from home,” Louvois murmured.

  The duke glanced around the luxurious study. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  “When the legislature passes the law to restore estates, I’ll be doing even better.”

  The two men facing each other were both tall, handsome men, but Louvois was older, his privileged life destroyed in his youth and it showed in the cynicism of his gaze.

  Simon was immune to any subtleties of motive or desire, save his need for revenge. He rocked forward slight
ly on the balls of his feet. “Name your weapons, Louvois and we can be done with this.”

  The Comte had no intention of fighting a duel with the headstrong young man. “You’re too drunk.”

  “I’m never that drunk. Name your weapons.”

  “Come, Hargreave,” Louvois murmured, a fastidious delicacy in his tone. “No woman is worth risking your life.”

  “Who says I’d be risking my life?”

  “I, for one,” the Comte replied calmly.

  Simon’s gaze held the Comte’s for a moment. “I don’t recall you fighting in the last war-on either side.”

  “Don’t bother calling me a coward. I’m not going to fight you. Look around you. I’d be stupid to risk this.”

  “You shouldn’t have married Caro if you didn’t want her,” Simon charged, his voice bitter. “You could have held out for someone rich.”

  “You shouldn’t have slept with her maid, if you cared about her,” Louvois countered, silkily. “And you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “She told you about that?”

  “She told me a great many things when she came to me that night”

  “And you took advantage of the situation.”

  “I took advantage of your stupidity.” The Comte shrugged. “And perhaps, I lost all sense of proportion when the magnificent Lady Caroline talked about fleeing England.”

  “All sense of proportion meaning marriage.”

  Louvois smiled ruefully. “She wouldn’t have me otherwise.”

  “But eventually someone better came along. Someone with money,” Simon jibed.

  Louvois sighed. “I don’t know why I’m tempted to be benevolent-perhaps I still remember what it’s like to be young and in love like you. But Caro had left me… in every sense of the word, long before Althea entered my life again.”

  “You still shouldn’t have abandoned her without a penny.”

  “She had nothing when we married.” Henri chose to overlook the fact that Caroline’s expertise at cards had maintained them during their marriage.

  “She’s a governess now. Did you know that?”

  “Am I supposed to feel guilty?”

  “You could have spared her a small portion of your new wife’s wealth.”

  “I wasn’t so inclined.” He wasn’t about to expose the extent of his resentment at Caro’s leaving. “Nor, frankly, would Althea have been so generous. She paid for the divorce-a considerable sum, as you know.”

  “You owe her, Louvois. I don’t care who paid for what”

  “I have no money of my own until my estates are restored.”

  “Jewelry, then.”

  “My wife’s? Be reasonable.”

  “Something to go with azure velvet,” Simon noted, as though Louvois hadn’t spoken. “Knowing you, you’ll think of some story for your wife.”

  “If I find something, will you leave?” The Comte half-smiled. “I’m getting too old to deal with such volatile emotion. Come, have a drink with me while I decide what Althea isn’t likely to miss.”

  “You refuse to duel?”

  “Yes, I refuse. Is that clear enough?” He dropped into a chair. “The delectable Lady Caroline has deprived us both of our reason at one time or another. For God’s sake, Hargreave, stop scowling and sit down. You have to admit, we have a great deal in common. Brandy?”

  “She left us both, you mean.”

  Louvois’s brows arched. “Among other things. Did she ever win against you at piquet with that sunk card trick?”

  Simon swore softly.

  Louvois laughed. “She’s good, isn’t she?” He held out a glass of brandy.

  “She took all my money a few weeks ago with that,” Simon remarked, and after a considered moment, he moved forward.

  “You’re in good company then. She’s won against some of the best players on the Continent.”

  Taking the glass from Louvois, Simon sat down across from the man he’d viewed as an archenemy for years. “So, she left you too,” he murmured, his former defined resentments shading into ambiguity.

  “She has a mind of her own.”

  Simon snorted. “And a damnable temper.”

  Louvois smiled. “Undeterred by her rank of governess, I presume.”

  “She kicked me out.”

  Louvois raised his glass. “To common bonds.”

  Simon grimaced, but he lifted his glass.

  “Hard for you to admit, isn’t it?” The Comte’s tone held a hint of edginess. “Welcome to the club.”

  “There’s probably more.”

  “Men like us? I suspect so.”

  Simon’s expression turned sullen.

  Louvois leaned over and added more brandy to Simon’s glass.

  Simon met his gaze. “Is your wife going to come looking for you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Nor me, although Althea isn’t apt to be concerned so long as we keep our disagreement away from her guests.”

  Simon lifted his glass and smiled faintly. “What disagreement?”

  Several hours later, Simon rose to leave, considerably drunker and perhaps a modicum wiser about his role in all the events that had transpired five years ago. “I’ll give Caro your regards.”

  Louvois looked up from his lounging pose, his expression amused. “Do yourself a favor. Marry her.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Not as much as you.” The Comte gave a nod to his surroundings. “I’ve sufficient compensation for my bruised ego. By the way, she once told me you were unrivaled in bed.” He grinned. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t leave her anything.”

  Simon didn’t speak for a time. “We’ve known each other all our lives,” he finally said.

  “I suggest you hie yourself to Yorkshire.”

  Simon drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. “I suppose maybe I should.”

  “Do you still want some jewelry?”

  Simon waved away the offer and began moving toward the door. “I’ll buy some in London.”

  “Caro used to admire rubies.”

  Simon stopped at the door and reached for the latch. “She used to own rubies.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  “I didn’t ever think I’d be saying thank you to you, but… I guess I am.” He blew out a breath. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t ever think I’d be saying I hope you two are happy, but,” Louvois smiled, “I hope you are. Au revoir.”

  The door shut on Simon a moment later and Louvois leaned his head back against the soft green leather of his chair and sighed.

  He envied the young cub.

  Chapter 20

  Viscount Fortescue was intent on paying suit to Caroline and to that end he convinced the Carlisles that their children could do without a governess for the remainder of Twelfth Night. He took Caroline riding each day, bought her presents in the village-little, appropriate gifts from a suitor: beautiful leather-bound books, a hand-knit scarf, a pretty little lappet of fur to wear under her red cape, a necklace of garnets. He sent her short poems he’d written and read to her one night from a travel journal for which she’d expressed an interest

  Caroline was grateful for his attention, for the holiday he’d procured for her, for all his lovely gifts. But she was unable to return his affection and in as gentle a fashion as possible, she informed him of her feelings.

  “I’m a patient man, darling,” he replied.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him she wasn’t looking for patience. And what she wanted, she couldn’t have. Or whom to be precise. Although she was a fool to pine for someone as selfish and faithless as Simon.

  Nevertheless, she’d not been able to resolve her emotional dilemma in the weeks that had passed since she’d last seen him. Or more aptly, last screamed at him.

  Wasn’t it odd, she thought walking up the last flight of stairs to the third floor after another evening with Will, that she didn’t have the good sense to love someone as
gentle and kind as the viscount? He would inherit his father’s title someday. He offered her undying love and affection, along with a compatibility of interests that was almost eerie. And he would be faithful unto death.

  Why couldn’t she respond like a rational human being?

  Why did she yearn for a rogue and a rake who had broken her heart?

  As though nature was conspiring in Simon’s impassioned mission, the Channel crossing was perfect light waves, a steady wind, and not a storm cloud in the sky hastened his journey home. The moment they docked in Dover, he jumped ashore. Too impatient to wait for his coach to be offloaded, he hired the fleetest mount in town and made for London.

  The instant he arrived at Hargreave House, he called for his secretary. Within the hour, the entry hall was filled with tradesmen, solicitors, various men of the cloth and the most fashionable modiste in the city, all waiting for their audience with the duke.

  His wishes were unequivocal and to the point when he met with them, each personage given their instructions and dismissed. He was traveling north the following afternoon. He expected all his purchases and orders to be fulfilled and in his coach by then.

  He didn’t relish traveling for three days in the company of the minister he required, but his secretary, Gore, suggested a young cousin of his he felt would be inoffensive. A younger son of a younger son, it wasn’t as though the man had chosen the church as his profession for love of the Lord.

  “My cousin likes to race most of all, Your Grace, but can’t afford the bloodstock.”

  “Capital. Have the grooms ready Templar and Castor. We’ll ride ahead and have the coach follow. He’s not churchy, now. You said he wasn’t.”

  “Not in the least, sir.”

  “He is able to read the correct marriage service though? He knows that much, does he?”

  “I’m sure he does.” But Gore made a mental note to mark the appropriate pages in the Anglican liturgy just in case. Cousin Aubrey hadn’t seen the inside of a church since he’d been granted the stipend for the honorary bishopric of Coultrip four years ago.