*~*~*
Shrewsbury paid careful attention to his appearance that evening. He did not know what Delacroix was up to, but he suspected it to be seduction, pure and simple. For all her outré political ideas, Hélène was an innocent. He intended to keep a close eye on her while she remained in London so that she might not become an unwitting victim.
That meant he must observe every nicety and not give her cause to fly out at him. Delacroix had the dangerous looks that appealed to strong women like Hélène. He evidently had given her reason to think she could change him, most likely tame him.
Christian was familiar with that gambit, and imagined it could very well lead to Hélène’s ruin. He did not believe himself to be a match for the man in looks, but he must at least make an effort.
He wore his emerald green evening jacket with a black velvet waistcoat, black breeches, white linen, and a ruby stick pin in his cravat. Satisfied that he looked his best, he dined briefly at home and went to collect Lady Clarice and Hélène.
When he arrived at Blossom House, however, it was to find an unexpected and unwelcome situation. Bates informed him that Miss Whitcombe-Hodge and Lady Clarice were dining with Lady Virginia and Lord Delacroix at Rose House, where he was to collect them. What the devil?
Christian fumed all the way to Rose House. If he had thought that Hélène was apprised of proper manners among the ton, he would have been deeply insulted. But he would not start their evening with a quarrel. This was Delacroix’s doing, he was certain.
When he was announced to the after-dinner party in the drawing room, he kept his countenance, greeting everyone cordially.
Lady Clarice came up to him and put her arm through his. “Christian, I know you will not mind. I have invited Lady Virginia and Lord Delacroix to join our party tonight.”
His friend looked up at him in all innocence. No doubt she had deduced Delacroix’s interest in her protégé and was trying to help it along. They would have to have a serious talk, he and Lady Clarice.
“The more, the merrier,” he said with false cheer. “Shall we be on our way?”
They proceeded to the ball together in his carriage.
*~*~*
The evening could scarcely have been worse. Delacroix bespoke Hélène’s two waltzes upon arrival, and Christian was left with a country dance and a minuet, during neither of which would he be able to converse. The rest of Hélène’s dance card was promptly filled, as she looked more elegant than ever in a ruby satin gown with rusched sleeves and a gathered bodice.
While she was enjoying the attentions of a small court, he took the opportunity to lead Lady Clarice aside.
“My lady, I feel I must put you on your guard.”
“Against what?” asked that lady, fanning herself. “Why is it always so close at balls? I never feel as though I can breathe.” She was dressed in her normal outré style with several peacock feathers in her headpiece.
“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked.
“Yes. I am still breathing in fact. Now, what is this about a warning?”
“Against Delacroix. I worry that he is not quite a gentleman. We do not want him playing fast and loose with Miss Whitcombe-Hodge’s reputation. It does not do to encourage him.”
Lady Clarice looked at him with a peculiar light in her eye. “He seems a very nice gentleman to me. And he would be an excellent catch for our schoolteacher, though I should hate to lose her.”
“I do not think such a man as that has marriage in mind. He is too hardened to be swayed by emotion, and what can Miss Whitcombe-Hodge add to his consequence? She has neither money nor title.”
“That may be of concern to you, my lord, but you must not make the mistake of thinking that everyone judges these things as you do.”
She looked very arch as she fanned herself. He was becoming impatient with the lady. “You are scarcely new to the ton, my lady! I cannot believe you to be taken in by him.”
“That was dangerously close to an insult, my boy. I suggest you examine yourself to find why you are so out of temper.” With those words, Lady Clarice glided away, still fanning herself.
His suspicions about the baron were confirmed. Though the man appeared distant in Hélène’s company, when he followed them out onto the balcony, it was to find Delacroix urging a kiss upon Hélène.
His instinct was to call the man out, but a scene would be the worst possible thing for Hélène. Christian’s voice was low and dangerous as he said in the man’s ear, “I say, Delacroix, I will not let you compromise Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. She does not understand London manners.” Taking Hélène’s hand, he led her away from the baron and back into the ballroom, where he took her into a corner.
“If you had been discovered out there kissing Delacroix by anyone but me, you would have been obliged by society to marry him or face ruin. And I do not think either of you has marriage in mind.”
She looked confused and her face was flushed deep red. “I . . . I guess I have to thank you, then. I did not know.”
“Are you in love with him?” he demanded.
“Of course not!” She drew herself up. “I hardly know the man!”
“Well, take care. I do not understand his motives, but I think he is determined to have you.”
“How graceless you are! I do not pretend to understand ton matters, but I do know when I have been insulted! Can it not be that he is in love with me?”
“I do not think so. Men like him have only one use for women. I should think with your claimed ‘sixth sense’ you would be able to detect that, at least. He cannot have marriage in mind. You are a penniless daughter of a vicar. When he marries, it will be to his social and financial advantage—a dynastic marriage with little or no sentiment. Anything further from that equal partnership you envision, I cannot imagine!”
“You are horrid! It is certainly clear that you feel me to be of little worth! I believe you attribute your own standards to him!” She looked down and twisted the fan in her hands. “What if I told you that I, like Miss Woolstonecraft, am of the opinion that a double standard should not be applied to sexual morality?”
His temper shot sky high. The little ninny. “You have absolutely no idea what you are speaking of. Consider Miss Woolstonecraft for a moment, then! What is her history, apart from her expressed opinions? When she lived with Imlay in France, she had a child. He sent her to Sweden when he had no more use for her. Upon her return to England, she called herself Mrs. Imlay. Her situation proved insupportable. If you will recall, she attempted suicide! Intimate acts mean different things to men than they do to women. Especially when they yield children! Is that plain enough for you?”
Hélène’s mouth had dropped open and her cheeks were cherry-red. “I detest you, Christian Elliott, Baron Shrewsbury! You are not my guardian in any sense of the word.” She began to sputter, “What I do is my own business. You have absolutely no right to speak to me thus. I do have a brain in my head. And I know very well just how to take care of myself should any gentleman attempt to take advantage in a way I do not approve.”
Christian was unutterably chagrined. Their conversation had taken place in hisses and could not be overheard; nevertheless. he felt many people watching them. Taking her arm gently, he said, “Do not resist. People are watching. In your position you cannot afford to cause gossip.”
Leading her out onto the dance floor, he was surprised to find the dance was a waltz. One of Delacroix’s bespoken dances, as a matter of fact. Christian took her almost unyielding frame into his arms and began spinning her about the room. He fixed his eyes on her angry ones. To his relief, she soon relaxed and her eyes lost their heat.
Feeling the music running through her frame, he realized a softness in her that he had not know existed. Did she even realize it? Did she know she was enjoying this dance with him? That they were surprisingly perfect partners? It slowly dawned upon him as he held her, gazing into those now soft and smoky eyes that no woman had ever felt as light and as rig
ht in his arms as she.
How could that be when they were of such diametrically opposed temperaments? She yielded to the subtle signals his body sent as they moved about the floor, proving that their bodies, at least, were in tune. It was a heady thing to feel her following his lead for once, as though he had somehow tamed her. Her beautiful face was radiant and wide-eyed with wonder. Neither of them had expected to be taken off guard like this.
It was soon evident that he was on fire for her, and from the flush in her cheeks, he thought she might feel the same for him.
{ 12 }
HÉLÈNE SPARED A BRIEF THOUGHT for the fact that she had not felt anything like this when she had danced with Lord Delacroix. She felt freed, catapulting headlong into something that was wondrous and bright, but she knew not what it was—only that Lord Shrewsbury was taking her there.
Her anger melted away like ice in a tropical climate. Hélène knew herself to be absolutely defenseless. But she felt no danger, only a desire for the dance to go on and on.
When the waltz ended at last, they stood still in each other’s arms as the crowd left the floor. She bit her bottom lip, unable to take her eyes from her partner’s.
At last, she said, “If I am not careful, I will start to forget that this is just a time out of time. My real life is not to be spent waltzing in ballrooms.”
He released her, his green eyes turning darker. “I would not trade that dance for anything, but you are right. We must remember that you are a schoolteacher and I am your patron.”
The words cut right through her and she dropped her arms. “Yes. It is best that I remember I am a poor vicar’s daughter forced to earn her living, thus far beneath your touch.” Her heart ached at the reminder. “It was a mistake to bring me here where I have forgotten my place.” Hélène read confusion on the baron’s face. She knew he had forgotten his place just as surely as she had forgotten hers. His lips compressed into a firm line, and he looked as though he would say something. Before he could do so, she turned her back on him and moved off the dance floor. He followed her, but her next partner was waiting, eager for his dance.
She spent the remainder of the evening in a daze, dancing with unknown gentlemen. When Lord Delacroix approached her to claim his waltz, she said, “You will have to excuse me, my lord. I have the headache.”
She and Shrewsbury were both silent when they made their way home in the carriage. They left the conversation to Lady Virginia and Lady Clarice, who chattered about people she did not know and things she did not care about. All she knew was that Lord Shrewsbury’s eyes were fixed on her and she felt as though she was burning.
*~*~*
That night, she would have welcomed sleep, but it did not come. In her anger, she tried unsuccessfully to ban the memory of her waltz with Shrewsbury. Mentally she chastised herself. From his words about Delacroix it was clear that Shrewsbury thought her only fit for a liaison. And, of course, he was oh-so-noble that he would not descend to that any more than he would descend to marry someone in her position. Though the attraction between them was real and palpable, she must ignore it. It felt as though a giant were squeezing her chest, and tears burned behind her eyelids.
He was only a man. A man who quite wrongly thought himself superior to her. Tears fell onto her pillow. He would fight his attraction to her with everything in him. He was a slave to his class. To his self-importance.
But for a time tonight, he had forgotten everything but her and she him. Those green eyes had been warm when he looked at her. They had seen a desirable woman. Not a schoolteacher. Not a penniless vicar’s daughter. And when she looked into those eyes, her protective shield had lifted for a moment. She had let herself be admired as a woman. It had felt wonderful beyond anything she had ever felt. Her brittle heart had warmed. Her militant stance had softened in his arms.
And then, they had remembered. It was probably the only time in her whole life she would experience that sort of exchange. Something wise inside her told her she needed to mourn it. Then, label it, docket it, and put it safely away.
After her weeping had diminished, she forced herself to think of Delacroix. Was Shrewsbury right about him? Did he have only dalliance in mind? Or was Shrewsbury convinced that no one from his class could have any different feelings for her than he did?
It was hard to believe Delacroix had any attraction for her, for she certainly felt none for him. That was a mystery. He was certainly the handsomer of the two men, and certainly more careful of her feelings—flattering her and giving her to understand that he had plans for her in his life. But she could not picture herself as his wife, even were she to convince him to take up her political agenda.
Maybe she just needed to get to know him better. Perhaps he realized this, and that was the reason behind his desire to follow her to Chipping Norton. She had thought the idea ludicrous, but perhaps it had merit after all.
Marriage to such a man, who was interested in learning of and possibly implementing her ideas in Parliament would not mean giving up her principles. In fact, it would be the very opposite. Had she not thought of marrying Samuel for the very same reasons? But Delacroix would have more influence than a junior member of the Commons. One might almost say the idea was heaven sent. Not the least because it would keep her away from the dangerous attraction she felt for Baron Shrewsbury. Marrying him was not an option.
Nevertheless, when she slept, it was with her evening gloves against her cheeks. The evening gloves that had covered her hands when Christian Elliott, Baron Shrewsbury had held them. And had kissed when he left her at the door to Blossom House.
*~*~*
The following morning, she felt herself unequal to seeing either of the barons, or even Ginny. She had heard all of her life about Hatchard’s Book Shop and convinced Lady Clarice to take her there. Spending her morning browsing among the books, she almost forgot her concerns.
She wrote down the titles of a number of books she would like to order when she was in funds. Remembering Shrewsbury’s words about Bentham and Locke, she decided she must become familiar with these philosophers of the Enlightenment. She also intended to order three of the duchess’s novels.
Afterward, Lady Clarice took her to Gunter’s. Dressed in pomegranate-colored muslin, Hélène felt very unlike herself sitting among the ton in the fashionable confectionery, eating a lemon ice.
“Now dear,” Lady Clarice said, “What would you like to do with the rest of your day?”
“What plans have you, my lady?”
“Nothing that cannot be put off. Would you like to go to the British Museum to see the Elgin marbles?”
Hélène deliberated. “Papa said it was a crime that they were taken from Greece, but I must confess that as long as they are here, I would like to see them. I shall never have the opportunity to come close to anything of Classical antiquity again.”
“Then we shall go!” Lady Clarice bounded up and they went to fetch a hackney.
The British Museum, of which she had heard so much from Papa, consisted of large, cold rooms lit only by windows. The marbles were very popular. Many couples were strolling between the large antiquities carried from legendary locales such as the Parthenon. Hélène paused before the caryatid that had formerly acted as a pillar of a temple on the Acropolis.
She heard Ginny’s voice behind her, “Hélène! How lovely to see you, dear. Is that not an exquisite carving? Just think how old it is.”
Hélène turned to greet her friend and then paused when she saw her on Lord Shrewsbury’s arm.
He raised his hat to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. Lady Virginia seems to have had the same idea as you today. What do you think of Lord Elgin’s playthings?”
Her heart was thrumming at such a pace, she was certain her face was red. “I think it a terrible pity that they were ever removed from their proper sites.”
Lady Clarice spoke up, “I agree, dear.”
“This caryatid, for instance.” Redirecting her emotio
n into outrage, Hélène indicated the female figure that appeared to be holding something overhead. “When she was removed, what happened to the temple? Did it fall to bits?”
Lord Shrewsbury said, “I believe it to have been replaced by an identical terra cotta figurine.” His eyes twinkled at her. He was not taking her seriously.
“What a travesty,” she said. “How could anyone think introducing something so inferior could take the place of something that was meant to be part of the whole?”
Lord Shrewsbury looked startled. Then he leveled a gaze into her eyes, his own soft and dark. What had she said to make him look at her like that? She played back her words in her mind, and realized they could mean something else entirely.
Ginny broke into the conversation. “I thought William said he was to call on you. He was to have met us here.”
“If he did call,” Hélène said, “He would have found us from home. Lady Clarice was kind enough to take me to explore Hatchard’s.”
“Would you care to join us for luncheon?” Lord Shrewsbury asked. “We are going to Grillon’s.”
Hélène gave Lady Clarice a barely discernible shake of the head, and that lady said, “Thank you, no. We have barely begun our tour here, and Sukey expects us home for luncheon.”
“Well, tally ho, then!” The baron raised his walking stick cheerfully and they walked off toward the exit.
Hélène was embarrassed to feel that her palms were damp inside her gloves. She was disappointed in herself. Clearly, Lady Virginia was his choice. There was only one thing to be done. She must leave London.
Lord Delacroix, at least, did not find her unworthy. Or was Shrewsbury right and all the baron wanted was a mistress?
*~*~*
Whatever his aim where she was concerned, Lord Delacroix called at Blossom House at five o’clock, hoping to take her for a drive in the park.
Hélène asked him, “To what end, my lord?”
“So that we can come to a better understanding of one another,” he said with a small smile. “I mean to convince you of what I said: that I want you to educate me.”
The Baron and the Bluestocking Page 10
