He rose and went to the armoire. Opening its doors, he found a selection of face masks. He picked a simple half mask of black satin. A matching black banyan hung beside it. The lighting at the Château was always dim, but he chose a powdered wig to further disguise himself from recognition.
As he donned the articles, he felt a strange anticipation.
Chapter Three
HIS WIFE WAS NOWHERE to be found.
“Are you quite certain she is not in her chambers?” Leopold inquired of the maidservant he had asked to search the rooms.
“Yes, m’lord,” the woman replied.
“But her effects are still there? She has not departed?”
“Her portmanteau remains unpacked.”
Leopold returned downstairs to the assembly room, where the pairing ritual was held for guests to claim their partners. He saw Diana upon the lap of a handsome rogue, and thought of Charles joyfully watching the races, oblivious to his wife’s infidelity. Engrossed in murmuring into her paramour’s ear, she took no notice of Leopold. Even if she had, she would likely not have recognized him behind his mask and wig. He was tempted to ask Diana, who ought to have, as she had brought Trudie here, looked after her friend.
“Was she here?” Leopold asked of Madame Follet, who sat with her legs stretched upon a sofa while a young man several years her junior held a glass of wine to her lips.
“I’ve not seen the baroness since supper,” she replied after a sip. “I do hope she is well and can partake a little of the pleasures of the night. I would have tended to her more, but since you are here, I thought it unnecessary.”
“Are all your guests accounted for here?”
She looked about the room. “I think a few have left to begin the true start of their evenings.”
Leopold knew not how to receive the information. When first he had entered the assembly room earlier to see with whom Trudie might engage in criminal congress, he had been relieved to find her absent. Perhaps she had come to her senses and had chosen instead to retire for the evening. That she was not in her chambers left open the possibility that she might have gone off with one of the guests. It concerned him. She could not possibly fathom what transpired here at Château Follet, even if Diana had provided the most detailed of descriptions. Hearing of the activities was not the same as experiencing them.
And what of the man who would claim her? Would he be kind and gentle? Would he perceive her awkwardness and how easily she could be discomfited?
Leaving the assembly room, Leopold renewed his urgency to find Trudie. As he went through empty room after empty room on the first floor of the château, he began to consider how he might search the bedchambers upstairs without bursting in upon unsuspecting guests, but there was no way to prevent such an event if he was to be thorough in his search. And he would not rest until he had found Trudie.
After he discovered her safe and unharmed, he would be tempted to give her the proper scolding she deserved. It mattered not if she had come to Château Follet at Diana’s urging. In coming, Trudie had acquiesced to committing adultery. She had acquiesced to making him a cuckold.
His anger should be tempered, he knew, by guilt over his own infidelity, but wives could not be made cuckolds. He had done his duty in marrying Trudie, had treated her with nothing but kindness, had seen that she had more than enough in the way of pin money and had never denied her anything of consequence. That he did not often visit her bed was likely a relief for her. And she would repay all this by making him a cuckold.
As he allowed his anger to stew, he heard music coming from behind the partially closed doors of a drawing room. Looking through the opening, he beheld a woman seated at a pianoforte, her back to him. Like him, she wore the fashion of the prior century. Her satin dress of dark indigo had petticoats that made her full hips appear even more ample. Her hair was done in a powdered coiffure, but he recognized her figure.
Entering, he stood at the threshold and listened. A skilled pianiste, Trudie often liked to challenge herself with difficult pieces. At present, she played the “Sonata in E-flat Major” by Joseph Haydn. The large composition reflected much of the composer’s late complexities and sophistication. At the instrument, she commanded a passion that did not appear in her demeanor. Or perhaps he had simply not noticed it before.
She finished the final notes with flourish. Having been engrossed in the music, she nearly fell off the bench at the sound of him clapping. She scrambled to her feet and nearly knocked the bench over. She steadied the seat before standing behind the far end of the bench. Though she wore a Venetian mask over her eyes, he knew by her movements that it was Trudie.
“You’re an accomplished player,” he remarked in low, hushed tones to disguise his voice.
“Th-Thank you,” she replied. She pulled at the sleeve of her gown, where layers of lace descended from the elbow. Knowing his wife, she could not be comfortable in such a garment. She adjusted the mask as she cleared her throat.
“Do you await someone here?” he asked.
“No, I—I passed by the room quite by accident and saw this instrument, a Broadwood, and I could not resist.”
He eyed the beautifully grained rosewood and mahogany beside her. In addition to its stately harpsichord case, the instrument produced more resonance than the Viennese she had at home.
“The other guests are gathered in the assembly room,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
“If you are alone at the château, you may acquire a partner there.”
She drew in a sharp breath and nodded.
“But you must hurry,” he added. “Some of the guests have dispersed already.”
“Thank you, but I think—I think I shall retire for the evening.”
He was relieved but raised his brows. Could she possibly have come for no reason other than to keep Diana company? “Retire? The night is young yet.”
“Yes, well, I had a rather long day of travel.”
She scratched at her hair, and he imagined the powder to itch considerably. It would have been no easy task to outfit herself in the fashion of Marie Antoinette. Why undertake all that effort for naught?
“Nevertheless,” he replied, “one does not venture to Château Follet to rest.”
His comment must have made her uneasy. She seemed not to know where to look.
“I did not think I would feel as fatigued as I do,” she answered at last. He could tell she was perturbed by his prodding but was too polite to call out his impertinence.
“Then you did have, at least, the intention to avail yourself of the offerings here.”
“Your pardon?”
“This must be your first visit to Château Follet.”
“Yes. It is a lovely estate.”
“May I ask how you came to know of it?”
“My friend. She is acquainted with Madame Follet.”
“And she told you what transpires here?”
Trudie stared at him with brows knitted. Undoubtedly, she was trying to place the motive for his questioning. “Yes.”
“Are you acquainted with anyone else here?”
“If—if you will not find me rude, sir, I do think I should retire.”
She waited for him to respond, but as he did not move, she remained where she was.
“Your friend left you to fend for yourself?” he tried.
“Did Madame Follet send you, sir, to inquire after me?” Trudie replied.
“She was concerned that you would not enjoy yourself properly.”
She let out the breath she held. “Please tell Madame that I much appreciate her hospitality but regret that I cannot avail myself of the, er, festivities offered.”
“Why not?”
“I find myself fatigued.”
He caught the irk she tried to keep out of her tone. “Is that all?”
“Sir, I am in earnest and will bid you good night.”
If he were to act the gentleman, he would bow and step aside. She was waiting
for just such a motion, but he remained where he was. Upon stepping into Château Follet, one divested the mantle of gentleman and lady.
Flustered, Trudie looked about as if seeking another means of escape. Unaccustomed to wearing such voluminous petticoats, she tugged at her skirts. She stopped. “Will you not miss the pairing event yourself, sir?”
Leopold grinned to himself at her attempt to rid herself of him. “I have no interest in the pairing.”
“Oh,” she responded with disappointment. “Why, then, are you at Château Follet?”
“I came to retrieve something of mine.”
“Ah, well, I pray you will convey my apologies to Madame Follet, and, as the hour is late for me—”
“You’re married,” he said, directing his gaze at her wedding ring. He had taken care to remove his when changing.
She thrust her right hand over the left. “I understand it to be of little consequence here at the château.”
“None,” he affirmed. “Nonetheless, you must be discontented in your marriage to come here, lest you came with your husband.”
Her bottom lip quivered. He had clearly touched a nerve.
She squared her shoulders. “What marriage is not touched by discontent?”
Her response, though arch, lacked conviction. He took a step farther into the room. “So your husband is not here. Have you a paramour here?”
She retreated a step. He could see her mind churning to find the appropriate response. He had never known Trudie to prevaricate—till recently—and a less mannered woman would have called him out for his prying.
“No,” she answered. “Did Madame Follet request these questions?”
It was a poor attempt to put him in his place. Finding her response rather droll, he took another step forward. “I merely think it curious that one would come all this way to Château Follet and not partake of its purpose. Do the activities frighten you?”
She retreated a step. “A little. They are...beyond what I am accustomed to.”
“But they interest you.”
“My friend persuaded me that it would be a fine experience.”
He pressed his lips into a line. It would seem she had, at one point, considered her participation at Follet. “Do you believe her?”
Trudie faltered. “Sir, you ask questions of a rather intimate nature.”
“You were ready to submit yourself—your body—to a perfect stranger. My questions are harmless in comparison.”
He should have been relieved that she had opted to go to bed instead of pursuing a liaison, but he found himself wanting to know how far she would have gone if she were not fatigued as claimed. He advanced another step.
“Do you believe your friend?” he tried again.
“I believe—I believe her knowledgeable in these matters,” she said. “She has been here before and praised the enjoyment of it.”
“And you wished to sample the pleasures here for yourself.” At her guilty expression, he felt both a wave of sympathy and anger at her willing betrayal. “Worry not. As one who has indulged in the offerings here many a time, it would be hypocritical of me to censure you. Indeed, I praise your pursuit of the fleshly pleasures. Much courage is required, particularly of your sex.”
Her countenance softened. “It—it would have been an adventure unlike any for me.”
“The adventure can still be had.”
She fussed with the lace at her décolletage. He eyed the lush swell of her breasts and felt a tug at his groin.
“Perhaps, after a cup of tea or coffee, you can overcome your fatigue,” he said. “Why come all this way to return empty-handed?”
She did not refute his reasoning and lowered her gaze in thought, but then she shook her head. “I could not.”
“Why not?”
“I know no one here.”
“There can be much titillation in lying with a stranger.”
“Yes, Dian—my friend, said the same.”
“And you are inclined to believe her, are you not?”
“But I am married.”
A muscle rippled along his jaw. That had not stopped her from coming to Château Follet, but he kept his tone friendly. “Your husband does not note your absence?”
“He enjoys the races at Ascot. He would not miss me.”
The latter sentence was murmured as if to herself, but he heard the resignation in her voice. “Indeed?”
She seemed surprised that he had heard. “Yes, well, he—he has a mistress to satisfy him.”
It was his turn to be surprised. He had not known that Trudie knew. He had taken care that she would not.
“Are you certain of this?” he asked, searching her countenance for emotion. Was she saddened or vexed by his mistress? To his surprise, he found neither sorrow nor anger but a calm acceptance of his infidelity.
She nodded. “My friend—her husband made mention of it to her quite by accident.”
Charles. Leopold suppressed an oath. He should have known Charles had as large a mouth as Diana.
“Hearsay does not qualify as verity.”
“Well, I—I saw her—his mistress, that is.”
“How unfortunate,” Leopold said carefully, “that your husband should flaunt his mistress before his own wife.”
“Oh, he did not! I arrived at London last season a day earlier than I had told him I would. When I was told he had gone to the theater, I followed suit and saw him—them. She is quite pretty. Beautiful, rather.”
Stunned, Leopold stared at her. His wife had lied to him more than once? What else had she hid from him? Seeing the sadness now in her eyes, he put aside the queries for now. He cursed himself. He had hoped to spare Trudie the pain of knowing—had even convinced himself at one point that she would hardly care that he had a mistress because she had demonstrated so little interest in the amorous attentions of her husband. Many a husband entertained mistresses, and their wives either did not know or chose to look the other way.
But a part of him had always known such attempts to convince himself of the harmlessness of what he did to be false. He had feared that Trudie would be hurt. If she had been more receptive of him in bed, he might not have felt as compelled to take a mistress. But it mattered not how much fault could be placed at her door. He could not rid himself of the remorse.
“I can see why a man, wed or not, would wish to keep her company,” Trudie said wistfully.
Behind his mask, Leopold winced. Her words were a dagger that twisted the guilt inside him.
“Then it is only fair that you indulge in your own liaison,” he pronounced.
She stared at him as if contemplating his reasoning. “I—I suppose.”
“What stays you?”
“Oh, I think I am not quite ready.”
He advanced toward her, wanting a better look into her eyes. “What does your readiness require?”
She took a step back for every one he took towards her. “I...I know not. Well, it does not matter.”
“Why?”
He was at the piano bench, and she was near the wall. He had not spoken with firm conviction when declaring that she match her husband’s adultery, but he was becoming more assured that perhaps two wrongs could make a right, of sorts.
“Well, I—the pairing is surely over by now.”
“Madame Follet can make arrangements. There are always the manservants. They are all handsome. You could easily avail yourself of one.”
Not realizing she had come up against the wall, she stepped backwards and bumped into it. “Oh! I think not.”
He took another step toward her. She could have slid to the side and escaped his nearness, but she seemed at a loss, like a cornered mouse.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“I...”
He had drawn up before her, and she looked rather alarmed.
“Sir...”
“Why not?” he asked. The image of his wife beneath one of the rugged young bucks flashed through his mind, and he found he st
ill balked at the notion of becoming a cuckold. But if a liaison of her own was what she desired, perhaps she deserved to have one.
“It is—they... Please.”
He had closed the distance between them. As he leaned toward her, he could not keep the edge completely from his tone. “They what?”
She seemed to tremble. “They—they would not desire me.”
He stopped.
“I am hardly a beauty,” she supplied.
Unlike others of her sex, she did not reproach herself in search of compliments. She spoke with sincerity. He looked her over from head to toe. Though his wife had not the slender figure admired by most, she had a womanly suppleness to her form and other qualities to recommend her: the brightness of her eyes, the evenness of her teeth, and an unblemished complexion. He took a curl of hair and drew it before her bosom to lay upon a swollen mound.
“You underestimate your desirability, madam,” he said.
She drew in a sharp breath and appeared at a loss for words.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “as we are both without partners, I could oblige your purpose in coming here.”
Her eyes widened, and an unexpected desire to assert his command caused heat to flow through him. How would she react if he took her into his arms right now and kissed her? Curious to know, he reached for her. Before she could object, he had wrapped his arm about her waist and drawn her to him. His mouth descended upon hers.
She gave a muffled cry and pressed her hands against his upper arms, but her resistance was weak. Her lips were softer than he remembered, and they yielded quite nicely beneath his, causing the blood in his veins to course more strongly.
He parted her lips to taste the interior of her mouth. Her stiffness began to thaw as he roamed the orifice. Her powder, rouge, and the scent of something he could not name filled his nose. When he lifted himself to allow her a breath, he could see her mind swimming. She blinked but seemed unable to focus her eyes. The flutter of her thick lashes and the heaving of her bosom called to a primal urge within him. He lowered himself to claim her mouth once more.
Surrendering to the Baron (A Steamy Regency Romance Book 7) Page 2
