Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (13 page)

“It's located in a dark cellar. I fear it may be too low for your taste.”

“What do you know of my taste?”

He threw up his hands. “Not much. For all I know you'd enjoy it immensely, but I'm not sure I can guarantee your safety there. The Café de la Paix should be disreputable enough to broaden your education without risking death.”

She leaped to her feet. “What time do you wish to leave? I must change,” she said, suddenly giddy at the prospect. An evening in a disreputable café, in company with a man, was a new and thrilling experience.

He caught her hand before she could leave. “There's no hurry. Things begin late here.” He leaned over and dropped a light kiss on her lips. Her heart thudded. “And Minnie—”

“Don't call me that.”

“Don't overdress.”

For a wild moment she considered going out in nothing but her petticoats. The thought of Blake seeing her in dishabille excited her.

“Nothing too rich for an evening in low company,” he added.

Chapter 13

T
he Café de la Paix was like nothing Minerva had ever seen. Set in a barely converted theater, complete with stage and boxes, it was packed to capacity with the kind of people they would never have encountered among the Prussians, Russians, or even the literary set.

For a start, few of the females in the place could be categorized as “ladies” except in the most generous definition of the word. The combination of boldly exposed bosoms and bolder face paint left her in no doubt that these exotic creatures were sisters to the prostitute who had propositioned them in Shepherd's Market. Their escorts appeared to be either men of commerce or overdressed dandies of a raffish cast. Mingling with this disreputable crowd was a slightly more sober element, very likely small tradesmen and their wives out to enjoy the free entertainment provided for the price of a drink or a light meal. An orchestra played without remission on the stage but the principal attraction of the place was the ropedancers, who performed feats of daring on a wire strung diagonally across the auditorium.

Minerva held her breath when a pretty girl in a wide knee-length skirt took off with graceful steps across the expanse of the chamber. She imagined the smashed crockery and broken bones if a dancer ever fell onto the tables below. The patrons in the pit area stared up with eyes and mouths agape, especially the men. Looking up the dancer's skirt, Minerva thought, covering her mouth to hide a giggle.

“What?” Blake regarded her with quizzing look.

“I was wondering what she wears under her skirt.” The kind of remark she'd make to her sister and even her brothers. So what was wrong with speaking thus to her husband?

“I wouldn't know,” he said, but something in his air—a touch of exaggerated innocence—told her that he might, in fact, be cognizant of the undergarments worn by members of the dancing profession.

The dancer reached the point closest to their box, one of the most luxurious on the second tier. Though a few feet above them, from their vantage point it was possible only to see her flesh-colored stockings. Then she stopped, braced herself, and tumbled, heels over head, sideways on the narrow wire. Minerva's attention was divided between admiration for the girl's courage and agility, and distinct relief at the discovery that she wore tightly fitting hose, all the way to the waist.

“Is your curiosity satisfied, Minnie?”

“Quite so. And don't call me that.” She couldn't put much vehemence into her protest. To her horror, she was beginning to get a guilty pleasure out of the silly nickname. Impulsively she reached out her hand to touch his arm. “Thank you for bringing me here. I'm enjoying myself.”

Mr. Thomas Parkes would never have brought her here.

The thought came out of nowhere. Nor could she even imagine raising the subject of intimate garments with him. But that was because he was a gentleman of solid worth, not a frivolous aristocrat. Yet the frivolous aristocrat had taken her out of his milieu and, at her request, brought her to a place where she could mingle with people quite beneath his touch. In all the time she'd known him Blake had never appeared to set much store by his grand position. She'd always assumed it was because he took it for granted. That he was so secure in his superiority he needn't trouble himself with it. Unless he truly didn't feel superior. She had always had a low opinion of his character and abilities, after all. Perhaps he shared her view. And if he had a modest view of his own worth then, paradoxically, her own assessment of him would have to be adjusted upwards.

She felt confused, an unwonted state of affairs she attributed to the champagne she'd drunk. That was another new discovery. She really liked champagne.

The waiter, who'd withdrawn after bringing the wine, entered the box. To Minerva's interest, though not much to her surprise, Blake conducted a conversation with the man in serviceable if not elegant French about their meal.

“Why did you tell me you couldn't speak French?” she asked once the man had left.

“I told you nothing of the kind.”

“But you let me think so.”

“I like to live down to people's low opinion of my intelligence.”

“That seems very foolish. Anyway, I already guessed you spoke French. Even with Englishmen present, most of the talk at Chantilly must have been in French and you could never have learned what you did without understanding it.”

Blake merely smiled and refilled her glass.

“Why do you pretend to know less than you do?”

“Just perverse, I suppose. Most people pretend to know more than they do.”

“I don't.” She paused. “At least, I don't think I do.”

He brought his face close to hers. “You think too much, Minnie,” he said.

Her eyes fixed on his half-smiling mouth. Her breathing quickened, her lips parted. Then he drew back. Of course he wouldn't kiss her in public, would he? She wouldn't want him to, would she?

“Have some more champagne and remember this: I'm just as stupid as you've always thought me.”

“I don't exactly think you stupid.”

He looked at her with skepticism written clearly on his face. It was just as well the waiter returned with a laden tray. She wasn't sure what to say.

Parisian cafés didn't serve formal dinners. Blake had ordered an array of dishes from those offered by the waiter: various hors d'oeuvres, savory and sweet pastries, cheeses, and fruit. Having long since confirmed that Mr. Fussell's derogatory comments on French food were nothing but patriotic prejudice, Minerva fell to with enthusiasm, hoping food would soak up some of the champagne and stop the unruly fluttering that afflicted her body.

She wore the simplest evening gown she had with her, an off-white muslin suitable for an informal dinner in the country. The sleeves were very short and she felt exposed in the light garment, as though clad in gossamer. Her skin felt sensitive in a way that was new to her, alive and shimmering. She hoped it was caused by the heavenly bubbles of French wine and not by the proximity of a handsome English marquis, who lounged in the chair next to her and watched her eat olives with a faint smile on his lips. When he caught her studying him she jerked her head aside.

To still the thud of her heart, she concentrated on the crowd, which grew rowdier as the evening progressed. The tempo of the music seemed designed to warm the blood and set bodies moving to its rhythm. In the center of the pit a woman danced on a large round table, displaying all of her ankles and a good deal of calf. Her tablemates cheered her on and clapped along with the beat, except for one man whose face was almost buried in his companion's ample and barely covered bosom. To her surprise her own seemed to ache in sympathy and she rather thought her nipples might be hardening under her gown. She averted her regard from the couple and noticed that none of their neighbors were giving them a second look. Public kissing wasn't likely to trouble the clientele of the Café de la Paix.

“What do you suppose these people think of us?” Minerva said.

“What do you mean?”

“Although you are informal tonight, your dress proclaims your wealth and position. You are obviously a man of means and fashion. No one could mistake you for anything else.”

“I'm not sure that's a compliment. What about you?”

“I am dressed too simply to be the wife of such an important man, yet I hardly match the other ‘ladies' in the place, most of whom I take to be courtesans. I probably look like a schoolgirl.” She was rather disgusted with the notion of appearing so young and naïve, and felt a fleeting regret that she wasn't wearing one of her elegant ensembles from the Parisian dressmaker.

Blake appeared to give the matter some thought. His answer when it came was matter-of-fact. “I guess that most of the men here envy me for being able to afford a beauty so great she needs no adornment.”

For a moment the overblown compliment flummoxed her, until she grasped his meaning. She laughed in disbelief. “You mean they think I must be a courtesan
because
of my plain dress?”

“Naturally, if our relationship were to progress, I would furnish you with some expensive and ostentatious jewelry.”

She raised her hand to her modest pearl necklace. She'd thought about wearing the Vanderlin cameos but they'd seemed too fine. She remembered the emeralds she'd found in Blake's room. And the rubies he'd given to his mistress, a real courtesan. Logically there was no reason to mind greatly about the latter. But the thought threatened to spoil her evening and she pushed it aside. Instead she might as well learn something. Knowledge of the way the world worked was always worth acquiring.

“Let's assume that we have just met, before any gifts have changed hands. What would you do?”

Blake shifted his chair so that his leg brushed hers at every slight movement, unless she stiffened her muscles and consciously avoided contact. She forced herself to relax and sensed his thigh disturb the thin layers of cloth against her skin. He put his left elbow on the table and rested his head on his fist, turning his neck to face her.

“Well?” she said, nervous and excited at his proximity.

“I would woo you.”

“Why?”

“Mistresses need wooing, just as much as wives.”

More than wives. At least in her case. Being courted in a romantic sense had never been her dream, but it occurred to her she might be missing something.

Then he touched her. The light trace of his fingers over the back of her ungloved hand shot a quiver up the length of her arm. And Minerva, ever a girl of ambition, realized she wanted to be courted by her husband.

Blake wasn't sure what he was doing. The object of the evening had been to improve relations with his wife. As he got to know Minerva he found he liked her, despite some of her irritating traits. Now he realized he wanted her, quite badly. There'd been several moments tonight, and earlier, when he'd almost lost control and progressed from gentle flirtation to full seduction. She sat there, the picture of fair youthfulness in her modest gown, and instead of a girl he saw a siren. Edging closer so the details of golden locks and bright eyes hardly mattered, he basked in the clean fragrant heat and was unable to resist touching the soft skin. His fingers limned the fine bones, the tender knuckles. Her hand was small for a tall woman, and businesslike. With her slender body one would expect long fingers. Instead they were on the short side, not ungraceful but quite sturdy with well-shaped nails trimmed short. The left hand hung at her side, and the right, which he continued to lightly caress, was unadorned. A practical hand for a practical lady.

He didn't believe Minerva was unaware of her beauty; she was too intelligent for that. But it wasn't important to her. He'd never known a woman so lacking in vanity and he found it commendable, and even exciting.

“Have you ever been in love, Minnie?” He guessed not. She was too busy with the business of the world to concern herself with romantic dreams like most young girls.

“Certainly I have.”

Touché
. Just when he thought he had her measure. The answer didn't please him.

“With whom? Or is it a secret?”

“I'll tell you if you promise not to tell my brothers.”

“It'll be just between ourselves. Who was this fortunate fellow?”

She pursed her lips and her eyes sparkled. “Caleb Robinson.”

He knew the name, but how? Was it some tedious political aspirant who haunted the corridors of Vanderlin House? Then it came to him and he relaxed.

“Robinson! The blacksmith at Duke's Mandeville.”

“The handsomest man I ever met. I fell in love with him when I was eight years old.”

Blake let out a crack of laughter. “I'm afraid you have a rival for his affections.”

“I'm sure I have many, including his wife. Who in particular?”

“My younger sister, Amanda. She fully agrees with your assessment of his bulging muscles and black curls.”

“What makes you think I wasn't attracted to his intellect, his conversation, and his sterling character?”

“Just a guess.”

“As it happens,” she said with an enthusiasm that managed to be both innocent and lascivious, “you are correct. I never missed a chance to go to the forge when one of our horses needed to be shod.”

“I will say,” Blake said, “that the man is a genius with horses. Very likely has Gypsy blood.”

“Who cares about horses? I liked to watch him beating the hot iron with his hammer.”

“My sister would envy you. She would never have been allowed to visit the forge. Robinson always came up to the Mandeville stables to shoe the horses.”

“It's funny, isn't it, that we lived near each other for so long and yet our acquaintance is so slight. I know most of our neighbors far better. Of course, I always knew who you were.”

“What did you think of me?”

“I thought you very handsome.” He felt absurdly pleased. “What did you think of me?” she asked.

“I had no idea of your existence.”

What some women would take as a snub, Minerva accepted with equanimity. “I didn't expect you had. I was a girl, and ten years younger. It's not as though you were in the habit of visiting us.”

She didn't need to point out the reason: the ducal Vanderlins held themselves aloof from the local gentry. The Duke and Duchess of Hampton were too busy about their own vital affairs to pay more than ritual attention to the less important inhabitants of Shropshire. Their children were guarded carefully. As a boy, Blake had at least been free to wander the park and village, and to ride with the hunt. The daughters of the house rarely escaped their governesses. Amanda, his faithful ally, had only been able to develop her youthful tendre for the blacksmith because he, Blake, helped her occasionally escape.

“I'm surprised your sister confided in you. Did you tease her about Mr. Robinson? My brothers would have been unmerciful.”