Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (14 page)

“Amanda doesn't keep any secrets from me.”

“Brothers are wonderful, though that's another thing I'd never tell any of mine. I'm glad you're a good one.”

“Amanda is a good sister, easily my favorite.”

“I look forward to meeting her and exchanging reminiscences of unrequited love.”

They smiled at each other and a spiral of warmth curled around his heart. For all their difference in station, growing up within three miles of each other made them fellow countrymen. A wave of longing for Mandeville engulfed him. He'd always been happier there. In London, huge as Vanderlin House was, he'd never been able to escape the presence of his father and the weight of expectations he could never fulfill.

“We'll try and lure Amanda back from Scotland,” he said. “She loves Mandeville as much as I do. We'll spend the summer there.”

“And then back to London in the autumn,” his wife replied. “I can hardly wait.”

He rested back in his chair and turned his attention to the scene below. He wondered what Minerva thought of the open lust displayed by some elements of the crowd. She showed no sign of shock, neither would he expect her to. In all the time he'd known her she'd never hinted at the prudishness of the average young miss. But he guessed she knew little or nothing about physical love and he doubted she had any great curiosity either. She certainly hadn't seemed upset by his absence from her bed.

“Blake.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think anyone would notice if you kissed me?”

He really needed to stop making assumptions about her.

“We're seated well back in the box and the lighting is weak,” he said with feigned disinterest. “I shouldn't think anything we did would draw much attention, unless someone looks at us directly.”

“Would you like to kiss me?” Was that a hint of diffidence?

“Why do you ask?”

She leaned closer, and though her approach was too matter-of-fact to be flirtatious, it didn't stop his body responding as to the advances of an expensive courtesan. On the contrary, there was something exciting about such directness. He'd never known Minerva Blakeney to be coy and she wasn't starting now.

“I owe you a number of favors and I hate to be in debt,” she said.

“Since you are the debtor I think you should offer the payment.”

After a little thought she nodded. “What would I have to do to discharge one favor owed? How long should a kiss last?”

“It can be a mere peck, and let me say right off that wouldn't be enough. Or it can last for hours.”

“Hours? What about breathing?”

“You breathe through your nose.”

“I see.” He watched her close her lips tight and experiment. Then she smiled.

“Let me propose a contest.”

“Are you sure you want to lose again?”

“I haven't lost the other one yet. I'm merely behind.” She frowned at him. “Don't look so sure of yourself. I shall overtake you. And I'll win this one too.”

“What's the challenge?”

“I will kiss you and that will pay one of your favors. For one minute. Is that long enough?”

“It seems fair.”

“And then the kiss will continue and whoever stops first loses.”

He couldn't help it. He ran a finger along the bow of her upper lip, plump and satin smooth. “Done,” he said hoarsely.

The lip rose beneath his touch and he felt her breath mist his finger. “I knew it would appeal to your sporting instincts.”

“Whilst you, my lady, haven't an ounce of competitive spirit.”

“Let's start. I shall be doing the kissing at first so you must count to sixty and let me know when the minute is up. Nudge my arm or something, because of course we may not speak.”

“You have this all planned, don't you?”

She stood up and took a healthy swig from her glass. For courage, he fancied. She wasn't as brassy as she appeared. And he, though he hadn't taken in a quarter of the wine he needed to be foxed, was a little punch-drunk himself.

“I thought it would be more discreet if we stood in the shadows. Not,” she said waving an arm at the raucous crowd, “that anyone would likely care
what
we do.”

“There's probably
something
we could do to shock them.”

She blushed and walked to the rear of the box. “Come.”

“Where would you like me to stand?”

She wrinkled her nose while she thought about it, then positioned him with his back to the wall. Taking his head in both hands she drew it down and gave him a quick trial kiss. “Start counting.”

She began slowly, delicately nibbling at his upper lip with an intermittent shy touch of tongue at the seam of his mouth.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen,
he counted silently. Then she fitted their mouths together and began to draw on his.
Twenty, twenty-one.
The pressure grew and he felt her sucking his breath from his barely open lips.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine
.

When she widened the kiss, brought her tongue into full play, he stopped noticing her technique and let his senses drown in humid heat and champagne-laced sweetness.

Thirty-eight, forty-two
. . . He lost count and didn't care. All his powers of concentration were needed to remain passive. Minerva Blakeney, née Montrose, knew how to kiss and how to kiss well, and he couldn't wait for the next stage of the challenge.

He had no idea if the full minute had passed and he didn't care. To hell with it. He'd grant her the victory and they could get on with the real contest. He swung her round to exchange positions. “One to you,” he whispered against her lips and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth.

Minerva had no time to savor her victory, and little inclination to do so because she was pleasurably, ecstatically engaged in the next challenge. Kissing a passive Blake had been fun, but being shoved against the wall and ruthlessly possessed took excitement to new levels. Their previous kiss in Berkeley Square, good though it had been, had nothing on this one. She felt giddy with delight.

She forced her scrambled brain to function. It was important for this kiss to last a long time, both for a second victory and because, win or lose, she wasn't anxious to stop soon. Breathe through the nose, she thought. Yes. Lips locked? She wouldn't want to lose by default because she couldn't keep her hold on the kiss. Though Blake's mouth was bigger than hers, somehow their lips were perfectly aligned. She'd swear not an atom of air would escape them.

The gentle rhythm of his breathing, felt rather than heard, was in counterpoint to her own, the harmony of lovers. Lovers. The word pierced her consciousness and jolted her heart. Is that what they were, she and Blake? Lovers as well as husband and wife? It seemed so unlikely, but also so right. Without volition she hummed with satisfaction and surrendered herself to the joy of her lover's ravishing kiss.

She felt pleasurably engulfed. His lower arms lay flat on either side of her head and his hard sportsman's body enclosed her, pressed her against the velvet wall of the box. Her breasts stiffened under his weight and her legs sensed the muscles of his through their thin covering of muslin and petticoat. She moaned and returned his kiss stroke for stroke then moaned again, louder, when one powerful thigh nudged hers apart and he rubbed his groin against hers. The hardness against her soft private place set her glowing and aching inside. She pushed back and drew an answering moan from him.

The world receded to two bodies locked as one, sharing the same air. Far away, wild music played on, the tune changing several times, the only measure of time passing. But the Café de la Paix seemed in a different universe from the one inhabited by them, the universe of Minerva and Blake. Thoughts swirling and jumbled, she felt breathless and faint and lost to sensation. She wanted it to last forever and she wanted something more. Her hands laced his hair and massaged his skull, but she pulled one loose and brought it down to grasp one of his firm buttocks and tug him closer to her, sending a message that came from pure instinct.

Every inch of him stiffened, not excluding the hard bulge she rubbed with her belly. He broke the seal of their mouths. “Oh, Minnie!” he groaned and grasped her own bottom, pulling her up on her tiptoes and tight against him, grinding his pelvis into hers at the same time as he covered her face and neck with hard, fast kisses. “Oh, Minnie,” he said again, his face now plunged into the space between her aching breasts. “You are going to kill me.”

“Blake,” she whispered. “I've won.”

It wasn't supposed to be a crow of triumph. To tell the truth she didn't feel much glee. Discontent rather, if it meant the kiss was over. She'd have been happy to continue another hour or two. She shook her head in wonder that the whole extraordinary business could be summed up in a single short word. Kiss. He raised his head and looked at her, blue eyes dark and blazing, though with what emotion she couldn't guess. She craned her neck, trying to find his mouth again, but he stepped back, leaving her body chilled. His breathing, like hers, was uneven and labored.

“Very well done, my lady,” he said with a strained smile. “Another favor redeemed.”

“One more to go.” She invested the phrase with more competitive relish than she felt.

“I think we deserve some champagne after our exertions.”

She wanted kisses, not champagne. Why didn't he feel the same way?

He took her right hand in both his and raised it for a lingering buss on the palm. She felt better. “Let us sit,” he said and guided her into her chair, sat beside her, not too close but not too far, and poured them both more wine.

“To a most stimulating competition,” he toasted. The suggestive tone accompanied by a lingering gaze set her body quivering again. Perhaps tonight they would at last consummate their marriage.

B
lake stopped at the door to his wife's chamber. She swayed a little. Too much champagne, he judged.

“Good night,” he said, brushing her knuckles with his lips as though taking leave of a dowager. “I trust you will sleep well.”

“Er . . . good night.” She appeared confused as she examined his face, slightly bleary-eyed.

She expected him to follow her in, or come to her later. It was what he wanted, had wanted all night. He'd had to break off that astonishing kiss and concede victory. It was either that or take her against the wall in a public place. He'd needed some distance to control himself.

At that moment he had made his decision. To hell with his father. He would woo her into bed.

He'd never pursued a woman so lacking in experience and he wanted to take his time. It might take days, but they had time. There was a reason they called it a honeymoon. She was willing now, also a little foxed. It occurred to him a slight alcoholic numbness might help with her virginity, but he wanted their first time to be memorable.

And if getting Minerva with child (a possibility though not his principle goal) was the result, he wasn't doing it to please his father but to please himself. And his bride. He'd also discovered a surprising ambition. When he took possession of Minerva she was going to come to him not because of the duty of a wife, but because she wanted him, and respected him too.

Making her want him was the easy part. He could read the messages of her body. Respect was much harder, perhaps even impossible.

Chapter 14

M
inerva woke with a slight headache. She'd been a trifle inebriated when finally getting to bed in the small hours. She must remember that champagne, delicious as it was, needed to be taken in moderation. She rang for her maid and asked for a cup of tea and dry toast in bed, her usual morning chocolate seeming too rich for her fragile state. While awaiting sustenance she considered the disappointing conclusion to a marvelous evening.

He'd deliberately conceded the contest, she was now sure. She didn't believe for a moment that Blake, who possessed the endurance of a bruising huntsman, couldn't have kept kissing for much longer. But he'd redeemed himself by chatting most charmingly over champagne. Nothing of great substance was said, but she had to admit her husband was entertaining when it came to small talk. After they'd eaten and drunk their fill, and compared the skills of a succession of ropedancers, none of whom fell into the crowd, he'd suggested they move on to a different establishment.

The Café des Chinoises also offered music of a delightfully low kind and the decorations were matched by its staff, pretty young women in Chinese costume instead of the usual waiters. After sharing another bottle of champagne, which Blake declared inferior to that at the Café de la Paix though Minerva was beyond such discrimination, they'd ended the evening with ices at Tortoni's.

Blake was an assiduous escort, consulting her wishes, helping her tenderly through doors, up and down steps, and in and out of the carriage. He whispered compliments, setting her ears a-tizzy beneath his lips, kissed her hand frequently, and never lost a chance to gently tease her and call her Minnie.

His absence from her bed was more of a mystery than ever.

Her maid came in with a tray.

“Has His Lordship risen?” Min asked.

“He went out over an hour ago.”

Min looked at the clock on the mantle, surprised at how late it was and slightly peeved at Blake. She'd hoped they'd do something together that day. The presence of a note on her tray allayed her annoyance, until she tried to read it.

She'd never seen his handwriting before, apart from his bold one-word signature on various settlement papers and the record of their marriage. It was absolutely execrable.

She stared at the single sheet, unable to believe a grown man with a superior education could produce such illegible chicken scratches, even when writing in haste. She couldn't tell if his spelling was that of a six year old with an incompetent governess, or his writing so bad it just appeared that way.

“Dear Minnie,” the note began but it looked like “Daer Minei.” If he was going to saddle her with the dreadful nickname let him at least spell it right. “I've gone to see a man about a horse.” Or rather “hores.” The next part was even worse and it took some time to decipher the message: that he intended to return in the afternoon to take her riding. The clearest part of the brief and unsatisfactory missive was the signature.

Just when they were beginning to enjoy something resembling a honeymoon, he'd left her to go and see a horse (or
hores)
. With his luck the seller would turn out to be Napoleon Bonaparte's best friend and Blake would draw ahead in their contest again. Not that she hadn't enjoyed paying Blake his favors, but it would be even more fun to have him in her debt. Besides, it was unjust, ridiculous, and humiliating that she, with her years of study of politics and diplomacy, should be defeated by a man whose main interest was horses. Who couldn't even spell!

How was she to eavesdrop on Princess Walstein's secret meeting with the Duke of Mouchy-Ferrand that afternoon? The pair of them had arranged to meet at the duke's
hôtel
. Minerva had discovered its location, on the Ile St. Louis, and she'd learned that a duchess existed and was in residence. To her mind that meant the Princess would make an afternoon call on the lady of the house, then slip away to do her business with the duke.

Minerva rejected the idea of infiltrating the Mouchy household disguised as a servant. The challenge of speaking servants' French with an Austrian accent appealed to her strongly and she abandoned the plan only after prolonged thought. Pretending to be the Princess's maid might win her access to the establishment, but she'd be shown immediately into the presence of her so-called mistress and her deception exposed. In the end she decided to call on the Duchess of Mouchy-Ferrand under her own name. After all, duchesses needed to stick together and she was practically one herself now. Once admitted to the Hôtel Mouchy, she had every confidence in her ability to improvise.

Fortunately an elaborate promenade gown of royal blue silk had been delivered from the Parisian dressmaker. Worn with an ermine tippet, blue kid gloves and slippers, and a
chapeau de velours
so elegant even Minerva couldn't help being impressed, she looked every inch a high-ranking noblewoman. Diana would be proud of her, she thought, as she took a last look in the hall mirrors on her way out.

Emerging from the hired carriage in the courtyard of the Duke of Mouchy-Ferrand's mansion, she had her own footman, one of the French servants belonging to their apartment, announce
la marquise de Blakeney
and swept into the hall with her nose in the air, far too important to utter so much as a word to insignificant lackeys. The bewigged functionary who admitted her was duly impressed and meekly led her to a large salon, rather fussily furnished with gilt furniture. A vast crystal chandelier, suspended from a frescoed ceiling, seemed to dominate the room, dwarfing the salon's sole occupants.

The elder of two ladies, a plain, stout woman of rubicund complexion who almost burst out of her overdecorated gown, turned out to be the duke's mother, widow of Bonaparte's general. Minerva's intelligence had told her the old duchess, in far-off egalitarian days, had been the daughter of a butcher. By contrast her daughter-in-law was very pale and slight. She came from an
ancien régime
family and the current duke had wed her after he inherited, in a hurry to enhance his royalist credentials.

The two duchesses received Minerva with civility, though baffled by her presence. She wasn't sure they believed the rigmarole she spun of having been recommended to call by the Duchess of Hampton because of a complicated connection through a series of friends and relations, most of whom didn't even exist. But they were confused by her tale, impressed by her excellent French, and too polite to argue.

It occurred to Minerva she might be able to discover something of the duke's political predilections from the ladies. She would also enjoy a firsthand account of Napoleon's court from the old duchess. But asking the French about their Bonapartist past was most definitely not
comme il faut
. So she endured fifteen minutes of small talk while furiously wondering how she was going to find the duke. She'd heard him mention three o'clock to the princess but, with only a few minutes to the hour, there was no sign of him. Would his Austrian caller be shown directly to whatever room he occupied?

“I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of
monsieur le duc
at the Austrian Embassy,” she said finally. “Will he join us this afternoon?”

The question, which to her seemed perfectly innocent, was ill-received. The young duchess looked as though she'd been struck, while her mother-in-law answered with a brisk “
non”
and gave Minerva the look her own mother would bestow on a mongrel who came sniffing round her prize foxhound bitch.

Luckily for her plans—since she was momentarily nonplussed by the reaction—a large party of callers arrived: more ladies, a couple of gentlemen, and several children. Unlike her they were expected and appeared to be members of the family, but not from the aristocratic side. A great deal of jolly greeting of
cousins
and
cousines
went on, reminding Minerva a little of her own boisterous family. In the commotion she was able to excuse herself, implying an unspecified call of nature.

From visiting the British Embassy and a couple of other great Parisian houses, she had a basic grasp of the way French
hôtels
were arranged. She expected that the duke would have his own suite of interconnected apartments, most likely on the opposite side of the court from the state rooms. She made her way around, by way of a long painted gallery, her slippered footsteps deafening to her ears on the parquetry floor. To her relief she didn't encounter any servants, a fact that was perhaps significant in itself. If the duke had a private meeting to plot treason he'd have ordered his staff to keep away. Leaving the gallery, she discovered a door open to a modest-sized room, furnished as a study. She entered softly, ready to claim she'd got lost if the room was occupied. She was rewarded by the sound of a voice from an adjoining chamber, female and speaking in German.

She was straining to make out any words, when distracted by a new sound. Someone in the passage coming nearer. Someone walking quickly, wearing boots, and making no attempt to disguise his approach.

T
here was something to be said for honeymoons, Blake decided as he returned to the apartment, eager to see Minerva again. One part of him feared she'd been disgusted by his note. He could have left word with the servant, but he wanted to make the message personal, to assure her he hadn't just abandoned her without a word. Since this morning he was full of optimism, he'd decided to take the risk. With luck she was feeling fond enough of him to attribute his terrible handwriting to carelessness. Plenty of his fellow Etonians had penmanship equally bad, despite being able to read perfectly well.

He went straight to his room, not wishing to present himself to Minerva in his dirt after a morning in the stables, followed by a bout of fencing with Armitage. He'd awoken feeling itchy and sluggish and in need of exercise. Since childhood he'd been accustomed to expend most of his energy in physical activities where he excelled, as opposed to the intellectual pursuits at which he so dismally failed. His tension was certainly exacerbated by his abstinence from one particular physical release.

Soon,
he promised himself.
Soon
.

Once he'd washed off the sweat and changed his clothes, he raced to the salon and found it empty save for a servant attending to the fire. An enquiry about the whereabouts of milady elicited the news that she'd taken the cabriolet and left him a note. The disadvantage of writing as a means of communication was that one might be expected to read a response.

Blast the woman! He'd picked up some unsavory gossip about the Duke of Mouchy-Ferrand at the fencing club and wanted to warn her before she dashed off, like a greyhound to a hare, to catch a Bonapartist. It was possible that Mouchy was a sympathizer of the late Emperor; Blake had heard nothing to indicate otherwise. More certain were the duke's imaginative amorous habits. Blake's regrettably innocent wife might find herself in a situation far more troubling than a few hours in a London magistrates' jail.

With something like panic he perused the sheet of paper. Her writing, though neat and even, was not in the capital letters he found easiest to read. Neither was it as brief as his own earlier epistle. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Otherwise he'd waste precious minutes watching the words and letters dance before his eyes in a meaningless jumble. Because he was looking for them, the words emerged. Mouchy-Ferrand. And surely the word before was “
hôtel
.”

He sent a servant to summon a fiacre and set off for the Ile St. Louis. He managed to decipher most of the letter en route, confirming his choice of destination. The signature drew a smile: Minerva Blakeney. She hadn't written that very often. The salutation was the formal and correct “my lord.” Minnie could be very proper in some ways, but underneath lay the heart of a rebel. He wondered if she could be persuaded to join him in flouting his family and its tradition of keeping its collective finger in the nation's pie.

The Hôtel Mouchy was one of those very large Parisian mansions, every bit as grand as Vanderlin House, but possessed of more charm and grace. The fiacre entered the court and deposited him at the steps to the surprisingly modest main entrance, alongside Minerva's cabriolet. A majordomo confirmed that Milady Blakeney had indeed called. Shown to a drawing room he found a chatty family gathering, but no wife and no sign of any gentlemen who answered to the description he'd been given of the duke.

He left abruptly and doubted his presence had even been noticed. “Where is the duke?” he demanded, and when the lackey showed a tendency to object he applied double persuasion: with one hand he picked up the man by his collar while the other slipped him a
louis d'or.
Impressed by Blake's muscles, the value of the coin, or both, the man supplied the information he needed.