Dancing the Maypole (31 page)

“How
comforting!” Isabel made the sign of the cross over her chest.

“The clock is
striking three,” said Agnes. “Here’s the key to my gold parlour and
a list of scenes to enact. Lock the door once inside. You don’t
want a nosey servant accidentally opening the door. You’d best
hurry. Pierre is waiting to learn that you dream of saving him from
bloodthirsty cannibals. I thought it amusing how the tropical sun
in your last novel dissolved the shipwrecked Pierre’s trousers
within hours.” Agnes snorted in amusement, “If I saw Peter in a
loincloth made of banana leaves, I’d laugh up a lung.”

Muttering her
own curse on helpful relatives, Isabel crossed the room and
snatched up the key and folded piece of paper.

“If you don’t
manage to imprint your feelings on the man’s lips in the next few
hours,” said Agnes, “I shall think you a pathetic excuse for a
heroine.”

Isabel sneered,
“I don’t need to be blackmailed into a locked room to kiss a man.
Pierre is already familiar with my lips.”

Agnes’s eyes
widened in surprise. “Is he? Sly dog! Whatever you do, don’t lose
your temper and brain the man with one of my treasures. I don’t
want blood on my carpet. It was a gift from James. It upsets him
when his gifts are damaged.”

“I’ll be sure
to advise your brother not to enrage me for the sake of your rug.
I’m sure he’ll oblige you.”

“I’m sure he
will. Peter is a good man.”

“I never said
he wasn’t,” snapped Isabel.

“Then marry my
brother before he does a Romeo. The room is on the ground floor at
the back. You’ll know which one it is. The man of your dreams will
be standing near the door looking constipated.”

Isabel hurried
down the stairs creating a much-needed breeze through her muslin
afternoon gown. The cool morning air was a pleasant memory and
she’d forgotten her fan. The tapping of her leather soles slowed as
she reached the bottom.

Turning the
corner, all she could see was a sliver of the man, as though Pierre
had been carved up by Cupid for her to find and paste back
together. The slice of happiness widened until the whole man was
revealed leaning heavily on his beribboned stick. He was facing the
door; his broad shoulders wearing a black coat that made her naked
arms feel cool. Standing next to him, she ignored the electric heat
from his body and shoved the key in the lock. He followed her into
the room and watched her lock the door.

The gold
parlour was a small rectangular room decorated in
champagne-coloured silk. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her
hero had sat down on the love seat designed for two tall people.
The settee was up against the end wall nearest the door.
Upholstered in the same champagne silk, the pale background made
Peter Smirke’s beautiful face appear to float over a manly suit
sketched in black ink. Isabel couldn’t think of many men who could
sit there without being visually overwhelmed by the half portrait
of the beautiful James Smirke hanging above the settee.

Lowering her
gaze, she stared into unsmiling black eyes. Licking her lips she
tried to forcibly swallow the lump in her throat. Her heart raced a
ticking clock as a blistering wave of heat caused sweat to bead on
her arms. Her skin was demanding she discard all irritating fabric.
Groping blindly for her vinaigrette she pressed it to her nose as
his eyes dared her to act out her lurid thoughts. Breaking free,
she turned away wishing she hadn’t called the man an ass in front
of his sons.

Isabel could
only pray her parents wouldn’t hear of it. Her father would gesture
like a deaf conductor and rage in caustic French that he’d spawned
a spiteful mannerless fishwife. Her mother would silently stare
until Isabel felt like a butterfly pinned alive to a piece of
cardboard. Three stinging lungfulls of ammonia brought her to her
senses. The man behind her might be an occasional ass, but so was
her father, except her mother had somehow learned to ignore it with
grace and dignity. In the spirit of fairness Isabel had to admit,
if only to herself that she’d been an ass as well. This
self-knowledge illuminated an uncomfortable truth; she’d purposely
concocted reasons to push Peter away, to convince him to give
up.

Romance was so
much easier on the page. Her fictional Pierre would never fart in
church as the Parson paused for breath. Her novel hero always
understood exactly what his heroine was thinking without her having
to spell it out in capital letters. He’d never stare at her with a
puzzled expression when she wanted him to pull her into his arms.
Real life heroes were capricious. One could never know what they
were going to say or do next. She impulsively turned to look at the
real Pierre. His eyes were closed; his beautiful face twisted with
misery probably caused by one of the many stupid things she’d said
or done.

The awful
silence was compressing the room. If she didn’t say something the
walls would crush them both. “This is a pleasant room,” said
Isabel. The words had no enthusiasm. She might as well have
admitted she was nervous. “Apparently, your brother bought Agnes
this champagne rug as a gift. If my husband ever…” Isabel blushed
as she realised what she was saying. “I think gifts should be
personal. How can a rug be personal?” She paused, but her companion
behind her made no reply. She’d probably insulted him. He’d
probably bought his dead wife a dozen carpets. “A rug would be a
perfect demonstration of a man’s affection…if the lady desired a
rug.” Her hero had probably given his wife twelve rugs without
receiving any show of gratitude. The word rug probably brought back
painful memories of being a failure. “One can’t help but love rugs.
Rugs are a very necessary part of a home. One can’t huddle near a
winter fire without a rug underfoot.” He probably thought she was
hinting for him to marry her and buy her a warehouse of rugs. Every
birthday and Christmas she’d get a rug until she was rolled up in
one and shoved in the family crypt. “But I wouldn’t want one as a
gift.” The words sounded petulant as if any man who offered her a
beautiful expensive rug would fail to win a smile. “I mean, rugs
aren’t something I’d give as a gift…unless my son was setting up
house and he needed a rug…” The mention of children made her wish
she’d brought a fan. Her face was on fire. “Not that I have a son…”
No, she didn’t have a son, and she’d never have one if the man
behind her came to his senses and realised she was a
nincompoop.

Sighing in
despair, Isabel studied her cousin’s private room. Under the
windows draped with more champagne silk sat a long, blackened chest
the size of a small coffin, wrapped with rusting bands of iron, the
contents secured by a large, iron lock. It looked as if it might
have sat for centuries in some little parish church, until Agnes
clapped her hands, and it magically appeared in her study. Against
the wall, opposite the love seat, was a feminine desk in blonde
wood with a matching chair. The polished desktop reflected a small
gold carriage clock, a taper made from an ostrich egg, and a gold
ink stand with gold-mounted glass pots for the ink, pounce and
wafers. That seemed normal enough, but why would her cousin have
two manly pistols, and why would she hang them on the wall over her
desk like cherished souvenirs?

Shaking her
head, Isabel turned towards the door placed between a large
glass-fronted bookcase and a James I wardrobe that looked as though
it hadn’t been opened in years. The remaining wall space was
decorated with two large portraits of Orpington chickens. The large
blonde hen, with plumped up feathers, held her head high and stared
out of her painting at the proud, blonde fighting cock wearing
silver spurs. There was no point trying to fathom Agnes; if the
woman had secrets they were probably locked away in a bank cellar.
With the room inspected, there was nothing left to distract her
from the man behind her. Tucking her vinaigrette back down the
front of her dress, Isabel took a deep breath and turned to face
the settee. He still looked miserable, but he was watching her.

The piece of
paper with Agnes’s list, crushed in Isabel’s sweaty hand, dropped
to the rug forgotten. “Pierre…” His misery vanished leaving an
intense look that made her feel faint. “May I call you Pierre?”

“Oui.”

She tried to
speak, but her throat was too tight. It took several unladylike
coughs. “I apologise for interfering. I went downstairs in the
night for a glass of water and heard someone pacing in the drawing
room. Your son looked ill. I offered to make him a tisane, but he
only wanted advice. He said he was worried about a blind widow…I
didn’t think. If you need to buy off the widow, I’ll give you the
money.”

Peter’s lips
twitched in distaste as he shook his head in a silent refusal. “If
my mother had tried to b-b-buy off my first wife, I’d have thought
her a hateful interfering c-cow. Mamman wisely suggested we wait a
few years, but I thought I knew what I wanted. I wouldn’t have
believed that after three years my wife would be wishing she’d
married the innkeeper, or that I’d be wishing she had. My
Cinderella found out too late that being the mistress of a large
house, wearing expensive gowns and sharing the Viscount’s bed,
wasn’t the fairytale she’d imagined. She was miserable, and there
was no-one to wave a wand and turn her boring husband into a
p-p-pumpkin. I wish I could open my purse and save my son from the
awful loneliness he’ll suffer if he marries a woman who doesn’t
value his heart, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’d hate me.” Her
hero stared at the rug as his white lips struggled to contain his
emotions. “Charles is following my example. It was easier to blame
you than admit I’d failed my son.”

The pained look
on his face drew Isabel to the settee. Sitting down two inches from
the masculine hand resting on the seat; facing her cousin’s desk
she admired long masculine legs dressed in black. “I’d never turn
you into a winter squash Pierre. Orange wouldn’t suit you. If I had
a fairy godmother I’d…”

“Turn me into a
braying ass?”

“Non! I’d have
her turn me into a wise beautiful petite blonde. I’d wind your
heart around my little finger with one sweet smile. I’d always be
kind. I’d never insult you at the breakfast table in front of your
children like a mindless turnip.”

She tensed as
Peter slid his right arm over the back of the settee, and half
turned towards her. “Ma Belle, if I had a fairy g-godmother I’d
have her wave her wand and make you forget I ever mentioned petite
b-blondes.”

Isabel’s gaze
moved from his legs up to his cravat, “Don’t feel guilty for
preferring short blondes Pierre. I prefer tall dark handsome
men.”

“I’m relieved
to hear it,” said Peter. “If you preferred short blondes…”

“I would have
married the German prince. I broke the poor man’s heart, but he
recovered and found some other giant woman to adore.”

Her hero winced
as if pinched by some unpleasant thought. “I’ve always found tiny
women enchanting. They make me feel big.”

Taking a deep
breath, she looked the man in the eyes. “You are big!”

“Am I?” His
lips pursed in Gallic contempt. “If you took away my inherited
money, my inherited honour, and my inherited height I’d be one of
those men who fade into the wallpaper. I’d have seen you and
thought, what a magnificent woman, but it wouldn’t have occurred to
me that I might win your heart. I wouldn’t even have thought to
try. Your sister’s little husband, the one who was a valet, he is a
b-big man.”

“Henri? Yes,
he’s a mastiff shoved inside the skin of a pug. You think I’m
magnificent?”

“Oui.”

“Then why did
you carry me out of your house like a rolled rug?”

Heaving a long
sigh her hero reluctantly met her gaze. “When we first met, at that
ball, I had four young sons and a wife. I had no right to fall in
love with a debutante. I c-couldn’t be in love with you. I promised
my dying father I’d be a good man; a good husband. I somehow locked
away the memory of you, but you refused to be forgotten. Almost
every night you’d come to me in my sleep and…”

She slid closer
and fondled one of the bone buttons on his black and white
chequered waistcoat. “Make love to you?”

“Oui.” His
voice was horse with longing.

“And you called
me your Belle?”

“Oui. My son’s
awful advertisement made me feel like the smallest man in the
kingdom. I couldn’t imagine any sane woman wanting me. I felt
cursed; the loneliness would never end. Turning to see you there… I
was stunned, entranced…horrified. It was as if my beloved mistress
had arrived to demand I do the honourable thing…in front of my
sons. I was embarrassed and angry, but once I was holding you I
wanted to carry you upstairs to my chamber and barricade the
door.”

“That’s very
romantic.”

His lips
twisted as if sucking on a lemon. “Non! Je me sens vraiment
stupide. Even knowing Ma Belle was flesh and blood, I kept lying to
myself…like I’d been lying for eighteen years.” White sparks of
light flashed in front of her eyes as happiness spilled out in
laughter. “How is my pain amusing?”

“You feel
stupid?” Isabel blushed as she studied his cravat. “I paid your
mother to come paint me every year so I could hear her talk about
you. My parents must think I’m some female Narcissus; why else
would I have eighteen portraits of myself? Your mother guessed why
I kept asking her to come paint me. When she delivered the last
one, she invited me to a house party to meet you. I desperately
wanted to accept, but I made up some pathetic excuse. I tell myself
I can’t bear rejection, but truthfully I’m terrified I’ll be
disappointed with reality.” Her gaze fell to the bone button in her
hand. “All these years I’ve imagined endless adventures as your
wife. I can’t foresee the future, but I’m sure you’ll never need me
to steal an air balloon to help you escape being beheaded for
treason.”