Dancing the Maypole (6 page)

The hair on the
back of his neck bristled as he stared at his reflection. His
mirror image was holding the maypole and behind him stood a smiling
man with long brown hair wearing a large brimmed brown hat. Peter
turned to face the man, but there was no-one there. Was he really
mad? Peter slowly turned to look in the mirror and jumped in shock.
The man was now doffing his hat as if greeting Peter into
Bedlam.

“Romantic Agent
1680 at your service my Lord…”

“It did not
just talk to me. I am not hearing phantoms. I’m exhausted.
I’m…”

“You’re Peter
Augustus Smirke; a lonely broken-hearted wretch too thick to
realise when the perfect woman swoons at your feet.”

“Shoo!
Aller!”

“I’m a dead
man, not a dog.” Peter slowly turned away from the mirror and
jumped again. The bed was clearly visible through the seventeenth
century figure.

“Dead?”

“Spirit, ghost,
shade; I prefer dead man.”

“Who are
you?”

“I told you,
Romantic Agent 1680 and if I were you, Peter Augustus, I’d start
panicking. The Boss says you’re in critical danger of losing Isabel
Désirée. She’s been in love with you for eighteen years, and you
tore out her heart in less than eighteen seconds. Casanova you are
not. It was perfect. All you had to do was marry her and be happy.
There’s no telling what you’ll suffer now. She may never forgive
you…I wouldn’t.”

“How can she
b-be in love with me when we’ve never met?”

“How many giant
women have you danced with?”

“I don’t
know.”

“It’s two if
you include your sister-in-law Agnes Sophia. Remember the year your
brother, John Sebastian, was presented? Isabel Désirée was a
debutante. Remember your mother suggesting you dance with the giant
wallflower? Poor Isabel Désirée, she’d been sitting behind her fan
feeling painfully large and undesired for over an hour when she
looked up and saw a tall handsome man standing next to her mother.
The poor child was in love before she knew your name. The fact she
didn’t know you were married till the end of the dance didn’t help.
Her mother mentioned it, but Isabel wasn’t listening and who can
blame her? She’s been in agony all these years praying and hoping
to win your love, but too terrified of rejection to meet you.
Calling her a maypole and throwing her over your shoulders like a
sack of flour merely added weight to the blow.”

“How would you
know what she felt?”

“I’ve read her
diary. Being dead offers certain liberties. It’s a pity you didn’t
listen and leave that insipid house party before you lost your
reason. Your sons saved you from Helene Carteret. The fool who weds
that heartless woman will end up…”

“How dare you?”
Peter was offended by the insinuation that he wouldn’t know a good
woman from a bad one. “Miss Helene Carteret is a sweet girl.”

“As sweet as
sack infused with inheritance powder.”

“I admire Miss
Carteret, and I won’t listen to anyone abuse her.”

“No, you don’t
admire her; you feel free to lust after her because she looks like
your dead wife.”

“Silence!”

“You can’t
silence me, I’m dead.”

“I’ll put my
fingers in my ears.”

“Don’t be a
fool. Wake the lusty wench in your arms, kiss her and tell her
she’s the woman of your dreams. You’ll have to admit why you flung
her over your shoulder, but hearing she’s been your dream mistress
for eighteen years may ease her broken heart. By some miracle, she
may forgive you for being an idiot and love you for your honesty.
Cry on her lovely bosom and admit you were shocked to see your
dream lover in the flesh. Women like that sort of thing. She wears
a vinaigrette on her necklace. Pull it out of her bosom and wake
your sleeping princess.”

“I’m not
attracted to tall brunettes, but thanks to my helpful sons I’m
going to marry one.”

“Liar! You’re
intoxicated by her nearness. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted in
a woman, but never allowed yourself to find until it was too late.
Admit it Peter Augustus, you married the wrong woman and now you’re
going to make the right woman pay for your guilt. She’s already
served eighteen years in an emotional prison for loving you, are
you going to set her free or throw away the key? Don’t punish
Isabella Désirée because she’d make you happier than Katie.”

Feeling guilty,
Peter couldn’t admit the truth even to himself. “No-one could make
me happier than Katie. I loved my wife!”

The agent
sighed as he shook his head. “If you insist on suffering, please
yourself.” The agent turned and floated out of the chambre through
the wall. Alone, Peter looked down at the woman in his arms. She
didn’t look like a sleeping princess. With her cheek on his
shoulder and her arms hanging at her side she looked like a dead
princess. He caressed the soft pale lifeless cheek and wondered if
his kiss would wake her. Resisting the temptation, he forcefully
reminded himself that her father was waiting downstairs with a
loaded pistol. Holding his breath, he pulled the vinaigrette free
from her bosom and wafted it under her nose.

Isabel groaned
in disgust as the sharp smell of ammonia brought her to her senses.
It took several long seconds for the sharp burning in her nose to
fade into the scent of happiness. Opening her eyes she found her
head resting against a masculine shoulder in black. She inhaled,
but her breathing was restricted by a tightness around her middle.
Stretching out a foot, she felt for the floor, but it wasn’t there.
Slowly looking up, she forgot to breathe. Black obsidian eyes were
glaring at her. Peter Smirke wasn’t enjoying her nearness. Pain
knotted her constricted stomach. “Let me go!” She thrashed, kicking
his legs, but instead of setting her free he swept her into his
arms and carried to her bed like a sick child.

Finding herself
released, she rolled away and swung her legs over the other side of
the bed and sat up, covering her face with her hands. If she
couldn’t see him, she’d be able to pretend she was having a
nightmare. Her heart pounding, she peered through her fingers at
the clock on her commode. Nearly ten minutes had passed since her
father had knocked on her door and then shoved Peter Smirke into
the room. Why had the man taken so long to revive her? She
carefully removed one hand from her face and moved it to her neck.
Peter Smirke was a heartless monster, and she was a stupid fool.
She could have married the humorous German prince with numerous
castles or the French Marquis who’d fallen at her feet and begged
her to consider his heart a magic carpet that would fly her to the
heights of happiness. Instead of accepting a shorter man, she’d
wasted nearly two decades of her life longing for a Smirke. Sitting
up straight, she silently stared at the wall cursing the wetness
forming in her eyes. It was pointless to hope he’d go away and
leave her with the remains of her dignity. Knowing her father, the
man would propose under duress.

“Mademoiselle,
I came to apologise for treating you like a…” He coughed as if the
memory choked him. “I feel d-d-deeply ashamed…”

“Good!” she
snapped. “I hope you have nightmares the rest of your life. And
don’t think I wanted to answer that stupid ad. My father insisted.
He thought you’d be polite to a de Bourbon. Pah!”

“I wasn’t
myself,” he said. “I was enraged. I was courting a young lady, but
after learning of that c-cursed ad she wouldn’t look at me…”

“My heart would
bleed Mr Smirke, but all the blood rushed to my head when you flung
me over your shoulder. I feel sorry for your mother.” Slow heavy
footsteps made the floorboards groan. “Stay away from me!” The
footsteps approached the bed.

“I think we’ve
exchanged enough hurtful words.”

The words had a
ring of command as if he had the right to tell her what to say in
the privacy of her bedchamber. “There’s a list of French insults
you deserve, but you wouldn’t understand them because you’ve never
visited your mother’s country. Coward!”

“I am not a
c-c-coward,” he said. “Sailing in a rowboat makes me violently
seasick.”

She snorted in
contempt. “You mean the waves make you sick like being heaved over
someone’s shoulder?”

“I said I was
sorry. I don’t know what p-p-possessed me.”

“If you’ve
finished flagellating your pride, laissez-moi tranquille! That’s
French for leave me alone.”

“I know what it
means. Let’s be sensible Mademoiselle…” He paused as if to gather
his nerve for what she knew was coming next. “We haven’t had an
auspicious start, but I need a wife.” He coughed as if embarrassed
to admit his need. “Your father says you want a tall husband. We’re
both half French. Your cousin, Agnes can vouch for my…usual
t-t-temperament. She’s married to my brother.”

“I’ve known
your brother for years. Pity there aren’t more men like him in the
world.”

“I’m not my
brother, but I’m available. It’s the honourable thing to do.”

His strained
words caused a wrenching pain. Her cherished dream of becoming
Peter Smirke’s wife had turned into a nightmare. He was asking her
to be his wife out of duty…to assuage his guilt. “Choke on your
honour! A German prince offered me a crown, and I turned him down.
I’m on the shelf out of choice. Get out!”

His face
twisted as if finally aware he was being rejected. “I’m offering to
marry you,” he said. “That’s what you wanted.”

“What I want Mr
Smirke, is to see you disappear…forever!”

The black eyes
were still determined. “Your father is insisting that I marry
you.”

“I’m thirty-six
with eighty thousand pounds at my disposal. I obey my father out of
love and respect. I don’t have to oblige him. Marry one of your
laundry maids and treat her like a bag of dirty linen; it means
nothing to me.”

“It was one of
the worst d-d-days of my life. I was hurting!”

Isabel grabbed
her silver vinaigrette and pressed the intricate grill to her nose
until the unpleasant odour burned her nostrils. She didn’t want to
know the real Pierre could hurt. “You’re a hateful man, and I never
want to see you…again.” The last word stuck in her throat.

“I’m sorry.”
The voice was closer; he’d come around to her side of the bed.

“Sorry for what
Mr Smirke, losing the chance to acquire eighty-thousand
pounds?”

“I’m sorry I
can’t say I love you.”

She flinched in
pain, “I’m sorry, Mr Smirke that you didn’t die on your way here. I
don’t need your pity. There’s a vast army of short impoverished men
who’ll do anything to win the favour of an ugly aging maypole with
eighty thousand pounds in her purse.”

“You’re not
ugly. You’re a very pretty woman…”

“Every wealthy
spinster has a certain beauty.”

“I’m not
b-blinded by your money. Do you need my word as a gentleman?”

Isabel snorted
in contempt. “What is your word worth, a free insult? Your dead
wife was a short blond. Do you expect me to believe you’ve now
taken a fancy to tall brunettes?”

He squirmed as
if reminded of an embarrassing sin. “It’s true I’ve always
p-p-prefer short blondes, but…”

“But you’ll
wisely make an exception for the daughter of a pistol-waving
Frenchman? Poor you,” she sneered. “Condemned to forsake your
search for another petite blonde to keep in your pocket. You must
not have had the dishonour of meeting the detestable Miss Helene
Carteret.”

“Dishonour?
Miss Carteret is a sweet creature!”

Isabel turned
to look up at him in disbelief. “Sweet? Miss Carteret?” Her bark of
cynical laughter made him scowl in irritation. “And if you dance
around me anticlockwise three times your dearest wish will come
true. She’s as sweet as foxglove dipped in sugar water. Since
you’re too dim to know a good egg from a bad one take my advice and
avoid the slut. If you knew what your sweet creature did to my
little brother…”

“I don’t wish
to discuss Miss Helene Carteret or anyone else who isn’t present to
defend themselves. It’s morally insup-p-portable!”

“Oh is it?”
Shaking with rage Isabel jumped up and grabbed his coat collar with
both hands. “Three years ago Louis received an invitation to a
dinner party. Having been told the diminutive Miss Rose would be
attending he went against his better judgement. Miss Carteret’s
brutish brothers knew their sister was too tall to win Louis with
her charms. With her help, they concocted a trap.”

“I don’t want
to hear another word. I hate gossip!”

“After dinner
was cleared, her brothers tied Louis by the wrists and ankles to
the table and left Miss Carteret and her harpy friends to find a
private birthmark; anything they could use to frame Louis for
rape.”

Peter Smirke’s
eyes were wide with outrage. “That is a disgusting accusation.”

“Accusation?
Your sweet creature cut off my brother’s clothes and abused him in
front of an audience of laughing sluts. Louis returned home wearing
only his shirtsleeves and breeches. When he tried to climb out of
the carriage, he collapsed on the ground. Papa had to carry him
into the house. Mamma sent for the doctor who found visible teeth
marks on Louis’ most tender flesh. Six weeks later the brazen slut
had the nerve to call and accuse Louis of forcing himself on her.
She claimed she was carrying his child and hinted that she’d tell
the world she’d been the victim of Louis’s lust if he didn’t make
her his wife. Who’d be believed; a sour Frenchman or a vixen made
of almond paste? I don’t know what my mother said to her, but Miss
Carteret and her brothers haven’t dared carry through their
threat.”

“You expect me
to believe that?”

“Believe what
you will. Take your all-knowing attitude and chain yourself to the
blonde slut if it pleases you.”

“I don’t think
I’ve ever d-d-disliked a woman as much as I d-dislike you.”