Dancing the Maypole (8 page)

“Felicitations!
You will be good to ma petite fille, or you will feed the grass for
my cows.”

Distracted by
the nearness of Isabel and her layers of slippery silk, Peter was
barely aware of Monsieur de Bourbon had spoken until the fan was
snatched from his grasp and flung into the fire. There was no
thought involved; Peter dived towards the fire and pulled the
burning fan from the flames. Standing up, he dropped it on the
floor and covered it with his foot, hoping the weight wouldn’t
destroy it. Isabel dropped to her knees and clawed in vain at the
fan. His hand throbbed in time with his chest as he looked down
into angry brown eyes. He wanted to beg her not to be angry, but
the words were too complicated for his tongue to capture.

Unable to
destroy or reclaim the smouldering fan, Isabel stood up and folded
her arms. “There is no need for felicitations Papa. I was kissing
Mr Smirke goodbye. I’d rather die a nun than marry this…big
heartless monster.”

“Bof!” Monsieur
de Bourbon pursed his lips in irritation as he ogled Peter and
silently urged the rejected suitor by nodding his head in the
direction of Isabel.

“Mademoiselle,
I’d b-b-be honoured if you’d marry me.”

“Would you?”
Isabel’s lips quivered as her eyes shimmered with tears. “You’ve
made your feelings for me quite clear Mr Smirke allow me the same
courtesy.” Peter choked on his breath as he was slapped with force.
“That is for looking at me like a besotted lover when you had a
wife.” He’d opened his mouth to beg her forgiveness when he was
struck him again making him bite his tongue. He winced as he tasted
blood. “That was for treating my person with contempt.” Mesmerised
by angry brown eyes, he was wishing he could remember seeing them
smile when a third slap brought his tangled emotions to the
surface. Shame for not loving his boring wife. Horror that he’d
insulted a woman, a guest in his home. Frustration that he’d ruined
the chance to marry the woman of his dreams; a woman with kisses so
sweet they made his teeth ache. Impotent rage that his throbbing
tongue refused to form the words that might convince the woman he
wasn’t a monster; he was a fool with a broken heart. “That was for
your dead wife. I’ve never met you. I’ve never kissed you. This
conversation never happened. I shall treat you with the polite
respect due a stranger. Court your little blonde syllabub; make her
your wife and eat your poisonous just deserts. You deserve each
other.”

“Mademoiselle…”

“I hate you!”
Sobbing, she ran past her father calling for her mother.

Monsieur pursed
his lips and sighed in exasperation. “Amour…c’est un sport cruel!
Who iz thiz syllabub?”

Peter’s aim was
to escape somewhere private to nurse his wounds. “There is no
sylla-b-bub! Excuse me, I wish to retire to my room.”

The older man
scowled in disbelief, “Where is your blood Français? Run after her!
Tell to her that without her you will die. Weep on her. Tell her
she haunts your dreams…Ah; you have the face rouge. Tell ma petite
fille you make love to her in your sleep. She will melt; non?”

“A man does not
discuss his d-d-dreams with a woman who is not his wife.”

“Pah! You do
not know how to make love to a femme Français. You are too polite,
too Anglais. Ma petite fille, she wants a big man pas le coq
timide. Being the big chicken will not win her heart.”

“I wish to
retire to my room.”

“Little-man
says you are fou, that you talk to people invisible. Talk to the
ghosts of the mind when you are old. Maintenant talk, talk, talk to
Isabel! Acte comme un homme Français! Stretch like a dog at the
feet of ma petite fille and uncover your soul.”

“I’m an
Englishman. We leave our souls c-covered.”

“Oui. That is
why ma petite fille iz crying for her Maman when vraiment, she
wants to be in your arms. Aller! Talk to her!”

Peter filled
his lungs with air and shouted back, “I c-c-can’t t-t-talk!”

The Frenchman
shook his head in disgust. “Ma petite fille, she will not marry
you. You are too big, trop stupide to love une femme Français. Quel
dommage!”

It took Lord
Adderbury three eternal days to reach Bath. With every passing
mile, his mind whirled with images of the most painful dinner he’d
ever forced himself to swallow. Seated across from Isabel, her eyes
puffy and red from tears, the hand mark on his left cheek had
throbbed as she’d politely addressed him as a stranger. Her
affected disinterest had hurt more than his cheek or his blistered
hand. Every time he stopped at an inn he’d hide in a corner with
his drink and take the rescued fan from his coat pocket. Staring at
the singed painted chicken skin he willed it to unlock the memory
of that forgotten dance, but his mind tortured him with the
sweetness of her kisses. Remembering her hands in his hair made him
throb in agony; he was a big stupid cow and he’d spend the rest of
his life in a lonely bed proving it.

Peter arrived
at his brother’s door feeling old and despondent. Led up to the
green and gold reception room by Frederick, his brother’s footman,
the knot in Peter’s stomach eased at finding his sister-in-law was
alone with a book. How had brother fallen in love with Agnes? She
was a beautiful intelligent woman, but it was impossible to
perceive even a glimmer of warmth in her eyes. There had to be a
heart beating under the marble bust, but Peter had difficulty
believing it. She stood on seeing him enter and politely offered
her cheek for a brotherly kiss. Peter wrinkled his nose as he
pressed his lips against the smell of musty roses. It brought to
mind summer rain and Isabel. The thought made the air in his lungs
heavy as he was reminded for the umpteenth time that day how much
he desired Isabel de Bourbon. Peter forced a smile, “Hello Agnes,
how are your two angels?”

“They haven’t
tried to poison anyone all week. James took them to the circus with
your boys. Cecil promised to ensure they wouldn’t poke the lions or
set the fire-eater ablaze like last time. Sit down, you look like
death.” Peter collapsed into a green armchair and sighed with
pleasure at sitting still. “Frederick! Have Cook prepare a tea tray
for two and remind her that I wish lunch served twenty minutes
after Master James’ return.” Agnes sat back down and stared at
Peter with unreadable eyes that conveyed a desire for
information.

“I feel old,”
said Peter.

“You look
it.”

“Thank you
Agnes, it’s very k-k-kind of you to assuage my vanity.” Peter
covered his face with his good hand as painful feelings threatened
to gush from his eyes. “I assume you know why my brats came to
Bath?”

“Poor Isabel.
She’s been in love with you forever.”

Peter flinched
as an invisible clenched fist struck him in the stomach. “Why
d-didn’t you introduce us years ago?”

“Katie said you
liked short blondes.”

Peter’s lungs
ached for air as his brain processed the meaning of the words. “I
b-beg your pardon. I married Katie because I was in love with
her.”

“Katie said all
the girls you’d kissed and fondled were short blondes.”

“What?” Peter
blanched as the chair underneath him seemed to heave on an
invisible wave, making him instantly seasick. “What else did she
tell you?”

“Peter, truth
is like a diamond; it has many facets. Katie could only see one
facet.”

“I bored Katie
to d-death.”

“Your wife died
of heart failure.”

“Only because
she drank laudanum like lemonade. She drugged herself to escape me,
and I didn’t even realise…”

The marble
woman prepared his tea and held out a cup and saucer. “We all have
our faults.”

“Mamma tried to
warn me, but I didn’t listen.” Peter stared down into the dark tea
reflecting his waistcoat buttons. “I ruined Katie’s life. I ruined
mine…”

“You were young
Peter; the same age as Charles. You needed a woman in your bed so
you married the easiest one to talk to. So you bored each other;
she left you a richer man. Can you imagine life without your five
helpful brats? There are people who’d sacrifice almost anything to
have one son. You have five. Everyone bores someone. Drink your tea
and don’t drown yourself.” Peter obediently gulped down the hot
liquid and scorched the tears rolling down the back of his throat.
“Blondes aside,” said Agnes. “I did try to introduce you, but
Isabel would find out you were invited and send one of her silly
excuses. She slapped you?”

Peter gingerly
touched the welt on his face. “Three times.”

“Poor Isabel.
Cousin Robert calls her the ugly cousin. I wouldn’t be surprised if
he proposes again one of these days. He needs a woman who’ll be
kind to his adopted bastards.”

“Isabel isn’t
ugly!” His chest heaving with the force of his words, Peter blushed
at losing his composure.

“True. She’s
quite pretty and excellent company if one can put her at ease. I
could organise a house party to introduce you properly, but I doubt
she’d come.”

“Don’t bother,”
said Peter. “If she came, she’d ignore me. She hates me.” He tried
to cover his eyes with his burnt hand and winced in pain. “I’m too
old for love; too b-big, too stupid…too bloody late.”

“If you say
so.”

“Hell’s teeth!
Shall I lie on the floor so you can kick me in the spleen?”

“If you think
you’re too late for love, then you are. Personally, I fail to see
how you could be too old, too stupid, or too late. So you’ve made
an ass of yourself. You’re a man not a piece of wood, it was bound
to happen eventually.”

“Thank you
Agnes…I feel worse.” His anguish earned him a raised eyebrow.

“You’re a good
man Peter, but you’re not the faultless hero you imagine yourself
to be. Reality has slapped you in the face, and you’re adrift
without your precious self-image.”

“Are you made
of marble?” Peter snarled. “Can’t you say something soothing;
something that might persuade me you have blood in your veins?”

The woman
calmly sipped her tea unmoved by the insult. “If you want a woman
to feed you lies, look no farther than the nearest Assembly Rooms.
They’re filled with desperate women willing to say anything to win
a comfortable home. Is that what you want Peter?”

“I’m sorry
Agnes. That was unspeakably rude. I don’t know what’s come over
me.”

“You needn’t
feel guilty about not liking me Peter. I wouldn’t want to be
shipwrecked on a desert island with you either. If you want to find
love you have to know who you are. You have to know what you want.
Do you know what you want?”

“Yes…” The
drawing room blurred as Peter imagined entering his dark blue
bedchamber at Adderbury to find Isabel naked on his bed with an
inviting smile. Her hair would be undone…perfuming his room…

“Well Peter?
What is it you want?”

The feminine
arms wrapped around his neck vanished. “I want a wife.”

“Say it
Peter!”

“Say what?”

“The name of
the woman making you blush.”

Peter bent over
and glared into his teacup as if transfixed by the warped
reflection of his face. “What’s the p-p-point? C’est
impossible.”

“Why is it
impossible? Is she some nubile debutante in love with Cecil?”

“Non.”

“Is she
married?”

“Non!”

“Is she in love
with some other man?”

The question
made Peter feel seasick as he imagined Isabel making love to a
German prince. “It doesn’t matter. She hates me.”

“Isabel doesn’t
hate you.”

“I’ve been a…a
b-big stupid cow.”

“You’re a good
man Peter, better than most. Have a biscuit and stop thinking like
a Romeo. If you want to be alive at the end of the play with Isabel
in your arms, you need to think of ways to win her.”

“There’s no
p-p-point!”

“Isabel’s been
mooning over you for eighteen years. Unless your marital fireworks
are made of wet gun powder, you’ll be her hero until she dies.
After a few days of wishing you to the devil, she’ll regret her
words. She’ll be hoping for some romantic gesture.”

For the first
time in days, Peter felt a pang of hope, “What sort of
gesture?”

“Something
romantic. Make an ass of yourself, it’s endearing. Isabel writes
romances. Memorise some ghastly poetry and whisper it at her every
time she snubs you. Send her bespoke tokens of your esteem. Do
something romantic; dress like a hero.”

Peter looked
down at his black suit and back to his sister-in-law. “What’s wrong
with the way I dress?”

“All you wear
is black,” said Agnes. “It’s boring. You look like a widower.”

“I am a
widower.”

“You look like
you’re in mourning. Isabel loves lavender. Order a lavender silk
suit.”

Peter grimaced
in horror, “A lavender silk suit? I’d look like a giant
f-f-fop-doodle.”

“If you want to
be noticed, order a romantic wardrobe.”

“It would be a
waste of money. I’ll never see her again.” Peter slumped forward,
the emptiness in his chest as heavy as lead.

“You won’t win
Isabel with that attitude. You haven’t even located her fortress,
let alone attempted to climb the walls. A hero dies trying!”

“I’ll d-die
trying; her father will shoot me.”

Agnes rolled
her eyes in exasperation, “If you don’t try, I’ll pay someone to
shoot you. Everyone knows you can afford ink and paper. Send Isabel
anonymous love letters and then meet her at a masked ball dressed
as a pirate. She’ll swoon into your arms. Tool past her door in a
lavender curricle every hour on the hour, between sun up and
sundown. Send her flowers every day; she’ll think of you.”

“Next you’ll
tell me I should wear a twig of lilacs in my hat and whisper in her
ear that it brings to mind her…” Staring blindly at the floor, he
was lost in the memory of Isabel’s soft demanding kiss.