Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (58 page)

‘Stop at the end, if you please,' he said. ‘Did you have your own curricle and pair, my lady? Or did you hire?'

‘I had a phaeton and pair,' she replied, drawing the horses to a gradual halt. ‘I've never driven a curricle before.'

‘Never driven...? Are you serious?'

She had surprised him yet again. Sitting there in her cool grey-and-white riding habit with a white fur pill-box pinned to her glossy black hair and a black feather boa flung over one shoulder, she looked for all the world as if tooling a high sporting curricle round the park called for no great skill, which he knew was not the case at all.

Turning her laughing eyes to his, she caught the blend of admiration and concern before he was able to conceal it. ‘Quite serious,' she said. ‘Now nothing will do but for me to have a curricle, too. Or a perch-phaeton, perhaps. One can see so much more from this height.'

If she had expected him to demur at the cost, she had certainly not expected that he would jump at the chance of spending hundreds of pounds on a vehicle such as his, at least one-hundred-and-fifty pounds a year on the cost of keeping a horse, not including the groom's salary and his livery. A horse for her to ride would be an additional expenditure, twice as much as a curricle with extra for fodder, care and tack. The mercenary sound of her casually delivered requirements sat ill on her conscience, so it was all she could do not to contradict herself when he took the reins without betraying the slightest alarm and said, ‘Of course you must. I've seen a rather nice pair of dapple-greys that might suit you well. I'll take you to see them, now I've satisfied myself you'll be able to handle them. As for a sporting phaeton, I think that more suitable for a lady than a curricle. We'll go and see my coachmaker.'

‘Whatever you wish,' she said, handing him the whip. ‘But there's no particular hurry. Perhaps I may be allowed to drive yours until then.'

‘Certainly, as long as I'm with you.'

He was too engrossed in navigating the bouncing vehicle between two groups of pedestrians to notice the slight smile that lit her eyes and twitched at her lips. Only a few days ago, she reflected, his proprietorial reply would have set her back up. Now, she felt that things were going according to plan and that Jacques Verne's presence beside her was not nearly as disagreeable as it had been at first.

* * *

If tensions appeared to be lessening as a result of their accord over material matters, neither of them had forgotten the underlying motives behind this new understanding. Each of them had something the other wanted: in his case, the letters, in her case, his adoration and all the trappings that went with it. Nevertheless, none of the theatre-goers at Covent Garden that evening would have suspected anything from the handsome couple except the wish to enjoy each other's company.

Annemarie's maid, Evie, taken on for her skills in dressmaking, had that afternoon brought an armful of gowns from Montague Street to Park Lane to be restyled using the trimmings bought only that morning. By evening, she had turned a white-silk overgown of satin and sheer stripes into a watery vision of flowing ripples by constructing a new undergown of cerulean silver-threaded blue, layering the lower part with deep ruffles that just skirted the new blue-satin slippers. The neckline echoed the hem with soft ruffles tied on the shoulders with narrow silk roulette-cords, leaving Annemarie's upper arms exposed. Her long gloves of finest white lace looked as if she'd dipped her arms in foam. The foamy look was one she rather cared for. Her hair was so luxurious as to need no covering except silver ribbons tied
à la Grecque,
piled high on top of her head from which a profusion of tendrils escaped from the edges. Her only jewellery was a pair of long diamond-and-pearl earrings that accentuated her swan neck. Verne could hardly keep his eyes off her—nor in spite of the other attractions around them, could many of the audience.

Verne had a box in the theatre to which he had invited Mrs Cardew, Oriel and Colonel Harrow. Escaping from the noisy throng downstairs in the saloon where Annemarie had been recognised and welcomed by polite friends as if nothing in particular had happened, the small party arranged themselves without quite appreciating the extent of the interest they were causing to those down below. From their own level, heads craned forwards to look and wave, shouting things that could not be heard over the din and, from below, eye-glasses were raised to inspect every detail of the group with blatant curiosity. Annemarie herself might have wished for less attention, but could hardly complain when to be seen with her new and influential lover, a companion of the Prince Regent, no less, was exactly what this was all about. Back in the
beau monde
once more, she was parading her recovery as though what had happened a year ago had had no lasting effect. Outwardly. Inwardly, matters were rather different, but who was to know that except, perhaps, dear Cecily?

‘Look over there,' said Oriel, in her ear. ‘To the left.' Several boxes further along, young faces peered over the balcony, their pale gowns softened by fluttering fans and the deeper tones of more mature figures and a bevy of young men crowding behind them. The small space seemed to be overflowing. ‘That's Marguerite, isn't it? With the Sindleshams?'

‘So it is,' Annemarie said, catching the shriek of recognition over the din as Marguerite spotted her sisters. Her wave was anything but discreet. ‘She's coming over.' An uncomfortable quiver of alarm and annoyance pulsed through the older sisters, though not Cecily, who swayed aside as the sudden onrush of female bodies swept like a tidal wave into the confined space of their box.

The three Sindlesham daughters had been brought, apparently, not so much to see the rare appearance of Lady Golding, but to gaze at close quarters with nothing short of veneration at the undeniably handsome figure of Lord Verne. He towered over them, meeting their awed upturned faces with an avuncular amusement although, at Marguerite's effusive greeting to her sisters, he quickly realised that this excess of joy was meant to impress him, in a roundabout manner. His heart sank, however, when Marguerite lost not a moment in recalling their last meeting, as if her friends needed reminding.

‘Such a fine dance it was,' she gushed to Annemarie and Oriel. ‘I swear Lord Verne and I quite outshone every couple on the floor. Just as if we'd danced together for years. Where? Why, at Lady Sindlesham's ball,' she went on, unstoppable, bouncing her brown curls. ‘You should have been there, Annemarie. We had no idea you were ready to socialise again after—'

‘Thank you, Marguerite,' Cecily said, laying a hand on the girl's arm. ‘But look! The curtains are parting. You should return to your box now. We'll catch up with you in the interval, shall we?'

‘Oh, yes. I shall be coming home with you afterwards.'

‘Really? Well, thank you for letting me know, dear.'

‘I would have, Cecily, but I haven't had a moment to think.'

‘Sounds to me,' said Cecily to the swarm of departing muslins, ‘as if you've had plenty of time to think. Little minx.' Glancing sideways at Annemarie, she saw something of the damage Marguerite's boast had done, wishing with all her heart that she, Cecily, had found a quiet moment to impart the information before the garrulous mischief-making sister. But it was too late. Annemarie's expression, usually so unrevealing, sent goose-bumps along Cecily's arms.

Even Annemarie herself could not have explained exactly how or why the tidings just foisted upon her at the end of a very satisfying day should have affected her so adversely, so severely, so unreasonably. In a random heap, it seemed as if every insecure thought, every white-hot jealousy and all the heartbreaking pain of loss came crashing through a barrier behind which they'd been lurking, waiting for just such a moment to revisit her despite her conviction that, this time, she was in control. In one resounding crash, she saw her plans disintegrate and, much worse, the feelings for Verne that were growing, heedless of her permission, deep in the vulnerable regions of her heart, exposed, torn and tangled.

Yes, it was a monstrous over-reaction, but such was the delicacy of this new situation, well planned and sure to work, that even the slightest impediment was enough to tear the inconsistent and fragile ties that had begun to form, ties that only she would break when the time came. So, he had danced with Marguerite after spending the evening at Montague Place, after kissing her. And Cecily must have known too, for she'd been at the Sindleshams' ball and had said nothing of it. If that was not a conspiracy, then what was?

Watching the damage sink into Annemarie's imaginings, Verne cursed himself for not seeing it coming, for not quelling Marguerite's babble of girlish excitement, not being able to explain that the dance had been no more than a kindness to Mrs Cardew for her assistance. As the play began, still to an ill-mannered chatter from the audience, he took Annemarie's hand in his, to comfort her. But she withdrew it and, taking his wrist, would have slammed his hand heavily upon his knee had he not resisted in time. He knew then that he would have his work cut out to smooth things over.

Chapter Six

S
tunned by the pain of undiluted jealousy, Annemarie gave no thought to how it would look for her to leave, just as the play was beginning. Uppermost in her mind, apart from being alone, was the thought of having to meet Marguerite at Park Lane and either to suffer more details of their evening together, or strangle her.

A hand held her arm as she stood. ‘No, dear,' said Cecily. ‘You mustn't. Stay. It's nothing. I can explain.'

‘I'm leaving. Let go. I cannot stay.'

‘I'll take her back,' Lord Verne said, recognising the determination in her voice. ‘It would be best. I'll send the carriage back for you, ma'am.'

‘I don't
want
you to take me back,' Annemarie retorted, ‘I prefer to be alone.' But Verne's arm was across her shoulders and, as their exit was already being noticed, Annemarie saved her tirade until the curtains closed behind them, with only a few latecomers to overhear.

‘Not now,' said Verne. ‘Not here. Come. You must hold your peace a while.'

‘For pity's sake, leave me alone,' she said, furiously striding ahead of him. ‘I want nothing to do with you, my lord.'

‘Too late,' he muttered.

* * *

But without making a scene, she was obliged to suffer Verne's company all the way back to Park Lane in his barouche where she sat trembling in silence in one corner, her lovely eyes brimming with tears that caught the moving reflections from outside. He could see how she shook with the effort of containing her distress, yet felt certain he could explain, once they were able to speak freely and at length.

He was mistaken. Annemarie turned on him, white-faced, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘You waste your time, my lord. I don't want to hear what you say and I have nothing to say to you except that I wish we had never met. If you want to flirt with my young sister, go ahead. I ought to have seen that you would try that angle, too, to get what you want. What a pity the elder Miss Benistone is out of bounds, or you might have tried your luck there. Don't follow me. I'm going to my room.'

‘Annemarie, listen to me...please? It was not like that at all.'

She refused to listen. Before he had said no more than a few words, she was almost at the top of the stairs and there was nothing to be done but for him to go into the library and await the return of the others. In his own home, he would have pursued her. In hers, he might have done the same. But here where they were guests in Mrs Cardew's house, he was not prepared to risk the gross impropriety of it.

Knowing better than to ask what the matter was, Evie fielded the clothes that flew across the bed, but felt helpless to do anything more to help her mistress when she crumpled into a velvet chair, head in hands, and gave way to loud rasping sobs that Evie had heard before, a year ago. It was then that the maid had suspected the depth of Annemarie's heartache and the intense desire that had come too soon and unexpectedly, taking her unawares. More than anyone, she had seen the change in her mistress, the bloom in her cheeks that was not only for the return to London life but also for the man at her side, demanding her attention. Evie was now sure that Lady Golding was deeply in love and that Lord Verne was somehow responsible for this latest torment. Did it, she wondered, have something to do with the theft of the portmanteau contents?

It had not taken Evie long to come to the conclusion that, since none of Lady Golding's valuables were missing from her collection of jewellery, and that the portmanteau would have been much heavier if it had indeed contained such items, something else had been stolen by that silver-tongued valet that Lady Golding could not speak of, even to her trusted maid. Faced with Mrs Cardew's instructions to say nothing about it, Evie decided that now was not the time to ask. Not until she could get a quiet word with Mr Samson, who had probably never suffered the humiliating experience of being savaged by an irate lady's maid. Not yet.

* * *

Verne's wait in the library was not as prolonged as he'd expected, none of the party having enjoyed the highly charged melodramatics of Mr Keane in the title role of
The Merchant of Venice
, especially after Annemarie's abrupt departure. Nor was Marguerite sorry to make her excuses to her long-suffering hostess either, since she'd nursed hopes of being taken to a masquerade party rather than the theatre. Her poorly timed request to be taken there by Cecily, however, had resulted in the sharpest set-down she had received in many a month. From both Oriel and Cecily.

‘Sit down, miss! And don't say another word till we reach Park Lane.'

‘And even then, you may find you've said too much!'

In the library, Verne stood as they entered. ‘Ma'am, I hope you don't mind...'

‘Not at all, my lord. This is a sad business. Where is she? Upstairs?'

‘Wouldn't discuss it. I'm afraid she has badly misconstrued the situation.'

‘Thanks to Marguerite,' said Oriel, angrily. ‘Yes, dear,' she said to her betrothed, acknowledging the gentle hand on her arm, ‘I know it's bad form to rake one's sister down in company, but I think it's time she began to understand how her behaviour is affecting other people's feelings.
Your
discomfiture at this moment,' she said, turning to her sister, ‘is nothing compared to the distress you've just caused Annemarie by your silly boasting. Have you
no
discretion?'

‘I didn't know...' Marguerite faltered, blushing, turning a beseeching glance upon Lord Verne.

‘So why did you think we were all sitting in Lord Verne's box? Didn't that tell you something? No, don't answer that. Clearly, it didn't.'

‘I'm...I'm sorry, my lord. I'll go up to her and explain.'

‘You'll do no such—' Oriel began, ready for the next salvo.

Hastily, Cecily intervened. ‘Not now, Marguerite. Tomorrow. Go upstairs.'

Marguerite's lower lip trembled as she made her escape. ‘Yes. Thank you.'

The colonel had never seen his gentle Oriel so furious and was inclined to think that this was an interesting side of her character. Opening his mouth to speak, however, was no guarantee that he would be listened to. ‘That little
madam,'
Oriel said to the closing door, ‘needs taking in hand. Her silly behaviour is becoming an embarrassment to us all.'

‘Perhaps you're being a little harsh, dear,' Cecily said. ‘I'm sure if she'd known how things stand between Annemarie and Lord Verne, she'd not have—'

‘She knows how vulnerable Annemarie is,' said Oriel, uncompromising. ‘If she bothered to think about anyone at all other than herself, of course.'

‘Mrs Cardew,' said Verne, ‘I wonder if I might have your permission to go up to Annemarie? If she'll allow me to explain, I may be able to repair the damage.'

‘In the circumstances, my lord, I can hardly refuse. But you've seen for yourself how fragile her emotions are and, knowing her as I do, I'd be surprised if she'll see you. You may try, though.'

Oriel was also doubtful, but still held out some hope. ‘She won't,' she said to Verne, ‘but don't be put off, my lord. Cecily and I will work on her when she's calmer. She's not seeing things too clearly at the moment, you understand.'

‘Thank you, Miss Benistone. I shall not give up, I can assure you.'

Verne's attempt to gain access to Annemarie's room met with the refusal Oriel and Cecily had predicted. The door remained locked against him in spite of prolonged entreaties to let him explain.

* * *

When he at last returned to the library, Cecily was alone and waiting to comfort the one who had hoped to be the comforter. ‘Come and sit down, my lord. A little brandy? Don't despair,' she said, noting the tension in his face. ‘We might even use this moment profitably to share what we know about the letters, do you think? It's sure to prevent more misunderstandings, isn't it?' Secretly, she took some pleasure from watching for that spark of alarm in his eyes and equally from finding out how well he hid it from her.

His hand was perfectly steady as he accepted the brandy glass, his first sip leisured and appreciative. ‘Ah!' he said, studying the amber swirls. ‘So they've been discovered. I wondered, of course. That might help to explain matters.'

‘Well, yes and no,' said Cecily. So, with one wary eye on the door, she gave Verne the information he required while assuring him that Annemarie's extreme reaction to her sister's boast had nothing to do with the letters directly, but to her distrust of his motives where she was concerned. ‘She still believes, you see, that all
you
want is the letters.'

‘Then she's mistaken, isn't she? I don't want the letters. I have them.'

‘Yes. Quite. So might it be best, do you think, if she was told?'

Verne disagreed. ‘No, I think not,' he said. ‘I think it's best if Lady Golding continues to believe that they're safely where
she
wants them to be, with Lady Hamilton. I don't mind at all if she wants to think I'm still waiting for her to dispose of them. This is a game she's chosen to play for her own good reasons and I don't propose to end it for her yet. She must attempt to do that in her own way, in her own time.'

Cecily was sorely tempted to tell him more, particularly about the exact nature of the game her beloved Annemarie was playing. A wicked game of revenge in which he would be hurt, but Annemarie even more so. But this was a confidence she could not disclose. Rather she would have to hope that Verne had enough wit to work it out and extricate himself before the damage was done. It was a pity. She liked and admired the man. ‘You don't see it as ended already, then?' she said.

‘Good heavens, ma'am, not at all. Much as I hate to see her upset and angry, it gives me a good indication of where I stand in the scheme of things.'

‘Somewhere at the bottom, I'd say.'

He smiled at her pessimism with a flash of white teeth. ‘On the contrary. When the game
does
end, I dare say we shall all be too old to remember what it was.'

‘Really? As long as that?'

‘As long as that, ma'am. Now, may I trespass on your wisdom further by asking what you predict Lady Golding will do in the immediate future?'

Cecily stood up in a billow of white lace. ‘Wait here, if you will, my lord. I'll go and find out what I can.'

‘She'll see you?'

‘Oh, yes, she'll see me.' She paused at the door. ‘By the way, my lord, something I found out only this morning. Lady Hamilton has left the security of the debtors' prison and disappeared with her daughter. Isn't that interesting?'

‘Then Lady Golding's generosity came just in time.'

‘Sure to have helped.'

* * *

Although not quite as luxurious as the Prince Regent's carriage, Cecily's well-equipped town coach served the same purpose in every respect, which was to convey Annemarie and her maid safely and comfortably to Brighton. Any attempt to persuade her not to flee London at quite such an early hour had met with an obduracy typical of a broken-hearted young woman who could see nothing but her own dark unhappiness. She had accepted, up to a point, Cecily's reason to keep the news of the vexatious dance with Marguerite to herself, since the appearance of Lord Verne there that night had been only to speak to the Prince Regent, whom he'd known would be there. Naturally, he'd had no option but to change into evening dress for that, but he had been ready to leave immediately had not Cecily
pleaded
with him to stand up with Marguerite. If she'd suspected how the silly child would embroider the facts, she would never have done so. As for there being any more to it than that, Annemarie was much mistaken.

In her present state of mind, Annemarie could hear the sense of it, but did not want to find it a place in
her
view of events. He had danced with Marguerite. He had partnered her, been seen with her, smiled at her, softened her stupid little heart, pandered to her self-centredness and given her a weapon with which to damage Annemarie's new confidence. So easy to inflict and so effective. And the only way to nurse the pain was to return to obscurity. Why had she ever thought any different?

Forget the town house on Curzon Street.

Forget the imaginary bed, his arms, his kisses.

Forget the tender way he'd talked to her, wooing her with sounds.

Forget it all.

By this time, the tears had changed to a cold numb fury that disturbed Evie as much as the tempestuous sobbing of last night had done. ‘Coming into Reigate,' she said. ‘Here, m'lady, let me pull your veil down. There, no one will notice. I'll go in and secure a private parlour while they change the horses and we can have breakfast. Just leave it to me. Ready?' Having heard no word since leaving Park Lane, Evie did not expect one now, though it seemed that her plan met with some approval when she was allowed to take charge, accepting without a moment's hesitation that the parlour had been prepared for them as arranged.

‘Arranged by whom?' Annemarie said, frowning at Evie.

‘I don't know, m'lady. Mrs Cardew, perhaps?'

Not wishing to argue the point, they followed the landlord into the cosy room that, flooded with bright daylight, appeared quite different from their last eventful visit. But before Evie could request a tray of food to be brought, the bowing Mr Hitchcock had taken his leave with an ingratiating ‘m'lady...m'lord' that caused m'lady to twirl round on one heel to face the tall man who, while not exactly lurking, had not until then done anything to make his presence obvious.

‘
You!
This is
intolerable
!'

Annemarie made a quick stride towards the door, but Verne was there first, too large and too determined to be pushed aside, booted feet planted firmly apart and not a crease in either buckskin breeches or dark-grey cutaway tailcoat to suggest that he had travelled at all that morning. Although he had. ‘Yes, I know. But could you tolerate it long enough to listen to me?' he said.