The Deception (25 page)

“Why are you trembling?”

She raised startled eyes to his face. “No, I’m not, not really, your grace.”

“I will see you later, Evangeline,” Marianne Clothilde said. “You know, you do look a bit weak in the knees. The Rose Room? Yes, that’s a very nice bedchamber.”

As they walked side by side up the wide circular staircase, she said, “Your town house is very elegant.” “Yes,” he said. “Most of it is done in my mother’s style. She quite disliked her mother-in-law’s taste. I like it myself. My mother many times gets things exactly right. Not just about style but about people.” “She is also very kind.”

He said, his voice low, “You don’t have to come to this dinner my mother has planned.”

“Do you think your mother doesn’t want me there? She is so very kind that I’m not certain of her feelings. Unlike you,” she added, smiling up at him. “I always know exactly what you’re thinking.”

“Actually, you don’t.” If she did, he thought, she wouldn’t be standing here, not an inch away, smiling up at him. “Now, as for my dear mother’s feelings, they’re of no consequence. They have nothing to do with what I meant. You see? You don’t understand at all.”

“Very well. Tell me. What is it you wish, your grace?”

Naturally, he couldn’t just spit out all the things that were flooding through his brain. It would scare her witless, or it wouldn’t, and then what would he do? His belly tightened. “I just don’t want you to be tired, nothing more.”

He stopped and said, “This is the Rose Room. I do believe that Queen Charlotte just might have slept here, for what reason I have no idea. Maybe it was Queen Bess. On the other hand, the house isn’t old enough for that particular female monarch.”

He raised her hand to his mouth. She felt the heat of him through her glove. Unconsciously she leaned into him.

“No,” he said. “No.”

She drew back. “I’m very strong,” she said finally. What had she done? She’d thrown herself at him, that’s what she’d done. “Really, you don’t have to ever worry about me. I am strong.”

He raised his hand and touched his fingertips to her pale cheek. “Are you really so invincible?”

She raised her eyes to his dark face. He was looking at her mouth. She wanted more than anything to bring him close, to hear his strong heartbeat, to feel his flesh against hers.

No, no. She straightened and gave him a meaningless smile. “No, of course not. I’ll see you this evening, your grace.”

When the duke returned some minutes later to the drawing room, his mother said, “She is lovely, beautiful actually, not that that matters at all. Does it?”

“No, of course it doesn’t. Be quiet, Mother. I have no intention of indulging you in speculation.”

“I doubt there’s much speculation to be had at this late date. You treat her quite masterfully.”

“That’s ridiculous. I simply treat her appropriately, quite properly.”

“She’s a grown woman, and a widow. She’s probably used to making her own decisions. Do you think her father or her husband ordered her about?”

“No, I don’t think that’s possible. It’s just that I don’t understand her.”

“You haven’t known her long.” He turned to her and smiled. “No, I haven’t. On the other hand, I have no doubt whatsoever that I’ll know her forever. What she needs is a strong hand, that’s all. My strong hand.” “You’ve decided very quickly.” He shrugged. “Yes, it appears that I have. What will happen? I have no idea.”

She adored her son, but even she had to admit that she’d never before seen him so very caring. His behavior toward this young woman was fascinating. He realized exactly what he was feeling, but it hadn’t sunk all the way in yet. He had no doubt he’d know her forever? Well, that was certainly sinking very far in. She raised her half-filled cup of tepid tea and sipped it slowly. She knew his reputation well, and she knew quite well that the beautiful women that had come and gone in his life hadn’t touched him. It appeared that her proud, cynical son had finally found a woman who would hold him. A widow who was half French. A young woman who also appeared to adore both her son and her grandson, if Marianne Clothilde was any judge, which she was most certainly.

E
vangeline stopped cold at the bottom of the wide circular staircase. Standing at full attention were six footmen, all dressed in the duke’s livery of crimson and gold. Grayson, a stark contrast in somber black, his reddish-white hair glistening beneath the huge chandelier, appeared to be inspecting the pristine white of the footmen’s gloves. He turned to say to Evangeline, “Madame, the duke and her grace are in the drawing room. They are expecting you. You are punctual, something her grace appreciates.”

Since a very sour-faced maid had awakened her, Evangeline couldn’t take any of the credit. “When will the guests arrive, Grayson?”

“In five minutes, Madame. No one, I might add, even the prince regent, is often late to an affair at Clarendon House.”

“No, I can’t imagine that he would,” she said, and meant it.

Grayson opened the double oak doors, and Evangeline preceded him into the drawing room. The duke was standing negligently against the mantelpiece, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, smiling at something his mother was saying.
He looked magnificent in his black and white evening wear. She wondered if he or Bunyon had tied his cravat, which was so snowy white it looked to be cold to the touch. He gestured as he spoke with those longfingers of his. She could almost feel those fingers of his lightly stroking her cheek, her jaw, her throat. And then down to her breasts. She heaved out a breath. She couldn’t think of him in that way, in that very sexual way that must have shone in her eyes because she knew, simply knew that when she was thinking of him in that way, touching her, kissing her, that he knew it as well.

She was young, she thought, to have life become such a wasteland.

The duke stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Evangeline come into the room. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman in all his life. She looked exquisite in Marissa’s cream satin and lace gown that banded snugly beneath her breasts and pushed them up. Pushed them up too high. They were too much on display. Her cleavage didn’t seem to stop. He frowned. He supposed he would have to speak to her about that. He didn’t want her insulted. That made him shake his head at himself. If he had but a moment alone with her, he would walk right up to her, and very gently ease the bodice of her gown to her waist, and then he would look at her and feel her and taste her. He couldn’t seem to look away from her. Then he saw her eyes. She looked desolate, yes, that was it. But why? It made no sense unless she was unhappy here, in London, with him. He was aware that his mother was looking at him. He had to get hold of himself.

He had to say something, something that had nothing to do with jerking down her gown and taking her
right here in front of the fire. He cleared his throat and took two steps toward her, stopped because he quite frankly couldn’t trust himself, and said, “You’re late, Evangeline, but I won’t remark upon it because you were tired. At least you’re here now.”

“I am not at all late, your grace. Grayson even remarked that I was quite punctual, just as is her grace.” “Well, you were almost late,” he said, and knew he was being a fool.

“Your grace,” she said, ignoring him, and curtsied deeply to the dowager duchess.

“Oh, goodness,” Marianne Clothilde said. “My dear, you will have to protect Evangeline. She looks utterly ravishing. I fear the gentlemen will lose their heads.”

“They will have every right to. Just look at her neckline, Mother. It’s nearly to her waist. There is too much flesh on display. Since we’re all gentlemen here tonight, they should endeavor, at least, not to ogle her openly. However, if any one of them goes beyond the line, I will smash him into the ground, back by your rose bushes.”

“I assure you, your grace, that no gentleman will even give me a second glance. I’m a widow, I have no money, and surely I’m not beyond ordinary.” But her hands were covering her breasts. She’d argued with Dorrie and lost. But it was true, no gentleman would be interested in her.

The duke was standing not a foot away from her in but an instant. He said low, just for her ears, “If you say anything more like that, I will thrash you. Do you understand me?”

Evangeline forced a smile, forced her hands back down to her sides. “I understand your words, but I don’t understand you.”

“You won’t ever denigrate yourself again. Surely you can understand that. You will believe me that your gown is cut too low. Have Dorrie pull it up at least two inches. I don’t want men looking at your breasts.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re mine,” he said.

She nearly leaped on him, and he saw it and grinned down at her.

“Dearest, are you teasing Evangeline?”

“Oh, no, Mother. I was just telling her what I expect of her this evening.”

Marianne Clothilde frowned at the sound of laughter and voices coming from the entrance hall. What had her son said to Evangeline? It must have been something quite wicked, for Evangeline was red from her bosom to her forehead. Oh, damn, she wished she could just ask, and turn red herself. She regretted on this particular occasion that the guests were being so punctual, curse them.

This was the duchess’s idea of a small dinner party? Evangeline stared around the vast dining room table at the twenty-five beautifully garbed, laughing guests. Lady Pemberly had greeted her affably, and promptly told her that she had too much flesh showing, which made the duke, who’d overheard her, frown ferociously. And Felicia, who had been tapping Lord Pettigrew’s arm with her delicate ivory fan to gain his attention, turned to tell her laughingly that the duke had been sorely remiss in keeping Evangeline hidden at Chesleigh for so long.

“I needed to remain in the country,” Evangeline had said, then shrugged.

“But no more, I see, Madame.”

Evangeline knew he’d be here, but she hadn’t realized he’d arrived, that he was standing right behind her. Slowly she turned to face the man she’d willingly kill. She raised her chin. “As you see, Sir John.”

Sir John bowed. “Allow me to lead you into dinner, Madame. Naturally, it is our pleasure that you have chosen to leave the country. I’m certain you will find much to do here in London to provide you entertainment. Perhaps we can discuss the city and all its amusements later this evening.”

She was aware that the duke was looking at her, then at Sir John. She kept her eyes down and walked beside him to the formal Clarendon dining room.

To Evangeline’s surprise, the duke waited beside the chair at his right hand. He himself held it for her, the footman staring at him blankly until he got hold of himself and stepped back. John Edgerton left her there, his brow slightly arched, and took his place some distance from her, thank God. The place to her right was reserved for Lord George Wallis, a whiskered gentleman, a retired military man who, she soon learned, had the disconcerting habit of inserting odd remarks into any conversation he chanced to hear. And he hated Napoleon with a passion. His two brothers had both been killed fighting the tyrant.

Opposite her sat Lady Jane Bellerman, the eldest daughter of an earl, a lovely girl dressed in pink satin and gauze, who studied her closely and gave her a very cold look indeed. There was nothing she could do about it. She kept her head down and pushed a small bit of salmon around her plate.

Course after course appeared. The footmen were attentive. Her head began to ache. She spoke to Lord George Wallis, listening to his interminable accounts of every battle on the Peninsula. “The bastards are
still among us,” he said, and drank a very large amount of his wine. “It won’t be over until he’s dead and underground.”

“I would like to see him underground as well,” Evangeline said.

“Doubtless you know that a very good friend of the duke’s was murdered—Robert Faraday. Poor Robbie. If the duke finds the man who murdered his friend, the fellow will be dead before he can even begin to beg for his miserable life.” “That’s true enough,” the duke said. Lady Jane Bellerman said in a low, quite enticing voice, “What’s true, your grace? That you much enjoy the waltz? I vow you’re very dashing when you dance. Perhaps you will indulge me later?”

“There won’t be dancing tonight,” the duke said, his eyes on Evangeline, who looked so pale he was afraid she’d faint in the veal tureen. It was all the talk about Napoleon, the death of his friend. Naturally it would be upsetting to a lady. Then he frowned.

Evangeline looked at him in that moment, and he saw the cold anger in her eyes, cold and quite hard. No, she wasn’t about to faint. What was going on here?

Evangeline knew he too easily saw through her. She wiped the rage from her face, but it was difficult to hear about all that Napoleon had done. She was looking at Grayson, who was standing like a guard behind the duke’s massive high-backed chair, when she heard Lady Jane laugh and saw that the young lady was looking at her. She raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” she said, smiling.

“Lady Jane is speaking to you, my dear,” Lord George informed her as he took a large bite of Cook’s specialty, Melton Mowbray pork pie. He’d told her
that when it was served, sighing deeply with pleasure. “All come here,” he’d said, “when Cook is bringing out her pork pie.”

Lady Jane said when Evangeline looked across the table at her, “I was just telling the duke that you don’t appear to be enjoying yourself. It must be depressing when a guest appears so completely bored, do you not agree, Madame de la Valette?”

Evangeline said easily, “I must admit that my thoughts were otherwise occupied, Lady Jane, but my mind is back now, at attention and ready to be charmed and hopefully to respond by replying in a suitably charming manner.” The duke grinned over his fork at her. “His grace said you are recently arrived from France, Madame.”

“Oh, no,” Lord George said, staring at her as he were seeing her for the first time and didn’t like what he was seeing. “But you sound so very English. I don’t understand.”

“I’m half English, Lord George,” she said. “I was raised in Somerset. It’s true that I was married to a Frenchman, but he was a loyalist. He hated Napoleon, as do I.”