A Desirable Husband Page 8

  ‘That is because my father is an earl.’

  ‘You do not think they are sincere in their compliments?’

  ‘No, they are either too awkward or too glib, or they have been rehearsing for days, probably prompted by their mamas. They must be very foolish if they think I am taken in by that.’

  ‘You do not think my motives might be the same?’

  ‘No, I do not. You have never shown the slightest sign of toadying to me. I think perhaps because you are older…’

  ‘Older?’ He laughed. ‘Do you think of me as old, so old you are in no danger from me?’

  ‘I don’t know how old you are and it makes no difference. I know I am safe with you or I would not be sitting here beside you, perfectly at ease.’

  ‘Are you at ease?’ he queried, looking into her face.

  She was very far from easy. Under his scrutiny, she found herself trembling inside and out. Hurriedly she closed her parasol and put it on the grass beside her so that she could hide her hands in the folds of her skirt. ‘Yes, of course.’ The words were a hoarse whisper, which was all she could manage.

  ‘I think perhaps that is a little fib.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I feel it, too.’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘A feeling of helplessness, a feeling that I am not in control of my own destiny, that I have been bewitched by a pretty face and an innocent heart. It is innocent, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘No, and I am glad of it. Do not let anyone spoil it, stay as you are.’

  ‘I shall grow old.’

  ‘Like me?’ His laugh was genuine. ‘Never. Never in a million years.’

  ‘You are not old and I never said you were.’

  ‘I am twenty-seven and I have seen a great deal more of the world than you have. I have met some strange people in my time who have made me wary of becoming too close to anyone.’

  His words seemed to confirm something of what Rosemary had told her. ‘Then I was right, someone has made you sad. I saw it in your eyes when we first met, though lately it has disappeared and I thought you were perhaps getting over it.’

  ‘You are very perceptive, my lady, though do not read too much into that.’

  ‘Was she very beautiful?’

  ‘She?’

  ‘The lady.’

  ‘There is no lady.’

  ‘Then I think it is you telling fibs.’

  He decided the conversation was straying on to dangerous ground and hurriedly changed the subject. ‘You have your sketching things with you.’

  ‘Yes. I thought I might draw the river traffic as a change from horses.’ She was glad of the change of subject because she had a feeling that introducing the mysterious lady had been a mistake. He was not over it, whatever it was, and though she longed to comfort him, she was sensible enough to realise even to try would be presumptuous.

  ‘Let me see.’

  She handed over her pad. ‘I started it the other day, but I couldn’t get the water right. It looks so flat and lifeless when there is obviously movement there, even if it is just below the surface.’

  So much went on below the surface, he thought, pretending to study what she had done. Memories, emotions, past deeds were all there, unseen, governing what happened on the outside, the way people behaved, the way they related to others. It would be rare indeed for someone to enter into a relationship without the clutter of a past. He believed Esme could and, in that, she must be very nearly unique. Unless he was deceiving himself. Again.

  ‘It is all down to light and shade,’ he said. ‘This is how you do it. Use small strokes, to suggest what is there, the faint ripple, the unseen surge, light and shade. The eye of the observer will do the rest.’

  ‘I see. How clever you are. I don’t care what you say, you are a true artist. Have you ever exhibited any of your work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you should. Why not submit something for the Exhibition?’

  ‘I do not think it is intended to show art as such. There are galleries and museums for that. The Exhibition is meant to display inventions and manufacture, the products of the working man.’

  ‘You are a working man and art is your product.’

  He laughed. ‘I do not think the selection committee would agree with you. But you have given me an idea. I might manufacture something in glass.’

  ‘And I shall look forward to seeing it.’

  Miss Bannister had decided she had left her charge alone long enough and was advancing across the grass. He gave Esme back her pad and pencil and stood up, retrieving his coat and slipping into it. By the time the old lady joined them, he had helped Esme to her feet and handed her the parasol before putting on his hat. They walked a little way together.

  ‘Do you go to Lady Aviemore’s ball?’ Esme asked him. ‘She is calling it an Exhibition Ball because she is hoping to raise money for it.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Most of the fund-raising committee have been invited and as I am one of their number, I shall put in an appearance. Do you go?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Rowan—I mean Lord Trent, of course, is annoyed with Rosemary for accepting, but she says she cannot afford to alienate Lady Aviemore by refusing. She says everyone who is anyone will be there and I shall meet new faces.’

  ‘She means gentlemen prospects, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose so, though there are bound to be other ladies there and perhaps I shall make friends with them.’

  ‘Lady Trent takes her responsibility for you very seriously, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mama is not always in good health and she could not come with me, so Rosemary feels duty bound to do her best for me.’

  ‘And you, being a dutiful daughter and sister, fall in with everything.’ It was said with a grin.

  ‘I try, but sometimes it is not easy.’

  ‘Why not? Do you not like any of the young gentlemen?’

  ‘Oh, they are pleasant enough to pass the time of day with, but I have not met one with whom I should like to spend the rest of my life.’

  ‘Not a single one?’ he queried.

  ‘No one that Rosie approves of.’

  ‘Esme!’ Miss Bannister felt it was time she interrupted.

  Esme laughed. ‘I was only going to say that perhaps they feel the same about me, and if I were not who I am and if they were not being urged into paying attention to me by their mamas, they would not give me a second thought.’

  ‘Then they are idiots,’ he said firmly.

  She gave a joyful laugh, which made him turn to look at her and smile, though he said no more. They parted on the corner of the King’s Road and he did not see her again until the evening of the ball and by then the past was beginning to catch up with him.

  Chapter Four

  Having no room large enough to hold her ball, Lady Aviemore had taken over Willis’s Assembly Rooms in King Street, and it was thence Rosemary took Esme on the last Saturday in May. Rowan, true to his principles, declined to attend.

  Knowing Felix was going to be there, Esme took a great deal of trouble choosing her gown. It had a blue silk bodice and a velvet skirt hung over so many petticoats, one of which was stiffened with horsehair, that it ballooned out around her like a bell. The neck was boat-shaped, partially filled in with coffee-coloured lace, which also formed the flounces from the elbow of the narrow sleeves. Because the task was beyond Miss Bannister, Rosemary’s own hairdresser came an hour before they were due to set out and somehow managed to tame her unruly locks into coils that he pinned up to the back of her head and fastened with a tiny coronet of flowers.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Miss Bannister when Esme had slipped into her shoes and was ready to leave.

  ‘Very good,’ said Rosie when she went downstairs. ‘The carriage is waiting, so let us be off.’

  Esme had been looking forward to the ball ever since she had learned Felix would be there and all day she had been in a fev
er of excitement. Surely, surely he would ask her to dance? And surely, if she was very good and danced with all the other young men who asked her, Rosemary would not forbid it. If there was one thing Rosemary could not abide, it was a public scene.

  The only thing the ballroom had in its favour was its size. It could accommodate seventeen hundred, so Esme was told, but if it had ever done so they must have been squeezed in cheek by jowl. Her ladyship had done her best to make it festive by importing a great deal of greenery, which was swathed round its pillars into which exotic flowers had been pinned. The floor had been polished and the candelabra cleaned, so that the room was full of light. There was a good orchestra to play for dancing, and refreshments in an adjoining room. Another room was set out for cards for those who did not care to dance. And all for the princely sum of ten guineas a ticket, the profits to go to the Exhibition fund.

  Rosemary soon found a group of friends who invited them to join them and before long Esme was dancing. She was polite to her partners, answered their compliments with a deprecating smile, laughed at their jokes and tried not to appear distracted. But the man she was really waiting for was Felix.

  He arrived about a half hour later, making quite a stir because she was not the only one hoping to spend a few minutes with him. For every bachelor hunting a bride, there were three young ladies hoping to catch the eye of a gentleman, and one in particular. Esme, who was dancing with Toby Salford at the time, almost stumbled, but quickly recovered herself. Felix was here, and though he was surrounded by beautiful women in extravagant ball gowns, dripping with jewels, she was hopeful that he would seek her out.

  It seemed for a time that he would not. Two dances later and he had still not spoken to her. She was aware of him, of course, aware of his tall slim figure in a black tailcoat, black trousers, enlivened with a purple waistcoat with silver embroidery and a lilac-coloured cravat. He made all the other men look dowdy. He danced with Captain Merton’s sister, Caroline, a redhead in cerise taffeta with a neckline so low it was almost indecent. At least that was what Rosemary had said on seeing her. Esme was being partnered with Bertie Wincombe, a spotty adolescent whose only virtue, according to Rosemary, was that he was the Earl of Wincombe’s heir.

  The two couples passed each other on the floor, though Esme had made up her mind not to let her attention stray from her partner, she could not help herself and looked round as they executed a turn that brought her facing Felix. He was looking over the shoulder of his partner directly at her. And then he winked. She giggled.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ the young Lord Wincombe said. ‘Did I say something amusing?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said I hoped those who are so set against the Exhibition could see the company tonight—they might realise they could not win.’

  ‘Were you referring to my sister’s husband, my lord?’ It was said sweetly.

  ‘Lord, no. Is he against it? I had no idea. But you are here. And your sister.’

  ‘We are here to enjoy the dancing. And I do not have to agree with my brother-in-law.’

  ‘No.’ The dance came to an end. He bowed, she curtsied and they strolled off the floor together. She had hardly taken her seat when Felix came for her, holding out his hand and smiling. ‘Lady Esme, my dance, I think.’

  She glanced swiftly at her sister, who gave an imperceptible nod, and then rose to take the hand and was led on to the floor for a waltz. They did not speak. She could not think of a single thing to say that would not betray the tumult of her emotions and he simply wanted to savour the feeling of holding her. She stood out from the crowd in every way. Her gown was exquisite, her hair a golden halo; her trim figure, swaying to the music, moulded itself to his hand and he wished he could draw her closer. But such a thing would be the height of impropriety and so he contented himself with looking down at her, happy that she was not at all afraid to look up into his face.

  ‘Have you managed to finish your design for the Exhibition building?’ she asked at last, though what she was really asking was if he had managed to forget the lady who had distracted him.

  ‘No. I have decided against it.’ He didn’t know why they were talking about that competition. He had had no real expectation of winning it and, to be truthful, had only thought of entering it on a whim. He wanted to talk about her, ask her more about herself, discover if what he felt for her was reciprocated. But he would frighten her away if he did. ‘I simply do not have the time or temperament to oversee such a large project. I will stick with what I know best.’

  ‘Glass manufacture.’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Have you decided what you are going to exhibit?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Oh, tell me, what will it be?’

  ‘It’s a secret, but you shall see it when it’s finished.’

  ‘Before it goes on display?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled down at her. On the one hand she seemed hardly more than a charming, mischievous child, full of daring and curiosity, on the other a bright attractive woman with natural good manners and none of the disdainful air of the usual society lady. Sometimes ingénue, sometimes wise, she looked fragile, as if she would be easy to break, but she had proved herself stronger than she looked, a little like glass. It was that which had given him the idea. He would try to reproduce her fragility and strength in glass and make it something of great beauty.

  She wanted the dance to go on for ever, to go round and round in his arms, to feel his fingers curling over hers, the pressure of his other hand on her back, until they fell down exhausted. Now and again she was aware that his leg was very close to hers as they turned and it gave her a frisson of excitement. Was she, could she, be falling in love with him? Was this longing to be closer to him…desire?

  ‘Oh, my God!’ The words seemed to be torn from him. She wondered if he had somehow divined her thoughts and they had filled him with dismay. He had certainly gone very rigid, as if someone had thrown cold water over him.

  She risked a glance up into his face. He was staring over her shoulder at something or someone she could not see. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Someone just walked over my grave.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that, please don’t.’

  The dance ended and he offered his arm to escort her back to her seat, but before they had taken many steps, their way was barred. ‘Felix, mon cher, fancy meeting you ’ere. All the while we have been apart I ’ave imagined you at your ’ome in…what is it called? Lark’ills, I remember now.’ The English was good, but the accent unmistakably French.

  She was, Esme was bound to admit, a raven-haired beauty with flashing dark eyes. She was dressed in a dark red gown with a many-tiered skirt. Its neckline was so low that the top of her breasts were exposed. She wore a heavy ruby necklace and several rings flashed on her expressive hands as she waved them to indicate the company.

  ‘Juliette.’ Felix spoke her name quietly, but it was not difficult for Esme to detect the undercurrents to the encounter. He was decidedly agitated.

  The woman looked Esme up and down. ‘Will you not introduce us to your charming companion?’

  He pulled himself together. ‘Lady Esme Vernley, may I present Mademoiselle Juliette Lefavre. And this—’he stopped, indicating her companion ‘—this is my cousin, Mr Victor Ashbury.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ Esme said. ‘Mr Ashbury is known to me, but I had no idea he was your cousin.’ She had met the young man at Luffenham Park when he was one of a party her father had invited for a shooting weekend. He came with Viscount Gorridge, a close friend of her father, and the Viscount’s son, Edward, whom Lucy had been expected to marry, but nothing had come if it and she had married Myles instead. She had not seen either Mr Ashbury or Mr Gorridge since then.

  Felix looked startled, as if he could not believe such a thing was possible. ‘Forgive me, Lady Esme, if I hurry away. Something has cropped up that I must se
e to.’ He bowed briefly and hurried off towards the door.

  Juliette laughed. ‘It is I who ’ave cropped up and le pauvre is overcome. Victor, look after Lady Esme, s’il vous plaît. I must go to him.’ And she was gone, too.

  Victor grinned sheepishly. ‘Shall we dance?’ he asked as the orchestra began a country dance.

  Esme allowed herself to be led back onto the floor, in such a state of nerves she hardly knew what she was doing. It had happened so suddenly, just when she thought she and Felix were getting close. She did not doubt for a moment that this was the lady who had kept him in London. But why, if he had been waiting for her, had he been so taken aback to see her? The reason was not important, she told herself as she danced woodenly beside Mr Ashbury. What was important was that she, Lady Esme Vernley, was of no consequence to him at all and she had been deceiving herself.

  ‘Felix, do not run away from me.’

  It was no good pretending he had not heard her, her siren voice was right behind him. He turned to confront her. ‘I am not running away. I have an urgent appointment.’

  ‘So urgent, you left your partner standing. That was not at all chivalrous of you.’

  ‘What do you know of chivalry?’

  ‘As little as you, mon cher.’

  ‘Why do you persist in calling me “your dear”? I am not dear to you and suspect I never was. And what are you doing in London? And how did you come to meet Victor?’

  She linked her arm in his to walk beside him. ‘So many questions, Felix. I have one for you. Why did you run away from me?’

  ‘I told you, I have an urgent appointment.’

  ‘I did not mean tonight. Two years ago. I could have explained—’

  ‘Explained your treachery? I think not.’

  ‘Yes, I could. There was never anyone else but you for me, but I had to save Papa…’

  ‘By going to bed with that traitor, Peaucille.’

  He had never been able to understand why the daughter of a Comte should ally herself so strongly to the revolutionaries and Peaucille in particular. He was a hothead, prepared to get his way by violence, and he incited the lower orders to stop at nothing. Did she really believe in their cause or was it simply a rebellion against parental authority? The Comte was one of the old school, a dictator to his family and employees, but it was a benevolent dictatorship. She must have known that and yet she listened to Peaucille’s ranting and had left home to go to live with him. The Comte had taken it hard, as he had himself, considering he had proposed marriage to her; though nothing had been officially announced, he had believed they had an understanding. How wrong he had been!