Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (19 page)

“Coward,” her aunt called softly after her. “You shall have to face him sooner or later,” she continued when Clarissa turned back.

“I should not like to give him the satisfaction of thinking that Soltana would pursue him into his own residence,” Clarissa maintained.

“You and I are visiting his mother and sisters,” Heloise reminded her. “Lady Jane herself extended the invitation, if you recall. No one could find anything the least objectionable in that. You are a Holton. Holtons are never dismayed by the violence of the emotion our personalities may stir up in others. Ramsbury owes you an apology. Perhaps he will perform that office in his mother’s house. Come along.”

But not even the gracious welcome of the earl’s mother and three sisters could completely allay Clarissa’s misgivings. The matter of her veil had become so commonplace that no one ever looked at her askance anymore. She found the Blackburne girls sweet, unaffected, and quite pretty, though Jane easily outdistanced her young sisters in polish and wit.

“Emory will regret his absence this afternoon,” Lady Ramsbury said when the requisite quarter hour was complete. “He is so seldom at home these days, following in his brother’s footsteps, I fear. Young men will be so disobliging. Not that my sons lack any wit or manner. They are both paragons, absolute models of duty, honor, and sensibility.”

“For whom are you composing this ode,
Maman?”

Five ladies turned to the door as the pleasant masculine voice intruded upon their tête-a-tête.

“Why, Hadrian,” Jane declared in delight. “You are in time to exchange greetings with the viscountess and Princess Soltana.”

“I much admire your preference for classic architecture, Lord Ramsbury,” Heloise said, when the greeting had been made. “Such restraint from tampering with perfection should be a lesson to us all. I was just telling your mother how I detest the general din of knocking and banging and hauling of carts in my neighborhood. A full half of the houses on the block are undergoing ‘improvements,’ though desecration is the more apt term. In another year there shall scarcely be a house in all of Mayfair worth a glance. Ramsbury House being the exception, that is.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Lady Arbuthnott. But I fear my many and sustained absences may account as much for the lack of renovations as anything else.”

“Do you not care for your home?” Clarissa asked, deliberately drawing his attention to her.

“I do, indeed, Princess. I am particularly fond of the Rococo Room. You will have seen it, of course.”

“No, she has not,” Jane supplied for her. “Why do you not show it to her? Mama and Lady Arbuthnott were about to discuss which style of ball gown should be worn when royalty is expected.”

“In that case”—Hadrian’s eyes met and held Clarissa’s with the light of challenge—”I would be delighted to show my home to you.”

There was very little she could do to prevent it, Clarissa decided, without seeming ungracious. So she acquiesced, allowing him to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm.

However, the moment the doors closed behind them, leaving them alone in the hall, she withdrew her hand, unwilling to pretend in private that there was no enmity between them.

Hadrian paused and turned to her. “You are angry with me,” he began without preamble. “I deserve it. I treated you abominably, inexcusably. I don’t ask you to accept my apology easily because my breach of etiquette was compounded by a callous disregard for our circumstance. I hope Lady Arbuthnott has not held you at fault. The blame was entirely mine. I said as much to her the very next day.”

“You did?” She had not been told of a private meeting between her aunt and the earl. “When?”

“Lady Arbuthnott received me the next day. She said you were indisposed.” His expression, impassive until now, altered with concern. “I hope I was not the cause of your indisposition.”

“Nonsense,” Clarissa replied a little too quickly for composure’s sake. “You give yourself too much credit if you think that one of your kisses could make me take to my bed.”

The sudden kindling in his eyes told her she had chosen her words incautiously, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze, daring him to mention that fact.

“I was speaking of my accusation that you were a thief, my lady.”

There was something like admiration in his expression as he reached out to curve his fingers under her chin, brushing the silk back against her throat. “I see that once again I’ve misjudged you. You possess a far stronger constitution than I. One kiss from you and I could think of no place I’d rather be than in your bed.”

“You are impetuous, my lord,” she rejoined, partly because she stood in the safety of his own house, with his mother scarcely five yards on the other side of the door, and partly because his avowal pleased as much as it vexed her.

“Too true,” he answered, his voice dropping in register. “If I were to kiss you now, what would you do?”

“Nothing, my lord, because you will not risk it. If you had meant to kiss me, you would have waited until we were more secluded, as in the Rococo Room.”

“I wonder,” he murmured. He had not meant to issue the challenge, let alone attempt it, but she had walked into his house bold as brass, had drunk his mother’s tea, and then had ignored his apology.

The front door opened and Emory stepped in. “Princess Soltana! Hadrian.” The difference in warmth between the greetings could have sent the thermometer plummeting.

Clarissa lifted her chin from the earl’s touch and moved toward his younger brother. “Mr. Blackburne, I was desolate to find you absent.” She offered him her hand saying, “Lady Arbuthnott was eager to enlist your mother’s opinion on ball gowns. We are to meet both the Tsar and the Prussian king this week. Your brother was kind enough to offer to show me about your lovely home, but I find I am so fatigued. Perhaps you will be kind enough to escort me back to the ladies.” She was talking too much and too quickly, explaining what did not in innocence need explanation.

But she was not feeling very innocent at that moment. In fact, had not dear sweet Emory opened the door just when he did, she was not certain who would have kissed whom. Lord Ramsbury broke through her barriers of self-control as easily, it seemed, as she did his.

She cast an indignant glance back over her shoulder to see him lounging against the wall with his arms folded casually across his chest. A smile of smug satisfaction lifted his mouth. Without a doubt, someone would have been kissed!

Clarissa could not sleep. The candle by her bedside flamed as brightly as ever. It was a quarter past three A.M. She had been home from the rout since two, but her head was awhirl with thoughts both old and new.

She looked down at the gold locket she held in her lap. She had not meant to look at it again, but as she prepared for bed, she had chanced to see it lying in the bottom of her jewelry case. And then she remembered.

Evelyn had been killed at Vitoria on June 21, 1813. In just three days, her year of mourning would be officially at an end.

She slid a buffed nail under the edge of the lid, flipped the locket open, and lifted it closer for a better look at what it contained. It was a fine miniature of Evelyn in his Infantry uniform of red coat and gold braid. The portraitist had caught the exact shade of his robin’s-egg-blue eyes and the smooth sheen of his golden hair. He appeared boyish and strong and handsome and brave, and just a little too earnest. All of which he had been. Why had she not been able to love him as much as he deserved?

The question had kept her awake many a night at the beginning of her widowhood, but now there was a new and urgent need to understand and find an answer.

She was in love again, desperately, tremblingly, unlike the time before. What was the difference? Was it she, the circumstance, experience, or something more? If she could not understand the difference, was she not bound to make the same mistakes? Not that she was being given the chance. Lord Ramsbury’s interest was in Princess Soltana, and Princess Soltana did not even exist. It was all quite impossible!

She and Evelyn had been married less than a year and, because he was often away, they shared a bed less than thirty times. Their nights of lovemaking had been even fewer. If he had lived, would they have worked out their problems, or would she have simply grown accustomed to his often-uncomfortable and frustrating lovemaking? Or, would they have grown increasingly resentful of each other until nothing remained but duty and habit?

How remote all conjecture seemed. A feeling of unreality pervaded every thought of Evelyn and their marriage. She had been a widow a year, yet she had lost Evelyn long before that. Perhaps it was nearer the truth to say that through no fault of their own, they had never belonged to each other. Still, a good and brave young man had died a year ago.

She ran a finger fondly over the tiny face as a tear slipped from her eye. “I did care for you, Evelyn. But not as I had wished. Forgive me.”

More tears came after that, quite enough to dampen the bodice of her gown. Finally they abated. She got out of bed quickly, not quite certain what she had in mind. She donned her dressing gown and slippers and then opened her door, expecting the hall to be dark. But it was not. The faintest light came from the next room, her aunt’s room. Pleased to find herself not alone in her insomnia, Clarissa gathered her gown closer and stepped out into the chilly hallway.

As she neared her aunt’s bedroom, she saw that the door was ajar. And then she heard her aunt’s voice and she stopped short of knocking. Whom could her aunt be addressing in her bedroom at this time of night?

A sudden wicked and altogether shocking thought crossed her mind. What if she was entertaining the Comte De Valmy? Though abashed by her suspicion, the impropriety of it did not keep her from drawing nearer to confirm her speculation.

Her aunt’s voice came softly through the open doorway. “Oh, I’m such a miserable creature!” The catch of emotion made her sob. “I have been so naughty, Quentin, and I’m so ashamed!”

The shock of surprise rooted Clarissa to the spot. Her aunt was alone, addressing her husband’s portrait. She had thought her aunt was past this eccentricity, but it seemed that was not so. But what was this about shame and naughtiness?

“Yet you, too, are to blame,” Heloise went on, the tone of the confessional in her voice. “I am alone while every other lady of my acquaintance has someone to escort her. Oh, I know, there are other widows, but I did not expect to be one of them just yet. The world lives in pairs. Wives seem complete in every way. Nothing they want is beyond their grasp. I only wanted something of my own, if only for a little while. But I was impetuous, thoughtless! It is an impossible situation for one in my position. My reputation would be ruined if people found out! I don’t know what to do!”

Embarrassed now, Clarissa began backing away. Indiscretion, shame, fear of scandal. What could it mean? Had her aunt begun a liaison? With Monsieur De Valmy, perhaps? Her heart contracted in sympathy. She should have suspected something of the sort. Perhaps, if she had not been so caught up in her own concerns, her aunt might have confided in her, rather than in a portrait. How far had the liaison developed? Were they lovers? Her aunt’s contrite tone would seem to bear out the assumption. It would also explain her aunt’s sudden fondness for the French language.

Clarissa could not begin to guess how her aunt had managed those secret trysts, yet she was wise enough to concede that when two people wished to be together, they would contrive it. Her aunt was now sorry for her imprudence, wished to free herself of the misalliance. There was only one thing to be done. They must both leave London at once.

Clarissa turned back to her room. She did not blame her aunt for her folly. How could she when she was so near to behaving in exactly the same manner? She recalled again Lord Ramsbury’s lovemaking at Vauxhall, his taste, the feel of his lips on her breast, the gentle strength of his hands seeking the shape of her hips and buttocks through her thin gown. Something of one’s own, someone to hold on to, even if only for a little while. She understood those sentiments perfectly. And the danger of her own frailty.

The following morning at breakfast, Clarissa was not surprised to find her aunt as fresh and cheerful as ever. After all, she thought her confession had been made only to her long-lost husband. They chatted about inconsequential matters until, inevitably, the conversation turned to their plans for the day.

“I don’t believe I shall go out today,” Heloise said, “nor am I of the temperament to be at home to anyone. I did not sleep well. I suffer fidgets and a megrim.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Clarissa answered smoothly. “Perhaps a ride in the park would calm your nerves.”

“Thank you, no. I’m familiar with the ailment. Nothing will relieve it but a particular infusion, the ingredients of which are at my house in Surrey.”

“You might send one of the footmen to fetch it.”

“Heavens, no! I should require such things as dry peacock’s dung—the white part only—fresh millipedes, black-cherry water, Langius’s antepileptick water, spirits of lavender compound, one drachm of nutmeg, peony compound, and such. A mere footman would not have the least idea of what to bring back and in what proportion. Besides, I never—but never—allow anyone to enter my herbal closet, though I suspect Potsman has been in it more than once. The man has the devil’s own curiosity. No, if I am to have the correct remedy, I must go home myself. At once!”

Clarissa gazed at her aunt with a mixture of surprise and admiration. How nicely she had worked out a solution to her troubles. Yet there was her own part to play, as well. “But what of the royal ball next week? And the invitation to Almack’s you so much desired?”

Heloise shrugged. “One grows fatigued with it all.” She began fiddling with the lace at her wrist. “I no longer find the thought of ripping up Lady Throckmorton’s position worthy of my interest and effort.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Clarissa reached across the table to take her aunt’s hand in hers. “We shall begin packing immediately. With luck, we will be back in Surrey in time for tea tomorrow.”