Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (26 page)

“She did.” Feeling as if the carpet had been snatched out from under her, Clarissa sat in the first chair she spied. “But I never … they never betrayed … even afterward, she never said a word.”

“Good for them. That is how it should have been. You were but a child. He wanted you with him, but he was unwilling to give the señora up. He wrote to me at length when he made his decision to send for you. He promised me he would not expose you to any shame or scandal. I see he kept his word. Still, you might have had a half brother or sister.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clarissa asked resentfully, for this was new and not entirely welcome information.

“Because you are not a child any longer. Because you are in love, and when you are young, love can make the simplest things complex. Because you are better and stronger than you think you are. You are not afraid that Lord Ramsbury is in love with someone else. You are afraid that he is in love with you—a you
you
do not know that you should own up to.”

Was that it? Was it that simple? Clarissa dragged in her lower lip with her top teeth. Was she angry because she had behaved like her sultry alter ego, Princess Soltana, while in the person of Clarissa? Or did she doubt the source of the passion that Hadrian had so easily aroused and satisfied? The notorious Holton “wild” blood, had it come forth to plague her at last?

“Why did my father not remarry?”

“ ’Twas a combination of things. He said her family objected on grounds of religious differences. Then, too, I think the señora knew that one day the wars would be over and your father would bring you back to England. He always expected you to marry and have a family of your own. I don’t think he could have long remained far away from his grandchildren. She, on the other hand, would have been a stranger in a not always welcoming society. She knew herself and accepted what he offered.”

“That is terribly sad!” Clarissa said in a small, choked voice.

“Perhaps it is what they wanted. She was there for him, even at the end. Say what you will, my dear, I think they were happy.”

Clarissa considered this. Her father had never expressed any unhappiness or frustration at being a widower. He had not complained, as did many of the married officers, of missing wives and family … because he had his family with him.

Clarissa nodded slowly. “I think you are correct, Aunt. Father was a happy man.”

“Yes, well, some of us are blessed.”

Clarissa turned her attention for the first time to her aunt, recalling how they had parted, each preoccupied with her own thoughts. “You must be lonely here, after the social whirl of London.”

“I miss the balls and gowns and gossip,” Heloise admitted. “But it was time for me to return to my rightful place. I was attracting the wrong sort of attention for a married woman.”

Intrigued, Clarissa asked, “What do you mean?”

Heloise’s blue eyes sparkled. “Why, my dear, I mean a suitor. Would you believe it? Comte De Valmy asked me to marry him.”

“You refused!” Clarissa said in alarm.

“Of course. I am already married. But it did perk up my spirits considerably.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“My dear girl, you could not possibly imagine Quentin’s reaction should he return to find another man in his position. As to that, I dare not even take a lover. De Valmy understood.”

“You mean he asked you to be his mistress?”

Heloise smiled serenely. “For a married woman you are singularly sheltered, child. Do you think passions are things to be turned on and off at will? I may not be twenty, but I am still alive. De Valmy stirred pleasant memories, but I have ever been faithful to your uncle.”

Clarissa swallowed then said in her gentlest voice, “What if Uncle Quentin is dead?”

Heloise’s smile did not alter. “Why then, I made a mistake. With De Valmy, I mean. But I do not think so. I would know if Quentin were dead. I would know it here.” She pointed to her heart.

Clarissa had no answer for that and could only be grateful that her aunt was not permanently attached to Comte De Valmy.

“So, how shall two single women pass the time until Ramsbury screws up his courage and comes after you?” Heloise asked.

For no good reason she could think of, Clarissa fet her eyes begin to sting with gathering tears. “Men can be so blind! Why could he not even say that he held me in great regard? A kiss! What is a kiss? A lady needs to hear the words. The man is hopeless!”

“Ramsbury is young. I doubt he’s ever been in love,” Heloise answered, fishing into her sleeve for her clean handkerchief. “He will soon begin to suspect that this love is the source of his emotional attachment to you. If not, we must assume that some friend shall shortly point it out to him. There, there, wipe your eyes, dearest. Men!”

She cast her eyes up to the portrait of her husband, which once again hung in its rightful place. ‘Why do they assume that the women who love them will understand them and their emotions better than they understand themselves?”

Since a little before eleven
P.M
. Hadrian Temple Blackburne, fifth Earl of Ramsbury, and several companions had been celebrating in a private parlor of his club Parliament’s official restoration of his title. It was now four
A.M
. and only his cousin kept him company. The remains of their elaborate supper lay on a nearby table while between them the two men had emptied a half dozen wine bottles.

“There is nothing like three bottles of claret to enliven the spirits,” Hadrian pronounced when had he drained the last of his glass. “But I do not think you’ve a head for wine, James.”

“Wh-whyever would you s-s-ay that?” James, Marquess of Bascombe, asked, a pleasant but vacuous smile on his handsome face. “I quite l-liked the last bottle.”

“It has not kept you from talking about your new bride, though you swore not to mention any lady’s name within these walls tonight.”

“Did I?” James tried to focus on his cousin, but Hadrian’s features would not completely resolve into place. They were both partially undressed, with open waistcoats, unknotted cravats, and no jackets or boots. “Sorry. Meant to keep up my end. Did, you know. Only—w-well … Dash it all! Mi-mi—”

“Miriam,” Hadrian supplied sourly.

“Yes, that’s she.” He smile became a sloppy grin. “She’s a grand girl. Going to make a fine wife.”

“How do you know?”

“How—?” James frowned. How did he know? “Her parents are good people, never a hint of scandal. A—a bit high in the instep, her father is, but amiable for all that.”

“I was speaking of Miriam,” Hadrian replied.

“Well, she’s a stunner, a real beauty.”

“I grant you that. But the description can apply to a painting or a piece of music.”

“She’s quiet, makes pleasant conversation. Keeps herself occupied. Not one to ask where a man spent his evenings … and in what company. Discreet.”

“One’s butler may possess those qualities.” Hadrian sat forward suddenly, his strangely light eyes burrowing into his cousin’s deep-blue ones. “How did you know you were in love? That’s what I want to know. How did it feel? What made up your mind for you?”

James looked startled. “Never thought to pin it down exactly. Let’s see. Dash it! Think Miriam said we were in love.”

“Did she?” Derision colored Hadrian’s tone. “And you simply accepted it?”

James’s mouth snapped shut. “Wasn’t like that. A man knows when he’s in love. He feels it. Here.” He aimed a finger toward his chest but his arm was a little too weighted by wine and he ended up pointing at his stomach.

“I can well believe the region concerned,” Hadrian answered caustically. He had had a knot in his own stomach ever since his meeting with Clarissa Willoughby nearly a week earlier. “I thought I knew my mind, but how is man to separate lust from more personal feelings? Many a well-favored chit can warm a man’s nether regions, but that cannot signify uppermost when he considers marriage. Is love a reflex action, or is it simply a matter of breeding, like choosing a racehorse?”

“There’s always the element of heart in a good racehorse, sires and mares being equal,” James answered. “Choose the one with heart.”

Hadrian considered this. Soltana had heart. She had come unhesitatingly to his defense. He had not been able to get that thought out of his mind. He was grateful to her, had been aroused by her kisses to the brink of desire just moments before the attack. Was that love, this grateful warmth that invaded his mind and body whenever he thought of her? And if it was, then what was this deep-down aching that knotted in his stomach each time he thought of Clarissa? She was strong, too, and proud, and so passionately natured he had only to think of her to stand in his breeches. The question was, which one had his heart?

That puzzle had so plagued his days and nights that he had begun to dream that the women were one and the same. There was Soltana: sultry and seductive, strong and independent, beyond the strictures of ordinary society, an enigma. And there was Clarissa: beautiful, well-bred, dashing, a good sport, sharp minded, and passionate. Why could they not be the same? It would solve everything.

“One and the same,” he repeated to the room, for James had begun to snore softly in his wing chair. “One and the same. Good God!”

He was on his feet before realizing it. “Wake up! James, do you hear me? Wake up!” He shook his cousin roughly.

James blinked and jerked awake. “Wh-what—dammit, Hadrian! What it is? Club on fire?”

“No, but I’m about to light the wick to a plot, James, and I need your help. We are going to Derbyshire.”

“Now?”

“Now!”

“But I don’t like Derbyshire. Too much country air.”

“You will like it. Miriam must come, too.”

“Miriam?” The bridegroom of several weeks began to smile lasciviously. “Miriam likes the country. We’ll come.”

Emory reflected on how life was as unfathomable and unpredictable as a card game. One minute one thought one held an unbeatable hand, three aces and two kings. A royal flush was all that could beat it. And then one’s opponent laid down his hand, a royal flush in spades. That was how he thought of Hadrian’s return, a full house that had turned inexplicably into a losing hand.

He stood impatiently in the front hall, slapping his riding crop against his thigh. His life had gone from perfect to perfectly unendurable—from earl to “honorable”—in the space of three months. He could no longer face the consequences, least of all his brother’s disdain and disappointment when he learned the truth. There was nothing to be done but to leave the country.

The butler, who was supervising the loading of Emory’s luggage, appeared at the front door. “Your coach is ready, sir.”

“My horse?” Emory snapped.

“Coming from the stable now, sir.”

“Very well, then, I am off.”

“Off? Off to where?”

Jane’s voice reached him from the head of the stairs. She came quickly down toward him, her eyes widening as they took in his riding clothes and lightweight cape. “You are dressed for travel, Emory. Where are you going?”

“Paris, I should think,” Emory answered, annoyed that he had not gotten clean away.

“Does Mama know?” she asked as she walked down the hall to him.

Emory glanced at the butler who said, “I will see if your horse has arrived,” then closed the door behind himself. “I wrote
Maman
a note, explaining everything.”

Jane’s expression became suspicious. “You have not told Hadrian. He would not approve.”

“Hadrian may rot in hell!” Emory muttered, too angry to care that he shocked his sister with his speech.

But Jane was aware of the critical matters between her beloved brothers and so did not criticize him. She reached out and touched his sleeve. “What is wrong, Emory? You and Hadrian have not spoken a civil word to each other since the night you were to fight that ridiculous duel.”

“Ridiculous?” Emory jerked away from her hand. “That, just that, is the answer to why I am leaving. Anything I do must needs be ridiculous! If Hadrian had chosen to fight a duel, I am certain you would not have found his reasons ridiculous. But I am not given the same courtesy. A man can take only so much from his family. Hadrian has humiliated me for the final time.”

“He was only trying to save your life,” Jane responded. “You might have been killed. Oh, Emory, think again. I am sorry if I injured your pride. I did not mean to. It’s only that you have been so unpleasant to me, and to Eleanor McEvedy.”

Emory’s handsome face went blank. “Eleanor McEvedy? What has she to do with any of this?”

“Well you might ask, for all the attention you pay to her,” Jane answered crossly. “She is in love with you, Emory, yet you give her no more attention than you would a tree stump.”

“Eleanor is a child.”

“She is eighteen, and old enough to be wed.” Jane smiled slyly at him. “She says you once stole a kiss from her.”

Emory blushed. “She was but sixteen.”

“Then you do remember. Oh, Emory, stay and pay court to Eleanor.”

“I should say not! My affections are engaged elsewhere.”

“Not to that horrid Princess Soltana?”

His face blanched as quickly as it has colored. “Don’t you dare call her horrid. She is a lady, a true and fascinating lady.”

Jane made a moue. “I vow she is a pleasant creature but, surely, you could not love a lady so unlike yourself? Even Hadrian’s affections have been snared by a sensible choice.”

“What’s this?” Emory’s face was a composite of amazement.

“I shouldn’t tell you, as you are being so unpleasant to me, but I will. I believe that Hadrian’s interest in Mrs. Willoughby will soon blossom into a proposal of marriage.”

“You don’t say?” For the first time in weeks, Emory felt as if the events in his life had taken a sudden lurch toward the better. “Then that leaves the field open to me. Hadrian said he would honor … but I did not think …”

“Then you will forget about Paris and remain?”

Warning bells went off in Emory’s head as he was about to agree. Soltana was his for the taking. Yet his elation was laced with trepidation of another kind which he could not explain to a younger sister. If only he could have confided in—but no. He shook his head roughly. That was an impossibility. “You do not understand. I must get away for a while.” He raked one hand through his thick, dark hair, disturbing his perfectly arranged curls. “Everything is muddled, turned the wrong way round. I must find a solution or I shall be ruined.”