Lord Harry's Daughter (14 page)

Chapter
23

Mark was not the only one who was relieved. The grin told Sophia all that she wanted to know. Attracted though he might be by the condesa's obvious beauty. Major Lord Mark Adair was not about to be taken in by her feminine ploys.

Gathering up her things as she watched the tide roll in, eating up the wide, flat beach that was her path back to town, Sophia puzzled, not for the first time, how a clever man could be led by a beautiful woman even though he was fully aware of the machinations being practiced upon him. Sophia was now reasonably certain that the major was as alive to the fact that the condesa had lain in wait for him as Sophia was, but that knowledge had not stopped him from falling in with her plan. If she had been in the major's place, Sophia thought angrily as she strode along the hard-packed sand toward town, she would have refused to accompany the condesa purely on principle, and the more the condesa tried to coerce, the more she would have resisted.

But men apparently did not see things this way. Sophia had witnessed time and again in army camps from Lisbon to Saint Jean how easily men were swayed by a pretty face and a coy manner, no matter how obvious or how false, to make perfect fools of themselves. At least she could say of the major that he knew he was being led a merry dance by the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna.

Struggling to put the entire episode out of her mind. Sophia trudged homeward, hoping desperately that the major had forgotten about the appearance of his face among the other portraits in her sketchbook. The condesa had been entirely correct in thinking that he was more carefully drawn than the other subjects, and Sophia did not want the major to arrive at the same conclusion. In fact, the less he thought about the portrait, the better.

Fortunately for Sophia's peace of mind. Mark's attention was taken up with other things. With winter setting in in earnest, Wellington and his staff settled into the task of making their winter quarters as gay as possible. Headquarters was filled with the sounds of dinner parties, regimental bands, and animated conversations, and the smells of good food and wine.

While many of the Frenchwomen were still leery of the occupiers of Saint Jean, Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna, daughter of the
ancien regime
and widow of a Spanish grandee, was not. She and her father were frequent guests at the duke's table, which gave Sophia ample opportunity to observe the beauty's wiles.

Though she laughed and flirted with any and every officer, Diane appeared, to Sophia at least, to demonstrate a distinct partiality for Major Lord Mark Adair. Though she hated to admit it, and though she loathed the thought of having anything in common with the condesa, Sophia could not help agreeing that the Frenchwoman's partiality was natural enough, for she, too, preferred Mark's company over all the others. His conversation, though witty, was more serious, and his genuine interest could not help but make Sophia feel understood and appreciated in a way that she never had been before. Only one thing troubled her, and that was his assumption that simply because both she and the condesa were young females without husbands they were bound to become friends.

“I do think that the condesa would appreciate it if you called on her,” Mark volunteered one morning as, encountering Sophia on her way home from the inn that served as a hospital, he fell in step with her.

“Might she not think that rather presumptuous of me?” Sophia had seen enough of the flirtatious Diane to know that they had little in common except their gender and their unmarried state.

“Oh no. The condesa is always telling me how she longs for company. She has led a most solitary life, you know."

“Ah."

“I can see that you are skeptical. But remember, her family has been opposed to Bonaparte longer than we have."

“Oh, I realize that."

“Yet you seem hesitant."

“From what I have observed of the condesa, I am not sure that we would have very much to talk about.” Seeing the puzzlement in his eyes, Sophia tried to explain. “She is so fashionable and a very ... ah ... sociable person."

“No, that is where you are wrong. She may seem to be more flir ... er ... gay, but that is because it has been so long since she has had any society to speak of. Her husband died not long after they were married so she was in mourning for some time. Then she returned to France to be with her father and, as royalists, they felt it best to remain very quiet. It has been such a relief to her now to have people to talk to that she may appear gayer than is usual, but she has a serious side to herself. Why, she is almost as knowledgeable about the troops as you are, and she certainly is as interested as you are in all that we are doing."

“Is she?"

“She is forever asking me about the regiments stationed here and never tires of hearing about all the details.” Mark was so intent on convincing Sophia of the mutual interests she shared with the condesa that he missed entirely the sarcastic note in her voice and the ironic gleam in her eyes.

“In that case, she is far more likely to enjoy your company than mine."

Mark
did
hear the edge in her voice that time and he quickly turned his head to hide a grin. So the serious artist was jealous of the beautiful condesa, was she? It rather pleased him to think that Sophia Featherstonaugh could fall prey to such a lowering emotion.

“But she, like you, has had nothing but male company for years. It is a new thing for her to have a woman of her own social level for companionship."

“I suppose it is.” Sophia refrained from remarking that just because something was new and different did not mean it was welcome. She had had the distinct feeling every time that she and the condesa were in one another's vicinity that the captivating Diane avoided her more assiduously than she sought her out.

They had reached her quarters by now and Sophia, thanking the major for his escort, bid him good day. She continued to ponder the conversation as she went to her bedchamber to freshen up and wash off the scent of sickness and death that always seemed to cling to her after her visits to the hospital.

But it was not visions of the wounded and the dying that occupied Sophia's mind as she sat looking out her window at the sea of red tiled rooftops and the bell towers of the Eglise Saint Jean Baptiste, it was the condesa's singular interest in the British forces. Naturally, the condesa, who obviously reveled in masculine attention, would discuss topics that were important to the men with whom she was flirting, but Sophia had seen enough of the condesa to know that a woman such as Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna was far more likely to wish to talk about herself than anything else. Such a woman craved flattery and demanded a steady supply of it from any and all men in her vicinity. So, why were there the questions about troop strengths? Even to Sophia's critical eye it seemed that the condesa had very little need to suit her conversation to the major's tastes in order to captivate his attention. It was abundantly clear that he was supremely attracted to her person as it was, without needing a feigned interest in his affairs to keep him at her side. Her curiosity roused, Sophia vowed to keep an eye on the Frenchwoman, for even the briefest of interactions with her had been enough to convince Sophia that nothing about that particular lady was without purpose. Every gesture, every glance, every smile, was calculated to create a certain effect. If she discussed troop movements with Wellington's aides-de-camp, it was not idle chatter.

Chapter
24

Idle chatter was certainly not part of the condesa's plan for her next encounter with the major. Knowing full well that her father was off overseeing repairs to the roof of their now uninhabitable chateau, Diane gave her maid the afternoon off and, attiring herself in a promenade costume more suited to the hot, sunny days of midsummer than he cold and damp of winter, she glanced out the window to reassure herself of the likelihood of a downpour at any minute, threw on a Cossack mantle of heavy silk, and tripped off in the direction of headquarters at the moment she knew Mark would be heading to the stables for a stable call.

Sure enough, precisely according to her calculations, the wind came in off the ocean, bringing with it a driving rain. Hurrying down the steps. Mark was just in time to see Diane pull her mantle around her and hasten to the inadequate shelter of a doorway. She was not quick enough to keep the mantle from becoming thoroughly soaked and it clung to her like the revealing draperies of a Greek statue, outlining her magnificent figure to its fullest advantage.

Mark ran across the street. “You must be wet through, let me take you into headquarters.” He quickly stripped off his own coat and wrapped it around the condesa's shoulders.

Leaning back so that his arms practically encircled her as he draped the coat around her, Diana replied through chattering teeth. “No. I should be much too self-conscious. Look at me, my gown is so wet I feel practically naked.” She gestured in such a way as to open the coat and mantle, giving him an enticing view of her white muslin dress now plastered to her thighs and bosom. “Please"—she looked at him with pleading eyes—"take me home."

“But you will be thoroughly drenched."

“I am wet through already. I can hardly get any wetter, and besides, I must get out of these damp things."

Mark had a sudden intoxicating vision of the condesa stripping off the flimsy muslin gown, and his throat tightened. “Very well, if that is what you wish."

“That is what I wish."

He held out his arm and they hastened through the downpour, hugging the buildings for what little shelter they afforded.

When they entered the Hotel de Brissac, Mark was too intent on getting the condesa in out of the rain to notice the singular silence that reigned in the household. Not a servant was in sight. No one came hurrying up to relieve the mistress of her mantle or to rush her off to her bedchamber to take off her wet things.

Diane led him into a graceful salon hung with pale green damask and crammed to the fullest with the boulle chests, marquetry tables, and gilt chairs of a previous generation. Pulling off the major's coat and her own wrap, she tossed them across the back of one of a pair of bergere chairs next to the fireplace. “I gave the servants the afternoon off, as I expected to be out making calls the entire time so there is hardly any fire left, but..."

“Allow me to see what I can do.” Taking his cue. Mark crossed over to the fireplace, poked at the embers, and managed to rekindle the few half-burned logs at the back of the fireplace. If he thought it odd that the condesa, born into a world notorious for ignoring its servants, seemed to have succumbed to a sudden burst of generosity, he made no comment except to remark that perhaps he should leave so that she could change into dry clothes.

“I would not think of sending you out into this weather until you had a chance to warm yourself, and you are even more wet than I.” Diane allowed her eyes to wander over the broad chest and muscular shoulders so clearly revealed by the damp cambric shirt that clung to him. La, but the man was handsome! She drew a deep, shuddering breath and rose from her chair to join him in front of the warming blaze.

“I can feel how drenched you are.” Diane reached out and stroked his chest with one small white hand. “You must be chilled to the bone, for you gave me your coat. I had no idea the British were so chivalrous."

Mark looked down at the condesa, who was so close to him that he could feel the warmth rising from her body and smell the rosewater on her skin. The dark eyes looking up at him were full of promises, and the full red lips parted invitingly as the hand on his chest slid slowly, tantalizingly, up his shoulder, and then to his neck.

He could not tell whether she pulled his mouth down to meet hers or whether, drawn by an urge too strong to resist, an urge he had no desire to resist, he bent to crush her lips beneath his. His arms went around her waist, pulling her to him. The soft fullness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and the gentle pressure of her hips as she arched against him, drove all thoughts but one from his mind.

In a daze, Mark felt her loosening his neckcloth and sliding one hand under his shirt, where it seemed to burn against his bare skin. Desperately he reached around her and undid her gown.

Gazing up at him under half-closed lids, Diane smiled a slow, sultry smile. Yes, she had known the major would be an experienced lover—why he was undoing her gown far more expertly and efficiently than her maid Marie ever did. She sighed with pleasure as he pulled it off her shoulders and trailed passionate kisses down her neck. With a moan of satisfaction and anticipation, she fell back onto the sofa, pulling him down on top of her.

The next moments were a confusion of flesh against flesh, hands buried into dark curls, lips seeking lips, as they both gave themselves up with abandon to sheer sensuality.

After what seemed hours later, Diane lifted her head to gaze down at the man beneath her, his chest still glistening with sweat.
"Merci, mon chere,"
she whispered, slowly licking her lips, “you were
magnifique."

One cynically raised dark brow told her that this was a little excessive, even taking into account the intensity of their lovemaking. She hastened to retrieve her credibility. “I know, I know, it does sound extravagant, but you must make allowances for a woman who has known nothing but loneliness her entire life.” Diane looked deep into his eyes, her fingers playing with the thick hair on his chest. “You do not know what my life has been. Now, yes, I look happy, gay. You see me laughing and making conversation with your officers, but until now, my life has been most dreary and empty. I was just a little girl when the Revolution came and we fled to Spain. Only a few months after my marriage Napoleon gave amnesty to all exiles. Papa went back to France and I was left behind. I had no one to turn to except my husband, who was more a father to me than a husband. Then Napoleon made his brother King of Spain and my husband left to join the others who declared war against the French. He died of a fever soon after and I came home to Papa. I have always been an exile and Bonaparte has made it impossible for me to enjoy any sort of society until now.” This was not entirely true as the de Brissacs had established themselves in Madrid to the extent that they attracted the attention of the Conde de Gonsalvo y Coruna, but Diane saw no reason to mention anything that might dispel the expression of deep sympathy she saw on her lover's face.

If Mark wondered how the condesa, living a life that she claimed to be so sheltered, had become so skilled at making love, he dismissed it with the excuse that desperation was taking the place of experience and was pushing her into an affair that more sophisticated and cynical women would have drawn out into a prolonged seduction, building up anticipation and extracting expensive presents before finally giving in. He told himself that her impulsiveness was naive and charming, that it was as attractive as it was novel to find a woman who did not continually temporize with the excuse that she was concerned with her reputation. Her lips came down on his and, pushing all rational thoughts aside, Mark gave himself up to all the sensual delights that the lady's passionate nature inspired.

At last, completely exhausted by the condesa's appetite, Mark glanced at the clock on the mantel and, astounded by the time that had passed so quickly, turned to his companion. “Surprising and delightful as this time has been, my lady, I must return to my duties."

“I know.” She sighed gently. “It has been all too brief, but you officers have so many things to do. You must be planning to move against Bayonne as soon as the roads are passable again."

“Of course, I would rather remain here.” Mark was touched by her understanding. No other woman he could think of, except one, would have realized that despite the army's temporary inactivity, there was much to be done, but that woman would never have been so rash and reckless to do what the condesa had just done.

He pulled on his clothes and, planting a final kiss on the lady's lips, took his leave. “This has been a most charming and delicious interlude. I hope you know that you are no longer without friends or society. You must always count me as a friend and not hesitate to ask for anything you need or desire."

Diane flashed a bewitching smile. “You English are so chivalrous and you are the most chivalrous of them all, but what if I find that your services become indispensable to me?"

“I would count myself most fortunate to be your servant.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss in the soft palm and, opening the door, glanced quickly up and down the street to make sure no one witnessed his exit. When he had assured himself that the coast was clear, he hurried back toward headquarters.

Back in her boudoir, Diane sat down at her dressing table and regarded her reflection in the looking glass with a good deal of satisfaction. Lovemaking always brought out the best in her looks. There was a sparkle in her eyes that seemed to illuminate her whole being. Yes, the major had been all that she had hoped for, except—Diane frowned at her reflection, but seeing the wrinkles it put in her forehead, quickly banished it—except that he was not so blindly adoring as she liked her men to be.

While it was true that he sympathized with her pathetic tale, there had been a suavity in his voice that made it appear more like a practiced response than a genuine commitment to run to her side at her least command. He had also not believed her flattery of his lovemaking. She leaned forward to inspect her perfect complexion for any possible hint of a blemish and, satisfied that nothing had changed since the morning, remained staring speculatively into the glass.

Ordinarily she liked a clever man, but at this particular moment, Diane de Gonsalvo y Coruna was not looking for a challenge; she was looking for a dupe. Perhaps it did not have to be the major, perhaps there was someone else at Wellington's headquarters who would be more susceptible, but no one made her pulses race the way Major Lord Mark Adair did.