Prelude to Heaven (32 page)

***

Tess wore Nigel's gift to the Grenville ball. She allowed Sally to fasten the emerald bracelet over her gloved wrist, but she didn't give it a second glance. Instead, she turned to the mirror, searching for any flaws in her appearance.

Her gown of green silk was perhaps a bit loose in the waist, but its unusual leaf design of stiff, padded silk at the hem held the skirt in a perfect bell shape, so perhaps Nigel wouldn’t notice her loss of weight. The low, square neckline and tiny, puffed sleeves displayed a fashionably generous amount of her skin, and any tinge of bruising was gone. Her hair was still too short for anything intricate, so Sally had dressed it simply, a riot of curls to her shoulders, with an emerald clip as its only ornament.

She could find nothing for Nigel to criticize. She was wearing the ball gown he had selected, the emeralds he had bought her, and the exclusive perfume he'd had made for her in Paris. But she knew with her husband, she could never take anything for granted.

The door opened, and the object of her thoughts entered the room. The footman who had opened the door held it wide, a clear indication for Sally to depart, and the maid took the hint at once. The footman followed her out, pulling the door closed as he departed.

Tess watched her husband in the mirror as he approached, careful to keep her face expressionless. When he placed his hands on her shoulders, she did not flinch. “You look lovely, my dear.”

His approval was clear, but Tess felt no relief, for his gloved hands were sliding down over the bare skin of her uppers arms, and it was all she could do not to shudder. “Thank you,” she replied, lowering her head, before he could see her distaste in her eyes.

He slid one arm around her waist and reached up with his free hand to push aside the loose curls at her shoulder. The tips of his fingers caressed the curve of her neck before he pressed a kiss there, and Tess stiffened in his embrace.

She realized her mistake immediately. Nigel lifted his golden head from her shoulder, and his arm tightened around her waist. A spark of anger blazed for a moment in his eyes, hinting at the violence that always simmered beneath his polished veneer. She held her breath, waiting to see which way his mood would turn.

He stepped back, releasing her, and she slowly exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

He turned away. “I don’t like your hair that way. It looks slatternly, as if it’s falling down. Have your abigail put it up. I will wait for you downstairs.”

Tess waited until the door had closed behind him before seizing the handkerchief on her dressing table, wanting to scrub her shoulder where his lips had touched her. But she stopped, the handkerchief pressed to her neck, realizing such vigorous action would leave a mark, a flaw. Besides, one couldn't scrub away revulsion or fear with a handkerchief.

She forced her hand down, feeling the touch of her husband’s mouth like a brand on her neck. How different, how glorious, it had felt when another man's lips had kissed her shoulder.

A tiny sob broke from her, and she fought to hold it back, knowing she could not give way. Thinking of Alexandre and remembering his touch would hurt too much. It would make her come alive again. She hadn't had the will to jump out of the window that day at Aubry Park, but she was dead just the same. Dead in her soul. And that was her only protection against the pain.

The ball was a crush, as were all the balls given by Lord and Lady Grenville, for their London house was one of only a few that possessed an actual ballroom. Music and laughter filled the air as couples moved in the steps of a quadrille beneath the crystal chandeliers.

Tess, however, wasn’t in a frame of mind to either laugh or dance. Nigel was beside her, engaged in conversation with several of the people surrounding them, but Tess had no interest in their discussion of Queen's Race Day or the latest fashion in cravats, and her restless gaze wandered the room.

As the dance ended and the floor cleared of couples, she spied Felicia Colebridge across the room, looking angelic in white silk and also a bit overwhelmed. When their eyes met, she gave the girl an encouraging smile. Making one's come-out had to be a terrible ordeal, she mused idly as she took a sip from the glass of punch in her hand. Pressured to do well and find a husband, a girl was forced to be on best behavior at every moment...

“Alexandre Dumond.”

The name called out by the lord of the chambers jolted Tess out of her musings, and even as she thought hearing Alexandre’s name must have been a fancy of her imagination, she glanced at the doorway. But the moment she did, she knew she hadn’t imagined anything, and at the sight of him, the ballroom floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

His hair, as long, unruly and black as ever, hung loose. His ruffled shirt, silk waistcoat, gloves, and perfectly tied cravat were snowy white, a stark contrast to the black coat and trousers he wore. The coat needed no padding to complement his wide shoulders, the tight-fitting trousers clearly outlined the powerful muscles of his legs, and the shoes needed no heels to give him height. He moved into the room with languorous grace, seemingly unaware of the stares and feminine whispers that began to filter through the crowd.

Tess watched as he greeted Lord and Lady Grenville and their daughter, Lady Melanie. As he bowed over Melanie’s hand, he smiled at the girl, and at the sight of that smile, raw pain ripped through Tess. She had fought hard to put her days in Provence behind her, she had tried so hard to forget him and his smile and the silken feel of his hair in her fingers. Yet, as she watched him lead Melanie to the floor to dance an allemande, she could only stare at him with insatiable hunger, longing for what she could never have.

“My dear?”

Tess jumped at the sound of Nigel’s voice, but as she tore her gaze from the couple dancing, she couldn’t bear to look at her husband, for his keen eyes would surely see her feelings in her countenance. Instead, she lowered her gaze to the glass of punch she held, staring, as her shaking hand caused the liquid to slosh over the sides of the glass, staining her glove. She could feel her resolve splintering apart, and she knew she had to escape until she could regain control of herself.

“Forgive me, darling, but I feel quite ill all of a sudden,” she said and set her glass on the nearest table. Without waiting for Nigel’s permission, or even a reply, she left the ballroom before her expression could give her away to Nigel or anyone else.

She found the ladies’ withdrawing room deserted, and she sank into a chair, thankful for the solitude. But it brought no peace, for thoughts and questions swirled through her mind.

Why was he in London? Why did he have to look even more handsome than she remembered? Had he brought Suzanne with him?

The thought of her daughter brought a fresh wave of pain, and behind that came fear. Her one thought in leaving France had been to protect Suzanne. She could only imagine what Nigel would do if he ever found out the truth. If her husband gleaned even the tiniest suspicion of Suzanne's true identity, he would use all his considerable influence and power to gain control of her, as he had control of Tess. Suzanne would be another of his possessions.

Tess had no idea how long she remained sitting there, but the opening of the door and the sound of a voice interrupted her reverie. “Lady Aubry?”

Tess looked up to find a maid standing before her. “Yes?”

“Lord Aubry has expressed the wish that you return to the ballroom.”

It was a command, and she knew it. Working to keep fear at bay, she rose and returned to the ballroom and saw that her husband had moved to a place by the refreshment table, where he was in conversation with the young Duke of Rathburn and several other acquaintances. She also saw Alexandre, who—thankfully—was on the opposite side of the room, but her gaze skittered away from him at once, and she rejoined her husband.

Nigel gave her a long, searching glance as she paused by his side. “Are you all right, my dear? You're not ill?”

She'd made him angry again. She could hear the warning beneath his solicitous words, an unspoken message that if she was ill, she'd best recover quickly. “Of course,” she answered and smiled, donning the mask of happy wife she’d spent years perfecting. “A momentary faintness. This ball is such a crush, and I was feeling overwhelmed. I am much better now.”

Seeming satisfied by that, he returned his attention to Rathburn. “Duke, I believe you already know my wife?”

“Yes, indeed. It is a pleasure to see you again, Countess.”

When he bowed, she gave a deep curtsy in response. “Duke.”

She was introduced to the duke’s companions, and the conversation in which they had been engaged prior to her arrival was resumed Tess, relieved of her husband’s scrutiny for the moment, turned her gaze toward the dancing couples. As they moved in the intricate steps of a quadrille, she caught glimpses between their bodies of Alexandre, who was now directly opposite her, talking and laughing with the pretty blonde by his side. Every time he smiled at Lady Melanie, Tess remembered a time when he’d smiled at her that way. Whenever he laughed, she imagined the sound of it ringing in her ears. Sweet torture, but she could not resist.

The music stopped, and as the dancing couples left the floor, fate decided to make Tess's life worse than it already was. Alexandre chose to look up at that moment.

Across the expanse of empty space between them, she watched his features harden. His black gaze locked with hers, and even from this distance, she could feel his animosity like the chill of winter, but she was powerless to turn away. She could only gaze at him hungrily, and it was he who broke their eye contact. But if she thought there would be relief for her in that, she was mistaken, for he murmured something to Melanie, offered the girl his arm, and came circling the ballroom floor in her direction.

The move forced her gaze away. “Gentlemen,” she said, turning to the two gentlemen beside her, “forgive me for interrupting this fascinating discussion.” She gave her husband, the duke, and the other gentlemen with them a melting smile. “But I feel compelled to point out that a waltz is about to start, and my husband has not yet danced with me.”

Nigel stiffened, not pleased by the interruption to their conversation, but the duke and his companions laughed. “Dance with your wife, Aubry,” Rathburn said. “If I had a wife as lovely as yours, I would certainly be dancing with her rather than discussing politics with other men.”

Nigel led her to the floor. As they began the waltz, she watching in dismay as Alexandre paused to converse with the duke, showing her move to avoid him was only temporary. She had also paid a high price to gain it, for she could feel the tenseness of Nigel’s body as they danced, and she knew her request for this waltz had angered him.

She didn’t know if that anger would explode tonight, or next week, or next month. But she did know it would explode and that however slight her transgression, he would punish her for it. He always did.

***

In coming to London, Alexandre had known there was a good chance he and Tess would meet, but he wasn't prepared for what the sight of her would do to him. He wasn't prepared for the violent combination of rage and desire that stormed within him whenever he looked at her.

The Duke of Rathburn spoke, and Alexandre forced his gaze away from Tess and her dance partner. “I was pleased to see that your exhibition at the Royal Academy was quite successful. I pray that means you are undertaking commissions?”

“I am.”

“Monsieur Dumond has already received a number of commissions,” Melanie informed the duke. “Papa has requested several portraits. So has Lord Ashford.”

“Excellent.” The Duke of Rathburn eyed Alexandre thoughtfully. “I must say, it's time I had a portrait done. As I told you during the Exhibition, I’m quite impressed with your work. If you promise not to make me stand in a ridiculous pose, leaning against a marble column with a laurel wreath on my head, I'll have you paint me.”

Everyone laughed, aware that the current style in portrait painting demanded that the subject be made to look like a Greek god or goddess.

“I would be honored.” Alexandre caught a glimpse of swirling emerald silk out of the corner of his eye, and it took all the willpower he had not to look at Tess and her dance partner. “There will be no laurel wreaths,” he assured the duke. “I promise you that.”

Several more people joined their group, shifting the conversation away from Alexandre’s work, and he could no longer resist temptation. He stole another look at the dance floor, and when he saw her, he could not look away.

She was so thin. Her cheeks were hollow, her face was ashen beneath the tint of rouge, reminding him of the woman he'd first pulled from the weeds of his garden. She seemed to be wasting away. Had she been ill?

His gaze moved to the blond man who held her in his arms, the same man who had been by her side at the hotel in Marseilles. Was she unhappy with him? Alexandre wondered. If so, then why inn heaven’s name had she gone away with him?