Prelude to Heaven (33 page)

Anger at her treachery and concern for her well-being warred within him, but then he thought of how she had abandoned Suzanne, and he savagely cast aside any worry on her behalf. Being a rich Englishman's mistress must be hard work, he told himself, and turned his back to the dance floor.

Not looking at her was no reprieve, however, for the waltz soon ended, and Tess and her partner returned to the group.

“Aubry,” the duke called out, beckoning to the couple, “I know you'll want to meet this gentleman.”

Keeping anger at the forefront of his mind, Alexandre steeled himself and turned toward Tess and her escort, but the moment he did, he saw again how drawn and pale she looked, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. His gaze slid away, focusing instead on the blond dandy in dark blue superfine beside her as the duke performed introductions.

“Aubry, this is Monsieur Alexandre Dumond. Dumond, may I present the Earl and Countess of Aubry to you?”

Countess? She was married? His anger flared up again, primal and savage, but he tamped it down, working to conceal it beneath a polite smile. But when he turned to her, when he bowed over her hand and felt it quiver beneath the brush of his lips, when he looked up and met her gaze, he almost came undone at the anguish in the green depths of her eyes.

What did she have to agonize over? he wondered as he let go of her hand. He was the one who had been left behind. He and Suzanne. With that reminder, he turned his gaze and his attention to Tess’s companion.

“Dumond?” Aubry was saying. “My dear duke, surely you can’t mean this gentleman is Dumond the artist?”

“The very same.”

Aubry turned toward Alexandre with an eager expression. “What an unexpected pleasure this is. I am a great admirer of your work.”

“
Merci
. That is gratifying to hear.”

“I saw your work at the Exhibition, and I thought the landscapes you displayed were particularly fine. I am a connoisseur of art, sir, and I must say your use of light and color is extraordinary.”

“You flatter me, Lord Aubry.” He felt smothered, desperate to escape, and he hastily invented an excuse to move on. “Lady Melanie,” he said, turning to the woman by his side, “I see that your mother has at last found Lady Tingatel. After all the effort she made to do so on my behalf, we must join them.” He nodded to Aubry, Rathburn, and their companions, but he did not look at Tess. “If you will pardon us?”

He bowed in farewell and propelled Lady Melanie away, returning with her to their party on the other side of the room. But after a few moments conversation with Lady Tingatel about her upcoming portrait, Alexandre’s thoughts inevitably wandered to what he had learned moments ago.
The Countess of Aubry
. The duke’s introduction seemed to shout in his ears, over and over again. And each time he heard it, he felt another stab of pain at her betrayal.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. The fact that she was married didn’t have anything to do with him. And if she were ill or unhappy, it wasn’t his business or his problem. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but as the evening wore on, he was only able to endure the situation by always knowing Tess’s exact location and avoiding that particular part of the ballroom at all costs.

Unfortunately, he couldn't manage to avoid her for the entire evening. When he and Lady Melanie encountered the Duke of Rathburn again and he asked the duke where in London a man might practice his swordplay, a languid male voice behind him said, “Angelo's, of course.”

Turning at that answer, he once again found himself face-to-face with the Earl of Aubry and his countess.

“I practice at Angelo's every week,” the earl continued. “If you’ve a fondness for the sport, perhaps we might test each other’s mettle? As my wife will tell you,” he added, drawing his wife more tightly to his side, “I have quite a passion for fencing.”

The gesture of husbandly possessiveness smashed through the barricade of indifference he'd spent the past few hours trying to build. When a waltz began, and Rathburn offered his arm to Melanie for a turn about the floor, Alexandre seized the opportunity and bowed to Tess. “Lady Aubry, would you honor me?”

Her pale face went even whiter, but he found only the barest hint of satisfaction of that before it turned again to concern on her behalf. What illness could leave her looking like such a wraith?

She hesitated a moment, then turned to her husband. “My lord?”

Aubry slid his arm from hers. “Of course, my dear. Enjoy yourself.”

Alexandre escorted her to the floor, and as they began the waltz, he noted Aubry observing them through his quizzing glass.
Bon Dieu
, did the man love her so much that he couldn’t bear to have her out of his sight long enough for a dance?

“So, you've become a countess, have you?” he asked, his teeth clenched in a smile. “And you didn't even invite me to the wedding.”

She refused to look at him. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the knot of his cravat. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you? When were the happy nuptials?”

“My...my husband and I have been married for almost three years.”

“Three years?” Alexandre blinked, amazed that in all the thoughts he’d had of her during the past months, not once had it occurred to him that she was married. Perhaps that was because she’d failed to mention the fact when he’d asked her to marry him. “You were married when I asked you to be my wife? When I took you to my bed?”

He felt her draw back, and he tightened his grip on her hand to prevent her from pulling away. “You'd best be careful, Countess. Leaving me in the midst of a dance would be a serious breach of manners, would it not?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked in a whisper. “Please, just return me to my husband and go.”

“Go? When I'm having such a marvelous time? Tell me, Lady Aubry, how does it feel to have your husband and your former lover at the same ball? Does it give you a glorious sense of power?”

She didn't answer, and her silence and her refusal to look at him only fueled his frustration. He glanced at her husband as they waltzed past him and noticed him still watching. “Look at me and smile and wipe that guilty look off your face or your husband will begin to suspect there is something between us.” He managed a laugh. “If he only knew how I truly feel about you, he’d have no cause to be jealous.”

Pain shimmered across her face, and he felt a hint of satisfaction, for he wanted that—he wanted her to feel something akin to what he was feeling at this moment. “But then,” he continued, relentless, “perhaps that's what you want. A duel at dawn. If I kill him, you become a rich widow and can have as many lovers as you please. If he kills me—”

“Don't!” she cried, still not looking at him. “Please don't do this.”

“I can see that subject of my demise displeases you. Shall we discuss something else? My daughter, perhaps?”

A sound escaped her, a sound that was too much like a sob, and his satisfaction faded to a bleak emptiness.

“How—” She stopped, and he could see her striving for control. “How is Suzanne?”

“Why should you care?” he muttered.

She lifted her chin. Her eyes were dark with anguish, and he almost stumbled. “I care,” she whispered.

He tore his gaze from hers before he could become lost in it, feeling like a fool. Despite everything, he was as much a slave to her expressive eyes as ever before. “Of course you care. Your actions over the past six months demonstrate that so very clearly.”

“Damn you!” The sudden savagery of her voice startled him, and when he looked at her, he found that her anguish had given way to anger. “I had my reasons.”

He had wanted her to feel the pain and anger he was feeling, and it seemed he had finally succeeded, but it seemed a hollow victory. When the music stopped, he led her back to her husband's side without another word.

He remained at the ball for another hour, careful to avoid any contact with Tess or her husband. He danced with several more beautiful women, made several more contacts, and hoped he wasn't wearing his heart on his sleeve. By the time he claimed his carriage and returned to his house, it was nearly four o'clock in the morning, but he had no desire for sleep. What he wanted was oblivion.

He went into the study, stripped off his evening coat and gloves, and tossed them carelessly into a corner. Not bothering to light a lamp, he poured himself a brandy in the dark and drank it in one draught. Then he poured himself another. Glass in hand, he sank into one of the leather chairs, questions swirling through his mind.

If she had been married, why had she run away to France? The obvious conclusion was that her popinjay of a husband would have known he wasn't the father of her child, that she had taken a lover behind Aubry’s back. That would also explain why she’d left Suzanne behind when she’d returned to England.

He took a swallow of brandy. The liquid burned his throat, and he remembered the way Tess's touch had burned his skin. Even now, months later, he could still recall every detail of their night together, try as he might to forget. He could still smell the fragrance of her skin. He could still taste her lips and feel the softness of her body beneath him.

He drank off the rest of his brandy in one draught and poured himself another glass. He didn’t want to think of her anymore. He wanted oblivion, and he drank until visions of her disappeared from his mind, his heart was numb again, and the bottle was empty.

The day was warm, the carriage top was down, and Hyde Park was crowded, but Tess was too preoccupied with her thoughts to take much notice.

Knowing Alexandre was in London sent a cold shudder of fear running through her every time she contemplated it, and each time she recalled their conversation of the night before replayed itself in her head, the pain of his cruel words only deepened.

“It's a lovely day.”

Felicia's words registered somewhere in her mind, but Tess paid no attention. “Mm-hmm,” she answered without turning her attention to the girl seated beside her in the carriage.

During her months in Provence, she'd seen many facets of Alexandre’s character, but she'd never have imagined he could be cruel. Last night, he had shown her that he could, but the fact that she was the recipient of it wasn't nearly as hard to bear as the knowledge that she was also the cause.

“I think everyone in London is in the park today.”

Tess continued to stare with unseeing eyes at the other carriages clogging Rotten Row. “Mm-hmm,” she said again. She’d known, of course, that her departure must have wounded him, but until now, she hadn’t appreciated how much. She’d hoped he would forget her—

“Lady Aubry?”

Felicia put a hand on her shoulder, and Tess came out of her reverie with a start. “Hmm? I beg your pardon?”

“I don't know why you invited me to come with you today.” Felicia said in a teasing voice. “Since I am spending our afternoon talking to myself.”

Tess flushed. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me.”

Felicia laughed good-naturedly, but before she could reply, another carriage holding four young ladies drew up alongside them and a cry of greeting interrupted their conversation.

“Felicia, darling, I thought that was you,” cried Lady Melanie from her place in the rear seat. She nodded to Tess. “Good afternoon, Lady Aubry.”

“Good afternoon. Stop the carriage, Dawson,” Tess added to her driver as Melanie’s carriage slowed to a halt.

“What a crush your papa's ball was last night.” Felicia said to Melanie once both carriages had stopped.

The other girl laughed. “Don't call it Papa's ball in front of him. He hates balls and parties and things. But Mama wanted you to have a proper debut.”

“It was lovely. Aunt Caroline went to a great deal of trouble for me.”

“Trouble? Rubbish! Mama simply lives for that sort of thing. Besides, you're her favorite niece.” Melanie also leaned a bit over the side of her carriage, and eager curiosity was in her voice as she asked, “How many gentlemen have asked to call on you, cousin? Do tell!”

Felicia began mentioning names, and as the girls discussed the possibilities for Felicia's matrimonial future, Tess listened with genuine interest and a hint of envy. These girls were all bosom bows and their camaraderie was something Tess had not experienced since her girlhood in Northumberland. She hadn't developed a close friendship with any woman since her marriage. Nigel didn’t like it, and life was much easier when she avoided doing what Nigel didn’t like.

“Speaking of gentlemen,” Felicia said in a teasing voice, “it's your turn to confess, Melanie. I demand to hear all about Dumond!”

Tess stiffened, all her senses alert.

Melanie fell back against her seat, a gloved hand to her bosom, and gave a sigh of exaggerated rapture. “Simply divine, isn't he? He's painting my portrait, you know.”

“I didn't know! How could I? I haven't seen you for days and days. If Mama had allowed me to stay with you for the Season, I would know these things.”

The look of pity the other girls exchanged was not lost on Tess. It was well known that Felicia's own parents didn't have the blunt to sponsor her for the Season, but they had plenty of pride and had scraped together the money for a rented town house of their own in one of London’s less fashionable squares.