Tallie's Knight (25 page)

Tallie nodded, a
little embarrassed at the other woman’s frankness, but eager to hear her
advice.

“No doubt when your
usband returns you will be ready to do anything to please him. Per’aps entice ‘im
to your bed again.”

Tallie blushed rosily
once more.

Madame Girodoux
chuckled.

“No shame in that, chérie,
but women need to use their brains as well as their bodies when it comes to
marriage. It does an ‘usband no harm to be kept a little uncertain at times —remember
that when your man comes back to you. Men respond to the uncertainty of the
chase.”

Tallie blinked.
Magnus was not chasing her —on the contrary; he was running away. But she
nodded, pretending to understand.

Madame Girodoux stood
up.

“Now, my dear, run
upstairs and wash your face. My nephew, Fabrice, will be ‘ere in thirty minutes
to take us to a concert. When your ‘usband returns to Paris you will not wish
him to know you ‘ave been pining for ‘im. I ‘ave many social engagements
planned for you —and it will do you good to go about more in society, non?”

Tallie’s head was spinning,
but she knew a lifeline when she saw it.

She blinked back
tears.

“You have been so
very kind to me, madame, and I am no one —a stranger. How can I thank—?”

“Ah, non.” Madame
Girodoux brushed Tallie’s thanks aside gruffly. “We are all strangers at first
—oui— but ‘ow else can we make new friends, eh? Now, run upstairs, child, and
wash your face. Fabrice will be here any moment.”

True to her word,
Madame Girodoux arranged all of Tallie’s entertainment over the next ten days.
With the willing escort of her nephew Fabrice, an elegant young fop, she showed
Tallie a new side of Paris. Tallie made morning calls, attended concerts, routs
and soirees. She still missed Magnus desperately, still felt as though she had
failed him in some indefinable way, but now, with Madame Girodoux’s assistance,
she was learning to cope with the public aspects of her new life, at least.

But after a week had
passed without a single word from Magnus, Tallie had begun to feel aggrieved.
It was not right that he had left her to sink or swim in a foreign city. He was
careless and thoughtless and cold-hearted. Obviously their night of passion
meant absolutely nothing to him. The most wonderful night of her entire life
and the very next day he’d gone off to some horrid hunting lodge. He didn’t even
seem to care whether she loved him or not, for how could he abandon her like
this if he did?

And the worst thing
was she still loved him —cold-hearted Icicle that he was!

Two days later, in
the evening, Magnus returned. Tallie was in the hall, about to leave for a
concert. Mindful of Madame Girodoux’s advice, Tallie greeted him coolly. He
responded with equal politeness, quite as if he’d been away for an hour or two
instead of abandoning her for days on end. He offered no word of explanation
for his absence.

That omission gave
Tallie the courage she needed. She wished him a polite “Good evening,” and
sailed out of the hotel to attend the concert.

Stunned, furious,
Magnus watched her blithely step into a strange carriage. He’d spent the last
two weeks missing her, fighting his desire to return to Paris immediately and
take her straight to bed.

He’d told himself he
could handle it, handle her, that he would not fall in thrall to her like his
father had to his mother. He’d kept himself busy during the day, riding,
hunting, playing cards and drinking. But at night all he’d been able to think
of was the sweet, loving way she’d responded to his caresses, and her words —I
love you, Magnus.

The abyss had
beckoned blackly. But the craving to hear those words again had grown within
him until he’d been well-nigh unable to think of anything else, and so, with
distracted words of thanks and farewell to his hosts, he’d ridden back, all the
way to Paris, imagining her falling into his arms the moment he walked in the
door.

He’d pictured it a
thousand times, her start of surprise, pleasure and welcome. He would carefully
remove his hat and coat, careful not to show her how much power she had over
him. She would be waiting anxiously, that sweet look of anticipation and desire
in her clear amber eyes, her tender body swaying gently towards him. He’d force
himself to wait… and dinner would be spiced with anticipation and desire.

And at the end of
dinner she would look at him, that wide-eyed look which never failed to move
him, and he would wait no more. He would lay his table napkin down, push back
his chair, walk around the table and hold out his hand. She would place her
small, trembling hand in his and he’d raise her to her feet and escort her to
his bedchamber.

And then…

Instead, damn it, she’d
greeted him politely, chatted for five minutes about how busy she had been
while he was away and gone out to a concert with some damned French female! And
an elegant blasted French fop!

“Where the devil have
you been, madam?” demanded Magnus as he followed her into the breakfast parlour
next morning. “And who was that puppy who handed you out of his carriage just
now?”

It was the same
fellow who’d escorted her last night. The fellow who’d be dead by now had
Magnus not heard her return the previous night at about eleven. He’d also heard
her lock her door, which had infuriated him, but he’d decided to deal with that
in the morning. But when he’d awoken this morning, and found a spare key, he’d
entered her chamber only to find her gone. And his rage had grown.

Tallie pulled up
short at his accusatory tone. Where the devil had she been? Madam! When he had
been absent for two long weeks!

“I told you about it
last night,” she said indignantly.

He glared. “I don’t
remember any arrangement about you leaving here at some ungodly hour of the
morning. Where in Hades did you get to? And with whom?”

Tallie remembered
Madame Girodoux’s advice about quarrels and tried to quell her shaking insides.
She carefully removed her hat and laid it on the side-table. Glancing in a gilt
framed looking glass, she took her time tidying her still-damp hair, well aware
that her husband was glowering at her back.

He would have to
learn she did not care to be spoken to in this tone before breakfast,
particularly when she knew perfectly well she had done nothing wrong. He might
well have forgotten where she’d said she was going, but he should know she
never took a step outside without Claude, his tame gorilla, in tow. And he was
the one who’d taught her that husbands and wives did not live in each other’s pockets.
Sauce for the gander and all that.

Finding her hair
sufficiently tidy, she went to the sideboard and selected warm rolls, scrambled
eggs and kedgeree, then seated herself at the table.

“Mmmm, this kedgeree
smells delicious. Have you tried it, my lord?” If I am to be ‘madam’ then he
can be ‘my lord’, she thought rebelliously.

He slammed his fist
down on the table.

“Damn it, Tallie,
where the devil did you get to? You weren’t in your bed when I woke.”

Tallie’s annoyance
dissipated in a rush of warmth. He had wanted her when he woke. He had missed
her. Frustration —that was why he was so cross. Good. She hid a tiny smile and
took a bite of eggs.

“Do you not recall,
my lord?” she said when she had swallowed. “I had an engagement to visit a
bathing establishment with Madame Girodoux.”

“At half past seven
in the morning?”

Tallie nodded, her
mouth full of kedgeree. “Yes,” she said eventually, “but it was worth it. Do
you know? They scent the bath water with any perfume you wish —eau de cologne,
rose water, lavender— even salt water if you want, which I believe is frightfully
healthful. The parfumier even offered to create a scent especially for me.” Tallie
blushed, remembering how the dapper parfumier had kissed her hand and called
her la belle Milady Anglaise.

Magnus watched the
pretty colour rising in her cheeks. He frowned. His desire for her was
well-nigh unbearable.

“But I asked for
lily-of-the-valley instead.” She raised her wrist to her nose and sniffed.

“Mmmm, lovely, don’t
you think? It was the most wonderful place. Each bath is large, and so deep you
can have hot water almost to your neck, and you just sit there in this
deliciously scented water and look out onto an exquisite little garden simply
filled with red roses —quite private, of course. I’ve never seen anything so
lovely or exotic.” She blushed again, recalling how she had wallowed for over
an hour in the deepest bath, dreaming of how Magnus would take one whiff of
her, sweep her into his arms and make violent, passionate love to her.

Magnus’s frown
darkened. Her words painted a very vivid picture —one he could imagine only too
well. His wife, pink and naked in her bath, her skin slick with water and
scented oils, fragrant clouds of steam swirling around her, and outside a
flower garden, giving the illusion of being out in the open. It sounded as if
the bath would have been large enough for two. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly
dry, his body throbbing, painfully aroused.

“And that damned
French puppy?” he growled.

She made a moue of
irritation.

“He is not a puppy,
but a very pleasant and gentlemanly young man, my lord. Fabrice Dubout —Madame
Girodoux’s nephew. I… I took a little longer than expected in the bath, and
Madame Girodoux had another engagement, so she asked Fabrice to escort me home.”
Tallie bit into a roll.

“And on the strength
of this brief acquaintance you call him Fabrice?” he grated.

Tallie glared across
the table at her husband and set down her cup with a snap.

“Yes!”

Oh! He was
infuriating. He could go off to who knew where, doing who knew what, leaving
her behind, hurt, confused and lonely, and then return, growling and snarling
like a suspicious wolf! Pretending to believe she would behave immorally. As if
she would.

He knew perfectly
well that she loved him —she’d told him so. And even if she hadn’t fallen in
love with a horrid, suspicious man, she had taken vows of fidelity and she
would never break them, no matter how fashionable it was. And even if she did
wish to betray him, how could she, when she was accompanied everywhere by the
ubiquitous Claude?

No, Magnus was just
being disagreeable because when he had returned she hadn’t behaved as he’d
expected her to, and when he’d awoken she hadn’t been where he’d expected her
to be. Madame Girodoux was right —a little uncertainty was good for a husband.

“I am invited to a thé
this morning, my lord. Do you care to accompany me?”

“A what?” The frown
had not left his face, but she refused to give in and explain herself.

“A thé.” Tallie
smiled. “Being English, we are known to adore tea—”

“Can’t stand the
stuff, myself.”

“I know, and though
the French firmly believe their thés are English through and through, any
resemblance to an English tea party is purely coincidental, I promise you.”
Tallie smiled reminiscently, recalling her first thé.

It was not the
consumption of alcohol as well as tea, and the combination of children’s games
and gambling which had surprised Tallie at first —it was the French ladies’ tea
gowns.

Parisian women seemed
to cover themselves more with cosmetics than clothing. To English eyes, their
gowns left the ladies almost in a state of nature, being so light and almost
transparent, and having no sleeves and baring the whole of the neck. It was a
little disconcerting to address oneself to elderly dowager attired as flimsily and
inadequately as one of the statues in the Louvre —Tallie hadn’t known where to
look. She smiled again, imagining her husband’s face when she appeared in her
own French tea gown, only half as daring.

“And I suppose if I
do not escort you to this blasted thé, that damned puppy will.” His voice
bristled with dark suspicion.

“Yes, Fabrice will
escort me… if I ask him.” She met her husband’s gaze in a direct challenge.

“Humph!” Magnus
fiddled with his coffee cup for a moment. “It might be interesting to see how
the French botch a simple tea party,” he said at last.

Tallie hid a smile.

“In that case, I must
rush and change, for we leave at ten.”

Magnus watched her
hurry from the room, noting the enticing sway of her hips and the damp wispy
curls that tumbled around the nape of her neck.

A faint trace of
lily-of-the-valley hung in the air. It took all his resolution not to follow
her up to her bedchamber.

Damn and blast it
all. He was getting deeper and deeper into her toils. It had shocked him to
realise how bereft he had felt when he’d looked for her that morning and found
her gone. For one wild moment he’d thought she’d left him, and the feeling of
abandonment and devastation still haunted him. He’d imagined all sorts of
things, and when he’d seen her being handed down from a strange carriage by a mincing,
hand-kissing Frenchman he’d been filled with a mixture of relief and rage.

She was picking up
female tricks, he realised. Getting herself a damned Froggy cicisbeo. And when
he’d challenged her about it, had she acted guilty or distressed? No! She had
stared at him with those big amber eyes and got him all hot and bothered
talking about a bath big enough for two.

It had been a mistake
to leave her in Paris on her own. And perhaps she was a little annoyed with him
—yes, that was it. She wasn’t like his mother —not really. He was a fool even
to consider it. Dark uncertainty gnawed at him.

Damn it! If tea was
what it took to keep his wife where she belonged, then he would drink gallons
of the filthy stuff.

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