The Counterfeit Mistress (18 page)

He said something. The other man hunched his shoulders, darted around, and continued walking with more deliberation. Kendale approached the door.

Madame LaTour made shooing gestures at Marielle with her paint-stained hands. “Go, go. Go up and fix your hair and change your dress, Marielle. We will visit with him until you come down.”

K
endale sat in a little chamber in the back of the house, making small talk with the formidable Madame LaTour. The moments ticked by slowly. Painfully. He admitted that his dislike of such social situations was not what made it excruciating. He waited too hard, with too much anticipation, to see Marielle again.

Searching for a topic that might pass the time with less effort on his part, he asked about Madame Peltier. Madame LaTour had a lot to say about that lady. She chattered on, sharing tidbits of whispered scandal. His own mind wandered, but he thought he heard mention of Ambury in passing.

Finally Madame LaTour broke off her river of gossip in midsentence. Gazing past him, she smiled with approval at whatever she saw.

He turned his head, then stood at once. Marielle had entered in her small-stepped, silent way. She wore the dress she had taken from Ravenswood beneath the dark patterned shawl that had not been sliced in the alley. She looked beautiful, and would have even in her poorest garments.

Madame LaTour retreated to the other side of the chamber. Marielle and he sat facing each other on two chairs.

“Is she to be your chaperone?” he asked, glancing to their company.

“Perhaps she thinks you will be shocked if I do not have one.” She smiled at him so warmly that the last ten days might not have existed. “I am glad that you called, Lord Kendale. Is there a particular reason that we are so honored?”

“I thought it would be useful if that man who walks by knows you are not unprotected, should he have any ideas regarding either you or this house.”

“That was kind of you. He appeared to take whatever you said to heart.”

There were not many men who could hear a threat of evisceration with equanimity. He decided she did not need to know the details. “I would like to speak with you about something important to me,” he said. “But not here.” He glanced at Madame LaTour.

“The garden?”

“I would prefer if you agreed to ride in the park with me.”

“The park will be crowded. Your people have come to town for the parties and balls.”

“We can go out of the city, if you prefer, and walk in the country.”

“That might be wiser, no?”

Probably. He wanted to show her off, however. He wanted the world to know she was his.

Of course, she wasn't yet. The conversation to be held might indeed be wiser on a country lane.

She walked over to Madame LaTour. Much whispered French passed between them, with darting glances in his direction. Finally Marielle tsked her tongue with exasperation and strode away. “Come, let us go.”

As soon as the carriage left her lane he could not restrain himself. He took her hand in his, and savored her soft, delicate skin. Then he lowered his head to kiss her palm and to inhale the scent of her.

M
arielle never thought to see Lord Kendale humble himself in any way. Yet his head bowed over her hand while he held and kissed it, as if grateful for this small part of her. She raked her fingers through his hair and pressed her own kiss to his crown.

He released her and sat back. “I had to see you. I hope you are not annoyed.”

“Not at all. I am delighted.”

“I was warned there would be talk if I called on you.”

“I do not care about that.”

“Madame LaTour—”

“Madame LaTour only is concerned that I am not playing a game well, in a way to win best. She has no objections to the goal of the game, and assumes that your intentions toward me are not entirely honorable.”

He waited until they were in the country, heading west before speaking again. In the interim she told him that Jacob had come over and introduced himself. She thanked him for troubling himself with her safety.

Her gratitude unaccountably irritated him. “How could you think that your safety would be a trouble to me? I would think that I have some responsibilities toward you after what happened at Ravenswood.”

“No, you do not. No responsibilities at all. And no rights, Lord Kendale.”

He scowled at that. She almost laughed. Now that was the face of the Kendale she knew.

He helped her down when they stopped. A rustic vista stretched in front of them, of a large field dotted with wildflowers and surrounded by trees and shrubberies. She could make out some roofs of houses in the distance here and there.

“This is Hampstead Heath. Have you been here before?”

“No. It is not far from my lane, yet it is another world.”

“Walk with me. We will go to the hill. You can see the City from it, and St. Paul's dome.”

They left the carriage and coachman behind and strolled down the lane.

“We did not speak when we parted about what had happened between us,” he said. “I have regretted that.”

There would be a dull, polite apology after all. Better in a letter if it had to come at all. “You should not regret anything. I do not.”

“Don't you? That is good to know. What I meant to say was that we did not speak about whether there would be a future. I would like to talk about that now.”

She laughed, and gave his side a little poke. “Did I become a bad habit so quickly? One that you find it hard to break now?”

Smiling, he caught her in his arm and held her to his side while they walked. “A most enjoyable habit. One that I do not want to break, and that I miss badly, rather like a man fond of drink who wakes to find he must sustain himself on coffee.”

She looked up at him and admired his strong profile and the way the breeze tousled his dark hair. “You do not want to speak of marriage, I think.”

He looked in her eyes warmly. Kindly. “No.”

“I did not think so.”

“It is not for the reasons you may believe, Marielle. It is not that you are not good enough, or not virtuous enough, or not English enough.”

“You must admit those are three good reasons.”

“They are the ones my dead father and brother would have given me, but they are not mine. Nor is it a lack of affection, although—I confess I am not sure how much is enough of that.”

“For a man who does not speak much, or worry about his words, you can be most eloquent when you choose. That is perhaps the best way I have ever heard to express doubts about one's affection, and the cause and constancy of it.”

He flushed. “I did not mean to—”

She stretched up and kissed his cheek. “Do not allow my teasing to dismay you. I understood you well enough.”

“I do not think you understood me at all.” He stopped walking and faced her, holding her hands. “If my mind went that way at all, it did not go far. You have told me you are not a spy, but you have not told me what you are instead. I have chosen to believe your declaration, but I am not so blinded that I do not notice what you do not say as well as what you do. Only a soldier who is a fool chooses an ally who might be fighting on a secret front, Marielle. A peer of the realm definitely does not wed a mystery.”

She understood. She also heard the rest that was not said. He would allow himself to know her for pleasure thoroughly and friendship partially. He would give her affection, but nothing deeper. Unless she were honest with him. Totally honest. Then she might have everything.

It tempted her. It would any woman. But telling him everything would surely make her unsuitable to be his wife, and maybe even his lover. He possibly already guessed as much.

“What does this soldier and peer propose instead, Kendale?”

“A different kind of alliance. We will do it with as much discretion as you want, although with our mutual friends I would prefer not to pretend. Tell me what it will take for you to agree.”

“I do not think a formal arrangement would be to my liking. I am not sure that planning a lengthy liaison in advance is necessary either.”

“Two weeks. We will try it that long. If you do not want it, if you want me to call on you every time I need to see your face, so be it.” He paused. “If you prefer I stop seeing you at all, we will do that too.”

Two weeks. A brief trial. It was an ideal proposal, since any time longer might be impossible.

She considered her response while they walked up the hill. From the top she could see the rooftops of the City, and the high dome of St. Paul's. With the hilly terrain between this spot and its view, the church appeared surprisingly close even though it had to be several miles away.

He stood behind her and held her while they watched the low sun paint the dome in orange and blue. He turned his head and kissed her temple. His hand cupped her breast beneath the shawl. “Two weeks, Marielle. Say you will be mine at least that long.”

“I will want a carriage available to me. It can be hired. I want to be able to move around the town quickly if I am to have rendezvous with you. And I do not want to visit you in your chambers where your valet serves you, or at my home where all those women will gossip.”

“We passed cottages on our way here. They are close to where you are in town. I will let one. Will that do?”

“Yes. I think so.”

He held her to his body closely. His hand still softly caressed her. She luxuriated in the way it made her sensuality purr.

“You require nothing else?”

“Madame LaTour will lecture when she learns that I did not demand property and jewels, even for two weeks. I do not want such things from you, however. I prefer this be an affair, not an arrangement.”

He turned her in his arms, then took her face in his hands. He kissed her furiously. Her own passion soared at once.

They could not return to the carriage like that, biting and clutching and devouring each other, giving in to a primal fire stoked by long denial. Still entwined they stumbled to a tree. He turned her and she grasped at bark to steady her balance. He lifted her skirt impatiently.

A hard entry. Their sharp intakes of breath sounded in a harmony of relief. He withdrew with excruciating slowness. He thrust again. “Finally,” he groaned.

Again he moved. He cursed, but it sounded more like a prayer.

She heard little after that except her own breath and cries. She did not know if anyone saw them mating under that tree. She did not care.

H
er carriage waited in a line of much finer ones that inched forward on Albemarle. Roll, stop. Roll, stop. She stuck her head to the window and judged the time left. Three ahead of her. Right now the Duke of Penthurst was stepping out of a very fine coach indeed, alone it seemed. He probably would not stay long, and was on his way elsewhere, but Fairbourne's would benefit from his attendance.

Finally the door of the auction house faced her through the window. A man at the door saw her and whispered to another who hurried off. The first man approached, opened the door, set out the steps, and handed her down. He took a good amount of time doing it.

She did not mind. This was a debut for her. She had never before attended a party hosted or attended by the best society of England. There were some émigrés who had patrons among the aristocrats here who helped them gain entry, but she was not one of them.

She nervously felt the silk of her dress, and the fine, soft wool of her mantle. The garments had arrived yesterday, delivered to her house wrapped in muslin. They came from Ravenswood, and were among the nicer items in that wardrobe. Even so she had not known which would be appropriate, and had exchanged several letters with Emma to get her advice.

The doorman escorted her in, but immediately released her. Another man took his place. Not a doorman or a servant. Kendale fell into step at her side.

“I told them to let me know when you arrived.” He patted her hand. “You look beautiful, Marielle.”

“Thank you for sending for the dresses.”

“There was not enough time to have new ones made, I realized.”

He had just promised a new wardrobe. Dominique would be pleased. Madame LaTour had scolded about the property and jewels, but Dominique had only pointed out that she could not be on a peer's arm with the clothing she possessed. Of course she had not expected to be on his arm or at his side in this way. If she had not been so preoccupied with her own contentment when they climbed back into the carriage at Hampstead Heath, she might have had the presence of mind to reject his suggestion that they attend Emma's grand preview together.

The exhibition hall proved crowded. A small orchestra played music and servants passed wine. They took some, and she pointed out the objects displayed that she had brought to Emma from the émigrés, so they could turn luxuries into silver.

“Where is Lady Southwaite?” Kendale asked, looking around. “Ah, there she is near that wall, with her husband.”

Marielle spotted them. Emma carried the catalogue sheets just like everyone else examining the works for sale. She and Southwaite discussed a landscape just like others who debated the value and attractiveness of the consignments. No one would guess, looking at her, that this abundant and impressive collection had been organized for sale by Emma herself. The man they believed really responsible stood at the head of the chamber, accepting all the credit from the guests who passed by.

“
There
you are. Well, well,
well
.”

Marielle turned, startled by the low laugh near her ear. Cassandra and Ambury had come up behind them. Cassandra's blue eyes looked drunk with curiosity. Her very dark hair tumbled around her head and shoulders in a most artistic manner. She squeezed Marielle's hand tightly then kept it in her grasp. She gave Kendale her full attention.

“Lord Kendale, you seem well,” she said. “Does he not appear well, Ambury? More rested than normal. More . . . something. Give me a moment. I am sure that I will understand the change in him.”

“Cassandra,” Ambury muttered in admonishment.

“Oh, no, do not scold. Do not dare. Lord Kendale does not mind if I tease him. Do you, sir?” She narrowed her eyes on him.

Kendale's expression remained bland. “Not at all. I might even say that your teasing is not only expected, but possibly deserved.”

“Possibly? You have fallen off a very high horse, sir, and I intend to enjoy every minute of it.” She laughed and wagged her finger at him. “I suffered from your prejudgment too often to allow you to escape easily now. We will have your reckoning later, however. Tonight, I am more interested in having fun with the lady who favors you with her company.” She pulled Marielle by the hand. “Come with me, mam'selle.”

Tripping after Cassandra, apologizing to Kendale with her eyes, Marielle was pulled through the hall. When they passed Emma, Cassandra gave her a firm poke in the back and kept walking.

They passed into the office in back. Cassandra closed the door and finally released Marielle's hand. Almost at once the door opened again and Emma slipped in.

Cassandra crossed her arms over her silver silk dress and ample bosom. She nailed Marielle in place with a glare. “How, please to heavens explain to us, did you find yourself romantically entangled with that rude, arrogant, hopelessly insufferable man?”

“T
hey have been in there a good while,” Kendale said.

“It has only been a quarter hour,” Southwaite observed.

“What do you think they are doing?”

Southwaite and Ambury burst out laughing.

“Nothing much,” Southwaite said, strangling to catch his breath. “Talking. Chatting the way women do. About . . . this and that.” He barely got the last word out before laughing again.

“They are talking about me, you mean.”

“Oh, yes,” Ambury said. “I think so.”

“I don't think that would take long, or even be very interesting.”

Southwaite rested a hand on his shoulder. “Kendale, in your family's library, do they have one of those anatomy books? The kind with plates that show all the organs and veins one would see upon dissecting a human body?”

“Of course. My tutor would use it. He made me memorize the name of every bone. Perhaps he thought I was only fit to become a surgeon.”

“Well, you are the body, and they are the surgeons, and right about now Ambury's wife is going for your liver.”

“Or more likely your bum,” Ambury mused. “I think that once she saw it, so she might feel compelled to comment on that.”

“She
did
?” Southwaite asked, astonished. “How did I miss this?”

Kendale glared at Ambury. Ambury bit his lip, no doubt remembering that Southwaite had not been regaled with the episode because Cassandra had not been the only woman there.

“So it is a physical dissection that is underway,” Kendale said. “It is interesting to learn women do that. Ambury suggested as much once, but I did not believe him. Do you think it will take much longer?”

“I am joking. More likely it is your character being discussed. Do not worry. Emma will defend you, as will Miss Lyon, surely,” Southwaite said. “Our wives will express concern and curiosity like good friends, but in truth they are dying to know how this came about. It is, you must admit, an unexpected development that piques the imagination.”

Kendale wanted to think Marielle would defend him, or at least not be swayed by Cassandra's obvious prejudice. As long as that did not happen, the ladies could talk about him all they wanted.

The door opened. The ladies emerged. Two went to their husbands. Marielle came to him. They returned to previewing the paintings.

“What did they want?” he asked.

Marielle pursed her lips while she examined a history painting showing a Roman matron and her children. “They wanted to make sure that you are not taking advantage of me, and that I am not under any illusions regarding your intentions. I was polite because they are my friends, but, really, do they think I am stupid? They explained life to me as if I had just come in from a farm on the back of a cart.”

She did not appear vexed, just a little insulted.

“I expect that was annoying.”

“Very annoying. I am not a child. I have seen more of the bad in people than they will ever see, I hope to God for their sakes. And they do not understand you at all, Kendale. You have, I think, been too reserved with them. They do not know the man you are. I had to tell Cassandra that you are not—well, as she said.”

She
had
defended him. He pictured it and smiled, both amused and touched. He tilted his head near hers. “Do you know that you are the most beautiful woman in this entire assembly?”

She brightened, pleased with the flattery. Not a false flattery, though, such as that spewing from so many other mouths here tonight. Look as he might, he really could not see another woman to equal her.

He wanted to take her away then. He wanted to ride to that house he had let and see if it suited her. He wanted to have her alone, where they did not have to be discreet. Mostly he just wanted her.

They stayed another hour. Marielle enjoyed herself enough that he did not want to interfere with her foray into society. He bade his time and dug up some pleasantries to mumble when acquaintances stopped to talk. When it was over he admitted to himself that it had not been as tiresome a night as he normally found such events. Perhaps that had been because he saw how it gave her pleasure.

M
arielle did not walk to her meeting with the new messengers. She rode in the carriage Kendale had hired to be at her disposal when she needed it. She had insisted that he hire one with a French coachman so that one of the émigrés would earn some coin.

As she stepped out she wondered if his men followed her. She could see him doing that for her safety now, much as he kept Jacob across the way. Her reassurances that she was not in danger had fallen on deaf ears.

They did not speak of his questions, and the ones she never answered. She did not even know if he still suspected her of being a spy. He might have convinced himself she was not one, but that did not mean that he did not still consider it a possibility.

The thought of Kendale made her pause beside the carriage. This afternoon, this carriage would take her to the cottage. Kendale would ride in a while later. They would send the carriage away, to return in the morning. Most of the time between would be spent in bed. But not all of it.

Twice now they had visitors. It had surprised her when, two days ago, a man arrived at their door. Kendale went outside with him, and held a serious, private discussion. She had not recognized the man as one from Ravenswood, but she guessed he was part of the private army.

Steeling her spine and her bravery, she put thoughts of Kendale aside and entered the alley just enough so her eyes would adjust to the dim light in it. She had no intention of walking into it deeply. Never again would she be that careless.

She waited, making herself visible. Eventually a shadow moved and a man stepped into the light. He assessed her, and came forward. Only then did she walk another twenty feet. No more.

“Farmen sent me,” he said, naming the stationer in Dover. He spoke English. Monsieur Farmen had indicated he thought English would be better in the future.

“I have only this.” She handed over a letter and the fee. “It is to go to Monsieur Garrett directly. Carry it yourself. Do not leave it with Monsieur Farmen.”

He looked at it. “That is a lot of money for posting a letter that the regular service will carry for pennies.”

“I do not know how to post a letter to Monsieur Garrett. I do not know if that is even his real name.”

“Does he know how to post a response to you, or will you be waiting three weeks for me to bring one?”

“That is not your concern. Just take that to him after you give Monsieur Farmen his fee to ensure he remains a friend.”

He chuckled. “Friend. As good a word for it as any, I guess.” He tapped his hat with the letter by way of farewell.

She returned to the carriage. Her coachman, André, made a skeptical face at her. “Perhaps I should explain to his lord that you meet strange men in alleys.”

“Did he tell you to report my movements?”

He shook his head. “Perhaps he would prefer I did anyway.”

“He would think you did not know your place if you told him such a thing.” She fished in her reticule while she spoke. Clumsy things. Her old pockets had served her with more subtlety. “Here. Take this. Not as a bribe, and certainly not as blackmail such as you foolishly attempted. Rather for keeping watch so carefully, so I would be safe.”

André pocketed the coins. He opened the carriage door and turned down the steps smartly. From his expression, she knew they had reached an understanding.

H
e trusted her as much as a man could trust a woman who insisted on remaining more than half a mystery. Which meant that as much as he wanted to make decisions based on trust, there were some he could not.

Before making one decision in particular, Kendale called on Ambury at his home on Berkeley Square. He was received in the library. Ambury had been writing some letters. Cassandra's aunt sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace, reading a book.

Ambury greeted him, pointedly noted the muslin roll he carried under his arm, and suggested they go to his study.

“If you want privacy, you should just ask for it, Ambury,” Lady Sophie said, setting her book aside. “You were here first. I was the one to intrude. I did not realize you expected a visitor.”

“There is no need for you to leave. We will do as well elsewhere.”

“Tosh. I will stroll in the garden. I could use some air.” She gripped the chair arm to support her rise to her feet. After arranging herself upright, she took the time to notice just who the visitor happened to be. Her eyes lit with delight. “Kendale. Oh, my, it is delicious to see you.”

Delicious
seemed an odd compliment, but then this was an odd woman. “Thank you. The joy is mutual.”

Rather spry suddenly, she advanced on him, giving him a thorough scrutiny from head to toe. “I always said there was more to you than others gave you credit for.”

“Thank you again. I think.” He looked at Ambury, wondering if he was among those others, or only his wife. Ambury opened his hands in a gesture of perplexed confusion.