Chapter 14
Sophie’s lover walked his fingers up her naked torso and down again, hovering over and tickling her nether curls.
She shivered under his touch. Passion was what had made life tolerable with both Jean-Esprit and Yves—and what had made it unbearable in the end. It would be different with Eric. His confidence in the bedchamber ensured that. But she could not marry him. She had to let him go.
She whimpered.
His fingers ceased their subtle movement. He lifted his hand and gazed down at her. “What is it, sweetheart? That wasn’t a moan of pleasure. What’s wrong?”
She sat up and pulled the coverlet over her nakedness. She should heed her own advice, which she’d given Philippe, and get it over with. “I have to explain to you why . . . why I cannot marry you.”
“Good.” He sat up as well, fluffing the pillows against the headboard. He lit a candle, and she wished he had not. She did not want to see the sadness on his face when she told him they must part. Before he drew the sheet over himself as well, she noted sadly that his erection had subsided. It would subside even more while she spoke to him, and she would never have the pleasure of joining with him again.
“What do you mean, good?” She flicked a hand. “No, do not answer that. You will argue and try to convince me, but it is no use, mon cher.”
“Maybe I won’t,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go meekly on my way.”
She choked on a laugh, which almost became a sob. If only it were so easy to rid oneself of a man. If only she didn’t want so badly to keep this one.
He took her hand in his. “Tell me.” When she said nothing—for she could not decide where to begin—he added, “I want to know about your husband. And your other lovers too.”
“You never wanted to know before,” she said. “You said you didn’t care.”
“I don’t, but something about them has made you unwilling to marry.”
“Yes, and no. You are not like them.” He waited, and at last she said, “I did not marry Jean-Esprit for love. I was seventeen years old, and my parents arranged it all.” She shrugged. “I had no choice, and it could have been worse. He was a comte, he was thirty years older, but he was not ugly, and he was desperate to have me. I am a passionate woman, and marriage made passion permissible.”
“Was he unkind?” Gently, he stroked the back of her hand.
“Not at first.” She removed her hand from his, the better to express herself—or perhaps because she feared succumbing to his touch again. “All was well for a while, but soon he became jealous. He accused me of luring other men into my bedchamber. I am the sort of woman men notice. They cannot help themselves, it seems. I do not understand it. I am not a coquette.”
“You exude sensuality,” he said. “It’s delightful.”
A little shiver of awareness assailed her, but she willed it away. “It is dangerous, too. The Revolution came, and we went to Austria for safety, but there he became so jealous that he beat me and locked me up.”
“That cur!”
“Yes, but luckily, Philippe helped some others to escape to Austria, and when he found out how Jean-Esprit mistreated me, he stole me and little Charles away at dead of night. He took us back into France, which was madness, but who would suspect an aristocrat of returning to certain death? He gave me to Yves Brun, a peddler who was his friend. I pretended to be his wife.” She blushed.
He smiled. “More than pretended, I think.”
“I owed it to him,” she said. “He saved my life. He conceived a passion for me, for what could be more natural? He is the father of my lovely little Elise. I do not tell her that I was not married to him, for what purpose would that serve? I have kept his name, too, for I prefer to be a woman of the people.”
Her lover took her hand again, kissed it, and let it go.
“But like Jean-Esprit, he too became jealous. He feared he was too lowly for a woman like me. Whenever a handsomer, richer man noticed me, he sulked like a big, stupid bear. Then, one day, he denounced an innocent man as a traitor to the Republic, when all he had done was try to flirt with me.” She choked up. “That unfortunate man went to the guillotine because of me.”
“Good God,” Eric said.
“Philippe came to fetch me, but Yves wanted me to stay. I feared he would denounce Philippe too, but suddenly he disappeared. Maybe Philippe killed him. I do not know. We came to England. And that is all.”
“And since then?”
“I have had no other lovers. I could not take the risk—for myself, for Philippe, who had troubles of his own, and for the safety of my children. I wore mourning clothes for years to discourage my admirers.” Her voice trembled. “Until I met you, mon cher—and then I could not help myself. I wish I could marry you—but I cannot.”
He sat up straight. “Because of these jealous husbands of yours?”
She couldn’t bring herself to use this as an excuse. “No, you are not like them. You are a confident man, and I love you so much.”
“Then what the devil is preventing you from marrying me?”
“That I do not know if Jean-Esprit is dead. My brother has written to France many times, trying to find out, and now this correspondence causes him great difficulties with the Home Office. I have told him to stop trying.”
"But he won't?"
“No, but perhaps if he knows you are no longer my lover, he will cease. And then I will no longer be risking your reputation, either.”
“To the devil with my reputation!”
“You must find someone else, someone who is free.”
“I don’t want someone else. I love you, Sophie. I want to live with you, eat and talk and laugh with you for the rest of my life. The solution is simple, my love. We will go elsewhere for a week, and when we return, we shall say we are married.”
“We can’t do that!” But it was exactly what Philippe had suggested.
“Why not? You did it with that fellow Yves.”
“All was chaos in France. I was fleeing for my life.”
“Why should anyone suspect? When you hear that someone has married, do you rush to check the register in a church fifty miles away?”
She shook her head.
“Neither will anyone else. Ask your brother. He will agree.”
“He has already suggested the same,” she grumped. “But I do not wish to break the law. And what if Jean-Esprit is alive? What if he comes to England and finds me? That is my greatest fear, Eric. I am his wife, and Charles is his son. If he finds us, he will take Charles, and he will kill me when he learns about you, and about Yves and my little Elise.”
“I’ll kill him first,” Eric said, and she knew he meant it.
“You cannot,” she said. “Murder is wrong!”
“If I don’t kill him, Philippe will,” Eric said, and this was also true. “We both love you far too much to let him harm you. But he is thirty years older than you, so most likely he is already dead.”
“He wasn’t a few years ago.” She shuddered at the thought.
“We will cross that bridge if we ever come to it.” His large, warm hand cupped her breast. Something about the way he touched her, played with her, and held her made her feel safe.
She had told him her secret, and he hadn’t spurned her. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she should do as he said.
He was erect again, prodding gently at her from behind, and she gave up on worrying for now.
~ ~ ~
Philippe walked all the way home, arriving cold, sodden, and irritable just as Mr. Alexander came down the service stairs, yawning.
“Leaving? Come have a brandy with me.”
“Very well,” Mr. Alexander said, “as long as you don’t mean to play the indignant brother.”
“I’m not indignant. I’m bloody tired. Women!” He shook himself like a wet dog and led the way into the drawing room. He shed his coat and stoked up the banked fire. “The brandy is on the sideboard.”
Mr. Alexander poured for both of them. He passed a goblet to Philippe. “Another contretemps with Miss Glow?”
“Yes.” But he had another matter to discuss with this fellow. “I’m glad to find you alone, Mr. Alexander, because I must—”
“Call me Eric.”
“Fine, Eric.” If the schoolmaster was willing to dispense with formality, so was he. “Has my sister agreed to marry you yet?”
“Almost.” A smile flickered across his face. “Since she started by saying she could not, I take that as encouragement.”
Philippe turned from contemplating the flames. “She told you about her husband and Yves?”
Eric nodded. “And that she doesn’t know whether her husband is dead. I told her we shall pretend to marry. No one will know the difference. If her husband is alive and finds her, he will suffer an unfortunate accident, like Yves.”
Philippe smiled. “A man after my own heart. I told her you owed her an explanation.” He blew out a breath of frustration. “It’s precisely the advice she has given me—to talk to Gloriana. But I have been doing my best to avoid her, and after tonight . . .” He gave a bitter laugh. “Together, we caused a scene—a very public one at a ball. I do not care a snap of my fingers for the gossips, but she makes it worse and worse for herself. I treated her harshly, and she took refuge with Hythwick. Ah, mon Dieu!”
“With Hythwick?” Eric shook his head in disbelief. “Did she hope to make you jealous?”
“No, she was trying to help . . . It is a long story, and some of it is not mine to reveal. But now she is in even more danger from that devil, and I cannot easily protect her.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That I pour my heart out to a man I scarcely know is a measure of my dismay.”
“Consider me your brother,” Eric said. “Soon I shall be.”
Philippe threw himself into a chair. “I climbed up the drainpipe to her bedchamber tonight, meaning to confront her, but she was distraught and weeping, so I remained hidden. I do not know if she will ever speak to me again.”
“You were in her bedchamber, and you didn’t take her in your arms?”
“Did I not say exactly that?”
“What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you seduce her?”
“A woman does not welcome a lover when her nose is running and her eyes are red.”
Eric snorted. “True.”
“Maybe she will consent to speak to me through you or through Sophie.”
“No, seduction is the only way,” Eric said. “Then talk to her.”
Philippe huffed. “I have considered it often, believe me. But if I seduce her—which seems unlikely if she will never speak to me—I shall have to marry her.”
“You don’t want to marry her?” Eric poured another brandy and passed it to him. “You’re not making much sense, brother-to-be. Sophie says you’re in love with her.”
“I was, long ago. Perhaps I still am. But even if I do want to marry her, I don’t want to be obliged to do so.”
Eric rolled his eyes. “You’re as complicated as a woman. Must be something to do with being French. No Englishman would come up with such a hair-splitting excuse as that.”
A valid point. He had let the past rule him for far too long.
“If you want her, go get her. Shouldn’t be difficult—by what I’ve heard, half the ladies in the ton lust after you.”
“Because of my pretty face,” Philippe said. “It is the bane of my existence.” But in her case, it should be the opposite—if she still cared for him.
Eric stood. “I’d best be on my way. My pupils wake early.” He tossed back the rest of his brandy.
Philippe stood as well, as full of hope as could be expected from a tired man facing a daunting task. He put out a hand. “Eric, I look forward to welcoming you as a brother.”
His sister’s lover shook it firmly. “Likewise, Philippe,” he said, and left.
~ ~ ~
“Miss Glow, wake up!” The curtain rings rattled, and sunlight poured onto the bed.
Gloriana opened one bleary eye. How late had she slept?
“Both eyes,” Elspeth said. “It’s time to get up.”
The events of the previous night rolled over Gloriana. She shut her eye again and groaned. “Why?”
“Because you are besieged by suitors this morning. A huge vase of roses from Lord Hythwick—”
“He’s no suitor,” Gloriana muttered. “Roses at this season, as if I care about such pretentiousness. Have Gregory take them to the church.”
“And a pretty bouquet of jonquils from Mr. Bridge. The card that came with them swears eternal friendship.”
“He is always so very constant and kind.”
“That’s what friendship is,” Elspeth said. “Last of all, a lovely posy of heart’s-ease from a certain French nobleman.”
Something tickled her nose. She opened both her eyes this time. Yellow and violet blossoms with tiny, vivid faces smiled at her. Philippe had sent her flowers?
“Along with a sealed note, which I haven’t read, not that I wasn’t tempted, miss. But if a flower ever sent a message, it’s this one.” Ruthlessly, Elspeth pulled the covers down. “Sit up. He must want to apologize!”
Gloriana rubbed her sore eyes. She pushed herself into a sitting position, and Elspeth plumped the pillows behind her and handed her the bouquet.
“I’ve brought your morning chocolate.” She set the tray across Gloriana’s knees. A note addressed to her lay beside the chocolate pot. “I’ll be right back with your wash water.”
The instant the door closed behind the maid, Gloriana snatched up the note. She tore it open with trembling fingers.
Ma belle—
Forgive me, I beseech you. Please drive out with me today.
Ever yours,
Philippe
She clutched the letter to her breast. He hadn’t called her ma belle since that horrid night five years ago. What did he mean by addressing her thus now? As for signing himself ever yours . . .
She got out of bed and looked at herself in the mirror. Red, puffy eyes peered back at her—the consequence of crying herself to sleep. She couldn’t possibly go anywhere today.
~ ~ ~
Never before, when planning to drive with a pretty woman, had Philippe been afflicted with sweaty hands. And sweat under his cravat as well, despite the cool morning. He pulled up his curricle in front of Gloriana’s house, stripped off his driving gloves, and wiped his hands on his breeches. The groom from the livery stables where his chestnuts were kept hopped down and went to the horses’ heads.
Philippe made his way to the door and banged the knocker a little too hard. She hadn’t written to refuse him—but then, he hadn’t given her any time to do so.
Elspeth answered the door. “Oh, sir, what lovely horses!”
Yes, but a shiny curricle and even shinier horses wouldn’t impress Gloriana. He remembered with chagrin that when driving the same equipage he’d given her the cut direct.
“Miss Glow asks me to convey her regrets, but she is feeling poorly today.”
Peste. “I hoped that if we took a drive together it would counteract some of the gossip,” he said. A footman emerged from the area stairs, carrying a huge bouquet of roses. He bowed to Philippe and strode away down the street.
Elspeth wrinkled her nose. “Those were from Lord Hythwick.”
Rage stirred within him. “That cur.”
“Yes, sir. Miss Glow didn’t even bother to look at them. They do smell lovely, but from such a man they shouldn’t. She said to give them to the church.”
“Damnation, I must see her.” It was all he could do not to move the maid aside and stride into the house. “He is a danger to her. Why must she insist on living alone? What he tried once, he may try again.”
“Yes, sir, but you mayn’t come in. Surely you see that. It will only make the gossip worse.”
“I know.” He was about to turn away, when a thought came to him. He’d pondered how to approach this with Gloriana, but her maid would do just as well or better. “A while ago, she wrote telling me she had found a way to search for the Book of Hours. I didn’t believe her—I thought she just wanted to get rid of me—but now I wonder if she was serious. Are you able to enlighten me?”
A flurry of emotions crossed Elspeth’s face. “Not without her permission, sir, except to say that we have indeed found a way.” Her face clouded. “But I’m that worried, sir, that others will suffer if the book disappears from his house.”
“Yes, for Hythwick will suspect the servants. He’s the sort of employer who would see a servant hanged because a precious snuffbox is missing, when actually he’d thrown it at the selfsame servant in a fit of rage.”
Elspeth wrung her hands. “Yes, sir. I’m ever so frightened, sir, for—for all Lord Hythwick’s servants.”
And one in particular? Once again, Philippe remembered the two servants kissing in the darkness at Garrison House—Elspeth and a big fellow. And the next morning, Hythwick’s muscular valet fetching his bloodied master.
From within the house, he caught the creak of a stair. Philippe made another delicate probe. “And for his sister, Lady Marianne. She fears she was seen sneaking out of his lordship’s private rooms.” In spite of the fact that he’d told her not to search for the book. So much for being an obedient woman—but she was Freddy Barnham’s problem, not his.
“By his lordship?” Elspeth gasped.
“No, by his valet, who seems to have done nothing but warn her away, but she is afraid he will tell on her. She is terrified of her brother when he’s in a rage.”
“Mr. Turner would never tell on her,” Elspeth said, and then clamped her mouth shut. She blushed rosily.
“You are acquainted with the valet?” Philippe kept his voice bland.
“We-We drink at the same tavern, sir. He’s a good, kind man, nothing like his master.” Her flush faded, and her eyes filled with dread. “Oh, no!”
Philippe turned, just as another shiny curricle pulled up behind his. That lurid red and yellow was not in the best of taste. Its owner’s choice of clothes was appreciably better—buff breeches and an immaculately-tied cravat, marred only by the massive gilt buttons on his coat. Philippe suspected Mr. Turner possessed both tact and taste, but one could only do so much with a spoilt, selfish master.
“What shall I do? Lord Hythwick is not the man to take no for an answer.”
“Leave it to me.”
The earl barked out a command to Philippe’s groom. Philippe caught the man’s eye and shook his head. No vehicle of his would move out of the way for that villain.
Hythwick hissed an order at his tiger, who jumped to take the horses’ heads. The earl clambered down from the curricle and stomped along the pavement, clutching his whip.
He stopped a foot from Philippe. “What are you doing here? She’s driving out with me.”
“She’s not driving out with anyone,” Philippe said mildly.
Elspeth curtsied. “Miss Gloriana is unwell this morning, my lord.”
“Thanks to you,” Hythwick uttered, jabbing a finger at Philippe but stopping just short of prodding him in the chest. “Go away. Leave her be.” He flicked a gloved hand at Elspeth. “She’ll see me.” He made as if to push past her.
Philippe stepped in front of him. “No, she won’t.”
“Move over, curse you!” the earl growled.
Philippe crossed his arms and stayed where he was. He would relish a reason to knock Hythwick flat once again.
“Damn you for an interfering French bastard,” Hythwick sputtered. “She’s made it entirely clear that she wants me. Get out of my way.”
With an effort of will, Philippe refrained from giving the man a facer. In the same mild voice, he said, “No.”
The earl’s eyes widened. He snorted. “Well, well. Can it be that you want her too?”
Mordieu, Philippe thought. He’s not as idiotic as he seems.
“I thought you were just playing the proper gentleman up there in Lancashire, but you want her for yourself.”
Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny it, what with Elspeth right there and Gloriana likely eavesdropping.
“She doesn’t like you,” the earl said. “She never has. Whom did she hit last night? Me? Or you?” He cackled. “She’s mine.”
Philippe clenched his fists. “Over my dead body.”
Hythwick hooted—but he stepped out of reach.
“Coward,” Philippe murmured. “How about a little of the—what do you call it? The home-brewed?”
“Please, sirs,” Elspeth said, “don’t come to fisticuffs on Miss Gloriana’s doorstep. There are ever so many gossips about.”
The earl stood back and said smugly, “God forbid that I should cause Miss Warren distress.” He glowered at Philippe. “You’re nothing but a goddamn rake. I should call you out.”
“But you won’t,” Philippe said. “You’re afraid of me, and rightly so.”
The earl sniffed. “You’re beneath my notice. Horsewhipping would be more appropriate.” He turned to go, but then whirled. “Stay away from my sister.”
Philippe grinned. “Why should I? She likes me.”
“Or else,” Hythwick hissed, and stomped away.
“Oh, sir, you oughtn’t to have mocked him,” Elspeth whispered.
Philippe shrugged. “I can take care of myself.” The problem was taking care of Gloriana, and that he couldn’t do unless he married her. “Hythwick is so desperate to bed your mistress that he has lost all commonsense. Usually he is morbidly afraid of scandal. Frankly, I’m worried for Miss Glow’s safety.”
“So am I,” Elspeth sighed.
“If his lordship returns, on no account let him into the house. Don’t even answer the door if he knocks.”
“Very well, sir.” They watched his lordship clamber into the curricle and drive away.
“Your Mr. Turner must be an excellent valet,” Philippe said, “to mask so well the deficiencies with which nature provided Lord Hythwick.”
Elspeth snickered. She did not, Philippe noted, take umbrage at the implication that there was more than just acquaintanceship between her and the valet.
“And to put up with his tantrums as well. No doubt he would like to change masters.”
“Indeed he would, sir.”
“Or perhaps go into business for himself, if he had the wherewithal to do so.”
Her eyes widened. She paused, then seemed to make a decision. She leaned closer and whispered, “Miss Glow offered him a substantial reward to search for the book.”
He smiled back at her. “I was hoping to hear that. Very well, Elspeth. I believe the time has come to make a plan. If Lord Hythwick goes to the Wellforth rout this evening—as I assume he will—might Mr. Turner be willing to meet with you and me and a friend of mine at the Spotted Dragon?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure he will.”
“And Miss Gloriana as well, if she is feeling better this evening. The Spotted Dragon is a lowly sort of place, but it’s far safer than anywhere Lord Hythwick is to be found.”