Chapter Four
On the way home in the carriage, Henrietta longed to question her aunt about Christian Hartley, but she resisted. They climbed the stairs to bed, and she could wait no longer.
“Aunt, who is Mr. Hartley’s family?”
Her aunt’s shrewd brown eyes studied her. “You liked him then?”
Henrietta wriggled. Really, must her aunt scrutinize her so? “I’m not at all sure I did like him. I found him mildly interesting.”
“He’s the only son of Sir Gerald Hartley, an honorable gentleman who passed away some years ago.” Aunt Gabrielle paused at the top of the stairs. “Christian must be close to thirty. He’s been in the diplomatic service for some years. He was at one stage assistant to the British Ambassador in Paris, I believe. A mystery man, or so described by some disappointed ladies of the ton. I was surprised to find him there tonight. He rarely attends such events.” She frowned. “I can see how you would find him attractive, but he is not a suitable match for you.”
Henrietta hovered at the door to her bedchamber. “Why not?”
“He’s said to be a rake. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure.”
Henrietta had a vague idea that they drank a lot and bedded far too many ladies who were not their wives. Was that all? “What exactly is a rake?”
“They do not make good husbands, Henrietta. They move in less than first circles.”
“But,” Henrietta said impatiently, for this was like learning an entirely new language, “What is less than the first circles?”
Aunt Gabrielle’s eyes took on a dreamy, unfocused appearance, as if she remembered an experience of her own with a rake, in her youth. “Opera dancers and the demi-monde, my dear. the world Mademoiselle Garnier inhabits if you like.” Failing to make it any clearer, she kissed Henrietta’s cheek. “Go to bed, it’s very late, and tomorrow you must practice your curtsy while wearing a hoop skirt.”
Her aunt disappeared into her chamber at the end of the corridor where her dogs waited. Henrietta had only the vaguest notion what that world might be like, but it was most intriguing. A more colorful world perhaps than the mannered and polite world of the ton. Mademoiselle Garnier came from that world that Christian obviously preferred.
She suspected Aunt Gabrielle had meant to warn her, but her usually sagacious aunt had erred. She had made Mr. Hartley seem even more attractive. A man of mystery.
Henrietta sauntered into her chamber, remembering Hartley’s smile and the teasing laughter in his eyes. His blue-gray eyes. She was barely aware of Molly helping her prepare for bed. Christian wasn’t conventionally handsome. His intelligent face was narrow, with sharply defined cheekbones and chiseled jaw. But there was something commanding about him that made her heart flutter madly.
It was likely they would meet again, he seemed certain of it. And, for some reason, she suspected he was seldom wrong.
* * *
Verity traveled alone to her hotel in the hired carriage. She had received many invitations tonight, to the horse races, dinner, and parties, plus a few suggestions of something more intimate. It seemed that here in England, doors were opened for actresses where a bourgeois Frenchwoman could not go. She was a novelty, she supposed. Fate had thrown Lord Beaumont right at her feet. When she gazed into his steady brown eyes, she felt the pull of attraction, mutual she was sure. Something told her he might not be a man she might manipulate easily. She sighed and stared out at the dark London streets that were quieter than those in Paris.
She curled her fingers around her painted fan determined to remain focused on the reason she came to London. Danton had promised to release her father from prison if she brought the viscount back with her to France, and the success of the venture hinged on her taking Beaumont into her bed. An act which would cheapen her and turn her into the kind of woman she’d never wanted to be. Women were born with the knowledge of how to seduce a man. She must offer him the apple as Eve did Adam. But it would take more than a seduction to lure such a man to France. She would have to be clever.
It began to drizzle, a mist swirling around the carriage, the air murky and damp. She snapped open her fan. If the plan succeeded, she would no longer go unblemished to her marriage bed. What would the future hold for her? Years spent in the theater moving from one lover to the next? She fanned herself vigorously. She had never wished for that. Father would be crushed to know she’d been forced to become a courtesan after his defiant actions led to his arrest. He had nurtured her so carefully, ensuring she was as well-educated as any of the male students at the Sorbonne. But the world had changed. A French woman from a respectable home no longer expected the old courtesies to apply to her. It was hard enough to just stay alive.
The carriage pulled up at the hotel, and she snapped her fan shut. These fearful thoughts would not deter her from her aim.
“Please have a bottle of iced champagne sent to my chamber, sil vou plaît.” She cast the porter a grateful glance from under her lashes, and he bent absurdly low from the waist. With the flicker of a smile she climbed the stairs. Exhausted, she doubted she would sleep tonight.
***
Henrietta’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since breakfast, and she had been far too nervous to eat luncheon. Sponsored by her aunt, she waited in the Presentation Drawing Room of St. James’s Palace to be announced by the Lord Chamberlain. She fiddled with her long white gloves, uncomfortable in the embroidered, high-waisted white gown with its awkward wide hoop. It was difficult to hold one’s head up with the headdress of ostrich feathers. She had been made to stand for hours, for no one sat in the queen’s presence. When her turn came at last, she managed her deep curtsy to the queen quite respectably and answered
her brief questions. She then had to back away without turning. It proved
appallingly difficult to achieve this with any semblance of grace while carrying the long train over her arm.
When she walked into the ante chamber where society gathered, her father gave her an encouraging wink and came to kiss her cheek. “You look every bit as beautiful as your mother on our wedding day,” he whispered in her ear.
She doubted it, but her heart gave a skip of pleasure. Her mother had been just eighteen when she married her father, and it was Henrietta’s eighteenth birthday next week.
“You are now a candidate in the marriage mart,” Aunt Gabrielle informed her, her dark eyes shining. “I hope it proves to be the beginning of a wonderful life.”
Henrietta scanned the crowded rooms for a sight of Mr. Hartley and was relieved not to find him there, for she didn’t look her best in this dreadful gown.
She doubted he was in the market for a wife, anyway.
“Well, now that’s over,” Aunt Gabrielle said briskly, “Let us enjoy the Season and find Henrietta the most handsome and gallant of husbands.”
Henrietta laughed. “Oh, yes, let’s.” But her thoughts returned to Christian Hartley.
* * *
Verity took her final curtsy to applause which equaled that of Mrs. Siddens, and the curtain banged down. It had gone well tonight. She entered her dressing room where her dresser waited.
“I heard the ovation, mademoiselle,” Madame Tornet said, taking Verity’s cape.
“Yes, but I’m not sure Mrs. Siddens was pleased. She would prefer to be playing Ophelia, even though Gertrude’s part is much larger.” Verity stepped behind a screen to remove the filmy white gown. She pulled on a silk wrap and sat down in front of the mirror to remove her stage makeup.
A knock sounded at the door, and Madame Tornet went to answer it. Lord Beaumont stood in the doorway, hat in hand, dressed in understated evening clothes, his unpowdered dark brown hair tied at his nape with a thin black velvet ribbon.
Verity’s breathing turned rapid and shallow. “Where is your pretty daughter, Lord Beaumont?”
He bowed over her hand. “Henrietta sends her apologies. She is attending Almack’s tonight. It is her debut.”
“Perhaps you should have accompanied her.”
“She has her aunt, and once the young swains discover her, she won’t notice I’m not there. I enjoyed the play immensely. Although all the cast were excellent, you, mademoiselle, were superb.”
“Praise indeed, considering Sarah Siddens is in the play,” she said dryly. “I thank you, kind sir.” Verity laughed and motioned to a chair. “Would you please wait? I have not yet dressed.” She gazed provocatively into his appreciative brown eyes and fingered the thin silk barely concealing her chemise and stays. “I am thrilled that you came.”
“I am delighted I assure you.” His gaze rested for a moment on her hand where she held it at her bosom. When he met her eyes, his were hot and dark, making her shiver with anticipation.
She stepped behind the painted screen, and with Madame Tornet’s assistance, slipped into a lilac-colored Italian silk gown.
When she emerged, Lord Beaumont had declined to sit and leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, imposing in his tall black hat and silk evening cape. He straightened. “I shall not keep you above a minute, mademoiselle. I wished only to pay my respects.”
Verity made a moue with her lips. “Oh, but you must accompany me to supper. I insist on it.”
He nodded toward the door. “There are many awaiting that privilege. I can hardly claim that honor for myself.”
“It is I who choose the man to escort me, Lord Beaumont. And I choose you.”
He smiled. “I’m flattered.”
“They all go to the Gun Tavern, so we shall go to the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly. Do you agree?” She laughed. “If you will please wait outside, I shan’t be but a moment.”
Verity rushed through her toilet, adding a touch of lip rouge and powder with her haresfoot. She placed a tiny black patch high on her cheekbone and another at the corner of her mouth. Madame Tornet brushed her long hair, left au naturel for the performance, and fashioned it into a high roll with a ringlet resting upon Verity’s shoulder. She tucked fake violets into the creation. Verity added diamonds to her décolleté and ears, paste, but such an excellent imitation. She donned her swan’s down trimmed cape, preparing to play the part of her life, as the seductress.
Mohammed had come to the mountain. The rush of excitement was overwhelmed by the ever-present sense of desperation. She must not fail.
Out in the corridor, Lord Beaumont stood alone. “Your devotees have gone on ahead to the Gun Tavern.”
“Then we have fooled them, have we not?” she said with a light laugh. She met his honeyed gaze. “My apartments are at the Pulteney.” Her luxurious suite at the Pulteney Hotel was the perfect setting for a seduction. Better than Grenier’s Hotel where the rest of the troupe mingled with French émigrés, who wouldn’t give them a moment’s privacy.
His gaze travelled over her hair and then into her eyes. “Your eyes are the same color as those flowers in your hair, mademoiselle.”
“A remarkable coincidence, my lord,” Verity said.
He laughed and offered her his arm.
They dined in the hotel dining room. Soft candlelight played across his features as they talked, his eyes filled with frank admiration.
“Do you miss your home?” he asked.
She frowned. “I no longer have a real home to miss.”
He reached across and took her hand. “Tell me?”
She swallowed. “I’d rather not.” She didn’t want his sympathy; it distracted her from her purpose. And yet, his warm brown eyes invited her to reveal all, and she found it surprisingly difficult to resist.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He still held her hand, and when his thumb stroked the sensitive skin at her wrist, her pulse galloped.
Verity smiled and withdrew her hand. “You haven’t. I’m delighted to be here in London, in such charming company.”
With an answering smile, he raised his glass in a silent toast.
She smiled. This was business she reminded herself. But couldn’t business be combined with pleasure?
“Care for an oyster, mademoiselle?”
She screwed up her nose. “I’ve never eaten them, they look unappealing.”
He popped one in his mouth. “They taste of the sea, delicious.” He laughed at her expression. “Go on, be brave, try one.” He squeezed lemon over the shell and held the oyster out to her on a tiny silver spoon.
Verity held his wrist, aware of the strength of him and the dark hair tickling her skin. It did smell of the sea. Soft and smooth, the oyster slipped down her throat. “Odd, but not unpleasant.”
“They are known to be an aphrodisiac.” His brown eyes smiled into hers. “Like silky flesh upon the tongue.”
It was a perfect description. She raised her eyebrows and shifted in her seat as her nether regions warmed. Was it the oyster?
They drank another bottle of champagne, as they picked at the light meal. The wine relaxed her, made her bolder. Beaumont talked of his daughter, and his country estate, the needs of his tenant farmers and his fine stable of horses. She thought him a good man, mannered and gentle. He did not attempt to pry into her life, perhaps sensing she didn’t want him to. Strangely, she found liking him made what she must do more difficult. So much easier to manipulate and lie to a scoundrel.
He escorted her to the door of her suite. “Thank you for a delightful evening.”
“The evening need not end here.” She placed a hand on his chest, moving over hard muscle. His heart beat fast, like her own. “Will you come in?” Not waiting for his answer, she opened the door and walked inside, dropping her cape onto a chair.
He followed her in. The room became more intimate and smaller with him standing there, so tall and broad-shouldered. All her senses alert, she breathed in the heady perfume from a vase of roses on the table. Candlelight and the blazing fire, lit in advance of her arrival, painted a seductive glow over the satin and brocade furnishings.
Beaumont shut the door behind him then stood, studying her. She should say or do something accomplished, light-hearted, and playful, but instead she put a hand to her mouth to hide her trembling lips and fought to overcome her reluctance to betray him. She liked this man.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, he came and barely brushed his hands over her shoulders and arms. His touch made her shiver. “Champagne?” She motioned to the table where the chilled bottle and crystal glasses stood ready.
“Haven’t we had enough?” He caught her arm, turning her back to face him. “You are the most beautiful woman I have seen in an age.” His brown eyes glowed with sensual warmth. “I’m sure you’ve heard it said many times.” His hands slid to her waist and drew her closer, his voice husky. “But I wish to tell you, again, and again.”
A jolt of electricity at his touch stunned her into silence. Verity’s experience of men was somewhat limited. Jacques’ brutish attack on her had scared her. Beaumont was a lord of the realm, born and bred to manage his fortune and estates; that was evident in his manner. But he appeared to be a reasonable man. She prayed he was.
He cradled her face in his hands and sought her lips, kissing her gently as their breaths mingled. His mouth moved over hers. He tasted of sweet champagne, and salty seafood. She breathed in his clean male scent and a beguiling hint of Bergamot. He held her loosely within the circle of his arms, making her fears decrease. His kisses teased, then grew more insistent. When his tongue explored her mouth, she tensed. He drew away to gaze deeply into her eyes. “You want this?”
She nodded, now certain that she did. She trusted him. Beaumont was no brute and would not hurt her. Would it be she who hurt him? It would not be easy to carry out her mission. But if she failed, her father would die. She must not forget that for a moment.