Chapter 19
Dimber: Pretty. A dimber cove; a pretty fellow. Dimber mort; a pretty wench.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Yes, Mariana decided, polished was the correct word for Nick, impeccably dressed in a sage green cutaway jacket, buff buckskins, and a freshly laundered, starched linen shirt complete with an intricately knotted silk cravat. He was a vision of the fashionable English gentleman, except for his unfashionably cropped hair, which only heightened the angular beauty of his face. The whiff of French prison that had hung about him a few days ago was gone.
It struck Mariana that this was the first time she’d seen him in the daylight since her arrival in Paris.
He stole her breath away.
She’d made love with this man last night.
Just before Nick stepped within polite speaking distance, she snuck a glance at Villefranche. He’d arranged his features into a mask of utter disregard. She almost felt badly for him. Villefranche didn’t know it yet, but he didn’t stand a chance against Nick.
Of course, she wasn’t certain she did either, not when the entirety of his attention was focused on her as if the outside world had ceased to exist. She might have experienced a wobble in her knee.
It was only when he came within three feet of her and showed no sign of stopping that she realized his intent. In the next moment, she was enveloped in his strong embrace. Her upturned chin nestled into the crook of his neck, she had no choice but to breathe him in. He smelled delicious.
“Play along,” came a duo of words, low and hot, whispered into the cup of her ear. The touch of his velvety lips sent goose bumps skittering across her skin.
Once at a lecture, she’d learned the scientific word for goose bumps: piloerection. The audience had collectively gasped, ladies’ fans fluttering in outrage. She’d been delighted at the time. At the moment, however, she wasn’t.
Piloerection. A blush flared at the suggestive nature of it.
Nick’s arms released her as suddenly as they had embraced her, but he kept her close by, pulling her hand through the crook of his arm. She’d been thoroughly claimed. An unruly part of her thrilled to the treatment, while another part of her, the one accustomed to opposing him, bristled.
“My love,” he began, supercilious popinjay on full display. “I received your thoughtful note that I would find you here, and—voilà!—here you are.”
“Here I am,” she replied, at once bemused and intrigued. “And here you are.”
What was he playing at? Wasn’t he supposed to be missing, presumed dead to the operators in his world of shadows and intrigue?
“I see you’ve had no problem finding a young gallant to escort you through the wilds of Paris,” he said with a winking, vacuous irony the English fop played so well.
A watchful Villefranche remained silent.
Fussy French custom dictated that an introduction could be made only if both parties agreed to it. Clearly, these two men working so assiduously against one another had never been formally introduced.
Mariana swept an arm toward Villefranche. “Lucien Capet, Comte de Villefranche”—She decided to leave out the ritual naming of forebears—“may I introduce my husband”—The word nearly stuck in her throat—“Lord Nicholas Asquith, to you?”
The two men bowed and wordlessly assessed one another. Nick was the first to speak. “In my absence, I must thank you for being of such attentive service”—Twin scarlet blushes pinked Villefranche’s cheeks at the clear innuendo—“to my wife.”
“It was assumed,” Villefranche returned in a tone that could only be described as belligerent, “you fled Paris when word reached you that your wife had arrived.”
A shocked laugh escaped Mariana at Villefranche’s bluntness. She wouldn’t have suspected him capable of it.
“On the contrary,” Nick returned smoothly, bringing Mariana’s gloved hand to his mouth for a quick brush of his lips. She didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “I returned as fast as my horses would ride when I received news of her arrival. We are ever at cross purposes, it seems.”
He gazed upon her lovingly, as if his entire world depended on her . . .
She caught herself. A less experienced woman might mistake that look for the genuine article, but not her. This was a farce. She mustn’t forget.
“In uncertain times such as these in Paris,” Nick continued, “one cannot be too careful, to be sure.”
“In uncertain times such as these?” Villefranche repeated. “France has enjoyed peace these last nine years. I can assure you that your wife is perfectly safe in our city.”
“Of course, my good sir,” Nick returned. He angled his body toward Mariana. “To be young and idealistic again.”
“Ah, yes,” she purred, “he is young, isn’t he?” There would be no mistaking the womanly appreciation in her voice. Nick’s eyes narrowed and held hers for a long second. She’d hit her mark.
He shifted his attention back to Villefranche. “My dear sir, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I simply refer to the uncertainty regarding the king’s health.”
“There is nothing uncertain about his health,” Villefranche snapped. “The man is dying.”
“That should bode well for your family, non?”
“Have you met the heir Charles, the Duc d’Artois?” Villefranche asked, fire in his voice.
“I have. The man is a—” Nick paused as if searching for the correct word.
“Popinjay, as you English say,” Villefranche supplied.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, and the blithe smile fell from his lips. The air turned deadly serious. “This rogue operation to assassinate Charles will never succeed. Have you any idea who you’re dealing with?”
Shock marched across Villefranche’s face. The man lacked all ability to hide his feelings from the world. He could use a night of poker with Nick and a pair of strumpets.
“How . . . you,” the man sputtered, “you know nothing of—”
“Oh, I know a few things,” Nick cut in. “Let’s say your plan works, and Charles is assassinated. Who do you think the blame will fall upon?”
“There are any number of people who wish for the death of the Bourbon line.”
“But who would benefit most? Your Orléans family. That’s who.”
Villefranche’s lips drew into a straight, stubborn line.
“Come down from your high ideals and think, man. Make no mistake, if you decide to see this calamity through, I shall stop you, one way or another.”
Mariana’s mouth went dry. She believed him, and if Villefranche had a jot of good sense in his idealistic head, he would, too.
He drew himself up to his fullest height and cleared his throat. “Lord Nicholas, you and your wife make an unexpectedly”—He visibly searched for the correct word—“unified pair. Perhaps the rumors surrounding your marriage lack substance?”
Mariana inhaled sharply, and Nick’s expression went carefully blank.
“My family,” Villefranche continued, “is hosting a soirée tonight. I shall have your names added to the guest list. A few of tonight’s invitees might be of interest to you.”
With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode down the wide gravel avenue, leaving Mariana and Nick alone. She couldn’t help noticing that with Villefranche gone they stood facing each other like combatants.
It was he who broke the charged silence. “His invitation could be a trap to draw me out into the open.”
“It isn’t,” she replied with a quiet assurance that she almost felt.
“We make an unexpectedly unified pair?” he asked without missing a beat.
“I had a word with him.”
“A word?”
“Sometimes plain language is what is needed, not subterfuge. Seduction isn’t the only weapon in a woman’s arsenal.”
“That’s a large bet you placed.”
“A bet that you matched.”
Another one of his quicksilver smiles flashed across Nick’s lips, and Mariana’s belly fluttered. Her composure threatened to slip. “There is more,” she said, her voice a raw scrape against her throat. “I saw Villefranche with the croupier. He handed the man a packet.”
“You’re certain?”
She nodded. “You still trust the man?”
The question hung between them on an open note. When Nick answered, his voice carried only far enough to reach her. “As I said before, nothing in this game is what it seems.”
He stepped forward, and her body’s awareness of his rose to the surface. He made no move to touch her and, instead, held out his arm. She intuited that they were to stroll. There was no help for it. She must touch him.
She directed her gaze at some indistinct point in the distance before reaching out and resting a light palm on his solid forearm. If a pulse of electricity jumped between them, she could ascribe it to the dryness of the air.
Their feet fell into unified step as they navigated the peaceful grounds in silence, taking in the exterior of the palace and its formal gardens so unlike the wild informality surrounding the Medici Fountain. Here, every shrub and flower was placed with meticulous care to maintain rows perfectly straight and predictable. If only life could be arranged with such precision, but life was nothing, if not imprecise.
“Have you collected the twins’ daily notes from Helene today?” Nick asked in a familiar retreat to the last ten years when they’d only discussed their children.
“Just this morning. In fact,” she said, too happy to play along with this return to order, “Geoffrey has requested the kukri knife that we procure for him for his name day be of the Eastern, rather than Western, variety. He would like, and I quote, a more easily transportable blade.”
Nick snorted. “What sort of school have you sent the boy to that he needs transportable weaponry?” he asked, the question not a scold, but a tease.
“As I’m sure you know, Geoffrey could fend for himself with his bare hands. The boy is most resourceful.”
“A trait he shares with his mother, to be sure.”
Gratification, warm and liquid, spread through Mariana, and her mouth clamped shut. She no longer thought herself capable of easy banter.
In a move born of sudden necessity, her hand slid off his arm, and her feet stepped off the path before wandering into the heart of Marie de’ Medici’s famed elm thicket, the only sounds the crunch of mulch beneath their feet and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.
Although she experienced a pang for the loss of him, it couldn’t be helped. Complete and rational thoughts refused to form when any part of her body touched him. And she most definitely needed to be rational when it was only he and she and the trees.
“You don’t prefer we walk together?” he called out to her back.
His words stopped her in her tracks. Within them she detected a note at once open and vulnerable. It was a note that made her insides go light.
When she turned around, she saw that she’d raced some twenty yards ahead of him. They stared across the verdant expanse at one another until she broke the silence. “No one can see us.” She paused a beat and gathered the courage to speak a truth that they both needed to hear. “Villefranche is gone. There is no need to pretend here.”
His eyes held hers another moment. The intensity within them caught her unawares. At last, he asked, “Pretend what?”
“That we’re truly man and wife.”
~ ~ ~
Across the open expanse of leaf-strewn forest floor, Mariana was the picture of a startled deer poised to flee at his slightest movement. She could very well slip through his fingers, and he could lose her, forever. He couldn’t let that happen. He must do or say something, anything to hold her in place.
From beneath the weight of his desperation slithered a possibility: the truth. He could correct a lie, the very lie that had torn them apart in the first place. No longer would it stand between them.
“Ten years ago,” he began. Her head canted to the side in curiosity. She was listening. He must make his next words count. “The opera singer was a ruse.”
Her eyes went flat. She didn’t feign ignorance and ask which opera singer. Instead, she closed herself off to him. He saw it in her face and felt it in the air. They’d never once discussed the opera singer beyond that fateful night.
At last, she broke the silence, her voice hollow and unsteady. “A ruse?” He wasn’t certain she was aware that she’d taken a step forward. He responded in kind—any excuse to close the distance between them. “And for whom was this ruse?” she continued. Bitter sarcasm laced her words and marred her lovely face. He’d done this to her.
“We needed to draw out a vicious enemy agent, and the opera singer was his lover. Among his many faults, the man also happened to be extremely jealous.”
“Ah, I see.” Her features went hard.
“I’m almost certain you don’t.” He might have just made matters worse.
“It’s an easy puzzle to sort out,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “It began as a ruse, but soon cold calculation turned into a red-hot passion that wouldn’t be denied. Am I close?”
“Not remotely.”
“It seems,” she barreled on, “last night wasn’t such an anomaly for you. Your métier has certain perquisites.”
A mean left hook from Gentleman Jackson himself couldn’t have floored Nick more effectively. “I never made love to her.”
Mariana’s mouth snapped shut, her eyebrows knit together, and a heartbeat passed. “It occurs to me that you had the opportunity to explain this pertinent fact ten years ago. Or during any of the time since.”
He could walk away. There was yet time for that.
Or he could speak the truth. He wasn’t ready to walk away from her.
“I needed you to toss me out, and I needed it to be real.” As if to foreground his revelation, the wind stopped breezing through the trees, offering him a still and quiet confessional. “Your life was in danger, and I made the choice to keep you safe.”
Her eyes widened in incredulity. “Do you expect me to thank you? You made the decision alone to end our marriage—”
“Family men are vulnerable,” he cut in. “It makes their families vulnerable. I should have never brought you into that world.”
“Didn’t I deserve a choice in the matter?” she asked, betrayal and hurt quaking her voice. “I thought I meant more than that to you.”
“You did.”
He paused. Should he uphold the status quo and leave her?
He couldn’t. Even if she didn’t know it yet, he understood that these last few days, and last night in particular, had shifted the parameters of their relationship.
“You meant everything to me.”
“And what of the rumors concerning your exploits and conquests?” she pressed on as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Simply rumors. Some were ruses and bait, others were fabrications by bored Society wives. But none were true. I was never unfaithful to you.” He took another step forward. An elemental part of him needed to be closer to her. “Not once,” he said, finally speaking the truth they both needed to hear. “Never.” A terrible weight lifted off his shoulders.
“Never is a very long time,” escaped her lips.
“Ten years.”
“You robbed us of a life together.” Her fragile whisper carried far enough to reach him before her spine visibly stiffened, and she drew herself up to her fullest height. Her next words emerged on a stronger note. “It seems my work in Paris is done.”
“What do you mean?” He felt as if he’d been dropped from a great height, and the only way to break his fall, the only way to hold her in place, was to keep her talking.
“I mean”—Her words and the latent anger within them gathered steam—“I am leaving Paris.”
She pivoted away from him, her skirts swishing about her ankles with the force of her intention.
“Stay,” he called out, the note a raw scrub of his throat.
What was that in his voice? Desperation? Was he desperate for her?
The word, or the desperation contained within it, did its job when she stilled. Her eyes caught his over her shoulder.
“Mariana”—He closed the distance between them, even going so far as to place a staying hand on her arm, so she would have to face him—“we are man and wife.”
“Not in a meaningful way.”
“Then what was last night?”
They were the wrong words. Last night wasn’t about their status as husband and wife. Last night was about pent-up, irrepressible desire.
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Certainly not meaningful.” She shook off his hand and retreated a few steps to steady herself against the nearest elm. “You lobbed a grenade into our marriage and blew it to smithereens. Now you’re claiming marriage after one night of passion? Do you think me such a weak-minded woman that one night could turn my head and undo the past?”
He caught an emotion in her eyes that he didn’t expect to find there. Fear. What was she afraid of?
The answer followed before he’d fully formed the question. She was afraid of herself.
Another question occurred to him, one he was almost too afraid to ask. “Do you think yourself that woman?” He took a step forward, drawn toward this fragile possibility.
“Can’t you leave me be?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“What is happening between us is insanity.” Her eyes searched his. “Haven’t you proven enough?”
“I don’t think I have,” he replied. He’d never known how addictive truth-telling could be. “I think I have a great deal more to prove.”
Last night had done nothing to slake their desire for one another; it had only whetted it. Certain desires weren’t mitigated by the passage of time.
She flashed him a look, a question in her eyes he couldn’t interpret. There was a time when he’d known her thoughts before she did. No longer was that the case. The spy lessons had worked too well.
The thing was this: he wanted to be able to read her. The debutante he’d met at the Folly had been in the first draft phase of womanhood. Now she was a completed manuscript, one new to him. At least, she was mostly new. Certain pages he’d read quite thoroughly.
“We both know this—whatever this is—can lead nowhere,” she said.
Did she believe her words? Last night told a different story of precisely where this could lead.
“Why are you asking me to stay?” she asked, the question racing along the serrated edge of a rising panic that he heard in her voice.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Her teeth bit down on her plump bottom lip for the space of one . . . two . . . three heartbeats. At last, she released it and relented. “Perhaps.”