Chapter 22
Kiss mine A-se: An offer, as Fielding observes, very frequently made, but never, as he could learn, literally accepted.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
“I do not deal in politics. I am a mere woman,” Mariana said.
A passing tray of champagne floated within reach, and she snatched a glass. She took a rather deep sip, one that could be characterized as a gulp, and attempted to ignore the persistent little Frenchman hovering at her side.
He’d been there since she’d stepped foot inside the Capet family’s soirée, set inside their private Palais-Royal garden. Within this exclusive preserve, the principles of Liberté! Egalité! Fraternité! didn’t exist. This opulent garden, replete with flowing champagne, sparkling gems of every hue, and coldly sophisticated smiles, was reserved solely for the pleasure of the reestablished aristocracy.
“But, Madame, you deal in politics for that very reason,” the man insisted with an exhausting earnestness. “Everything about a woman is political. And this school you speak of, The Progress School—”
“The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds,” she supplied for him, unable to keep a weary note out of her voice.
“Exactement,” he exclaimed, his arm gesticulating theatrically up into the air. “Theese ees politics. Education ees politics.”
The man’s protuberant eyes snagged on the line of her décolletage, and he went mute. Mariana cleared her throat, startling his eyes upward. Politics certainly didn’t render a man sexless.
“To base a school on the precepts of Émile by our own Rousseau is political,” he resumed, inching closer and creating an intimate space ripe with breath that must have partaken of raw onion and garlic. “Such boldness only proves that you are, indeed, a rare Englishwoman.”
Mariana took an instinctive step backward in subtle rebuff. She had two men on her mind, and this little toad wasn’t one of them. Her gaze swept the garden for the hundredth time tonight. Nothing.
“Your eyes,” began the little toad, “they shine with the clear light of a flawless diamond.”
Some nights this sort of man, servile and obsequious, amused her. Not tonight. A frigid smile curved her lips. “Doesn’t that particular metaphor better describe blue eyes? My eyes are, in fact, plain brown.”
“Brown? Your eyes are no common brown”—The little toad all but spat the word—“Just look how the pink of your dress—”
“I do not own a single pink dress,” she cut in. “This dress is coral.”
“Ah, oui, my paltry English cannot capture the nuance of color. But the way the coral brings out the amber of your eyes reminds me of a ray of morning sun piercing a honeycomb with its warm glow.”
“Warm glow?” she repeated on a joyless laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. “I think you were closer to the mark with the diamond metaphor.”
She wasn’t certain about the flawless or brilliant parts, but the comparison cut strikingly close to her transformation over the last few hours. She may have been soft coal this morning, but, tonight, she was a hardened diamond. Tonight, she was adamantine.
Once again, her gaze scanned the garden lit by particolored star lanterns composed of translucent papier-mâché. Small flames flickered and danced on the whimsical breeze, creating illusory images reminiscent of the fairies who once danced across her childhood ceiling. On a different night, this garden would enchant her.
Tonight, it did nothing of the sort. The cold fury from earlier had given way to an odd sense of distance from herself.
As her gaze darted from vibrant string quartet to perfectly manicured rows of fall flowers and on to the fleet of lanterns floating on the black void of the garden’s central fountain, she still detected no sign of either man. It would be easiest, of course, if Villefranche appeared before Nick arrived. Then she could get the seduction out of the way without any potential interference from Nick.
Of course, it didn’t escape her notice that her plan might have one flaw. Namely, how was she supposed to seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance?
She nabbed another flute off a passing tray, efficiently trading her empty for a full. The French made it entirely too easy to overindulge.
Sensing an opportunity while she gulped down half of the flute’s contents, the little toad tried another angle. “Your eyes shine with the fiery light of an avenging goddess.”
“Careful now,” Mariana began, “or you’ll deplete your entire repertoire of clichés before the night has a chance to truly begin.”
She was being insufferably rude, but she cared not one jot. In fact, the little toad’s eyes only shone brighter.
She glanced away from him in disgust, even as the word fiery called to her. This afternoon, she could have streaked across this garden like a ferocious, avenging goddess. Tonight, however, the emotion necessary to fuel such a dramatic flight lay just out of reach. In short, she felt numb and heavy, divorced from her emotions and bound by the lead weight she’d tied around her own neck: this seduction. She wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
If a little voice protested that seductions weren’t meant to be chores, that seductions were to be savored and enjoyed, she suppressed it with yet another gulp of champagne.
The little toad opened his odiferous mouth to undoubtedly spew yet another round of noxious, hackneyed flattery, when Helene fluttered to her right side. At the exact same moment, Aunt Dot came at her from the left. The little toad was entirely squeezed out. An awkward and uncertain silence stretched with the three women uniformly staring the man down. At last, he heaved a resigned sigh and shuffled off to try his luck elsewhere.
Mariana’s relief at his departure was short-lived when she noticed a palpable tension radiating off the two women flanking her sides. “Aunt Dot, you are acquainted with my honorary aunt, Helene de Vivonne, the Marquise de Chevreuse?”
“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Dot began, her eyes straight ahead. “I am, of course, your aunt by blood”—There was no mistaking the umbrage in her voice—“and we all know blood is thicker than water.”
“How true, Madame Montfort,” Helene intoned smoothly, her gaze, too, fixed in the distance. “I am merely Mariana’s aunt by choice.” Helene squeezed Mariana’s arm. “What is the saying? You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your friends?”
Aunt Dot’s mouth snapped shut, and Mariana began to long for the little toad. Abhorrent breath and leering gaze might be preferable to spending an evening wedged between two women who loathed one another for no better reason than one was French and the other English.
“Shall we take a turn about the garden?” Mariana asked, unable to summon the emotion to care one way or the other. They just seemed like the polite words to say.
“Ma chérie,” Helene exclaimed as their feet found a sedate, collective pace, “do you see our dear Charlet? One cannot miss him. So talented is he with his lithographs.”
Mariana followed the direction of Helene’s gaze and found the painter. He was indeed unmistakable with his towering height and ever-present smile. A small crowd gathered around him, basking in the warmth of a boyish good humor evident even from this distance.
“You are aware, of course, that Charlet was a dear friend to Géricault,” Helene said in a reverent tone. “Such a tragedy was the death of Géricault. The boy was only a few steps into manhood.”
“A tragedy?” harrumphed Aunt Dot. “When is a painter’s death from dissipation and licentiousness so uncommon as to be tragedy?”
“No, Aunt,” Mariana spoke before Helene could respond. “Olivia mentioned Géricault’s failing health when he showed The Raft of Medusa in London a few years ago. He suffered from a persistent lung ailment, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, The Raft of Medusa—” Helene began.
“Obscene,” inserted Aunt Dot.
“—Tragique,” Helene continued as if Aunt Dot hadn’t spoken. “Those poor souls . . . to be abandoned after a shipwreck by their own captain.”
“Speaks of a certain national character, one would think,” Aunt Dot cut in.
“And Géricault’s depiction of those poor, lost souls on the raft was so—”
“Animalistic,” Aunt Dot again interrupted, a dramatic shudder quaking her generous bosom. “All those writhing limbs and bodies clad in only the loosest scraps of cloth, I daresay.”
“—Sympathique to their plight and their suffering,” Helene pressed on. Mariana had never seen Helene so determined. “Géricault understood the human condition well beyond his years. His loss . . . oh, what tragedy for Charlet. Friends are the family we choose.” She paused, allowing her latest jab to sink in before asking, “Mariana, do you know that our great Delacroix—I wonder if he is here tonight?—posed for Géricault as one of the poor unfortunates?”
“Oh, dearest dear, Delacroix,” Aunt Dot exclaimed. “That young reprobate? No thank you. Give me a painter like Mister Turner. Mariana, have you viewed The Battle of Trafalgar? Now, that is a national treasure of which to be proud.”
“It is my understanding,” Helene began, “a controversy surrounds this painting. Perhaps Monsieur Turner’s depiction isn’t so accurate? Is it possible that a looseness with the truth speaks—how did you say it, Madame Montfort?—of a certain national character?”
So stiff did Aunt Dot’s body go, it was a wonder the woman was able to continue placing one foot in front of the other. If emotion had been available to her, Mariana might have felt badly for her aunt. Perhaps. Likely not.
“Duchesse,” Helene exclaimed of a sudden before lowering herself into a deep curtsy. Mariana’s gaze lit upon a tiny, yet somehow statuesque, woman approaching them without a single stir to her features or person. Not even her skirts moved as she progressed forward. Mariana and Aunt Dot followed Helene’s lead and dipped into their own curtsies.
“What a magnifique soirée,” Helene sang out as she rose. “The stars. The fashion. The soirée of the year.”
The Duchesse inclined her head and granted the three women a smile that could only be characterized as condescending. She was a duchesse, after all. The daughter of an earl, Mariana wasn’t especially impressed. Still, this woman was Villefranche’s mother, and this was their Paris residence.
Like that, a solution to her problem struck her, and it became clear exactly how she could seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance.
After Helene went through the requisite introduction ritual, Mariana exclaimed with all the grace of a country ingénue, “Duchesse, the beauty of your garden overwhelms me with its splendor.” She may have been laying it on a bit thick. After all, she’d been presented at court, and none other than the current King George himself had named her and Olivia Milk and Honey, due to their respective complexions. A moniker that had followed them everywhere their debut Season. “If I may be so bold”—She leaned in ever so slightly—“our English styles pale in comparison.”
Helene gave her a smug pat on her right hand while Aunt Dot bristled to her left. If Mariana ever wanted to see the Folly again, she would find a way to make it up to Aunt. But that was a task for future Mariana. Tonight, she had a larger game at play.
“I wonder if . . . oh, this may be asking too much,” Mariana faltered, willing a blush to rise to her cheeks. The Duchesse eyed her with all the verve of a dead-eyed fish. “But I wonder if a tour of your residence would be a possibility? Of a sudden, I’m feeling inspired to renovate my London townhouse in exactly this style.”
The Duchesse’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Indeed?” With an elegant flick of her wrist, she summoned an attentive servant.
While a muted conversation ensued, Mariana glanced to her left to find a beet red Aunt Dot staring straight ahead. She turned right to find a quiet Helene studying her closely. “What is this all about, ma chérie?”
The Duchesse rescued Mariana from having to devise a lie. “Lady Nicholas, when you are ready, summon Gaston”—Her delicate fingers fluttered in the direction of the servant to her left—“and he will show you all you wish to see.”
Mariana stepped forward to implement her plan and leave the three women to negotiate the rest of the evening without her. She had some exploring to do. Gaston was going to show her every inch of this residence, including the room where Villefranche slept. Before this night was finished, it was entirely possible that she would employ every single one of her newfound spy skills—duplicity, guile, invisibility, lock picking, and seduction . . .
Unexpectedly, her eye caught on the figure she’d sought all evening, standing in a secluded alcove at the far end of the grounds: Villefranche.
Two facts became immediately apparent. He wasn’t alone. And, if the impassioned nature of his hand gestures was an indicator, he was angry.
Intrigued, Mariana took in the figure opposite Villefranche. Towering form . . . massive belly . . . sagging jowls . . . She knew that man.
It was Uncle Bertie, engaging in a heated argument with Villefranche. Theirs wasn’t a polite acquaintanceship made at a Society function. What on earth did Uncle Bertie and the Comte de Villefranche have to discuss heatedly?
Another question followed quick on its heels: did Nick know of Uncle Bertie’s connection to Villefranche? Where was the dratted man anyway?
As if her unspoken question had the power to conjure him out of thin air, another familiar figure caught the edge of her vision. A collective gasp met her ears, and her body froze. A frisson of anticipation skittered through her veins.
One steadying inhalation of air later, she pivoted to face fully what her body already knew. Across the garden stood Nick attired in crisp whites and blacks, surveying the garden like he owned it.
Society’s eyes flitted between him and her as they awaited what would come next. Would he acknowledge her? Cut her? Embrace her? What a delicious amuse-bouche of gossip she and he were serving Society.
Meanwhile, he remained seemingly oblivious to the hushed silence. How had she been fooled for so long by his façade of supercilious popinjay?
She knew how. She’d chosen to see it. In that way, it had been easier to dismiss him and fashion a new life for herself. And now she knew the fop was a disguise for the real Nick, a deceitful bastard.
As his gaze continued its thorough sweep of the garden, her heart hammered in her chest, her traitorous body winding up in expectation of the moment his eyes would land upon her. For the first time tonight, she felt alive. She could hate herself for it, even more than she hated him.
At last, his gaze found her. A quick smile quirked up his lips and lit his eyes, and her breath caught. How easily she could become enthralled by his smile. It was the sort of smile that had the potential to erase an entire past. This smile was so utterly unlike Nick—open, loving, genuine—as if his entire world centered around her.
Too open. Too loving. Too genuine.
And she wasn’t his entire world. She never was and never would be. His smile played for the hundred pairs of eyes surrounding them on all sides, not for her.
The thought was the splash of cold water she needed. Tonight, she had a role: loving wife to Nick’s loving husband. A smile matching his in brilliance curved her lips, even as she felt it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
In the next heartbeat, the quiet broke, replaced by the buzz of bees swarming. It was the sound of gossip, excitable and relentless.
The curious numbness of the evening gone, her sleeping fury reawakened and began to rise. As she took her first step forward into this uncertain night, duplicitous smile pasted onto her face, she allowed her fury to enshroud her like a protective cloak. She wouldn’t be distracted from her intention to take a lover.
Never mind that she’d never shared a bed with a man other than Nick. Tonight, she would remedy that. She was a diamond, unyielding and multi-faceted.
And if within those illusory facets hid a weak spot that had never sufficiently hardened, only she needed to know of it. She would see the seduction through. Tonight was the beginning of the rest of her life without Nick.
Only he didn’t know it yet.