Chapter 24
May 15, 1814
In the Hampshires’ garden, Kristin bided her time, watching Grey converse with Lion Hampshire, his booted foot propped on a stone bench in the midst of a secluded drift of daffodils, violets, and ribbon grass. On his knee he balanced a blue-and-white china plate and partook of shrimp and rye bread as they talked. Everything he did looked appealingly effortless to Kristin.
When a stout man in a brown suit waved to Lion, he excused himself, and Kristin seized her opportunity. Grey remained at the bench but appeared distinctly preoccupied, gazing over the crowd, when she approached.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. James,” Kristin greeted him. “You’re looking very... well today.”
“Oh—good afternoon, Miss Beauvisage.” He seemed not to notice the coquettish smile she bestowed upon him, nor did he think to return her compliment. A lacy willow branch partially concealed Grey’s face as he continued to sort through the crush of guests with his eyes.
Kristin tried again. “I had hoped that you might visit us at Belle Maison earlier this month.”
“Ah, well—I’ve been busy.” He gave her the briefest glance, accompanied by a distracted smile. “Settling into a new city can take up a great deal of time.”
This was not going at all the way Kristin had envisioned through all the days and nights leading up to the party. In fact, she had imagined that Grey would approach her, overwhelmed by her beauty and a desire to be near her. Now she suppressed an urge to pull on his sleeve in an effort to gain his attention. Instead she drained her glass of champagne and inquired recklessly, “How do you like my gown? You’re the only man here who hasn’t given me a compliment.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well,” he replied, with cool irony. “Another flattering word might inflate your vanity to unbecoming proportions, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? Now then, if you don’t mind, Miss Beauvisage, there is another matter to which I must attend....”
Her cheeks burned and tears stung her eyes as she turned away from Grey, mumbling, “Excuse me, sir. I can see I’ve misjudged you.”
Near the garden doors, Natalya stood with Hollis Gladstone. Freed at last from her station behind the Queen Anne desk, she had rushed to seize his arm and guide him into battle. “There, you see? She is with Grey St. James over behind the willow tree. Hollis, he is a wicked man in his dealings with ladies, and Krissie has no sense of such things. You must go over there and assert yourself.”
“Good Lord, how beautiful she is,” he murmured.
“Yes, she’s beautiful, and you understand her as no one else ever can. For her own good, you must make her see that you are the man she needs.” She gave him a little shove just as Kristin appeared again on the edge of the crowd, blinking back tears.
Hollis took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode toward his ladylove. “Kristin,” he said in forceful tones, “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. It’s time that you and I had a serious talk!”
He tucked her hand through his arm just at the moment her step had begun to falter. As he led her away from the house toward a grove of blossoming dogwood trees, Kristin found that his rumpled, bearlike presence was oddly comforting and warmly familiar. She liked the way he was taking charge while still gazing at her with adoration. “Yes, Hollis.” She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment as they walked. “I believe you’re right. I’m ready to listen to you now.”
Natalya, meanwhile, remained in the doorway to the parlor, trying to decide what to do. Frances Wellbeloved slipped past her, murmuring, “Pardon me,” en route to the table of refreshments manned by James Stringfellow. Grey remained on the other side of the garden, still shielded by the willow tree. Like her sister, Natalya had imagined quite a different scene for her meeting with Grey today. She could not understand why he hadn’t come up to greet her when she’d been surrounded by men at her desk in the Hampshires’ parlor. Perhaps, she thought, he hadn’t wanted to intrude—or even better, perhaps he’d been jealous! Still, she wanted him to come to her. Now, as fashionably garbed guests milled around her, Natalya stared at his distant figure. When she caught his eye, a spark of hope flared in her heart, then died as he glanced away. Suddenly she remembered how he had accused her of snubbing him when they’d quarreled at the Spruce Street house, and Natalya’s disappointment was supplanted by anger. How dare he ignore her? Balling her hands into fists, she started toward him—then stopped when someone touched her back.
“Talya?”
She turned to see her grandmother, tiny and radiant in a gown of pale green watered silk. Emeralds and diamonds sparkled at her throat, and soft green plumes adorned her white hair. “Grandmama! How lovely you look! I’m so glad that you were able to come today.”
“My darling girl, I am exceedingly proud of you! Your wonderful, witty book is all anyone can talk about, and I must be forgiven for claiming some credit for its author.” Antonia embraced her, laughing lightly, then looked back at a slim, balding man of medium height who stood behind her. “Barton, step forward and greet my granddaughter. I know that you have met before, but that was years ago and memories need refreshing from time to time.”
Natalya knew immediately what was afoot between Barton Saunders and her beloved grandmother; there was no mistaking the light in Antonia’s emerald green eyes, nor the answering warmth in Barton’s smile. As they chattered politely Natalya felt numb, horrified to see her grandmother looking at another man the way she had looked at Jean-Philippe. It was even more horrifying to see this person touch Antonia’s back and gaze lovingly into her eyes. Furthermore, Barton Saunders was nothing like her grandfather—he was an American by birth, quite possibly younger than Antonia, and his looks were altogether unprepossessing. What right had he to lay claim to the affections of so extraordinary a woman, a woman who had given all of herself for more than sixty years in marriage to an equally extraordinary man! Poor Grandpapa, Natalya thought dimly. What would he say if he could see his loyal bride now?
She realized that there was something inherently wrong with the case she was building, but she couldn’t help herself. It was a mistake to judge Antonia Beauvisage by a set of standards entirely different from that which she would impose on any other woman, but surely that was the way of the world with grandmothers. As a child, Natalya had placed Antonia on a pedestal with Jean-Philippe, and she didn’t know how to change that now....
Grey had very nearly let down his guard and gone to Natalya when he saw her in the garden, so intense was his longing to be near her. During the past weeks of his self-imposed confinement, he had found himself daydreaming about her more often than he cared to admit—remembering the radiance of her smiles, the feel of her skin, the sound of her laughter....
Then, just as he’d made up his mind to go to her, he’d caught sight of Stringfellow waving from his post at the refreshments table.
Francesca... She had turned in profile, her auburn curls gleaming in the sunlight as she drank most of a glass of champagne. A cold chill swept over Grey, followed immediately by a surge of energy. His hands made fists of steel as he recognized the necklace and earrings she wore; they made up the parure his great-grandmother had received as a wedding gift. Grey heard a voice whisper, “Bitch,” and realized that it was his own.
Silently, with the power and purpose of a stalking panther, he made his way through the crowd. Francesca had turned back to Stringfellow to have her glass refilled when Grey came up behind her and clamped lean fingers around her arm.
“I beg your par—” she began to protest, glancing back in annoyance. Her voice died the moment she saw Grey, and she feared her heart might stop, too. Yet even as the blood drained from her face, she began to marshal her wits. This was just one more scene in the game, she told herself, and it was imperative that she be the victor.
“Surprised to see me?” he murmured harshly.
Forcing herself to meet his deadly gaze, she smiled. “A trifle shocked, I’ll own, but not surprised. How are you, Grey? I gather that you came safely through the war after all. Knowing your penchant for danger, I did not expect to see you again.”
“Spare me your polite inquiries after my health, and especially your analysis of my character,” Grey ground out.
Stringfellow was watching them with concern. “Sir?” he said in hushed tones, leaning across the bowl of champagne punch. “Might I remind you again of the summerhouse beyond the garden? If you and the lady would prefer to converse freely—”
“A splendid idea.” His grip tightened on Francesca’s arm as he said with heavy irony, “Come along, Mrs. Wellbeloved. I feel certain that you are even less eager to create a scene than I. The scene itself may be unavoidable, but an audience is not.”
She did not protest as he led her deeper into the garden, where the brick footpaths gave way to flagstone steps cut into a gentle hill. Here the garden was wilder, denser, and even more lovely. Honey locust trees mingled with weeping willows, under which grew a profusion of daffodils, pansies, and larkspur. In the distance, sheltered by giant elm trees, stood the small hexagonal building that had served as a schoolroom for young Benjamin, Michael, and Susan Hampshire.
Upon reaching the summerhouse, Grey opened the door and swept his arm before him in a gesture of mock gallantry. “After you.”
Francesca entered, disengaged her arm from Grey’s hold, and seated herself gracefully on one of the upholstered benches that followed the window-lined walls. She was glad for the walk and the time it had given her to formulate her plan of attack. Obviously Grey was expecting a spectacular confrontation. He would demand the Hartford jewels as well as divorce, and leave her with nothing. If she fought back in kind, he would surely win.
“It was very thoughtful of you to seek solitude for us,” Francesca said in a quiet voice. “I could not have let my feelings show if we had been forced to talk in that crowd.”
Caught slightly off-guard, he stared at her with narrowed eyes. “If indeed you do have feelings, they are of no consequence to me. What is of consequence is your abandonment of our marriage and the theft of my mother’s jewels.”
“Theft?” She laughed shakily. “That’s putting it rather strongly, isn’t it, darling?” Grey had crossed to stand over her, and she found that she was thrilled by the angry strength of his presence. Her nipples grew taut as she looked up at him and continued, “But, you must let me explain all. I realize that it must be tempting to paint me as a villainess in this piece, but—”
“Damn you! Do you imagine that you can charm me into complaisance?” he demanded, holding himself in check with an effort. “You are fortunate that I have not put my hands around your beautiful neck and choked you to death, for that is exactly what I long to do! And, speaking of necks, give over my mother’s necklace and earrings.”
Francesca blanched but obeyed docilely. After handing him the priceless earrings, she stood and presented her back to him. “You’ll have to work the clasp, darling. You know I’m hopeless with such things.”
“For God’s sake, stop calling me darling,” he shot back through clenched teeth. When he touched her neck, the sudden, sighing intake of her breath sickened him. The clasp was unfastened in a trice, and he dropped all three pieces of the parure in his coat pocket.
“Do you know, it’s quite amazing, but I am not curious as to how you found me,” she said softly. “I knew that you would somehow, if you lived.”
Grey gave her a chilling smile. “Fascinating.”
She sat down again and assumed an earnest expression. “Now, then, Grey, you must hear me out. You owe me at least the few minutes it will take to tell my story. I realize that what I’ve done must appear altogether inexplicable—”
“Not at all. The explanation is simple. You are selfish, coldblooded, and spoiled, and I was a fool to marry you.” His manner grew dangerously calm as he continued, “Perhaps I shouldn’t fault you for recognizing the truth about the farce we were engaged in. However, I do condemn you for leaving me without word of your whereabouts, still tied to you by wedding vows and unable to loose those legal bonds.”
“But, Grey, I loved you!” She turned green eyes up to him, bright with pain. “Have you forgotten all that we shared during those... private moments? No, don’t answer; I can see that you mean to pretend that there was ever naught between us, and I suppose I cannot blame you. But, it was different for me. I was afraid to let my feelings show after our wedding because you were so cavalier about the entire business.”
“What the devil are you going on about?” Grey broke in impatiently, pushing open a window to let in some air. “Do you take me for one of those drooling puppies who believe whatever you tell them, despite the obvious facts? Not that it signifies in the least, but you ran off mere weeks after our wedding! Damned odd behavior for a wife in love, wouldn’t you agree?”
Francesca stretched out her hand and touched his for an instant, thrilling to the warmth of his bronzed skin, remembering his intoxicating scent and the heady rapture of his kisses. “You doubtless won’t believe me, but I left because I loved you so. I was frightened, Grey! Desperately frightened that you would be killed in the war, and even more afraid that, if you did come home to me, you would break my heart. I had never known such powerful longing before, and—”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do much better than that, my dear,” he drawled sardonically.
She began to weep, burying her face in her hands. “I knew that you would be this way—that I would be better off striking back in kind than telling the truth!”
Standing in the middle of the summerhouse, Grey cast his eyes heavenward. “I shudder to think what you imagine you can gain from these histrionics, Francesca, but you would be wise to take a different tack. You know me very little if you believe I can be manipulated.”
Experience had taught Francesca that all men could be manipulated, and in any case, she had no other option save surrender, and that did not occur to her. Shakily she rose to her feet and threw herself against him, sobbing. “My darling! Can you not feel the sincerity of my pain? Have you not the smallest piece of love for me hiding in a corner of your heart?”
The Francesca he had known in London had been sly, keen-witted, wildly passionate, and self-absorbed. Grey had never known her to display a single tender emotion, and he was taken aback by these tearful pleas. He had expected defiance, even threats and lies, but never this! Clasping her shoulders, he was about to put her away from him when a movement outside the summerhouse caught his eye.
“Good God,” he muttered. There, amid a profusion of yellow and white narcissus, stood Natalya. Her beautiful eyes were wide with confusion and disbelief. Just before she turned to flee, Francesca lifted her head from Grey’s chest and looked back, recognizing Natalya Beauvisage... and understanding instantly that she was her rival.
* * *
Grey St. James walked toward the little cottage behind the gardens of Belle Maison. The mansion was dark and silent, but candlelight illuminated the cottage windows, beckoning to him. It was neatly one o’clock in the morning, and he realized that anyone seeing him wandering about would, perhaps rightly, think him mad. Tonight, however, his cool head and ready wit had deserted him, replaced by emotions that burned too hot to touch, much less examine. Sleep was impossible, and a force Grey didn’t understand had drawn him on horseback through the starlit night. Without choosing a destination, he’d found himself at Belle Maison.
It seemed as if an eternity had passed since he had come away from the Hampshires’ garden party. By the time he and Francesca returned to the house, most of the guests had departed, and Natalya had been surrounded by young women in the parlor, laughing gaily. It was obvious to Grey that she was hiding from him behind the barricade of females, and he was oddly grateful. He didn’t know what to say to her then.
He still didn’t know, but he felt compelled to say something now that he was here at this impossible hour. Dear God, what a coil his life had become in one short day! The situation with Francesca gave him precious little peace, for he couldn’t fathom what she was about. In an effort to gain some control over the matter, he had closeted himself in his library earlier that evening and written to her, coldly demanding the return of all the Hartford jewels and informing her that he would seek to have their marriage dissolved immediately upon his return to England. Speed, warming to his role in the drama, had dressed in black to deliver the missive, impressively sealed by Grey’s signet ring. He hardly expected Francesca to obey his commands without protest, but the action had allowed him to put that particular problem aside for the moment.
Grey’s body ached with fatigue as he listened to the calls of the night birds and smelled the fragrant spring flowers. A horse stirred and snorted in the nearby stables, while shredded clouds floated past the moon. Grey paused on the mossy brick footpath, inhaling the cool air and wondering what the devil he was doing. Someone had mentioned that Natalya was using this cottage as her writing study, but that certainly did not mean she slept there as well. And, even if she did, what explanation could he give for disturbing her in the middle of the night?
Then, as if in answer to his questions, a white-clad figure moved past the candlelit window, pausing to open it a few inches. Grey almost imagined that he beheld a ghost as a breeze stirred the loose white gown and tumbled honey curls of Natalya Beauvisage.
She saw him but did not move. Her heart raced with a sweet, reckless joy as she drank in the familiar lines of his lean, shadowed body, the ebony gleam of his hair, and the white glow of his shirt in the moonlight. How could one human being, even in the form of a vision, be the source of both acute heartache and immeasurable happiness?
Today, after leaving the Hampshires’ party, Natalya had wanted to get into her bed, draw the covers over her head, and remain there, asleep preferably, until her pain eased. Knowing that such behavior would alert her entire family to her humiliating, helpless passion for Grey, she had chosen instead to take refuge in the cottage, explaining that the party had given her several inspiring ideas for her book that must be recorded without delay.
“I must be seeing things,” she whispered now. “Seeing things and going quite mad....”
The apparition walked slowly toward the cottage, and she went to open the door.
“You are doubtless wondering what I am doing here,” Grey said, with self-directed irony.
“You’re real’.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Are you?” When she nodded, he smiled. “Perhaps we’re having the same dream, for that would make more sense than the two of us meeting like this in the middle of the night. Will you let me in?”
The air, scented with the wisteria that plunged over the cottage roof, seemed imbued with magic as well. “What sort of dream would this be if I did not?” Natalya answered, stepping back so that he might pass. “I am curious to discover how it will end.”
“To be frank, so am I.” Spying a decanter of brandy on a table in the parlor, he went over and removed the stopper. “Do you mind if I help myself?”
“No.” She stared at his profile, which was irresistibly burnished by the glow of a dozen candles. “In fact, I believe I ought to join you.”
When Grey had splashed brandy into two crystal tumblers, he joined her on the settee. “I hope you have a more plausible reason for being here at this uncivilized hour than I do.” His voice still held a note of satiric disbelief, as if part of him were watching the scene from a distance.
Natalya’s first sip of brandy gave her courage, but she trod carefully. “I was writing.”
“Is it your custom to write when the rest of the world sleeps?”
“No,” she answered simply, “but I was in no mood for sleep. What of you? Is it your custom to wander my family’s garden, miles from your own in Philadelphia, after we have all gone to bed?” She imitated him by arching a delicate brow.
Grey grinned in spite of himself. “Ah, minx, you have the devil’s own wits. No, it is not my custom; in truth, I am not quite certain what brought me here tonight.”
“Are you not?”
A silence fell between them, broken finally by Grey. “This area is one where I have seldom strayed....”
“What area is that?” she prodded, with feigned confusion, watching the way his long fingers tightened around the glass.
He glared at her. “I mean, the area of—the realm in which—” He broke off, sighing harshly. “God knows what I’m trying to say, because I’ll be damned if I do! I’ve no business even speaking of this to you given the complicated circumstances of my life—and the fact that I’ve really no idea what it means, or where it’s going, or—”
“Grey... are you talking about your feelings for me?” Natalya felt oddly serene in the face of his agitation.
“See here!” he cried accusingly. “I don’t think we ought to be discussing this at all. All my life, I’ve been taught to act and think, not feel. Quite honestly, I’m not even certain what a feeling is when I’m having one, so I’ve learned to avoid the blasted things entirely.” He stood up. “I’d better go.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Warmed by the brandy and this glimpse of vulnerability, Natalya caught Grey’s hand and pulled him back down on the settee. “I seem to recall another conversation not so long ago, in your upstairs sitting room on Spruce Street, when you accused me of running from my feelings. You implied that I was callous because I had tried to pretend there was nothing between us, and although I now remember that no discussion was made of your feelings, you did maneuver me quite neatly into bed.” Pausing to sip her brandy, she grinned at him. “This time, you owe me an explanation, sir—many explanations, in fact. You may as well resign yourself to providing them. No doubt you’ll be able to sleep again after our little talk.”
Grey stood up, looking pained, and went to fetch the decanter of brandy. Pouring more into his glass, he returned to the settee and put it on the low table in front of them, securely within reach. “You can be a merciless vixen, Natalya.”
A warm, dizzying euphoria filled her body. “Perhaps,” she teased, “and yet...”
“If you imagine that I’m going to say I’m in love with you, you’re mad!” he shouted. “Love! What the devil is love?”
“I can see that you are upset,” Natalya soothed. “Let’s put the subject of love aside for the moment and come back to it later. Besides, I’d really rather hear about Frances Wellbeloved. Who is she, and what is her role in your life?”
“You just had to ask that, didn’t you? You’ll wish you hadn’t when you hear the answer.” His tone was scorching.
“But, Grey,” she said gently, “I have to hear it, just as you have to say it, or we can never move forward.”
“Damn you!” He heard his voice as from a distance, and it was like a stranger’s. “Francesca is my wife!”