Chapter Nine
That evening, Chloe, Eliza, and Huntingdon took a boat ride across the Thames. A boatman, a war veteran with a wooden leg, rowed the small craft quickly across the river. Soon they passed through the water entrance of Vauxhall Gardens and arrived at the quayside. Lord Huntingdon jumped out and assisted the two women to dry land.
Chloe smoothed the skirts of her gown, a sapphire silk trimmed in Brussels lace that shimmered beneath the moonlight. Her fair hair was fashioned in loose curls and held back by jeweled clips that had been a gift from her sister Amelia on her birthday.
“The duke, Lord Sefton, and Lady Willowby will join us in my private supper box,” Huntingdon said.
Chloe had since learned that Lady Willowby was only two years older than she. The youngest of four unmarried daughters of a wealthy merchant, her status had been significantly elevated upon her marriage to a much older viscount. The death of her husband, six months later, had left Lady Willowby a handsome widow’s portion and a wealthy lady.
Chloe trailed behind her sister and brother-in-law as they walked to the entrance to the gardens, and Huntingdon paid the fee to enter. She should be grateful if Eliza’s manipulations were successful. Lady Willowby would occupy Michael, and Chloe could finally spend time with Henry.
She had little time to ponder the feelings of unease in her stomach as they passed through the entranceway, and she halted at the sight before her.
Hundreds of lanterns hung from trees, masts, and wooden poles to illuminate acres of meticulously landscaped gardens. The magnificent shining lights looked like twinkling stars in the distance. Sycamore, lime, and elm trees lined gravel paths and invited leisurely walks by visitors. Scattered among the trees were wooden arbors that provided shade from the sun in the day and a private spot for an amorous couple in the evening. In the distance, a Roman-styled piazza was lit by dozens of lanterns. Notably absent was the ever-present noise, the unpleasant stench of the city, and the black coal factory smoke that polluted the London air.
They walked farther into the gardens and came to a large open space with a tall multistoried rotunda. An orchestra played in a balcony while well-dressed guests and revelers danced a country reel below. Facing the orchestra, row after row of supper boxes, which could easily hold eight people, were decorated with exquisite paintings from accomplished artists William Hogarth and Francis Hayman. Visitors drank, ate, and strolled through the gardens.
Chloe’s eyes were wide as she took in the scene for the first time—all her senses heightened to the sound of the music, the glow of the lanterns, and the scent of flowering shrubs and greenery of the famous pleasure gardens.
Eliza led Chloe toward one of the supper boxes. “I see them,” Eliza said.
Chloe turned to see both Henry and Michael approach through the crowd. Henry looked dashing in a bottle-green jacket and striped waistcoat. His fair hair was combed in the à la Brutus style currently popular with the dandies of the ton.
Guests parted, and the duke came fully into view. Chloe sucked in a breath.
His muscular six-foot frame was complemented by a blue jacket of kerseymere, a striped waistcoat, and trousers that hugged his strong legs. His dark hair shone like mahogany beneath the lamplight, and his sensual dark eyes appeared mysterious and fathomless. He was all lean muscle, power, and confidence. Standing next to him, Henry looked like a boy.
Henry bowed and lifted Chloe’s gloved hand to brush a kiss across the satin. “You look lovely as always.”
Chloe’s lips curled in a welcoming smile. “The chocolates were delectable.”
Henry leaned close to whisper. “I hope to learn all your favorites.”
She experienced a heightened awareness of Michael as he stepped forward. No doubt he didn’t approve of Henry whispering anything into her ear. She turned to properly greet the infuriating duke.
Chloe swallowed. His rapier gaze raked her form-fitting sapphire gown, then captured her eyes. The only sign of his reaction was the slight flaring of his nostrils. “Miss Somerton.”
Electric tingles rushed through her at his look. He must have sensed it, for one dark eyebrow arched upward.
She became aware of a rustle of skirts and a lady watching them. “Thank you for inviting me this evening,” Lady Willowby said, gliding forward.
She was a beautiful woman with upswept red hair and green eyes. Unlike many with such flame-colored hair, Lady Willowby’s fair complexion was like fine china. Not a freckle marred her porcelain skin. Her voluptuous figure was on display in a green gown with a scandalously low bodice that matched the shade of her jade eyes. She looked up at the duke with a mixture of lust and possession.
Chloe hated her instantly.
A waiter approached with a tray of drinks. Eliza was first to pluck a glass from the tray and waited until everyone was served. “We shall order first, then walk the gardens before Madame Saqui’s performance. But first let us share a drink of Vauxhall’s famous arrack punch.” She raised her glass. “To good friends.”
Chloe sipped her drink composed of rum, lemon, sugar, and arrack. It was potent, but delicious, and warmed her blood and eased her nerves.
Lady Willowby placed a hand on Michael’s sleeve. “Will you escort me through the gardens, Your Grace?”
Michael’s expression was unreadable. The only indication he gave that he heard the beautiful widow was a slight nod of his head.
Henry offered Chloe his arm. “Shall we?”
She placed her gloved fingers on his arm, and the three couples headed for the winding gravel paths. Lamps lit the way, and the scent of fruit bushes and perfumed flowers filled the air. It was the perfect setting for adventure, intrigue, and romance.
An odd twinge of disappointment tightened Chloe’s chest. She should be pleased. There would be opportunity to be isolated in one of the shadowed paths away from the crowd. But that meant Lady Willowby was free to do the same with Michael.
She frowned. What was wrong with her? After two kisses, she couldn’t allow him to ruin her chances of a successful marriage match. He wanted a mistress.
Not a wife.
“I have many fond memories of the pleasure gardens,” Henry said. “My father used to bring me here as a boy. Of course, we visited in the daytime back then.” A look of sadness crossed his face in the lamplight.
“I’m sorry for your loss. You must miss him,” Chloe said.
“I do. He was a good father.”
Chloe’s fingers tensed. Her father had been good. It was only after her mother died—when Chloe was five—that he’d begun to forge priceless works of art. He’d changed then, had become greedy and hadn’t cared about whom he harmed with his schemes—clients or his own children.
Henry must have sensed her discomfort. He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up unwanted memories. I want you to know that your father’s past does not matter to me.”
Not for the first time, she recognized that he was kind and considerate, and a marriage with the Earl of Sefton would be amicable and pleasant.
A trill of laughter up ahead drew her interest. Lady Willowby was clinging to the duke’s arm. She licked her painted lips and leaned forward, her breasts threatening to spill from her low-cut bodice.
Chloe’s blood pounded and heat rose in her face. Henry spoke, but Chloe had difficulty following the conversation. Her eyes kept returning to Michael and the clinging widow. As she watched, Lady Willowby tugged Michael’s arm and urged him to turn down a winding path out of view. Chloe’s step faltered.
Henry noticed their departure from the main path. Huntingdon and Eliza were paces ahead, oblivious to the departure of the third couple.
“Shall we do the same? I see a path to explore,” Henry whispered, and ushered her in a different direction. She followed, determined to stop thinking of the other couple.
Fewer lanterns lit the back paths, and it was darker here. Henry halted beneath a wooden boat that was artfully hung above a branch of an oak tree to pass as an arbor. Tall hedges offered privacy. “I’d like to kiss you, Chloe. May I?”
This was it. A true test. She’d only kissed one man. Would Henry’s lips make her feel dizzy with desire? Would her heart pound, her knees weaken, and her breasts tingle?
Closing her eyes, she raised her mouth to his. The pressure of his lips was light and pleasant. She pressed a hand against his slender chest and felt his heart beat fast beneath his waistcoat. At her touch, he moaned and pulled her closer, and the kiss changed. Sloppy, wet kisses slanted over her mouth and down her throat, leaving a slick path on her skin. She fought the urge to push him away. She felt no spark. No rush of wicked, forbidden longing. His chest wasn’t hard and solid, like another’s, and the touch didn’t make her skin sizzle.
A swooping dread settled in her stomach. There was no comparison with Michael’s seductive kisses that had left her burning with desire and with an aching need for more.
A rustle of skirts sounded close by. They jumped apart just as the duke and Lady Willowby turned the corner and stopped short. Michael’s gaze traveled over Chloe and Henry, and her cheeks grew hot beneath his knowing stare. Chloe’s nervousness grew.
Did he know Henry had led her to the isolated path for a stolen kiss?
Michael glowered, his expression fierce. Lady Willowby appeared out of breath and confused, as if she’d been dragged along the gravel path.
“Time to go,” Michael said, his voice harsh. “The tightrope dancer is about to begin her performance.”
Chloe met Michael’s gaze. A scowl pulled at the corners of his lips…lips that could make her long for dangerous things that a lady should never even think of. Lips that made her feel so much more than Henry’s kisses.
Oh God. Why him? Why the man who wanted her, but only as his mistress? The man who thought her a lying thief who would forever be beneath him? How could this have happened?
The two couples returned to the rotunda and joined Huntingdon and Eliza. A throng of visitors had gathered in the open space. Chloe’s thoughts were of her dilemma and she was slow to comprehend the hushed whispers of the crowed or to notice that all eyes were trained high above.
“Do you see the rope?” Henry pointed to a mast set up at the eastern end of the gardens to another mast half way down one of the main walks.
Chloe looked up. “I do.”
“Don’t look away. She will show shortly.”
Suddenly Madame Saqui appeared on the rope and gave a jaunty wave. A tiny woman with dark hair, her costume was brilliantly spangled and her headdress of colorful feathers reached a considerable height. The orchestra began playing a lively tune, and the crowed burst into cheer. Chloe watched, amazed, as the French ropedancer ran down the inclined rope with grace and an astonishing sense of balance. She twirled and lifted a leg, and the crowd’s gasps of delight echoed throughout the night. Chloe was riveted to the sight and was stunned by the Frenchwoman’s athleticism.
The act continued for twenty more minutes. Chloe turned to seek out Eliza when she spotted Lady Willowby beside Michael instead. The widow touched his arm, batted her lashes at him, and whispered in his ear.
Chloe’s stomach tightened with an emotion she refused to acknowledge. She whirled back around. Determined to ignore them and put distance between them, she took several steps away.
The crowed thickened as more and more people pressed closer to get a better look at Madame Saqui’s act. A burly man with a beaver hat bumped into her and she was separated from Henry.
“What’s a pretty one like you doing in the gardens alone tonight?” A pox-faced man asked. He was dressed well, probably gentry, but the strong odor of alcohol wafted from him.
“I’m not alone, sir.”
“You have a protector, then? I shall outbid him,” he said with great bravado. He tried to take her hand, but Chloe slipped away. During their ownership of the Peacock Print Shop, men had tried to proposition each of the three unmarried proprietors. Chloe had experience with over-amorous customers. But the crush of people tonight unnerved her, and she frantically scanned the crowd to find Henry, Eliza, or Huntingdon.
Just as fear began to take hold, a strong hand grasped her arm. She whirled to find Michael towering over her.
“This way.”
She had no trouble following him. Even in a crowd, his presence was compelling. Men and women parted at his size and the air of command that exuded from his tall frame. She assumed he would take her back to the supper box, but he led her away from the throng of people and down a gravel pathway into the gardens.
Her step faltered. “Where are we going?”
“We need to talk. Alone.”