SINCE LONGING AND INNUENDO and thwarted desire had moved into the house and seemed to occupy every corner, it suddenly felt much too small, so Philippe decided to escape the bustle of assembly preparations and walk all the way to Postlethwaite’s Emporium to see if any correspondence had arrived.
He’d hoped time would blur the memory of that kiss. Instead, from the moment she’d said “I can’t” until now, it had grown more mythical.
“I can’t” didn’t necessarily mean she never would.
And he was so consumed with imagining this possibility that he was surprised to find himself at Postlethwaite’s; he scarcely remembered the walk over. He paused, testing, listening to his body. He was winded, but only slightly. He was aching, but not intolerably. And yet he was both winded and aching as a result of a simple walk across the downs. If six cutthroats leaped out at him now, they’d leave behind a dead man. The realization tightened his every muscle again in a surge of impatience, and he gave the door a more aggressive push than he might have otherwise.
The bells affixed to it leaped and jangled frantically.
Inside he nearly needed to shield his eyes from the dazzling array of shawls and bonnets, gloves of every hue, ribbons and bows and trims, glittering combs and pins and fans and reticules, things that glittered and glowed and gleamed, all the kinds of things that made a feminine heart yearn. He smiled, somewhat grimly, thinking of Marie-Helene, and how she would exclaim over all of it. They were things she ought to have. The kinds of things he ought to be able to give her.
He turned his back on them abruptly, only to confront a spool of gleaming, claret red satin ribbon. His breath caught. He drifted toward it and caught the loose end, drew it slowly, languorously through his fingers, as if it were a strand of Elise’s hair finally unleashed. It would glow in her hair. It was merely a shade darker than her soft, soft mouth.
He dropped it abruptly.
Where on earth was Mr. Postlethwaite? Perhaps he was upstairs, availing himself of the chamber pot.
Opposite all the delightful female ephemera were a few things for gentlemen: cravats, stockings, gloves, and the like. He had no need for any of those at the moment.
Another shelf contained a very small selection of toys.
He paused and smiled and reached out to pluck up a wooden lion. Its whimsical little face was encircled with a mane fashioned of dyed wool, a stiff little tail protruded from its behind, and its legs were jointed.
He played with it for a moment, arranging it on the shelf in a pouncing position. “Rawwr,” he said very softly.
He pivoted when he heard a throat clear.
Postlethwaite was small, bespectacled, and, after he got one long, clearly educated look at Philippe, very nearly obsequious. The merchant could size up his customers in an instant, and he knew a lord when he saw one.
He bowed very low. “I am Mr. Postlethwaite, sir, at your service.”
“Lord Lavay, Mr. Postlethwaite. Will you kindly see if any correspondence has arrived for Alder House?”
“Of course, my lord. Straightaway, my lord.”
While Mr. Postlethwaite ducked into the back of his shop again, Philippe circulated idly again among the furbelows.
He paused in front of a case of combs and brushes. He knew so little about Elise. One of them was that she’d left home, a home she said she could not return to, with only a hairbrush.
One brush was tipped on its side, and he could read the initials on the back of it: ELF.
He frowned faintly.
A suspicion dawned.
Postlethwaite emerged with a few letters in his hand, and Philippe absently, wordlessly, reached out for them.
“Cunning little lion, isn’t it, Lord Lavay? And are you by any chance looking for a gift for a young lady?”
Philippe only half heard him. One of the letters was addressed in a hand he vaguely recognized.
He absently slit it open:
Dearest Philippe,
What a comfort and delight it is to hear your voice, if only by letter, though your handwriting has become prettier than mine! I will be in Sussex again before your assembly to see to my sister and visit with my cousins Lord and Lady Archembault, who are visiting with Lord Willam and his family. My hand will dream of its kiss, and I can think of no finer thing than to waltz with you.
Warmest regards,
Alexandra
Guilt pricked at him. The woman might very well be his future, but at the moment the idea of kissing Alexandra’s hand was jarring and farcical, and the very notion of it embarrassed him slightly, as if he were remembering something callow he’d done years ago, instead of just a short time ago. He half suspected that kissing Elise was the most genuine thing he’d ever done, and that everything in contrast seemed artifice.
Perhaps all he needed was to see Alexandra again.
He folded the letter and stuffed it into his coat pocket, all too aware that when he did, the muscles of his hand went taut.
“Yes, Mr. Postlethwaite. I believe I am looking for a gift. May I see the hairbrush, please?”
“Of course, my lord.” Postlethwaite unlocked the case and reached in, handing it to Philippe as if it had been a rare antique. Lavay took it gently, as gently as Elise had handed him that blue Sevres sauceboat, and drew his thumb over the initials tenderly. “Interesting story about this one,” Postlethwaite said. “A young lady traded it for two pairs of gentleman’s silk stockings, of all things.”
ELISE DROVE HER staff with relentless cheer. Enlisting the additional help of Henny, Evie’s maid (and promising her a healthy portion of Dolly Farmer’s salary), they set to work making Alder House ready for the festivities. The ballroom—really more of a large hall—was scrubbed and polished and cleaned to glittering opulence, the floors spotless and smooth and golden and nearly as bright as mirrors, the chandelier crystals buffed to icicle brilliance. A few potted plants had been obtained—she’d stretched the flower budget to get them; flowers had been acquired from local hothouses; and Seamus and a group of fellow musicians had been engaged to play in return for drinks and food and flirtation with the guests.
And she and Lord Lavay skirted each other, less in abashment, like the first time, than in the way one might be careful about getting too close to an open flame. It was a mercy. She herself felt as though the kiss had set her softly, permanently alight, and she was concerned it was obvious to everyone. She longed for a new word to describe the mixture of terror and elation she felt. Terration?
Elise reflected on the fact that up until she’d done the unthinkable and become, as Miss Marietta Endicott had said with some wry delicacy, with child, everyone would have thought her ordinary, if a little prone to speaking out of turn. But no: apparently she was destined to be tossed like flotsam and jetsam on a great stormy sea of romance, buffeted by feelings no mother of a six-year-old boy conceived out of wedlock ought to have, like joy and terror and lie-awake-in-the-dark-all-night lust. And then, awakening, wound in her sheets like some creature preparing to turn into a butterfly, sweaty from tossing and turning.
Because that kiss had not been a whim, or the frivolous impulse of the moment, or the stratagem of a practiced flirt, or simply because he was French. It had been a release of dammed longing and emotion, torturously sweet, erotic and terrifying all at once.
What she felt about Philippe bore as much resemblance to whatever she’d felt for Edward as an echo did to an actual voice. The anguish of that abandonment resounded still. What kind of woman would she be if she subjected her heart to that kind of risk again?
He of course didn’t want her at the expense of everything else he wanted.
Nor would she be the mistress. Ever. Not for her sake, and not for Jack’s.
She’d been provided with a list of guests to invite to the assembly—the Countess of Ardmay had advised Lord Lavay, naturally. Interestingly, it included all of the Everseas and all of the Redmonds currently present in Sussex—among other local personages who could be counted upon to enjoy themselves thoroughly and dance every dance and drink entertainingly to excess. She recognized most of the names. It was the sort of party she would never, in her current or former lives, be invited to attend. But she would see the glowing faces of women as they passed through the room they’d set aside for cloaks and for fixing trodden hems and coiffures. All women who would be free to dance with Lord Lavay.
And of course, the beautiful Lady Prideux was on the list.
Elise held that particular invitation in her hand as she would hold a snake.
And then she laughed, softly, in a sort of despair. Ironies abounded in her life, and Lady Prideux’s role in Elise’s seemed to have a second act.
And she thought of the expression on Philippe’s face when he said “home.”
She would do nearly anything, she thought, to make sure he had what he wanted.
It just couldn’t be her.
And so she took a deep breath, and into the stack of other invitations it went for the footmen to deliver by hand.
“YOU LOOK MANYAFEEK, sir.”
“If I look magnifique, my thanks to you, James. Congratulations again on winning the coin toss.”
Philippe’s mirror told him that he did, indeed, look magnifique, in a crisp, stark black coat and trousers, and a conservatively tied, spotless cravat billowing up out of a pewter-colored waistcoat. His face was ruthlessly shaved to a polish.
And thusly his footman-valet launched him back into his real habitat.
Philippe took the stairs slowly. The orchestra Mrs. Fountain had secured was playing a jaunty reel of sorts that gradually grew in volume, and the low hum of the mingled voices of his guests became more distinct, and as he reached the landing he took a long, deep breath. In came perfume and liquor, starch and bay rum, sweat, scandal. It was like that first hint of salt tang in the air before you actually see the ocean.
The scent of wealth.
The scent of his old life.
It was as second nature to him as the scent of the sea, and as peculiarly soothing. He knew precisely how to navigate it, and it had been too long since he’d done it.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, like a diver preparing to surface.
As a test, he tried to picture Alexandra, Lady Prideux, as he’d last seen her. He waited for . . . something. Something to lighten or stir in him. And his heart did seem at least a little gladdened by the idea of her, though it might simply be her association with happy memories. But he seized upon this with hope, because he had begun to fear that it would never stir for anyone or anything else but Elise Fountain.
HE WAS QUITE humbly surprised to feel proud of how splendid the house looked. The hall was awash with color and soft, dreamlike light, and everything and everyone seemed to glow. Smiles flashed brightly, silk and taffeta and the toes of boots gleamed, heels came down on the polished wood in the pleasing rhythm of a reel. He paused to savor it for a moment.
Alexandra was easy to see in the crowd.
She was impossible to miss; she’d always known how to dazzle. She had presence, but then, her very character was shaped by expectations she’d had since birth: that she would be lavished with attention. That people would court and enjoy and always welcome her.
And yet, if he recalled correctly, she wasn’t entirely insufferable.
He wove through his guests toward her, casually, leisurely. Pausing to greet everyone, introduce himself, exchange a few words, to thank them for coming, to entreat them to have a wonderful time. Charming as effortlessly as he always had.
Alexandra watched his progress.
When he arrived, her smile was brilliant and genuine.
“You always surprise, Alexa. Just when I think I’ve grown accustomed to your beauty . . .” He mimed an arrow to the heart.
She laughed and tapped him lightly with her fan, letting it linger—an action very much equivalent to a child seizing a toy and declaring, “Mine!” And she hoped every woman there saw it.
She wore ice blue silk, nearly the identical shade of her eyes. She hadn’t acquired the dress through ingenuity or barter. She’d acquired it through money, and she had a staggering amount of it. Her honey-colored hair was bound in an intricate network of narrow little braids that latticed across the back of her head, and were pinned with what appeared to be diamonds. The net effect was exquisite and had likely required the cooperation of four maids working in skilled tandem. He wondered if there was a sort of secret Tattersalls for such maids that only women were allowed to attend.
Two very deliberate, very fetching curls flanked her cheekbones.
There would never be any accidental curls for Lady Prideux.
Very little of what she did was accidental.
He pictured a spiral of escaped black hair against a pale cheek and felt instantly restless.
He cast a glance up the stairs, though in all likelihood Elise was in the kitchen, or perhaps in the withdrawing room, assisting women with torn hems and collapsing coiffures.
“You’re looking very dashing, Philippe. You do only seem to improve with age. My father is saving a brandy for that very reason. I suspect he’ll taste it on his deathbed and will die very happy indeed.”
Philippe laughed. “I hope you don’t intend to save me for your deathbed, Alexandra.”
“I prefer not to delay gratification, when at all possible.”
He recalled now how Alexandra had always possessed a preternatural confidence and liked to consider herself outrageous and modern. He’d once found it amusing; he’d indulged her, the way he’d indulge a kitten for climbing his pant leg. For some reason it now felt a bit like . . . being at a picnic during which the sun blazed relentlessly down. Wearing.
And if ever there was a virgin, it was Alexandra.
But Philippe knew he remained a prize. He was still a Bourbon, if a Bourbon more distant from the French court. And it was something Alexandra had always aspired to be.
“Such a splendid touch, your footmen wearing livery so similar to that of Les Pierres d’Argent, Philippe.”
“Yes, it does make it feel more like . . . home.”
He was surprised to realize that this was exactly true.
“Nothing is as magnificent as Les Pierres d’Argent, Philippe. I always imagined myself living there.”
It was certainly an opportunity to say, And one day soon perhaps you will.
A few months ago, during this same conversation, he might have said it.
He couldn’t quite force the necessary words, and so a funny little silence ticked by.
Her smile grew slightly strained.
“I did hope you’d share a waltz with me,” he said instead.
“Surely there will be more than one waltz to share.” She sounded a trifle uncertain now.
“Ah, but you must not be greedy, my dear Alexandra. I am the host and I am in demand, and surely you of all people know how delightful I can be. And surely one or two of the gentlemen here would cherish for a lifetime the memory of dancing with you?”
It returned to him so naturally, the flattery, the charm. He found himself hoping he couldn’t manipulate her so easily with it.
She pouted a little, charmingly and entirely unconvincingly. “Very well.”
“I shall, however, save the best for last, Alexandra.”
Best not to let Alexandra become too sure of herself.
He bowed over her hand and went off in search of the Earl of Ardmay, because they needed to bring to a close a certain matter. And what the earl had to say would come to bear on whatever happened with Alexandra.
And even though he was a brilliant navigator, somehow his search for the earl led him to the lady’s withdrawing room.
ELISE AND HER staff had transformed a small room near the ballroom into a cloak and lady’s withdrawing room by hanging a large horizontal mirror and arraying chairs before it, then fashioning a closet of sorts by cleverly partitioning the corner near the door with a curtain. Elise began her evening here, greeting ladies who streamed in in their finery, accepting cloaks and shawls and pelisses to hang, while Kitty and Mary put finishing artistic touches on the sandwiches and tarts heaped on tables in the ballroom.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fountain,” came a low voice from behind the curtain.
Her heart leaped and Elise whirled toward Philippe just as a guest was thrusting a shawl at her. The woman toppled forward, her destination the floor, arms flailing. Philippe lunged out and caught her before she landed on all fours.
He set her upright, and Elise gave her a warm smile.
“You won’t want to miss the waltz,” he confided to the woman. “They’ll play it soon. Best run!”
The woman was so startled that she obeyed him and took off at a dash.
Elise was struggling not to laugh.
“You see, the women are already falling all over me.”
She ignored this. “Good evening, Lord Lavay. You slipped in quite stealthily. You look very dashing.”
He in fact looked heart-stoppingly, breath-stoppingly handsome.
“Don’t I?” He smiled. “I believe I smell wonderful, too.”
If he was going to smile at her like that, and say things like that, they would be off again, enjoying each other as if no one else in the world existed, and that would simply never do. She took an unconscious step back as if to make room for all the feelings he brought into the room with him. She reflexively thrust out an arm to accept another cloak handed over to her.
She strived for dispassionate distance. “Do you have a cloak for me to collect, Lord Lavay? Have you questions, or do you need assistance?”
“The hall looks beautiful. Thank you for your hard work.”
“You are welcome.”
“And I want to thank you again for your assistance with the waltz, as I shall embark upon it any number of times this evening with confidence. But I believe that you and I, Mrs. Fountain, are now engaged in something like a reel.”
She sucked in a surprised breath.
Because she understood.
Meeting and parting. Meeting and parting. Meeting and parting.
Their eyes met.
And just like that, all at once they might as well have been the last two people in the world, even as cheerful assembly-goers milled around her.
Another cloak was extended to her.
She didn’t see it.
The woman gave it a shake in an attempt to get her attention.
Elise snatched it from her. Then turned a warm smile on the startled woman.
“Do you intend to be French tonight?” she murmured to Lavay.
It was a parry of sorts.
“Isn’t that what you wished for me, Mrs. Fountain?” he countered softly.
Something complex sizzled instantly between them.
Every reel eventually ended.
The notion of an ending jarred Elise back into awareness. She turned to find a veritable bouquet of arms holding shawls out to her. The owners of those arms might even have spoken to her. If they had, neither she nor Philippe had heard it.
She retrieved all of them. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said to the ladies. “You all look so very beautiful. Thank you.”
The ladies then clustered about the mirror to pat coiffures and shake out dresses crushed in carriages. Then they sailed out, wreathed in smiles and radiating anticipation.
Elise squared her shoulders. “Lord Lavay, your guests will find ratafia and fruit punch in the ballroom, sandwiches enough to feed an army, jam tarts that would impress any palate, I believe, and a fair enough orchestra that might play a little quickly unless you give the violinist enough to drink, but if you give him too much to drink, he might become maudlin and then fight. Ramsey and James will patrol the ballroom and help eject anyone who becomes too obnoxious, as well as monitor the state of the food and drink. You best hurry, or you will miss the first waltz.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fountain. Whatever would I do without you?”
“I assume the question is rhetorical.”
He smiled at her, and her heart turned slowly over in supplication.
He made no move to go.
So she did what she knew she had to do: she turned her back on him and walked away, toward the mirror, in a great pretense of fussing with her hair.
As if she was releasing him back into his habitat.
PHILIPPE AT LAST restlessly made his way back to the ballroom, which now seemed duller and dimmer by contrast to the small cloakroom—or any room, really—that contained Elise Fountain.
He fortuitously found the Earl of Ardmay helping himself to ratafia with something less than enthusiasm.
“Do you remember a ball nearly two years ago, Flint, where I overheard a group of young women speculating about the size of your . . . what was it . . . ‘masculine blessing’?”
Flint nearly spit out his ratafia.
“It’s best spit out,” Lavay sympathized. “I will not object.”
“Where I first danced with my wife. Of course.”
“More accurately, I first danced with her. And then you danced with her.”
“Perverse creature that she is, Violet preferred me.”
“Proof that destiny is on your side, my friend, as no one else would have either of you.”
“If destiny is a wheel, it was bound to turn in my direction eventually. And yours. And speaking of destiny, Lavay . . .”
The pause, with its hint of reluctance and apology, was all that was necessary for Philippe to know the truth.
“You don’t have to say it, Flint. I know.”
Philippe had been prepared for the answer, yet it was no less unwelcome:
The earl didn’t want to participate in the latest assignment from the king.
“I’m sorry, old man. Truly.” Flint knew exactly what that money, and the assignment, meant to Lavay. “A large part of me wants to do it, and not just because of the money. The rest of me, the part that never had a family, never wants to leave their side again.”
“You don’t have to explain.” But Philippe said it abstractedly. He was still absorbing the impact of the decision.
“And I know how to keep us from starving, Lavay. Even prospering, eventually. We can join Jonathan Redmond’s new investment group. Right now they’re looking at cargos of Indian spices, teas and silks, and we can use the Fortuna for transport. We wouldn’t have to crew the ship, but we can hire our own captain and crew. But potential profits are months away. I do know you need them sooner.”
An understatement, to be sure. Monsieur LeGrande would sell Les Pierres d’Argent if Philippe didn’t have the funds inside a month.
Lavay almost unconsciously turned toward Alexandra. Who was occupied in enchanting some young man whose name Philippe had already forgotten.
Odd, but he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy.
“Will you do the assignment now? Search out a substitute for my role in it? As if any could be found.” Flint tried for a jest.
“I don’t know,” Philippe said absently. He truly didn’t.
“You should marry, Philippe,” the earl said, following the direction of his gaze. “You’re lonely.”
As a matter of formality, Philippe snorted at such an unmanly assertion. They both knew the earl was right, however.
They said nothing for a moment.
“Do you think,” Philippe said slowly, “that marrying the wrong person can make you feel lonelier?”
This made the earl turn his head slowly to study Philippe.
Philippe carefully did not meet his eyes.
“All I can tell you is this. I was an orphan. And remember, I married the only person who would have me. But I can tell you that it’s infinitely better to feel as though you belong to something. Or someone. And I think you know that all too well, too.”
Philippe said nothing. His eyes flicked toward the withdrawing room, and just the thought of Elise was like a taste of something sweet and narcotic. It made him feel better, freer, more peaceful, for just that moment.
“You’re smiling now at something. What is it? Who is she?” the earl demanded.
Philippe turned to him, resignation and surrender on his face. Confirmation.
But he wasn’t about to give up her name.
The earl gave a soft snort.
“This is another thing I know, Lavay. There was a time when I thought I would need to live without Violet, and you know this, too. She was worth the sacrifice.”
“Every man has a different definition of sacrifice, I believe.”
“Agreed,” Ardmay said easily enough.
“Do you think Lyon Redmond still loves Olivia Eversea, Flint?”
“Did we always have these kinds of talks before we became old men?”
“We’re not old. Just a bit worn.”
Flint laughed. “I think loving Olivia Eversea has been a part of who Lyon Redmond is for so long that even he likely doesn’t know. Why?”
Lavay gave a short nod. “Since we’re talking of love and sacrifice, I simply wondered.”
They fell silent again.
“Limbo is a horrible place to be,” Flint said. It sounded like commiseration.
Lavay wondered if Olivia Eversea was in limbo.
“Agreed,” Lavay said. “Go dance with your wife, Ardmay. I’m going to dance with Olivia Eversea.”