Verne pressed his lips upon the cool brow that lay against his shoulder. ‘Sit up, hussy, and tidy yourself. We shall be in town soon.’
Languorously, Annemarie unwound herself from his arms, pushed a stray lock of hair back into place and yawned, taking the ruched royal-blue bonnet he offered her. ‘Must be the sea air,’ she murmured.
Smiling at the excuse, Verne could think of other reasons, but her sleep with her feet up on the Prince’s green cushions had given him a chance to consider the implications of what he’d heard from Lord Bockington on the previous day. While any news at all must be regarded as good, he hoped his young friend might have been mistaken.
Of all men for a woman of quality to be involved with, the second Marquess of Hertford was not by any standards an ideal choice, not because of his unusual appearance or his undeniable wealth, both of which had the power to attract women from every strata of society, but because of his notorious reputation as a seducer with whom no female was safe. Age, apparently, was no obstacle to him, though it was known that he preferred married to single women, judging by the many illegitimate children he’d sired and who had been integrated into the husband’s family. It was a risk women seemed willing to take, even while they regretted his utter heartlessness. As the recipient of at least eighty thousand pounds a year, Hertford could afford to live in great style, to indulge himself, his wife and his good-for-nothing son, to gamble to excess and to carve for himself a niche in the Prince Regent’s exclusive circle of friends by pandering to his needs, which were mostly for flattery and finance. For a man like ‘Red Herrings’, this was no hardship.
However, that was not all the two men had in common, for Lady Hertford had also been an intimate of the Prince Regent for many years, so intimate, in fact, that the press lampooned the pair as overweight lovers, even though their friendship was of a more cerebral nature than that and so beyond the interest of news reporters eager to discredit them. A formidable lady of considerable presence, Lady Hertford refused to allow this to embarrass her, just as she refused to be embarrassed by her errant husband. In a position of influence with the Prince, and therefore with the rest of society, she stuck loyally to his side, fending off all would-be rivals for her special role as mentor, confidante and bountiful giver of the approval he had always wanted from his parents.
Lord Verne and the Hertfords had known each other for many years for, like the Prince, the Marquess was a multi-faceted character of great intelligence, worth fostering as a friend if only for his ability to converse on an astonishing range of subjects. As a serious connoisseur of paintings, he knew more about art than anyone else known to Verne. It was for this reason that the two men worked together on the Prince’s collection, buying and selling artefacts for his new seaside retreat at Brighton and for Carlton House, his expanding mansion in central London. The money spent on these two alone was what Annemarie regarded as iniquitous, yet it was what Verne and Hertford helped him to do.
While Lord Hertford’s intentions towards women, especially beautiful ones, were rarely innocent, Verne could understand how, if Lady Benistone had cut herself adrift from Sir Lionel Mytchett, any port in a storm might be preferable to being left totally unsupported. One way or another, Verne intended to make some enquiries as soon as they reached Curzon Street, which they did some moments after noon.
* * *
Lady Benistone’s choice of protectors, on that dreadful day, had been made on the basis of a friendship begun in the earliest years of their marriages to very different men whose emotional support had failed to match the material benefits supplied with so little effort. Apart from Lady Hertford and Lord Benistone’s cousin, Mrs Cardew, Esme had complained to no one else about the emptiness of the marriage in which she felt usurped by Elmer’s other interests and by his self-absorbed lack of involvement in his family’s affairs. She had sometimes wondered whether, if she’d given him sons instead of daughters, his concern for them, and her, might have been evident in more personal ways. She knew it often happened like this, but his initial passion for her had been so very great, leading her to expect it to last longer.
So it was no great surprise to Lady Hertford that the dear friend who was carried into her home that evening should have chosen the sympathy, understanding and care she could be sure of rather than risk a return to something less.
Apart from that, in the terrible trauma of her mind, Esme knew she had helped to bring this upon herself by trying to outwit a scoundrel who lived by outwitting others. The explanations that her family had a right to expect were beyond her. Lady Hertford had no such expectations.
Having already been acquainted with the details of Esme’s flight from the youngest daughter’s coming-out ball—social news travelled fast—Lady Hertford knew better than to suggest a return home or to inform the family of her whereabouts. That would have to come from Esme herself, when she was ready. Meanwhile, keeping the secret from everyone except her personal maid and the Marquess, who knew more than a thing or two about subterfuge, Lady Hertford tended her guest like a mother, comforting, compassionate and without blame for her foolishness or noisy outrage against the man who had wronged her, which would have served no useful purpose. Being married to a man like Hertford and the bosom-friend of the Prince Regent had prepared her well for the vagaries of human behaviour.
Lady Benistone’s lingering recovery received a setback, however, only two months later when she made a horrifying discovery. ‘I thought it was my courses misbehaving again,’ she moaned, recovering from a bout of nausea. She sat on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, bathed in the bright morning light that hurt her eyes. ‘But it’s not, Isabella. Not this time. Not with the sickness, too. Oh, my dear, what on earth am I going to do?’
This was a question Lady Hertford had already asked herself. She had even discussed it with her husband who, unsurprisingly, had seen possible complications before either of them. ‘Take her up to Ragley,’ he’d said, ‘if the worst comes to the worst. She’ll be safe enough there.’
The worst had come. ‘We have Ragley Hall,’ Isabella said to her distressed friend. ‘You can have the child there and we’ll find someone suitable to adopt it. A good woman. There are plenty of them about if you know where to look.’
Once again, Esme was racked with remorse and guilt, but Isabella’s reasoning was sounder than she imagined for, as long as she remained in London, the greater the risk of her whereabouts being discovered either by a revengeful Sir Lionel or by the concerned family and a return to the status quo. Or, for that matter, by the Prince Regent who had once wanted her as his mistress and whose affections were fickle, to say the least. That was a risk Isabella was not willing to take. She was persuasive and Esme knew without asking that she would be given more attention and help at Ragley Hall than she’d had for years. Warwickshire, one of the beautiful midland counties, was a peaceful place and Ragley Hall was a massive palace.
Lord Hertford was nothing less than gentlemanly, escorting her in his best coach with trunks full of clothes and everything necessary for her comfort, even during the lengthy months of leisure that lay ahead. Esme had never felt anything but safe with him, for they had once in their youth been lovers, briefly and secretly, and now they were easy friends. He had been furious with Lord Benistone for allowing this catastrophe to happen to his beautiful wife. ‘If she’d been given the support she needed,’ he’d railed to his wife, ‘she’d not have been forced to go ahead with her ridiculous scheme in the first place. Why, that young scoundrel was about to make an offer for the daughter...what’s her name?’
‘Annemarie. Lady Golding.’
‘That’s it. At the youngest daughter’s ball, would you believe? And even then Benistone had no time to listen. Heaven only knows, I have the greatest respect for him as a collector, but if he’d paid as much attention to his women as he does to his bronzes...’
‘My lord,’ said Isabella, ‘I think perhaps one should say no more on that.’
‘Eh? Well, perhaps you’re right. You usually are. We all have our weaknesses.’
‘Yes, dear. And our strengths. But Esme ought not to be in a delicate condition at her time of life.’
At that gently tendered opinion, Hertford had the grace to look thoughtful. ‘She’ll be all right at Ragley,’ he said. ‘We’ll get Dr Willetts to stay there when she’s due. You’ve managed to keep this from Prinny, have you?’
‘Not a word,’ Isabella replied. ‘He’s too concerned about the coming celebrations to think about much else. Poor lamb.’
* * *
Once inside the house on Curzon Street, Annemarie saw that she had taken Verne’s teasing too seriously when he’d implied that all would have been made ready for immediate occupation. Indignant rather than disappointed, she saw that, although the staff were in place down to the last button, the furniture and fittings were not. If she wanted to stay the night there, Verne told her, laughing at her thwarted readiness to tell him how his choices did not accord with hers, she would have to go out and buy a bed and something to put on it.
‘Which,’ she retorted, loftily, ‘is well within my capabilities, my lord. I have never found it difficult to make that kind of choice, especially when I’m left alone to get on with it.’
‘You will be,’ he said as she swished past him into the echoing dining room. ‘I must take my leave of you until this evening. His Highness is expecting me. I’ll send the barouche round in an hour to give you time to make a list. Will that do?’
‘Perfectly, I thank you. Expect a certain amount of chaos when you return, but at least you’ll have something to sit on by then.’
Stepping aside to avoid two men and a trunk, he caught the gleam of excitement in her eyes at the enjoyable task ahead. ‘And something to lie on, too, I should hope. Make that a priority, won’t you? Adieu, my lady.’
There was no time to ask him if that kind of talk was typical between a mistress and her lover, but she could well imagine the snappy kind of answer he would have given. Not once had she left him stuck for a reply.
* * *
By the time Lord Verne returned late that afternoon, the promised chaos was at its height with swarms of aproned delivery men peeling wrappings from walnut tables and chairs as Annemarie ordained their exact position with a graceful waving of arms. One of them was caught in mid-wave by his lordship. ‘Well!’ he said, holding her hand. ‘This is all very impressive. For you to do this all on your own is astonishing.’
‘Not alone, my lord. Mrs Cardew and my sister came with me. They’re upstairs, putting the bedroom together. Better not go up. You’ll see it later. Look there, we have matching sofas and easy chairs.’
‘And what do they match?’
‘Er...the curtains, when they arrive. Oh, and the carpet. Oriental. You’ll like it. Soft golds and pinks. Very feminine’ Alerted by the slight widening of his eyes, she added, ‘Well, not too feminine, though.’
‘Do we have knives and forks?’
‘Of course. And a dinner service. I’ve invited the family for dinner tomorrow. Our new cook was not in the least put out.’
Verne sprawled into a deep-gold velvety sofa with his arm along the gilded back. ‘I’m glad to hear it. But you might be when I tell you we’re invited to meet his Royal Highness at Carlton House tomorrow. And before you ask if it can be postponed, my lady, the answer is, no, it can’t.’ He saw by her sudden stillness and the cool unseeing stare through the to-ing and fro-ing of the servants that she had been quite unprepared for a clash of priorities so soon. Her gaze swung slowly round to meet his, hoping for some compromise. ‘It was part of our agreement,’ he reminded her softly so that no one else could hear. ‘And you wanted to meet him, didn’t you? Did you think it might have been at your convenience, sweetheart? That would be asking for a miracle.’
She came to perch beside him on the edge of the sofa and to stroke the new pile, her ringlets trembling with the slight shake of her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really. But it’s all right, I’ll manage. I could have done with the time, that’s all. It’s only family. I shall have to get used to it, I suppose.’
‘To what? Adapting?’
With a turn of her lovely head, she swept him with her long black lashes and the deep gemstones of her eyes in a look intended to convey some resignation, but which he interpreted as something infinitely more tender. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Adapting. I must not fail at the first hurdle, must I?’
His hand reached out to cover hers, preventing the stroking. ‘That’s my beauty,’ he whispered. ‘He’s eager to meet you and I can hardly wait to show you off. He remembers you.’
Annemarie smiled down at their hands. It was an intimate gesture rarely seen before servants, but Verne was not one to care much about that. ‘And Mama? Does he remember her, too?’
‘He does. But we shall not take the jewellery. It would not be proper. We’ll leave references to the bureau and its contents for another time, unless he brings the subject up. He’s already dropped the idea of owning yours.’
‘You mean, since the contents were disposed of?’
‘Yes, he feels safer now. Lady Hamilton and her daughter departed for Calais one night while we were in Brighton, you see. She’s escaped her creditors and that’s probably the last we’ll see of her.’
Taking the letters with her. No more speculation, then, about what she might do with them. From France, probably nothing at all. The end of an episode.
‘Well, well,’ she breathed. ‘So that’s the end of that.’
‘Is it?’ he said, watching her. ‘Is it, my lady? Are you revenged now, or is there more to come? Eh?’
Behind her eyes, a sudden rush of hot tears welled and prickled. Astute, mercilessly accurate, he had touched the painful core of her plan and she could find no answer.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, sitting up. ‘You’ve had a busy day, sweetheart. Let’s take one thing at a time, shall we? Come on, show me what’s upstairs before we have dinner. Has my valet arrived?’
Relieved by the change of subject, she stood up with him. ‘Half an hour ago. He and Evie are speaking at last.’
‘Glad to hear it. I wonder what that was all about.’
‘Loyalty, I suppose. Just following my lead.’
* * *
Yet with each new step she took towards this exhilarating domestic situation, Annemarie’s own private yearnings were being met so perfectly in every respect that, if the time ever came for her to show her hand and to walk away from it at the height of his need for her, her world would collapse more cruelly than his, even so. He had other things to turn to for support, a world in which she would only ever be an accessory, not a significant part. Just as devastating as the loss of her new independence and the flattering involvement of being his partner would be the forfeiture of times like this when, wrapped in dressing gowns in a house of strange sounds and shadows, they sat to eat a cold finger-feast from the sheet-covered top of a large packing-case containing the new chandelier from Pellatt and Green’s. Nothing too romantic, one might think, except to a woman like Annemarie who had always dressed for dinner but who, in the space of a week or so, now found herself doing whatever it took to please him and to enjoy it, too. But as they sat quietly devouring tiny pasties, salads and cold pheasant, Annemarie sensed how her heart was betraying her, instead of him, and that it was already too late to reverse the damage.
Laughing at themselves, their eyes met. ‘You can’t believe you’re doing this, can you, Lady Golding?’ he said.
Licking her fingers noisily, her mischievous sideways glance reflected the absurdity of it all. ‘Don’t tell Father,’ she said, ‘or I shall not have a leg to stand on.’ They had chosen to eat in what would eventually become the morning room and, earlier, the servants had come and gone like apparitions, fading through doors as their master and mistress murmured their way round the bedroom and bathroom where the starkness was now softened by folds of linen, cotton, silk and fringed velvet brocade, white lace-edged pillows and softly shifting bed-curtains of white silk lined with pale blue.
‘We’ll have the oak floor polished,’ Annemarie told him, ‘with a large blue-and-cream Axminster over here somewhere. I’ve ordered it.’
‘And I shall like it,’ he added.
‘You will like it.’ She smiled, slipping an arm around him. ‘Will you?’ She made no objection when he drew her closely into his arms to show her where his thoughts had been since his upstairs tour. At no time during her whirlwind shopping spree had she been unsure of pleasing him, but nor had he been left out of her choices. She had already learned to respect his tastes and preferences. ‘I tried,’ she whispered between his kisses, ‘to please you.’
‘Please me?’ he growled. ‘My God, woman...you please me...’ Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her across to the pale smoothness of the bed, setting her alight with the tender weight of his powerful body and the bliss of being under him, privately and peacefully, in their own place.
Items of clothing gradually littered the so-tidy room as warm skin pressed, caressed and slid silkily down long interrupted surfaces, their hands exploring as if for the first time, their sighs broken by hungry kisses that travelled the length of their bodies, each part provoking its own kind of response. Still wondering at the newness of the experience, Annemarie soaked up the long slow loving just as Verne also discovered how the uniqueness of her splendid body yielded the rarity value of a priceless find. That such a creature should have suffered so deeply from neglect and treachery in quick succession gave him every reason to offer her the best he had in the hope that her bruised heart would mend and accept him as an essential part of her future. Her tears had shown him how close he was to understanding her and how disturbed she was by the emotional turmoil he’d alluded to earlier. Skilfully, through her tiredness, he helped her to forget.
It was hunger of another kind that reminded them, after a long interval of whispered earthy compliments that, if they did not appear downstairs soon, their supper might be returned to its maker. So dressing gowns were slipped on and, giggling like barefoot children, they sat on cushioned boxes to eat their first meal at Curzon Street and to sip champagne from hastily unwrapped wine glasses, all the more enjoyable for being some way outside Annemarie’s precious conventions.
‘No,’ said Verne, ‘I may not mention this to your father tomorrow, but I shall certainly hold it over your head for some time, my lady.’
* * *
The appointment at Carlton House was not until after noon, but already the rooms at Curzon Street were busy with more delivery men and assistants to hang the chandelier. Evie had been to Park Lane and was now filling the new wardrobes with gowns suitable for a royal engagement. For Verne’s sake, she must look her best, be gracious and impressed by what she would see at Carlton House, for he had every faith in her ability to charm her host, otherwise he would not have risked a meeting.
Nevertheless, considering her strong views on the Prince’s extravagance, Verne thought it might be something of a miracle if she managed to hide every one of her feelings, which were bound to be tested to their limits, especially as they ascended the grand double curve of the massive staircase into the Ante Room. Her lovely eyes seemed to devour the profusion of blue and gold, but nothing was said until he himself remarked, ‘You look stunning, my lady.’
‘Thank you, my lord. I’m trying to think of something equally complimentary to say about all this, but grandeur and opulence seem inadequate, don’t they? Not very original, either.’
‘Don’t try too hard,’ he said as synchronised footmen opened the double doors at the far end of the room. ‘You’ll find him very easy to talk to. Ah, here he comes.’
Previous encounters, one of them two years ago, one more recent, had warned her what she would see, yet the Prince’s almost fifty-three years of self-indulgence were not at once apparent as he approached, more like an affable uncle than the overweight, petulant and gouty would-be Corinthian she had expected. Close up, she could see that he had once been a handsome man and that he took some pride in his appearance. ‘Ah, so you’ve brought the lady to see me at last, Verne,’ he said, beaming with delight, his hands outstretched to raise Annemarie from her curtsy. Pulling her gently forwards, he placed a cool kiss on both her cheeks. ‘And about time, too. Tell me, Lady Golding, how is Lord Benistone? Is he still snapping up all those treasures I had set my heart on?’
‘He’s well, your Highness, I thank you.’ She hoped his notoriously uncertain memory would not lead him to questions more difficult to answer. But another figure had quietly appeared behind him, a handsome Junoesque lady of late middle age who showed by her motherly smile that she and the Prince were comfortable together. By her deep-green satin gown and matching jewels, the perfectly arranged grey hair and rouged lips, one might have mistaken her for his wife, though Annemarie knew she was not. Her cheery nod of greeting to Lord Verne widened to a smile as it reached Annemarie, though the dreaded question was already on its way.
‘And Lady Benistone, too? You are so like her. It’s quite uncanny, isn’t it, Isabella?’ he said, turning to his companion. ‘You recall Esme Benistone, don’t you? Were you not good friends once?’
Isabella, Marchioness of Hertford, deflected the question like an old hand. ‘Lady Golding,’ she said, kindly, ‘we’re so happy to see you again. Especially with our good friend Lord Verne. Jacques, my dear, you must bring Lady Golding up to stay with us soon. Didn’t Lord Hertford wish you to see his latest shipment from the Continent before his Highness sees them? Those two,’ she continued, placing a ring-loaded hand on Annemarie’s arm, ‘are veritable dragons. They won’t allow his Highness to see anything before they do in case he—’
‘My taste is faultless,’ the Prince protested, laughing. ‘Maybe a little more eclectic than theirs... I do love the Chinese style, don’t you, Lady Golding? But wait till you’ve seen my...come...this way...’
The relationship crisis averted, Lady Hertford winked boldly at Annemarie as the Prince led them through the double doors, easily diverting the fickle royal attention towards safer matters. Into the Crimson Drawing Room and the tent-like Circular Room—‘I simply adore tents, don’t you, Lady Golding?’—and on into the Bow Room with its overpowering scarlet-flock wallpaper.
She fed him with questions, some of them searching, about his passion for art and his quest for more and more effective display, his answers revealing that this was a way for him to find a purpose in his life after being denied any of the responsibilities that went with his royal position. Beneath the ostentation and excess, she recognised his need to be admired and approved, like a child needing the comfort of toys in lieu of love. She saw how close he came to tears when he admitted how little he was enjoying the costly celebrations and how he recalled her smile in the park. Any thoughts she might have retained about embarrassing him further were dismissed as unworthy, a petty, pointless revenge on a man who had lost his way. Verne had been right about not bringing the jewels. Daily, one way or another, the Prince was being humiliated by his own misplaced cravings and, not knowing how else to deal with it, unable to accept advice, was trying to ignore what other men would have confronted, consoling himself instead with his own ideas of gratification.
Contributing what she could to the conversation, Annemarie was surprised how much she understood that she’d not expected to, or even wanted to. Was she not doing something very similar on a smaller scale? Was she not deriving comfort and fulfilment from spending someone else’s money on her own surroundings? And had she not been trying to ignore her conscience and her heart’s messages only to inflict some pain on the man who was willing to support her, for whatever reason? Did the reason matter any more? And would this be any different, in essence, from the Prince’s shunning of Lady Emma Hamilton, whom he’d professed to love?
Had she, too, lost her way?
* * *
‘I cannot admire him, no,’ she said to Verne as they returned to Curzon Street, ‘but I think I’m beginning to understand him a little more. And there are even some things I could get to like, although his blinkered attitude to spending isn’t one of them. That, by the way, is something you and I may have to discuss.’
‘The Prince’s spending?’
‘No, my lord. Mine. Ours.’
‘You have not heard me grumble. Yet,’ he said, softly.
‘We shall not be reaching that point.’
‘Then let’s leave it till after the weekend, shall we? Lady Hertford has invited us up to Ragley Hall.’
‘Oh dear. When? Surely not this weekend?’
‘I’m afraid so. Hert has some purchases he wants me to see.’
‘Cannot it wait? The house is barely furnished. And before you tell me again that this was all part of the bargain, allow me to point out that things are already tilting rather heavily in your favour. Two days shopping and a fleeting visit to the theatre are hardly going to help me much, are they?’
‘Get used to it, Annemarie,’ he said. ‘There will be times when both of us are obliged to help the other out, with some inconvenience. It can hardly be otherwise, can it? You accepted the terms and just now you made me proud. Surely you’re not going to balk at the second hurdle, are you?’
Goose-bumps began to creep along her arms. ‘I made you proud? Did I ?’
‘Very. Did you not notice how many times the Prince’s Private Secretary came in to remind him of his next appointment? He was a good hour late, thanks to you. I’ve rarely seen him engrossed for so long. Even Isabella noticed it.’
‘Was she annoyed?’
‘Not at all. She wants the pleasure of your company. So did his Highness. Is that not worth the loss of a day or two of putting your house in order?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I shall not grumble again.’
‘Come over here, woman.’ His hand supported her across the swaying carriage, tucking her arm into the loop of his own, snuggling her close. ‘I know how much it means to you to have everything looking as you want it, but there’s plenty of time, sweetheart. And the fleeting visit to the theatre, I might remind you, was your doing, not mine. Although I didn’t particularly want to watch Keane as Shylock. Posturing dandyprat!’
She lay her head on his shoulder, smiling at the way he’d already turned her annoyance and selfishness around. Even the Prince Regent shared his pleasures with duty. ‘I think I quite enjoyed it,’ she said.
‘But we didn’t see—’
‘No, not Keane. My conversation with the Prince. He’s very well informed, isn’t he? And intelligent. And a good conversationalist.’
‘That’s why I enjoy working for him.’
‘And not a word about the bureau, either.’
‘I told you, he’s forgotten all about it.’
Annemarie had not fully appreciated, even though Verne had once mentioned it to her, how closely he and Lord Hertford worked together on the Prince Regent’s art collection. Nor had she quite realised the extent to which she might become involved when he’d said he needed a knowledgeable lady to accompany him on social and business occasions. Mistakenly, she had assumed that the socialising would inevitably be of use to her in her search for her mother, which a weekend at Ragley Hall in Warwickshire clearly would not. It was time she could not afford, though she was happy enough to reacquaint herself with Lady Hertford, who had been one of her mama’s closest friends.
On the surface, the two of them had had little in common except the favour of the Prince Regent and the resulting place in high society. But Lady Hertford had never been as well liked, thought by many to have too much influence, too overbearing, too wealthy, too virtuous and moralising, and when it became known that she regularly read from the Bible to her royal friend, there were those who thought it hilarious rather than beneficial. But after speaking with him that day, Annemarie had been given a glimpse of his literary tastes and saw no reason why he would reject what the Bible had to offer.
So while the forthcoming visit to the Hertfords’ country seat was sure to be a time-consuming inconvenience, Annemarie hoped that the reconnection with her mama’s former friend might yield some useful information. Apart from which, the unexpected pleasure she had begun to derive from humouring her lover seemed to outweigh any disruption to her own plans.
* * *
Preparations for the first family dinner at Curzon Street were in full swing by the time they returned, the competent staff being as eager to display their expertise as Annemarie was to impress. Missing details were hardly noticed by the guests when food provided every kind of tempting delicacy which the aged and conservative cook at Montague Street rarely served. Venison pasties and potted pigeon, roast duckling with oranges, artichokes with young potatoes, stuffed mushrooms with anchovy sauce and collops of hare, the latter especially for Lord Benistone. He had dressed formally for the occasion, and Annemarie was not the only one to remark how sprightly and neat he looked. Nor was she the only one to notice her sister Marguerite’s unusual quietness. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ she whispered to Cecily. ‘Is she unwell? Has she been overdoing things?’
‘She’s been quiet since mid-day. Did she thank you for the shoes?’
‘Yes, but only when I asked her if she liked them. Is she still upset by the theatre fiasco, do you think?’
‘I cannot think so, dear. Not unduly. Perhaps Oriel will know.’
But Oriel did not know and was only able to suggest that Marguerite might have preferred to be out with her friends that evening. On the other hand, her lack of appetite might mean she was coming down with something.
* * *
It was past midnight when coaches were summoned and when Cecily, Oriel, and Colonel Harrow, not wishing to keep Marguerite up any longer, were the first to set off for Park Lane. As they were waved away into the night, Lord Benistone was handed a folded piece of paper by the youngest footmen who had discovered it under Miss Marguerite’s chair and who was about to take it straight to his mistress. But, since Lord Benistone took it from him before he could do so, he had no choice in the matter. ‘I’ll see she gets it in the morning,’ said his lordship, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. ‘Goodnight, m’dear,’ he said to his daughter, kissing her cheek. ‘Wonderful evening. Thank you. And you too, Verne. Splendid. Quite splendid. Hope the visit to Hertford’s place goes well tomorrow. Let me know what he’s got, won’t you? It’s sure to be top-drawer, though I’ve never approved of the man himself. Still, he’s a friend of yours so I’ll keep my mouth buttoned, but just keep my daughter out of his reach, mind. That’s a good fellow.’
Verne was quick to reassure him. ‘She’ll be well protected, my lord.’
‘Yes, of course she will. Didn’t mean.... Oh well, goodnight to you both.’
* * *
Halfway down the street, however, the notion that it was not only Annemarie who might require protection, but Marguerite also, had made Lord Benistone call out of the window to his coachman to change direction. Consequently, he arrived at his cousin’s address on Park Lane only moments after Marguerite’s hasty departure to her room.
* * *
Smiling at her father’s concern, Annemarie and Verne turned towards the staircase. ‘And how exactly are you going to keep me from the clutches of the Marquess of Hertford, my lord, if he’s quite determined to have his wicked way with me?’ she said. ‘Better women than me have found him irresistible, I believe.’
‘Do you know,’ said Verne, taking her elbow to propel her up to the first step, ‘that for a woman of your obvious resistance to men, your mind takes on the most astonishing reversals from time to time. Here am I, chasing you all over the place and turning somersaults to gain a smattering of your interest, and yet all it might have taken would be a reputation like Hertford’s and a head of hair like a bunch of carrots. I can see I’ve been going about it in quite the wrong way. Where did I fail?’
‘Well,’ she said, allowing the propelling to continue, ‘not with the hair, anyway. There’s nothing wrong with the silver streak. I find it intriguing. Nothing much wrong with the reputation, either. The fact that it’s not quite as celebrated as Lord Hertford’s is probably because he’s had a twenty-year headstart on you. He has a son, too, doesn’t he? A very wicked son.’
‘So he does, my lady. He also has...well...shall we say...others? Could that be an added attraction, perhaps? That he’s proved his virility so many times? Alas, I have nothing in that department to boast of. Yet.’
‘Then perhaps that’s because you have not applied yourself to the task with the same enthusiasm, my lord. Talking about it is one thing, but there’s nothing so convincing as practice, I always think. Would you not agree?’ Held close by Verne’s hand beneath her arm, she paused with him on the angle of the staircase, sure that she would not be allowed to get away with such blatant provocation.
‘I could not agree more, Lady Golding. But are you telling me that your mind has been travelling along these lines throughout the evening while I, and probably our guests, too, believed it to be dwelling on chaste matters such as the exorbitant price of Mr Wedgwood’s latest dinner service?’
She took hold of his ear to caress it and to touch the soft wave of hair she had wanted to slide through her fingers so many times while talking of mundane things. ‘I think I’m telling you, Lord Verne, that my mind has been travelling in this direction for most of the day. I watched your mouth as it ate and wished it was on me. I watched your hands and wanted them on me, too. Rapturously exploring. I wanted your attention. All of it. Your smiles and your husky laughter. I wanted your head in my arms, against my breast...’ She gasped as the image made her voice falter, catching at her lungs. ‘And...oh...Jacques...I don’t know what...what I shall do without...without...you.’
On the shadowy staircase, he took her face tenderly between his hands and looked deeply into her brimming eyes. ‘What is this, sweetheart? What’s all this doing without me? Why? When are you going to do without me? We’ve only just started out. And if I’d been able to read your mind better, I’d have carried you upstairs in the middle of dinner. Our guests would have understood and, if they didn’t, well, no matter. By the third time they might have begun to.’
‘Oh, Jacques...really!’
‘So what’s brought all this on? Eh? This is strange talk.’
Between his hands her head shook in denial. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Just a feeling that...oh...it cannot last. Things don’t last long with me, Jacques. I cannot expect this to, either. I’m too happy. And I’m afraid that the more I want you, the sooner you’ll leave me.’
‘Oh, no, sweetheart. Oh, no. You’ve got that bit wrong. I’m not going anywhere and, what’s more, these premonitions you have about our future are based on bad experiences and best ignored. If you’ve been thinking I’d forgotten about our search for Lady Benistone, I haven’t. Everywhere I go I’m looking and listening, picking up information just as I do on the Prince’s business. I have contacts everywhere. We shall find her. As for Hertford, we’ve been friends for years and he knows better than to make advances to any woman in my protection. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I remember.’ Swiftly, before she could reply, his arm was beneath her knees and she was being tilted backwards to see the plasterwork ceiling pass above her at a crazy angle and she was carried up to her room, warmed by the evening sun.
Heartened by Annemarie’s untypical declaration, but also concerned by her misgivings, Verne was even more responsive than usual to her desperate need of reassurance, undressing her slowly while showering her with glowing words of praise, the sincerity of which she had no reason to question. And just think, he told her, what he might have missed if that white statue in her father’s hall had not chosen to move that day.
But Annemarie scarcely heard the last of the frivolity for by then, bathing in the luxury of compliments, she urged him on to more daring explorations, opening herself to him as if words had been the key. Ignited by his bold hands, her fires blazed and demanded all his energies to stoke them until, feeling the scorching heat of her desire, he plunged into her at last, lifting them both to another level of bliss. There, for what seemed like a small ecstatic capsule of timelessness, no other world existed. Using all his self-control, he tried to make it last as she pleaded with him to do, but his desire was as great as hers and would not be held back. Too soon, the capsule shattered, whirling them through a rapturous void where time stopped again, and flew, and suffused them with a numbing, welcome exhaustion. Arms gathered, bodies nestled and nothing was said except, ‘Oh...love!’ by Annemarie in half-sleep.
Verne smiled across the tumble of her hair, elated to have been the one to hear the word no other man had heard from her, even though she might not have been aware that she’d said it.