Читать книгу Wicked Loving Lies - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 18

“But why should I be, as you say, ‘careful’ with Philip? Why? What is wrong with him? He is a gentleman, you have said so yourself!”

Turning away from the window, Edmée-Amélie made a moue that was half-playful, half-dismayed.

“Ah no, chérie! I did not mean to say that there is anything wrong with this excellent young man, far from it. But you see—” she looked into her niece’s rebellious golden eyes and sighed, choosing her words carefully this time “—it is you that I worry about, Marisa. Looking at you now, so chic, so pretty, it has been difficult to remember what a sheltered life you have led all these years. This Philip is the first young man you have flirted with, is he not? Yes, he is very handsome, his manners very charming, and you look upon him as the gallant chevalier who rescued you, oui? But you must not begin to mistake gratitude for—for something else. Soon you will be meeting other young men, all just as handsome and dashing and—more suitable.”

“Suitable!” Marisa burst in, her eyes flashing, but her aunt only shook her head warningly.

“You do not like this word? Ah, I remember when I was told of this English earl, what we would call a count here, and was told how rich and suitable a match he would make for me, I, too, shook my head. However, if I had stayed in France and married the penniless young man I thought I loved, I would have gone to the guillotine. Philip Sinclair is a pleasant young man, but his father is only a baron and a gambler—a member of the Carleton House set. There is not much money there, only wildness. In fact one of the reasons Mr. Sinclair is in Paris at the moment was to pay court to a certain heiress, also English. Lady Arabella Marlowe is here with her formidable mama to see Paris and improve her French. And tout de suite, Lord Anthony scraped up the money to dispatch his son here, also. He is expected to make a rich marriage, to please not only his father but his uncle as well. You comprehend?”

Marisa’s eyes, beginning to shine with tears, looked stormy. “No! How could you expect me to? If Philip was in love with another woman, he would have told me so—he is honest and kind! And—and he spends almost all of his time here, because he wishes to see me. I cannot believe that he would be so cold-blooded as to allow himself to be forced into a loveless alliance merely because his family wants such a match. He—”

“Ah, yes, he is bedazzled by you, ma petite. That much is easy to see. But for how long? Soon he will begin to think guiltily of his duty—and you may be sure that if his uncle who is the head of the family hears what’s been going on, he will waste no time calling for his return to England, and then what? Do you think he will be brave enough to take you with him? What will he live on? Be sensible, my love; that is all I am asking of you. Flirt, yes and enjoy yourself! But don’t be foolish enough to lose your heart.”

Later, when she had retired to her room to fight back the treacherous gale of weeping that threatened to engulf her, Marisa could not help feeling as if a heavy stone had been placed over her heart.

Her aunt had meant well, she was sure of that. But oh, the humiliation of realizing that she had let her growing feelings for Philip, and her delight in his company, show so obviously! It was true; she had not learned to flirt or to hide her emotions. Did she love Philip? She didn’t know. And certainly he had never overstepped the bounds of convention in their talks together. But he did like her, he did! And it wasn’t fair that his father and this powerful uncle of his should be allowed to plan and order his whole life. As for this English heiress, this Lady Arabella….

Marisa’s hands clenched into small fists at her sides as she began to pace angrily about her room. Did she not have enough spirit to refuse a suitor who did not love her and was forced to pay his addresses to her for the dowry she would bring him?

‘I would not do it,’ Marisa thought, and then the recollection of her reckless flight and its consequences made her face burn hotly with shame and anger. Suddenly, unbidden, the image of Dominic Challenger’s dark, mocking face rose up to haunt her, and she remembered without wanting to the feeling of his hands on her body and his body driving into hers. Hateful! Philip would never treat her like that: he was gentle and tender and respectful.

But if Philip knew—would he still respect her? He was English, not French, and everyone knew the English were rigidly conventional when it came to women. She could not bear the thought of telling him and watching his face change.

Her thoughts went round and round. ‘But if he found out that I was an heiress?’ Then perhaps, if he loved her enough, it would not matter. But by now her father might be so angry that he had disowned her; her Aunt Edmée had suggested she should write to him and tell him she was safe, but guilt had made her put it off. She must do so. Perhaps he would understand and forgive her after all.

Fortunately she had no more time to think just then. Napoleon himself was expected to arrive that evening, and there would be a crowd of notables for dinner. She had to bathe and dress extra carefully, and she did not dare be late for it was well known he could not bear unpunctuality.

Trying to distract herself while her maid fussed around her, clucking impatiently, Marisa went over the guest list in her mind: The other two consuls—Sieyès and Ducos, who of course were now merely figureheads since Bonaparte had just been appointed consul for life; his foreign minister Talleyrand, prince of Benevento; Joseph Fouché, minister of police; and generals, admirals—and a sprinkling of foreign diplomats as well. It had even been whispered that the new tsar of Russia, Alexander I, might be present.

It was to be a glittering, grand assembly, and in spite of herself Marisa began to feel a nervous fluttering in her stomach as she fervently hoped she would not disgrace herself.

Thank goodness for the current simplicity in fashion! Her sheer white muslin gown was embroidered with tiny gold flowers and ended in a train. A crisscrossed gold velvet sash was belted under her breasts and matched her velvet slippers, and her hair was caught up in a mass of curls, artful tendrils falling over her forehead and temples.

“Ravissante!” her maid sighed, quickly twisting a gold chain several times around Marisa’s neck then standing back to admire the effect before handing Marisa a fine silk fan, spangled with gold, that matched her shawl. A touch of rouge next on her lips and high on her cheekbones.

‘Is that really me?’ she wondered, staring at her reflection in the long mirror.

Her aunt came quickly into the room, smiling with satisfaction.

“You look quite charming, my love! But come along now, we must hurry. They are starting to receive already.”

“I feel half-naked!” Marisa whispered, feeling sure that everyone could see right through her thin taffeta petticoat.

Edmée, resplendently dressed in silver-spangled gauze, gave a gurgle of laughter.

“Wait till you see Pauline! She is naked under her silk gown, I’d swear! She doesn’t look at all like a mourning widow, and he will be furious with her, but then, Pauline doesn’t care for anything but her own pleasure.”

‘Neither do I!’ Marisa thought recklessly as she went downstairs with her aunt.

Usually, she never touched champagne, for its taste reminded her unpleasantly of the first time she had tried it. But tonight she consumed several glasses of it, and that and the knowledge that she looked as beautiful and sophisticated as any of the women present gave her the courage that she needed to go through the evening.

The rooms were overheated for Napoleon, who felt the cold, always ordered fires lit, even on the hottest summer days. A film of perspiration beaded her face, giving it a glow, and her thin gown clung to her figure, outlining her small breasts and slim thighs.

The château gleamed brilliantly; even the gardens were lit up, to accommodate the overflow of guests who wished to stroll outside in the cool air and engage in whispered flirtations in dark corners.

Only the most important guests had been asked to come earlier, for dinner; the others would arrive later for the dancing and a late supper served buffet-style. Princes, dukes, and the highest ranking diplomats. Even the blond, handsome Tsar Alexander himself, who was given the place of honor beside Josephine.

Following the example of the other women present, Marisa found that flirting was not too hard after all, if one used one’s fan and one’s eyelashes to advantage. She was seated next to a Russian prince, one of the tsar’s entourage, and in spite of his outrageous compliments in a heavy accent that made them difficult to understand, she managed to keep him at bay. On her other side, Joseph Fouché, the minister of police, who had recently been appointed the duke of Otranto, smiled his thin-lipped smile and toyed with the stem of his wineglass, drinking only sparingly and seeming to observe everything through his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Marisa decided that she did not like him very much. And how was it that he had not brought his wife?

The Russian begged her to show him the gardens when dinner was over, and Marisa lowered her lashes demurely, neither refusing nor agreeing. Under the tablecloth, he put his hand on her thigh, and she tapped it with her fan, as she had seen her aunt do.

“You are far too bold, monsieur!”

“And you—can you possibly be as innocent as you seem, my golden beauty? I would like to find out.”

“And if I let you, I would no longer be innocent, would I?”

She wanted to giggle then, delighted with herself for being so quick to answer him. Flirting was easy, after all, and especially in the midst of a crowd like this where she felt quite safe. All the same, she must try to avoid this persistent Russian after dinner, she thought, picking at her food as course after course was served and then whisked away. If only she didn’t have the uncomfortable feeling that Fouché was listening to every single word that was said! But then, why should she care?

All the same, Marisa was relieved when Josephine gave the signal that the ladies should retire. “I will see you later,” the prince whispered when she rose with a polite, murmured excuse. Fouché said nothing, but she thought she could feel his eyes following her, and the thought made her strangely uneasy.

Listening to the high-pitched babbling that went on all around her, she managed to put him out of her mind.

“You are quite a success tonight, my love!” Aunt Edmée whispered to her. “And when we all return to Paris tomorrow, you are to go with us. You cannot imagine how exciting it is—but then, you will quite soon grow as blasé as the rest of us!”

Would she? Glancing around her, Marisa did not think it possible. But then look at Hortense—so recently married to Louis Bonaparte and looking pale and withdrawn instead of radiant as a new bride should be. And Pauline le Clerc, so recently widowed and excitedly talking of her latest lovers. Even Aunt Edmée had a dreamy look in her eyes when one of the other women teased her about a certain dark-haired man who had paid her so much attention at the last ball they had attended. Marisa thought perhaps what she, too, needed was a lover, to make her one of them, and wipe away all the unpleasant memories. Even the memory of Philip…. And then she thought boldly, her mind overexcited and floating with the effects of too much champagne, ‘Why not him? If I can’t have him as a husband, then perhaps I should give him something to regret! Yes—and I’d like her, that Lady Arabella, to know, too, that she was only his second choice!’

Gleaming with mischief and defiance, her golden eyes seemed larger than ever. And when the ladies emerged from the drawing room, the first person she set eyes on was Philip!

In formal evening dress, he looked more handsome than ever. His high-collared blue velvet coat, worn with a white silk cravat, matched his eyes; the frilled ruffles of his shirt showed at the wrists, and he wore black satin knee breeches and a sword with a ribbon rosette at its hilt. Even the powdered tie wig that went with full dress could not detract from his good looks, and the smile he gave her, lighting up his whole face, made her heart begin to pound.

He came forward to meet her, and she offered him both her hands without thinking to control her emotions. Nothing could spoil her happiness at this moment, not even the fact that out of the corner of her eye she had noticed the duke of Otranto, in his dark coat, leaning up against a wall and watching them with a guarded, sardonic expression.

“Philip!”

He bowed to her in a ridiculously formal fashion, responding in French, “A votre service, mademoiselle!” And then, in a husky undertone, “You are so beautiful tonight! I can hardly believe that I am lucky enough to be here and to see you smiling at me.”

“I am glad that you are here, too! Will you not ask me to dance, and quickly, before that fierce Russian approaches too near?”

The dance happened to be a waltz, newly imported from Vienna, and by the time they had made a few turns about the floor Marisa had recovered enough control over her senses to remember her resolution of a few moments before. It helped her to realize that Philip appeared suddenly to have become tongue-tied, gazing down into her flushed, smiling face as if he could not tear his eyes away.

“Is it true that in this club they call Almacks, in London, a young woman is not permitted to dance the waltz without permission?”

“The patronesses are very strict,” he murmured in a bemused fashion, watching her mouth—the arched upper lip and softly curved lower lip. Why hadn’t he noticed what a red, kissable mouth she had before?

“Then perhaps it is not proper that I should dance the waltz with you?”

“This is France, and it is quite all right. And you—you are so light in my arms, like a feather. I could dance with you forever.”

“I have been taking lessons,” she said demurely, enjoying the slight trembling of the arms that held her. Oh, yes, he wanted her—and she was surprised at herself for thinking in such a fashion.

The rest of the evening seemed to pass far too quickly. She drank more champagne, and it seemed to impart a golden glow to everything.

Marisa had chosen to forget her aunt’s warnings of the afternoon; she was a night-blooming flower, coming into her own in the glow of the chandeliers and the flame in Philip’s eyes. Duty and obligation were words tossed in the teeth of the wind, to be blown away like all her old fears and self-doubts. Tonight she was beautiful and just as sure of herself as any of the other lovely, bejeweled women who flirted behind their ivory fans.

Philip was falling in love with her; she knew it, sensed it, and hugged the thought to her as a talisman against the past. There was nothing violent about him, nothing fierce or savage that would turn on her to use her and hurt her. Tonight she found it easy to banish the memory of storm-grey eyes alternately mocking and angry, bending her to their will in spite of herself.

The first subtle beginnings of dawn had begun to silver the sky before Marisa found herself in her bedroom again, hardly able to stand for weariness. Her maid, grumbling her disapproval all the while, helped her undress. Her last conscious thought before she slept was of Philip—his golden hair shining in the lantern light as he bent his head to kiss her very gently and tenderly on the lips….

She was far too tired to dream, and waking was an effort for she had an unpleasant throbbing in her temples.

“Come on, sleepy head! This is no time to lie abed dreaming of your handsome Englishman! Wake up. Arlene is already packing for you, and we are to leave for Paris this very afternoon!” Edmée’s voice held soft gurgles of amusement as she watched Marisa struggle to sit upright, pressing her fingers against her forehead as she did.

“That’s better! There’s a lot to be done, you know. Some coffee with your breakfast will send away the headache. You drank far too much champagne, petite, but you will have to get accustomed to it, if you are to be introduced to society. And you shall be. Even he was impressed by the way our little sparrow has turned into a bird of paradise. So you are to go to Paris with us and meet everybody. But only if you hurry up and are ready in time!”

Like everything that had happened to her since she had arrived here at Malmaison to be enfolded in affectionate, warmly comforting arms, this, too, seemed like a dream, a rainbow-colored, fragile bubble that might burst at any time, dragging her back to reality. But here was Aunt Edmée reminding her that it was actually happening after all and that she would be staying at the palace of the Tuileries, former home of the kings of France and now the official state apartments of the first consul of France.

Marisa was far too dazed to question anything, and even the wan-faced Hortense smiled to see her pent-up excitement.

She whispered when they were finally in one of the carriages together, “I’m sure you’ll see your Englishman again. Do you think you really love him? He did not look at any other woman all evening. Perhaps, oh, perhaps you’ll be allowed to be happy and choose for yourself!”

Remembering her companion’s own forced marriage, Marisa felt almost guilty at her own feeling of happiness, which threatened to overwhelm her. She gave Hortense’s cold hand a little squeeze.

“Of course I will be! After all, I am no one important, so they won’t care!”

And at that moment, with the past behind her and the future stretching out ahead, she believed her own confident words.