Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (3 page)

Tilting his head on one side, he regarded her closely without speaking for a moment. “I believe I will not answer that. You may discover soon enough. Perhaps I love dancing.”

She burst into laughter, but almost immediately clapped a hand over her mouth and stopped, appalled at her tactless outburst.

He shrugged. “Don’t concern yourself. I barely notice anymore. People jibe, but what does that matter? It doesn’t interest me. Perhaps one day I’ll trip a measure on the dance floor, but it would take someone remarkable to persuade me to do it. And a singular person to do it with me.”

How he could joke, she didn’t know. She loved dancing, setting her body in perfect lines, creating the flawless curtsey or extending her hand in exactly the right way. He might not appear graceful or elegant, but he could demonstrate the leashed power inherent in every line of his big body. She had never been drawn to larger men, but first Marcus and now Valsgarth—what was the world coming to?

“How do you manage—” She broke off with a slight laugh, heat rising to her face. “With intimate relations?”

He laughed too, but his fingers tightened on the arm of the sofa. “I do well enough.” He smiled, and by the expression she knew she’d revealed too much, but she wasn’t sure what. “Why do you feel embarrassed talking about the act of love? Is that not what you are? Are you not supposed to be an expert?”

With less grace than she’d used in her life before, Virginie got to her feet. She moved away, letting her skirts settle and turned her back on him. “We have talked for long enough. People will think I have started something new, and too much scandal is attached to my name already.”

“I’m glad you think so.” With more swiftness than he’d shown before, he walked across the room. He passed her without touching her, his stride firm, despite having to use his cane. “I will take my leave, but I hope to see you again.”

“No doubt you will,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “But not like this.”

“We shall see,” he answered, but he didn’t look at her before he left.

Harry returned to the club, hoping for an hour to himself before he reported his lack of success to d’Argento. But as he got to the top of the stairs leading to the floor housing the male guests, he almost collided with Amidei. The owner of the club was leaning against the banister, clearly waiting for him.

A woman followed, the redoubtable housekeeper, Mrs. Davenport, who glided on silent feet through the house, ensuring nothing was amiss. She carried a tray of tea-things.

Outside his private apartments, a man waited. Someone he had never met before in this life, but for all that, he recognised him. How could Vulcan fail to recognise the king of the gods, Jupiter?

The man had thick, dark hair, which he wore without the benefit of a wig, and fine but plain clothes. His size rivalled Harry’s own, although Harry wagered he’d have beat him on the size of his hands. For the rest, it was touch and go. He bowed. “Sir.”

He received a more graceful, but courteous bow in exchange while Amidei introduced his lordship, the Earl of Ellesmere, heir to the Duke of Boscobel. Gerard. “Shall we go in?” Amidei suggested.

Sighing, Harry led the way into the small parlour he could call his own while he resided here. Every room had a powder room, a dressing room and a parlour, with accommodation for servants, which made the club a cut above the average inn. For that reason alone it was more convenient to stay here. Although if Harry received many more visits from fellow deities, he’d ensure he found somewhere else quick sharp. A place he could close the door and gain some measure of privacy.

Mrs. Davenport followed them in and placed the tray carefully on the table by the window. “Shall I pour, sir?”

Amidei shook his head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Davenport. We’ll serve ourselves.”

It wasn’t tea Harry wanted. Brandy would work better for him at the moment. He could do nothing to prevent this meeting, so he might as well let it take its course. Ignoring the gleaming china teapot and the equally glossy dishes and deep saucers, he headed for the sideboard. He poured his guests glasses of the brandy thoughtfully provided for his use. He needed the jolt of alcohol and it would have been discourteous to drink without company. However, the other two put their drinks aside, while Harry poured himself a second. Only then did he sit.

Before they could ask, he told them what he guessed they wanted to know. “Yes, I saw her. No, she has no intention of putting an end to the affair. I didn’t tell her that Eros has declared that his enchantment is gone. I can do nothing. What did you expect? For her to fall into my arms?”

Amidei was staring at him strangely. “Did you make love to her?” he asked.

“No, not in any sense of the word.”

Amidei exchanged a glance with Jupiter—Gerard. “Did she try to seduce you?”

“No.” Harry took a sip. What were they getting at?

“Did you fall at her feet and declare your devotion to her?”

After a snort of disgust, he finished his brandy, wondering if they would consider him a drunk if he had another. “Why would I do that? That would make me like every other man who crosses her path.”

“Most men cannot help themselves, especially at the moment, when she’s acting like a mare in heat,” Amidei said.

Cold anger took hold of Harry, freezing his insides. “I wouldn’t say that. If you repeat anything similar, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Amidei pursed his lips and nodded as if satisfied. “If you’d been under her spell, you would have tried to attack me just then. One of the reasons I invited Gerard to attend was to help if you did any such thing. I cannot abide violence. But I was willing to risk it in order to draw you out. Don’t you see what that means?”

Harry shook his head. “Not in the least. She’s not interested in me romantically, so she didn’t cast her allure.”

Gerard took a part in the conversation. “I met her for the first time recently. Even I felt it. She draws men, even more when they have no attraction for another woman. I was able to resist because I am married and in love with my wife.”

The way he said it, that state sounded almost ordinary. Harry’s mouth quirked up at one corner, driven by his cynicism on the subject. Love had never done anything for him. “Congratulations. I am not, and I have not loved anyone to that extent. I doubt I ever will. Yes, she drew me at the theatre and I sensed it today, but only because she mistook me for her lover when she first entered the room. After that, we talked. That is all.”

Ellesmere cleared his throat. “Either she has continued the enchantment of her own free will, and she has trapped herself, or someone else has taken the opportunity to cast something more insidious.”

“What we need is a way to break the spell.” Amidei glanced at Ellesmere, then at Harry, his light eyes intense. “Or someone.”

It took Harry no time at all to catch his meaning. He held up a hand as if to ward off the suggestion. “No, oh no. Not me. Why should I? What is this woman to me and why not one of you? You said it yourself, Ellesmere—you’re immune because you already love someone.”

“Who would be deeply hurt if I were seen trying to get closer to another woman,” Gerard said. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I would not hurt Faith for the world. I have no intention of ever doing so. Even if I told her why, she would be damaged by gossip.”

So he was besotted. Fair enough, that melancholy fate occurred to men sometimes. Never to him, Harry vowed.

“Amidei? Can’t you do anything? You’re one of the ancients, aren’t you?” The few who survived the explosion that had destroyed so many Olympians just over thirty years ago.

“It is not my sphere of influence.” Amidei swung to his feet and headed for the door. “In the meantime, I fear you must excuse me. Club business. The chef, yet again, has refused to consider serving northern dishes he considers barbaric. A pudding, he says, should never be black. I will remonstrate with him.” He tilted his head as if listening, then turned his attention to Harry. “There’s blood in this thing?”

Harry grinned. “And guts. It’s a particular favourite of mine. If your chef cannot oblige, I daresay someone in this blasted city will have one or two to spare.”

“If you asked him out of devilry, if I discover there is no such thing, then I will return to shake the teeth out of your head. You may eat your black pudding with your gums.”

The mild words belied the strength of his emotion. Both men knew Harry would be owed a few favours if he complied with the wishes of the men in this room. And half London, if matters got any worse and Virginie’s problem increased.

“Addiction is the key,” Harry said flatly. “I can easily do without my black pudding, but Virginie cannot live without this new feeling suffusing her. That’s the word we’re all avoiding, is it not? She’s addicted to this man and what she can do. My guess is that this is the first time she has done this purely for herself. She may be aware of her power, but what she didn’t realise was how it would affect her, as well as those around her.”

Instead of opening the door and walking through it, Amidei leaned against it and folded his arms. Gerard let out a heavy sigh and stared at the ceiling before returning his attention to Harry. “That’s it,” Amidei said. “She’s addicted. For some it’s drink, for others gambling. With Virginie, it’s love.”

“It’s lust,” said Harry. “Love might just save her.”

Chapter Three

Committed to his path and drawn to the Virginie far more than he liked to admit, Harry entered Lady Eastpark’s spacious drawing room ready for action of the social kind. He’d donned the new amber coloured coat and waistcoat he’d purchased the day before, with a new pair of breeches and crisp shirt. He was feeling starched and primped to the extreme of his tolerance. A fresh wig, pristine and white, covered his short hair, a wide black satin ribbon holding back the long locks. His new cane felt strange in his hand. His customary ebony, silver-topped one had been deemed ineligible for this get-up. This Malacca one had a gold and ivory top, the monkey’s back curving into his palm. The sharp edges bit into his fingers.

He felt a fool, but he had no time to ponder his appearance. Although he
had
taken a swift glance into the pier-glass in the hall downstairs to ensure his neckcloth was straight.

This room was mainly gold, gilded nonsense adorning every surface and wall. Give him good English walnut rather than this glittering frivolity. Those spindle-legged chairs weren’t designed for a man’s weight, or his size for that matter. The absurd width of his coat tails was meant to rival the ladies’ skirts in breadth. He had balked, declaring he was an earl not a dancing-master. Surely half a ton of buckram was enough stiffening for one coat.

His discomfort gave him a confused sense of identity. As if it wasn’t really Harry he was seeing in the mirrors he passed, but a simulacrum of the man, dressed up to disguise himself.

Still, he drew attention as he walked through the rooms. He’d requested arriving here on his own to view the terrain and to introduce himself to the other player in this act—Marcus, or Mars, god and duke both.

Some glanced at his cane, then at his face, carefully avoiding study of his legs. He preferred country wear when he could don the boots that were scuffed but soft as butter. He hadn’t yet found a pair of shoes to suit, though he employed the best cobblers available to craft for his special needs.

He ignored everyone, increasing his stride as much as possible in this crowded place. Once or twice someone recognised him. He didn’t live as a hermit in the country, and his part of Cheshire contained quite a few great houses. Not surprisingly, several had made their way to London for the Season, especially those with eligible daughters to bring out.

Politeness was overrated. He had wasted hours on it.

Once the Olympians had realised the nature of Virginie’s obsession, everything had fallen into place. Yes, she was definitely addicted. He had seen people addicted to opiates fight for their lives after their supply of the drug was withdrawn. He had no doubt Virginie’s addiction to Marcus was much the same. Given the initial bolt of pleasure that she could only renew by feeding it with Marcus, she would be helpless soon.

The danger was that she’d take half London with her, her fixation affecting everyone around her. That must not happen and, if Harry had anything to do with it, would not.

A ripple of excitement told him his quarry had arrived. Since Marcus had announced he would be “looking in” here tonight, this was Harry’s best chance of waylaying the lovely Duchesse de Clermont-Ferand.

The vision standing in the doorway anxiously scanning the audience was a dream in pink tonight. Frothy, frivolous pink that would be a joy to strip away, revealing the even more mouth-watering pink beneath. Harry gave himself the indulgence of imagining the scene, but only for a second. She was not his, nor was she likely to become so, despite his desire for her.

But his desire was born of a normal reaction to a beautiful woman. While he felt the waves of allure sweeping through the rooms, he could resist them. Unlike a number of men who’d allowed the women they were with to fall behind as they beat eager paths to her.

No wonder women disliked her. He’d heard they did, but had never seen it before. But the females gazing in her direction had expressions of dislike or contempt. Not one feminine face reflected liking.

He would accept what happened next, whatever that might be. But right now, watching men flock around Virginie, doubts filled him and even a sense of apprehension. He hated these affairs, never felt completely at ease, although he could fabricate it easily enough.

He had to accomplish the first stage in his public and probably pointless pursuit of Virginie, trying to distract her from her affair with Lyndhurst. Gerard and Amidei had contrived to keep Marcus busy until at least eleven o’clock. That meant Harry had barely half an hour to make his mark before the show started once more.

Not that he did not want to do this anyway. After their chat the other day, some facets of Virginie’s personality interested him. Oh, lust, yes, he felt that, but he could have that kind of relationship with anyone. Harry had never allowed lust to sway him.

He touched his pocket that held the item he’d chosen for her. He planned to court Venus. If they could just drive a small wedge between Venus and Mars, Amidei could go to work and begin the painful task of separating them. Edmund and Gerard had promised to help, but they could do very little, since it was clear that Edmund’s enchantment had nothing to do with Virginie’s current state.

Addictions only grew worse if they went ignored and left. They festered in the wilderness, weeds that flourished over the good, useful plants until nothing remained but wasteland. That above all had driven Harry to this path. He cared enough to make the attempt, though he kept telling himself it was for the good of his race that he acted.

Men still crowded around her, but when she moved, a flash of pink silk, Harry took his moment and moved forward. She glanced in his direction and smiled.

A pause ensued while people looked around to see who had received the favour of that blinding acknowledgement. Men’s eyes had glazed with single-minded purpose. Soon she’d incite them to riot, and London had had its fair share of disturbances recently.

Ruthlessly, Harry shouldered his way through mass of humanity surrounding her, ignoring the cries of “Do you mind?” and “I say, you trod on my foot!” together with worse, more earthy epithets. Having his cane helped, and he used it to excellent effect, grinding it into a shoe here, rapping an elbow with the gold monkey. Through all he remained seemingly oblivious, until he smelled her.

Lavender tonight, redolent of gardens at the height of summer, bees buzzing around the plants. Although these people wanted a damned sight more than to hum and collect nectar.

They would not have the reward of honey tonight. The chances were that nobody would until she located her lover.

“Lord Valsgarth, how delightful. One would think you were following me!” she said, raising her voice over the cacophony.

“Indeed, madam. May I have the honour of this dance?”

A hush fell. Harry didn’t have to study them to know what they were thinking.

Her sweet laugh was edged with hoarseness, a harsh edge he found seductive. Would she cry out like that after he’d loved her all night through?

He dismissed the thought, putting it down to the fog of her spell. However, it was lessened by the absence of Marcus. Once he arrived, it could become much worse.

The notion of that delectable, pink flesh wouldn’t leave his mind, no matter how stern he tried to be.

He held out his arm, and with a small laugh, she shook her head. “My lord, I hate to be personal, but how may you dance? Have you perfected a three step?”

Laughter echoed around, worse because he had no witty rejoinder. Normally that didn’t concern him, but tonight their jibes stung. He had never wanted to dance, he told himself. It was a foolish pastime, best left to those who took joy in it.

Now he knew he was wrong. Dancing with this woman would give him more pleasure than he’d ever had before. That he could not was a bitter taste in his mouth.

But he could make love.

He ignored the sniggers and watched a flush rise to her face. Silence in response to her sally was his only defence now, and he used it, waiting for the noise to die.

Slipping his hand in his pocket, he found the slim box. He presented it with one hand, while he used his cane to support him when he bowed. “My lady, a token. For your gentility and your wit.” She swallowed but accepted the box, staring at him wide-eyed. Glancing down, she opened it, slid off the lid and let it fall. There lay an object Harry had worked long and hard over. He hadn’t known why, had decided he wanted to make one of his useless pieces for a change.

She lifted the silver rose, holding it between thumb and forefinger. The leaves shook in the light breeze from the open windows near where they stood, and when she twisted the stem, the petals quivered.

“A pretty trinket,” she said, her voice icy. “Did you make it yourself?”

“I did.” He should have scented it or painted it or something. All he’d done was polish it when it was finished. The blossom stood for itself, needing no embellishment. He’d taken it from life, a rose plucked from his garden last summer, one that had taken his fancy on his way to his forge.

By the side of the forge stood a workshop where he worked with more precious metals when the fancy took him, as it had that day. He’d laboured all day on the piece, and the next, when he should have been working on a new fender for the breakfast-parlour. He could not explain the need to work with his hands in such a way, but there it was. He was Vulcan. That might be all the explanation needed.

She met his gaze, and for a moment he saw truth in the heavenly depths. Hurt, shame and confusion mingled with burning heat, hotter than any furnace he had yet encountered.

Her lips opened, and he felt sure he would have received a simple thank you, but her expression changed. Her eyes glazed over into the hard beauty he’d seen in them before, the mirror that hid her emotions from the rest of the world.

A harsh smile curved her lips. “It’s comforting that you have something to do when the rest of the world is dancing,” she said. “I will accept your gift. My maid is in need of a decoration for her bodice at the next servant’s ball.”

She replaced the blossom in the box and shoved it into her pocket. She wouldn’t even wear it.

Pain lanced him through, worse than he’d felt for years. She had done this to him, rejected him and prevented him touching her in that vulnerable moment.

His task concluded, he turned as abruptly as his leg would allow and strode away, his cane tapping the floor in the silence. “You are welcome to her,” he said to someone he’d met at White’s. Fox—yes, that was the man’s name. “Anyone with such execrable manners does not deserve my attention.”

It sounded like the worst schoolboy insult, a jibe one child would shout to another when they’d been wounded to the heart. And she had injured him, that was for sure.

He prayed he’d completed his task properly and he could go home soon. Why on earth had he allowed Amidei to drag him into this mess?

“My lord,” Lightfoot said, after clearing his throat in a way that made Harry think the butler might need a lozenge. “There is a lady to see you.”

Harry shook his newspaper. “I’m busy.” Virginie would have approached him directly and he couldn’t think of any other respectable lady who would visit him. Which left the other kind, and he was in no mood for that.

“She appears deeply concerned, my lord. She has sent you a note.”

With a deep sigh that indicated he had the cares of the world on his shoulders, Harry put his paper down. He took the note Lightfoot proffered on a silver salver and glanced at it.

My lord, I have information of the greatest importance to divulge to you, but I can trust no one in this. It is a matter of my life, and that of another. Please give me five minutes of your time and I will trouble you no more if you wish for this.

The disjointed nature of the writing suggested agitation, but some instinct made him pause. He nodded to Lightfoot. “Very well, I’ll see her. But send a trustworthy chaperone, will you?” God or not he could still be tricked into marriage. Half an hour in a room alone with a woman would do the trick.

“I will take you to her, my lord.”

Lightfoot led the way. Harry was wary of the lanky satyr Amidei employed as his factotum, but the man performed his duties impeccably. It was only the reputation satyrs had for creating mischief that gave him pause. They would interfere at the most inopportune times.

He nodded to a few of the other members. He’d chosen to sit in the part of the club reserved for immortals. Not that it was presented as such, but in order to gain access they had to undergo a test that only immortals could pass.

Lightfoot took Harry to the room where all members were allowed, and then to a small parlour leading off the main entrance hall. Harry did his best to stroll, and he waited outside the room until Lightfoot had opened the door for him and he could see inside.

Mrs. Davenport, and a younger woman he didn’t recognise. He bowed to the housekeeper and she bobbed a curtsey back. Only then did he enter.

Lightfoot gently closed the door behind them. “My lord,” said the stranger standing by the window. She stood behind a ladderback chair, her hand clutching the top rung. Her knuckles were white.

He sketched a bow. “I promise I mean you no harm, ma’am. You may take a seat.”

The woman shot him a cautious glance, then her attention flicked to Mrs. Davenport. “Thank you, my lord.” She spoke with a refined accent, maybe a little too refined, as if she’d learned it rather than it coming naturally to her. Her clothes were far from fashionable excess, but respectable, the hem of her dark green gown a little stained and worn from the London streets. Everything about her was neat and in place from the hat set straight on her head to her embroidered decorative apron. Her well-polished but shabby street shoes peeped from her gown when she moved. In other circumstances, and without the lines creasing her brow and corners of her mouth, he might consider her attractive.

She shook her head, bit her lip and sat, sweeping her skirt under her and then folding her hands in her lap.

He initiated the conversation. “May I have your name, if you please?”