Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Virginie slept with the silver rose beside her on the nightstand. For some reason the pretty object gave her comfort. It was not bespelled, she could sense that, but it did recall Harry and his kindness. She had rejected him, but he had not held the rejection against her. More than she deserved, considering the way she had done it.

She felt itchy, wrong in her own skin, but that was because she was facing a great change in her life. The affair with Marcus had been brief but intense. He’d awakened her to emotions and reactions she’d only known before in theory. That she could fall under the spell of love, or something close to it, still astonished her. She was supposed to rule love, not be love’s victim. Eros had taken her at a time when she’d felt in control, superior, as if she could do anything she wanted. She had learned differently.

Refusing to shrink, cowed into the country as she had considered at first, Virginie got up the next day. She paid as much attention to her appearance as always and sallied forth. If she was staying, she would not hide away, an acceptance of her guilt.

She took care not to allow anyone to cut her. She avoided people who would be sure to do so, something that took her attention and a certain fleetness of foot.

In order to avoid a gaggle of society’s highest sticklers, whose glares as she approached made their intentions obvious, she was forced to duck into the nearest shop. This happened to be a tobacconists’. She emerged with a pretty enamel snuffbox. Then she could legitimately turn around and walk in the opposite direction without her move appearing to be a retreat.

In Bond Street she had to cross the road and make another unwanted purchase to avoid yet another group. Really, the gossips seemed to be lying in wait for her today. She’d appear at one of the larger functions tonight—no, she’d go to the theatre and sit in solitary state. If nobody called on her box, she’d claim she had chosen that consequence.

The way the high-sticklers were prepared to trap her and shame her made Virginie determined not to allow them to do so.

She wore white to the theatre, with her diamonds and pearls, set in silver. For once she had her hair powdered, stark white to match her gown. Her complexion could bear such an unforgiving look. She wore it out of defiance and ensured she was the image of purity, unlike the last time she’d appeared here.

Drury Lane Theatre was full tonight, surprising at this time of year. Their purpose attained, daughters turned off and a few fortunates affianced. Many families had retired to the country to prepare for the next stage of the social round, the country house party. Virginie doubted she’d be invited to any of those this year, but she would welcome the time to herself. Or so she told herself. But Venus was a sociable goddess, appreciating the company of other women, as well as her lovers.

She would live through this. Harry was right, she should not give ground and slink out of the country, not without a fight. If she made a few appearances like this and then retreated to France to administer her holdings, that would appear more natural. Then she could come back when the scandal had died. Or face it.

She hated to admit it, but she didn’t know if she had the courage to do that.

A soft knock sounded on the door of her box at the beginning of the second act. All during the first, she’d paid strict attention to the action on the stage, although she’d be hard put to say what she was watching. She’d put her spying-glass to its correct purpose, instead of ogling the audience. On the other hand, the audience was watching her. She felt their gazes on her, pricking her skin.

Her footman held a salver, with a single card on it. She read it, then read it again, before nodding. This would be her greatest test so far, to receive her mother in her box. She appreciated the card, warning her in advance of what she had in store.

When her mother entered the box, Virginie stood to greet her and kissed her on both cheeks, as befitted a fond daughter to her mama.

Nobody who had not met Mrs. Davenport before would have recognised the woman as any kind of servant. Virginie’s mother had dressed in state. Her dark blue gown, laced with gold was of the finest material, not one that Virginie recognised, so it must be her own. When had she obtained it? It was in the latest fashion, with the smaller hoops and the more delicate patterns. Her lace was familiar, but she did not begrudge her mother borrowing it. Especially when she’d appeared like this.

But her parent was not alone. After greeting her, Virginie turned to the shadowy woman waiting at the back of the box.

Shock jolted through her like lightning forking from her head to her feet. She gripped her fan. Her mother had achieved a coup. She nodded to the lady, and Rhea Simpson nodded back, her face solemn. No matter, she had come.

“I appreciate your visit,” Virginie said. “Would you take a glass of wine?”

Indicating the seat next to her, she waited until the newcomers had sat before resuming her own place. Mrs. Davenport ensured that Rhea sat between them, as an honoured guest. Virginie asked her about the play and discovered that Rhea knew more about it, discoursing on the personalities of Cleopatra and Mark Anthony with intelligence and understanding. If this woman were not her rival, Virginie would have liked her. As it was, this meeting might be rare, a proffering and accepting of an olive branch. She would not cultivate the acquaintance. It would mean witnessing something so painful to her that it hurt more than the original dart Eros had shot into her.

“You are a very well educated woman,” she said at one point. “Your parents are to be commended.”

Rhea gave a laugh that sounded more bitter than pleased. “You might well think that, ma’am, but the truth is they engaged a fine tutor for my brother. He was their darling. But he was not given to academic study, so he turned to me. We were closer than my mother liked, but since he wished it, our parents let it be. It is to his credit that I learned the small amount I know. And that the library, facing south, was warmer than my bedroom, which faced in the opposite direction. I spent a great deal of time there.”

Rhea was pretty, but not stunningly lovely, and had a pleasing manner. Her soft blue eyes and dark blonde hair suited her creamy complexion, and she was of moderate height. She comported herself well, deploying her fan occasionally and sipping her wine with a delicate air. She would make an adequate duchess, and Marcus would at least be kind to her. If he hadn’t been so kind already they might not find themselves in this pickle. But life was full of ifs and none had any truth in the real world.

“You seem in a much better frame of mind, my dear,” she commented when she could get a word in edgeways between asp and breast, so to speak.

Rhea was much more attractive when she smiled. “Indeed. You must not tell anyone for a week or so, but I know you will wish me happy.”

For a moment Virginie entertained the wild hope that Rhea had accepted an offer from someone else.

“His grace the Duke of Lyndhurst called on me this afternoon, just before dinner, and asked for my hand.” Rhea sounded like a girl, breathless and happy. As well she might be.

“I’m delighted for you, my dear.” Virginie leaned forward, and spoke to Rhea from behind her fan. “You have nothing to fear from this direction.” She lowered her fan. Many of society’s worst gossips could lip-read. Or so she believed, and she wanted to take no chances with this golden opportunity her mother had manufactured for her. “Such good news!”

Rhea was staring at her, wide-eyed. “Th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You must strive to please your husband. When is the ceremony to be?”

“As soon as possible. A private celebration, then we will go directly into the country.”

Had he kissed her, caressed her? Reacquainted himself with what he had once enjoyed? While she believed Marcus when he’d said he had little recollection of the events, she had no sympathy for that. Drunken gentlemen should take more care of what they did. If someone had tricked him, then he would still have to admit responsibility.

But she ached, oh how badly! All her training came into force as she smiled and conversed with Rhea Simpson, and on the other side, her mother did so too. Virginie, Rhea and Mrs. Davenport were watched avidly, but this was Virginie giving her blessing to the union and retreating. True, some might speculate that this was a three-way affair. Such affairs had happened before, and in recent memory. Lord John Hervey had moved his male lover in with his wife and had survived to become a high-ranking politician.

Virginie would not do that. She never shared. Instead she had the chance of walking away with dignity.

After the play, they elected not to stay for the farce and Virginie left, allowing Rhea to take her arm while she paraded outside to her coach. Paraded being the right word. People parted to allow them through, staring as they passed, storing up the information for their cronies. No doubt the nastiest insinuations would circulate. But on the whole this meeting would help Virginie more than it would Rhea. Virginie was grateful for that.

Virginie’s mama had brought the carriage, and so Virginie gave Rhea a ride to her lodgings. The Pantheon Club. She might have guessed. D’Argento wouldn’t have let the woman alone until he had her under his care. Would Marcus visit her privately?

It was none of Virginie’s concern, not any longer, though she would have to give her body time to catch up with her mind. It still yearned for him.

She watched her footman escort Rhea into the club, and then forced a smile. Exhaustion crept on her in a great wave. “Thank you.”

“I thought it might help,” her mother said. “I visited her. Her plight touched me and I wanted to give her my sympathy. I found her in high spirits, and she told me what had happened. That the Duke of Lyndhurst had visited her and asked for her hand in marriage. He works quickly, that man, does he not? I couldn’t but express my pleasure, and she said she was surprised, because I am your mother. I said that you were an honourable woman and she could be assured that you would not interfere with her happiness. In short, I persuaded her that you would reassure her. She is foolishly in love with the duke, you know.”

That was more than Virginie could say, although even a week ago she would have claimed otherwise. She shrugged. “He has a startling attractiveness. I wish her joy of keeping him.”

Her mother patted her hand. “I’m glad to hear you say that, my dear. Do you intend to go on to another event?” The evening was early for London, barely ten.

Virginie shook her head. “I’ve done enough for one night. Let them discuss their discoveries and make up their own minds.” She didn’t have to say who “they” were. “They” were the gossips, who decided how society should behave. Virginie’s very public and cordial meeting with the Duke of Lyndhurst’s future bride would go a long way towards pacifying them. No need to push the issue. Once they had given her the cut direct, then they would find difficulty retreating from that attitude. Best to give them no opportunity to do so.

“I will go to a small assembly,” her mother said. “Three ladies have invited me to join them in Ranelagh Gardens. I will stay just long enough to let them know the good news about the duke.”

“You’re making ground.” Virginie could not be anything but glad for her mother, who still had her own battles to fight. After tonight, she would not allow any calumny to be uttered in her presence about her mother. They would come about. D’Argento’s efforts to explain the lady’s presence in his club as a hostess, not a housekeeper, and his gentle mental persuasion of a few key figures would achieve the trick.

With confidence higher than she’d known before, Virginie went home. She allowed her maid to undress her and wash the powder from her hair before she retreated gratefully to bed.

Virginie took her time rising the next day. She spent most of the late morning and early afternoon in her private sitting room, reading and catching up with the gossip. On sending out for the more scurrilous of the gossip sheets, she discovered the news of her appearance at Drury Lane Theatre the night before had spread, though it was a mere comment and a very little speculation.

The news of the Duke of Lyndhurst’s engagement would not appear until his marriage, in the more respectable journals. The gossip sheets hinted that this was less likely. Even though Miss S—, as they coyly put it, had borne two children out of wedlock, strongly suspected to be of the duke’s get.

After perusing the papers, her hands were black with newsprint, despite ordering the journals ironed before the servants brought them to her. Virginie made her way to her bedroom to wash.

On her way back, the doorbell clanged, its raucous demands echoing through the quiet house. Virginie paused at the top of the stairs, out of sight of any visitor, and heard a voice she knew she couldn’t avoid any longer.

After ordering him taken to the parlour on the ground floor, Virginie went to her room. Her maid helped her to brush her hair into a more becoming style and add a little blush to her pale cheeks. Even Venus needed a little help when she was under strain.

Going downstairs, she was aware of her heart drumming in her breast. As she nodded her thanks to the footman who opened the parlour door to her, she felt another door open, deep in her mind. As if a page had turned, her life was about to take a new turn.

Harry stood and bowed, and she offered her hand. When he took it, his heat seeped into her, and for the first time in days she felt warmth at the heart of her. Reluctant to let her hand fall, he seemed equally reluctant to let go of it.

“Virginie,” he said, his deep voice reverberating through her.

She remembered her manners. Pulling her hand away, she turned to the sideboard. “Would you like some refreshment? I have brandy, port and wine. Or I can send for tea.”

“As if I’d travelled miles to see you?” He sounded amused.

She smiled, her facial muscles remembering the motion as if she’d been frozen into haughty immobility. “You would think me churlish if I did not make the offer.”

“Never.” When she gestured to the chair by the fireplace, he helped her sit, and then took his place opposite her, propping his cane by the arm.