Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (13 page)

*

Maggie had just enough time to gulp down her hot chocolate when the gentlemen and the countess arrived to go to the exhibition. That was only because Cecile took away her sketches and insisted she have the chocolate for energy.

“I have a very important appointment today,” she teased, “and I can’t spend all of it fretting that you will faint.”

“I have never done such a thing in my life,” Maggie pointed out, but it was no good.

Fortunately, the gentlemen arrived within minutes of each other, which saved Maggie from bickering with Hart. The countess, sensing something interesting afoot, was good enough to keep up the conversation so that no one had any occasion to feel slighted.

She sported another of her satin turbans, this one in a delicate lilac that nicely complimented her eyes, and Maggie wondered if she could get her hands on similar fabric for the shop.

On their way to the exhibition, she was very careful to avoid looking at Hart. That seemed the safest possible conduct. Still, she was struck by the ease with which he handled the carriage. He looked handsome and very capable in his caped driving cloak. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from contemplating the full potential of such capable hands.

Sir Lucian sat next to her, discussing previous exhibitions with the countess, blessedly unaware of Maggie’s scattered thoughts.

Watching Hart drive, Maggie shivered a little, though it was not cold and pale green spencer was more than sufficient to keep her warm.

At least she would soon have a garden full of pretty roses to distract her. She hoped it wouldn’t rain and ruin the walk. Thankfully, the sky seemed set to stay a clear blue, though there was a slight breeze which blew her curls around her head, the disobedient strands just barely kept in place by a green bandeau.

The
jardin
was located on the left bank of the Seine, on what had once been a majestic royal estate. The museum was a relatively recent establishment, not yet seventeen years old. The gardens seemed so vast that Maggie doubted it would be possible to explore the whole in one day. Their lay-out embodied the perfect balance of wilderness and cultured flower beds.

When Maggie set foot on the paved path, inhaling the heady scent of greenery around her, she forgot all about her windblown hair and the strong sense of restlessness that had haunted her for the duration of the drive.

“What a delightful place this is!” the countess exclaimed, looking around them. “I had quite forgotten its loveliness. There is, one finds, quite a marked difference in manners and society when one ventures out into nature on a sunny day. It is all very refreshing. You must be our guide, Sir Lucian. I charge you with bringing to light everything most charming and interesting.”

The composer laughed and inclined his head. “I should be honoured, Madame la Comtesse.”

Maggie glanced away from the compelling scenery only to find Hart’s blue eyes fixed on her face. His expression was piercing and vaguely curious, and Maggie shivered, before rejoining the conversation.

“Indeed, no. It is you who honours us, Sir Lucian. This was a most splendid idea.”

At those words, Lord Hartley looked away and took some snuff. He offered his elegant lapis lazuli snuffbox to the other gentleman with a raised eyebrow.

“I notice, Hartley, that you do not offer me a pinch of the stuff,” his aunt said dryly. “It isn’t very well-bred to disapprove of one’s aunt’s favourite indulgence so.”

“No indeed, aunt. But one’s instinct suggests that it is easier than having to explain matters to one’s mother.”

The countess smacked his arm lightly with her closed fan. “Oh, nonsense. I am as hale and hearty as ever I was. A pinch of snuff won’t change a thing. And my sister would do well to remember that.”

They began their tour at the
orangerie
and glasshouses. Maggie thought it was the most exciting part. She felt as if she were exploring some untamed far-away jungle, or a land directly out of fairy stories. Surely, any moment a tiger would come leaping out of the greenery: magnificent and fierce.

There were coffee plants, oranges and limes, pomegranates, delicate banana trees, and myriad other exotic plants besides. The mixed scent of all the trees made the air fresh and sweet.

The building itself was another wonder. It, too, felt like a crystal palace out of legend, with glass panels and a glazed roof. It was vast, light and warm.

“Some of the panels open up to create ventilation,” Sir Lucian told her, catching the expression of wonder on her face. He was visibly proud of the architectural masterpiece surrounding them.

As they strolled down the muggy paths, Maggie felt more and more that they were in a mysterious tropical paradise. It wanted only exotic birds and other strange animals to complete the tableau.

She longed suddenly to read her way through a stack of travel journals, as she had often done when she had been younger.

When she voiced these thoughts out loud, their guide gave her a most delighted smile.

“You enjoy reading of travel? Then I must credit your impeccable taste.”

“Oh, yes very much. Though good taste does not signify
there
, I’m afraid. I think that I should have liked to have been a traveller myself, in the style of Mrs Wollstonecraft. But this time I was thinking in particular of Monsieur de La Condamine’s travels to the equator and Peru. I have read it so many times that I expect I could easily recite it.”

“Indeed, I remember you reading that in England once,” Hart remarked with a soft smile. “It was a particularly dreary winter day, as I recall, and you said you had no taste for Sir Walter Scott when the weather was so unconscionable. I suggested you read Mr Swift, but you picked up a journal instead.”

Maggie met his gaze with great surprise. She remembered that day perfectly. The howling wind outside, the sweetness of the mulled wine, her soft shawl, and the sight of Hart, reading on the other side of the fire. Her world had felt complete just for having him share with her that little world.

But it had never occurred to her that that winter evening had been anything out of the common way for him. She hadn’t thought that he’d paid the least attention to what she chose to read. She was very much affected by this little shred of memory.

“The journal served as a perfect escape into the sunshine. But I fear I have no taste for Mr Swift’s writing whatever the weather,” she explained.

“An escape? I can well imagine. And do you often read of escapes?” he asked softly.

Maggie wondered if he was asking her more than his words implied. “I often read of travel, Lord Hartley. I think, perhaps, I haven’t the right kind of temperament to keep a residence in one place for very long, and it helps me imagine all the places I should like to visit. I have read of the marvels to be seen in Russia and Italy, where I have always wanted to go. And Sweden, perhaps.”

“That wouldn’t be Mrs Wollstonecraft, again?” Sir Lucian asked.

“Indeed.”

“Well, I think it is most admirable!” the Countess de St Mercy said, twirling her parasol. “One does not often meet with ladies who have the slightest interest in things outside of Fashionable Society. I am certain that, were we travelling beyond the bounds of Paris today, you would have been our guide, Marguerite. I own I have never read much in the way of travel, and wouldn’t have the faintest notion where to go.”

They continued walking along the narrow
orangerie
path as Maggie shook her head ruefully.

“Oh, I greatly doubt I have read so much as that. I’d be a very poor guide. I am sure I’d only get us lost.”

“And would that be so very bad, do you think?” Hart asked softly behind her, so that only she would hear.

Would it? Maggie hesitated a moment. She thought of getting lost in the wilderness, with only Hart for company. The one man she loved despite all reason. Her heart twisted strangely as she wondered what he could possibly have meant by posing such a question. Could it be that he was starting to feel for her what she had so long felt for him? But no, surely that was just her imagination again.

Always her silly imagination.

Getting lost with the Marquess of Hartley was easily the most hazardous thing she could imagine.

“Very,” she replied just as quietly, knowing with her whole heart that it was so.

*

Sir Lucian proved to be an excellent guide. He was able to name the plants on display and explain grafting, seeds and the various climate preferences of some of the garden’s many denizens. His explanations were interesting without ever being tiresome.

Maggie could not help but enjoy the verdant splendour of it all. She thought that she would very much like to have such a glasshouse in her own home one day. It was a way of keeping summer within reach even on the dreariest winter day.

Sir Lucian seemed to notice her enjoyment. “Perhaps one day I will have the honour of showing you the
orangerie
at Allingford, my estate. It is frequently open for visitors since my father’s passing. My head gardener, Mr Sharpe, loves nothing so much as conducting tours of the grounds, which he has been meticulously sculpting over the last forty years.”

Maggie was warmed by the invitation, finding that she would very much have liked to see Allignford, though she could not imagine ever returning to England.

“That is a kindness indeed,” she said.

“Not at all. Why, I should be delighted to show you the estate myself. Though I own I do not know it as well as Mr Sharpe – I think that no one does. That glasshouse is not quite so impressive as this one, of course, but the architecture is very clever. My mother had some fountains installed within, and an open area, so that she might have parties in the winter and the rain.”

“That is clever – how splendid such a room would be in the colder months. Pray, how do they keep it so warm when the frost hits? Last year’s winter felt as though it would never end,” Maggie said, taking in the vast building around her.

“It is quite simple once you know the trick of it: they have a stove installed, Madame – it is very delicate work regulating the temperature, of course, but one must do one’s best.”

Maggie nodded.

“I am certain that must take a lot of care.” Not to mention a veritable fortune, she thought, considering how much wood one would need to keep such a vast chamber warm.

“Certainly – but my head gardener is a most efficient fellow and I find it well worth the expense.”

“Indeed, my father had considered having such a thing put in, but he was not a very domestic man. He decided in the end that he did not wish to have to frank all that glass,” Hartley said affably. “But you have the right of it, Blake. One should never spare the expense of an English gardener and a French
cuisinier
: it makes all the difference, I find.”

“Well said!” the countess laughed.

Sir Lucian inclined his head in agreement before offering Maggie his arm to lead her to the rose exhibit. She did not look at Hartley as she quit the glasshouse.

*

The roses were easy to locate: they simply followed the delightful scent of dozens of blooms, which perfumed the warm air.

Even as she took in the splendid exhibition, Maggie was very aware of the Marquess of Hartley and the strange tension that coiled in her stomach whenever she looked at him. She watched him carefully, stealing glances and trying to establish what could have put her so much on edge. He looked handsome, it was true. But that was nothing unusual. And he was perfectly, infuriatingly genteel in his manners and conversation.

Maggie would have preferred it if he were odious: that way, she would have had a good reason to be angry at him. As it were, he made a point of shadowing Maggie’s footsteps by engaging Sir Lucian in a conversation about growing pineapples. Pineapples! Maggie did not for a moment think that Hartley was even remotely interested in the dratted things. He was teasing her. He was playing a game, that much was obvious. But what were the rules?

The countess observed their interactions with a great deal of amusement, Maggie noticed. No doubt, she thought the lot of them overdue a stay at Bedlam.

In the centre of the circular rose garden, Monsieur Andre Thouin, the director of the gardens, was mingling among the visitors, enjoying pleasant conversation and the copious praise he was receiving for such a glorious display. He was flushed from all the admiration, and when he spotted Sir Lucian, he made a point of coming over to extend a personal welcome.

“How good of you to come to my little exhibition, Blake. I’m confident you will truly appreciate the collection – there is a very striking Rosa
pimpinellifolia
just in bloom,” the elderly gentleman said, indicated a prickly shrub of cream roses with only five petals to each flower. “I had wondered if you would come. I must also tell you that I had very recently had occasion to enjoy one of your compositions, performed at the music school.”

“Then it is only right that I should now enjoy your work in turn,” Sir Lucian said with a polite bow, before making a round of introductions. “My friends are most curious to see what treasures the
jardin
has to offer.”