The Bride Behind the Curtain (2 page)

And she'd let him. She'd let him, and she'd never say a word to anyone. She might even lean back and rest her head against his shoulder and sigh to let him know . . . let him know . . .

“. . . because despite your insults, you're a gentleman, and you won't take advantage of a guest,” Lady Helene was saying firmly.

“Are you sure?” answered Marcus.

“Yes.” Adele heard the other girl's breath hitch. What was Marcus doing out there? Probably looming. Marcus looming was a famously disconcerting sight. “You're trying to intimidate me,” Lady Helene went on, confirming Adele's suspicions of looming behavior. “But you are not a cad.”

“You're quick to judge as well.” Marcus sighed. “Unfortunately, you happen to be right. I do, however, find it interesting that someone who so openly prides herself on her rebellion cares when she's seen coming and going.”

“My pride is not the sticking point here. You, m'lord, do not want me causing talk and disturbance at your aunt's party, something we both know I'm quite capable of.”

That actually made Marcus go silent. Adele could picture him out there, staring down at this young girl who was displaying such unusual nerve. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “You will do me the favor of finding your book quickly, Miss Fitzgerald. I have business that needs doing here.”

“I will do my best. Please go now.”

“Your servant, Lady Helene.”

Marcus stomped across the floor. Lady Helene whispered something Adele could not catch. The door opened. The door closed.

Lady Helene sighed sharply. There was a rustle of fabric. Probably she was going to the shelf to find that book.

“She might be a while,” murmured M. Beauclaire. “I hope you are in no hurry.”

No.

“I most certainly am not.”

The next sound surprised her so, Adele started. M. Beauclaire pressed his hands down on her shoulders, holding her firmly in place.

It was the sound of the lock being turned.

“It's all right. You can come out now,” said Lady Helene.

Adele froze. Embarrassment flooded through her, but fast on its heels came a sense of loss. She did not want to come out. She wanted to stay in the dark. If she stepped out, M. Beauclaire might see who she really was, and how she really looked. She didn't want that.

She didn't want to have to stop touching him.

I'm a wanton. I'm indecent.

“Oh, honestly.” Adele was quite certain from her tone that Lady Helene was rolling her eyes. “You needn't be afraid, Lady Adele.” At the sound of her name, Adele felt M. Beauclaire stir uneasily, and some part of Adele's spirits shriveled inside. “I've got rid of your brother, and the door's locked,” Helene went on. “Do come out.”

“Go, m'lady,” breathed James Beauclaire. “I will find you later.”

No, you won't. Because now you know I am Patience's fat spinster sister.
In her mind, Adele gathered up her heart and nerves, which seemed to have dropped into her slippers. She also drew back the curtain the tiniest bit and slid sideways. Although it took every ounce of strength she had, Adele did not look back as she let the draperies fall closed. She hoped Lady Helene would think the color blazing in her cheeks came from being caught in the childish act of hiding from her brother.

The Fitzgeralds were among the guests invited only for the two days surrounding the New Year's ball, as opposed to the exclusives included in the entire two-week affair that was Christmas at Windford. So far, Adele had only seen the notorious Lady Helene from a distance. Up close, she proved to be a tall, slender young woman. She'd pulled her dark chestnut hair into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Her dress was severe, too, and plain dark blue. Her most striking feature was amber eyes so bright they seemed to glow with their own hard light.

She had the workbasket Adele had dropped in the hallway earlier, and she put it unceremoniously into Adele's hands. “What on earth were you doing back there?”

Dying.
No. I wasn't. I was living, just for a moment.
“Hiding from my sister.”

“As well as from your brother? Not that I blame you. Well, come on.” Helene started for the door.

“What?”
With you?
Helene had been rather obviously ignoring everyone in the house since she and her family arrived. Well, almost everyone. Adele had seen her sitting with quiet little Madelene Valmeyer. She remembered thinking it was a terribly odd pairing—the shyest girl in the haut ton with its most scandalous bluestocking. “Why?”

“Because if we're seen leaving together no one will think I was doing anything untoward in here with your brother. Or that you were . . . whatever it was you were doing behind that curtain.” Helene frowned. “It was your idea to be back there, wasn't it?”

Adele's throat clamped shut. This unnerving girl knew M. Beauclaire, or at least some man, waited behind the curtain, and she thought he and Adele had been . . . been . . .

A whole host of utterly unseemly pictures blossomed in Adele's mind, and she thrust them aside. She also noticed that Helene wasn't lecturing, or laughing, or saying a word about ruin and reputation. She just wanted to know if it had been Adele's own decision to be in that particular position.

How extraordinary.

So extraordinary, in fact, that Adele found herself stunned into an entirely truthful reply. “Yes. It was my idea.”

“That's all that matters, then.”

But Adele barely noticed this reply. She was too caught up in the realization that M. Beauclaire was listening to every word. Now he would know beyond all doubt that she'd wanted to stay with him, that she was shocking and wanton and . . .

And fat and plain and wearing a dress of puce wool and frills.

“We should go. Your brother indicated most firmly he would be back soon.”

Helene's tone made Adele look at her again. Adele was accustomed to observing people. She had little else to do at the social events where she was condemned to sit by the wall while Patience flirted and fascinated. Now, she observed Helene's hard eyes and brazen stance and saw it was all armor. Lady Helene was shielding herself from something. Adele also found time to note that as brusque and brittle as Helene might appear, she had not only efficiently gotten Marcus out of the way, but she'd avoided embarrassing Adele by speaking directly of M. Beauclaire in hiding.

These were acts of genuine kindness. They were, in fact, the actions of a friend, or at least a sympathizer.

“Thank you, Lady Helene,” Adele said.

Lady Helene shrugged.

“I'll see you tonight?”

Helene lifted her chin. “You may look by the wall. You will always find me at home there.”

Mon Dieu,
Beauclaire.
James ran one hand through his black hair.
What kind of fortune hunter are you?

James had accepted the invitation to the party at Windford Park with a definite purpose in mind. He would use these two weeks to captivate the beautiful Lady Patience Endicott. Her brother, Marcus, had inherited the title of Duke of Windford several years ago, after their father's early, and scandalous, demise. At the time, the family was in dire straits, with the estate mired in debt, and much of what they'd once owned lost to gambling and careless speculation.

Since then the new duke had turned things around in a remarkable fashion. Not that James had ever doubted he could do it, but still, the utter determination with which Marcus had thrown himself into the task was a surprise. True, not everyone agreed with his decisions. He sold unentailed land and invested in the new steam manufactories springing up in the north. He built a pottery on his property in Cornwall and gave the management of it not to a relation, but to his former steward.

Society might click its collective tongue, but no one could argue with the results. Windford was now thriving, and the family's fortune had not only been restored, but increased. The world had begun to speculate on how this would affect his sisters' dowries, and those, like James, who were interested in a rich match, were beginning to stir.

With all this in his mind, James had accepted the invitation with alacrity. He had dressed himself in his best London fashions, and he had liberally displayed the charm and the wit that had made him a welcome guest across London society. So far, he seemed to have enjoyed a measure of success. There was only one problem. The more he saw of Lady Patience, the less he wanted to see. It had gotten so bad that instead of spending the hour before it was time to dress for the ball in Patience's company, he was here, hiding behind a curtain.

Hiding behind a curtain where he was tumbled upon by her sister.

James drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, like a boy. He had shared this—admittedly very large and rambling—country house with Lady Adele for almost two weeks, and yet he could not recall actually speaking with her before she'd burst so delightfully onto his little hiding place. He'd barely glimpsed her at the various suppers and card games and little informal musical gatherings that made up Mrs. Kearsely's entertainments. She was never in the parlor set aside for the “young people.” When those young people spoke of her, it was always accompanied by some mockery or pitying talk of a plump and pathetic girl destined for spinsterhood.

That hardly matched the girl he'd had such an intriguing encounter with. His arms were still warm from the press of her lush curves. She was clearly an innocent, and yet she was daring enough not to flee when she should have. He remembered the eyes that had looked up at him, filled with the silver light reflected from the snow outside. What color were they? As close as James had been to her, the shadows made it impossible to tell.

He'd covered her mouth to keep her silent and had only released her when he realized that if he did not, his fingers would begin tracing the shape of her full mouth, caressing her cheek and her throat. Just the thought of her melting against him in desire's silent welcome had his cock stirring restlessly in his breeches.

Like it did now, as he contemplated their stolen moment. With a mild curse, James unfolded himself and stood. He needed to get out of here. Windford would be back at any moment. James had a glancing friendship with the duke, but Windford also knew James's own precarious financial position, so he needed to step carefully. He could hardly raise the subject of either sister with the duke, but James had no friends in this house he could trust to remain discreet about any questions he did ask.

Except perhaps one.

***

“
Ça va
, Benedict?” James's voice echoed as he stepped into the ballroom. “How goes the masterwork?”

“Almost ready, as you see.” Benedict Pelham sat back on his heels and contemplated the massive chalk drawing that stretched across the polished floor. Gaily colored birds of all sorts flocked between enormous holly wreaths. An enormous tree in the center had yet more birds peeping from its branches. The work had occupied Benedict for days and taken a considerable toll on his appearance. His white smock and leather breeches were smeared with color, as were his long hands. Red and green had gotten into his gold hair, and blue streaks stretched across his stubbled jaw. All in all, thought James, his friend looked like he'd gotten into a brawl with a drunken rainbow.

“Your patience amazes me. Especially for something that will be destroyed in five minutes.” Such murals served a dual purpose. First, they contributed to the grand scene when the ballroom doors were thrown open. Second, the chalk kept the guests' shoes and silk slippers from sliding as they danced. As soon as the dancing began, however, this magnificent drawing would become nothing but a colored blur.

“It doesn't matter how long it lasts,” said Benedict as he rubbed distractedly at his jaw, smearing it with gray and green. “Good work is never wasted.”

Statements like this were why most of his acquaintances thought Benedict too serious to be endured, and were only one of many reasons why James liked the man. “I am sure you are right. Good work is not something I am much acquainted with.”

James spoke lightly, but Benedict contemplated him in a way that said he knew how much the trivial tone disguised. That was another reason many of James's acquaintances preferred to avoid Benedict Pelham. He saw much more than was comfortable. Indeed, James felt his gaze shift away from the other man's, and from the mural, toward the musicians' gallery.

“You know you are observed?” he remarked, but Benedict's attention was now absorbed by one of the paper sketches for this section of mural.

“You are mistaken.”

“No, I don't believe so.” There was very clearly a fold of demure blue skirt peeping out from the edge of the green curtains.

“There is no one there,” Benedict said firmly. “I have already checked.”

“Ah. It is merely my imagination, then.” But privately, James wondered if that might not be Lady Adele up there. He'd been unable to make out the color of her dress earlier. It could have been blue. She might have waited in some corner as he left the library and stolen in here to see something more of him.

As flattering as that possibility might be, it was also frustrating in the extreme. He couldn't talk openly with Benedict while Lady Adele, or anyone else, was listening. Still, he could let her know he thought well of her, despite their unusual introduction.

“Did you need something?” asked Benedict, a little pointedly. “I'll be late getting dressed as it is, and Mrs. Kearsely has been very clear that she wants me to show off to her guests.” Benedict Pelham was actually Lord Benedict, the second son of the Marquis of Innesdale, and he once had been the most feted portrait painter England. This was enough to make him an object of curiosity. But he had only recently returned to both painting and society, which made him a prize catch for the Windford party, and its dance floor.

“I wanted to ask you, Benedict. Do you know the elder of Windford's sisters?”

Now Benedict did look up, and sharply. “You mean Lady Adele?”

“
Mais oui
.”

“Not personally. She's generally regarded as a pleasant, sensible girl.” Benedict's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

James shrugged, both at the faint praise and the question. “I have seen but a little of her. I have, though, thought her . . .”
What?
“Interesting, intelligent.”
Intriguing, desirable.
“It would be most enjoyable to make her better acquaintance.”

Benedict laid aside his sketch and stood up. They were almost of a height, although James was the broader of the pair. “A word of advice, James,” said Benedict. “Do not trifle with Lady Adele.”

“Why not? Are you interested in her for yourself?”

“No,” said Benedict simply. “But I've been watching you, and I know you're . . . exploring the possibilities of you and Lady Patience. I understand that money is needed to live, and I understand that a man without active occupation may be driven to marry his fortune . . .”

“Such superiority is easy for those who have no dependents,” shot back James.

“Perhaps.” Benedict paused. “James, too much has passed between us for you to mistake my intentions when speaking plain. Lady Patience plays society's games with alacrity. Lady Adele is different. She has been wounded, deeply. I would not see her enduring further hurt if there is something I can do about it.”

“If you were any other man, I'd be insulted.” Benedict did not blink at this, nor make any move to apologize. James nodded once. “But as you say,
mon frère
, there is too much between us for that. Your intentions are honorable, and you may be assured I hear all you say.”

“That's good.” Benedict settled himself back down on the floor and adjusted his paper sketches to fresh angles. “Now, forgive me, but I must get back to work.”

“Of course, of course.” James bowed, but Benedict's attention was already fully occupied with selecting exactly the right stick of gray chalk to complete the shadow beneath a soaring dove.

As James turned toward the ballroom doors, he glanced casually toward the musicians' gallery. The telltale fold of blue fabric was gone. James smiled and stepped out into the antechamber, closing the door softly behind himself.

He was not left to his thoughts for more than a heartbeat, however. “Why, Monsieur Beauclaire!” Lady Patience's lilting voice drifted through the oak-paneled chamber. “There you are! I was beginning to think you'd ridden off and left us!”

Lady Patience Endicott was an acknowledged beauty, being tall and golden with a slim figure that was set off to perfection by the current fashion of high-waisted gowns. The one she wore now was in fact quite fetching.

It was also a surprisingly demure shade of blue.

“How could I think of leaving with all the delights of the New Year's ball before me?” James bowed and bestowed a mildly flirtatious look on her, but inside he knew a moment of appalling panic. What if it had been
Patience
concealed in the gallery?

Approval flashed in Lady Patience's famous cornflower blue eyes. “Oh, I'm so glad
someone's
looking forward to it. I've done my best, but I fear it will all be intolerably dull!” Patience sighed with sophisticated disappointment. She also stood just a little too close for perfect propriety. Relief washed through him. If Patience had overheard what Benedict said, she'd be fuming, not flirting. James found himself able to relax and smile in return.

“Whether a party is dull depends entirely on the company.” Even as he said it, he was caught by the memory of Lady Adele and the warmth of her body pressed against his.

“I'm sure I should never feel dull if you were with me.” Lady Adele's slender, polished sister moved a half step closer, and suddenly, James saw himself for what he was—the shallowest possible cad.

But he had begun this, and he could not stop. He had to smile and keep smiling, and let his eyes slip sideways in a sly, hinting way. Before James could utter a suitably witty reply, though, footsteps sounded down the adjoining corridor, and Eustace Kendall hurried into the antechamber.

“Oh, Miss Patience!” he called. “I was hoping I might find you.”

“Oh, Mister Kendall, I was hoping you wouldn't.” Lady Patience laughed, and the poor boy smiled to hear it.

“There's a game of shuttlecock happening in the front hall, something to do 'til the gong rings, don't you see? Jolly good fun, but another team's needed. I thought perhaps you and I . . .”

“Oh dear. How kind. But as you see, I am engaged with Monsieur Beauclaire.” Patience took another step closer to James.

“Ah, but it is very fortunate that Monsieur Kendall should come along just now.” James smiled politely at the other man. “I was just about to tell Lady Patience how she must excuse me. A matter of business has come up, and I find myself with a series of the most fatiguing letters to write.”

“Write them later. I am half dead with boredom. No one here has any conversation at all, except you.” She did not even glance at the crestfallen Mr. Kendall as she said this, but made her eyes wide and pleading at James. She also laid a soft, white hand on his arm, invitation plain in her whole attitude. And yet, as James looked at her, all he could think of was those other eyes, bright with moonlight and surprise, that whispering voice, half intrigued, half afraid.

“I am flattered, but this business will not wait.” James took her arm and walked her across to Mr. Kendall, laying her limp hand on the younger man's arm. Kendall grinned broadly, unable to believe his luck. “I commend m'lady to your care, sir, and your shuttlecock game.”

James felt the poison in Patience's sparkling gaze all the way down the hall.

***

There was indeed a series of letters waiting on the writing desk in James's room. They were not, however, about business. James lit the candles with a spill from the fireplace and picked up one he had opened.

My Dear Brother James
, he read, yet again. The letter was in French, and the familiar syllables flowed pleasantly through his mind, even though their meaning did not.

I will spare you the preliminaries. I am in good health, and I must assume you are the same, this despite the fact you are locked up in one of these freezing country houses where everyone must court cold and the chilblains and other such unpleasantness.

What I need to know is, when are you coming home? Mother is doing as well as may be expected, but when she is in one of her attacks, she loses her English, and the nurses cannot be made to understand what she needs. I will need you to return here soon and take charge so that I can do my work. The bill collectors are becoming most insistent, and their letters begin to speak of the courts. The little season will begin before too many more weeks, and that is my busiest time. While our creditors will be glad of that, it means I cannot be much at home. “Madame Flaubert” will not permit me to leave once the serious orders begin, the termagant. How I long for the day when I may open my own establishment! The monstrosities she makes these poor girls wear! And all the while insisting it is the latest thing from Paris! Paris should sue her for slander.