The Disdainful Marquis (19 page)

“Oh no.” She shook her head. They were standing so close to each other that he could feel the ends of her curls tickle his cheek. “I could not borrow from you, Your Lordship….”

“Sinjun,” he whispered, pulling her closer.

She resisted his embrace and went on in a small voice, “For I don't know when I could pay you back. Even though you are being so charitable, it would not be right of me to take your money. No, it would not be fitting. I can wait until March, truly I can. It is just that it is good to have someone I can talk to. Someone who understands.”

“Why, there is no need for paying me back, little Catherine,” he said gruffly, again wishing she would drop this game, and wondering if their whole relationship would be filled with this tedious denial of the truth. Would he have to ease her to bed above little halfhearted protests? Remove her garments, all the while quieting her sham of maidenly terrors? Would he have to put up with this mockery of innocence even as he bedded her? It would grow boring. He knew there were men who enjoyed simulated force in their amorous adventures, but he was not one of them. He wanted wholehearted cooperation. And so he sought to disabuse her of the notion and put an end to the charade.

“Little Catherine,” he said, raising her chin with his hand and looking straight into her enormous eyes, “you would earn the lot.” And seeing her eyes grow wider, he said quickly, “But I would, I promise, try not to make it a hardship. And I am generous. Although I usually prefer relationships that are open at both ends and can grow into long-standing ones, I am pressed for time. So I shall settle as much upon you for a few days of pleasure as I usually do for a few months. For it will not be your fault that we cannot continue. And though I do not pride myself upon being the answer to every maiden's prayers, I know I can be far more congenial than either of the Richards. You will find it more than pleasant, little one, I assure you. I have wanted you for a long time, and I know that you have not been unaware of me. So let's have an end to dickering. I will pay you—” He paused and then named a sum which he knew was more than generous, more in fact, than he had wanted to pay, but he was unsettled by the strange quietness in the room. “And I promise you will not have to exert yourself to earn it. Now, it grows late. Come, we'll go back to my rooms, and you will see for yourself how delicious it will be.”

He drew her closer, bent his head, and kissed her lightly, and then, as he lost himself in the deepening kiss, he became aware of pain. For she was tugging sharply at his hair.

He released her abruptly. She was staring at him in horror.

“How could you?” she shrilled.

His thoughts reeled. Had she expected more? But that would be impossible—no man would pay more. Not even Louis himself.

“You are as bad as those others.” She wept freely now, the cosmetics running across her cheeks, making her seem, not ridiculous, he thought, but somehow even more childlike.

“No, worse,” she cried, pulling free of him and rushing to the door, “for you said you understood. And I trusted you.”

“But what is it that you want?” he asked, standing alone and confused.

“I want to go home,” she sobbed, and ran out the door.

The marquis did not go after her. He simply stood and stared after her, and then aimed a fierce kick at a chair, sending it flying.

What was her game, he wondered, savagely angry at her and at himself. Why should she come to this party painted like a doll and gowned like merchandise in a window if she were not looking for trade? Why should she be in the trail of the Dirty Duchess at all? Or thick as thieves with two other low tarts, if she were not what she appeared to be? And why should she maneuver so shamelessly to charm the coins out of his pockets? Somewhere, deep in his fury, the marquis felt the dim remembered pain of his past. He had been wrong before. Devastatingly wrong. And had sworn never to be so shortsighted with women again. But this time, how could he have been wrong? For it was not his perception alone.

How could he have been wrong when all the signs, all the world, and even she herself, in her request for money, had told him, unerringly, that he was right?

Chapter X

The duchess sulked for a day. She went on at tea about ungrateful little wretches, she complained at dinner about green little pieces, and went to bed grumbling about wicked, deceiving, brass-faced little hussies. But by the next day, when ever more invitations poured in, she had forgotten her anger at Catherine. For the chit was the talk of the town, and everyone had gotten a look at her, and wanted more, and then she had just disappeared.

The duchess was mollified when the spate of invitations flowed in. She had been a success, she knew it. What was it the Frenchies called her? Ah yes, “The Duchess of Crewe, le succés fou.” A crazy success, that was it. That was one thing with these foreigners, she thought, pleased beyond her expectations at the evident splash she had made, there was no prudishness about them. No whispered condemnations. No sly little jibes. They took her to be a woman of the world. And a great many gentlemen had bent over her hand and looked at her with frank admiration. That was just as it ought to be, she sighed, holding the invitations as though they were a winning hand at cards. For though she had no interest in gentlemen any longer, nor indeed ever had for that matter, it was delightful to be so famous. When she at last returned home, there would be no more snickering. She would be such a success on the Continent that she would have to be admired not only in her own set, but in the highest circles in the land.

When Catherine crept in the next day, pale and shaken, the duchess only smiled at her benignly, all rancor forgotten. “Get some rest, gel,” she said pleasantly, “for we're going to a levee tomorrow night and I want my gels looking their best.” And she waved Catherine a royal dismissal.

Catherine walked slowly back to her room, where she had hidden herself since the D'Arcy ball. She was in desperate case, she knew, but she could not see her way clear yet.

How was she to get out of this coil? she mourned. She would not beg Violet and Rose for funds, she swore; she must not. For that would make her, in her own eyes at least, as culpable as they were. She must find a way to tolerate this life at least for a few more weeks, at least till mid March, when her quarterly salary came due. For she knew the duchess would not advance her a penny to go home, but surely, when the time came, her employer would be honor bound to pay her justly earned wages.

She tried not to think of the marquis. For when he had followed her to that empty room where she had sought refuge, she had looked into his eyes and honestly thought she had found honesty there. And so she had, but not in the way she wanted. He had said he understood; he had neither said nor done anything untoward. And had asked for her confidence. He was the only safe refuge, she had thought. And so, like a fool, she had told him her true situation. And discovered that he still thought her no more than a conniving light-skirts. And, she thought, in sorrow, how could she blame him? Her cheeks still reddened when she imagined the construction he had put upon her telling him of her need for money.

But he had seemed so genuinely friendly and caring. She had looked into the depths of those softened gray eyes and had wanted him to take all her problems on his own broad shoulders. Worse, she remembered, when he had kissed her, for one tiny moment of time, she had wondered what it would be like to stay in his arms, to stay close to him, and go on further with him to taste the “delicious” experiences he promised her. It was as the Vicar had cautioned her—that if she stayed with her companions, she would become as one with them. And so, she told herself sharply, she had.

She had worn cosmetics and a gown that would have sent Arthur and Jane to the top of the boughs. She had danced with every lecherous gentleman who had leered at her, and capped the whole thing by complaining to the marquis that she had no funds, almost forcing his offer to her. She must, she knew, get away before she actually became as Rose and Violet were. For if she had doubted that such an impossible thing could ever come to pass, she had only to remember the moment she had stayed, drowned in pleasure, in the marquis' embrace. How long before staying with him would seem like the only sane thing to do? She must go.

And if, she told herself strictly, staring at herself in the glass, she had to put up with insults, with sly appraisals, with comments about her condition, then she had merited it. She had brought it upon herself, and if, as a consequence, she suffered for it, that was all to the good. It would be a fit punishment for her. It would have been far better to have taken the ship on its turnabout journey home, once she had known about the duchess's companions and the life they led, than to have stayed and exposed herself to such an existence. Better, she thought, to have begged and scraped her way home alone than to go on in luxury under a false flag.

By the time that Rose and Violet came to her room for their usual afternoon tea, Catherine felt herself to be under control. And when Violet said, with a sneer, that Catherine had gotten herself quite a following, Catherine stood, and said firmly, “There has to be an understanding between us. I did not want this. I do not want this. If I could, I would leave now. But,” she added, raising her hand in denial, “I want to make it clear that I want no charity, Rose. Nor any sympathy, for I've gotten myself into this coil. But, if you would be so kind, could you try to bear with me till a few more weeks go by? Then I shall take my quarterly earnings and go home, straightaway, as I should have weeks ago. Till then, please just try to accept me as I am, as I promised to accept you. And if you would, try, as you promised, to discourage any gentlemen that ask after me. Now let's forget about it. I have only to wait and let time pass, and it will all go right.”

At first, it did. The next night, at the levee the duchess had promised them to, Catherine had to use all her resources to stay afloat. The gentlemen ogled her as before, and the ladies stole speculative glances at her. When the duchess went to the card room and Rose and Violet vanished with their own quarries, Catherine found herself pursued by the gentlemen again. She refused to dance, telling all who asked her that she had turned her ankle. But that only netted her a circle of admiring men, all vying to procure her a drink or tidbits or to keep her company. It was, she thought, better than having to dance, and the number of men who surrounded her ensured her safety from unwelcome suggestions as to her future.

She had worn a very conservative, almost demure gown and had refused Rose and Violet's offers of cosmetics, and so when she recognized the marquis as he strolled by her complement of admiring suitors, she raised her chin and met his eyes, unblinking and unmoved. He smiled at her and shrugged and then turned to his companion, a lovely Frenchwoman, and walked on. She felt a hollow glow of pride in herself and went on chatting with a very young, very charming Frenchman.

But toward the end of the evening, her dancing partner of the previous affair appeared. Pierre Richard seemed agitated when he saw her among her coterie of admirers, and stared hard at her and frowned. But then she noted that a smallish dark-haired man in conservative dress plucked at his arm and engaged him in conversation with many a smile and nod in her direction. This seemed to soothe him, and Catherine saw the rest of the evening out with relief, with nothing but a great deal of conversation filled with innuendos to parry.

At an émigré English couple's house party the following evening, Catherine saw both Richard brothers again. They seemed to exchange harsh words, and then each retreated to opposite corners of the room, from which they glowered at her separately throughout the evening. Really, she thought, it would be amusing—they were making such cakes of themselves in their admiration for her and their hatred for each other—if it were not for the fact that, separately, each had the power to frighten her very badly. They were like two overgrown evil children squabbling over a desired toy. But there was no dancing that night, so she could stay well away from both of them. The small dark man was there as well again, and he seemed to spend an equal amount of time with each brother, as did, Catherine noted through exaggeratedly careless glances, the marquis.

They met again at many parties and fetes as the days spun by. The same set of people seemed to revolve constantly about each other. When a fresh face appeared, everyone converged upon it with alacrity. Now she knew why the duchess and her followers had been greeted with such extreme admiration. For surely, Catherine thought, it was a very small world they allowed themselves, and since they insisted on partying constantly, and with the same persons, any newcomers must be met with joy.

By careful maneuvering, Catherine saw to it that she was always surrounded by gentlemen. It was difficult to smile and pretend coy pleasure in the face of their incessant compliments, but it seemed to keep her safely away from any individual proposals. Her admirers ranged from callow young English boys residing in France for their education to dissipated roués who seemed to know her game very well. But all of them, by some miracle of fate, were content to beg only for her company at each affair. She could not know that they wagered nightly on the odds as to who the clever young doxy would eventually choose to be her protector.

The Richard brothers saw her many times after that night when they had each danced with her, but they no longer solicited her presence; rather, they watched her greedily from afar. The small dark man, she discovered, was a M. Beaumont. She learned that he was a person of some importance in the government, although his duties and title remained nebulous. Still, he was regarded by all with much awe and some fear. The marquis, she saw with an admixture of relief and dismay, no longer sought her out either, but only acknowledged her presence with a nod and a knowing smile. And each time she saw him, he was partnering a different but equally striking woman of the worldly sort. All the others whom she had met that first night in Paris she saw constantly as well.