Vixen in Velvet (33 page)

Away she went, a vision in lilac.

“You’ve won,” he said.

“Yes,” Leonie said. “Aren’t you glad?”

“If that’s meant to be a jest, it’s a cruel one,” he said. “A fortnight. I might have had a full two weeks alone with you, if only my fool cousin had waited one more day, curse him.”

She looked for the teasing note in his eyes, his voice. But no.

He must have realized because he gave a short laugh. “That’s being a bad sport, and I thought I wasn’t. But everything is . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “There, the music is starting. I’ll have my dance—and I’ll see what more I can accomplish.”

“If you make yourself very alluring,” she said, “I might grant you two dances.” She oughtn’t to, she knew. But she didn’t know how to resist temptation when it stood right in front of her.

He smiled. “Come here, you wicked girl. You’re too beautiful this night. Almost unbearably so. I can’t sustain my ill temper.”

“Come here?”
she said indignantly.

But he only laughed softly and drew her into his arms and then out onto the floor among the other dancing couples.

And then . . .

And then . . .

Magic.

It was as he’d told her. Compared to this brilliant gathering, Vauxhall was a single glowworm on a moonless night.

A grand company filled the splendid ballroom. Above their heads three great chandeliers hung from shallow domes, their myriad crystals shooting rainbow sparks. Below the glittering lights floated gowns in every variety of muslin and silk, in every shade of white and every color in nature. As at Vauxhall, the men were the chiaroscuro, with colors swirling about them. But this place offered more of every sight and sound and feeling. This was truly beautiful.

Instead of dozens, scores of dancers whirled about her. On this night the multicolored lights were precious jewels. Pearls and diamonds and sapphires and rubies and emeralds and every other color of stone sparkled in the ladies’ hair and at their ears and necks, upon their wrists and fingers, and over their gowns.

The music was heavenly, and under it flowed a sound like summer breezes and whispered secrets: the sibilance of muslin and silk in motion. Dancing this night was like dreaming, and the sound at times seemed like the rustle of bedclothes.

One of Lisburne’s gloved hands clasped her waist, the other her hand, and she moved into another realm of being. She’d danced with other men this evening, but it wasn’t the same. It could never be the same. She’d been aware of him from the first time she’d met him, potently, physically aware, and the awareness had only grown stronger, until it seemed to course in her veins and beat in her heart.

He’d made her his, and now she belonged to him, it seemed. Her intellect might claim otherwise, but her body wouldn’t listen. Her heart wouldn’t listen.

While they danced, he drew her nearer. If she were capable of listening to intellect, she’d have drawn a proper distance away. But she wanted to go where he led. She ached to twine herself with him, to feel his mouth on hers, his hands on her skin.

Never had he seemed more like a Roman god than now. He glittered as gods ought to do, the sparkling lights dancing about his head and shimmering in his green-gold eyes. When she dropped her gaze, because studying his face made her foolish and too unforgivably fanciful—he was only a man, after all—the emerald in his neckcloth twinkled at her.

She was distantly aware of Lady Gladys dancing with Lord Swanton, but they might as well have been in another world. Though guests filled the ballroom and spilled into adjoining rooms, they all seemed to be far away, far below her. Their feet remained solidly on the ground while she soared among the stars. Her heart was broken, and yet she couldn’t remember when last she’d been so happy.

Ah, yes, the last time she was in his arms.

“When you entered the ballroom, you took my breath away,” he said.

“All three of us at once is more than some minds can sustain with any degree of balance,” she said.

“I meant you,” he said. “The others might as well have been the curtains framing the window display.”

“Oh, very well,” she said. “You take my breath away, too. There isn’t a man here whose attire sets off my dress so well.”

“Actually, it’s I who set you off,” he said.

“Don’t underestimate your waistcoat,” she said.

He released a theatrical sigh. “Curse that Polcaire! And bless him! When I saw this white waistcoat I said, ‘Are you mad?
Ivory and gold?
Tonight?’ and he said he had a horror of my clashing. With whom, he didn’t say, but I reckon he knows, as he knows everything, being an oracle. Come out with me to garden.”

“Certainly not,” she said. “I know what happens in gardens during balls. Girls take leave of their senses. And their virtue.”

Not that she owned any of the last article. Yet some sense remained. If she gave herself to him again, she’d have to start all over again, trying to take herself back.

“You voice my fondest hopes,” he said. “Come. The dance is ending, the place is stifling, and half the company has slipped out for a breath of air. You must give me a chance to worm myself back into your good graces or . . . or I’ll run mad, Leonie.”

The music had stopped, but he held her hand.

“Whatever ails you, I promise you’ll recover,” she said, heart pounding.

“You of all women ought to know better than to judge by appearances,” he said. “You don’t believe I’m a desperate man because Polcaire won’t let my feelings show. Left to my own inclinations, I should not be so point-device. My hose should be ungartered, my sleeve unbuttoned, my shoe untied, and everything about me demonstrating a careless desolation. But I can’t, because my valet won’t allow it. All I can do—plague take the man, he can’t be meaning to dance with you!”

Lord Flinton was walking determinedly toward them.

“He’s had a terrific disappointment,” she said. “He’s trying the dance-with-every-girl-in-the-room cure.”

“Then by all means let’s get you out of the room,” Lisburne said.

His gloved hand clasping hers was warm, his hold firm.

She knew he’d let go if she resisted, but she was still in love.

And it was all very romantic, a night she’d remember, probably forever.

And she was, after all, a Noirot.

L
eonie made herself as invisible as possible—not easy with Lisburne in close proximity—but he seemed to know, too, how to pass smoothly through a crowd, acknowledging acquaintances, speaking to this one and that one, yet never really calling attention to himself or pausing for long on their way out of the ballroom. In any case, the house was in motion, guests coming to and from various rooms in search of refreshments or card games or even quiet conversation. She walked with him through the next room, small but spectacular. It was the work, he told her, of “Athenian” Stuart. The theme, Lisburne told her, was the Triumph of Love. She wanted to linger and gape at the gold-topped Corinthian columns and the copies of ancient paintings. A moment ago, she’d wanted to throw caution to the winds. A moment ago, she couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

But as soon as they’d entered this room, something changed. He stared for a long time at the chimneypiece frieze, a wedding scene.

Yet she continued with him down the stairs and out into the garden. Guests filled the terrace above and some wandered in the garden. It wasn’t large, not a fraction the size of the grounds of Clevedon House, though that stood in Charing Cross in the midst of warehouses and shops. The Warfords’ small green space contained an open oval area, within which glistened an ornamental pool. The area, squeezed between the imposing house and the Green Park’s border, was well lit for the festivities.

Still, sheltering trees and shrubbery screened it from public view, and in a path through the greenery Lisburne found a private place, and a pretty one, where a marble nymph hovered by a stone bench.

He sat beside her and took her hand again.

At that moment, every instinct told her she’d made a mistake. He hadn’t drawn her away for dalliance and sin.

She broke into a sweat and her heart raced, and she wanted to run away. Which was silly and cowardly. She told herself her imagination was running away with her, on account of the shock of finding herself among London’s haut ton and for once not waiting on them or measuring them.

She looked up at the marble figure. “A nymph,” she said, and her voice sounded unsteady.

“Yes. Leonie . . .”

Oh, there was a tone, a strange tone to his voice and it wasn’t steady, either.

“Or is she meant to be a muse?” she said lightly. “Isn’t it wonderful that the ancient Greeks had deities they’d summon for inspiration?” She lifted an imploring hand to the nymph.

Muse make the man thy theme, for shrewdness famed

And genius versatile, who far and wide

A Wand’rer, after Ilium overthrown,

Discover’d various cities, and the mind

And manners learn’d of men, in lands remote.

He numerous woes . . .

“. . . numerous woes . . .” She racked her brain, trying to remember the next lines, but there was only noise in her skull.

“Good gad, Leonie, how do you know these things?” he said.

She wanted to go on, about Jove and Calypso and . . . who else? But she couldn’t remember. She wasn’t calm enough, not calm at all, because he was . . . because this was . . . not what she’d supposed. Not the romantic interlude she’d envisioned—though she couldn’t say what this was or how she knew it, only that every Noirot instinct was on the alert, and urging her to run.

“I read a book once,” she said, fighting the urge to pull her hand away.

“Once,” he said. “How many dressmakers can quote from
The Odyssey
?”

“I had an education,” she said. “I read books. Not in Latin and Greek. Translations. Because I wanted something in my mind that wasn’t dressmaking or business. Something . . . beautiful.” And to her horror, her throat closed up.

“Like the Botticelli,” he said.

She nodded, afraid to speak because she was going to cry, which was so stupid. What had she to cry about, on this triumphant night of all nights?

“It’s yours,” he said. “And so am I. Entirely. I lo—”

“No!” She pulled away and jumped up, covering her ears. “No, no, no.”

“Leonie.”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head, her hands on her ears, like a child.

He took her hands from her ears and said, “Leonie, I love you.”

“No,” she said. “How can you? Oh, don’t do this. It’s not to be borne. I only wanted you for your body. And—and your handsome face. And, no really, it was only the Botticelli I wanted all along, and I’d have done anything or said anything—”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Marry me.”

She went cold all over. Then hot. She pulled away. “Are you completely insane?”

“I’ll recite poetry to you,” he said. “Even Homer. ‘Alike desirous, in her hollow grots/Calypso, Goddess beautiful detained/Wooing him to her arms.’ ”

“No! No!”

“I’ll recite even—heaven help me—Swanton,” he said. “Whatever you want. And you’ll have beautiful things. All the beautiful things you could want, my love, and I should be so happy to give them to you.”

He was going to make her weak. She’d melt into his arms. She’d lose her reason. She started away. He caught her arm.

“Listen to me,” he said.

“I can’t!” she said. “Don’t you understand? I can’t listen to you. You’re like—like the Sirens. I have responsibilities. You’ll make me forget them. We’ve lost Marcelline and Sophy. I’m all that’s left. If I leave, there’s nobody to hold it together.”

“The shop?” he said. “This is about the shop? Dammit, Leonie, don’t tell me it’s
business.
”

“It’s business!” she said. She waved her hands. “That’s who I am and what I am. It’s always been business. Lady Gladys and you and—and everybody. And I love my business. We all do. Nobody understands, especially not the men—and now . . .”

She couldn’t go on. The tears she refused to shed were choking her.

“I see,” he said, more quietly. “Of course. You can’t give up the shop.”

“Even for you,” she said, her voice clogged. “Even if I love you more than you could ever love me or anybody.”

“Even if,” he said.

She waved impatiently. “Oh, very well. I do love you. You must be blind and stupid if you don’t know. But maybe you’re so used to girls falling in love with you that you don’t even notice anymore.”

“Well, actually, I forgot what it was like, because they all started falling in love with Swanton,” he said. “To my very great chagrin.”

She looked up at him.

“Shall I take you home?” he said.

T
he look she gave him was almost comical.

He might have found it fully comical if he hadn’t been holding on to his composure by a thread.

“Unless you’d prefer to return to the party,” he said very calmly.

She shook her head. “No. I’ll have to pretend, and . . . Oh, Gemini, I’ve been screaming, haven’t I—and everybody will have heard. Wonderful. My first time in Society and I make a spectacle of myself.”

She covered her cheeks. He supposed they were hot. He wanted to put his hands there. Not only there. But he was desperate, not unintelligent.

He said, “Nobody can hear us over the music and chatter. And the chatter grows louder as the guests grow drunker. It’s a wonder they can hear themselves think. No one minds us. I can leave a message with one of the footmen when I send for my carriage.”

She took her hands from her cheeks. “Maison Noirot is only around the corner,” she said. “We can walk.”

“In these shoes?” he said. “Polcaire will kill me.”

She looked down at his dancing pumps. “I can walk by myself,” she said.

“Not in that dress,” he said. “But never mind. My shoes be damned. I’ll carry you.”

“You will n—oof! Lisburne!” she cried as he swooped her up into his arms.

“Be quiet,” he said. “You’ve crushed all my hopes and dreams. If you will be so good as to submit with good grace to being carried, I shall manfully resist the temptation to throw you into Lord Warford’s ornamental pond.”