Don't Tempt Me (17 page)

Adderwood's eyebrows went up. “Marchmont advising a fellow against a wager. Now I've heard everything.”

“I tell you because you're my friend and I deem it unfair to let you throw money away in that cause,” Marchmont said. “Miss Lexham has told me she doesn't want to be married straightaway. This shouldn't surprise you. Having read her story, you must understand her wishing to enjoy her freedom for a time.”

“Women change their minds,” said Adderwood. “They're famous for it.”

“Do you fancy you can change hers?”

“Perhaps. If I can't, somebody will. Once she's going about in Society, once she begins meeting Englishmen and finds herself endlessly wooed and pursued, I think she'll change her mind. How do you know what ‘straightaway' means to her? It could mean tomorrow. Next week.”

“You don't know Zoe.”

“And you don't know everything,” said Adderwood.

No one knows her better than I do
, Marchmont thought.

“A thousand pounds,” he said. “A thousand says she finishes the Season as Miss Lexham.”

“Done,” said Adderwood.

 

Zoe, as always, was aware of everything going on about her. She was most palpably aware of Marchmont prowling the room like one of Yusri Pasha's caged tigers.

She was aware, too, that her plan wasn't working.

Papa had shaken his head over Marchmont's list and muttered something about “old men” and scratched off most of the names. Even so, even though he'd kept the two youngest ones and added Lord Winterton, and even though these younger men had seemed disposed to admire her—well, at least Adderwood and Alvanley seemed to do so; Winterton seemed merely to find her amusing—even so, she found herself as unmoved in their company as she had been with Karim.

Alvanley was not handsome but very witty. She felt nothing.

Adderwood was not only handsome but charming and witty. She felt no heat, no thrill.

Winterton was as handsome as Marchmont, and others might view him as more romantic, with his dark hair and eyes, but she felt no excitement of any kind in his company, either. He was the man who'd rescued her, and she would always be grateful. But she couldn't feel more than gratitude.

None of them had succeeded in blotting Marchmont from her mind.

Still, that was only three eligible men, she told herself. When she was finally moving freely in Society, she'd meet many, many more. The odds were in her favor.

In the meantime, she must do something about Marchmont. He'd had a great deal to drink. He must have an unusually strong head for liquor. Any other man, she thought, would have been carried out to his carriage by now.

She knew he was uneasy about this dinner. She knew he thought it a bad idea. Otherwise he wouldn't have put a lot of elderly bachelors and widowers on his list of “eligibles.” He was worried she'd misbehave and spoil everything.

Too, he was jealous.

It was very difficult to enjoy the company and concentrate on other people when he was prowling about, cross and bored and wanting to fight somebody.

Men, she knew, would fight over women merely to prove who was the bigger and stronger male. It didn't matter whether they really wanted the woman or not.

She drifted from one group of guests to the next until she saw him talking to Alvanley, near the win
dows. Then she approached. “I should like a word with His Grace,” she said.

Alvanley gracefully made himself scarce, as she'd known he would. He was not as competitive with Marchmont as Lord Adderwood was.

“What word is that?” Marchmont said when his friend had moved out of earshot.

“I lied,” she said, lowering her voice. “I have bushels of words. But first—I'm sorry you're so bored. I know this isn't the group you chose. But for some reason Papa seemed to think your list was a joke.”

“The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe,” he said. “That's what did it, probably. An agreeable fellow—but his eldest daughter is three years older than you. I know what you're thinking.”

She was thinking he was a man, and possessive. About her. She knew this signified nothing. It was merely competition with other men. But her body, which noticed no other men, was aroused by this one, a snake drawn to the heat.

“You were trying to protect me,” she said. “You thought I'd be safer with more mature gentlemen.”

“Is that what you're thinking?”

“I'm thinking, too, of how grateful I am,” she said. “Your friends Lord Adderwood and Lord Alvanley are amusing. And your cousin Miss Sinclair is very clever.”

Miss Emma Sinclair had proved to be not only clever but informative. She thought the world of her cousin Marchmont and didn't hesitate to say so. Tonight Zoe had learned that the duke supported this lady, along with numerous other relatives. Though
a woman of high rank, Miss Sinclair, like too many other spinsters, had no income; and, like them, she had no respectable means of earning a living or even any idea or training in how to go about earning one.

Marchmont, who made such a show of caring about nothing and nobody, obviously cared about Miss Sinclair. He supported her. Generously. And that was only part of the story. Miss Sinclair had told Zoe that he not only supported his mad aunt Sophronia but let her live in grand style in a magnificent old house he owned, a few miles from London. These, Zoe had learned, were by no means the only relatives to whom he was generous.

She knew it was a gentleman's obligation to look after his dependents. She knew a duke had a great many dependents. All the same, the discovery had made her heart ache. In so many ways he'd changed, and not for the better. But in other ways he was Lucien still, impossibly annoying at times—as he'd always been—yet kind, deep down, in the heart he kept so well hidden.

“I'm glad they amuse and entertain you,” he said. “You needn't worry about my being bored. I am not so dangerous as you are when that happens.”

He was a great deal more dangerous than she. His mood hung over the drawing room like a storm cloud. She wasn't sure others felt it—or recognized what it was if they did feel it—but she did, and it was wearing on her nerves.

She smiled up at him. “But I'm not dangerous tonight. I can be proper when it's absolutely necessary.”

“You've done well,” he said. “Everyone's in love with you.”

But not she with them.

“Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the harem,” she said. “You seemed displeased.”

He waved this away, the slightest gesture of his hand. “It didn't signify.”

“And you shouldn't worry when men stare at my breasts,” she said.

She caught the flicker of surprise before he hid his eyes again. “There they were—are,” he said, and she felt, rather than saw, his green gaze drift downward. “Unavoidable.”

“But that's the purpose of evening dress,” she said. “To display.”

“You have undoubtedly achieved the purpose,” he said.

“You're very protective,” she said.

“Yes, like a
brother.
”

Oh, she was trying to be patient and understanding. She reminded herself of how much he'd had to drink. She reminded herself that men could be the most irrational of creatures. She told herself a great many sensible things, yet she felt her temper slipping.

“I'm sorry if I hurt your manly pride,” she said, “but it would be best for everyone to think of us in that way. One must change the way people view us—I had in mind our public quarrels. It's the same as letting Mr. Beardsley believe I was the slave of Karim's first wife. In people's minds I stopped being a concubine and turned into a Jarvis.”

“There's nothing to explain,” he said. “No need to. I was…amused.”

She very much doubted he'd been amused, but before she could respond, Lord Adderwood approached.

And in the nick of time, too, because she was strongly tempted to pick up the nearest heavy object and apply it to the duke's skull.

“Monopolizing the lady again, I see,” said Adderwood.

“Not at all,” Marchmont said. “I was about to take my leave. I thank you for a most entertaining evening, Miss Lexham.” He bowed and walked away.

Zoe did not pick up a porcelain figurine from the pier table nearby and throw it at him. He continued walking away, unmolested, and not long thereafter, he was gone.

Later, at White's

The Duke of Marchmont waved his wineglass as he declaimed:

“I knew it,” Adderwood said. “I knew we should have Prince Hal tonight. Someone call a servant—better yet, a brace of them. Let's get him home before he falls into the fire.”

Afternoon of Thursday, 23 April

The Duke of Marchmont had arranged with Lexham to collect the ladies and take them to the Queen's House in his state coach. The vehicle was one he employed on ceremonial occasions, and it was large enough to accommodate comfortably a pair of ladies in hooped petticoats and two gentlemen encumbered with dress swords. Only three would travel in the carriage today, though, because Lexham was otherwise engaged.

Marchmont arrived a little before his time, more uneasy than he'd ever admit to being. He'd attended too many levees and Drawing Rooms to view them as anything more than social events.

This occasion, though, could determine Zoe's future. It could decide whether she would move freely in the ton, as all her sisters did, or be
pushed to its fringes, permanently on the outside looking in.

While he waited at the bottom of the main staircase, however, his mind wasn't on the challenge ahead but on the dinner party of the previous week. In the cold light of the following day, and in the dark misery of the world's vilest headache, he had not been happy with his behavior.

He hadn't seen her since then. He'd told himself he didn't need to. He'd done all he could. He'd helped her order her wardrobe for the Season—or at least the start of her wardrobe. He'd accomplished the impossible by finding a horse lively enough to suit her while not the sort of fire-breather liable to kill her. He'd had her measured for a saddle and fitted for riding attire. He'd obtained the crucial invitation to the Drawing Room.

The rest was up to her, and if she—

The sound of rustling fabric made him look up.

She appeared at the landing.

She paused there and smiled, then flipped open her fan and held it in front of her face, concealing all but her eyes—while meanwhile, below, the low, square neckline of her gown concealed almost nothing.

The deep blue eyes glinted as they regarded him.

“How splendid you are,” she said.

He wore a satin frock coat with an extravagantly embroidered silk waistcoat and the obligatory knee breeches. Under his arm he carried the required chapeau bras. His court sword hung at his side.

“Not a fraction as splendid as you,” he said.

She was beyond splendid. She was…delicious.

Younger women viewed court gowns as ridiculous and old-fashioned. They were, certainly, when one tried to combine today's fashion for high waists with the great skirts of olden times. But he'd told Madame Vérelet to drop the waistline of Zoe's court gown. The bodice and petticoat were a deep rose sarsnet. The combination of vibrant color and lowered waist created a more balanced effect. The layers of silver net and the delicate lace trimming the drapery and train made her seem to be rising out of a cloud upon which sunlight sparkled, thanks to the diamonds her mother and sisters must have lent her. The gems adorned the gown, her neck and ears, her plumed headdress, her gloved arms, and her fan.

It helped, too, that Zoe didn't seem to regard hoops as an encumbrance. Judging by the way she descended the stairs, she seemed to have adopted them as an instrument of seduction.

She closed the fan and made her way down slowly, every sway of the skirts suggestive.

His mouth went dry.

“Ah, well done, well done,” came Lexham's voice beside him.

Belatedly, Marchmont discovered his erstwhile guardian, who must have come out into the hall while Marchmont was gawking at Zoe and getting exactly the sorts of ideas he strongly suspected she wanted him to have, the little devil.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her father walked to her and kissed her cheek. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “How glad I am to see this day arrived at last,” he said.

If all went well, this day would give Zoe the life she would have had if she had grown up in the way her sisters had done.

If all went well.

Lady Lexham followed Zoe down the stairs a moment later. “Isn't she lovely?” said she. “How clever you were about the dress, Marchmont. There will be nothing like it at court today—and next week, everyone will want the same thing.”

“That's why he's a leader of fashion,” said Zoe.

“And all this time I thought it was my wit and charm.”

“Try to be dull on the way to the Queen's House,” Zoe said. “I have a thousand things to remember: what to say and what not to say. Mainly it's what not to say. If I were wearing the usual kind of dress, I could simply tell Mama to kick me if I said the wrong thing—but with all this great tent under me, it would take forever to find something to kick, and by then I should have disgraced myself.”

“Never fear,” said Marchmont. “If I detect the smallest sign of your going astray, I'll create a diversion. I'll accidentally trip over my sword.”

“There, you see, is the mark of a true nobleman, Zoe,” said her father. “He'll fall on his sword for you.”

“I said I'd get her through this and I shall,” said Marchmont. “I shall do whatever is necessary.” His gaze reverted to Zoe, floating in her cloud of rose and silver. “Ready, brat?”

She smiled a slow, beatific smile, and a summer sun broke out upon the world.

“Ready,” she said.

 

It was the most amazing sight. As they neared the Queen's House, Zoe watched long lines of carriages advancing through the Green Park from Hyde Park. Others—from the Horse Guards and St. James's, Marchmont said—came by way of the Mall. Along both routes people crowded, watching the parade of vehicles. She heard the blare of trumpets and the crack of guns.

As they neared the courtyard, where they were to alight, she saw another line of carriages going the other way, heading toward what Mama said was Birdcage Walk.

“I wish I could open the window,” she said.

“Don't be silly, Zoe,” said her mother.

“You want to hang out of it, I don't doubt,” said Marchmont. “Your plumes will fall off into the dirt, and the dust will coat your gown. You may open the window when we depart. Nobody will care what you look like then.”

“It's beyond anything,” she said. “Everyone said there would be a great crowd, but I had no idea.”

The carriage stopped and she took her nose away from the glass to which it had been pressed. She smoothed her skirts, not because they needed it but because she relished the feel of the silver net, like gossamer. “I feel like a princess,” she said.

“The princesses are agreeable enough ladies, but I fear you'll outshine them,” said Marchmont. “Perhaps I should have let you hang out of the window after all.”

She smiled at him. She couldn't help it. He'd tried her patience the week before, but she had missed him, and seeing him at the bottom of the stairs today had
made her heart lift. Descending the stairs, she'd felt as light as a cloud.

He had called her “brat,” as he used to do so long ago.

And though he'd stood in all his grandeur of court dress, looking every inch the duke he was, descended from a very long line of them—for all that pomp, he was Lucien, too.

The coach door opened.

It was time.

 

They all knew who she was, and Marchmont wasn't in the least surprised.

Only the London mob—ordinary people—had been present when she'd appeared on the balcony of Lexham House. Few if any members of the aristocracy would have been in that crowd, mingling with the unwashed. He doubted that anyone in the entrance hall of the Queen's House had seen any more of Zoe than the caricatures and the single etching that had accompanied Beardsley's story. Pamphlets having sold like Holland bulbs during the tulip craze, a book version had come out this week, the more expensive editions containing colored illustrations of her adventures.

That was all anyone in Society but the handful who'd attended the dinner had seen of Miss Lexham.

The world knew who she was all the same. Even the Beau Monde was capable, in desperate circumstances, of putting two and two together. Its members observed him and observed her mother and drew the logical conclusion.

They also drew away, insofar as the crowded quar
ters and court dress would allow. The hall was the customary seething sea of people, the ladies with their gloved hands down, keeping their hoops compressed—and out of range of the gentlemen's swords.

He was aware of some of the ladies compressing a little more tightly and edging away from Zoe, as though in fear of contamination. He fumed, but there was nothing he could do except remember the names of each and every lady who did this and resolve that each and every one of them would live to regret it very much, indeed.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked down. It was Zoe's hand, encased in its long white glove, with diamond bracelets hanging from the wrist. She'd had to draw near to touch him, her elbows being occupied with keeping the hoops out of danger. Her scent wafted up to him, rising, he was all too aware, from the warm flesh abundantly displayed mere inches from his nose and framed in lace and rose-colored satin. The bottommost and largest diamond of her necklace nestled in the inviting valley between her breasts.

“You look very dangerous,” she said in an undertone. “You can't murder them only because they're…shy.” She smiled up at him.

“I was not looking danger—‘Shy'?”

“Let's pretend that's what it is.”

He preferred to imagine himself knocking their plumed headdresses off their heads.

“Never mind them,” she said. “They don't trouble me. When first I went into the harem, almost everyone tried to make me feel unwanted, and they were much less inhibited about it than English ladies.”

“I'd always imagined women in the harem as subtle,” he said, trying to match her carefree smile. He was used to wearing masks, but this was beyond him. She put up a brave front, but he knew that the stupid women about them had hurt her feelings—and they didn't even know her!

“‘Go away you filthy thing,' they would say,” she said. “‘Why did you come here? No one wants you.' They called me names. They locked me in cupboards. They played silly tricks. They were like spiteful children. But those women were never allowed to grow up, really. This is nothing.” She shook her head and the plumes bobbed.

“It may be nothing to you,” he said. “It's something to me.”

“No one here can hinder or help me now,” she said. “You got me here. The rest is up to me.” Her blue gaze shifted toward the staircase. A partition divided it as far as the first landing, where the stairway separated into two branches. One part of the mob was aimed upward on one side while another was aimed downward. Nobody seemed to be actually moving, but that was normal.

“They'll have a difficult time keeping away when we climb the stairs,” Zoe said. “That should be amusing.”

He didn't think so.

 

It took three-quarters of an hour to get from the bottom of the stairs to the top. The parade was making its way slowly through four rooms, and as they reached the corridor, she could see them all through the open doorways: the plumes bobbing,
some colored, most of them white, the lacy lappets dangling over the ladies' shoulders, the jewels blinking in the light, and the billowing gowns in every color of the rainbow.

It was very beautiful, and the sight alone would have made her happy. She was home, among her people—even if some of them didn't want her.

Marchmont was here, her knight, ready to slay dragons for his protégée. He looked very dangerous, indeed, glowering at the company through those slitted eyes—and with a sword at his side, no less.

But he could not slay any dragons for her now. He could not present her to the Queen. Mama must do that, and Zoe must make herself presentable.

They entered the saloon, and Zoe saw her, finally: an old and clearly unwell lady under a red velvet and gold canopy. She sat on a red velvet and gold chair. The chair was not raised very high, merely two steps above the floor. The princesses and ladies-in-waiting stood nearby.

People walked up to the Queen and bowed and curtseyed. Ahead of Zoe, one girl, who seemed dreadfully young, was being presented. She wore a modest, ivory-colored gown.

But Zoe was not a young girl. She was different, and it would have been silly to pretend she wasn't.

Today wasn't a presentation day, though, and Zoe would not stand out so much from all the young virgins in their maidenly gowns. Most of the ladies and gentlemen who paused before the elderly figure on the velvet chair were well known to her. She said a few words to the girl, Zoe noticed, but merely nodded to most of those who made their bows and curtseys.

Zoe watched it all, fascinated.

Then there was no one left ahead of them. Mama moved up to the canopied place and there was Zoe, right behind her. Mama said something, but Zoe couldn't hear it because her ears were ringing.

Don't faint
, she commanded herself.
You've come this far
,
all those miles from the palace of Yusri Pasha
,
all those miles from captivity.

She glanced away from the Queen and her gaze fell upon Marchmont, who stood among the diplomats. Though his beautiful face was as unreadable as always, she discerned the conspiratorial glint in his green eyes. She remembered how he'd called her “brat.”

The dizziness passed, and she was sinking into her curtsey—deep, deep, deeper than anyone else could do, because she'd lived in a world where one prostrated oneself before superiors, and everyone was a woman's superior. There a woman was merely a possession to be bought and used and discarded upon a whim.

Here at least a woman could be
somebody
.

She sank nearly to the floor, and it was like sinking into a dream, so unreal: the elderly woman under the red velvet and gold canopy and the mirrors on either side reflecting the splendor all around: the room's rich furnishings and the colorful dress of the company and the plumes and glittering diamonds and the sparkling chandeliers.