Don't Tempt Me (6 page)

Still, he was the Duke of Marchmont, and Lady Tarling was no fool when it came to men. She accepted the gift and pretended it was perfectly normal for him to depart soon thereafter with no other display of affection. She knew as well as anybody that he'd very little of that article to display.

Later that evening

Zoe stood at the window and looked down into the garden. “I could climb down from here,” she said.

“Oh, no, miss, I hope not,” said Jarvis. “And not in your shift—which maybe we could change for your nightdress?” The maid held up the garment.

“I climbed out of the pasha's palace many times,” Zoe said. “They always caught me and punished me. But I did not stop doing it. Do you know why?”

“I'm sure I don't, miss.”

“I did it because I knew that one day they would not catch me, and so I must keep in practice for that day.”

The day had come, as she'd known it would, and it had come without warning. During the evening meal, Karim had simply fallen off the divan, clutching his throat, and died. His grief-stricken father, at whose side he'd been sitting, had taken to his bed. Within hours, he, too, was dead.

Zoe hadn't waited to find out whether or not these were natural deaths. She'd seen pandemonium, and she'd taken advantage of it. While everybody was
running about, the women tearing their hair and shrieking and weeping and the men shouting and arguing and threatening one another, she collected her jewels, stole a cloak, climbed out of a window, and fled through the garden.

Jarvis's voice called her back to the present. “Miss, I do hope you're not thinking of running away now. Her ladyship gave me strict orders—”

“No, no, I'm not running away.” Zoe came away from the window. “But I never could abide being confined—to the nursery, to the schoolroom. So I always looked for the way out.”

“I suppose, was the house to take fire, it might be useful to know another way out,” Jarvis said.

“But it isn't what ladies do, I know,” Zoe said. “I've always been the contrary and obstinate daughter. When people say to me, ‘No, you can't,' I always think, ‘Yes, I will.' In Egypt it was, ‘No, you'll never get out of the harem.' Then I got out, and I was arguing with myself, with the fear, the bad genie in the head: No, you'll never get safely home. Yes, I will. No, they won't let you in the house. You'll never get in. Yes, I will. No, they won't believe it's you. Yes, I will. Then today, it was No, you can't have the life you should have had.” She laughed. “And then Marchmont came and I thought, ‘Oh, yes I will.' And he said, ‘Nothing could be simpler.'”

“Yes, miss, it sounds like the sort of thing His Grace would say, and I'm sure he knows better than anybody whether it is or it isn't. Won't you put on your nightdress? You'll be warmer. Lady Lexham said we must remember you aren't used to the climate.”

Zoe stalked to the fire and glared at it. “When I
asked him if he was glad to have me back, he said he was. Do you know why he was glad?”

“No, miss, though I couldn't guess why he wouldn't be, like everyone else.”

“He said, ‘Did you think I wanted to find that your father had been taken in by an imposter? Did you think I wanted to see him made a fool of?' What do you think of that?”

“I'm not allowed to think, miss,” Jarvis said.

“He's changed so much,” Zoe said. “I hardly knew him. He used to be sweet. He used to have a heart. I used to be able to talk to him and laugh with him. He said he remembered me, but he doesn't, really. And the man I saw today…” She shook her head. “He's conceited. I used to think he was the cleverest of all the boys, but now his head is empty. Maybe his brain has shrunk. He's beautiful and desirable and powerful—but I know he will test my patience. I am so tired of being patient with men, Jarvis, so tired of holding my tongue when they're stupid and obnoxious. So tired of catering to them.”

“Miss, you don't want to take a chill, I'm sure, and worry Lady Lexham.”

Zoe looked round at the maid. She was holding up the nightdress, her brow furrowed.

Until tonight, Zoe had shared her mother's lady's maid. But after Marchmont and the others left, Mama had decided that Zoe must have her own lady's maid to look after her. The housekeeper had sent up three of the girls she deemed qualified. Zoe had chosen Jarvis—formerly Jane the upper housemaid—because, she said, all she saw in her eyes was truth.

Jarvis wasn't yet confident of her abilities as a
lady's maid, and Lady Lexham had given enough instructions and warnings to fill the maid's heart with terror.

Clearly one could not hope to carry on an intelligent conversation with Jarvis while she fussed about the nightdress and her mistress's taking cold. With a smile intended to be reassuring, Zoe signaled the maid to help her out of her shift and into the nightdress.

When the ceremony was completed and Jarvis had relaxed a degree, Zoe startled her by stroking her arm.

“Where I've come from,” Zoe said gently, “we say what's in our hearts and we touch, as you do not,” she said. “My husband, Karim, gave me a slave, Minhat. With her I could share what was in my heart, as I couldn't do with the other wives or concubines or slaves. You're not a slave, but you are my Minhat. If we can't speak freely together, then there's no one with whom I can do so. My sisters are all crazy. They all think I'm crazy. None of them can be my Minhat. Wherever I go, you'll go with me. When I marry, you'll come with me to my husband's house. You must speak your heart, always.”

The maid looked wildly about the room.

“Always,” Zoe said firmly. One of the many things she'd learned in the harem was the voice of command. “I have opened my heart to you, Jarvis. It's your turn. Speak to me as my Minhat.”

Jarvis shut her eyes, then opened them. She took a deep breath and said, “Very well, miss. Here's what I say. The Duke of Marchmont is top of the trees. Everyone wants him. All the unmarried ladies want to marry him. They say there's plenty of married ladies
who'd disgrace themselves if he crooked his finger. Every hostess in Town wants him at her party. All the royal family think well of him. It don't matter how conceited he is or if he's drunk half the time or doesn't have a heart. There's only two things you really need to know about His Grace the Duke of Marchmont: One, he
always
keeps his word. Ask anybody. Two, everybody knows he don't care about much, but what he said to you means he cares about your father. Why else do you think he came to the house today? If I was you, and he was promising to bring me into fashion, I'd muster up all the patience of all the saints and martyrs, because I know he'll do it, no matter what, or die trying.”

Then she squeezed her eyes shut, as though she expected a blow.

“Yes, this is correct and wise,” Zoe said.

The maid's eyes opened, one at a time. “It is?”

“My pride is hurt and my feelings are hurt only because he doesn't remember that we were friends—of a sort—once.”

She had missed him and thought of him. He'd forgotten her. To him, she was only another female. “But that was a long time ago. He's changed and I've changed. We aren't children anymore.”

“Yes, miss, that's correct and wise,” said Jarvis.

Zoe smiled at her. She'd definitely chosen the right maid. “I must be an adult,” she said. “I must be logical and look at the important points, in the way you did. I must have the Duke of Marchmont's help to banish the shame I've brought on my family. I must have his help to be welcomed in Society and live the
life I should have had, the life for which I risked everything. If he accomplishes these things, I can find a good husband, and then my father can stop worrying about me. Can you think of anything else?”

“No, miss. I think that covers it well. And if I was you, I'd go to bed now.”

To Zoe's amusement, Jarvis started gently shooing her toward the bed, as one does a small child. “You've had a very long and trying day, I know,” the maid said. “Too much feeling this and feeling that, I daresay. Too much excitement. After a good night's sleep, you'll be able to look at everything more calm-like.”

Zoe let herself be guided to the bed. She climbed into it dutifully and lay down. Jarvis drew up the bedclothes.

“If I do not feel calmer tomorrow,” Zoe said as her head sank into the pillow, “there's always Venice or Paris.”

“Miss, you haven't even seen London yet, or you wouldn't say such things.”

Zoe yawned. “No, I feel no great desire to go to those places—but it was amusing to hear my sisters scream when I suggested it. And there must be an escape route. I must have somewhere to go to, if Marchmont fails me.”

“Miss, I'm sure lots of women think of running away when men disappoint us. But if all of us was to actually do that, there wouldn't be a woman left in London.”

Zoe laughed. “I like you, Jarvis.”

“Thank you, miss. I like you, too. Please go to sleep.”

Almack's, later that evening

What Marchmont found especially entertaining was the way everyone in the club tried to be subtle. They were all wild to learn the truth of what had happened at Lexham House, but none dared to ask him outright. Instead they all probed, oh so delicately.

All, that is, except his mad aunt Sophronia.

In a logical universe, she would be firmly excluded from Almack's. But mental imbalance was not necessarily a disqualification. In Lady Sophronia de Grey's case, it was quite the opposite. The patronesses couldn't have kept her out if they tried, and they were too terrified of her to even think of trying.

Tonight, as always, she wore black: an evening dress trimmed with all the magnificent excess of fashionable grief. As always, too, she was swimming in diamonds. He didn't know which of her swains had given them to her or when or why. Aunt Sophronia's past was a mystery he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.

He'd danced with one after another lady dying of curiosity about his visit to Lexham House, and he'd amused himself by deflecting the unsubtle interrogations with his customary wit. The assembly was approaching its final stage when Lady Sophronia at last noticed him and/or remembered who he was. She raised a black-gloved, diamond-studded hand and beckoned.

He excused himself from the group of ladies trying in vain to get a decisive answer from him and moved to where his aunt presided, black plumes bobbing atop
her faded blonde hair. About her stood an assortment of ladies of various ages, diplomats, poets, cabinet ministers, and rakes. All wore the bewildered expression usually observed in those who found themselves in Lady Sophronia de Grey's orbit.

When he neared, she waved them away, employing the same gesture he'd used to eject the fellow from his favorite chair at White's.

“You, sir,” she said.

He bowed. “Yes, Auntie,” he said. “It is I. Your nephew Marchmont.”

“I know who you are, absurd boy. What's this I hear about your marrying a snake charmer?”

“I think not,” said he.

He could hear whispers from those straining to hear the conversation:
I think not
would be making its way swiftly to the other end of the ballroom.

“No Duke of Marchmont ever married a snake charmer,” she said. “And I never thought of you as revolutionary. We may have been French once, but it was a very long time ago, and would we still have our heads, is the question? Quite unnecessary. Only consider the Americans. They shot and stabbed and hanged us like proper gentlemen. Have you met the American ambassador? A pleasant man, but confused.”

Most people became that way when attempting discourse with Lady Sophronia.

“She is not from America, is she?” his aunt went on. “They are agreeable enough girls.” She looked about her. “I saw one of them a minute ago. Quite pretty. But I can't help thinking they're not English. And then I wonder, ‘Who put it into their heads not
to be English?' Well, then, who is it, young Lucien? If it isn't a snake charmer, it must be somebody else.”

“Your logic, as always, is irrefutable,” he said. “It is not only somebody else but something else entirely.”

He didn't know where or how the rumor of his marrying Zoe had started, but it didn't surprise him. Members of the ton received much of their gossip via servants. The version that reached aristocratic ears tended to bear small resemblance to the original.

Some of Lexham's servants must have heard Zoe's marriage proposal or had heard there was a proposal. This being exciting news, they'd wasted no time in passing it on.

He saw no harm in letting the rumor drift for a time through the Beau Monde. Society would find itself viewing Zoe not as the Harem Girl but as, possibly, the future Duchess of Marchmont. Once they pictured her in that way, it would be difficult to wrench their minds back to Harem Girl. They would have to start thinking of her as normal.

She wasn't, but that was not his concern.

“Do you remember little Zoe Octavia Lexham?” he said.

His aunt cast her pale blue gaze in the direction of the great chandelier, as though that was where she kept her memory. “Zoe Octavia,” she said.

He heard the whispers start up again:
Zoe Octavia
.

His aunt's vague blue gaze widened and sharpened as it returned to him. “The bolter?”

“Yes.”

“What nonsense. Lexham misplaced her—in the Holy Land or Constantinople or some such.”

“She turned up recently.”

“She usually did turn up, eventually,” said Lady Sophronia. “But it's been an excessive
eventual
, by my calculations. Is she or is she not a snake charmer?”

“To be absolutely truthful, I am very nearly certain she is not a snake charmer.”