Dancing the Maypole (53 page)

Pierre’s face
contorted, as if the effort required to turn his thoughts from her
lips to the previous week caused physical pain. “I took him down to
Brighton and he complained the whole time. It was either too cold
or too hot for sea bathing. All the young ladies I introduced him
to were ugly or boring. The fish we caught were too small or too
large. Every time I spotted some old graffiti - he collects
rubbings of old graffiti - he’d declare it not old or interesting
enough. He sneered in boredom through the evening concerts. Even
the leading actress at the playhouse, a busty redhead, couldn’t
lift his spirits. It was c-c-cursed hellish. I’m sure he saw
something while we were here. He knows I’m going to marry you. He
thinks I’m a money g-grubbing hypocrite who’s discarded Ma Belle’s
heart for your money. Every time he opens his mouth in my hearing
he hints that I don’t deserve you…as if I need to be reminded. I
don’t want to think about the last two weeks. I want to think about
waking to find a vision of loveliness in my arms.”

“Which vision
would that be?”

“Ma Belle…in
the flesh.” His admiring gaze moved down her person to her hands
holding her open fan. Picking up her ivory dance card, one of his
fingers caressed the inside of her wrist. He glanced up to look her
in the eyes, to make sure she knew it had been intentional, and
then refocused on her dance card. Using the tiny pencil hanging
from the card, he started at the top and didn’t look up again until
he’d finished.

Isabel smiled
as he revealed the ivory card was covered in writing, leaving no
room for any other names. Lifting the card she turned it on its
side and read the elegant handwriting, ‘I, Peter Smirke, claim
Isabel de Bourbon’s hand until time ends at which time I shall
promptly ask her for the next dance.’ Bursting into tears, Isabel
hid her face behind her fan. A few seconds later a handkerchief
smelling of happiness was gently used to dab her eyes and then
pressed into her fingers. “You’re not sobbing at the thought of
having to d-d-dance with me forever?”

“Non! C’est
très romantique! C’est le rêve qui devient réalité.” She finished
wiping her nose and lowered her fan back to her lap. Glancing up,
she was fascinated by the straining buttons on his waistcoat. “Your
beautiful waistcoat was cut for a lesser man.”

He looked down
at his chest and winced. “It smells like the trunk at the back of
my wardrobe in Adderbury. A helpful soul demanded I wear it this
evening, though it obviously doesn’t fit. Do I look silly?”

Isabel sighed
in disappointment. “You don’t remember? You wore it that night we
danced.”

Pierre’s eyes
widened in shock and then stared down at the waistcoat as if it
held the key to his missing hours. “My memory of that dance appears
stuffed away in one of those cursed secret drawers with a spring
trap opening. If only I could hit my head against a wall to open
it.”

“I don’t think
it matters. Here we are again, only the years have made my hero
more handsome. I love the fine smile lines around your eyes. They
reveal a good heart; years filled with laughter and kindness. The
imaginary Pierre always looked like a moving painting. He never
aged, never wore ill-fitting waistcoats, never suffered wind or
worried about an early frost killing his crops. I don’t know how I
endured his perfection all these years, though in his defence he
never complained as I lost my youthful looks.”

“That’s because
the lucky wretch was enthralled by your loveliness.” Adderbury
sighed in regret. “If only I c-could have snuck into your head to
tie him up and take his place.”

“You’d have
found it an uncomfortable place to pass the time. One week,
Pierre’s nakedness was covered only by banana leaves under a
tropical sun as we dug up half an island for buried treasure. The
next he was glad to have the remains of a shirt to wrap around his
waist while fighting off Spanish pirates intent on dismembering
every Anglo-Frenchman who crossed their path. One time I was
captured by English pirates who hadn’t seen a woman for five
months. In a tropical storm, Pierre had to use a dead, stinking
dolphin as a raft to reach the anchored ship where I was being held
hostage. He had to climb up the side of the ship to rescue me from
the captains’ cabin, his only weapon a rock he’d tied to a stick
with the remains of his shirt. The sight of his big…uh…nakedness
stunned the pirates long enough for him to rescue me. We jumped
over the side of the ship, and then I nearly drowned because my wet
skirts weighed me down. He had to assist as a lady’s maid while
trying to avoid having his limbs blown off by cannon shot. The dead
dolphin had floated away so we had to ride the storm back to shore
where we were nearly drowned, but one large wave heaved us out of
the surf, past several trees, onto dry land. You were very stoic
for a man who was cold, wet, and naked. I offered you my remaining
petticoat, but you weren’t interested in wet clothing…” She glanced
to the side to see her companion shaking with silent laughter.
“Being a sensible man, after a few weeks of being embroiled in my
silly daydreams you’d have run off to find the nearest cannibal and
performed a headless chicken dance.”

“Non! After
securing my banana leaves I’d have slung you over my shoulder and
carried you away to some quiet cave where we’d be safe from pirates
and storms for a few hours. We’d start a fire, roast an exotic bird
and enjoy a b-blissful interlude until morning when I’d use the
rest of your dress to fashion a weapon to protect you from lusty
pirates and hungry cannibals.”

“After spending
months at sea, I think the shock of seeing a giant naked woman
would stun the pirates long enough to allow an escape.”

“I…uh…thought
you were wearing a threadbare chemise.”

“Oh no, I tore
that up years ago to make bandages for Pierre’s numerous wounds. He
regularly required tender nursing.”

“Lucky Pierre!
Did he always meet you in extreme climes? Didn’t the idiot ever
think to sneak into your bedchamber after dark for a pirate free
tête-à-tête?”

“Maybe.” Her
fan was blowing a gale over her burning cheeks.

“Would it be
impertinent to ask if Pierre ever found you bathing in front of a
fire?”

Isabel tried to
pretend she wasn’t blushing, “He might have.”

Pierre pursed
his smiling lips, “I don’t suppose Pierre then tried to steal
your…uh…heart on the hearth rug.”

The lemon
verbena scented air, wafting over her cheeks, fanned an internal
flame that threatened to set her face alight. How could he know?
Those passages in her journal were carefully inked over. As she
opened her ring and inhaled her smelling salts she met the gaze of
the man who’d been haunting her thoughts for eighteen years.
“Maybe.”

He smiled that
same lusty triumphant smile as the imaginary Pierre. “I hope the
lucky wretch brought you a token of his esteem.”

“He brought his
heart.”

The real Pierre
flinched, his smile disappearing under a serious expression. “So
that’s where I left it.”

“I’ve kept it
safe. Do you want it back?”

“Non. Tu gardes
le coeur de pierre.”

“I guard your
heart of stone? Your heart isn’t stone.”

“Yes it is. You
showed it to me…in a d-dream.” It was her companion’s turn to flush
in embarrassment. “It was made of black marble, and it had my name
inlaid with silver. You pulled it out of your pocket…”

“Did I hit you
on the head with it?”

“Non. You
rubbed it over my chest and in that moment…I c-could feel…”

Isabel held her
breath as hope pinched her heart, “That you loved me?”

“Oui.”

Her mouth hung
open in shock, as black eyes pulled her swirling emotions into
warm, safe depths where, by some unknown magic, the imaginary
Pierre was becoming flesh and blood.

Exhaling the
tension in his stomach, Peter resisted the mad impulse to lean over
and kiss Isabel’s parted lips. Except for the traditional,
unemotional kiss demanded by the church to complete the marriage
ceremony, it was scandalous to be seen kissing a woman on the lips
in public. Scandal was the last thing Peter wanted to create while
Monsieur de Bourbon was hovering nearby with a loaded pistol. The
muted clapping of gloved hands announced the end of the first
dance. Breaking eye contact, he watched in envy as Isabel’s
unfolded fan lightly touched her chest. “Cursed to d-dream…”

“Pardon?”

Peter felt his
face burn as he found himself recaptured by adoring brown eyes. He
leaned closer and whispered, “Your fan has an enviable existence.
When you’re not holding it in your hand, it’s lightly k-kissing
your cheek or resting in your lap. I wish I could k-kiss your cheek
in any company…or rest against your charms.” He wasn’t in a
ballroom, he was in a castle ruin at twilight; the only other
person for miles was Isabel sitting beside him on a grassy mound of
forgotten history. He could hear tired blackbirds singing ballads
of the day as he stretched out his legs and put his head on her
lap. Adoring fingers combed through his hair as his heart
threatened to burst…

“You don’t
think I look odd in this old dress?”

The anxious
tone of Isabel’s voice dragged Peter back to the ballroom, where
milling groups of laughing people promised he wouldn’t be resting
his head on any part of her any time soon. “What?” He hoped he
didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt.

“You don’t
think I look odd in this dress?”

Invited to
admire her ensemble, he took his time. “No. Why would you look
odd?”

His honest
answer earned him a look of horror, “Because ladies haven’t worn
this waistline in eighteen years.”

“They haven’t?”
Peter felt stupid. He rarely paid any attention to what ladies
wore.

“Typical!
Helpful Agnes told Mamma that you couldn’t remember our first
dance, so mother made me dress like that night. Why are some people
so irritatingly helpful? I feel like a quiz. Any moment you’ll come
to your senses and realise you don’t want to marry the aging
debutante.”

It took Peter
several seconds to realise that she was worried she looked a quiz.
The thought made him laugh. His amusement faded as her eyes flashed
with anger, and she closed her fan and held it ready to strike his
face.

“How is that
amusing my Lord?”

“Because the
sight of you in that dress is making me…” Peter exhaled growing
frustration at being unable to touch her. “Ma Belle…” His voice was
a hoarse whisper, “Crook your finger and I’ll follow…” He raised
his eyebrows and pursed his lips in silent explanation that he
meant anywhere he could hold her in his arms without being
interrupted by her pistol-waving father or his helpful sons.

Blushing with
pleasure, she raised her eyebrows in reply and lightly snapped open
her fan. After cooling her cheeks for an eternal minute, the fan
hovered high enough to shield her lips from curious onlookers.
“Vraiment?” Lifting her hand, she crooked her finger at him behind
her fan so only he could see the gesture. Without another word, she
rose and snapped her fan closed and headed for the dance floor.

Laughing, Peter
jumped to his feet and followed. With the music dictating their
steps, when he wasn’t holding her hand he was counting the steps
before he’d hold it again. Diverted by Isabel’s smiling eyes and
seemingly innocuous questions about his banana planting scheme, he
forgot he was upset at losing his precious parchment. The
occasional affectionate squeeze of her hand reassured him that
she’d soon crook her finger and expect him to follow, with or
without a marriage license.

As Peter moved
with the music, it was easy to imagine he was taking a brisk walk
on the edge of Bath, his soles tapping against the dry dirt road.
The sound of low-toned instruments rumbled before a solitary
clarinet in a minor key raised the tension warning of the fast
moving carriage coming up behind him. Horses brought to an abrupt
halt pawed the air, but Peter was deafened by the sound of a pistol
being cocked as he was waved toward the carriage door. With a
pistol in his back he opened the door and there in the darkened
carriage was Isabel crooking her finger. The carriage was moving as
the door closed. He fell on the seat beside her and…

Loud clapping
made him wince as he found himself back in the ballroom, the dance
over. Isabel was in profile clapping her appreciation to the
distant musicians. Her cheeks were bright pink, her long brown
lashes half-hiding smiling eyes. He was faintly aware of an odd
ache in his chest as he held his breath. Startled by the crack of a
fan being opened Peter inhaled the scent of a rose garden on a
summer evening.

The last heat
of the day, shimmering over roses and box edged beds of lavender
still draped with drying linen, wafted into his heart making the
ache in his chest more acute. As Isabel turned to face him his
knees threatened to give way, as if the warmth of her smile could
evaporate solid bone. The ache became more acute as she paled and
abruptly looked down as if fascinated by his ill-fitting waistcoat.
Behind her fan, she discreetly inhaled her smelling salts hidden in
her ring. All he could see was the top of her head. Strands of
brown curly hair escaped a Grecian knot creating a brown halo. If
he touched it, he knew the hair would cling to his fingers like
trailing sweet peas.

The halo moved
slowly back as she raised her head. Brown eyes shining with
happiness peered over the top of her fan causing déjà vu. He’d seen
those eyes smiling at him over the top of that fan before… With his
next breath the ballroom floor heaved beneath him. Feeling seasick,
Peter could hear a wave roaring up through his long legs. Crashing
into his chest the force knocked the wind from his lungs and
slammed his heart against something hard. The wave sloshed through
his ribs and then moved into his veins, pushing blood through his
body in an exhilarating torrent. His legs trembled with excitement,
goading him to pick up the pretty enchanting woman and carry her
away. “Ma Coeur…if you won’t d-d-dance with me until my legs give
way from exhaustion; on my honour I will d-do something mad.”
Holding out his hand he glanced at centre of the room and then back
to her face. “Danse avec moi…or you’ll be k-kidnapped by a big
feverish limping man stinking strongly of laudanum still groaning
from the pain of having a lead ball removed from his foot.”