Darker Than Love (7 page)

She was a little perturbed about meeting her cousin. It had been some three years since they’d last met, and that was at Mr Singleton’s funeral. Since then Lucy was rumoured to have been out with several different men, yet had married none of them. Her husband had left her well provided for and she’d once said, according to Aunt Gwendoline, that she had no need of a man except in her bedroom. That had been the final straw for Charles Longleigh and he’d declared that, under no circumstances, was Clarissa to associate with such a low-tongued light-skirt.

But Clarissa couldn’t help but think what a delight it would be to talk to someone closer to her own age. She wondered if cousin Lucy was acquainted with Lord Alec. She knew but little of the man chosen for her. She’d been patient, expecting their meeting to be imminent. But now it wasn’t and her curiosity was piqued. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending the next few weeks knowing only that the Earl of Marldon was dark, handsome and somewhat sophisticated.

There was a chattering commotion in the hall. Clarissa’s stomach flared and danced with nervous expectancy. Would her cousin have changed much? she
wondered. Would she really be pleased to find her sitting on the sofa?

The door flung open and Lucy, a froth of tulle and lace perched atop her corkscrew curls, bustled into the room. Exclaiming her delight, she wove a hasty path through the furniture, pursued by the soft whisperings of her magenta gown. Clarissa rose to greet her.

‘Gracious heavens,’ sparkled Lucy, clasping both Clarissa’s hands. ‘Alicia said you’d grown into quite a beauty but she neglected to say how beautiful.’ She stepped back to run admiring eyes from Clarissa’s dark tresses to the flounced hem of her muslin day-gown. ‘Ha, dearest cousin, such looks will get you into trouble some day, of that I’m sure. How are you finding London? And dear Aunt Hester? Why, I hear Marldon’s been somewhat tardy in presenting himself. Men! Do sit down, Clarry. Tell me everything. I’ll ring for some tea. No, no. Some Madeira, don’t you think? This calls for a little celebration.’

Clarissa nodded mute compliance, unnoticed by her cousin, who was already making her way to the door. Ignoring the bell-ropes, Lucy called out for wine and cakes. She hastened back into the room, unpinning her hat and chattering gaily about all the places Clarissa ought to go, the people she ought to meet. Really, London was the most marvellous place to be in summer. And, if Lord Marldon couldn’t be in town, then Clarissa ought to jolly well have some fun until he deigned to grace her with his presence. There was absolutely no point in moping around, waiting for his lordship, was there?

Clarissa was grateful when the wine arrived and cousin Lucy paused for breath. It gave her the chance to respond to the stream of questions, and the two of them giggled over Hester’s dreadful fatigue and the changes Alicia was wreaking on Mr Longleigh. Then Clarissa, nervously fingering the stem of her diamond-glinting goblet, asked, ‘Have you ever met the Earl of Marldon?’

‘Mmm,’ mumbled Lucy, licking cake crumbs from her fingers. ‘But it was some time ago, and I confess to having paid him scant attention. He’s very handsome, of course. But, cousin, allow me to offer my advice. Do not think on him overmuch. Why, if you do, you’ll be quite frantic with impatience before the month is out. Find something to distract you, perhaps a young beau to while away the time. After all –’

‘Lucy!’ reproached Clarissa, making no attempt to conceal her disapproval. ‘How could you say such a thing?’

‘Oh, what’s the harm in a few secret kisses?’ she said, shrugging. She poured out more of the rich, golden wine, despite Clarissa’s insistence that one glass was perfectly adequate.

‘London’s quite different to the country, you know,’ she continued blithely. ‘Why, it’s only the nobodies, poor fools, who are faithful here. Discretion is the only virtue. Ha, and some don’t even bother with that. Anyway, how will you know if you truly desire Marldon when there’s been no one else to compare him to? Why, sweet innocence, I’ll bet you’ve never even kissed a man, have you?’

Clarissa shook her head, desperately wishing she had. She suddenly felt herself to be the dullest, most prudish person that ever drew breath. Lucy Singleton knew all about life and men, whereas she knew nothing. No doubt her cousin regarded her as scarce more than a child.

‘But I – I do know …’ faltered Clarissa. She was eager to befriend Lucy and desperate to prove she wasn’t a mere innocent, a poor foolish nobody. With a surge of determined courage she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to finish. ‘I know about it. I mean, about men and women. I know – in bed. I know about that.’ She felt two hot patches colouring her cheeks but was gratified by Lucy’s smile of approval.

‘Well, you do surprise me, Clarry,’ she replied. ‘And
do these things you know of appeal to you? Are you eager to experience them?’

The heat still burnt in Clarissa’s face but she was resolute. ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes fixed on Lucy’s, a smile of daring playing about her lips. ‘I am.’

Lucy clapped her hands together in delight. ‘Ha!’ she shrieked. ‘How perfectly wonderful. Cousin, I think perhaps you’re ready to meet some friends of mine. Are you engaged the evening after next?’

Clarissa was not.

‘Then we shall go to a ball,’ announced Lucy. ‘Octavia Hamilton’s ball. It’s to be a very fine affair, I promise you.’

‘And who,’ enquired Clarissa, ‘is Octavia Hamilton?’

‘She’s an actress,’ replied Lucy with a wicked grin.

Clarissa felt herself warming to Lucy’s irreverence and disregard for decency. To say someone in society was an actress was as good as saying she was a harlot.

‘An actress!’ she cried with exaggerated shock. ‘Goodness, my father would be horrified.’

Emerald shards twinkled in Lucy’s eyes. ‘And your father,’ she said, ‘is by now probably in Biarritz. Besides, Octavia is a very good friend of Alicia’s. Why, didn’t you know? The two of them used to tread the boards together.’

Octavia Hamilton lived in Berkeley Square, in a house of some consequence. The ballroom was a wedding cake of lofty pillars and gilded stucco swirls, with garlands of flowers draping the walls. From a low stage fringed with palms, musicians in hussar costume played gallops, waltzes and polkas. On the dance floor, twirling jewels and gold-studded shirt-fronts glittered in the blaze of chandeliers.

Gabriel, languidly self-assured in white tie and tails, leant against a towering Doric column. Society events usually bored him and invitations he received were, more often that not, answered with his regrets. He
would far rather spend an evening at Solferino’s or the Six Bells. At least you got decent conversation there. But an invitation from Octavia, profligate and scandalously wealthy, had proved more tempting than most.

As he’d hoped, the action was lively and there was drink aplenty. Footmen in powdered wigs, their calves bulging through white stockings, circulated with skilfully balanced trays of refreshments. Gabriel beckoned one over and took a flute of champagne from his salver.

‘Who’s that?’ hissed Lord Farringdon, reaching for a glass.

Gabriel followed his nod to beyond the dance floor. ‘Well, well,’ he said, recognising the mass of blonde ringlets. ‘If it isn’t Mistress Singleton. How surprising to see her amongst such dissolute –’

‘No, you fool,’ interrupted Farringdon. ‘The one with her.’

‘One of her beaus, I shouldn’t doubt,’ said Gabriel, looking incuriously beyond the whirling crowds.

Impatiently, Lord Farringdon took his elbow, jogging his champagne a little, and nudged a path through the chattering clusters of people. ‘Feast your eyes on that,’ he urged.

Gabriel saw her. It was the girl from the Embankment, in diamonds and mulberry satins, and, oh, she was exquisite. Her gown was cut low, its sleeves scarce more than rosebuds and ribbons. Above the lace edge, her creamy white bosom crested in a gentle curve. Her hair, piled in a heap of tumbling coils, gleamed like jet. And her face was sheer perfection.

He had to capture her. ‘Hold this, Algie,’ he said, thrusting his drink into Farringdon’s hand. He patted his coat and rummaged through a couple of pockets before drawing out a pencil and a slip of card, bordered with gold. His invitation – that would suffice. Gabriel turned it to the blank side and laid it against his companion’s back.

‘Keep still,’ he hissed. ‘Lean forward.’

Lord Farringdon grudgingly obliged, allowing Gabriel to sketch soft, fluid lines on to the card. From time to time he glanced up at his unsuspecting model and glowered when anyone threatened to step too close. Moments later, the drawing was complete, or as complete as his patience would allow.

Clarissa was embarrassed. Lucy’s London was dazzling and fast, a far cry from Aunt Hester’s. She’d fended off countless admiring comments, both murmured and bold, and had refused far more dances than she’d accepted. Yet still her feet, in new brocade slippers, ached. Her mind was spinning with names and faces, none of which seemed to match up, but she was quite sure she hadn’t been introduced to this man.

She would have remembered someone who looked so outré and wore such a splendid gardenia in his button-hole. So why, then, was he demanding a waltz? It flew in the face of all protocol.

‘Manners, Gabriel,’ reproached Lucy, coming to her rescue. ‘Allow me to introduce you: Gabriel – Clarissa. Now go and dance.’

Clarissa, hesitantly placing her fingertips on Gabriel’s outstretched arm, allowed herself to be escorted on to the dance floor. The paucity of their introduction alarmed her a little. At a glance you could see this man wasn’t ordinary. He was clean-shaven with dark, wavy hair caught in a ponytail. Unruly strands hung about his cheekbones and there was an angelic clarity in his finely boned face. She found his rakish air oddly arresting, thrilling even; and beyond that, something deeper tugged at her, stirring her heart to excitement and making her glow warmly within.

The violins played Strauss, and Gabriel led the steps with strong, easy grace. His hand, pressing against the small of Clarissa’s back, was firm, on the threshold of drawing her body close to his. Although he chatted
lightly, when he looked at her, his brandy-rich eyes lingered with mesmeric intensity.

‘You have a rare beauty,’ he said quietly, guiding her into a spin. Clarissa had heard such things before, but nonetheless she missed the beat of the music and her footsteps faltered slightly. Gabriel stumbled with her and laughed. ‘You ought to learn to dance,’ he teased. ‘Then you would be truly perfect.’

His attentions left Clarissa tongue-tied, and the depth of his gaze kindled a flame of longing, confused and illicit, within her. She found herself guiltily wishing her husband would be a man such as this. He was witty and charming, and she fancied his eyes concealed a restless, hungry passion. She thought perhaps it would be wise to reveal that her hand was promised to an earl. But something stopped her. She didn’t want to risk losing him so soon to another dancing partner.

And besides, she reassured herself, his words were mere flattery, harmless society banter. How foolish to appear to be taking them seriously.

She wondered if she was being disloyal to Lord Marldon by thinking of this man in such a way. She convinced herself it could not be so, particularly since Lord Marldon was as yet unknown to her. And thoughts alone could not be an act of betrayal.

The music reached its crescendo and Gabriel whisked her into a final, breathtaking spin. As Clarissa sank into a curtsey, he bowed low over her head and whispered, ‘Would you care to stroll in the garden? I think fireworks are about to commence.’

For a moment Clarissa thought he’d read her desire. But his meaning was literal, safe. By the French windows a chattering crowd was gathering and spilling out on to the patio. Clarissa was relieved to join them.

After the heat of the ballroom, the evening air cooled her burning cheeks. The leafy garden, decorated with statues and urns, was strung with Chinese lanterns. Their coloured lights swayed in the breeze and glittered
like gems in the fountain’s shimmering jets. A sudden whoosh heralded the first firework. The onlookers squealed then cooed as starbursts of red, green and silver shattered the night sky.

‘Come,’ said Gabriel, his gloved fingertips pulling gently on her own. ‘There are things far more brilliant away from here.’

Clarissa, driven by a reckless hunger, followed as he squeezed a path through the enraptured crowd and skirted along the shadows. She knew it was wrong. Aunt Hester would be mortified; her father quite unforgiving. But then, wouldn’t cousin Lucy be perfectly delighted? A forbidden dalliance, she’d said, was quite accepted in society. Indeed a woman with but one man would be deemed quite undesirable by the fashionable set.

A belt of trees stretched along one part of the garden, and there Gabriel slipped between two slender trunks, encouraging her to follow. After a moment’s doubt, she did so. A leafy colonnade stretched ahead, its darkness coloured by the pastel hue of lanterns. Statues, eerie and stern, frozen in their near nudity, loomed from the foliage.

‘A little further,’ he urged.

The distant strains of the orchestra drifted on the night air and fireworks popped gently overhead. The noise of the people grew low and muffled. Clarissa’s blood pounded with fear and excitement. She wanted him, had expected him, to kiss her at once, and yet he seemed intent on taking her deeper into the garden. Perhaps, she thought, he believed her to be one of those disreputable ladies who, in the seclusion of a few trees, would offer up her body. Panic speared her.

‘Mr Ardenzi,’ she began. ‘I have to … I’m not what –’

‘Hush,’ he said. ‘I know.’

He drew her aside into a pergola thickly entwined with greenery and honeysuckle. The delicate blossoms filled the air with their rich spicy fragrance, and the
entrance, lit by a single lantern, glowed with a ruddy mist. Gabriel stripped off his gloves, let them fall, then lifted Clarissa’s chin with one slim finger.

‘I want to paint you,’ he whispered. ‘Will you promise to sit for me soon?’

Relief and disappointment thudded in Clarissa’s stomach. How handsome he was, she thought, with his dark hair haloed by a ruby haze and his skin bathed in warmth. But was that all he wanted? For her to be his model?