Helen Dickson (17 page)

‘Good. Then that’s settled. I shall speak to Ruby.’

E
veryone thought it rather strange that the very next day Lady Osbourne, forsaking the confines of the Osbourne’s palatial London house, was seen driving in the Ring in Hyde Park with all the fashionable folk, and the following day in the popular Vauxhall Gardens, accompanied by a beautiful young lady whose identity was a mystery to those in fashionable society, which aroused much speculation and curiosity.

When Lady Osbourne was unable to accompany her, Maria was accompanied by Ruby, who proved to be not only a competent and experienced lady’s maid, but also a delightful companion. The city was a shopper’s paradise, full of markets and arcades, with shops and stalls spilling over with beautiful and expensive treasures. They drank tea in the tea gardens and ate mouthwatering custard buns in Chelsea.

It was the middle of the afternoon when they visited Westminster and gazed in awe at the Houses of Parliament, the heart of the government, with its Gothic de
tailing and romantic towers. The traffic was heavy and there were so many people milling about. When the carriage came to a halt, Maria was absently looking towards the Parliament building when her eyes came to rest on a gentleman emerging from a side door. Suddenly her heart lifted and a smile widened her lips when she recognised Charles.

Seeing him took her wholly by surprise—although she saw no reason why it should, for since arriving in London he had spent a great deal of his time—if not all of it, for she saw very little of him—with members of the government discussing his time spent in France. Raising her hand, she was about to call his name, but when she saw a woman following close behind him, slowly she lowered her arm and watched as he assisted her into a carriage. She sat beside another woman—probably her maid, but she wasn’t the one Maria was looking at.

She stared at the woman, a beautiful woman, beautifully dressed in deep rose, her dark hair beautifully coiffed beneath a small fetching hat. As though out of a fog, she watched the woman lean down and slip her hand round Charles’s nape, drawing his face close and place a kiss on his cheek.

Why this woman, who had suddenly appeared out of the blue, should suddenly shatter her newfound happiness, Maria could not have said. There was no room in her heart or mind but this one vast disappointment, which little by little became an aching pain.

The lady’s carriage drove on and, standing for a moment to watch it go, Charles then turned and went back inside.

Turning her eyes away, Maria looked ahead. The driver’s attention was on trying to negotiate the carriage through the traffic and, having lost interest in all that was happening around her, she ordered the driver to return to the house.

What she had witnessed had a profound effect on her. How could she have been so blind to the true depth of her own feelings? And all it had taken was to see Charles with another woman in his arms for the truth to break upon her unwilling eyes, blindingly, but too late—she had fallen in love with Charles.

When she recalled their closeness in France, every instinct she had been capable of feeling had conveyed to her that he wanted her, and like a simpleton she had allowed herself to believe there existed a chance that, now Henry was out of her life, Charles might court her. And so, much to the injury of her heart, she had allowed herself to fall more deeply in love with him.

The following evening, the same young lady who had roused so much interest among London’s fashionable elite made her appearance in a box at Covent Garden, this time accompanied by both Lady Osbourne and Sir Charles.

Madame Cecile had had her seamstresses working round the clock to have some gowns made ready for Miss Monkton. Tonight she was dressed in a fashionable chemis dress in a bluish-white hue with a low neck and short puffed sleeves, a style made fashionable by Marie Antoinette. Her glowing hair was upswept into a small matching headdress of feathers, close fitting around the elaboration of ringlets and the twist of corkscrew curls at the nape of her neck.

She was a superb and arresting sight, her whole appearance provocative.

Maria had seen nothing of Charles since she had returned from her unpleasant visit to Henry and the scene she had witnessed at Westminster, which she was unable to banish from her mind. However, the more she thought about it, the more she began to doubt what she had seen and that maybe she had put the wrong interpretation on the incident. If the woman meant anything at all to Charles, then surely Lady Osbourne would have mentioned it to her.

Perhaps the woman was merely a friend—but then, gentlemen did not embrace lady friends with so much affection in full view of the public eye.

When Lady Osbourne told her Charles was to accompany them to the theatre she had spent the day nervously waiting for him to appear, wondering how he would act towards her after their angry words in the carriage when they had been returning from seeing Henry. Perhaps he was still angry with her. Perhaps he thought her ungrateful and despised her for her outburst, or perhaps he hadn’t meant to appear so high-handed and might want to apologise.

Most of what she had said to him had been induced by disappointment and anger, and she wanted very much to believe they could go back to the way things had been between them in France. She had come to care for him very much—to love him, and she also liked and admired him—beyond that she refused to think.

By the time he strolled into the drawing room dressed for the theatre and waiting for Lady Osbourne to come
down, she was so tightly wound she nearly jumped to her feet when she saw him.

She stared at him, the rush of familiar excitement causing her to become tongue-tied, affected strongly as she was by the force of his presence. She was still profoundly disturbed by her meeting with Henry, yet she couldn’t suppress a surge of excitement at being once more close to Charles.

But she wasn’t entirely comfortable with this self-awareness, so she tried to direct her thoughts to more practical matters, such as how she looked and whether or not he approved. She needn’t have worried, for his gaze moved over her with unhidden masculine appreciation, his eyes lingering on the ringlets on either side of her cheeks. Maria’s stomach clenched nervously when she saw it. He had never looked at her like this before, as if she were a tasty morsel he was planning to devour at his pleasure.

‘You look lovely, Maria—a beautiful and fashionable young lady and about to hit London by storm,’ he said casually, stopping in front of her.

‘I sincerely hope not. I’m merely looking forward to a quiet evening at the theatre.’

‘Me also. I think there’s time for a drink before we leave.’

Maria watched as he deftly poured sparkling champagne into two glasses. He handed her one and she sipped it appreciatively. When she was about to turn towards the sofa, he put a restraining hand on her bare arm and drew her back. With his other he opened the lid of a long velvet box on the table and withdrew a single strand of small creamy white pearls and matching drop earrings.

Maria gasped and reaching out she gently fingered them. ‘They are so beautiful.’

‘They are a gift from me to you, Maria.’

She looked up at him sharply. If there was a woman in his life, why would he be giving her pearls? None of it made sense. ‘I remember what you said to me about wearing pearls when we were in France.’

‘I said they would suit you, that they were soothing to the touch.’

She swallowed, suddenly uneasy. ‘Yes, I—I do remember.’

‘I also said I would like to attach some pearls here,’ he murmured. Taking her glass he set it down before gently and quickly fastening the earrings to the lobes of her ears. He turned her towards the large gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace. ‘And here.’ His fingers sent tiny tremors down her spine as he laid the pearl necklace around her slim neck.

In the mirror, Maria watched his expressionless features as he fastened the diamond clasp at the back of her neck, then raised his eyes to hers.

‘Charles—I cannot possibly accept such an expensive gift.’

‘Why? Don’t you like them?’

‘Of course I like them. They really are lovely…but…’

‘But nothing. It gives me pleasure to give you nice things. I shall be offended—mortally wounded, even—if you don’t accept them.’

She sighed. ‘Then what can I say—except thank you.’

‘I’d rather be thanked with a kiss,’ he commanded patiently.

At first Maria hesitated, but, seeing he would accept nothing less, she turned and obediently pressed a light kiss on his freshly shaven cheek in a lightning move.

When she stood back he gave her a frown of disapproval. ‘That is not what I would call a thank-you kiss for such a beautiful gift. That was a peck on the cheek.’

‘It was a kiss.’

‘I say it was not. My definition of a kiss differs from yours. I believe I know more about kissing than you.’ And, taking her arms, he pulled her close and took her lips with sudden, demanding insistence.

Like an alarmed rabbit, Maria jerked back, but he held her firm and his lips stunned her into immobility. And then she felt his hands stroke soothingly up and down her bare arms, while his lips moved on hers with inflaming expertise.

When Charles released her, he smiled into her apprehensive green eyes. ‘There, that settles it.’

‘For you, maybe, but you must forgive me if I seem somewhat confused.’

His lips quirked in a near-smile. ‘I can’t think why. I have kissed you before—remember?’

‘I am hardly likely to forget.’

Charles looked down into her bewildered eyes and repressed the sudden urge to gather her into his arms again and devour her mouth with his. ‘Maria,’ he began, and for the first time Maria noticed the tension on his face. He hesitated, as if searching for the right words, then said, ‘About the other night—what I said.’

‘What did you say?’ she asked, still reeling from his kiss.

The ghost of a smile hovered at his mouth. ‘Now
don’t tell me that you don’t remember how angry I made you, and the dressing down you gave me. I haven’t been so severely chastised since I was a boy.’

‘Yes, I do remember that. And in my opinion it was well deserved.’

‘And no doubt you feel I should apologise for coming over too high-handed.’

Maria gave an impudent, choking laugh. ‘Well—it would be appreciated, but only if you meant it, otherwise there is no point.’

‘Then I apologise.’

‘Charles Osbourne,’ she said, smiling broadly, ‘I think you are the most exasperating man I have ever met.’

A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he admitted unrepentantly. ‘But you do like me, don’t you, Maria?’ he murmured softly, sounding casual, but there was also a note of command behind it that demanded an answer.

She gasped and hot colour sprang to her cheeks. ‘I am hardly likely to say anything to the contrary when you have given me the comfort of your beautiful home,’ she said, thinking that he would not be speaking to her like this if he were in love with another woman. Hope began to stir in her heart.

Charles looked down at her laughing, upturned face. ‘And you’re not afraid of anything, are you?’

‘I am not afraid of you,’ she informed him blithely.

‘Then perhaps you should be,’ he said, and on that enigmatic remark he had turned to greet his mother as she swept in.

Now Maria looked at him. Scorning curling-tongs and powder, he wore his dark hair as she was used to
seeing it, drawn from his face and secured in his nape with a narrow black ribbon. He was immaculately clad in tailored claret-velvet coat and trousers, with a cream brocade waistcoat and the rich creamy lace of his shirt and cravat spilling out at throat and wrist. Maria’s heart turned over.

He was light-hearted tonight, lover-like, even, and feeling that this was the first and in all probability the last time she would find herself at the theatre with him, she was determined not to let thoughts of another woman spoil it.

The theatre was packed to capacity, the people a variety of colourful contrasts. Many of them, men and women, were foppishly overdressed, with hairstyles frizzed and curled and fluffed up ridiculously high and wide, faces rouged, powdered and painted so that the effect was almost theatrical. As Charles drew back the curtains of their reserved box, every pair of eyes seemed to be directed on them.

‘Everyone watches us a great deal,’ Charles commented. ‘I can only surmise they are curious about you, Maria, and speculating on who you are. Curiosity is matched by envy from the ladies and open admiration from the gentlemen.’ He glanced at her from beneath hooded eyes. ‘And who can blame them, looking as you do?’

Maria glanced apprehensively at him. ‘Do you think they assume I am your…?’ Suddenly realising that she had been about to say his intended, realising how tactless she was being, the word died on her lips and she flushed hotly. However, the way he cocked his brow and the sudden gleam in his eye told her that he had read her
mind and that this was exactly what everybody was thinking. Her flush deepened. ‘Oh, then my coming here with you was a dreadful mistake. The last thing I want is to cause you and Lady Osbourne even the slightest embarrassment.’

He laughed, enjoying her confusion. ‘Why do you say that? Where are you at fault in appearing in public escorted by a gentleman—an extremely gallant gentleman, I might add, to whom you owe your escape from France and maybe even your life?’