Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (8 page)

When his aunt had departed, Hartley turned to the young woman standing unwillingly at his side.

“Well done, my dear baroness. A marvellous performance,” he complimented her in English, with just a touch of vitriol.

‘Baroness’ is much better than ‘magpie’, at least, she thought.

“You are too kind. And now, good day, sir.” Maggie wasted no time spinning on her heel in order to make good her departure.

Having suspected that she would attempt to stalk away in a manner that was reassuringly familiar, he caught her arm.

“Maggie, what are you doing?”

Her eyes blazed up at him unexpectedly and he almost took a step back.

“Let us not bother with charades. We are quite past that, I think. I know perfectly well that you have come to take me back,
Lord Hartley
. It is certainly no coincidence that you should be here now. I will inform you that you have had a wasted journey. I won’t go back to London, and if you wish to see Kingsley Stanhope married so very much, then you may marry him yourself!”

Passing pedestrians looked at them in some alarm, startled at the unbecoming disturbance.

Maggie felt her cheeks warm.

Moving much closer to her than was strictly proper, Hart glared back at the young woman. “I’m here to make sure you are safe,” he told her in a fervent whisper. Then, his tone softened. “Please, Maggie. I’ve come all this way, let me speak with you for a few minutes in private. I have a message for you from Frederick.”

She hesitated, visibly torn between the desire to hear from her brother and her obvious distrust. At last, she seemed to come to a decision, determined to show him that she was not in any way alarmed at his unexpected appearance in Paris.

“Very well. But we must drive – I do not wish to cause a scandal.”

“Of course.”

He offered her his elbow to escort her to the waiting carriage, which she accepted with an unreadable look on her face. Hart personally handed Maggie into the vehicle, before instructing his driver to head towards the avenue de Richelieu. He wondered if the faint scent of perfume that clung to her would drive him mad before day’s end.

As Hart hopped gracefully into the carriage after her, Maggie caught him looking rather attentively at the low bodice of her gown. She began to feel a little flustered under the intent scrutiny, her pulse hastening at the way his eyes caressed her skin.

“Well?” she asked impatiently, not wanting to spend too much time alone with him in the carriage in case she did something completely shocking.

“You certainly look different,” he murmured, distracted from his purpose.

For a moment, it was as if she were back on that lawn after the shuttlecock game, caught in a whirlwind of disbelief.

Maggie felt her breath catch. “Is that a compliment, Lord Hartley?”

The closeness of his face and his deep blue eyes muddled her thoughts.

He started and cleared his throat. “Well. I daresay I preferred you a bit more covered up.”

With that, he pulled out a carriage blanket and attempted to drape it about her shoulders.

Maggie was taken aback as she realised that he was
disconcerted
at her appearance. Could she possibly have such an effect on him? Another part of her grew exasperated that he was making such a fuss over her gown – or was it his unexpected nearness that left her feeling so out of control? Maggie didn’t like feeling out of control.

“Whatever are you doing? Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want to wear an old carriage blanket,” she laughed as she pushed it away. “It isn’t at all the thing, you know. Now, where is this note from Frederick?”

Hart looked a little guilty and Maggie began to suspect that there was no message. He had obviously been cutting shams and she hated being played for a fool.

If only the carriage hadn’t begun to move, she would have walked away then and there.

“Ah. Well, you see, there may not be a written message as such, precisely. Listen Maggie, he is very worried about you. You need to come back with me. I’ve been searching for you for three weeks. You father is quite at his wits’ end. He has been obliged to make up banbury stories to explain your absence. You must have had your fill of your little jaunt by now.”

He did look a little desperate to win her to his argument.

She felt a stab of anger. “And here I thought we would begin with some civil whiskers – the weather, perhaps? But you are right, we’re well past polite inanities. Tell me, Hart, are you worried your cricket club will kick you off the team for missing so much of the Season?” she asked, with mockery tainting her voice.

“Maggie,” Hart growled in frustration. “This is not the time for bickering or games. It is you and your reputation that concerns me – as you know full well. All is not yet lost. We can concoct a story about your visit to a family friend, to my aunt, even, if you like. But not if you are gone much longer.”

“Why, you surprise me – I had no idea that you are so very high in the instep. Certainly the tales one reads in the journals suggest otherwise. If you are so worried about the taint of my reputation, perhaps you ought to be on your way. I’m confident you’ll be able to charter a schooner and be in England for supper. I, however, have not the least intention of returning, with you or without, and I am certainly not marrying that ridiculous man. I like it here and I like who I have become.” She glowered at him for emphasis, like a tigress protecting her cubs.

The worst part of it, Hart thought, was that
he
liked who she had become too. He had liked her before, of course – but this new womanly confidence she had acquired was terribly distracting. Losing all common sense, Hart took hold of her shoulders, as though to emphasise the urgency of his words. They felt surprisingly delicate in his large hands.

“You like it here, do you? Foolish girl! You don’t understand the consequences of what you have done,” he croaked, a strong passion almost overcoming his voice.

Maggie continued to look at him steadily. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of his behaviour. Had he been any other gentleman bold enough to lay hands on her person, she would not have stood for it. But it was different with Hart.

The nearness of him was as intoxicating as ever. She knew now that she could never forget this feeling – that she never would, if she lived to be a hundred. Just as she could never forget his intense gaze or his cynical smile. No, it would be impossible to forget him, or even to grow immune.

What she was truly puzzled by was the fervency with which he was trying to convince her to return. She was not his sister, after all: no relation at all. The scandal, if such were ever to erupt, would not touch him or his name. Why did he care so much what she chose to do with her life?

It was then that Maggie came to be aware of the unmistakable heat building between their bodies in the confined space of the closed carriage. Despite her show of confidence, Maggie felt her nerves tense.

She had to make him let her go.

“You are insufferably bullheaded! It is completely insufferable. I’ve been having a perfectly delightful day, and then you decided to come into it and put me in a miff. My scandal is none of your concern, sir. I am not a child. Be so good as to take your hands off me.”

His gaze dropped down to her lips as he perilously ignored the anger in her words. Maggie had the distinct impression he was considering kissing her. Again. Just like that time in gardens, though that memory felt like it now belonged to someone else.

Maggie wasn’t that timid creature anymore: she felt utterly transformed, more alive than she had ever been. In the past few weeks, she’d been amazed at the brazen confidence she had adopted as the Baroness de Gramont. She was becoming an utter hoyden, and the freedom of it was intoxicating.

“Are you going to kiss me again, Hart?” Her voice came out in a whisper, her anger drained out of her, forgotten. Maggie cocked her head to the side, challenging him.

Hart still hadn’t removed his hands from her shoulders. He raised his eyebrows, surprised at her boldness. He leaned in slowly, his knees touching hers, and his mouth mere inches away. “Would it help convince you to come back with me?”

“Perhaps,” Maggie said with a smirk, trying to tease the serious look off of his face.

Before she could say another word, his mouth was on hers and he pulled her close against him. Maggie gasped at the unexpected passion that seemed to command his kiss. His heady masculine scent made her heart pound and her head spin. Her fingers tangled in the lapels of his fine coat.

Maggie surrendered to the kiss, losing all ability to think about anything other than how wonderful he felt and tasted. How hard and powerful his chest was against hers. How
right.
Passion blazed between them.

She was being quite scandalous again. Far from sating her silly infatuation, the kiss only seemed to ignite something deeper and stronger: something a little frightening.

Hart seemed to feel it too. He abruptly broke the kiss and sat back in his seat, looking ashamed and confused. “Gad, Maggie. What are we doing?”

His low voice washed over her delightfully and it took Maggie the blink of an eye to decide how she ought to respond.

Her inner baroness took over again and she knew exactly what needed to be done. Maggie touched her fingers tentatively to her lips, breathing hard.

Hart watched her every movement like a hawk.

“Hmmm. Well done, my lord. You certainly live up to your reputation. That was… six seconds, would you say? Not good enough to get me to give up Paris, however.” She straightened her wrinkled dress and did her utmost to look unaffected, pretending not to notice the shocked expression on his face. “I see we have arrived at my house. I’m afraid I must go now. Be so good as to tell my brother I am quite well. Dear Frederick – I miss him very much.”

The door opened. Hartley descended, looking distinctly out of temper. Maggie looked at him expectantly. Dumbfounded, he belatedly reached out to assist her. “Not good enough?” he muttered to himself. He had certainly never encountered that response before.

“Good day, Lord Hartley.”

Spinning on her heel, she walked gracefully to the front door of the town house, a stately building of tasteful Parisian grey stone. With a muttered curse, Hart followed after.

“Don’t forget that you have agreed to drive out with my aunt tomorrow morning, Madame la Baronne. I would take it as an act of great cowardice on your part if you were to cry off.”

She turned and gave him an amused half-smile. “As you say, Lord Hartley. I shall see you tomorrow. And then I expect you will need to get back to London to tend to your other games.”

The innocent look on Maggie’s face was in stark contrast to the anger beginning to show on Hart’s. “Do not think that I have given up, Maggie – but if
you
wish to play games, then mark my words,
play
we shall.”

Without waiting for a response, he bowed and returned to his carriage. Maggie couldn’t stop herself from admiring his height and the strong set of his shoulders. She watched his carriage move quickly down the street, before smiling to herself and touching her fingers to her lips.

She didn’t have time to be mawkish over him, she reminded herself sternly. She had other things to worry about. Like Madame Finnette and her shop.

It Hart wished to play games, then she would play. And she would win.

Maggie did her best to read a book while she eagerly awaited the arrival of Hart and the countess. She wasn’t about to admit to this eagerness however – not even to herself. After all, what did she care what Hart thought about her new identity?

She forced herself to concentrate on Sir Walter Scott’s very latest offering,
The Tales of Old Mortality
. The bookseller had assured her that the tome was rife with danger, intrigue, and adventure. This was, in Maggie’s opinion, one of the only ways to make history palatable.

Of course, her own life seemed suddenly just as full of adventure and intrigue as any author’s most exciting creation. While she had yet to encounter any hauntings or pirates, she had her hands quite full with the insufferably attractive Lord Hartley.

She felt almost like a child on her birthday. The day ahead seemed bright and full of possibility. She’d spent a good while deliberating which gown would be best to wear to drive about Paris, before settling on one which she had fortuitously finished just the day before.

When she had had her fill of Sir Walter, Maggie settled to write in her beloved journal. Did she dare detail the events of the day before? The carriage and way she had provoked him into kissing her? The taste of his kiss still haunted her and she couldn’t quite stop herself from touching her lips dreamily in delightful recollection. By her count, that was two kisses in less than a month – which certainly wasn’t at all shabby.

She supposed she ought to have been nervous at the thought of seeing him again after such a bewildering and sinfully delightful encounter, but she couldn’t help the flutter of excitement she felt every time she thought about it.

Hart and the countess arrived at precisely ten o’clock, as planned. He had always been extremely punctual. As the butler showed the guests into the drawing room, Maggie prepared herself to descend and greet them, working hard to appear welcoming but nonchalant. She took one last look at herself in the cheval glass before leaving her bedroom. Cecile had dressed her hair in the latest fashion,
a la Sappho.

Her gown was elegant, yet daring – boasting the low bodice that had become all the rage, with only a delicate fichu to make it appropriate for morning wear. The fabric was a soft periwinkle sarcenet, with a satin underskirt. It was intricately embroidered in a flower pattern, and the skirt swirled out delightfully when she walked. She wore a very thin chemise under it, which felt wonderful and hedonistic against her skin.

Maggie was particularly proud of this creation. Cecile had been a tremendous help with the tricky beading along her neckline and it certainly wouldn’t do Madame Finette any harm to have another of her lovely gowns sighted about town.

Already, the most modish Parisian ladies had begun to call on the
couturiere
in her little establishment, cleverly locating it from the few hints Maggie had carefully let slip. Despite her youth, Cecile made remarkable work of convincing them of her expertise, and casually mentioning her mother’s former position in the late queen’s household. Maggie believed that a lot of their success had to do with Cecile’s natural charm and her love for interacting with every one of her customers.

They had even had to take on an apprentice to ensure that they were able to cope with the influx of orders. Madame Finette’s
boutique de mode
currently employed one assistant shop girl, Manon Duval, who fitted the customers and showed fabrics when Madame Finette was otherwise occupied.

Maggie had had to keep to the backroom to avoid being recognised as the baroness, but she rather enjoyed the anonymity of quietly sewing and designing – she was much too prickly to be able to deal with difficult fashionables with any degree of success.

As usual, Paris showed that it loved nothing so much as a mystery. The enigmatic Madame Finette, with her fresh outlook on mode, caught the public’s attention to the point where wild theories of her origins were flying through exclusive dinner parties and soirees. The skilful execution and beauty of her creations were undeniable, but where had she come from?

Was she really just a friend of the baroness? It seemed unlikely. There had to be more to the mystery than that. Fashionable Paris could not decide whether the lady was a descendant of the legendary Rose Bertin, the very favourite dressmaker of Marie Antoinette, a natural daughter of a foreign king, or some kind of sartorial sorceress.

She had a remarkable feel for fabric and drape, and an uncanny instinct for colour and trim. More than that, she commanded astonishing prices and an appointment with her was trickier to secure than an audience with the new king.

Her name had become all the rage about town, and Maggie seemed unable to set foot in any society party without hearing the latest theories, and being asked a myriad tricky questions.

*

Hearing Hart’s voice in the room beyond, but unable to make out what he was saying, Maggie took a deep, steadying breath before entering the drawing room.

“Marguerite, my dear, good morning,” said Marie-Josette, upon seeing Maggie. “How lovely you look – is it another of those gowns from the good Madame Finette? Well, it will do charmingly for the day ahead.”

“Madame,” Hart greeted in turn, once his aunt had finished speaking. His voice was politely cool, but the way his eyes trailed over her caused her eyes to fly involuntarily to his sensual mouth. Evidently he too had not forgotten their carriage ride.

“Good morning, Madame, Lord Hartley. I am so pleased to see you. I am quite beside myself with curiosity as to what it is that you have planned for today. Where are driving? And would you care for some coffee perhaps, or some biscuits? I have cook make fresh ones every morning.”

“Oh, no, thank you. We have far too much to do today!” The countess was visibly bursting with energy, and her eyes were full of mischief. “Since my nephew has been so good as to condescend to spend the day with his old aunt, I thought we must make the outing a particularly special one. I think first we ought to stop at this charming new chocolate house on the rue Vivienne – I am told it is a delightful establishment. We shall be bold and order coffee, my dear, and pretend we are in a coffee house. The
chocolaterie
is exactly the place to be seen.”

“You must forgive my aunt, Madame la Baronne,” Hart said with wry amusement. “She delights in scandalously frequenting coffee shops whenever she is in Vienna – and is quite determined to emulate the experience here. I think she means to put us to the blush.”

Maggie was flooded with a great liking for Hart at the affectionate way he teased his aunt.

“Yes, I daresay your reputation will indeed suffer for it grievously, my boy. But I think you will yet evade utter infamy,” the lady replied pertly.

Hart bowed good-naturedly and his aunt went on.

“Next, we are to have a real treat: a visit to
les montagnes russes
! It has come to my attention that I have yet to see those marvellous
Promenades
aériennes
. They are the newest thing in Paris and I am given to understand an unmissable attraction. There was a piece on them in
Le Bon Genre
just yesterday.”

The lady beamed at Maggie, utterly pleased with herself. Maggie was a little confused. She supposed that she had missed some important bit of news, buried as she had been under her sewing.

“Forgive me, what are the
Promenades aériennes
and what are
les montagnes russes
? Are there ice slides in Paris?”

“Ice? Oh, no, indeed. The
montagnes
are a most marvellous thing. Why, they are little carts, and one sits inside and goes very fast along the double tracks in a circuit. They get rather high, I am told – certainly not for the faint of heart. What a grand adventure they will make. I am certain we shall have a memorable time of it. Oh, I hadn’t thought to ask: you are not afraid of heights?”

“Not at all. The
Promenades
sound delightful,” Maggie assured the countess.

She tried to picture what they might look like. It sounded as much fun as when Hart or her brother had recklessly driven her about Chenefelt in their carriages – she’d loved the speed and the thrill of the wind in her face. And height. It would be like flying, like being turned into a bird – swift and free. Maggie could think of nothing she would enjoy more.

They set out soon after that, and Maggie carefully ignored the shiver of delight she felt when Hart personally handed her into the countess’s brougham.

As they arrived at the chocolate house, Marie-Josette saw a friend and excused herself to say hello. Hart escorted Maggie to a table, the very picture of gentlemanly decorum.

“I must say, my dear, your gown is very becoming,” he said quietly, so that only she would hear the brazen statement. Maggie flushed and almost stepped on her skirts a she took her chair.

A part of her still couldn’t believe she was hearing such words from Hart, impertinent and delicious as they were. She had hoped for them, certainly, but she had never truly
expected
them. It was as surprising as his behaviour in the carriage – and almost as delightful. What was he up to?

She glanced nervously at the countess, but the older woman was still deeply in conversation with her friend.

“It won’t answer, you know,” Maggie whispered to Hart.

“What won’t?”

“Your ploy. You are positively and shamelessly flirting with me, Lord Hartley. You are doing it to make me acquiesce and return with you to London. It is most provoking.”

“What a fanciful suggestion! But I own I am quite intrigued: what is it that you are doing here in Paris that has tied you so closely to this city? Is there, perhaps, a gentleman to whom you are attached?” He said this very carefully.

Too carefully, in fact, Maggie thought. She sniffed delicately.

“A gentleman? How quaint. Not everything in a lady’s life revolves around a man, Lord Hartley. No matter what you may wish to believe.”

She wondered idly how Hart would take the notion of her having acquired a paramour. Would it set his back up? Would he play the jealous suitor? It was something to consider, at least.

Hart narrowed his eyes. “My apologies. Has this, then, something to do with your
modiste
? I have been hearing about her everywhere I go – and one does not usually get to hear all about seamstresses when one frequents a gentlemen’s club. Madame Finette, isn’t it? She has garnered quite a following, my aunt tells me. I find it very curious that, of all Paris, it was you who first wore her creations. Before your arrival, no one had even heard of the woman. I rather think there is more to her than meets the eye. Which reminds me, how is Cecile enjoying the Parisian air?”

Maggie was taken aback at this deduction. Did he know that they were both involved in running the shop? Or was he merely guessing? And did it matter in the least? Her shock must have registered on her face, because the marquess gave a satisfied nod, visibly enjoying his victory. Maggie was utterly at a loss:
The Ballroom Etiquette for Young Ladies
had certainly never covered this kind of conversational lapse.

He could very easily ruin their whole game. They had spent too long creating the mystery to let it go without a fight.

In a moment of inspiration, she looked at him innocently from under her lashes. “I have heard it said that she is a lost Polish princess,” she told him.

She was spared from hearing whatever cutting thing Hart would have said in response to that, because the countess rejoined them, looking very entertained after her
tête à tête
.

“Forgive me, my dears. The vicomtesse de Bourgogne-Chauvry does so go on: I could not find any way to cut the conversation short. But I see you have been so good as to engage Marguerite in conversation, Hartley. How very civil of you!” she teased, having noticed the intense silence. “You must know, Marguerite, that my nephew doesn’t mean more than half of what he says, so you are not to mind him. Now, I think we had better have some chocolate with orange blossom before we embark on our adventure – it is very good for the nerves. ”

They ordered coffee, chocolate and some walnut dainties for their breakfast, which came on a silver and porcelain
chocolatière
service. The countess was a great believer in chocolate as a means to curing all ills and often touted it as the reason for her most excellent health. The warm drink was flavoured with a hint of vanilla and sugar, with light citrus notes, and Maggie found it absolutely delicious – much more so than the coffee.

They discussed Paris, the latest society
on dits,
and the various patrons that visited the chocolate house. Marie-Josette speculated on the differences between the
Promenades
and a similar attraction recently constructed in Belleville.

All the while, Maggie wondered how she might determine how much Hart knew about Madame Finette, and what he planned to do about it.

It took all of her control not to drop her delicate cup when Hart casually reminded his aunt that she had yet to pay a visit to the famous
modiste
. Pausing a moment to take in Maggie’s reaction, he went on to suggest that perhaps she should do so after their outing.