Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (15 page)

Her breath came raggedly as if it was almost too difficult for her to speak. “What you did before . . . the way you touched me . . . I can’t get it out of my mind. I find myself wanting more. But not with just anyone, Michael. With
you . . .
only with you.”

Her honesty almost undid him. He took a deep breath, inhaling her sweetness before drawing away from her. “We have to wait,” he told her in an even tone that spoke of monumental restraint on his part. “This is not the proper time or place for this, and I’ve already insulted your brother once. I can’t do it again. But once we’re back in England and married, you have my word that I’ll indulge you as often as you please.”

She nodded, her disappointment evident upon her face, and he’d never felt more frustrated in his life. There was some measure of consolation to be had however. She still wanted him. That much had just been made abundantly clear. She might not care about him the way he cared about her, but she wanted him. At least that was something.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

T
hat evening, Michael and Ryan waited in the parlor for Alexandra to appear. “I don’t understand why it’s taking so long,” Michael muttered. “You and I have to share Mr. Bell between us, yet we managed to be ready half an hour ago.”

Ryan grinned. “You of all people ought to know how long it takes a woman to ready herself for a ball with as many sisters as you have.”

“Of course, I do. But that doesn’t mean I understand it.” He threw back his glass of brandy, savoring the bite of it as it swirled around his mouth.

The sound of a door opening and closing brought both men to attention. They stared at the parlor door, holding their breaths while it slowly opened. Mrs. Bell appeared. “Gentlemen,” she announced with a gleaming smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. “May I present, Lady Alexandra Summersby.”

Stepping aside, Mrs. Bell made way for Alexandra.

Michael gasped. She was dressed in the most splendid ball gown that he had ever seen. It was a frost blue creation made of the finest mull. Silver tinsel embroidery dotted the fine fabric—a wide border of the glittering needlework adorning the hem in depiction of wispy, springtime bouquets above a wavy border of flowers.

The sleeves were short puffs set just below the shoulders, the high waist emphasized by a long twisted chord, tied in a knot at the front. But what had Michael struggling for air, was the shocking, plunging neckline that set Alexandra’s cleavage on very prominent display.

“You’re not married yet, Ashford.” Ryan snapped. “I hope you’ll try to remember that.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Summersby,” he drawled, taking a step in Alexandra’s direction. “My dear, you look lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

“Does she have a cloak?” Ryan almost yelled, his voice rising to an alarmingly high pitch. “A cloak if you will, Mrs. Bell.”

“Ryan . . . honestly, you’re too fussy.” Alexandra rolled her eyes at her brother’s efforts to protect her modesty.

“Not fussy enough or you wouldn’t have dared to don such a gown in the first place.”

“It’s French, you know,” she teased.

“Even more reason not to like it,” Ryan muttered. “Mrs. Bell?”

Alexandra giggled with amusement as Mrs. Bell stormed in with a black velvet cloak hanging over her arm. “You can’t keep me covered up all night, you know,” Alexandra said as she pulled the cloak across her shoulders. Ryan groaned. Apparently he knew all too well that he might as well concede her point.

“Not to worry, old boy,” Michael told him with a slap on the back. “I’ll keep a watchful eye on her, as will you. Together I am sure we’ll manage to chase away the hounds.”

“It won’t stop them from looking,” Ryan grumbled.

“That’s enough, you two,” Alexandra exclaimed, slapping her fan furiously against her cloak as she all but stomped her feet in protest. “Yes, my gown is more risqué than any I have ever seen in England. However, I do believe that I am brave enough to wear it.” She said, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

“Now then, as I’ve never been to a ball before, I’m fully set on enjoying this one.
You
won’t ruin it for me by acting like a couple of stuffy old matrons.” She pointed a gloved finger at both men. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Absolutely,” Michael muttered.

It was overlapped by Ryan’s, “Of course.”

“Good.” She sent them a dazzling smile that instantly brought out the gentleman in each of them. “Then you may escort me to the carriage.”

T
he throng of carriages lined up along rue de Rivoli and spilling into the palace courtyard kept the three companions waiting for close to an hour before they finally managed to alight and make their way inside. A footman took Alexandra’s cloak just as Michael and Ryan both offered her their arms. With a girlish giggle she accepted, stepping between them and allowing each of them to guide her up the stairs.

Soft notes of music already filled the salon de la Paix—the long gallery that stretched toward the hall des Maréchaux where the ball was being held. Already the hum of voices warned them of the crush that awaited them inside. A few couples stood by the tall open windows that flanked the hall, enjoying a short reprieve from the heat in the ballroom or simply eager for a little privacy.

As they stepped beyond the gilded doors, Alexandra found herself swept inside a dreamlike fantasy of sparkling opulence and riches beyond her wildest imagination. This was a far cry from any of the English estates she’d visited over the years—they seemed so utterly dull and dismal by comparison.

Five crystal chandeliers of extraordinary size weighed heavily on chains that looked too thin to bear them. The vaulted ceiling, painted with blue skies and drifting clouds stretched to infinity between four ornately sculpted ribs. The room paid homage to the heroes of war, its walls filled with paintings of Bonaparte’s marshals and a parade of busts depicting his generals. At the far end, looming above the crowd, stood four imposing figures—replicas of Goujon’s
Caryatides.

Jewel bedecked women shimmered in the lamplight, their gowns overflowing with silk, lace and enough beads and ribbons to open a whole chain of haberdasheries. Alexandra squinted, allowing for her eyesight to adjust. “I’ve never seen anything more spectacular or more”—she paused while she searched her mind for the right word—“opulent.”

“Few people have,” Michael remarked. “I fear no other ball will ever live up to this.”

“Let’s move away from the door,” Ryan suggested. “We’re very rudely obstructing the entrance.”

They strolled toward the refreshment table, all the while scanning the room for any sign of William and not at all oblivious to the eyes of uniformed men that followed in their wake. “You’re causing quite a stir, my dear,” Michael whispered in Alexandra’s ear. Heat scorched her face at his words. She could not think when he was so close to her.

“Madame. Messieurs.”
A tall gentleman with dark, sprouting hair and a pleasant smile stepped in front of them. He was resplendent in his navy blue coat tails, embroidered in gold thread and sequins and decorated with proof of his valor. His breeches were a dazzling white, and his boots of polished black leather that shone. About his waist he wore a wide sash of gold, while a crimson one slashed its way across his frame, tying at his side.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Comte Bertrand, His Imperial Majesty’s Grand Marshal.”

Alexandra’s fingers clenched around Michael’s arm as her eyes held the count’s.

Stay calm, just stay calm
, she intoned to herself, ignoring the dread that swamped her.

This man was among three of Bonaparte’s most entrusted soldiers. He was not only in charge of the entire imperial household but he was also the very one entrusted with procuring any woman that happened to strike the emperor’s fancy.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,
Monsieur
,” Ryan told the man with a hearty smile. “My name is Renard Gravois. This is my sister Sandrine and her husband, Michel Laurant.”

“Enchanté,”
The count reached for Alexandra’s hand and pulled it toward him, placing a soft kiss upon her gloved knuckles. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked.

There was nothing that Alexandra wanted more at that very moment than to decline, but how could she without offending the man? Besides, perhaps the answers to all their questions had happily materialized in the form of a smartly dressed dance partner. Surely, he would know what had become of Mr. Finch—if Bonaparte had indeed had a hand in his disappearance. She might also be able to gather further information regarding her brother, but she would have to tread lightly as far as he was concerned. She wanted to help him, not push him in front of Napoleon’s firing squad.

“Indeed, nothing would delight me more.”

With a stiff smile, Michael reluctantly handed her over to her fate. “Can she even dance?” he asked Ryan when they were well out of earshot.

“I damn well hope so,” he muttered, craning his neck as if trying to pick his sister out from among all the dancers. “Oh bloody hell. I should have known.”

“Known what?” Michael asked, looking to see what had put Ryan in a sudden sweat.

“I dare say it’s the bloody waltz!”

Michael groaned. Of course it was. Well, he wasn’t about to stand around watching Alexandra in a much too close embrace with a Frenchman while she swirled about the dance floor. Muttering an oath, he continued on toward his initial destination—the refreshment table. A drink was clearly in order.

“S
o tell me,
Madame
, what brings a woman of such extraordinary beauty to Paris? You cannot live here, or I would have noticed you already and, I must declare, I have never set eyes on you before this very evening.” His words were soft against her forehead, yet Alexandra couldn’t help but feel like he was prodding her.

Oftentimes the best lies were the ones resembling the truth as closely as possible. They were the ones that she could make herself believe enough for her to act her part convincingly. She saw no other choice but to dive in. “I see I have presented you with quite a mystery, my lord.”

“And, will you willingly enlighten me, or shall I have to squeeze it out of you?” He pressed her closer until she felt his jaw graze against her cheek. She stifled a shudder.

“Monsieur
, may I remind you that I’m a married woman. I do not dally.” Thank God for Ryan’s sense in telling this man that she belonged to Michael.

The count laughed. “
Madame
, you are as prudish as the English. We Frenchmen never allow a husband or a wife to deter us from the greater pleasures in life. Indeed,
Madame,
husbands exist in order to provide for their wives, while wives exist in order to dote upon their husbands. It’s a symbiotic relationship. But, when it comes to passion, decadence, and unadulterated sex—the kind that makes you writhe between the sheets . . . then,
Madame
, it’s not a husband you need, but a lover.”

Alexandra could feel her stomach roil. Never before had she thought herself more close to being violently ill. Had it been Michael who had spoken such filth, it might have stirred her, but to find herself so shamelessly affronted. Few things agitated her, but this . . . this was beyond all sense of decorum.

“Might I offer my services?” the count whispered as his wet tongue swiped against her earlobe.

Yuk!

This was by far, more than she was willing to endure. And yet, she had to remember her primary goal in attending this evening.

Pulling back slightly, she gazed up at the man who’d just declared her to be nothing but a slab of meat. She batted her eyelids to the best of her ability and prayed to God that she would not vomit. “To answer your first question, I am here this evening as a guest of
Monsieur le Docteur
. He’s my brother,
Monsieur
.”

The count raised an eyebrow, surprise clearly evident upon his face, but then he narrowed his eyes and looked at her more closely as if he hoped to read her like an open book. “I’ve enjoyed several interesting conversations with him, I must admit.” He swept her in a wide circle and tightened his hold on her hand. “His Imperial Majesty is quite taken with him, you know, but then, he admires all men who’ve studied at the Sorbonne. He’s a great advocate of higher learning, you see.”

Alexandra spotted the trap immediately. She didn’t know why this man was deliberately trying to set her up—the only thing that mattered was that he was and that could only mean one thing. He suspected her of something or he suspected William. Fortunately, her brother had been farsighted enough to mention this detail when they’d last spoken. “I fear you must be mistaken, my lord,” Alexandra smiled as they glided to a halt. She placed her hand on Bertrand’s arm and allowed him to lead her off the dance floor. “I’m quite certain that he studied at Leiden.”

“Ah, yes, I do believe you are correct. One must admire him for managing such a feat. After all, it can’t have been easy for him to study in a foreign language.” Bertrand’s eyes glittered like those of a wolf preparing to spring a trap. “I don’t believe
Monsieur le Docteur
speaks Dutch.”

Alexandra’s smile tightened. There was no longer any doubt. This man was clearly trying to prove that William wasn’t who he claimed to be. It worried her to no end. Her brother’s situation was clearly more precarious than she’d imagined. “My lord, the last I heard, medicine is taught in Latin—a language which my brother happens to be quite proficient in.”

“Well done,
Madame
,” the count exclaimed. “You do appear to have passed the test. Come, walk with me.”

Alexandra let out a small sigh of relief. Her head was feeling rather dizzy from the strain of it all. She’d been ready to make a dash for it the minute the count had caught her out. Thank heavens she’d managed to remain calm.