Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (27 page)

“If you will come this way, M. de Chambertin,” said the majordomo impassively as he turned to lead them into the house.

“You see?” Lucien whispered to her. He sounded amused, but as she rested her hand on his arm, she could feel the tension in his muscles.

Eventually they reached a pair of carved and gilded doors, flung open by another pair of footmen as they approached. The majordomo stopped in the doorway to announce, “M. and Mme. de Chambertin,” before he stepped to the side to allow them entrance.

Given what she had seen of La Boulaye so far, she should not have been surprised to enter a drawing room that looked more like a throne room than anything else. True, the comte did not sit on a raised dais, but other than that, the room could have held its own with Queen Victoria's throne room at St. James or the emperor's throne room at Fontainebleau. There was enough red silk damask on the walls and gilding everywhere to make any monarch feel at home.

She was almost disappointed that there was not a runner directing their feet to the foot of the comte's throne or even a railing. They could have wandered anywhere in the room. Well, perhaps not. The comte's obelisk stare drew them inexorably to him.

Looking at the old man, she wondered that those dark eyes could be so intensely alive when the rest of him seemed so desiccated. He was dressed in a uniform of some sort, with fringed epaulets, a blue sash across his chest, and an enormous starburst decoration pinned to his chest. Its high, stiff collar forced his chin up, and his legs were encased in gleaming black boots up to his knees. He sat on an armless chair whose high carved back looked decidedly uncomfortable, his skeletal hands resting atop a walking stick that stood between his knees.

The silence in the room was so complete that she could hear the faint silken rustle of her skirts as they walked toward him, coming to a halt about five feet away. Emily wondered if that was a prescribed distance or if Lucien did not wish to get any closer.

“Grandfather.” Lucien dipped his head in greeting.

“So you have returned at last.”

“Indeed.” Lucien nodded again. “I know how delighted you must be to see me alive and well after the alarms regarding my death.”

The old man's mouth twisted in a grimace of some sort—anger? She was not sure.

“And you need not concern yourself about that foolishness with the bankers,” Lucien continued. “I spoke with them on my return from Fontainebleau. They have restored things as best they can, and I assured them that there would be no prosecution.”

The comte flicked his eyes briefly at Emily and then returned his stare of barely repressed fury to Lucien. “The only foolishness is your failure to do your duty to la Boulaye.” Without turning his eyes away from Lucien, he raised a finger in Emily's direction. “And this nonsense?”

Emily was unable to decide which nonsense caused the greatest fury, Lucien's casual dress, his return to Varennes, his remarks about bankers and Fontainebleau, or her own existence.

Lucien maintained an amiable smile. “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Emily.” He turned to her. “My dear, this is my grandfather, the Comte de la Boulaye.”

She smiled and offered him a brief but graceful curtsy. She did not claim that it was a pleasure to meet him.

The comte's full glare was turned on her this time. “Impossible.” He turned back to Lucien. “You knew that I arranged a marriage for you to Mlle. Fournier.”

“Which, as you also know, I refused. I do hope no one expected the poor girl to wait. Indeed, I thought I had heard that she was married some years ago to a young man from the north.”

The comte lifted his stick to thump it down. “You have disgraced the family. Do you expect the court to accept an English nobody as a future Comtesse de la Boulaye?”

Lucien laughed. “Too late, grandfather. The emperor invited us to Fontainebleau immediately after the wedding and welcomed us most graciously.”

“The empress as well,” chimed in Emily, using her pretty, insipid smile.

“Emperor!” The comte said it with a sneer. “That upstart. What of our court, the real court, that of the Comte de Chambord? Henri V?”

Lucien looked at his grandfather with pity in his eyes but said nothing.

Momentarily stymied, the comte recovered himself. “Mlle. Fournier had the estate of Colombe, adjoining La Boulaye. What sort of dowry does this one bring?”

“How vulgar, grandfather, to speak of money before my bride.” Lucien shook his head in mock reproof. “Rest assured that my uncle de Marbot arranged all that with her father, the Marquess of Penworth. As you are doubtless aware.”

The old man glared at them both, as if expecting some sort of surrender, but Lucien continued to stand, apparently relaxed, with a slight smile on his face. Emily smiled too, politely. Finally the comte sagged against the uncomfortable back of his chair, as if suddenly weary. He looked away from them. “Rooms have been prepared for you in the south wing.”

Lucien's arm jerked in surprise under her hand, but he maintained his detached courtesy. “Thank you, Grandfather, but we are making our home at Varennes.”

There was a hiss from the side. Emily turned, startled. She had not even realized there were any other people in the room, so completely did the comte dominate the scene. But there were half a dozen more people standing at the side. They held themselves so still in the shadows that their very existence seemed uncertain. Could these be the relatives her mother had feared might make difficulties? The idea seemed ludicrous.

In the forefront was an elderly woman in black, her hair covered by a black lace cap, and her lips pinched together in anger. She, at least, had some substance to her.

“Insolent boy,” she spat out. “You will do as your grandfather tells you.”

Emily drew herself up, ready to flay the old witch for daring to speak to Lucien in that tone, but he laid a hand over hers to restrain her.

“Grandmother, forgive me for failing to see you immediately and for not greeting you earlier.” He turned to Emily. “My dear, as you may have gathered, this is the Comtesse de la Boulaye, my esteemed grandmother.” He offered his grandmother a charming smile and a gracious bow. Those gestures had worked wonders on Empress Eugénie, but his grandmother seemed immune.

Her social smile firmly in place, Emily took her turn and dipped her head in greeting. “I thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, but, as my husband told you, we have our own home.”

The comtesse glared at them in a silence that almost sizzled in fury. Arrayed behind her, the shadowy relations looked both fascinated by the exchange and extremely nervous.

“And now, I fear we must return home,” said Lucien. “I wished only to assure you that I am well and happy. I hope the same for you all.”

They turned and departed in the same silence that had greeted their entrance.

* * *

She found Lucien sitting on the terrace. Evening shadows were beginning to create pockets of darkness in the garden, but the stones still held the warmth from the sun. He had discarded his jacket and even the soft bow tie. His eyes were closed, and his head leaned back so that the tan of his neck was exposed by the open shirt. Beside him on the table were a wineglass and an open bottle.

He must have recognized her footsteps, because without opening his eyes, he reached out an arm in invitation. She sat down beside him on the wide chair and settled herself against him, her head nestled on his shoulder, his cheek resting against her hair. She could feel the tension that had been coiled inside him ever since they set out for La Boulaye continue to ease.

He heaved a deep sigh. “I have been a fool. I created a monster where there was only a deluded old man. A shriveled spider, trapped in his own web.”

“You exaggerate.” She was too comfortable here, with his arms around her, to lift her head, so that her voice was slightly muffled against him.

“No, you saw him. He is nothing. That silly uniform he wears is nothing but a sham of delusions, dreams of past glories.”

She could feel the tension in him again, so she put her hand on his chest, just over his heart. “Hush. I meant that you exaggerate your foolishness. When you were a child, he was powerful. Powerful enough to dominate everyone in his family. Powerful enough to worry even M. Bouchard. You are the one who has changed, so that whatever power he had in the past, whatever power he had over your father—all that is gone. Finished.”

He expelled a breath, half laugh, half sigh. “Yes, it is. And do you know what? I do not feel victorious. Not in the least. I feel only pity. His life has been such a waste. He spent years, decades, trying to revive a dead world, pretending that the past had not happened.” Lucien shook his head sadly.

“It is over. Whatever war you two were waging, it is finished. It no longer matters.”

He kissed her gently, peacefully, and then settled her comfortably in his arms. He filled his glass again, and they shared the wine, both sipping from the one glass, as they watched the shadows lengthen.

“There will be rain soon,” he said. “Can you feel it?”

“Mmmm, yes. The air is soft with it.”

He leaned back, his eyes closed. “I would dream of this, you know.”

“Of Varennes?”

“Not just of Varennes. Of sitting here in the cool evening, of drinking wine from my own grapes. And of air soft with the coming rain. Ah, how I longed for rain at times.”

She smiled, remembering the desert, the colorless plain. But then she tilted her head, curious. “Why did you not just come back? There was no need for you to return to your grandfather's house. You could have come here, could you not?”

He looked off into the distance, into the past. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I could have done so. But I was too angry to stay still. I had to move, to travel. I was too restless, too uncertain to stay in one place. And besides…and besides, it would have been too empty, too lonely if I tried to live here alone.”

He looked at Emily. “I was looking for you. I needed you, so we can make Varennes a home.”

* * *

Neighbors came to call, timidly at first. Gradually they began to realize that the old comte was indeed growing old, that he was no longer someone to fear. The future, they saw, lay with Lucien. Then friendships grew. Soon there were children, and more children. Family from England came to visit, as did family from Avignon. So many children, so many visitors that they had to add a wing to the gray stone house. A wisteria vine, like the one in Avignon, grew up the side of the house, filling the air with its spicy scent every May. To the south of the house, a walled garden was created with a canal running down the middle, like an ancient paradise.

And the walls of Varennes rang with joyous laughter.

Read on for an excerpt from
Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures

London, 1852

Cheerful frivolity reigned in the ballroom of Huntingdon House. The dancers swirled to the strains of a waltz, jewels glittering and silks and satins shimmering under the brilliant light of the new gas chandeliers. Even the chaperones were smiling to each other and swaying unconsciously to the music.

Harcourt de Vaux, Viscount Tunbury, an angry scowl setting him apart from the rest of the company, pushed his way to the side of his old schoolfellow. Grabbing him by the arm, Tunbury spoke in a furious undertone. “Pip, your sister is dancing with Carruthers.”

Pip, more formally known as Philip Tremaine, Viscount Rycote, turned and blinked. “Hullo, Harry. I didn't know you were here. I thought this sort of thing was too tame for you these days.”

“Forget about me. It's Norrie. She's dancing with that bounder Carruthers.”

They both looked at the dance floor where Lady Elinor Tremaine, the picture of innocence, was smiling up at her partner, whose lean face and dark eyes spoke of danger. He was smiling as well, looking down at her with almost wolfish hunger.

“What of it?” asked Pip.

“He's a bloody fortune hunter and a cad to boot. How could you introduce him to your sister?”

Pip frowned slightly. “He introduced himself, actually. Said he was a friend of yours.”

Harry spoke through clenched teeth. “You idiot. That should have been enough to disqualify him. Where are your parents?”

“Dancing, I suppose.”

Harry caught a glimpse of the Marquess and Marchioness of Penworth on the far side of the room, dancing gracefully and oblivious to everyone else. Turning back to find Carruthers and Lady Elinor again, he muttered an oath. “He's heading for the terrace.” When Pip looked blank, Harry shook his head and charged across the dance floor.

* * *

Mr. Carruthers had timed it quite neatly, she thought. As the music ended and he twirled her into the final spin, they came to a halt just before the terrace doors. These were standing open, letting in the scent of roses on the breeze of the soft June evening.

“It is rather warm in here, Lady Elinor, is it not?” he said. “Would you care for a turn on the terrace?”

Before she could answer, a strong hand clasped her arm just above the elbow. “Lady Elinor, your mother wants you.” When she turned to object to this high-handed treatment, she found herself staring up at the all-too-familiar scowl of Lord Tunbury. “Harry…” she started to protest.

“If Lady Elinor wishes to return to her parents, I will be delighted to escort her.” Carruthers spoke frostily.

“Lady Penworth requested that I find her daughter.” Harry's even icier tone indicated that there was nothing more to be said on the subject.

Lady Elinor looked back and forth between them and wanted to laugh. Carruthers was tall, dark, and handsome, or at least decorative, with a pretty bow-shaped mouth. Harry, equally tall, had broad shoulders and a powerful build. His square face was pleasant rather than handsome, his middling brown hair tended to flop over his middling brown eyes, and his wide mouth was more often than not stretched into a broad smile. Not just now, of course.

One would say the two men were not much alike, but at the moment they wore identical scowls. They did not actually bare their teeth and growl, but they were not far off. She could not manage to feel guilty about enjoying the sight. It was too delightful.

Carruthers stopped glaring at Harry long enough to look at her. He may have stopped scowling, but he was not smiling. He was stiff with anger. “Lady Elinor?” He offered his arm.

Harry's grip on her arm tightened and he pulled her back a step. His grip was growing painful, and she would have protested, but she feared it might create a scene not of her own designing, so she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Carruthers, but if my mother sent Lord Tunbury, perhaps I should accept his escort.”

Carruthers bowed stiffly and sent one more glare at the intruder before he departed. That left her free to turn furiously on Harry. “There is no way on earth my mother sent you to fetch me. What do you think you are doing?”

He caught her hand, trapped it on his arm, and began marching her away from the terrace. “I cannot imagine what possessed your parents to give you permission to dance with a loose fish like Carruthers.”

“They didn't, of course. He at least had enough sense to wait until they had left me with Pip.” Harry was dragging her along too quickly, and she was going to land on the floor in a minute. “You might slow down a bit,” she complained.

“You little idiot!” He turned and glared at her but did ease his pace. “He was about to take you out on the terrace.”

“Well, of course!” She gave an exasperated humph.

“What do you mean, ‘Of course'?” By now they had reached the end of the ballroom, and he pulled her into the hall and swung her around to the side so he could glare with some privacy.

She shook out her skirt and checked to make sure the pink silk rosettes pinning up the tulle overskirt had not been damaged while Harry was dragging her about. She was very fond of those rosettes. “I mean, of course he was going to take me out on the terrace. That's what he does. He takes a girl out on the terrace, leads her into one of the secluded parts, and kisses her. Marianne and Dora say he kisses very nicely, and I wanted to see if they were right.”

Harry made a strangled sound. “Marianne and Dora? Miss Simmons and Miss Cooper…?”

“Among others.” Lady Elinor waved a hand airily. “He's kissed so many of this year's debutantes that I was beginning to feel slighted, but I think perhaps he is working according to some sort of pattern. Do you know what it might be?”

He was looking at her with something approaching horror, rather the way her brother looked at her much of the time. “You and your friends discuss… What in God's name are young ladies thinking about these days?”

She shrugged. “Young men, of course. What did you suppose? That we discuss embroidery patterns? Don't you and your friends talk about women?”

He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer for patience. Then he began speaking with exaggerated formality. “Lady Elinor, under no circumstances are you to even dance with a rake like Carruthers, much less go into the garden with him. You have no idea what he would do.”

“Fiddlesticks! I know precisely what he was going to do. He apparently has only two speeches that he uses to persuade a girl to let him kiss her, and I want to know which one he is going to use on me. Then I'll know if I am generally considered saucy or sweet.”

“Norrie, no one who is at all acquainted with you would ever consider you sweet.”

“Well, I should hope not. You know me better than that. But I want to know how I am viewed by the people who don't know me.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Norrie, I want you to listen to me. A bounder like Carruthers will try to do far more than simply steal a kiss.”

“I know that. You needn't treat me as if I am simpleminded. But I am hardly going to allow anything more.”

“It is not a question of what you will allow. Just precisely how do you think you could stop him from taking advantage of you?”

She gave him a considering look and decided to answer honestly. “Well, there is the sharply raised knee to the groin or the forehead smashed against the nose, but the simplest, I have always found, is the hatpin.”

“Hatpin?” Harry looked rather as if he were choking as he seized on the most innocuous part of her statement.

“Yes. It really doesn't matter where you stab. Gentlemen are always so startled that they jump back.” She offered him a kindly smile. Sometimes he sounded just like her brother.

He went back to glaring at her. “Norrie, Lady Elinor, I want your word that there will be no strolls in the garden with disreputable rogues.”

“Like you?” she interrupted.

“Yes, if you like, like me! Forget about rogues. You may not always recognize one. Just make it all men. You are not to leave the ballroom with any man at any time.”

“The way we just left it?”

“Stop that, Norrie. I am serious.”

He did indeed look serious. Quite fierce, in fact. So she subsided and resigned herself to listening.

“I want your promise,” he said. “If you will not give it, I will have to warn your brother, and you know Pip. He might feel obliged to challenge anyone who tries to lead you into dark corners, and you know he is a hopeless shot. You don't want to get him killed, do you?”

He had calmed down enough to start smiling at her now, one of those patronizing, big-brother, I-know-better-than-you smiles. It was quite maddening, so she put on her shyly innocent look and smiled back. “Oh, Harry, you know I would never do anything that would cause real trouble.”

“That's my girl.” He took her arm to lead her back to the ballroom. “Hatpins indeed. Just don't let your mother find out you've heard about things like that.”

She smiled. He really was quite sweet. And foolish. He had not even noticed that she gave him no promise. And then imagine warning her not to let her mother find out. Who did he suppose had taught her those tricks?

* * *

Tunbury hovered at the edge of the ballroom and watched Norrie hungrily. He had not seen her in more than a year, and then two months ago, there she had been. It was her first season, and somehow the tomboy who had been his and Pip's companion in all their games and pranks had turned into a beauty. Her dark hair now hung in shiny ringlets, framing the perfect oval of her face. Her eyes—they had always been that sort of greenish blue, shining with excitement more often than not, but when had they started to tilt at the edge that way? And when had her lashes grown so long and thick? Worst of all, when had she gone and grown a bosom?

But she was such an innocent.

She thought herself so worldly, so knowing, when in fact she knew nothing of the ugliness lurking beneath the surface, even in the ballrooms of the aristocracy. That ugliness should never be allowed to touch her. Her parents would protect her and find her a husband worthy of her, a good, decent man who came from a good, decent family.

Not someone like him. Not someone who came from a family as rotten as his. The Tremaines thought they knew about his parents, the Earl and Countess of Doncaster, but they knew only the common gossip. They did not know what Doncaster had told him, and he hoped they never would.

Yes, Norrie would find a husband worthy of her, but he couldn't stay here and watch. That would be too painful. He had to leave. He would leave in the morning and disappear from her life.