Pleasure For Pleasure (17 page)

“Would you ever be happy spending a great deal of the year on my estate?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Her smile did not falter. “Never. But Mayne, if you decide that living in the country will make you contented, I am perfectly able to take care of myself. Your house here in London is in an excellent location. Once I have renovated it to the French style, it will be very comfortable. And then I have so many friends. I believe I shall be quite happy at—how do you call them in England?—house parties. Yes, that's it. I would much dislike to think of myself as a shackle on your ankle.”

“A poetic simile,” Mayne said wryly. “I should miss you.”

“But we face a great many years together. I am certain that we shall like to live in different places for periods of time. I have often observed that the best marriages are so. I would much dislike it if either of us were unhappy, Mayne.”

“Where will the children be?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why, where children are supposed to be. In the country, in town, wherever they wish to be.”

Mayne laughed. “They won't express wishes for some time.”

“I dare say,” Sylvie said. “I know nothing of children, you understand, Mayne. But our children will be perfectly amiable, I am sure.”

She was so cheerful, so genial, so courteously willing to
live apart from him for their entire lives. And from their children too, he had no doubt. And yet: he looked at her again. Sylvie was no ogre. There was the beautiful little pointed chin, and wide, friendly eyes with an inquisitive, intelligent gleam to them.

“Don't you wish there was more to life than this?” he asked again, rather desperately.

And saw those beautiful eyes fill with concern. “I do not.” She said it with certainty. “May I speak frankly?”

“Of course!” He took both her hands.

“I come from a country where many people, young women of my mother's age, were brutally killed for nothing more than being who they are. They were born to rule, not to work. Born to a life of pleasure, rather than toil. I was lucky enough that my father became a friend to Napoleon rather than an enemy—at least until he saw the truth of that regime—and yet I see the horror of it, in my mind, you understand? I know what happened in the Bastille: the cruelties, the loss, the terrible loss of it.”

Inside his palms, her hands curled into fists. “How can you ask me if I want more than this life? I am so lucky to have this life! I sit here, dressed with such elegance as my friends and relatives once enjoyed, eating exquisite food, in no danger of my life, and in no fear, and you ask me if
this is enough
?”

There was a moment's silence between them.

“Oh God,” he said, “I'm so sorry, Sylvie. I'm a bastard to have even asked.”

But she caught herself up. The fierceness faded from her eyes, replaced with her inimitable self-possession. She slipped her hands from his and smiled at him, that intelligent, assured smile that had first attracted him. “I am very happy. It would be unthinkable for me to be otherwise.”

“I see that. I expect you are the best possible person for me to talk to on this matter.”

“It is often so with friends. I find that when I talk to a friend, and learn her perspective, my view of the world shifts.”

“Friends,” he said. “But surely we are more than friends, Sylvie?”

There was nothing in her smile that was more—or less—than friendly. “To be friends is the greatest love of all between people. This lovers business—pah! It goes in the night. I have seen it so.
You,
Mayne, of all people, know that this emotion does not last. I decided long ago to have nothing to do with it, and I have found it a wise decision.”

He leaned toward her and ran a finger down the curve of her cheek. “I love you, Sylvie. I feel that passion for you.”

“Our friendship will take us beyond the point when you feel that for me. Perhaps I should not say so, but I have been told that there are certain similarities between your past and that of this Hellgate. I do not in any way wish to diminish or discount your feelings, but according to these
Memoirs,
it seems you have felt this passion on a regular basis…for one or two weeks only?”

He was grinding his teeth. “I did not write those
Memoirs
.”

“Of course not,” she said, shocked. “But you did have many of the relationships that lie at the heart of the account, did you not?”

She read the look in his eyes. “You must not feel terribly!” she cried. “Because we speak frankly to each other, we need not feel hurt when, after a few weeks of these intimacies, you are not so passionate anymore. We will not cry over the inevitable. I shall never make you a scene because you gain interest in another woman. You have always been discreet in these things, Mayne. Everyone says that of you. You are the consummate gentleman.”

“I had hoped…” he said. But he wasn't sure how to finish the sentence.

She raised a hand. “You needn't ever worry that I shall disgrace you. While I understand a gentleman's desires, I do not share them. It is not for me, this life of sneaking in and out of bedchambers.” She gave a delicate shudder. “To be blunt, Mayne, your children will be your own, and I shall create no scandals.”

Should he thank her?

But she had turned away and was waving toward the next table. “There is lovely little Josie! Have you noticed how delightful she appears this evening? A new
modiste
can change a woman's life, and your sister has done an excellent job of drawing away Darlington…”

She chattered on, but Mayne wasn't listening. He was staring at a tasteless lobster patty and thinking that in balance, perhaps it would have been better if he was wholly French rather than only half. At least if he were on the way to the tumbrel, he would have been caught up by events, taken by death.

Oh for God's sake, he thought. Don't be such a melancholic sap.

He looked up and caught Josie's eye. She was sitting with Skevington, who showed every sign of a man who would be calling on Rafe within a week with a generous settlement in mind and a ring in his pocket.

“Mayne,” his sister Griselda called. “Don't you have a horse running in the Ascot?”

He nodded. Although poor Sharon still hadn't recovered from the devil's nuts, and had been scratched as of that morning. If he'd been more observant of his stables, he could have prevented that. It should never have been allowed to spread through his horses. He had only one unaffected.

“Shall we make up a party? Sylvie,” she called, “shall we make up a party? They have the prettiest boxes at the Ascot. You must see them. The Feltons have a box the size of the royal one, and Tess told me yesterday that they will
have to miss the race. It would be a pity to let it sit empty.”

Sylvie wrinkled her nose. She hated the dust and the bother of racetracks, she'd told him once.

“The Ascot is not like a normal race,” Griselda said. “The Queen will be there. And the Duke of Cambridge, with his new bride.”

“All right,” Sylvie said, not happy, but accepting it. Then she waved excitedly in the other direction.

“Who is it?” Mayne asked.

“Darlington.”

Mayne scowled.

“Never fear,” she said as Darlington wove his way through the tables toward them. “Your sister has stopped him in his tracks.”

“How do you mean?”

“He won't insult Josephine again.” Darlington was a tall fellow, with a face that Mayne had to suppose women found interesting. On the whole, he looked decent, for all he had the reputation for having a snake's tongue. Not that Mayne would ever forgive him for mocking Josie. He looked at him with murder in his eyes, and Darlington recoiled slightly, but bent over Sylvie's hands.

Before Mayne realized it, she was asking him to join their party for the Ascot.

“Bloody hell,” Mayne said as soon as the man walked off. “We don't need that blackguard with us.”

“You don't understand,” Sylvie said, patting his hand as if he were five years old. “It's always better to have someone just under your eye if they're a bit of a problem. With Griselda keeping him busy, Darlington wouldn't dare to make an untoward remark about Josephine.”

“Josie has taken care of that herself,” Mayne remarked. “No man in his right mind would call her a sausage. She looks ravishing and Skevington is groveling at her feet.”

“We'd better invite Skevington as well,” Sylvie said. “If
we have enough people, perhaps we'll have a small soirée in the box, and it won't be as tedious.”

Mayne loved races. He loved the pounding excitement, the crowds, the swirling energy, the horses, the smell of the stables…The only racehorse he had who hadn't caught the devil's nuts was a nervy filly named Gigue. She had an oyster-gray coat and sensitive ears. If he'd spent more time with her, or he had a better trainer, she might even have won tomorrow. She loved to race, loved to slip past the other horses with a flip of her tail.

But she hadn't had the training she needed, he knew that. She needed someone to work with her, day after day. It would probably be better if it wasn't him, but he still needed to be on the estate, watching, making sure it was going well.

He pushed his lobster around his plate a bit more while Sylvie invited two more passersby to join them in the Feltons' box.

Josie smiled at Mayne from the far table. He managed a smile, but it was a flat one. She narrowed her eyes at him. So he turned back to his lobster as if it were a cream trifle that he longed to eat.

S
ylvie knew the moment their carriage entered the grounds of the Ascot that this was an event she would enjoy. Mayne had gone early in the morning, of course. He was endearingly serious about this horse he had running, and Sylvie had tied a pink ribbon about her wrist that clashed slightly with her costume, just so that every time she noticed it she would remember to watch the race with Mayne's horse in it.

“How on earth will we know when his horse is running?” she asked Griselda. “I believe its name is Gigue.”

“Oh, there's a book sort of thing,” Griselda said absently. Sylvie loved that about Griselda. While Mayne made her feel prickles of guilt because she wasn't interested enough in his horses, his absurd
crise existentielle
, his absurd declarations of passion for her…Griselda understood precisely the importance of these things in relation to a new promenade dress.

In fact, Sylvie thought to herself, without Griselda, Mayne might not be as desirable a
parti
as he was. Although she hadn't encountered another man who fit as many of her requirements as did Mayne. But there were moments when he was gruelingly tiresome.

All men are, Sylvie reassured herself.

“I wonder whether this hat is better slightly farther back on my head,” Griselda said, surveying herself in a little gilt mirror. She was wearing a hat as large as an entire wheel of Stilton and an enchanting promenade dress that was the precise pale blue of a delphinium.

“I like it as it is,” Sylvie said, after giving the matter serious consideration. “Wait! Turn to the side. Yes, as it is. That pale blue color makes your hair shine like sunlight, Griselda. Is Darlington meeting us at the box?”

“Yes, he is. But I do wish you hadn't invited him. I've already taken care of the other thing.”

“I know,” Sylvie said, “and I'm so sorry that I unnecessarily invited him. I didn't realize, and then I saw him look at you.”

“Indeed,” Griselda said wryly.

Darlington did look at her. And she couldn't help it; she kept looking at him as well. That had never happened before. In the case of the trysts she'd had since Willoughby died, she had experienced a reasonable
frisson
on deciding
to engage in the evening's pleasure, had enjoyed herself during the appointment, and felt absolutely no desire to repeat the experience.

It was different with Darlington. She woke up in the middle of the night, her body tingling with a dream that she couldn't remember, although she instinctively knew the subject. It was embarrassing. She had to excise this uncomfortable reaction and devote herself to finding a spouse. After all, she wanted a child, didn't she? Of course she did. She wanted a little Samuel of her own.

She'd never lacked for confidence, but her
affaire
with Darlington had steadied any nerves she might have felt in that area. After all, she'd seduced one of the most handsome young men in the
ton
.

“What is Darlington's age?” Sylvie asked, as if she could read her thoughts.

“I have no idea,” Griselda managed, shrugging as if the question was of little interest.

“We can look in that book of people,” Sylvie said.

“You meant
Debrett's
?” Griselda had thought of that, and discarded it as conventional and anxious. As if she were a young girl, pining for a duke's son and looking up his birthday.

“But surely you must know, Griselda,” Sylvie persisted.

“Men are not like women. Since they don't debut, they tend to appear in London on their own schedule.”

“Do you have any idea when he first appeared?”

She did, as it happened. 'Twas an embarrassing thing, but she did. There weren't many tall men with his rakish air appearing each year. Griselda shuddered. God forbid she should grow to be like one of those matrons who sat in the corner of the room and giggled over the young men coming down from university.

“Griselda?” Sylvie asked. There was an amused little smile in her eyes.

“I believe he first appeared in London around four years ago. If he came directly from university, that would make him around twenty-four.” It was appallingly young.

“And you cannot be thirty yet. It's hardly a difference at all.”

“Flatterer! I have passed that birthday, as you must well know.”

“Then you must be at most a year past thirty,” Sylvie said. There was a sincere ring in her voice that soothed Griselda's spirits. “Darlington looks as if he would like to gobble you up.”

Griselda smiled uncertainly.

“I could never countenance such passion,” Sylvie said, taking out her fan at the very idea. “His eyes actually look hot when he watches you. You do know that he watched you quite a bit at Lady Mucklowe's, don't you?”

Of course, she'd seen him leaning against the wall. “Making a cake of himself.”

“Men are so prone to that,” Sylvie said, and hesitated. “Griselda, do you mind if I ask you a question about Mayne?”

“Of course not. Although if you're going to bemoan the fact that he makes a cake of himself over you, I already know that. My poor brother is absolutely ravished with love.”

“Yes,” Sylvie said. “But I wish to speak to you about his discontent. He is not a happy man, you know? Perhaps he has always been like this, with a touch of the restlessness with his life?”

“No indeed,” Griselda said, startled. “Mayne was a cheerful boy, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself—” She stopped. “But you are right in that he has changed in the last year or so. “He used to race around the
ton
making little scandals wherever he went and—to my mind—enjoying himself greatly. But then he fell in love.”

“Ah,” Sylvie said, leaning forward. “I should have known there was a lady at the heart of it. Tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell,” Griselda said, wondering if she were breaking a promise.

“No fidelity between brothers and sisters,” Sylvie said, with that uncanny ability she had to know what someone was thinking. “The only true loyalty is between female friends. You must tell me, Griselda, if only so that I know what is causing his agitation.”

“Her name is Lady Godwin,” Griselda said reluctantly.

“A very, very slender woman with a great passion for music?”

“Is there anyone in the
ton
whom you have not met?”

“Yes, of course. I have not been presented to Lady Godwin, for example. But I like to know as much as I can about people; it is what makes life interesting. So he fell in love with this Lady Godwin, did he?”

Griselda looked carefully at Sylvie, but there wasn't even a shadow in her bright eyes. Truly, she
was
a Frenchwoman. “Mayne did fall in love with her,” she admitted. “I believe the countess briefly flirted with the idea of having a tryst with him, but she ultimately decided to remain with her husband. They are very happy together and I heard that she is having a second child. Or perhaps she's already had the child; I can't remember and I haven't seen her recently. She's likely in the country.”

“In that case, she must be
enceinte
,” Sylvie pointed out. “If the child were already born, she would be here for the season.”

“Perhaps,” Griselda said, wondering a little at Sylvie's dispassionate tone. “I believe she is a very fond mother.”

“Even so, one might bring an infant to London,” Sylvie said. “So Mayne experienced a great unrequited passion, is that it?”

“Something of the sort,” Griselda said. “And since then, he has not engaged in
affaires
of any kind.”

“How long ago was this entanglement with the countess?”

“Two years?” Griselda said doubtfully. “At least that long. Rafe hadn't started his guardianship of the Essex girls yet, as I recall.”

“Mayne has not taken a mistress in
two years
?” Sylvie seemed greatly struck by this. “Of course, you may simply be unaware of his interests.”

“It's possible,” Griselda said. “But I've seen a great deal of him. You know, he was engaged to Tess Essex, who married Felton. And then he acted as something of a companion to Imogen Maitland, who just married Rafe.”

“I find it extraordinary that a duke wishes all and sundry to call him by his first name,” Sylvie remarked. “Holbrook asked me to call him Rafe as well. Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” Griselda said.

“I am worried that Mayne has fallen into a melancholy,” Sylvie stated. “While I am all that is sympathetic, naturally, I must tell you that I have a natural antipathy to dismal people. My father suffered terribly after the death of my mother. We fled shortly after her burial, and then we were so far from his relatives and friends. You can imagine.”

“I can only try.”

Sylvie sighed. “The reason I did not come to London until now, when I am truly at an advanced age myself—all of twenty-six—was because my poor papa could not spare me. He was very despondent most of the day. It is only last year that he met a nice widow, married her, and is feeling much more cheerful. Even so, he spends most of his day in a way of which I cannot approve.”

“What does he do? He lives in Northhamptonshire, doesn't he?”

“Yes, in Southwick. He has bred a great many dogs there.
And he allows several of them into the house, you understand.”

Griselda nodded.

“This is not just a house,” Sylvie said. “He built it along the lines of one of the great French country houses, Château des Milandes. It is beautiful—but full of
dogs
.” Her dismay was evident.

“Oh dear,” Griselda said.

“He lets them out, and then he goes outside to see where they are, and he brings them back in. Mind you, we have footmen who could very well do this work, if the dogs must come in the house. But my father has such a fondness for these animals that he thinks to read their mind.” Sylvie sighed again. “I could not persuade him to come to London for the season. Luckily, my godmother is kind enough to chaperone me, but I think Papa should leave those dogs occasionally.”

“You don't like dogs?”

“I had a little poodle as a child. Of course, I am fond of a well-behaved animal. But these have large tails. They bark, they smell, and sometimes they swim in the lake. Luckily, the widow whom he married is quite fond of animals. I was so grateful to her for taking over my father, I cannot tell you. I was beginning to see myself wasting away in that château, with no one for company but my father, my sister, and the dogs! My little sister, you understand, takes after my father and does not—” she paused impressively—“mind dog hair!”

“It sounds miserable. And very unlike you, Sylvie.”

“Precisely. At any rate, I do have something of a dislike of being around people who are despondent in the way of my father.”

“Mayne does not like dogs, as far as I know,” Griselda hastened to say.

“No, but—”

“He will cheer up. He merely needs to settle down a bit. Once you are married, it will be different.”

“Perhaps I should allow him to set a wedding date,” Sylvie murmured. She looked rather unconvinced.

Griselda had a flash of panic. She couldn't watch her darling brother's heart be broken twice. “Certainly you must. I expect Mayne is dejected because he hasn't anything to look forward to. Once you have a family, of course everything will be different.”

They crossed into the Ascot grounds and the carriage slowed sharply. Everywhere, carriages were pulling up and young girls in fluttering dresses and flirty little bonnets were clambering out. They looked like moving peonies, all heading toward the racetrack. Even in the carriage, Griselda could hear the muffled roar from the track.

“Shall we have to walk a great way?” Sylvie asked.

“Oh no,” Griselda said. “We'll be dropped directly at our box.”

Sylvie smiled.

Griselda sat back, feeling a qualm of true anxiety. Sylvie wasn't entirely happy. What would Mayne do if he were jilted, for the second time, by a woman whom he loved so tenderly? It made her feel ill just to think about it.