Tender the Storm (15 page)

"I know of him," admitted Housard politely.
"An unexceptionable fellow."

The blue in Rolfe's eyes faded to a telling gray. Zoë observed the phenomenon with an uneasiness which was born of experience.

"I should like to make the acquaintance of this unexceptionable fellow." Rolfe's eyes lingered on the girl's faintly belligerent expression and he chuckled. In a lowered voice he said, "Halfling, this is England. It doesn't do for even very young girls to forget the proprieties."

"I'm seventeen," she offered hopefully.

For a moment, he was confounded into silence. At length he murmured, "Seventeen? You're not hoaxing me?"

"I'll be eighteen on my birthday." That the anniversary of her birthday was nine months away she conveniently did not mention.

She straightened, trying to appear taller, as his eyes made a slow perusal of her person. He shook his head. "Some girls are young for their years," was his only comment.

And with that damning, unwitting
setdown
, Zoë saw all her hopes come to ruin. It was too painful, too mortifying, to continue in this vein. She was groping in her mind for a way of detaching herself from her companions, when they were joined by a lady.

"Rolfe, darling, so this is where you have been hiding yourself?"
A pair of startling green eyes made a quick and thorough assessment of Zoë before returning to the marquess. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Rolfe's gaze swept the slender figure of the titian- haired beauty at his side. Their eyes met and held, and the smiling glances they exchanged, exclusive, intimate, spoke volumes.

"Roberta," drawled Rolfe, and in the next moment had drawn the lady away, as if he had quite forgotten present company.

His manners, thought Zoë, were deplorable. She should have been angry. She was crestfallen, and wished that the floor would open and she could sink into oblivion.

Almost as an afterthought, Rolfe called over his shoulder, "Monsieur Housard, would you be
so
kind as to convey the child to her chaperone?"

Zoë could not tear her eyes away from the couple as they strolled the length of the gallery
In
comparison to the beautiful sophisticate who partnered the marquess, she felt dowdy and childish.
And foolish beyond permission.

It was inconceivable that a gentleman who moved in the
marquess's
select circles, surrounded by beautiful and worldly women, would spare a second glance at an impoverished French émigré, and one, moreover, whom he regarded as a mere schoolgirl. But then, if she had known that her savior was an English nobleman, she would have accepted that her case was hopeless, and would never have allowed herself to weave such girlish fancies. She resolved, in that moment, to rout the handsome marquess from her heart and mind.

At that point in her reveries, Rolfe made a half turn and captured Zoë's unwary stare. The smile which he flashed her was one of his rare ones, without art, and as sweet as warm honey. Zoë stopped breathing. And when he winked, just so, and her heart skipped several beats before racing out of control, her newfound resolve shattered into a thousand shards.

"At least she's not Mimi or Fifi." Unthinkingly, she had spoken the words aloud. Her cheeks went pink. From under her lashes, she chanced a quick look at her companion.

Monsieur Housard's expression was everything that was kind. And in that moment, Zoë knew she had completely betrayed her
tendre
for the marquess. Making a supreme effort to recover herself, she offered, "Ladies are always losing their hearts to
nights in shining armor. It doesn't signify." The arch and amusing tone she had tried to adopt fell flat.

"Hero worship," intoned Housard softly. "It was only to be expected after what you've been through together."

"Was it?" asked Zoë doubtfully, and obediently placed her fingers on Housard's proffered arm. In the
marquess's
wake, they strolled to the marble staircase.

"Are you anxious to return to Lagrange?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"There are a number of young gentlemen present this evening who, I am persuaded, would be more than happy to make the acquaintance of the young lovely who is hanging on my sleeve. May I make them known to you, Mademoiselle Devereux?"

A laugh was startled out of Zoë.
"Schoolboys?"
This time, she hit just the right note.

"Not all gentlemen are as blind as the marquess," observed Housard suavely, and he had the pleasure of knowing that his gallantry had hit the mark. A sparkle crept into the girl's eyes.

She smiled shyly up at him. "In my experience," she remarked, not quite truthfully, "young men are dead bores. I've always been partial to older gentlemen." This last was no dissimulation. She was devoted to her father.

"Such as the marquess?"

She pivoted to face him. "Is he too old for me?" she asked baldly.

Covering her small hand with his own broad one, Housard directed her steps forward. In a gentle tone, he said, "My dear, there are none
so
blind as those who will not see. To Rivard, you are still the child you pretended to be when we set out from Rouen. When he observes that others accord you the respect which your advanced years merit, he'll soon see the error of his ways."

Zoë's eyes danced at the picture which flashed into her brain. "When I'm in my dotage?" she quizzed.

"True! With the English, one learns the virtue of patience. Who are Mimi and Fifi?"

She chewed on her bottom lip. Her expression carefully innocent, she replied, "Two of my dearest friends." She sighed soulfully. "I wonder if I shall ever meet up with them
again?
" And before Housard could question her further, she embarked on a spate of anecdotes on all the interesting places she had visited since arriving in England.

Housard had no objection to this turn in the conversation. But behind his bland expression and desultory comments, he made a study of the girl.

Zoë Devereux, he decided, was like one of those rare vintage burgundies which he vastly preferred to any other libation. Champagne, port, even French cognac
came
a poor second best. It required a connoisseur's palette to appreciate the less obvious and infinitely more intriguing nuances of a fine, full-bodied burgundy.

That the marquess of Rivard had shown himself wanting in this respect surprised him a little. On that hazardous coach ride from Rouen to Coutances, Rivard, as he remembered, had positively doted on the child. They had both remarked the
child's intrinsic merits. Far from being the burden they had expected, the girl had turned that grim journey into something to be recalled with a certain pleasure. Just thinking of her, as brave as Achilles, enduring unspeakable terrors without a word of complaint brought a softening to his eye.

Seeing her now, as a young girl on the threshold of womanhood, he was struck with the thought that, given a few years, Zoë Devereux's vintage would come into its own. On the other hand, the lady who hung so tenaciously on the
marquess's
arm, he was persuaded, had no hidden depths, no unexpected nuances with which she might surprise a gentleman of discriminating tastes. It was regrettable that the marquess was a philistine with respect to his preference in women, and doubly regrettable that the girl hero-worshipped the marquess.

Thus, Housard, who was generally too preoccupied to be deflected from present business, found himself conjecturing how he might bring a smile to the girl's forlorn little face. Zoë, he decided, was sorely in need of a little masculine attention. And though he considered himself, in the normal course of events, committed to a graver purpose, he set himself to while away the next hour or so in pleasant dalliance.

It would have surprised Housard to know that this innocent game of dalliance was observed by the marquess and judged to be highly objectionable. And the only thing that kept Rolfe from putting a stop to it was the presence of his mistress. Roberta Ashton was sticking to him like a limpet. He had been appalled when she had cornered him in the
gallery when he was in conversation with the child. The thought of introducing Zoë to his mistress had made him uncomfortable — guilty almost. It was evident that the child adored him. Her admiring glances were an embarrassment. And yet, inexplicably, he had no wish to disabuse Zoë of her childish fancies. Nor yet subject her to the sometimes salacious conversation which passed for flirting in his circles, and which Roberta Ashton had honed to a fine art. That he, himself, frequently indulged in this harmless form of address with ladies of a certain class, he counted as of no moment. He was a male, and far from innocent.

It was the word
divorce
which finally distracted Rolfe from pursuing Zoë with his eyes. "Who is thinking of getting a divorce?" he asked, suddenly conscious that he was expected to make some comment.

"I've been toying with the idea."

In a mildly amused voice, Rolfe droned, "Yesterday, if memory serves, you were toying with the idea of becoming reconciled to your husband."

"That was yesterday."

Roberta Ashton had finally hit upon a subject to divert the gentleman's attention to
herself
. Her eyes scanned the crush as she tried to divine which beauty had caught the
marquess's
interest. Her eyes came to rest on the little French girl whom she'd surprised in conversation with him in the gallery. A small frown pleated her brow. After a moment, the frown lifted and her eyes moved on.

"Divorce is not unheard of in our circles," she said, flashing him an arch look. She wondered if she
had gone too far. And yet, she reasoned, marriage to the marquess was not entirely outside the realms of possibility. From time to time, gentlemen were known to risk everything for the women they loved. She had the feeling that Rolfe
Brockford
would dare everything for the woman of his choice. It was a heady thought. Her hopes were dashed by his next observation.

"Then we must move in different circles," he said with a certain dryness.

He was beginning to wish that he had never taken up with Roberta Ashton. She was playing games, and they both knew it. No married woman in her right mind flirted with the idea of divorce, especially not a woman involved in an adulterous relationship. Such a woman stood to lose everything— her place in society, her means of support,
her
very children could be kept from her if her husband had a mind to. And for a gentleman to be named as a wife's lover in a divorce action could prove a very expensive business. Punitive husbands were known to have been awarded astronomical sums. There was worse. A man of honor was expected to marry the lady whose virtue he had compromised, or face social ostracism.