Too Scandalous to Wed (3 page)

“I
’ll not hear another word, Jenny!”

The distraught maid slumped against the cushioned squab with a whimper.

Henrietta returned her attention to the moonlit landscape, tamping her own misgivings into submission.

She had done everything to preserve her reputation: brought along a chaperone, hired a hack to transport her to the city’s boundaries. She had even dressed in plain, unsightly garb and sported a hooded mantle to conceal her identity.

What could possibly go wrong?

Wringing her fingers in her lap, Henrietta tried to convince herself this really was the best—the only—choice she had. If she even uttered the word “husband,” Sebastian blanched. If she tried to touch him, he recoiled. If she bared her bosom, he rebuked her for it. One would think the man had no regard for her.

But Henrietta knew that wasn’t true. She thought
back to a time, about four years ago, when the whole family had gathered in the country for a christening. One of Henrietta’s nieces was to be baptized, and Henrietta was late for the ceremony. Rushing to get to the foyer and join the rest of the waiting family, she had knocked over her mother’s most cherished vase: a gift from Grandmama. Henrietta was sure to get the strap from Mama—Papa never disciplined her—but then Ravenswood had come along and accepted the blame for the mishap, saving her hide.

Henrietta sighed at the fond memory. The viscount cared for her, she was sure. He was just too stubborn to admit it.

But Henrietta had to get him to confess his true feelings. And after last night’s disastrous masquerade ball, it was apparent a more drastic measure was needed to grab the willful viscount’s attention.

Her heart cramped at the dreadful recollection. In the wee hours of the morning, after every guest had gone, a thoroughly fagged Henrietta had set off to bed, when Sebastian had made a ghastly announcement:

“I’m off, Miss Ashby.”

“Yes, good night Sebastian,” she’d murmured, yawned, and mounted the steps.

“See you at Christmas.”

Christmas!

She’d whirled around. “What do you mean, Christmas?”

“Well, I’ve decided to go on a trip, Miss Ashby.”

She’d tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but had failed miserably. “Where?”

“Truthfully, I’ve no idea. But I’ll be gone a few months, so take care, sister.”

And with that, he’d made a curt bow and sauntered away, leaving a perplexed Henrietta atop the steps, mouth agape.

It was then she’d realized, however scandalous her intentions, she
had
to go through with her plan. Soon Sebastian would see her but once a year. And then not a’tall. Soon he would be lost to her forever.

Henrietta bunched the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. So absorbed with her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the bend in the road. But the stately dwelling that soon appeared did capture her attention, and she quickly forgot her woes to stare at the grand house, a castle really, with its spire rooftops and stone façade. It was reminiscent of the royal chateaux she’d seen in French paintings, classic in presentation and design, with rows of tall glass windows, all reflecting a brilliant glow of candlelight.

Henrietta had never been to Paris herself. Oh, she had always longed to go, but the war with France had prevented the excursion. Even though the continental strife was now over, she still preferred not to visit the foreign land—not alone, anyway. She hoped to go on her wedding tour one day with her future husband—Viscount Ravenswood.

Henrietta eagerly pressed her nose against the
glass in admiration and fervid anticipation. If Madam Jacqueline didn’t help her, she was doomed.

The hack rolled to a shaky stop.

Three servants in bright yellow livery promptly appeared, each young and devilishly handsome—and very attentive. One opened the carriage door, one produced a stepping stool upholstered in quilted silk, and one offered his white-gloved hand in gentlemanly support.

A giddy Henrietta stepped out of the carriage, accepted the offered hand, pressed her slippered foot to the cushioned ottoman, and marveled at the well-orchestrated attendants.

She had to admit, this was not the kind of reception she’d expected from Madam Jacqueline, so warm and inviting. According to the gossip papers the woman was a reclusive curmudgeon, grieved by the loss of her notorious charm and beauty. Henrietta was pleased to learn it all a fabrication. Already nervous, she’d dreaded meeting such a frightening being. Now the rendezvous might even be agreeable.

Jenny stepped out of the carriage next before the door was closed, the footstool quickly confiscated, and a sweeping gesture made toward the wide open entrance.

“This way, mademoiselles,” said a footman.

Henrietta skirted inside, her maid right behind
her.

An attendant approached to remove Henrietta’s mantle, but here the gallantry would end, for Henrietta pinched the ribbons at her throat, unwilling to relinquish the garment.

“You are safe, mademoiselle,” assured the footman. “Please allow me to take your cape.”

Hesitant at first, Henrietta soon loosened her grip on the stays, and the hooded cloak was whisked away.

It was then her eyes beheld the majesty around her. She had been to many balls in many prestigious homes. She had attended court and dined in country splendor. But she had yet to encounter the likes of a Scandinavian ice palace in the heart of English society. Why, it was a scene from a northern fairy tale, she was sure. A Valhalla, of sorts, fit for a Viking god or warrior.

The walls gleamed like ice, bedecked in white silk splendor. Even the grand staircase in the center of the foyer was carpeted in pearl white textiles. A silver chandelier dangled beneath an arched domed ceiling, proudly displaying about a hundred flickering candle lights. More candelabras sat poised on elegant, smoke gray marble side tables, while baskets of creamy white rose petals filled the atmosphere with a heavenly scent. There was even a white bearskin rug under Henrietta’s toes, and she let her pampered feet sink into the soft, warm fur.

Jenny was evidently unimpressed by the spectacle, for she tugged at Henrietta’s sleeve and hissed, “Miss Ashby, I really think this isn’t—”

“Oh, hush, Jenny.”

Henrietta wasn’t about to turn back now. She had sneaked out of the house, flagged a passing hack, endured the uncomfortable and clandestine journey into the surrounding countryside, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d acquired
some
practical knowledge to help her win Ravenswood’s hand.

A footman stepped forward and extended his arm. “If you please, mademoiselle.”

The two remaining servants circled Jenny, hindering her attempt to follow.

“Madam Jacqueline wishes to see you alone, mademoiselle,” said the footman. “Your maid will be well looked after, I assure you.”

A bit wary, Henrietta nodded. She smiled at an anxious-looking Jenny, vowing, “I’ll be back soon.”

Jenny appeared ready to protest, but was quickly ushered away by the attendants.

Meanwhile, Henrietta was escorted through the ice palace to a nearby salon.

It wasn’t so much the grandeur of the salon that dazzled Henrietta, as the total turnaround of decor. By stepping over the threshold, she’d departed the pleasures of a Scandinavian ice palace and traveled thousands of miles east to the mystic Orient.

The footman gestured to a dark red divan. “Ma
demoiselle.”

Henrietta settled against the rich cushions. A small fire crackled in the hearth, the smoldering warmth deflected by an exquisitely embroidered Japanese screen.

“Sherry, mademoiselle?”

The silver goblet, shaped like a tiger’s head, was delivered into her hand, but Henrietta was too nervous to drink the offered refreshment, so she set the goblet on the lacquered table in front of her, trimmed with ivory ornamentation.

“Madam Jacqueline will be with you shortly.”

And with that, the footman bowed and quietly vacated the room. A good thing, too, for Henrietta needed a private moment to gather her wayward thoughts.

Heavens, what had she gotten herself into? The more time she spent alone in the peculiar wonderland, the more she wondered if perhaps Jenny hadn’t been right. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

But then thoughts of Ravenswood entered her mind: how the dratted man treated her like a rebellious pet, and she dismissed her qualms outright. She would not spend the rest of her years pining for the man. She would spend the rest of her years as his wife. And she needed Madam Jacqueline’s assistance to accomplish her goal.

Henrietta stifled a gasp as the wall gave way—well, a paneled door in the wall—and a figure
emerged from the secret nook.

A rather small figure.

Draped in flowing silks of Oriental design and sporting a turquoise turban to match, the woman, not more than three score and five years, was an eclectic mix of cultures, and not very pretty at that.

Oh, it was not the years marking her features that made Henrietta think so, but the hard slant of her jaw, the wide breadth of her nose. Such attributes made Henrietta wonder if she had ever been pretty, even in youth. Though there was something unique about her eyes, a most unnatural shade of mist green. A very captivating pair to be sure. But still,
she
was England’s most renowned courtesan?

Henrietta crinkled her brow. “Madam Jacqueline?”

The small woman settled on a divan opposite Henrietta, her jewels winking in the candlelight. “As you see.”

Throat a bit parched, Henrietta partook of the sherry. “Ah, thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“I must admit, I was surprised to receive your letter.”

Not nearly as surprised as Henrietta was to meet the notorious courtesan. According to the gossip papers, Madam Jacqueline had so enamored a Russian prince, he’d all but made her his royal bride, to the outrage and near revolt of St. Petersburg. She had charmed a French duke so terribly, he’d put a pistol to his head when she’d broken off the affair. And then there was the tale of the ruined Italian noble,
so bewitched by Madam Jacqueline that he’d surrendered his entire fortune to her. Or so the stories had claimed. And Henrietta was most curious to know if these stories had been fabricated, too.

“It is all true, Miss Ashby.”

Henrietta yelped and placed her fingers over her mouth. Heavens, had she sputtered her thoughts
aloud
?

No. Wait. She had done no such thing. Then how…?

“You are a witch?” said Henrietta, disquieted.

The woman laughed, a deep and husky sound, oddly soothing to the ear. “Some might think so, but I assure you, I do not dabble in the black arts.”

“But you read minds.”

“Nonsense, child. I read faces. And you are thinking,
How can this small, plain, and extravagant woman be the famous Madam Jacqueline?
”

Henrietta did not confirm the woman’s astute observation, for she felt that rather rude. Instead she said, “I need your help, Madam Jacqueline.”

“Yes, you mentioned that in your letter. Do go on.”

Henrietta blushed.

Oh, out with it, silly
.
It’s why you’re here!

But every word was strangled as Henrietta tried to make her desire clear. Just how did one go about asking for such intimate help?

“Well, you see, I need to learn how to…”

“Seduce a man?” said Madam Jacqueline.

“Yes!”

Henrietta sighed. With Madam Jacqueline’s talent for observation, Henrietta might not have to voice her bashful thoughts too often. A boon she was most happy about.

The woman cocked her head, a brilliant emerald at her bust flashing in the firelight. “Miss Ashby, do you know what I am?”

Henrietta nodded sagely, thinking,
It’s why I’ve come to see you!

“And what am I?” said the woman.

“Well, you’re…a…”

Henrietta pondered her answer. Was “courtesan” the proper word? Or would the woman be offended by the term? Henrietta couldn’t imagine so, but still, she really needed Madam Jacqueline’s help, and she didn’t want to say anything that might upset—

“I am a philosopher, Miss Ashby.”

Henrietta blinked. “Pardon?”

“A philosopher,” she said again. “Men of great wealth and power visit me to ask my advice. I inspire men, Miss Ashby, where their wives have failed.”

“Oh,” said Henrietta. She hadn’t considered Madam Jacqueline in
that
kind of light.

“And who do you wish to inspire, Miss Ashby?”

Henrietta’s heart throbbed at the thought of him. “Sebastian.”

“And how do you intend to inspire Sebastian?”

“Well, I’m not really sure,” she admitted dole
fully. “Hmm.” The older woman cast her a critical eye. “Do you intend to bat your pretty lashes at him until they fall off?”

Affronted, Henrietta said, “No.” Then belatedly realized she
had
been doing that a lot of late.

Madam Jacqueline’s eerie ability to read faces quickly picked up on the fib. “You will never win his heart like that, Miss Ashby.”

All the years of frustration and anguish bubbled to the tip of her tongue, and Henrietta let out a desperate plea, “Then
how
will I win his heart?”

“You must be his friend and his lover.”

Drat! She didn’t understand the first thing about being a good lover. She couldn’t even get Sebastian to kiss her! And friendship? After eight years the man still treated her like a child. How would they ever become friends?

Crestfallen, Henrietta slumped her shoulders forward, whispering, “I don’t know how to be either.”

“There are ways to learn.”

Henrietta’s eyes brightened. “Does this mean you’ll help me?”

The woman perused her for a thoughtful moment. “I will.”

Her heart filled with hope. “Oh, thank you, Madam Jacqueline!”

Madam Jacqueline reached for a leather-bound book on the small round table next to the divan. She
opened the tome to a random page and set it before Henrietta. “To begin, tell me about the couple in the picture.”

Henrietta leaned forward for a better view, balked, then slammed the book closed.