Lady of Shame Page 18

  He knew all about the assembly. Claire was going. Probably already there. He hadn’t been to a ball since he’d left France. Balls were in his past. Like noble ladies.

  ‘Eeh, lad, there’s that look on your face again,’ Edie said. ‘What is the matter, love?’

  André looked down and saw he’d finished his brandy without even knowing. He forced a grin. ‘My glass is empty, what else would it be?’

  She patted his cheek. ‘You can’t fool me. You’ve lost yer heart to some hard-hearted lass. Well, she’s a fool if she won’t have ye and no mistake.’

  ‘Edie,’ the tavern owner yelled from his place at the bar.

  She bounced up from her seat. ‘Oops, talk to you later.’

  Lost his heart? Lost his head more like.

  And if he didn’t leave now, he’d be hard put to escape Edie’s well-meaning offer of a bed without insulting the girl. He half pushed to his feet when a stocky man of around André’s age slipped into the bench, cutting him off. ‘Excuse me,’ André said. ‘I am leaving.’

  Instead of getting up, the man surprised him by shifting on the bench so they faced each other. His florid skin did not go well with his red hair. ‘You’re the famous French chef from Castonbury.’ He had the cultured accents of a gentleman.

  Surprised, André raised a brow. ‘I am.’

  ‘Hugh Webster,’ the man stuck out a hand. ‘Late of His Majesty’s army.’

  André was not about to trot out his own military pedigree. ‘André Deval.’ He shook the man’s damp rather languid hand. ‘I am about to depart, m’sieur.’

  ‘What! I was going to offer to buy you a drink. Girl!’ he shouted at Edie. ‘Two more of the same.’

  The man’s obvious insistence piqued André’s curiosity so held he himself still, waiting for what might come next.

  ‘And how is the old duke?’ Webster said heartily. ‘I hear he is about to cock up his toes.’

  ‘Well enough, the last time I saw him.’

  ‘I hear they are in financial trouble, the Montagues.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Edie delivered their drinks and Webster raised his in toast before taking a deep swallow. André left his on the table. He did not want another drink. He did not like this Webster. The man wanted something and he was too sly to come out with it directly.

  ‘I heard some new woman arrived. Some sister or other. Looking for money, no doubt?’

  André bristled. Was Claire the reason for his sudden bonhomie? ‘If you mean Mrs Holte, I know nothing of her reasons for visiting her brother.’

  Webster put down his glass and smiled ingratiatingly, but behind the smile lurked menace. Cleverly disguised, but André hadn’t survived the war without recognising the kind of officer who would step on his comrades to get to the top.

  ‘Come now,’ Webster said. ‘We both know those below stairs know everything. What is she up to? They say she’s been in trouble with the old duke in the past. I hear she brought along a child. Squeezing him dry, is she? Lining her pockets?’

  The questions sent the hairs on the back of André’s neck standing straight up. This man represented danger for someone, and it seemed it was Claire. Was this man from her past? The secret she hid? The thought of this man touching Claire sparked his anger.

  ‘Mon ami, if you are looking for gossip you chose the wrong man. Please excuse me, I have an appointment.’ He’d changed his mind about a quiet evening in his rooms. Instead he would visit his friends at the boxing saloon.

  Webster looked ready to argue. ‘Just making conversation, old fellow.’

  André bunched his fists and stood with a challenging smile. He wouldn’t mind a nice round of fisticuffs this evening.

  The other man’s lips tightened as he took in the signal, his shoulders tensed, then he grimaced and rose. ‘No need to fly up in the boughs.’

  André gave him a puzzled look. ‘I think you will see that my feet are firmly on the ground, m’sieur.’

  ‘Idiot Frenchman,’ Webster muttered.

  Better to be thought an idiot than talk to an enemy. He gave Edie a wave and a half-bow and stumbled out into the night. Cold air drove up his nostrils, shocking him. He shook his head to clear away what felt like cobwebs floating around in there, too much drink and not enough food. Claire’s fault. Or rather his fault for thinking about her too much. He buttoned his redingote tight.

  Feathery light touches landed on his face. They felt like cold kisses. He blinked and looked up, watching snowflakes flutter and swirl in the light from the lamp beside the door.

  Snow. So far only a light dusting. And it wasn’t too late to be heading to Buxton. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like this man Webster and his questions.

  He headed for the stable.

  * * *

  When André entered the ballroom many eyes turned his way. While he was dressed much as the other men in the room, apart from the military men in their red coats, the glittering order on his chest pronounced him to be someone of importance. One look at him and none of the servants downstairs had questioned his right to be there. He still didn’t quite believe he was doing this, but it was the only way to see Claire right away.

  He glanced around the crowded room and found Claire on the ballroom floor stepping lightly in the star formation of an English country dance.

  She looked lovely in a gown whose colour mystified him. Not pink, nor red, perhaps the colour of burgundy wine mixed with water. The colour of a stormy sunrise. It showed off her delicate shoulders and milk-white skin, and matched the glow in her cheeks. Even at this distance, he could see that her eyes sparkled blue tonight. She had never looked more lovely. Or more tempting.

  She was enjoying herself. A pang twisted in his chest. Guilt at spoiling her evening? Or something darker, like jealousy. He squeezed his eyes shut to regain his sanity. Claire was not the woman for him. She never could be. Noblewomen did not go into trade, not willingly, and he would not join the ranks of nobility. At least, not permanently.

  He could not prevent the stir of excitement in his blood as he watched her small form move lightly through the figures of the dance.

  He half wished he had not said what he had this morning. Even if it had been the right thing to do. The honourable thing. He still wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any woman.

  The man she was dancing with, Sir Nathan, he knew because he had seen him in Castonbury village. Not that the man would recognise him. Men as full of their own importance as Sir Nathan never saw servants, even if they tripped over them. Tonight he looked as proud as a peacock as he galumphed heavily down the set with his arm about Claire’s waist. Beside Claire, he looked decidedly brutish. André’s hands curled into fists. She deserved so much better.

  He resisted the urge to rip her out of Samuelson’s arms and leaned against one of the columns supporting the ceiling. He need not have come upstairs, of course. He could have waited in the hallway below to tell Claire of the change in plan. But truth be told, he had as much right to be here as any of the other men present.

  A dark-eyed young miss in white caught his wandering gaze and peeped over her fan at him, fluttering her lashes. The blonde beside her, a lady of the overblown English rose variety, gave him a come-hither tilt of her head.

  As a colonel in Bonaparte’s army, he’d attended plenty of soirées and received lures enough at balls to recognise signs of female interest. The only female in the room who had not glanced his way, it seemed, was Claire.

  The music drew to a close and her partner escorted her to an older woman seated nearby.

  ‘The next dance is a waltz,’ said a buxom matron passing by on the arm of a sweating man. ‘You do know how to waltz, do you not?’

  The man mumbled something under his breath.

  A waltz. What could be more private? As he approached Claire, his heart picked up speed. He had taken many risks as a soldier, but would she out him right away? Call him a fraud?

  He knew the
moment she saw him. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, her cheekbones flushed a delightful shade of pink.

  ‘Madame Holte,’ he said, bowing low. ‘We met once before. The Comte du Valière.’ He smiled at the other two members of her party, managing to look down his nose while at the same time appearing perfectly affable.

  Bosom rising and falling, she stared at him. For a moment he thought she would call his bluff. ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ she said breathlessly. ‘This is Sir Nathan Samuelson and his cousin, Miss Jennifer Samuelson.’

  André bowed with just the right amount of condescension of a nobleman introduced to a mere knight. ‘Madame Holte, will you do me the honour of this next dance? A waltz, I believe.’

  Panic entered her gaze, then relief as she realised this was the perfect way to get him away from her friends and take him to task for his impudence. ‘Thank you, Comte. I should be delighted.’

  Samuelson frowned as André placed her hand on his sleeve.

  ‘Damned émigrés,’ Samuelson muttered to his cousin, clearly intending his voice to be heard. ‘Flouting titles of no value at all.’

  The insult didn’t bother him one little bit. Indeed, if asked yesterday for his opinion, he would have completely agreed. Yesterday. Tonight though, the title served him well.

  He led her onto the dance floor and smiled down at her. She opened her mouth to say something and he gave his head a quick shake. ‘Wait until the music starts, madame. Then you can berate me until your heart is content.’

  ‘Unconscionable,’ she whispered.

  He chuckled. And felt her little shiver. A tremble of her hand. A tremor of the ribbon in her hair and at her breast, as if some stray breeze had set them stirring.

  André knew better. It was her racing heart that set them in motion. Her excitement. He could taste it on his tongue. And it spoke of promise. A promise he must not let her keep.

  Nor would she want to when she knew why he was here. Frustration roared through him. But he remained determined to do what was best for her and ignore the beast of lust pulling at its chain.

  The orchestra commenced the introduction. ‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ she said. ‘It is years since I danced a waltz and only once or twice then.’

  ‘Follow my lead, ma petite Claire,’ he said for only her ears. ‘I will not let you down.’

  And then they were dancing, twirling and gliding around the floor, and she was in his arms, mere inches away from his body, her skirts twining around his legs on the turn in a most seductive fashion, her face tilted proudly, her gaze meeting his.

  He couldn’t remember when he had been more enchanted. Or had so much fun. The devil inside him felt very smug indeed. It began to have wicked ideas about how he would like to spend the next few hours.

  ‘Well, madame. What did you wish to say?’

  Claire’s heart was pounding so hard in her chest she could hardly feel the beat of the music. But her feet wanted to skip and her lips to smile. It was ages since she’d danced a waltz and he was a wonderful partner. But a count?

  The brazen enormity of it had left her speechless. The sheer daring had stolen her breath. And now she was in his arms floating around the room as if the floor was made of thistledown and she was a girl of eighteen again.

  His touch, despite their gloves and the maintenance of the correct distance between them, seared her with heat. Inside and out. Her blood leapt to the feel of his hand on her waist, the way he guided her around the floor and swung her into the turn. Life coursed through her veins. It was him. Every time she was close to him she felt more alive than she had for years.

  She glanced at the faces whirling by. None of them looked shocked or startled. The only people following their progress were young females with decidedly green eyes.

  It was all just too delicious to relax in his arms and let the music carry her along as if this was something real. It was wrong. So very wrong. ‘How could you?’

  While his mouth remained grave, his dark eyes smiled. ‘How could I what?’

  A pang twisted in her heart. Desire and longing tangled with regret for what could not be.

  ‘Pretend to be a count? Impose on all these people?’ she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Ah, that.’ He sounded not the least perturbed. ‘You think it is a problem?’

  Was ever a man so infuriating? How could she answer that without being thoroughly insulting? ‘You know it is.’

  His boyish grin at her sharp reply made her heart falter in her chest. He swung her around in a wide turn at the end of the dance floor. ‘I will admit there is a certain amount of dislike amongst the local populace for émigrés.’

  She winced at the obvious reference to Sir Nathan. ‘You lied to my friends. What if you are caught out?’

  He shrugged. ‘I will worry about that when it happens.’

  ‘And me? I went along with your deception.’

  ‘You will tell them you didn’t remember me at all and were just being polite.’ He grinned. ‘Deny all knowledge.’

  ‘You are my brother’s chef,’ she said, exasperated and laughing at his lack of concern all at once.

  ‘No one expects you to recognise a servant out of his proper place.’

  The truth was a bitter taste on her tongue. ‘You are mad.’

  ‘Mad for a chance to waltz with you. Just once.’

  She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. The man certainly knew how to knock down her defences.

  ‘Dancing wasn’t the only reason for my coming here this evening, however.’ His eyes became intense.

  Heat flashed through her body. Her stomach gave a little hop of excitement. Foolish, foolish stomach. He was altogether much too charming. Too tempting. She must not let his allure lead her astray again. She’d come to terms with his earlier rejection. She really had. She knew nothing about the man and she knew to her cost how deceiving appearances could be. Still, she could not prevent her body from shivering at the thought of why else he might be here masquerading as a French count.

  He whirled her around with amazing skill. Keeping her on tenterhooks quite deliberately, she thought. When she was back in his arms, his face was once more completely calm, his smile charming. ‘I was worried.’

  Her heart dropped. ‘Is it Jane?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘No. Not Jane. At least, I think not.’

  She tensed. ‘You think?’

  ‘The moment the music ends, I need to speak with you in private.’

  She didn’t want to be private with him. It only led to temptation. The temptation to kiss. The temptation to engage her carnal desires. He’d been right in what he had said; she’d convinced herself he was, no matter how miserable it had made her feel. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘But I insist.’ He spoke coolly. ‘It won’t take more than a moment or two, I promise. And you will not be sorry.’

  She ought to be sorry she’d ever met him. But she wasn’t. ‘Very well. Just for a moment. Outside in the hallway.’

  He nodded.

  Slowly the music drew to a close. She hated the idea that they would never do this again. Must never. She fanned herself briskly with her fan and let him lead her outside into the corridor.

  Private, but not alone. All around them, people were coming and going from the ballroom to the withdrawing room and the card room.

  He led her to a niche with a sofa at the end furthest from the ballroom.

  She swung around to face him. ‘Was it not you who indicated we should not meet again? It seems, sir, that you are not very constant in your opinions.’

  His lips twisted wryly. ‘You see it is snowing.’

  It had been snowing lightly when they left Castonbury. ‘So?’

  ‘So John Coachman will not want to take the carriage out again tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘Then I am to stay overnight? At an inn? Is that the message? I hate to leave Jane alone. She will be worried when she awakes and finds me gone.’ The knot in her sto
mach tightened.

  He gave her a long hard look as if there was something he wanted to ask. Then he shrugged. ‘You could stay overnight at an inn, or you can let me drive you home in a sleigh.’

  She stared at him. ‘We don’t have a sleigh.’

  ‘I borrowed one. From a friend. The owner of the boxing saloon.’

  Her choices? Leave Jane at Castonbury with only Crispin and the servants for who knew how many days, or risk travelling home with André. A small cracking sound made her glance down at her hands. Bother. She had snapped the shoulder of her fan. In that second she made up her mind. ‘Very well. I will go with you. Give me a moment to make my farewells and I will meet you outside.’

  He looked as if he might protest and stay at her side, but then he nodded and strode off. She hurried back into the ballroom. Hopefully, Sir Nathan would understand, but if he did not it was really too bad. She had promised herself that she would never leave Jane alone, not until she was sure Pratt could do her no harm, and it was a promise she would keep.

  Pratt, she really had to deal with him soon. She couldn’t keep feeling so constantly fearful and not have it show.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At first, Sir Nathan was inclined to protest her departure. The supper had not yet been served, but Claire’s statement that because of the approach of inclement weather one of Castonbury’s servants had been sent with the sleigh to fetch her trumped his objections.

  ‘Do not worry, Sir Nathan, I shall be quite safe, I assure you. Thank you and Miss Samuelson for a wonderful evening.’ The other lady gave a regal incline of her head.

  ‘I will send you an invitation to the hunt, Mrs Holte,’ Miss Samuelson said.

  ‘When Giles returns, I’ll have you both for dinner,’ Sir Nathan said. ‘My Derbyshire cook is as good as any French chef, I can tell you.’

  ‘I am sure you are right.’ She sketched him and Miss Samuelson a curtsey and squeezed through the ballroom and ran down the stairs. It did not take her but a moment to retrieve her coat and her boots. Fortunately, because it was early, the servants were able to help her right away.

  A footman opened the door. Snowflakes whirled around outside and the wind sent them flying indoors. ‘Is your carriage waiting, madam?’ He looked gloomy at the thought of venturing out to find it.