London's Most Wanted Rake Page 6

  Chapter Six

  Channing was right. He was going to dream about her all night. But he was wrong if he thought it was a waste of an evening. His dreams took him back to the first time he had ever seen her, a time of perfection, a time when he was young and still full of his father’s ideals of love and women.

  * * *

  He’d been to Parisian salons before but this one was different. There was an energy that emanated from the room. It didn’t come from the excellent décor, although the large drawing room was well appointed in blues and creams. It didn’t come from the exquisite collection of art hung on the walls representing significant schools of painting, although the collection certainly spoke well of the patron who had acquired it. Nor was it the comfort with which the room was designed. There were plenty of chairs grouped together for easy, intimate conversations, and more seating around the centre point of the room where the main event of the salon, a reading from a playwright’s latest work, he’d forgotten whose, would take place later.

  Then he saw it, or rather her, the source of the energy, sitting slightly to the right of the room’s centre and surrounded by guests. She laughed and fluttered a fan at something a guest had said. In doing so, she turned his direction and he was stunned. She had white-gold hair, a platinum really, such a unique and unmistakable colour. That would have been enough to make her remarkable, but there was more: the sharp blue of her eyes, the pertness of her nose, the curve of her cheek and, perhaps most of all, the wide generous mouth invitingly painted in the palest of pinks to match the gown she wore, a frothy chiffon confection that contrived to be sophisticated, avoiding the immaturity that often accompanied such frills. She wore pearls at her neck to complete the picture of freshness and innocence.

  ‘It is the coup de foudre for you.’ His friend, Henri, who had brought him, nudged him as the woman made a gesture with her fan to approach. ‘I will introduce you, but you have to remember to speak,’ he joked. ‘Many men are tongue tied in the presence of la comtesse.’

  Up close, he could see that she was young, perhaps not older than his own age of three and twenty, and when she spoke he could hear the accent beneath the words. She was not French, but English, even though her French was flawless. When she smiled at them, declaring she was glad Henri could come and doubly glad he had brought a friend, someone new to enliven their little circle, Channing was struck again by the quality of her freshness, the vibrancy in every expression. He was struck, too, by the realisation that she was married to Monsieur le comte and he knew something akin to devastation. She belonged to another. She could never be his. It was a ridiculous sentiment upon a first meeting.

  Then she singled him out and all else ceased to matter. ‘Has Henri shown you the garden? No? Ah, Henri, it is remiss of you when you know the gardens are the best feature of the house.’ She tapped Henri on the arm with her fan. ‘Come, Mr Deveril, I will give you a tour. We have a little time before the reading begins.’

  He supposed the gardens were lovely. He supposed he made the right obligatory comments about plants and the pond. He just wanted to stare at her, just wanted to listen to her. She could talk about anything and he’d listen. ‘The garden seems almost English,’ he offered as her tour wound down. He didn’t want to go in, he wanted to stay out here with her.

  She smiled softly, her eyes meeting his fleetingly and then flying away. ‘I hope so. I wanted to create a little piece of England for myself so I’d have some place to remind me of home.’

  ‘Do you miss England?’ It had not occurred to him that the comtesse was not happy here in Paris.

  ‘I don’t know that I miss England, but I do miss my home and my family. My sister and I were close, she is dear to me. Still, this is a good marriage for a girl like me. I could not have expected to do better and Monsieur le comte lets me do as I please most days.’

  Channing shook his head ‘A girl like you? What is that?’

  ‘My family is gentry. We are neither low born nor high. We’re not part of the peerage and we’re not wealthy enough to attract their attentions. In England, I could not have hoped for a great match. But here in France, the system of nobility is different. I could expect a great deal here. My parents want me to be financially secure and not need to worry for anything. They are older, you see, and there is my younger sister to consider.’

  Channing did not like the way she said it, as if she were trying to justify the choice to herself.

  ‘It appears they have succeeded.’ Channing smiled. ‘Have you been married long?’

  ‘Nearly a year.’

  He’d missed her by a year. It was illogical to think of it in those terms but the thought came anyway. ‘Is the marriage all you hoped it would be?’ Channing asked quietly. It was an intensely personal question to ask on short acquaintance.

  The blue of her eyes met his. She smiled but there was sombreness in her gaze. ‘Monsieur le comte is away much. I do not see him often, but I am well provided for.’ She looked past his shoulder. ‘Our guest is ready to begin his reading. I need to go and play hostess.’ She gave him an apologetic smile for her upcoming absence as if she sensed he would not stay long now that he was deprived of her presence. ‘Do you read much, Mr Deveril?’

  ‘On occasion,’ Channing answered vaguely. He wasn’t a reader, it was not something that came easily to him. But he’d become one if it mattered to her.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d like to come tomorrow? We are discussing one of Voltaire’s letters, purely an academic exercise and a chance to debate. But the group will be smaller, just a few of my intimates, and afterwards we’ll walk in the garden.’

  ‘I would be delighted.’

  The part of him that knew he was dreaming wanted to pull her into his arms, anything to keep her from going back inside. But that part of him knew, too, that such a move would end the dream, it always did because nothing of that nature had happened in the real memory, not then anyway. So, he let her go....

  * * *

  Channing awoke with a start, his brain still foggy with sleep and wanting. Even seeing her in dreams took his breath away. He’d peppered Henri with questions about her all the way back to their lodgings that evening. Henri answered each of them with a laugh. What kind of flowers did she like? What was her favourite colour? But always Henri’s answers became vague when he asked about her marriage and the comte. Something was not right there. His sleep-fogged brain didn’t want to contemplate those reasons at the moment, it wanted only to drag him back into pleasanter thoughts and pleasanter times and he let it take him back to his days in Paris....

  * * *

  The comte seemed to matter very little, though, in the weeks that followed. The man was merely a technical spectre that lay on the periphery of his growing relationship with la comtesse. In the month Channing was in Paris, the comte did not make a single appearance and it was easy to forget he even existed. It was easy to forget a lot of things existed, so entranced was he with la comtesse. And it seemed she was entranced with him.

  She invited him everywhere and he delighted in showering her with little gifts; beautifully wrapped bon bons, a rare copy of Voltaire’s English letters. All appropriate of course, nothing that would cause the errant husband any anger. His father had raised him well. He knew the rules. But Channing had anger aplenty as his time in Paris drew to a close. His business for his father was concluded and he had no excuse to stay longer. How dare le comte neglect his wife!

  ‘If you were mine,’ he’d told her on their last afternoon as they strolled the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘I would not leave your side for a minute. I think it’s a shame your husband is so perennially absent.’ By English standards it was a shocking thing to say. The French were much more given to such exaggeration as a form of flattery and flirtation. He was not her only admirer.

  The comtesse had turned to him and put a firm hand on his sle
eve, her blue eyes intense. ‘You must not think such things. It can change nothing,’ she scolded, seeming far older than her years in that moment. ‘Besides, I prefer it this way.’

  She preferred the comte’s absence. The realisation hit him hard. His intuition had not been wrong. All was not right inside the comte’s marriage. That was when he began to suspect, too, that she had not experienced the joys of the marriage bed and it fuelled his anger in a different direction. Neglect, it seemed, had many different forms.

  In the next moment, her scold was gone. ‘In August, I will go to Monsieur le comte’s home in Fontainebleau. It is beautiful in the summer. Perhaps you will come and spend some time? I am inviting several of my friends down or I shall be too lonely. Besides, what is the good of having a lovely country home and no one to share it with?’ She gave a little smile that suggested he was forgiven for his earlier transgression. This second chance served as a warning, too. He was not to make such enquiries again or there would be no more forthcoming visits to Fontainebleau or anywhere. He would be shut off from her.

  Channing raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘I would be honoured to come.’ He’d have to lie about it, though, to his family. They would have too many questions about his newfound infatuation with France.

  He did go to Fontainebleau that August, the best two weeks of his life. It was every bit as beautiful and as torturous as he’d expected, to be near her and know that near was all he could have. They spent their days walking the gardens, going into the village, picnicking in the meadows. He savoured every glance, every laugh, every light touch even though they were surrounded by others of her select coterie, men and women alike.

  ‘When shall I see you again?’ he’d asked as the visit came to a close. Monsieur le comte had written, requesting her presence in Paris at the end of August, something neither of them cared to speculate on.

  ‘Perhaps it is best you do not come again,’ she said softly. ‘It is hard on both of us, I think.’ It was as close to a declaration of affection as she’d ever got and he treasured it, each word a precious pearl.

  In itself, the request was not odd. Everyone was returning to town, the summer was over, but as the days wound down, he knew she carried unease about the reunion. The comte himself had spent the summer months in a villa on the northern Italian lakes with friends she did not care for. ‘I will go to Paris with you,’ Channing had offered impulsively, his head immediately filled with ideas of challenging le comte to a duel, or spiriting her away to some far part of the world where no one would ever find them. Honour had kept him from her in the most carnal of senses, but he was regretting such ethics now. Perhaps shared passion would have bound her to him.

  ‘No!’ Her answer was vehement and swift, her eyes flashing. ‘You must never do that.’

  He’d not been ready to give her up. When they said goodbye the next morning, Channing had a wild plan, as young naïve men often do when faced with the full throes of first love. The simplicity of it even now embarrassed him in the dark of his room. ‘Come away with me. We will go where we cannot be found. The British Empire is big and America even larger if it comes to that. I will wait in Paris for three days.’ He’d pushed a folded slip of paper in to her hand with an address on it. ‘Come to me and we will leave straight away.’

  ‘He will not let me go.’ But something akin to hope had flared in the depths of her eyes even as she offered the protest. There was a fierce set to her jaw as she debated the option he put before her. He’d not known then exactly what he’d offered her relief from, only that he could not live without her. It was a selfish young man’s invitation.

  He’d gripped her hands with all of his passion. ‘I don’t care. You will be the wife of my heart with or without the sanction of law. We can go where no one will know, no one will mind.’ He’d heard of soldiers who kept wives in India and wives in England. Surely such a deception wasn’t that hard to pull off with the wide ocean between them. His family loved him, they would recover from the blow and in time they’d come to love her as he did.

  He’d kissed her then, long and hard. What it lacked in finesse, it made up in ardour. They’d been hot for each other in that last embrace, his hands everywhere, her cries in his mouth as he devoured her, joy surging through him that she would be his one day very soon.

  * * *

  He awoke, aching and hard beneath the sheets, his body drenched with sweat. The dream had been intense as were his waking emotions as they tangled with the fingers of sleep. Drowsy anger rose still after all these years, righteous anger on behalf of the young man he’d been and the betrayal that young man had suffered—a betrayal of his heart, of his ideals. It had changed everything for him. He had waited, not three days, but five. She had not come and the dreams that claimed him now were not as rose-tinged as the ones that had come earlier.

  * * *

  It was Henri who had borne him the news of her betrayal. The comte and she were as reunited lovers, Henri told him. Henri had been to their home for a supper and he’d walked with them in their garden holding hands as they strolled with their friends. The comte had showered her with new gowns and a king’s ransom in jewels, among them a diamond collar worth a small estate in itself.

  Jealousy stabbed him hard as he imagined her in those gardens walking with another, even if that other was her rightful husband. Those were their gardens, his and hers, where they’d first strolled, where they’d walked so many times after her salons. Never mind that they walked there with others, always surrounded by others. That was a fact a lovesick swain conveniently forgets. His mind, too, made arguments for him. She doesn’t love him. She loves you, it was you she gave her summer to. Ah, yes, the cynic in him began to rise. You and the myriad other guests who flitted in and out of the house in Fontainebleau.

  The man in the dream had seen then in hindsight how he hadn’t truly had the full sum of her attentions. He was one of many. She’d made him feel special, that was all.

  It would have been best if he’d accepted defeat quietly, graciously and gone home to England at that point. But his blood ran hot where the comtesse was concerned and Henri’s report wasn’t enough to dissuade him. Foolish boy that he was, he’d forced Henri to tell him where she might appear in public since it was clear she wasn’t going to invite him to her home. Henri had reluctantly told him she and the comte would be at the Luxembourg Gardens on Sunday for a picnic with friends. He’d gone and watched her from the periphery of their group, although it took all his will-power not to approach her directly.

  She’d been stunning that day. She’d worn pink, a deep, bright, true pink that brought out her hair and complexion brilliantly. Around her neck, she wore an expensive diamond collar that dripped with wealth just as Henri had reported. Never could he afford such jewels, Channing had thought. He was comfortably provided for as a second son, but he hadn’t the comte’s wealth. Her circumstances would be somewhat reduced if she’d come with him.

  He’d waited and watched for an opening, on the hope that she’d leave the comte’s side and he’d have a chance to speak with her. He had no luck. She’d spent the day beside her husband, a tall, dark-haired man with olive skin who looked like the Italians he’d summered with. He was well dressed, too, and full of manners. He smiled at his wife, fingered the diamonds at her throat and laughed at whatever she said.

  She’d answered such attentions with attentions of her own. She had eyes for no one but the comte, except the one brief moment when she had spied him on the edge of the company, hanging back by the hedges. Her eyes had gone cold and she’d looked right through him as if he were nobody, as if they had not clung together so fiercely in those last moments at Fontainebleau, as if she had not considered throwing all this away for him just a few days ago. She’d made it clear in a single, heart-piercing gaze she would not contemplate such an action now. She had made her choice: silks and jewels and the sporadic
affections of an oft-absent husband over the passions of a second son. The woman whom he’d believed was different from others was no different at all. The dream was over.

  * * *

  Channing stretched on his bed and rolled over, looking for a cool space in which to reclaim some comfort. The sun was coming up and he realised too late he’d not shut the curtains. It hardly mattered, he wouldn’t sleep again, his thoughts were churning. He remembered what had happened next. He’d gone home, his heart broken, his ideals shattered, his lesson learned: pleasure and passion were right and good as long as one did not engage in them to an emotional extent. He’d merely been a tool she’d used to assuage a need her marriage had not met. He’d rather other young men not learn such a lesson in such a brutal way and he’d set out to do something about it.

  He’d formed the League of Discreet Gentlemen, a service that would save men and women alike from heartache while providing them with the pleasure they sought. He’d formed an agency, a league of gentlemen dedicated to a woman’s pleasure. There should be no more empty lives, no woman abandoned in her marriage, but, more importantly, no young men ruthlessly used and discarded when there were escorts who could be paid for the experience without jeopardising hearts and emotions.

  The organisation had flourished, but not once had he told anyone the inspiration behind it, not even his best friend, Jocelyn Eisley, who had helped him. What was the point? He was never going to see her again, never going to go to France again. But fate had a way of intervening and, as it turned out, he hadn’t had to go to France to encounter her again after all. She’d come to him, ironically because of the League, the very agency he’d formed to save others from femme fatales like her.

  He remembered her vividly, sitting in his office at Argosy House explaining her case. She had wanted to re-integrate into English society. She was widowed and wanted to be home. She’d hoped to use the Little Season and the holidays that followed as a first opportunity to show herself. She’d been a veritable ice princess with her white-gold hair and travelling gown in a deep blue; her new signature colour, no more pinks. There was an edge about her that leant her a sensual, sophisticated edge that appealed to him greatly. They were new people, different from whom they’d been in Paris. They were people who could take pleasure at will.