“No, those went out last season.” Making a strategic decision, Emma took a deep breath and turned to her cousin. “I suddenly find I am parched. Kort, would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of punch?”
He gave her a strange look, but said, “Gladly. Is there anything else?”
“Oh, no, just the punch. The heat of the rooms, you know.” Emma gestured vaguely with her fan. “I’m sure you’ll find it.”
Kort gave Marston a hard look.
To Emma, he said, “I’ll be right back.”
It was both a promise and a warning.
Marston’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. “Take your time.”
“Thank you, Kort!” Emma called after him. She waved. Kort frowned back, but went.
Marston stepped up beside her, lowering his head until his breath tickled her ear. “I had hoped to see you here.”
“How fortunate for you,” said Emma brightly, twisting away. One of her plumes brushed across Marston’s nose, making him sneeze. “Now that you have achieved your object, you can go home.”
Marston discreetly wiped the back of his hand across his nose. It was hard to look soulful when one’s eyes were tearing, but he made a valiant effort. “To empty lodgings?”
Or a well-filled brothel. Georges had never been particularly particular in his tastes. That, at the time, had been one of his attractions. Emma had wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the potent distraction of flesh on flesh, with none of the messy complications attendant on emotions, channeling all her grief and confusion into the mindless pursuit of physical pleasure. And who better for that than Marston? It had been a brief and potent madness, over nearly as quickly as it had begun.
Two years hadn’t changed him. He still wore his hair long, with long sideburns that curled down below his ears to his chin. There was a bit more braid on his uniform than there had been before, but it was still closely tailored to a form maintained by a rigorous regimen of regular exercise. His batman had rigged an ingenious contraption of weights and pulleys that went with him everywhere, counteracting the effects of overindulgence in food, wine, and women.
Whatever else one thought of Georges Marston, Emma admitted, he was indisputably a fine figure of a man. He exuded animal spirits and casual carnality. That had been part of it.
But, mostly, he had been as far as she could get from Paul, muscular where Paul had been wiry, fair where Paul had been dark, broad where Paul had been slender. Not even his best friends would have called Paul handsome. His charm had resided in his lively manner and the quick intelligence in his fine, dark eyes. He had been a dreamer, a talker, a charmer. He had certainly charmed her, straight out of Mme. Campan’s school for young ladies.
Even now, the memory tore at her, not with the horrible rending force it once had, but with a dull ache, like a scratch half healed.
Marston would never believe her if she told him that his attraction had been less on his own merits and more because he was Not-Paul. She had been so angry at Paul, so angry at him for dying just when it seemed they finally a chance.
Marston leaned closer, mistaking her absorption for interest. “It’s been a long time, Emma.”
So it had. “Two years,” she said, suddenly feeling very old and very tired. Ten years since she had left New York, eight years since she had eloped with Paul. None of her happily-ever-afters had turned out the way she had intended them. “What do you want, Georges?”
She shouldn’t have called him by his first name. Marston’s eyes brightened with triumph.
“The pleasure of your company, of course,” he said, reaching for her hand.
Emma drew her hand sharply away.
Marston’s eyes narrowed. “You found pleasure in my company once. Or do I need to remind you?”
“I also wore puce,” said Emma flippantly. “Tastes change.”
She had never been particularly to his taste; even at the time, she had been aware of that. He had made no secret of all the ways in which he found her wanting: too small, too thin, too flat, too plain-spoken. The affair, such as it was, had been an aberration on both their parts. On her side, purely physical. On his—well, Emma had a good guess as to what his motives had been, and they had had little to do with her personal charms.
Marston crowded forward. Emma found herself regarding the buttons on his jacket. Brass, polished to the sheen of gold. He had been hard on his valets, demanding a level of sartorial perfection that would have daunted the staff of a duke. Darns and patches were anathema to him; it was new or it wasn’t used at all. He had been appalled by the state of her dressing gowns, old and worn and comfortable.
Apparently, he was prepared to put that aside.
“We had some good times. Didn’t we?” His voice dropped to a husky murmur. Emma gathered she was meant to find it seductive.
Once, she even had.
“They’re paste,” she said.
Georges blinked. “What?”
“The diamonds,” Emma said patiently. “They’re paste. If you want to be kept, find someone else to keep you.”
Marston mustered a halfhearted guffaw. “You will have your little joke.”
Who was joking?
He followed along after her as she began to make her way through the crowded room, train looped over one wrist, nodding to acquaintances as she went.
He dodged around a dowager who had planted herself firmly in the middle of the room. “May I call on you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Emma said honestly.
Marston’s hands descended on her shoulders, holding her still. His fingers slid beneath the silver trim of her dress, seeking out the vulnerable hollows between muscle and bone. “You’re still angry about Mimi, aren’t you?”
“Was that her name?” She had never bothered to find out.
She had been more grateful than angry. Finding her lover actively engaged beneath the skirts of a maid had jarred her awake, out of the strange, waking nightmare in which she had been trapped since Paul’s death. It had been the jolt she needed to get away from Marston and out of Paris. She had gone back, as she always did, to Malmaison, taking long walks through the sprawling parklands, as she tried to make sense of what her life had become and what she wanted to be. She had been fifteen when she eloped with Paul, too young to understand that marriage was not, in itself, a guarantee of future happiness. Just when they had finally come to terms, just when they had begun to understand each other, Paul had died. Emma had been left a widow at twenty, angry and confused, seeking easy consolation.
Marston had been easy, but he hadn’t been the consolation she needed. It hadn’t taken long for Emma to realize that. Mimi, or whatever her name was, had provided a much-needed excuse to break off an affair that Emma already knew to be a mistake.
“She was nothing to me,” Marston insisted, misunderstanding Emma’s comment. “Not like you.”
“How very lowering for her,” remarked Emma, and saw Marston’s lack of comprehension. He wouldn’t have thought of Mimi having feelings. She was just an object of convenience.
As he had been for Emma.
Despite herself, Emma felt a stirring of guilt. She had known what he was when she slept with him; she had gone to him because of it, seeking the distraction of the physical, without messy emotional ties. She had used him as much as he had used her, if not more. She owed him the courtesy of kindness, if nothing else.
Removing his hand from her shoulder, Emma pressed it briefly between both of hers. “I wish you all the best, Georges. Truly, I do. I hope you have all the success for which you could wish in Boulogne. Glories and triumphs and all that sort of thing.”
“The only reward I want is right here in Paris.” His eyes smoldered. “You.”
“I’m sorry, Georges.” Releasing his hand, Emma stepped back. “I’d get bored sitting on your mantelpiece.”
There it was again, that flicker of confusion. There had been a lot of that in the brief time they had been together. She had always known he thought her a little odd. She’d never done well with being seen and not heard.
“Mantelpiece?”
Emma shook her head. It wasn’t worth explaining. “Good-bye, Georges.”
This wasn’t what he expected. He took a step forward, crowding her back into the embrace of a garishly painted papier-mâché model of a mummy case. The mummy’s crossed arms bit into Emma’s back through the thin fabric of her dress.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“Ah, Monsieur!”
Linen swished past the periphery of her vision. Emma sucked in a deep, relieved breath as Marston stumbled back, glaring at the source of the interruption.
Unperturbed, Augustus Whittlesby raised a hand to one ear. “What is this I hear? My instincts inform me that you are in desperate need of the offices of a poet.” He smiled benignly at the infuriated Marston. “One should never try to woo without one.”
“N
o one,” said Mme. Delagardie firmly, “is doing any wooing. Monsieur Marston was just leaving.”
The man didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving. In fact, he was quite firmly planted in front of Mme. Delagardie.
For all Jane’s touching faith that the gossips must have exaggerated, it wasn’t looking good for Emma Delagardie. She had got rid of the cousin. That, to Augustus, was the crucial point. No woman created the conditions for a tête-à-tête unless she wanted one, and Delagardie and Marston were very tête-à-tête indeed. As Augustus had watched, she had led Marston on a chase through the crowded drawing room, drawing him along after her, like a comet trailing its train, her spangles glittering as she glanced back over her shoulder at him.
Just friends? Augustus thought not. He had seen the way Marston’s hands had disappeared beneath the trim of her dress, massaging her shoulders with the familiarity of long intimacy. He had seen the way Marston leaned in to speak to her, his lips practically devouring her ear. His pantaloons were tailored so tightly, Augustus could practically hear them squeak as he bent over.
If Marston was after Delagardie, that was all the more reason to move quickly.
Marston wouldn’t be pursuing her without a reason. Marston liked
them dark-haired and generously endowed. Mme. Delagardie was fair and slight. It might just be that Marston was being dunned by his tailor again and thought a former lover, revisited, might be moved to generosity. The blaze of diamonds that adorned Mme. Delagardie’s person bespoke a careless affluence. Marston wouldn’t be the first to use a rich widow to refill his coffers; it was a trope as old as Chaucer.
On the other hand, there were plenty of other rich women out there, taller ones, bustier ones, ones more convenient to Boulogne. For Marston to have hied himself all the way to Paris to a house from which he had been banned, he must have a reason more compelling than an overdue boot maker’s bill.
“Should you be in need of assistance,” Augustus directed himself to Marston, “I should be more than delighted to convey your amorous sentiments into verse for the delectation of the object of your affection. For a small but reasonable remuneration, of course.” He plucked delicately at one flowing sleeve. “I call it Service à la Cyrano.”
“Service à la what?” Marston appeared less than overjoyed by the interruption. One might even call his tone belligerent.
To Augustus’s surprise, Mme. Delagardie answered for him. “Cyrano. In Rostand’s play, Cyrano de Bergerac takes on the wooing of the fair Roxanne on behalf of a handsome but…less verbally inclined officer.”
Augustus inclined his head to Marston. “Poetry, Monsieur, has long been the food of love. Perhaps you might like a small measure of assistance from a chef of long experience?”
Marston was not amused. “When I need help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Perhaps you ought to ask the lady.” Augustus directed a flowing bow in Mme. Delagardie’s direction. “A canto does more than cologne can to win the affections of a lady to a man.”
A muffled snort emerged from behind Mme. Delagardie’s fan.
Reddening, Marston turned to Mme. Delagardie, deliberately blocking out Augustus. “We can resume this later. Alone.”
Mme. Delagardie snapped her fan shut. “You needn’t bother. I shouldn’t want to put you out. Good-bye, Monsieur Marston.”
Marston pressed a last, lingering kiss to her palm.
“Au revoir, Emma.”
His tone was that of a lover, but his eyes were as calculating as a Cheapside moneylender’s. That was Marston for you, venal to the core.
As for Mme. Delagardie, she watched her former lover go, but her expression was anything but amorous. In fact, if Augustus hadn’t known better, he would have said she appeared distinctly annoyed. Her lips were tight and her fan beat an impatient tattoo against her hip.
“Bother,” she said, with feeling.
“If I was interrupting…” Augustus fished.
Mme. Delagardie blinked, as though she had forgotten he was there. Augustus found this unaccountably annoying. He had large, flowing sleeves and carried an oversize paper scroll. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. And yet he appeared to have entirely escaped the notice of Mme. Delagardie.
“Oh, Mr. Whittlesby,” she said, confirming his initial impression. “Did you want something?”
“Me? To what wants could a humble servant of the muse possibly lay claim?” When he thought she had suffered enough, Augustus relaxed his pose. “It is not my wants, lady, but yours that bring me to your side on this fateful eve.”
“I would have called it more fearful than fateful,” muttered Mme. Delagardie.
“Fearfully fateful, then,” said Augustus. “Flora’s fairest flower informs me that you might have need of the assistance of an amanuensis for your amateur endeavors in the realm of Thespis.”
“My what?”
It was late and Augustus was tired. “I hear you’re writing a masque,” he said bluntly. “I thought you might desire my aid.”
Mme. Delagardie was silent for a moment. He had her attention now, but not necessarily in a good way. “I see,” she said, and she sounded surprisingly weary. “Are you offering to hire yourself out? Is this another sideline, like the Service de Cyrano?”
Would she be more likely to collaborate with him if she thought she was
meant to pay for the pleasure? Some people put worth only in those things to which they could set a price.