She cocked a figurative gun at him and slowly pulled the trigger. “You do remember Marissa, don’t you?” “Don’t be impertinent,” he said absently, his eyes roving over her face. “Yes,” he said at last, “it’s the shape of your eyes, just a bit slanted, that resemble Marissa.” It was what had looked familiar to him. Marissa’s cousin. “Your name, Mademoiselle?” “De la Valette, your grace.” “My wife’s family was Beauchamps.” “Yes, it is my father’s name as well. De la Valette is my husband’s name.”
“You’re married? That’s bloody ridiculous. You don’t look married.”
“Why is that? You wondered if you’d bedded me. Surely that is all that being married means.”
“Well, not quite all. Not at all. Where is this wonderful husband of yours? Hiding in the pantry? Over there behind my desk?” “No.”
“Surely you see my dilemma. I’m quite unused to finding ladies alone in my library, ready to accost me on the minute I walk through the doors. But there’s a husband somewhere? Is he behind the wainscotting?” Suddenly it was much too much. “May I sit down, please? It’s been a very long day.”
“While you’re resting, why don’t I look behind that wing chair over there for this absent husband of yours?”
She didn’t say anything, just eased herself down on a very large leather chair near the fireplace. The flames had died down. They were a warm glow now. She smoothed the outmoded dovegray gown about her, a gown that had been expensive four years before. It was a gown that screamed that she was a lady fallen upon hard times. Houchard had laughed, pleased with himself, when she’d first worn it for him. He’d told her that his mistress had selected it for her. He’d told her that the duke, a man of vast experience, despite his limited number of years on this earth, would know exactly what she was.
The duke said finally, “All right, then. No husband. I see that the gentleman has left you high and dry. Now, I’m surrounded by faithful retainers, Madame. Would you be so kind as to tell me how you managed to be in my library without my being informed of your presence?”
“I arrived but a few moments before you, your grace. Your butler was kind enough not to make me wait in the entrance hall. I was very cold, you see, and he did not wish me to be uncomfortable.”
“So that’s what Bassick wanted to tell me. I can just hear him now: ‘Your grace, I’ve a pretty young piece bundled up in your library, waiting to see to your pleasure.’ Yes, that would have been Bassick’s style, but of course he would never intend that I—never mind that. I trust you’re now sufficiently comfortable. Would you like some tea? Brandy? Something to eat, perhaps off my best china plates?”
He was elusive, swift as quicksilver, not at all like a soft, gentle rain falling through her fingers, but more like a typhoon roaring over her, flattening her, but at the same time drawing her admiration. He was charming, undoubtedly ruthless, his sexual word play utterly inappropriate to a lady’s ears. What was he thinking, really? “No, your grace.”
He sat down on a settee opposite her. He stretched out his long legs, the cloak falling to the floor on either side of them. His boots were big and shiny black. He folded his hands over his belly. “So, when will this husband of yours make an appearance?”
“He isn’t here. I don’t know exactly where he is. He’s dead, you see. I’m a widow.”
He sat back, even more at his ease. “Aren’t you very young to be left in that saddened state, Madame?”
“No more than you, your grace. You were made a widower quite young yourself.” The words slipped smoothly from her mouth, and to her own ears, she sounded perfectly at her
ease.
“I was married older than you, and I was made a widower older than you,” he said after a moment. “Now I am twenty-eight. I daresay you haven’t yet gained your twentieth birthday.”
“I am just turned twenty last week.” She lowered her eyes, but it didn’t help. She hated this even more than she’d thought she would. “I was married when I was only seventeen. You were only twenty-two when you married Marissa, were you not? And Marissa had just gained her eighteenth year.” “You are well informed.”
“I have an excellent memory. I was at your wedding, your grace.”
“I see. So, I did remember you, a bit. Do you have children?”
She shook her head. “Have you many more questions for me? I’m getting thirsty.”
“Yes, certainly I have, but for the moment, let me reminisce. I married Marissa six and a half years ago. You would have been thirteen years old.”
“Yes. After the wedding I never saw either of you again.”
“So your husband is dead. Is your father in England?”
Safe ground, she thought, and although she hated giving the words any credence, just speaking them aloud gave them more that she imagined. It felt very strange, even terrifying, that she managed to say without hesitation, “No, he died just a short time ago. My mama, who was English, died three years ago. After Napoleon fell and the Bourbon king was returned to the throne, Papa and I returned to France. My papa was in poor health. But his passing was easy, thank God.” Actually, her papa was currently residing in Paris, in a room that was comfortable enough, for she’d seen it before she’d left to come to England. He had one servant to see to his comfort and a woman to cook for him. She’d insisted that he have all the books he wanted. Houchard had agreed, the damnable bastard. And why shouldn’t he agree? She was doing what he demanded of her. And there was a physician; she’d said she wouldn’t budge unless there was a physician available to him. She’d begged him to be calm, told him again and again that she would be all right. But, she’d thought, how could her father remain calm when she was here in England against her will? What if something happened to him?
“I’m very sorry. The loss of parents is difficult. My own father died last year. I loved him dearly. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said, and lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see the lie in them. She had a sudden memory of his father, a beautiful man with charming manners, tall and straight as a post, darker even than his son. “I’m sorry about your father. I remember him. He was very kind to me.”
He nodded, then sat back and eyed her, wishing she wasn’t so pale, that her father hadn’t died, for he knew what a difficult thing that was. “Yes, that makes sense.” He balanced his elbows on the padded arms and tapped his fingertips thoughtfully together. “Marissa’s father, as well as your own, was an émigré. Marissa’s father also hated Napoleon, as did, I assume, your father. He wouldn’t ever go back until Napoleon was out of power. Actually, Marissa’s father still resides in London, quite content with his adopted country. Does your uncle know that you’re here?”
“No. He didn’t even know that Papa and I had returned to France. We have no further ties to his family, or to yours.”
“Did your husband die in England, Madame? Was he also an émigré?”