Chapter 8 #2
It was not a season anyway in which people were searching for scandal; each day was a new excitement to do with the end of the war. The Season involved endless royal receptions, balls, and progresses. Public buildings were illuminated and banners hung from windows.
There was plenty of fuel for gossip. The Grand Duchess Catherine didn’t only reject Carlton House but clearly viewed the regent with scant regard.
Her brother the czar, himself the most absolute ruler in Europe, exhibited a distinct taste for the company of radicals.
Then there was the taciturn king of Prussia throwing out the grand bed provided for his use and demanding a military camp cot.
In all this excitement Eleanor could easily hide her domestic concerns from public view, even if they were foremost in her mind.
Nicholas was careful to attend her enough to escape comment.
They were together—along with all the world—at the gala night at the opera held especially for the royal visitors.
They were in the duke of Belcraven’s box with the marquess, his mother the duchess, his sister and her husband, and Lord Middlethorpe with his mother and sister, Amelia.
No one minded the crush and everyone joined in the singing of “God Save the King.”
Just as everyone settled for the performance, there was a new stir and new cheering. Eleanor looked over to see the regent’s estranged wife, Princess Caroline, entering her box, stealing her husband’s glory. Eleanor shared a look with Nicholas and bit her lip to prevent the giggles.
“What wonderful timing!” he whispered as the czar and the king of Prussia rose and bowed and everyone rose again to applaud. Reluctantly, and looking as if he would burst his straining buttons with rage, the regent rose and bowed too.
There was another movement, unnoticed by most. Another woman had entered a box along with an entourage of handsome males.
Eleanor stared at Madame Therese Bellaire.
She had not seen her since Newhaven and had hoped that the impression of beauty and allure had been false.
Now, however, it seemed greater than before.
The woman’s black dress was encrusted with silver and cut low across her full breasts.
It seemed in fascinating danger of sliding off at any moment.
A heavy choker of diamonds emphasized a long, slender neck.
Her movements were languorously seductive, and all the men with her hovered like moths, seeming in danger of instant immolation.
The woman looked up and saw Eleanor. She smiled, not sneeringly, but as if in acknowledgement of something shared. The Frenchwoman made a small gesture with her feather fan that could have been greeting or challenge.
Eleanor looked quickly at Nicholas. He too was staring at his mistress, but his face was completely unreadable.
The play began and Eleanor turned her eyes, at least, toward it.
Most of the events she shared with Nicholas went somewhat better, for they did not again encounter Madame Bellaire and he was skillful at giving a public performance of the fond husband.
Eleanor hoarded the laughter and the flirtation he produced for these times like a beggar gathering crumbs from the table, in hunger and shame.
They were together at Almack’s on June 22nd when the czar insisted on a waltz. Under such pressure, the poor patronesses could no longer hold out against the scandalous dance, and soon all who knew how were twirling.
It was the marquess who held out his hand to Eleanor and said, “Shall we be scandalous?”
“Ridiculous, you mean,” she retorted. “I don’t know how.”
Then Nicholas stepped between them. “Scandal or ridicule, I’m sure that’s my place in your life. Dance with me, Eleanor.”
She placed her hand in his. “I don’t know how,” she repeated.
“Trust me.”
It was as if the chattering, busy world faded and there was only Nicholas. Eleanor let him lead her out. “On your head be it,” she said softly.
“I accept all responsibility for everything. Step so and relax.”
Eleanor did as he said and floated. If only, she thought, turning in his arms, life was as simple as the waltz.
He acted the loving husband even before the servants, though she suspected the formal marital fondness he exhibited would not be his behavior if the marriage were a true one.
He even went so far as to shower her with little gifts, but he never gave them in person.
He left them on her dressing table. Whether this was because he wished to avoid her thanks or so that Jenny would see and note them she did not know.
She had been tempted at one time to reject them, but forced herself to react as if she were pleased.
She still held to her resolution to make the marriage of convenience as easy for him as possible.
He, after all, was breaking no commitment made between them.
She often wished, however, that he had not drawn the relationship out of the placid waters in which she had been comfortable if he was then going to abandon her.
At least she had the support and escort of the Rogues. Sometimes she collected a positive entourage of handsome young men. This raised some eyebrows, but she was careful to counteract this by impeccable behavior and, as Nicholas had suggested, by judicious introductions.
Lord Middlethorpe and the marquess of Arden were her most frequent companions. Lord Middlethorpe was fast becoming a friend but the marquess, she had to admit, was her flirt. He was so good at it and so handsome a woman would have to be stone cold to resist.
At first she had been a little self-conscious about his flattery and his occasionally risqué comments, but it was as if he were gently leading her into a new and pleasurable skill. By the time they met at his mother’s ball she was comfortable with the art.
He grinned at her sapphire satin gown with its tunic of fine silvery lace. “Ah, Madame Augustine,” he sighed appreciatively.
She tapped him with her silver fan—a present from Nicholas. “Are you saying, Lucien, that I owe all my charms to my dressmaker?”
He captured her fan, flicked it open, and held it in front of his face like a bashful maiden. He fluttered his outrageously long lashes. “Do I owe all my charms to my tailor?”
She took her fan back. “Your tailor owes penalties to every susceptible woman in London.”
He put on a hurt expression. “You do think my tailor makes me?” He grabbed her hand and pulled her away into an anteroom. Short of screaming and fighting, there was no way to resist.
“Lucien! I have a reputation to maintain.”
“So have I,” he said with a grin. “It will take only a moment to show my charms are all my own.”
Eleanor flung open the door of the room and covered her eyes with her hand. But she peeped, and she knew he knew it. “If you can get in and out of that lot in moments, I’m no judge,” she said. “That jacket looks skin-tight.”
He stood, hands on hips, laughing at her. “True enough. It’s all skin-tight. You could come and run your hands over me. Make sure there’s no padding.”
“I could stick pins into you too. Make sure you’re not an inflated bladder.”
He sauntered over and took her hand to kiss it. “Have pity, delight of my heart. I’m the future duke of Belcraven and my minions inflate my self-consequence with a hand pump every morning. You could do irreparable harm.”
“I could do more harm with a bullet,” said Nicholas from the doorway.
However he merely looked indulgent. Eleanor would rather have liked to see him eaten by jealousy.
Nibbled at least. He detached her hand from Lucien’s hold and kissed it himself.
“Better late than never is the saying that comes to mind. Do you have a dance left for a mere husband?”
“Of course,” said Eleanor. “You can have the next one. Lucien won’t mind. Will you, my lord marquess?”
“Of course I’ll mind, oh perfect one. But how can I compete? ‘Semper in absentes felicior aestus amantes’.” He gave Nicholas what appeared to be a combative salute. “Debenham’s dinner ended early, did it?” he added as he left the room. It sounded like a parting salvo.
Eleanor looked at Nicholas, wondering what that had been about. She also wanted to know what the Latin meant, for she lacked that kind of education.
As if he read her mind, Nicholas said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” As they strolled back into the ballroom to take their places in the next set he added, “Luce always was too clever for his own good.”
Eleanor hoped the Company of Rogues were not going to join Lord Stainbridge in disapproving of her husband’s conduct. It would make her life no easier. When the marquess joined their set she projected that thought at him forcefully, along with a severe look. He recorded it and smiled ruefully.
It occurred to Eleanor that he should not have a partner for this set after she had abandoned him. Doubtless the beautiful Miss Swinnamer, toast of the Season, had ruthlessly abandoned some other swain. For who, after all, would refuse a chance to partner the heir to Belcraven?
Except the wife of Nicholas Delaney.
The music struck up and she curtsied to her husband as he bowed.
He had taken in her long look at the marquess of Arden. “Should I be jealous?” he asked lightly.
“That would be rather ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” she replied equally lightly, and danced off into the center of the set, leaving him to take it as he willed.
Lord Middlethorpe at least remained a staunch, un-dismaying friend, and she was so at ease with him that she was only delighted when he came to see her just as she was about to sit down to a solitary dinner.
“Francis! What an hour to come calling. Shall I request another place to be laid?”
“No, no. Well, why not? I’m devilish hungry. In fact, I’m in a bit of a fix and I’m hoping you will help me out.”
It was obvious he was disturbed, as he was normally unflappable, but she waited until he had been settled beside her at the table before asking for the explanation.