Chapter 21
Twenty-One
“It’s outrageous,”Alix hissed as Ginny piled her heavy tresses high upon her head and fixed them with diamond ornaments.
“For the past two weeks he’s been squiring Anne Dinsmore about town as if...
” She stopped, uncertain how much the maid knew, unable to say the words, as if he hadn’t a wife.
“As if he hadn’t made certain promises to me,” she finished lamely.
Ginny said nothing, simply tutted sympathetically.
“If you could see the way she puts her hands on him, calls him Moreham, as if he were her special possession. And he just sits there, like a great big... oh, what word would you use in English?” Alix glanced back inquiringly at Ginny.
“Lumpkin?” Ginny offered helpfully.
Alix shook her head.
“Dunderhead?” Ginny suggested.
“I think we must have better words for it in French,” Alix concluded.
She was beginning to wonder if her request for two months to become accustomed to the idea of being married had been a mistake.
At first she had enjoyed the attention of the men who courted her.
She’d had far too little of that when she’d been at Valcour, and even as the fiancée of the Marquis de Beincourt.
But she quickly realized that she was comparing all the men she met to Rafe Harcrest, and that they all fell woefully short.
“Why don’t you just tell his lordship how you feel?” Ginny asked.
She might have been willing to admit she’d made a mistake, she reflected, if he hadn’t suddenly started appearing everywhere with Anne Dinsmore. She chewed at her lip. Was he changing his mind? Had he compared her to Anne and decided that she came up short?
She shook her head. “He’d be insufferable. I can just imagine the pleasure he’d take in telling me what a fool I’ve been.”
Ginny nodded. “Men do have a way of puffing up like roosters in a yard when they’re in love. Still my mum says there’s no harm in it.”
But she didn’t know whether Rafe was in love with her, Alix thought, and that was the problem. She grasped the chain around her neck, thinking that with all the lessons she’d been given in manners and deportment, someone might have provided some instruction on the ways of the heart.
Ginny placed a final ornament in Alix’s hair and stood back to admire her handiwork. Alix was dressed in a gray gown with bright blue stripes over a blue satin underskirt.
“Well, you can rest assured, mademoiselle, when he sees you tonight at the Beaumont’s, he’ll have eyes for no other. You look lovely, Mademoiselle Alix, truly lovely.”
Rafe’s thoughts echoed Ginny’s words that evening when he saw Alix enter the Beaumont’s grand salon. He couldn’t resist, however, twitting her on her choice of colors. “Ah, my lady, you look ravishing this evening, and your gown... What do they call that color, dove gray, pearl gray?”
Alix glared at him.
“Perhaps the answer is storm gray?” he offered helpfully.
She inclined her head. “I think your lordship may have struck upon it.”
“Can it be that after a mere two weeks you find yourself desperate for my company?” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Are you finding the prospect of a month and a half more without me in your bed more than you can bear?”
Alix felt her skin flush and she resisted the urge to swat at him with her fan. If only his words weren’t so close to the truth. “It appears, my lord, that you have a rather high opinion of your charms.”
Rafe shook his head in mock sorrow. “And I could have sworn that after our encounter the evening of the Kensington’s assembly you did, too.” His eyes gleamed with a wicked golden light. “Perhaps we should give it another try.”
“You are an incorrigible rake,” she breathed.
“No,” he said, “I’m merely trying to seduce my wife. Unsuccessfully, it appears. Come now, Alix, what have I done wrong this time? I’ve given you the space you requested.”
“And filled it with that blonde...” Alix paused searching for the correct word.
“Lady Anne,” he finished.
“Not exactly the title I might have chosen, but yes,” she agreed sharply.
“I see the trouble now. Alexandre de La Brou Moreham, are you jealous?” Rafe inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“I am not jealous,” she insisted, “simply astonished that you would insist on holding me to our commitment while continuing to pursue your former fiancée.”
“Anne and I were never betrothed,” he said seriously. “And I am not pursuing her. I have merely been courteous to an old friend.” He was about to continue when he was interrupted by the appearance of Lord Minton.
“Mademoiselle de La Brou, may I say that you look as luminous as a rare gray pearl rising from the sea this evening?”
“You flatter me, my lord.”
“Not at all, mademoiselle. But you would flatter me if you would grant me the favor of a dance.”
Rafe struggled to keep from rolling his eyes at this exchange.
“I would be delighted, my lord. His lordship and I”— she cast a defiant look at Rafe—“have just completed our conversation.”
Like hell they had, Rafe thought, as he watched Minton lead Alix to the dance floor. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Cole grinning at him.
“You appear to be having a damned difficult time holding on to your wife, Moreham,” he observed cheerfully.
“She may dance with Minton all she likes, Davenport,” he said, not taking his eyes from the whirling couple. “It does not change the fact that she is my wife.”
“It’s a funny thing about women, Rafe; they’re not like horses. It takes more than a certificate and an exchange of trinkets to make them stay put. Have you told her how you feel about her?”
“I would think that after all that has passed between us that would be understood.”
“I think, my friend, it is no more clear to her than it is to Lady Dinsmore that you are no longer an available bachelor.” Cole looked up at the gallery, and Rafe followed his gaze to see Anne standing among a group of women observing the dancing.
“I’ve known Anne Dinsmore for a long time,” Rafe muttered, “and I’m sure that she will understand.”
“I watched Anne Dinsmore grow up as well and, as I recall, she was the child who would follow the game along, smiling all the while but, if she was losing, would toss a rock at your head as soon as your back was turned.”
“Have you ever thought that it might have been because your head presented such an inviting target?”
A dimple appeared in Cole’s cheek. “I haven’t. Though on occasion, I believe Phoebe might have considered a similar thing.”
“Where is your charming wife this evening?”
“If you’re looking for an ally then you’ll have to wait. Some country squire trod on the hem of her dress and she’s gone off to the retiring room to have it repaired. In the meantime, may I suggest we go in search of some of our host’s famous brandy?”
Anne Dinsmore was indeed wishing she had something to throw at Rafe’s head as she observed the activity in the grand salon below her.
Moreham had yet to come up and greet her; as far as she could tell he’d spent all his time staring after that little French witch.
She could tolerate a little flirtatious pursuit, but she was beginning to suspect that Rafe’s attentions towards the girl were more serious.
She’d done her best to cast herself in his way this season, to pick up where they’d left off that summer, but in spite of her efforts he seemed increasingly distracted.
There should be a price to pay for toying with a woman’s expectations, she thought with rising annoyance.
Moreham had failed to come up to scratch and here she was, forced once again to scan the pool of men that she knew were either too short or too fat, too venal, or too stupid to make a suitable husband.
As if to rub salt into her wounds, Mrs. Hensford said loudly, “Just look at the Earl of Moreham staring at Lady Melbourne’s little French protégé; he hasn’t taken his eyes off her all evening. It would appear, Lady Anne, as though last season’s fish is slipping your hook.”
Anne purposely ignored the woman, knowing that a response would appear pitifully defensive.
Instead, she languidly waved her fan and changed the subject.
“You know, Mrs. Hensford, James took me to see the most marvelous play in Covent Gardens the other evening.” She pretended to catch herself, as she turned to face the woman.
“Oh, but then your husband prefers the ballet, does he not?” The woman flushed scarlet at this thinly veiled reference to her husband’s well-known practice of keeping young dancers on his wife’s money.
As Mrs. Hensford quickly found a pretense to move away from the group, another woman tapped Anne lightly on the arm with her fan. “Ah, my dear, I see disappointment has not blunted your edge.”
Anne turned and smiled serenely at the elderly woman to her right, knowing that Lady Morton would not smile back to avoid revealing her missing teeth.
“Moreham and I grew up together, you know. We are old friends. I’m pleased to see he’s found someone to distract him from his business affairs and from the grief of losing his father and brother in so short a span of time.
” She sighed. “Though I do worry that in his pursuit of Mademoiselle de La Brou, he is neglecting poor Elizabeth.”
“Indeed,” Lady Morton said, craning her neck closer like a baby bird eagerly waiting for a tasty bit of gossip to fall.
Anne tilted her graceful white neck towards Lady Morton. “Elizabeth Harcrest is such a delightful girl, but”—she paused as if searching for just the right word—“so naive, so careless. I fear if she should fix her attention on the wrong kind of person, she might behave in an unwise manner.”