Chapter Thirty-eight
“Well now, aren’t you a vision,” proclaimed the Dowager Countess as Sylvie entered her rooms a little later.
“Thank you, Lady Hayford. The gown is indeed exquisite.”
“Mmm,” mused the older lady, turning Sylvie for inspection, “though, my dear, it seems you have the gift of wearing a gown without allowing the gown to wear you.”
At the slight crease on Sylvie’s brow, Lady Hayford smiled. “A subtle, but most important distinction. And I see my services are no longer required… your maid has done a fine job of the fichu. Was it my cold hands you feared?”
Feeling more at ease, Sylvie laughed. “No, Lady Hayford, though it was very generous of you to offer, and please know I very much appreciate your gracious hospitality. The journey here took much longer than I had anticipated, and I’d happily have stayed at the coaching inn, but the Comte was concerned for my safety and insisted I stay. ”
Lady Hayford gave Sylvie a strange look before she nodded her head slightly and smiled. “Of course he did, my little innocent. You are far too precious a surprise to let slip away. Tell me, what do you know of my son?”
“Umm, very little apart from… well…” She lowered her voice. “Lady Eleonore, the Comte’s former ward, speaks most kindly of him.”
“Eleonore! You know of her?”
“Yes, I met her at the Duke of Blackmoor’s, though, her return into society has not yet been announced. She is still a secret, you understand… but as I am the Duchess’s cousin, I am privy to the family circle.”
“Oh,” murmured Lady Hayford, “how very interesting. I did not know that. And you, my dear, are married to Angus Westland. Well, well. What an intricate web you have found yourself in.”
Sylvie half laughed, “You make it sound quite dangerous… an intricate web.”
“Only if the spider chooses to toy with you, my dear.” The Countess rose in a swish of silk. “Come, let us not keep him waiting.”
A little bamboozled, Sylvie found herself following in the wake of charcoal silk, sparkling diamonds and the delicate scent of jasmine, unable to form into words the myriad of questions swirling in her head.
* * *
“Louis, darling,” purred Lady Hayford as the Comte de Roche stood to receive them in the drawing room.
Louis knew his mother took in his attire at once, though it took Lady Westland several moments longer before her eyes widened.
Bowing, with a shadow of a smile, he was wholly satisfied.
His fine wool coat and trousers were the exact shade of charcoal as his mother’s dress, the crisp white of his cravat set with a large diamond pin, and his waistcoat — ice blue silk, intricately detailed with pearls and silver thread.
“Aperitif?” he offered smoothly.
“Your waistcoat, my lord,” said Sylvie, “appears to be a perfect companion to the gown I am wearing.”
Delighted by such entertainments, he looked down as though noticing for the first time, enjoying the game of drawing out the mettle of one’s plaything.
“An error on my part, I assure you, my lady. I fear I paid little mind to what my valet had laid out. Forgive me if I’ve offended. I will change it immediately.”
“Gosh, no. Please don’t on my account. I wasn’t offended; it was merely an observation.”
“Well, if you insist,” he murmured. “Come, tell me… have you ever been to Paris? Such an intoxicating city… and the entertainments…oh là là.”
Leading Sylvie to a seat, he returned the questioning look his mother shot him with a roguish smile. “Madeline, dearest, do come and join us. Will you partake in a sherry?”
“No,” she purred, “if we are to entertain Lady Westland with tales of France, then we ought to have my champagne concoction.”
“Tsk, of course,” Louis said with a flourish of his hand and a nod to the butler. “Inspirational.”
“Champagne concoction?” Sylvie echoed.
“Hm, a delight to behold, a sensation for the tongue,” he replied as the butler reappeared with bottles chilling in an ice bucket, as Louis sauntered over to the drinks table.
“Observe… first, a sugar cube,” dropping one in each glass.
“Next, a generous splash of the finest cognac, like so… a sliver of fresh orange peel… and…” Pop!
“… champagne,” pouring with effortless elegance, he filled each glass. “Voila.”
Walking over, he handed Sylvie her drink as the butler followed with the other two glasses on a tray.
“Well then,” said Louis with a broad smile as he held up his glass, “as they say in Angleterre… bottoms up, ladies.”
“Louis, really!” chided Lady Hayford, though Sylvie couldn’t help a giggle.
“It is true, Madeline dear. It is commonly said.”
“Certainly not in any establishment with which Lady Westland or I are acquainted.”
He shrugged, mischief glinting in his startlingly beautiful eyes. “Mm, possibly not… then let me rephrase… à votre santé, Madame, Mama.”
“Mmm,” murmured Sylvie, taking her first sip. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips puckered. “How delicious! I have never had champagne served in this way before.”
“No? Perhaps it is more fashionable in French circles, though I am sure it will catch on here soon enough.”
“I jolly well hope so,” said Sylvie, giving her host and hostess a radiant smile.
“I must remember the recipe. Your home is so beautiful. Can you see the ocean from here? I imagine the view is quite breathtaking. I could hear the waves from my rooms, though it was too dark to see. And thank you once again for extending your hospitality. I am very grateful.” She laughed nervously, realising she was twittering, and took another long sip of the delightful drink.
“Our elevation affords us panoramic views, and your rooms, Lady Westland, overlook the cove… reputed to be a haunt of smugglers, though I am yet to sample their spoils.”
“Don’t tease, Louis, you will give our guest nightmares,” reproached Lady Hayford.
“Oh, on the contrary, Lady Hayford,” said Sylvie, her eyes bright. “I think it sounds rather exciting… and awfully romantic.”
“Oh, do call me Madeline, dear, we are an intimate party of three and have no need for such pomp and ceremony at a family dinner. And we shall call you Sylvie. Lady Westland is such a mouthful, unless you have any objections? I find the use of one’s given name far more friendly.
Titles can be so inhibiting to easy conversation. Do you not agree?”
“Indeed, and if truth be told, I still find myself awaiting a response from the Lady Westland before I realise it is I who is being addressed.”
“In that case, Syyylvie,” drawled Louis, flashing his mother a glance, “shall we be decadent and treat ourselves to another of Madeline’s favourite concoctions?
It would be a sin to waste such a fine French grape.
Mayhap you will allow me to guide you in the making…
so you may reproduce the delight for your friends… and husband?”
Already holding an empty glass, Sylvie rose a touch more eagerly than a Marchioness ought. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful. Thank you, Comte.”
“Mm.” Still standing, he inclined his head in acceptance, the faintest smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea what a pleasure it will be to pass on such a recipe… for your friends to enjoy. Though I must insist… you call me Louis.”
Her returning smile was so innocent, so na?ve, so trusting, he momentarily paused. What a curious sensation, to feel, even fleetingly, the effect one’s actions might have on another. Life truly was intoxicating, producing such titillations.
“Come, then,” he said, his tone softening. “We shall make an expert of you in no time. And while we do, you must tell me how you and Lord Westland met. I have a weakness for a romantic story. I’ve even been known to read a novel or two.”