Love Lessons at Midnight (12 page)

“I…I did not know anything such as that was possible…I think we have imagined ourselves…together. You understand, yes?”

“Yes,” he whispered in French, feeling completely at peace.

Finally he stirred, rolling onto his back and pulling her to his side, where she nestled contentedly. He played with a lock of her hair, then said, “It seems so natural to speak of
what we do…to talk afterward, without feeling embarrassed or awkward.”

She felt the same…as Gabrielle. But what of Fantasia? And what of Amber, whom he would never know at all? “For as long as you are with me, I am happy when we make love and when we talk,” she finally managed, leaving unspoken their parting. Enough had already been said on that subject.

Rob did not want to dwell on the disturbing thought, either, or on why never coming to the House of Dreams again made him feel desolate. He must focus on the future, on his duty to the Barrington title. “I require some advice, Gaby,” he began hesitantly.

She could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “If I can help, my heart, only ask.”

“A woman of your class, would it matter that…that you were raised in France—instead of England, I mean? No, that isn’t what I mean…ah, bloody he—” He stopped himself, then apologized for his atrocious language. “I’m making a muddle of this,” he added, frustrated. “Do you think an English lady of rank would be able to talk in bed the way we do?”

Gabrielle swallowed her tears. “You mean the lady you will one day marry, the one for whom you came to this place?” She was proud of the steadiness of her voice.

“I suppose so,” he said with a sigh, tracing small circles on her shoulder, absently. “But the problem is, I can’t imagine what I shall say to her…”

“You mean in the dark, after you make love?” she prompted when his voice faded away.

“I cannot imagine this naturalness, her willing ear, exchanging confidences. Would any lady want this, Gaby? Am I asking too much?”

She tried for one of Jeni’s shrugs, knew she failed miserably. “I think some ladies would grow accustomed in marriage to talking after making love…with a lover such as
you for a husband. Think of all the wonderful things you have to tell her—your work in Parliament to help poor children, to reform the prisons, to—”

“She has no interest in politics or reform,” he said flatly. “We discuss the weather, tea blending, the newest fashions. She tells me the latest gossip about Prinny and Alvanley. Once those topics have been exhausted, we seem to have little to say to each other.”

“She has no interest in your work, then?”

“None that I have discerned, which is probably for the best since her father is a rabid Tory who detests any whiff of change. She does have a little boy from her first marriage.”

“She is a good mother, yes?”

“In a titled English mother’s sort of way, I suppose she is. The boy’s nursemaid spends more time with him than his mother does.”

“You were not raised in this manner?” she asked.

“No. My father was a second son, a priest in a country parish. The Barrington title and all its social obligations fell to his elder brother and his sons. They grew up with nursemaids and tutors. My sisters and I were in our mother’s charge. We ate our meals with our parents and took our lessons in Papa’s study. It was a simple life of religious devotion and family pleasure. What of your childhood, Gaby—before Napoleon, I mean? I’m sorry if I brought back sad memories. You do not have to answer,” he quickly added.

“No, it is all right.” Having no happy moments from her own childhood, she borrowed from Jenette, who often spoke of growing up in the French countryside. “My parents sound much like yours, although my father did inherit the family title. Oh, to be sure, we were not religious, but we were loving and happy, my brothers and my sister and I. They are all gone now…”

He rubbed her arm and pressed a kiss on her temple. “Gaby, I am so sorry if I have made you sad.”

“No, you have not made me sad. There are many good things locked in my heart that I shall treasure forever.”

He smiled in the dark. “Those were my mother’s words after my father died of a fever. Then we lost his brother and my cousins to cholera three years ago…Edward and Kenneth spent summers with us when we were boys…”

“You, too, have lost much, Rob. Your mother, does she still live?”

“Yes, with my eldest sister and her family. I will visit them as soon as Parliament is out of session.”

“Would your mother approve of this lady you will marry?” The moment she asked, she wished to take back the most inappropriate question.

Rob considered his reply. “I honestly do not know. She understands that inheriting the title has changed my life, and not all for the better,” he added darkly.

“I had no right to ask such a thing. Please forgive me.”

He chuckled softly. “Ah, Gaby, there is nothing to forgive. My lot in life is scarce a burden. When I think of my cousins dying so young…and the starving children on the streets of London…” He sighed.

“You try to make it better for them, do you not? I have heard Lady Fantasia say that you rescue children and take them to your country estate.”

“Your mentor has rescued more than her share of people in need, men, women, and children. I am grateful that she found you, my little Gaby.”

“Mrs. Winston taught Lady Fantasia to help others, and I was saved.”

“Lady Fantasia is a most remarkable woman.”

“Why do you say that, my heart?” What would he say about her? No, he did not know
her.
He only knew about a mysterious woman who operated a house of fantasy. Not Amber. Never Amber.

“The Lady Fantasia is brilliantly educated, possesses a
razor-keen wit, and…” He started to say she was beautiful, not the wisest thing when lying in bed with a woman to whom he had just made love.

“And?” she prompted, unable to resist.

“She is kind.” An inadequate reply, but the only one he could think to use.

Kind! Such a bland word. What did it mean? He probably had as little idea as did she. Gabrielle would never know what he truly felt for her. If he was unwilling to speak of his feelings for Fantasia, what could he say about his “tutor“? He could not stay with either of them, even if he had wished it, for they did not really exist…and he was duty-bound to wed a proper lady.

She felt the tears thicken her throat and forced them back. Rolling up, she pressed her palms against his chest and began kissing him. “We have done enough talking with words. Now it is time for our bodies to speak once more.”

Alan Cresswel slumped in the corner of the Hare and Hound waiting for Hull. It had been two weeks since the fool had initiated the disaster at King Street. Two of the ruffians who escaped after their leader was killed had beaten Hull and, if not for the timely intervention of a charley, would have killed him. Cresswel felt it served the chawbacon right. Only someone with apartments to let would have hired a pack of petty thieves from Seven Dials to kidnap a well-guarded woman.

He peered through the smoky gloom toward the front door, cursing beneath his breath when a sharp pain in his side reminded him of the long ugly gash from the bitch’s pistol. Now he had an account to settle with her himself. Where the hell was that clodpole?

At length, Hull sauntered into the pub, leering at the barmaids, who all gave him a wide berth. He spied Cresswel
and headed in his direction, barking out an order for a pint of ale as he approached.

“Ye’re late, gov’. I got me better things to do ’n wait on ya,” the runner said, still rubbing his aching side. “Now, where’s the blunt? Spend it all in Seven Dials?”

Hull could see the smirk through the haze. He straightened up and pounded the table just as the barmaid set his pint down. “I waited for you while you lay abed with a bullet in your side. Shot by a woman,” he added spitefully.

“Shut yer trap!” Cresswel snarled. “You got that purse ’er not?”

Hull tossed a small pouch across the table. “Because you botched the job, I was forced to hire others.”

Counting the coins, Cresswel looked up and flashed a nasty grin. “They didn’ do so good, did they, now? Heard you was rescued by a charley from Harbie ’n Fish. Mean enough boys, just not smart.” He leaned over the table. “Now, ’ere’s wot I got planned…soon’s me side ’eals up…”

Hull chuckled malevolently. “You want to run the bitch to ground because she shot you. Once you do it, just don’t get any ideas about damaging the merchandise. Leave that for the marquess.”

A
re you certain you do not wish to turn back? We do not have to go through with this,” Sir Burleigh said to Amber as they stood in the doorway to the Chitchesters’ ballroom, waiting to be announced. He glanced back to the cochere where three guards in her employ watched warily as their carriage started to pull away. The former soldiers would wait just outside in the unlikely event of trouble. “I cannot believe I allowed Gracie to convince me to follow through with my foolish whim. ′Tis too dangerous.”

Amber smiled at the kindly older man. A bit above middle height, the baronet was as strong as an oak. He had a sun-darkened face marked by time and the elements, but nothing could dim the brightness of his keen blue eyes, framed by bushy white eyebrows. His thatch of unruly white hair was unfashionably long, clubbed back in a queue. Seeing the worried frown creasing his brow above his mask, she patted his arm in reassurance. “ ′Tis not a foolish whim, but a marvelous idea. We are well protected. I shall enjoy a taste of the season I never had and we both will laugh behind their backs,” she whispered.

An impressive-looking footman pounded his staff on the polished marble floor and intoned, “Sir Burleigh Chipperfield of Hertfordshire and the Honorable Miss Livingston.”

“Miss Livingston of nowhere,” Amber whispered as they climbed the stairs into the glittering press of people to take their place in the duke and duchess’s receiving line. She had made up the name based on her detestable childhood nursemaid, Henrietta Livingston, long gone to what Amber
hoped was a suitable reward in the next life. Peering through her feathered and jeweled mask, she could see the puzzled looks on the revelers’ faces. A buzz of whispers filled the air. What was that odd country baronet doing at such a prestigious ball—squiring a mysterious woman young enough to be his daughter?

“The chap in the silver satin whose face is turning from red to puce is my cousin Elberd, soon to join the Chitchester clan,” Burleigh said to her.

“Only if no one learns of our little joke at their expense. Not even to find a husband for that harridan granddaughter would the duke and duchess endure such an affront,” she murmured with a chuckle.

“Do look at the woman. Medusa, indeed,” he murmured, nodding a greeting at his angry cousin.

“I understand she has a disposition to match her looks,” Amber said.

Burleigh could see the surprise and chagrin on Elberd’s face. Arrogant fool never believed his cousin would have the gall to accept the invitation, mixing with the diamond squad. Barely able to make himself heard over the music and babble of voices surrounding them, he muttered in her ear, “Heavens have mercy, staring overlong at that woman might just turn a man to stone.”

The Chitchesters’ eldest granddaughter wore her kinky tan hair twisted into long locks. “When she frowns and turns to scold your poor cousin, her hair swings about her shoulders as if it were indeed live snakes,” Amber said.

Chitchester shuddered when “Medusa” stamped her foot in pique, causing his cousin to jump backward. “He is a prig and a mushroom, but still I pity the man,” he said as they moved forward in the line.

Eventually they were presented to their host and hostess, who had so many guests that they merely nodded perfunctorily while Burleigh and his lady made their bow and curtsy,
then moved on as the next in a seemingly endless line stepped forward. Once away from their hosts, Amber looked around the room, which was quite impressive. A dozen huge chandeliers dripping with crystal glowed brilliantly with the light cast by hundreds of candles.

At the far end of the vast space, two dozen musicians plied their art on a white satin dais decorated with pink bows. All around the pink marble floor, six-foot-high urns overflowed with flowers in a profusion of colors. Servants carrying heavy trays laden with delicacies, wines, and stronger spirits wended their way through the press of chattering guests.

“I vow I have not seen so much satin and jewelry since Prinny wed Caroline of Brunswick,” Burleigh said. “The glitter fair blinds me.”

“You attended the royal wedding?” Amber asked.

The old man grimaced. “Much against my will. My mother was still alive then and forced me to escort her to London for it. How she obtained the invitation, I have no idea.”

Amber laughed, imagining how he must have detested the ordeal. “Everyone is grandly tricked out,” she said as a lady wearing more plumage than a tropical parrot trailed past them.

“Bedizened, I believe is the word Gracie would use.”

She agreed that most of the guests were dressed in frightfully bad taste. Men with embroidered satin waistcoats stretching painfully over their large paunches bowed to women whose turbaned heads would have put an Ottoman pasha to the blush. Ruffles, bows, pleats, and plumage accented by endless yards of lace had replaced the simple, elegance of ladies gowns from the preceding decade. Fashionable or not, Amber detested the latest fashion. Smoothing her gloved hand over her unadorned skirt, she inventoried the guests sporting jewels of every hue—dazzling blood rubies, ocean-blue sapphires, forest-green emeralds—and all around
the room, the white brilliance of diamonds. Even the masks were encrusted with precious stones.

Amber’s gaze swept across the sea of humanity to the area reserved for young ladies in the marriage mart. With wide eyes and sparkling cheeks, the girls were soaking up their first season under the watchful eyes of predatory mamas. She had been cheated of that opportunity. Would she have been so excited? Was she ever so naive?

Best not to dwell upon the past.
As they made their way to the area where many couples were waltzing, she asked Burleigh, “Are you prepared to put Grace’s lessons to the test?”

I fear I shall tromp your feet,” he said dubiously now that the moment was at hand.

“I shall risk it. Will you favor me with this dance, sir?” Amber asked gaily.

“If I can draw breath enough to keep from choking. Lud, I’ve mucked out many a stable that smelled better than this,” he muttered.

The warm evening and tight press of the crowd created a suffocating combination of perfumes, hair oils, and snuff, blended with the distinct odor of unwashed, perspiring flesh. “Not every gentleman has adopted Brummel’s enthusiasm for daily bathing—or his fashion sense,” she replied, wrinkling her nose and laughing. This was an adventure that allowed her to escape thinking about Rob, or Eastham. She was not certain which of them caused her the most distress, one who would leave her, one who had found her.

Burleigh took her very carefully in his arms when they reached the dancing area and they whirled around to the lilt of the music. If she had been one of those young women having their first season, would someone as handsome as Rob have asked her to dance? No, there was no man as handsome as the earl, and when she was seventeen he was a poor seminarian, already wed to a spoiled girl. She shook off the sad thought and gave herself over to enjoying the music.
“Grace would make a splendid caper merchant,” she said to Burleigh. “She has taught you well.”

“She was more exacting than a drill instructor in the army. I’m accounted to have fair skill at country dance, but this waltzing is quite another matter,” he averred, counting his steps carefully in time with the music.

As his confidence grew, they laughed and enjoyed the waltz, unaware of the couple discussing them from across the room. “Everyone is wondering who she can be,” Lady Oberly whispered to Rob from behind her fan. Then, glancing at her father to be certain he could not overhear, she added, “Lady Richardson said she might be a Cyprian! Can you credit that?”

Rob watched the old man and the striking young woman. She was small and slender, her heavy butter-yellow hair pinned up in a simple pile of curls that trailed over one shoulder. Unlike most of the ladies’ busy attire, her gown was severely cut without any trim or ruffles. The soft spring-green silk fell from a high waistline to the floor. Her only adornments were the emeralds, a teardrop necklace, and earrings.

“She scarce looks like a Cyprian,” he whispered back.

“And how would you know about such females?” she asked a bit waspishly, tapping his arm with her fan.

Rob smiled wryly, aware of the unintended irony. “I merely meant the way I would imagine such a creature might look,” he assured her. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about the way the woman moved so gracefully around the floor. Her partner was stiff and overly careful of his steps, but it was obvious that the lady had been born to dance. “Perhaps I shall ask her to favor me with a waltz and find out if the rumor is true,” he said with a grin.

The baroness’s breath caught. “Oh, you would not dare!” Her expression had turned from the gleam of gossip to genuine distress now.

“No, I was but making a jest. Please forgive me for oversetting
you.” He was finding that Verity Chivins possessed less sense of humor than a turnip.

After a few more desultory exchanges about the ladies’ gowns, the heat, and speculation about whether Prinny would favor the Chitchesters with his presence, several of her father’s Tory friends joined them. The baroness excused herself for a trip to the ladies’ retiring room, obviously as bored with her father and his cronies as was Rob.

The usual arguments about taking harsher measures against the Luddites and keeping the lower classes in their place droned on. Rob made no comment, but instead found his attention drawn to the glow of pale green silk. The blonde stood across the floor, surrounded by several young gentlemen vying for a dance while her escort beamed approval. She accepted an invitation from one thin toff in a yellow satin jacket that clashed distressingly with his sallow complexion.

As they whirled around the floor, Rob again felt that frisson of recognition. Then he realized that she looked and dressed much the same as Fantasia. The hair was wrong, but…No, surely he was mistaken. Then she changed partners, laughing and bantering with her admirers. After observing her exchange bon mots with several more toffs, he knew he was not mistaken. The delicious joke almost made him laugh aloud. If only the proper ladies gossiping around the room knew how truly they had struck the mark!

His amused reverie was broken when the baroness returned. She took hold of his arm, smiling guilelessly up at him. If she was distressed to catch him watching the “Cyprian,” she hid it well. “I fear Papa feels quite overcome by the heat. We must leave, Lord Barrington. It has been quite delightful dancing with you,” she added demurely.

As was proper, he had escorted her out for one dance, not daring a second, which would have given notice that he was courting her. Two months ago he would have done it. Now
he held back. “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Oberly,” he said, giving her gloved hand a chaste salute. “I am sorry your father is not feeling quite the thing. A pity you must depart so early.”

In fact, the earl was relieved. When she and her father were announced, he realized that he was obligated to socialize with them. His only reason for attending the ball had been to discuss a key political matter with several members of Lords. He never intended to stay after he spoke with them.

The baroness sighed. “I do so miss dancing…” she hinted broadly. When he merely smiled and made no comment, she nodded graciously, saying, “Perhaps another time?”

“I shall look forward to it,” he replied evasively.

As Amber waltzed with Sir Toby, she caught sight of the earl kissing a lady’s hand. Although her back was turned, Amber was certain the voluptuous little blonde in the turban was his baroness. Rob’s simple black mask could not conceal his identity, not with that slightly overlong dark hair waving around his hawkishly handsome face. In his plain black jacket and breeches, he looked like a sleek panther set loose in a roomful of peacocks. The white cravat at his neck emphasized his swarthy complexion, and the very severity of his wardrobe showed his tall, slim body to excellent advantage. Even his waistcoat of dark green brocade was an understatement amid the multicolored florals and purple and puce satins favored by most of the ton’s “tulips.”

What was he doing at a frivolous event such as this? When she agreed to Grace’s plan, it never occurred to her that Barrington might be here, or that his baroness would be stalking him. So much for an evening to take her mind away from him! Surely he would not recognize her. No, she quickly dismissed that possibility. Masked and wearing a wig, not even her own mother would have known her. She
focused on what her dance partner was saying, trying not to look at Rob again.

Across the room, the baroness’s father harrumphed loudly and said, “I feel light-headed, m’dear. We must be off. Barrington.” The old viscount bowed bruskly in farewell to Rob, then turned away. His daughter was swept along as he stalked toward the entry.

Rob forced himself not to look toward the dancers, but instead watched Verity Chivins. Her gown of pale rose was the latest fashion, with ruffles at the hem and around the neckline. She wore a turban with several matching rose feathers on it. Her taste was perfectly suitable for the occasion, but he had noted that since her coming out of mourning, her wardrobe was fussier and less appealing.

Why am I now so critical of a woman I had every intention of marrying?
He knew the answer.

As soon as she and her father were gone, he felt the pull of Fantasia and turned to the ballroom floor once more. She danced a far more sedate quadrille with yet another “pink” while her escort looked on. Was he a patron of her establishment? A relative, perhaps her father? No, Rob dismissed that idea. What male relation ranking high enough to receive an invitation to this event would countenance a daughter in her profession?

Whatever was going on, he felt irresistibly pulled to find out, even though he knew there would be consequences when the gossip reached the baroness. His step never faltered. Was he mad? When the music ended and she made her curtsy to her partner, Rob reached her side. Her back was to him, but she must have sensed his presence.

Amber turned abruptly and looked into green eyes that glowed merrily from behind his mask. How could he possibly have recognized her? Then another even more distressing question flashed into her mind—had he recognized Gaby?
With a calm she was far from feeling, she asked, “Have we met, sir?”