“So,” Augustin said suddenly, his voice far too cheerful for the dour mood that pervaded the room. “What brings you here, Your Grace? Did you come to see the artist at work? She has some lovely things here, some lovely things. It’s a good thing you chose to visit now, since tomorrow, they’re all being packed away for transport to Bond Street. You know about her exhibition on Saturday, at my gallery? You’ll be there for opening day, of course, won’t you?”
“Indeed,” Jeremy said, his gaze straying toward Maggie’s face. She shook her head desperately, but he said, “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good, good,” Augustin cried. “She is going to be a smashing success, a smashing success. I wouldn’t be surprised should she be asked to exhibit at the Royal Academy this May. No, not surprised at all. Were she to win a commission from the queen herself, I would not be surprised. She is a rare one,
Marguerethe
is.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, never taking his eyes from her. “She is, isn’t she?”
Augustin suddenly became aware of the direction of the duke’s gaze, and that it was bold enough to have raised the color in his fiancee’s cheeks. Looking from Maggie’s face to Jeremy’s, he asked the duke abruptly, “You
did
come here to see
Marguerethe’s
paintings, did you not, Your Grace?”
Maggie’s heart flew into her throat when she saw Jeremy’s expression. It was one of almost devilish delight. Oh, God, she thought, panicking. He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell! She wanted Augustin to know the truth, but not this way!
“Actually,” Jeremy began, “I came to see—”
Jeremy was cut off mid-sentence, however, by Berangère, who leapt up from the divan and declared, quite loudly, “His Grace came to see
me
.”
When all eyes, including Jeremy’s, had turned upon her incredulously, she cried, with a laugh, “La, why do you look so surprised?” She tossed her head so that her many golden ringlets bounced becomingly, then stepped to Jeremy’s side and grabbed hold of his arm with both hands. Berangère was petite enough to look doll-like beside the tall, athletically built duke—not unlike, Maggie realized, feeling something very like a knife blade slipping into her heart, how the Princess Usha would have looked beside him. “He is taking me to dinner. Dukes eat, too, you know, just like the rest of us.”
Augustin beamed, clearly pleased by this turn of events. “What a coincidence,” he cried.
“Marguerethe
and I are going to dinner, as well.” At Maggie’s sharp glance, he looked a trifle hurt. “You remember, surely,
Marguerethe
? We promised to dine with Lord and Lady Mitchell tonight. And I think,
chérie,
that if we are to be on time, you must
go home now to change. My chaise is downstairs. Are you ready to go?”
P Maggie, feeling the beginnings of a sharp headache behind her right eye, replied, “Yes, of course, Augustin.” She was careful not to meet Jeremy’s gaze. “Only let me get my wrap—”
Please, Maggie found herself praying. Please don’t let him say anything to Augustin. Please, don’t let him say anything like ‘
I’ll see you back home, then, won’t I, Maggie?’
I’ve got to tell Augustin my own way, in my own time.
“Well,” Jeremy said, straightening enough to let them pass. “Good night, then.”
“Bon soir
,” Augustin said and, steering Maggie by the elbow, he guided her out into the hall.
“Good night,” she said, so softly that she doubted Jeremy heard her.
They were nearly to the stairs, and Maggie was thinking that they were perfectly safe, when Jeremy’s voice rang out down the hall.
“Oh, and Mags,” he called.
She froze, one hand on the rickety balustrade, her foot poised and ready to sink down onto the first step.
“I’ll see you back home, then, won’t I?”
“You are going about this all wrong,” Berangère observed, as she peeled and ate yet another shrimp.
Across the table, Jeremy sat slumped with his chin in his hand, an elbow by the bowl into which Berangère was tossing the shells from the shrimp she was devouring with an appetite he envied. He himself had not managed, during the course of their dinner, to get more than a couple of whiskies down his gullet. But Berangère had managed to put away a dozen oysters, a tin of caviar, and a meringue. This was their second bowl of shrimp.
“I’m certainly going about
something
wrong,” Jeremy agreed bitterly. “I’m sitting in a restaurant I can’t abide with a woman I don’t even know. I spent a fortune on ballet tickets I didn’t use, while the woman I love is off God knows where with a man who is trying to kill me. Yes, I definitely get the impression I’m doing something wrong.”
Berangère chewed elegantly, swallowed, and reached for her champagne flute. “It was a shame you had to waste the tickets,” she said, after she’d drained her glass. “After you’d gone to the trouble of procuring them. That particular ballet has been sold out for weeks. However did you manage to get tickets to it?”
Jeremy shrugged carelessly. “Paid a fortune to some bloke on the street.”
Berangère, watching him, suddenly burst out good-naturedly,
“Imbécile.”
Jeremy blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Why did you spend a fortune on tickets to the ballet, when
Marguerethe
does not even care for the ballet?”
“She doesn’t?” Jeremy looked skeptical. “I thought all women loved the ballet.”
“
Bête
,” Berangère accused him. She reached for another shrimp. “Not
Marguerethe
. She says the sight of all those tiny women standing on their toes makes her feel clumsy as an elephant.” Slipping her fingers beneath the hard shell, she neatly peeled away the seasoned flesh. “Myself, I have always loved the
pompe
of the ballet. I would have been a very great ballerina, I think. I am very small, and I have very niece feet.” She glanced at him flirtatiously. “Would you like to look at my feet,
Jerry
?”
Jeremy blinked at her. Berangère Jacquard was a beautiful woman—more strictly beautiful than Maggie, with her golden hair, porcelain skin, heartbreakingly blue eyes, and pink cupid’s-bow mouth, though not as beautiful as Usha—but then, what woman was? Dainty as a child, Berangère had a figure, he’d realized belatedly, when she’d emerged from her boudoir in evening dress, after insisting that they stop at her flat so that she could change before dinner, that was anything but childish: small but pert breasts, a reed-slim waist, and an extremely fetching backside, emphasized by an insouciant bustle of silk roses. Under any other circumstances, Jeremy would have jumped at an invitation to look at the feet of a woman like Berangère Jacquard.
Under the present circumstances, however, he’d have as soon accepted an invitation to look at her feet as he would an invitation to another ballet.
Berangère wasn’t the least offended by his disinterest. In fact, it seemed to delight her.
“Ah,” she said, popping the shrimp she’d peeled so arduously into her mouth. “I approve.”
He looked at her miserably. The orchestra had launched into a polka, and on the stage, the dancing girls kicked up their heels and shook out their skirts, showing anyone who cared to look their black velvet garters.
Something, either the whisky, the noise, or the fact that Maggie was somewhere in London with another man, was giving Jeremy a headache.
“What did you say?” he asked Berangère.
“I approve of you,” Berangère said. “For
Marguerethe
.”
Jeremy laughed bitterly. “It’s all well and good for
you
to approve of me, Miss Jacquard. The problem is,
Maggie
doesn’t approve of me.”
“That is not the problem, Jerry.”
Jeremy snorted. “No. The frog-eater’s the problem.”
Berangère frowned at him disapprovingly. “The problem is not Augustin, either.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the problem is Usha.”
“No. The problem is
Marguerethe.”
“Maggie?” He looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”
It was Berangère’s turn to roll her eyes. “
Mon Dieu! Think
a little, Jerry.”
“Thinking is not my strong suit,” Jeremy told her frankly. “I’m much better at tearing things up with my hands.”
Berangère glanced down at those large brown hands as they curled around his whisky glass. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Yes,” she said. “I can see that. However, we are talking about a love affair right now, not some sort of rebel uprising that needs to be subdued. This wooing of
Marguerethe
… it needs
finesse
, not fists.”
Jeremy stared at her. “Why,” he demanded suspiciously, “would
you
want to help
me
win over Maggie?”
Berangère seemed taken aback by the question. “Why, because
Marguerethe
is my friend,” she said indignantly.
“Is she?” Jeremy looked skeptical. “You don’t even call her by her real name.”
“
Non
,” Berangère said confidently.
“You
do not call her by her real name.
Marguerethe
is her real name, not this ugly sound you make, this Mag-gie.” Berangère shuddered. “Ugh! I have never understood how you English can take a perfectly good name and ruin it beyond—”
“All right.” Jeremy cut her off before she could launch into another lecture about the superiority of the French culture over the English. He’d already received several such lectures during the course of the evening. “All right. So Maggie’s your friend.”
“And I want my friends to be happy,” Berangère said with a graceful shrug. “Especially
Marguerethe.
She is truly the sweetest, most genuine girl I have ever met.” Berangère stabbed irritably at the shrimp on her plate. “She has been
most
abominably used by her dreadful family. I have walked into that studio and found her weeping—
weeping
!—at her easel, over the foul way her father and those sisters—bah!—have deserted her, just when she should be happiest, when she is being celebrated for her talent!” Berangère raised her eyes and pierced Jeremy with the intensity of her gaze. “I would like to see
Marguerethe
happy, if I can,” she said. “And if, in order for her to be happy, she must have you, then I will do all that I can to see that she has you … even if it means I must plot against
Marguerethe
herself to make that happen.”
Jeremy found himself blinking at the Frenchwoman once again. In the vehemence with which she expressed herself, she reminded him a little of his aunt … only Pegeen, he knew very well, had never offered to show her feet to anyone in a restaurant.
“All right,” he said. “What do you suggest?”
Berangère’s first suggestion was that he order another bottle of champagne; her glass was empty. Her next suggestion was that he convince Maggie’s family to accept her decision to become a professional portrait painter.
Jeremy balked at the very idea. “How am I supposed to do
that
?” he demanded.
Berangère beamed as the waiter poured more champagne into her glass. “How do
I
know?” she said, when the waiter had succeeded in his task. “You’re the duke. Cannot you order them to do it?”
“I most certainly cannot,” Jeremy replied.
Berangère looked shocked. “Then what good is it, this being a duke, if you cannot make people do what you say?”
“It isn’t any good,” Jeremy said. “That’s what I’ve been telling people half my life. The whole thing is a joke.”
“Hmm.” Berangère tapped the side of her champagne flute impatiently. “This is not good.
Marguerethe
needs her family’s approval, you see. Unlike myself,
Marguerethe
actually cares what her family thinks about her. This business of theirs of not speaking to her because she has the gall to want to paint for a living … it has been very painful for her. It is my feeling that she clings to Augustin because he was the only person who stood by her when her father issued his—how do you say? Oh, yes—ultimatum. That is why, if you were able to change their minds, she would transfer that gratitude from Augustin to you.”
“Why?” Jeremy asked.
Berangère lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “
Stupide
! Because in order for
Marguerethe
to stop feeling so indebted to Augustin, she must be made to feel indebted to someone else. Were you to give her back her family, she would realize that you had rendered her a very great service, a service that must be repaid.”
Jeremy blinked. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He didn’t know how, but by God, he’d do it. He’d do
anything,
anything at all. “Any more ideas, Miss Jacquard?” Jeremy inquired.
Berangère finished off what was left in her glass and set the crystal goblet down again.
“Oui.
You might propose to her. A girl like
Marguerethe,
I am sure, would appreciate a marriage proposal, particularly after having made love for the first time.” Berangère eyed him knowingly. “They are very old-fashioned, English girls.”
Jeremy raised a single dark eyebrow. So Maggie had revealed to this Frenchwoman that she had made love with him already? Good God. He’d had no idea women revealed these kinds of things to one another.
And hadn’t he asked Maggie to marry him that morning? After reflecting, he thought perhaps he hadn’t. It was so hard to remember. They had made love half a dozen times, and then …
No. He hadn’t asked. How rude! No wonder she was so
put out with him. He glanced at the Frenchwoman. “Done,” he said. “Now may I ask
you
something, Miss Jacquard?”
“Of course,” Berangère said, with a regal inclination of her head.
“What’s the
real
reason you’re helping me?” He eyed her interestedly. “Is it so that you’ll be able to tell everyone you know that you’re friends with the Duchess of Rawlings?”
Berangère smiled widely. “But of course!”
Jeremy smiled back at her. “I suppose,” he said, “that being a duke does have its advantages, then.”
“Oh, indeed it does,
Jerry,”
Berangère agreed gravely. “Indeed it does.”