Four hours later, she was still wondering.
Maggie’s feet, in high-heeled satin slippers, were beginning to hurt. Her cheeks were definitely sore from the smile she’d forced herself to wear throughout the evening, and her right hand ached from having been squeezed by so many eager arts enthusiasts. While on the one hand, it was very pleasant to stand there and hear how talented everyone thought her, Maggie really only cared what one person thought, and he had yet to show his face.
Was he really not coming? She had been so crushed at his sudden departure from London. Her only comfort had been the information Hill had provided, about the note from Rawlings Manor. Surely a visit to his family was called for, even necessary. But to be gone from her so long …
But he had left only the day before! What was the matter with her? She was like a lovelorn schoolgirl, mooning after her first beau. So what if he didn’t return in time for the opening of her exhibition? So what if he didn’t return at all? There would be other men, surely … .
But an inner voice had been whispering to her all night, and that inner voice said, No. There would be only one man. Only Jeremy.
It turned out she’d been wrong when she’d told herself that no one would venture from their warm hearths in order to look at a bunch of “pretty pitchers.” Her exhibition had attracted dozens—maybe even scores—of art patrons, none
of whom seemed to mind the inclement weather. A pretty hired girl took their wraps as they entered the gallery, and gave them each a numbered disc with which their cloaks could later be retrieved. But since Augustin had seen to it that champagne flowed freely, and baked oysters and mushroom tarts were passed around on silver trays, not many who entered seemed eager to leave. Less than an hour after the reception began, red velvet ribbons had been pinned to the wall beside more than half of Maggie’s uncommissioned works, indicating that they’d been sold.
But though toward eight o’clock, Maggie had shaken hands with over a hundred people, none of them the person for whom she’d been waiting. Supposing he didn’t come? The gallery closed in an hour, and then she was being whisked off somewhere for a celebratory supper with Augustin and his friends. Not that she’d be able to eat, when all she could think about was Jeremy. How was he going to react to the news that she was no longer engaged? Would he propose to her a second time? Was it presumptuous of her to think that he would? Ought
she
to propose to
him
this time? She supposed that would only be fair. After all, she’d already turned him down once … .
But was she
that
sure? Was she truly convinced that she could make him happy? What did it matter? He wasn’t coming. Something had happened. Maggie was certain something had happened. Maybe the train to Yorkshire had crashed. Or his curricle had overturned. Maybe this man, this mysterious killer who had been stalking him since his return from India, had finally managed to injure him seriously, and even now Jeremy was tossing about in some hospital bed, feverishly calling her name. Maggie, seizing a glass of champagne from a passing tray, downed it in a single gulp at the thought.
Then an even worse idea occurred to her. What if, she wondered, accepting another glass of champagne from a portly man with a monocle, who was effusively comparing her painting style to that of the Impressionists, once at Rawlings, Jeremy came to his senses, and realized that Maggie really would make a dreadful duchess? What if he was, right this very moment, reuniting with the Princess Usha, who was
too beautiful to do anything
but
act as hostess in such a gracious dwelling as Rawlirigs Manor?
Maggie finished off her second champagne. No, that wouldn’t happen. He loved
her.
She was sure of it. Five years,
five years,
he’d waited for her. Well, she could wait for him for one night. One night wouldn’t kill her.
Except …
Except that now that she was free, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell everyone. This haughty-looking woman, shaking her hand. Maggie wanted to say to her, “Thank you very much, ma’am, for admiring my paintings, and did you know that I’m in love with the seventeenth Duke of Rawlings? You didn’t? Well, it’s true.”
But with an effort, she managed to restrain herself. Even when people complimented her on the exhibition and then asked, curiously, as nearly everyone did, “And the portrait of that dark-haired young man. Who is he?”
At first Maggie had been horrified. She had specifically asked Mr. Corman to remove that painting. She caught his arm as he rushed about, drawing up sales slips and, her heart in her throat, begged him to take it down. But the young man had very gently extricated himself, plucking at her gloved fingers while saying, in a soothing voice, “But honestly, miss, it’s the best of the lot. I listed it as not for sale, but I simply couldn’t take it down. It really is a wonderful painting.”
It seemed as if Mr. Corman wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. Nearly everyone, including the art critic from
The Times,
commented upon it. And when Maggie wouldn’t tell anyone the name of the subject, the buzz about it only grew. Only the Mitchells, with whom Maggie had attended the Althorpe cotillion, recognized the portrait, much to Maggie’s chagrin.
“But isn’t that—” Lady Mitchell had gasped, and even her yawning husband had raised an eyebrow.
“I say, de Veygoux,” he drawled. “That’s the fellow who squashed your nose t’other night. What are you about, letting a portrait of him hang in your place?”
To his credit, Augustin, who had been too busy to notice
the portrait before the opening began, laughed off Lord Mitchell’s teasing. And later, during a brief lull in the stream of well-wishers, Augustin was able to take Maggie by the arm and rebuke her, good-humoredly, for never having shown him the painting before.
“Though it’s probably a good thing you didn’t,” he admitted, in French. “For one look at it, and I’d have known right away there was never any hope for me.”
Maggie, blushing profusely, tried to apologize, but Augustin shushed her.
“Nonsense,” he said. “It’s a wonderful painting. If you ever do consent to sell it, please consider allowing me the honor of purchasing it. It might be restful to look upon of an evening, when I get to feeling too full of myself.”
Maggie had been far too embarrassed to reply. It was bad enough to have all of her works on display for public perusal. She did not need to have her emotions on display, as well. But the two seemed to go hand in hand. Unlike Berangère, Maggie had never been able to keep from putting a little of herself into each painting she completed, so that her relationship with her work was highly personal. Each painting was almost like a child to her, and she could not see any one of them sold without suffering a little pang of remorse.
She was watching with regret as Mr. Corman pinned a red velvet ribbon to one of her landscapes when a familiar voice purred,
“Bon soir, princesse,”
behind her. Maggie turned her head, and smiled at Berangère, who, as usual, was looking breathtakingly elegant, this time in a low-cut evening gown of purple velvet.
“Quite a crowd your Monsieur de Veygoux has managed to draw up for you,
princesse,”
Berangère observed, from behind an ostrich-plumed fan. “And they’re buying, too! You must be pleased.”
Maggie accepted a third glass of champagne, this one offered to her by one of the hired waiters. “Oh, I’m very pleased,” she said, sipping the effervescent liquid, but hardly tasting it. “But he isn’t my Monsieur de Veygoux anymore.”
Berangère lowered the fan in what Maggie knew very well was feigned surprise.
“Non? Mon Dieu!
But how did
that come about,
princesse?
Did he find out about you and
le duc diabolique?”
“No, he did not,” Maggie said. Noticing that the Mitchells were quite close by, she took Berangère’s arm and steered her toward a less populated area of the gallery, inclining her head so that she could speak into the Frenchwoman’s shell-like ear. “You know very well what happened, Berangère. There’s no use playing the innocent with me. You deliberately seduced Augustin last night!”
Berangère didn’t even attempt to deny it. She only lifted her clear blue eyes and asked, meekly, “Are you very angry with me,
princesse?”
“I will be,” Maggie said severely, “if you hurt him.”
“Hurt him?” Berangère tossed her head so that some of her golden curls bounced.
“Pfui!
I like that! I have performed the most intimate service imaginable for you, and you have the nerve to accuse me of—”
“I mean it, Berangère,” Maggie said sternly. “Augustin is smitten with you. You must be gentle with him. He isn’t like the other men you play with. He’s sensitive.”
Berangère raised her expressive eyes to the ceiling.
“Pfui!”
she said again. “Sensitive! And what am I, I ask you?”
“Insensitive,” Maggie replied, without hesitation. “And you’re wrong. I’m very grateful to you.”
“Are you?” Berangère beamed. “I am glad,
princesse.
I knew you would not approve of my methods—you never do—but I was so tired of seeing
ma pauvre princesse
looking sad. I had to do something. And you know, I quite like your Augustin. Did you know he is red-haired
all over
?” Berangère raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and Maggie, embarrassed, let out a nervous laugh. Fortunately, Berangère quickly changed the subject. “Now, where is your Jerry? How did he take the news that you are free, eh?”
Maggie frowned. She was beginning to regret the third glass of champagne. Perhaps she ought to try a baked oyster. “He, um, doesn’t know yet.”
“Doesn’t know?” Berangère snapped her fan shut and pointed it at Maggie’s nose. “Now who is playing with
whom?
Marguerethe,
you must tell him. Now that there is no more fiance, it is time for you decide. Do you want the duke, or do you not?”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Berangère, of course I want him! Only—”
“Don’t.” Berangère held up a slim hand, palm facing outward. “Do not tell me how undeserving you are, and what a
duchesse terrible
you’d make. I am tired of hearing it.
He
thinks you would be a good duchess, and that is all that matters.”
Maggie didn’t agree with her high-spirited friend, but that was beside the point. Miserably, she looked for a place to sit down. Only every chair was occupied, as were all of the velvet-cushioned benches scattered about the gallery. “Berangère, I haven’t had a chance to tell him because I haven’t seen him. He went back to Yorkshire for some reason, and he hasn’t yet returned. And the truth is … well, I don’t know if he ever will.”
“Hasn’t yet returned?” Berangère’s slender eyebrows raised to their limit. “Ah. He must have met with some resistance, then … .”
Maggie, giving up her search for a seat, turned her head to stare down at the Frenchwoman. “Resistance?” she echoed. “What do you mean, he must have met with some resistance?”
Berangère snapped open her fan and began to wave it energetically, looking everywhere but up at Maggie. “Where is that boy with the champagne? I am parched! It is too warm in here, do you not think so?”
“Berangère,” Maggie said warningly, but she didn’t have a chance to continue, since Augustin suddenly seized her arm.
“Marguerethe,”
he cried, not even noticing Berangère in his excitement.
“Marguerethe,
he is here! He is here at last!”
Maggie’s heart seemed to roll over in her chest. She caught her breath, and slowly turned her head in the direction that Augustin was pointing. She really
had
had too much to drink. She felt the pressure of his fingers encircling her bare
arm, and was conscious that beside her, Berangère had frozen, her fan in mid-sweep, and yet for a moment, it was as if she stood alone in the room. The noisy crowd, which was thick with bustles and black coattails, fell silent all at once, and then seemed to part, as if by some unseen hand. And then a man was approaching her, a tall man, his head held high, a knowing smile on his face … .
But it wasn’t Jeremy. It was a man Maggie had seen somewhere before, but it wasn’t Jeremy. Maggie’s heart, which had stuttered, suddenly began its normal rhythm again. She exhaled and, feeling a little sick, tried to wrench her arm from Augustin’s grasp. His fingers were cutting off the blood circulation to her hand.
“Nom de Dieu,”
she heard Berangère breathe. “It is the Prince of Wales!”
Maggie glanced at the man once more, and realized that Berangère was right. It
was
the Prince of Wales. A large man, with a sizable belly swelling behind a white satin waistcoat, he was dressed as if to go to the theater, but had condescended to make a stop along his way. Hanging on to his arm was a woman Maggie also recognized, although she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the Princess of Wales. Not unless the Princess of Wales had suddenly developed an affinity for face paint and marabou feathers, both of which this woman wore in profusion.
“I
knew
he would come,” Maggie heard Augustin hiss triumphantly beside her. “I
knew
it! The queen is looking for a portrait artist to render her grandchildren.
Marguerethe,
it could only be you. In all of England, no one paints portraits as you do! Oh, this is the best day of my life. The best!”