Susan Johnson (48 page)

“Run along now if you’re going to go,” Empress said, swiftly interrupting before Guy could mention Max and the fact that carriage rides were his favorite diversion. Flustered,
she quickly turned to Trey and said, “I’ll help them get ready … you know, coats and things,” she added hastily, and shooed them out of the room.

A vague suspicion stirred at Empress’s sudden acquiescence and restless agitation, but Trey shrugged away his mild unease, content that the children were coming.

Ten steps down the hallway, Empress caught Guy by the arm and, pulling him to a stop, hissed, “You are
not
to mention Max!” She swung her glance to Genevieve, who had stopped at Guy’s muffled yelp of pain as Empress’s fingers bit into his arm. “Don’t argue, just do it. And tell Emilie. I’ll explain later.”

They stared at her, startled at the vehemence in her voice, stupefied at the curious command, but her voice shook as it had when she’d demanded they not mention Trey months ago, and both children knew better than to argue. “Eduard might—” Guy began, but Empress shook her head.

“Whatever he says won’t be clear, but for heaven’s sake, ignore it if he says something about Max.”

“Don’t worry, Pressy, if you don’t want us to, we won’t,” Guy replied quickly, intent on protecting her and Max if she felt it was necessary. But while his loyalties were with his sister, he longed with a young boy’s hero worship for Trey to stay. He idolized the lounging man in rumpled evening clothes lying on his breakfast-room floor, and he hoped that whatever had gone awry between the two adults wouldn’t compromise
his
friendship with Trey. “I’ll tell Emilie,” he said, trying to pacify. “Don’t worry, Pressy, no one will mention Max.”

“You understand now, Genevieve?” Empress asked tersely.

Her deep blue eyes as large as saucers, not understanding in the least about Max or why Empress always snapped at Trey’s name and presence, she silently nodded her assent.

“Hurry, then, and put on your coats.”

She leaned against the wall as they raced away and shut her eyes. This wasn’t going to work, she thought fearfully. Somehow Max’s name would inadvertently slip out.… How could you expect young children to hold their tongues? Lord, what was she going to do? Yesterday she thought Trey was gone out of her life, that she had sufficiently discouraged him.
She should have remembered how assertive he was, how he did as he pleased, how Trey Braddock-Black set his own rules.

Nervously smoothing her hair, she checked to see that her gown was all rebuttoned after nursing Max and, squaring her shoulders, went to face the man who could ruin her life, who almost had. She stepped back into the sunny room to find Trey still comfortably sprawled on the floor. How like him, she thought heatedly—not a care in the world. Not concerned that he had a son upstairs, not concerned that he was disrupting her life, making chaos out of the new existence she’d carefully rebuilt, totally unconcerned that most people considered it rude to call at this ungodly hour of the morning.

“I won’t have you buying diamonds for Emilie,” Empress said curtly, in lieu of telling him what she really felt—that he irritated her and, more disquieting, left her strangely restless. “And”—her arms swept in the direction of the presents scattered on the floor—“all this.”

Trey’s dark-lashed eyelids lifted negligently, the only movement in his lounging form. He knew that tone in a woman. “Why not? I’m fond of them.” His own voice was placid. It was too early to fight, or maybe he was too tired, or maybe on the issue of the children he didn’t care what she thought. Shrugging away her critical tone, he felt suddenly that he should have come to Paris earlier, for the children at least.

Momentarily nonplussed at his simple reply, she only knew it angered her—his casualness, in effect his saying, “But I want to,” leaving her in the awkward position of saying, “You can’t.”

To which, knowing him, he’d reply, “I can and I will.”

Damn his nonchalant entry into her household, she fumed heatedly, and damn the enormous influence he had on the children, she fretted, refusing to acknowledge what piqued her most was not his casual fondness for the children, nor the gifts or the early hour, but the dark circles under his eyes and the disheveled aspect of his evening clothes … as though he’d carelessly redressed. His jacket collar was turned under, his white tie hung loose, his starched shirt was partially unbuttoned, several of the jeweled studs were missing, and he
smelled headily of musk-scented ambergris,
¹²
all the rage in Paris now. Inhaled, it was thought to be both an aphrodisiac and an exhilarant, sensations Trey was sure to appreciate. As her eyes slid down his lean body she noticed for the first time the bits of glitter on the toes of his Western boots, mute evidence of his proximity to a diamont ornamented gown. Of course, his activities had been predictable from his first insolent comment about no sleep; he’d been up all night gratifying his senses … with a woman. How dare he come directly here from his … orgies. “Must you wear cowboy boots in Paris?” she said acerbically, causing a swift, upward look from Trey.

“I always wear boots or moccasins,” he replied softly, ignoring her abrupt change of subject and nettled tone, “Paris or not.” He restrained himself from adding that the state of his footwear was no concern of hers. She was bent on a fight, and he was not.

“Was she entertaining?” Empress blurted out, unable to suppress her impetuous compulsion to know, having to admit even with shadowy smudges beneath his eyes and untidy evening rig that he looked magnificent. Moving several steps closer, she archly indicated the toes of his boots.

For the first time Trey noted the silver glitter clinging to the black leather and recalled the circumstances under which he’d been bespangled with diamont.

The Duchesse de Soissons had somehow heard that Trey was in Paris—from one of the men in Empress’s salon, perhaps—and when she’d called to invite him to her soiree, he’d first politely declined, annoyed with Empress’s peremptory dismissal; more than annoyed, angered at her popularity, incensed at her array of panting suitors. He hadn’t been in the right frame of mind for Estée’s frantic press of friends.

“But
chéri
, we need your wildness,” she’d insisted in her special husky voice.

“It’s not turned on tonight,” he’d growled, brooding and moody.

“And your sweet charm,” she’d placated, sensitive to his low growl. “You can play my new Bösendorfer. I’ll have it moved into the library so you can brood alone if you please and play Liszt on Empress Eugenie’s grand piano. If so much as one person dares bother you, I’ll have their head.”

Trey laughed. “You always were the perfect hostess, Estée. I warn you, though, I’m not good company tonight.”

Having known Trey intimately, the Duchesse rather doubted anything could make him poor company, but she knew better than to argue. Estée had a wealth of friends because of her flawless tact.

He came late and attempted to wend his way quickly through the crowded rooms to the library.

The Duchesse, politely intent on the Marquis Bellemont’s recitation on the current outrages of the socialist rabble, caught sight of him and, waving discreetly, pointed toward the library.

The exquisite piano with gilded, carved legs and fourteen different wood inlays drew the eye in the muted shadows of the gaslights, like a special creature of beauty, an extravagant ornament in the dark-paneled, book-lined room. And with Estée’s usual thoughtfulness, his favorite brandy was conveniently at hand.

Standing, he ran his fingers over the keys, poured himself a drink, and then sat down to play. He knew Estée would find him later; he also knew she’d bring in a friend or so. But she’d allow him the promised time to himself. In moments he’d forgotten everything but the desperate sadness in Liszt’s minor-key poetry put to music. His long-fingered hands moved gracefully, effortlessly, playing Liszt with a constrained power, feeling the intensity of the music in the tips of his fingers, in every nerve ending, and in his very soul.

Much later he looked up, startled to see that the room had filled, and prominent near him were women, smiling, their eyes all lush invitation. Famous for his looks and wildness, all the flirtatious women hoped he’d not outgrown the wildness, and in the past he would have taken pleasure in the variety and the invitations. Since Empress, though, the keen, piquant desire was gone, only the words and nuance, the facile charm was automatic—effortless. Like a familiar exercise, mindless with practice. So tonight he smiled and flirted and entertained with his usual seductive effrontery, but he gracefully refused them all.

Sharing a last drink with Estée and her husband before he left, the young Comtesse Trevise, slender and Mediterranean with sultry eyes and olive skin, had come into the room and,
gliding across the room like some nymph of night in black tulle and diamont sparkles, sat down next to Trey and smiled up at him. Smiling back politely, he’d resumed his conversation with the Due de Soissons. A moment later she touched his arm and whispered softly into his ear.

And he’d shaken his head. But she’d leaned closer and murmured something outrageous. She was newly married, and it had excited him briefly, so he reconsidered, finished his drink, and offered her a ride home, but later, when he’d been kissing her in her boudoir and she’d been frantically ripping his shirt open, it struck him suddenly that she was too tall, that her hair was the wrong color, that he didn’t derive pleasure from the warm softness of her lips.

More than his normal diplomacy was required to disengage himself because her husband was very old and dull—and she was not. Since his carriage had been sent away because of his usual consideration for his driver’s sleep, when he capriciously changed his mind, he was without transportation. He didn’t think that the comtesse—roused, nude and angry—was in the mood to lend him her carriage, and though he soothed her as best he could, with a skill refined by practice, she was pouting when he left.

It had been extraordinarily rude of him. He’d have to send her something expensive from Chaumet. And an apology, he thought, standing on her doorstep in the cool, gray predawn.

On impulse he decided to walk over to Empress’s from the Hôtel Trevise, a short distance, since all the old titles lived in Germain. And he’d enjoyed the light of dawn in Paris, the same delicate coral as the sunrise over the Bear Mountains, and found peace in the solitude of the sleeping city. When it occurred to him as he strolled that calling at the Hôtel Jordan this early was perhaps slightly irregular, he detoured to buy gifts for the children. Dozing in a cab, he waited for the shops to open and then filled the carriage to overflowing after walking through several shops and pointing. Laden with presents, lighthearted and cheerful, he told himself he was going to see the children … it was only courteous. Empress was of no interest to him.

Since their conversation that morning hadn’t been frankly open, but rather one qualified by omission, Trey lazily replied
to Empress’s blurted inquiry, “The lady was entertaining enough to keep me up all night. How do you explain the men to the children?” he asked in the next breath, each parrying for answers, each jealous and resentful, each wishing vengeful compensation for the months of misery.

“I came back from the opera at midnight.”

“Ah—and the children were sleeping?”

“Very astute,” she said, walking to the window and looking out as though his presence were of no consequence.

So the merry widow was entertaining men late the previous night, he thought, gazing at her trim form, silhouetted against the light. Why was that such a surprise? If anyone understood her whorish ways, it was he. How could she look so fresh and innocent, like a new spring flower this morning in jonquil silk, her pale hair like a young child’s, so newly minted in its tawny gold, and yet play the courtesan with such ease each night? He felt an urgent need to place his hands around her trim, small waist, draw her back so he felt her warm against his body, and bury his face in her lilac-scented hair. He no longer deceived himself that the children were the only reason he was here, and tainted with jealousy of all the men in her life, he said in a decretory voice he’d never used with a woman before, “I won’t wait much longer.”

Twirling back, she didn’t pretend to misunderstand what he meant, and she glared at him for his arrogance, damn him and his insufferable confidence! “You can’t force me.”

He smiled. “I won’t have to.”

His assurance, his disheveled appearance, and his insouciant sensuality all galled her. But she knew that if she was honest with herself, he was right. And that galled most of all. How could he—with a lazy, smoldering look from those silvery eyes—make her weak with wanting him, make her feel exquisite quivers deep inside, when all the men courting her with such fervor didn’t cause a ripple of interest? He offered nothing but transient pleasure, then heartbreak, and she hated him. “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t come here,” Empress said, incensed with his self-confidence, angry with her own reaction.

“We’ll have to vote on it,” he said with wonderful perceptiveness. “I think I hear the children.”

Empress’s color had risen. “Damn you, Trey,” she said,
wanting to scream, wanting to slap the smugness off his face, “you can’t just walk back into their lives!”

He bestowed on her a warm, indulgent smile. “Watch me,” he said without rancor, and uncurled from the floor to a standing position in a single fluid motion.