Duel of Hearts (15 page)

T
hey were going to be fashionably late, Leah decided as she luxuriated in the steaming bath, soaking limbs still sore from so much walking. The pleasant scent of the French-milled soap clung to her and permeated the air, bringing forth the feeling of being surrounded by lilacs. She stretched her leg up to lather it again just for the lazy pleasure of it.

She'd had a wonderful time in Paris—would hate to leave, in fact. Indeed, Tony had mentioned after her father's last letter that they might extend the trip. Her father. She had to smile at the tone of his brief note—it was as though he were writing to someone else, all filled with “your ladyship” and “my lady.” But he was well, he said, and by the sound of his activities, it appeared he told the truth.

Leaning forward to rinse herself, she happened to glance in the cheval mirror beside the screen, and her body went rigid. “How long have you been here?” she demanded of her husband's reflection. “Do not come one step further, my lord,” she warned. “I am still bathing.”

“Your pardon,” he managed in a voice that sounded strange even to him. “I thought that since Blair left me to do my own shirt, perhaps you would assist.” His mouth had gone almost too dry for words at the sight of her wet body. “I'll wait for you to finish.”

“Get Jeanne,” she advised, leaning now to cover herself.

“When last I saw her, she was carrying a hatbox, complaining volubly that something was crushed. And, as Blair is gone to remove a wrinkle from my coat, I can only surmise that they are meeting somewhere over a steam kettle.”

“Blair and Jeanne? Do not be absurd.” From her cramped position, she could see that he was still watching her in the mirror, and the expression on his face sent a tremor of excitement through her. Trying to keep her own voice calm, she told him, “You'll have to leave if you expect me to get out of here.”

When he moved from view and she heard the door close, she rose to reach for a towel. Water ran in rivulets down her body as she patted her face first. Then, as she was about to slide the towel lower to dry her breasts, she saw him again.

“Of all the despicable,
despicable
, ungentlemanly, unseemly things!” she sputtered. “Get out of here, you lecher, you … you unprincipled rake!”

As she clutched the towel to the crevice between her breasts rather than above them, Tony's smile widened and the pulse in his temples beat faster. “There is nothing wrong with admiring one's wife,” he answered softly, moving closer.

“You have no right to stand there leering at me! I thought you'd left, else I'd not—”

“The door was ajar, and I closed it. Besides, I have every right, Leah.”

“Get out,” she repeated evenly despite the thudding of her heart. When he stepped forward rather than back, her own mouth went strangely dry. In desperation she cast about for a weapon. “Tony, you promised you would not—we would not—Tony, get out of here!”

“You are beautiful, Leah,” he told her softly, coming still closer.

“Tony, I thought we were friends,” she tried desperately. Her fingers closed over the wet bar of soap as she stepped back out of the tub away from him.

“I'd cry friends and more with you, love.”

“No.”

He stopped, but by now she was too apprehensive to note anything beyond her own racing heart. Whether from fear of him or herself, she raised the bar of soap and hurled it. The suddenness of her action took him by complete surprise, and before he realized she meant to do it, the wet soap had caught him squarely under the brow.

At first she gave a small crow of triumph, but then as she saw him rub his eye and wince in pain, she worried that she'd actually injured him. Grabbing her wrapper from a hook on the screen, she threw it over her wet body and came forward to examine her handiwork.

“I think you have blacked my eye,” he managed with a remarkable degree of forbearance through soap-induced tears.

“You would not leave,” she defended herself. “Here…” Picking up a wet washing cloth, she handed it to him. “I thought you meant to molest me.”

Holding the cloth over his smarting eye, he shook his head.

“Then what was your intent?” she demanded.

“I know 'tis blacked,” he muttered.

Feeling irrationally guilty, she reached to touch the lump that was forming at brow level. “Let me see.” As he lowered the cloth, she peered upward intently. “Well, it is swelling,” she admitted, “but ‘tis your own fault, Anthony Barsett. The next time I tell you to go, you'd best listen to me.”

Her black-rimmed gray eyes were but inches from his, and the clean smell of soap and water floated upward. Her hair, which had been piled high, escaped from the ribbon that held it, and loose tendrils fell about her temples and clung wetly to her neck, while droplets of water beaded on her silky skin and splotched the fabric of her wrapper. His expression changed from chagrin to deviltry to desire, the emotions crossing his face like a parade marching double-time. Time stood still as anticipation and dread mixed in her breast, leaving her mesmerized by what she saw in his eyes.

His hand, still holding the wet cloth, came up behind her head to pull the end of the ribbon, and as her hair cascaded down, the fingers of his other hand twined in it, imprisoning her. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart beat wildly as his mouth came down on hers. There was no brushing, no teasing, and nothing remotely tentative about his kiss. He dropped the cloth to the floor at their feet and slid his arm around her to mold her body to his, blotting all but the nearness of him from her consciousness. Her lips parted in feeble protest to receive instead his exploring tongue as the kiss deepened, igniting something inside her.

She clung mindlessly to him, aware now only of his masculine strength as the hand that held her cradled first her waist and then her hip. Robbed of reason by his touch, she not only let his hand explore her, she in turn clasped her arms tightly about him. And when at last his mouth left hers to trace kisses down to her throat, she arched her head instinctively to give him access to the sensitive hollow there.

Then she felt his hands leave her hair and her hip to feel for the tie at her waist. Some small voice of reason reasserted itself deep within her mind, protesting that it was wrong, that she did not love him, nor did he love her. As his fingers twined in the silken cord, she caught at them, holding them tightly.

“No!”

The vehemence of her protest startled him with its suddenness: He wanted to think that somehow she was like the others, being coy, saying no when she meant yes, and he tried to disentangle himself from the hands that held his. Yet, despite the fact that her smoky eyes were almost dark with desire and her breasts heaved as she mastered her breath, the moment had passed for her.

“We are wed,” he whispered.

“And that makes it right?” Pulling away, she retied her wrapper with her back to him. “Forgive my romantic notions, but…” she began, still mortified over her brazen response to him.

“I think I love you, Leah.”

“You think you love me—you
think
you love me?” Her temper, already strained beyond bearing, flared dangerously. “ 'Tis rich to hear you say it just that way, is it not? 'Tis what you think I would have you say, Tony Barsett!” Her chin jutted upward defiantly. “As this is my chamber, sir, I ask you to leave it.”

He exhaled heavily, trying to still the desire that fought for control of him. “Will you do my studs first so that I may finish dressing?”

“Your studs?” She stared blankly, unable to believe he could be so unaffected by what he'd done.

“ 'Tis why I came here,” he prompted, his eyes sober now. Holding out his wrists to show his unfastened shirt cuffs, he stepped closer. “I'd not meant to do anything else.”

Inadvertently her eyes strayed to where the snowy shirt fell away to expose the curling hairs on his chest, and she knew he'd spoken the truth in that at least. “I … uh …” Biting her lip to hide her nervousness, she nodded finally. “Then you will leave?”

“Yes.”

Keeping her gaze low to avoid meeting his, she reached out almost gingerly to take the studs he'd retrieved from his pocket, and awkwardly attempted to insert one of them in his cuff.

“ ‘Tis better to use two hands,” he advised.

He extended both wrists now, and she pulled the first stud holes together with one hand while maneuvering the pearl-and-silver fastening into them with the other. His palms were warm where she touched them, and once again she was struck by the masculinity of his hands— not that they were large or coarse, but rather that they appeared both clean and strong. Quickly she finished fastening both sleeves.

“I have gotten most of the front, but I have difficulty with the neck—would it be too much to ask you to do it also?”

She held out her palm with a sigh and let him drop the pearl stud into it. Her fingers worked it into place and then buttoned the top one. “You'd best hope that Blair returns to do your cravat, Tony, else I shall strangle you with it. Now, leave me be that I may dress also.”

Retreating, he passed Jeanne in the hall. “Been on the back stairs with Blair again, eh?” he teased her.

“Monsieur Blair is belowstairs with your coat, my lord,” she answered with a saucy smile. “The wrinkle was, I believe, quite a difficult one.”

It was a puzzle to him that he could charm every female of his acquaintance save the one he wanted the most. Once he was in his chamber, he poured himself a small quantity of brandy, swirled it in his glass, and stared into the street below. For a fellow whose reputed conquests were legion, he had certainly bungled this one from the start. Why had he said he thought he loved her? Because he feared she would not love him back? Even now, it sounded almost as ridiculous in his mind as it had to her. He thought he loved her. No, he knew better—he
knew
he loved her. And, accomplished flirt that he was, he could not even tell when it was that desire had turned to something more.

It was
rich
, the jests fate played on one, after all. Tony Barsett, the consummate rake, the last of a long line of ‘em, in fact, had been caught by a side-facer, blind-sided by himself, so to speak. He loved a green girl, a Cit whose contempt for his class was exceeded only by her contempt for him.

Down the hall, Leah dressed quickly, trying not to think of what he'd done to her. It was, of course, impossible. Everything about him, from his obvious handsomeness to the warmth of his hands, assailed her senses and made her acutely aware of him. And her treacherous mind refused to cooperate, returning repeatedly to dwell on the feel of his mouth on hers, his freshly shaven cheek against hers, reliving again the sensations brought forth by his hands on her body. There was a traitor within her, a weakness that made her want to yield the citadel.

“I
have gone to masquerades in a domino, my dear, but I assure you 'tis the first time I have ever had to appear with a patched eye,” he murmured in the darkness of their hired carriage. “ 'Twill be said I mean to go incognito into the den of iniquity.”

“Fiddle. If you are seeking sympathy from me, Tony Barsett, you have misjudged your aim. 'Twas you who would come closer, and you cannot say you were not warned.”

“Heartless jade.”

“Instead of seeking sympathy, my lord, you ought to be thankful that soap was the only weapon at hand,” she reminded him. “Had there been anything else, you'd have more than a blacked eye.”

“I was overcome by your beauty,” he tried soulfully, “and could not control my baser impulses. I was besotted.”

“A Banbury tale if I ever heard one. What you were doing, Tony, was …”

“Yes?” he drawled.

“You were bent on seduction, and well you know it.”

“And as I recall it, you were not depressing my pretensions either.”

That brought her up short. Turning to stare into the dark Parisian street, she offered him the shadow of her profile against the side of the carriage. Her long standing sense of honesty prevailing, she admitted slowly, “No, I did not, I suppose, and I cannot account for my behavior. It was immodest in the extreme.”

“No.” His voice softened as he reached across to her. “ 'Tis the way it should be between us, Leah.”

“I behaved like the brazen trollop you thought me when we met,” she added, sparing herself not at all.

“Hardly that.” His hand closed over hers, stilling it in her lap. “If that were the case, I'd not have this black eye, and you—”

“Stop it! I
let
you kiss me!”

“You did that,” he agreed as his fingers soothed and stroked the back of her hand. “But is that so terrible? As I told you then, we are wed, Leah—we can do anything we wish.”

“But we agreed! This marriage is a sham!”

“It is whatever we choose to make of it.”

She was silent for a long time, so long that he began to think she'd closed the subject and meant to ignore him the rest of the way. He released her hand and leaned back against the leather-covered seat with a sigh. He always vowed to himself to go slowly with her, and he always broke those promises to himself. “But I do not know what I wish to make of it. I cannot even decide if I like you,” she answered low as her throat tightened. “I am not of your world, and we have nothing common between us but money.”

“I am more in your world than you would think, Leah.”

There was another long silence, broken only by the sound of vehicles moving down the darkened streets. “Well, my dear,” he observed finally, “I believe we are coming upon the Palais Royal.”

“How can you tell? There are no lights anywhere that I can see.”

“You are on the wrong side. If you will but look out here,” he directed, “you will see they are strung across the building. At night, it is almost the only place in the city that is lighted on the outside.”

The driver slowed as traffic merged and other conveyances vied for roadway. Leah stared out in fascination at the huge building that loomed ahead. “Why, ‘tis hung like Vauxhall or something.”

“Or something. But 'tis nothing like on the inside except for the gardens. The rest is shops and cafés and cheap bedrooms. You must not appear too shocked when you see the demimonde parade themselves about, flirt and drink with unattached men, and go upstairs for pay.”

“I thought all Paris came here to shop.”

“They do. It's an odd place, unlike anything in London, for you will find all manner of people, respectable and otherwise, rubbing together tolerably under the same roof.”

Disgorged by an impatient driver and shouted at by those waiting to pull up, they climbed down and Tony tucked Leah's hand in the crook of his arm. She hesitated, prompting him to lean closer and whisper, “I'd stay near me, were I you.”

“I don't—”

“You do not wish to be ogled by every man jack in the place, do you?” he hissed.

“Of course not.” As she looked around them, she began to wish they'd stayed at Lady Oxford's party, for there was a crush of all sorts vying to get in. One obviously intoxicated Frenchman leaned so close to her that she could smell stale wine and onions on his breath, and his eyes lingered suggestively on the slight décolletage of her gown. Her fingers tightened on Tony's arm and she moved closer to him.

“I tried to tell you how it would be,” he murmured, grinning above her head. “If we manage to see the place without my being forced to duel for your honor, I shall count myself fortunate.”

The buck, a slim fellow, measured Tony speculatively and moved on. “Well, you might have said something to him,” she complained. “The only other person ever to have looked at me like that was you.”

“The French, my dear, still smart from the war, and are only too eager to prove themselves with their swords on any available Englishman. The English, of course, always oblige them, choosing pistols instead, and by morning the streets are littered with the bodies of the hot-headed.”

“I thought they welcomed us.”

“We afford them amusement, I suppose, for the English
ton
has always aped them. I mean, look at that gown you are wearing now.” He glanced down at the expensive peach gauze she wore over a slim petticoat of silk dyed the same color. “You were assured by Cecile that ‘twas in the French style, were you not? Napoleon lost the war, but his people are the arbiters of what you wear.”

They were walking down the shop-lined corridors, and Leah forgot her earlier apprehension as she was caught up in looking at the glittering lights and the gaily festooned stores. Tony stopped short outside one of them to study the display of jewelry that winked invitingly, reflecting color. His arm slid around her waist and pulled her closer to look, prompting the proprietor to come forward immediately with that universal deference common to jewelers of all nationalities.

“
Entrez-vous, monsieur
,” he invited, waving expansively at cases that lined the walls inside.
“Pour mademoiselle
… ?”

“What do you say, my dear?” Tony asked, turning to Leah. “I have not yet bought you a bridal gift.”

“No, I—”

“Nonsense.” He dismissed her refusal briskly. “It can do no harm to look at his wares.”

Once in the small shop, the proprietor, having heard them speak to each other, switched to an imperfect English. “Ze laydee—she is your … ?”

“Wife,” Tony supplied quickly, knowing that the sort of gifts available differed considerably from gaudy paste to fine gemstones.

“Wife, then.” The fellow's dark eyes traveled over Leah's face and hair carefully, and unlike his earlier countryman, he did so respectfully. “Paul Revillon has ze diamonds, but zay do not do madame ze justice— madame weeshes colair, no?”

“Yes,” Tony answered for her.

This time, the jeweler studied him to ascertain his approximate wealth and, having duly noted the excellent tailoring of his lordship's dark blue coat, the perfect cravat, and the large pearl studs that fastened what could be seen of his shirt, smiled broadly. “Ah, monsieur, one recognizes ze English Quality—you aire a nobleman pair-haps?” he asked to flatter.

“I am Lyndon.”

As though that were instantly recognizable, the fellow bobbed respectfully, urged his lordship to wait for a moment, and disappeared into the back, leaving them in the company of a clerk, who merely hung back and appeared bored. “Your fame seems to have spread,” Leah whispered to Tony while they waited.

“No, but he thinks he smells gold.”

She moved to look at the glass cases curiously, her attention drawn to a pearl-and-garnet brooch. “You know, I rather favor this one—'twould look nice on my black-trimmed pelisse next winter.”

“Purchase it, by all means then, but do not think to deter me from getting you something more substantial.” He came up behind her to study the brooch. “Garnets are not what I had in mind for you.”

Monsieur Revillon returned with a ring of keys and several locked cases, laying them on a countertop. “You weel behold my best, Madame Lyndon,” he announced dramatically. Selecting a key, he inserted it in a lock to open the first box. Lifting the lid, he revealed an exquisite sapphire necklace, explaining, “For ze eyes, madame—sapphires will become zose eyes.” To Tony he passed his jeweler's glass, offering, “Pairhaps Monsieur Lyndon weeshes to examine zem before Madame sees zem on ze neck?”

Tony lifted the double chain of sapphires with the large diamond-surrounded single pendant from the velvet-lined box and held it to the glowing light. Examining it under the glass, he turned it over several times, inspecting the stones carefully. “It's quite fine,” he admitted.

“Zat parteeculaire piece was ze Marchioness de Campignon's before hair unfortunate demise in ze Terror. Revillon bought eet from hair zen, but she deed not escape ze guillotine.”

“And you have had it all these years?” Tony murmured skeptically.

“
Mais non
. I sold eet to a Bonapartiste, who pawned eet back to me when hees fortunes changed.”

“How much?”

“Ten zousand francs.”

“No!”

“Madame does not like eet?” Revillon turned on her with a decidedly injured air. “But Madame—”

“ 'Tis too expensive. I would see the others.”

Shrugging expressively, the jeweler opened the remaining cases to show in order an enormous pearl- and-ruby pendant, a glittering emerald-and-diamond necklace, and a very fine amethyst necklace, earrings, and brooch. “Would Madame weesh to try zem against hair skin pairhaps?”

“No, but I'd like this brooch.” She pointed to the one she'd liked in the glass case.

“How much for the amethyst set?” Tony asked, ignoring Leah's gasp.

“For Madame and Monsieur, sees zousand.”

Tony lifted the necklace out and held it up against Leah's neck. “ 'Tis lovely, my dear.” Turning back to the jeweler, he offered, “Fourteen thousand for the sapphires and the amethysts.”

“Tony!”

“ 'Tis francs, not pounds, Leah,” he reminded her. Addressing Revillon, he enumerated his terms. “I have no wish to be robbed on the way back to the hotel, but if you will deliver them in the morning and bring your glass to ensure they are the same, I will pay you then. And we will take the brooch now.”

“Eet eez but nine hundred francs, mi'lor'.”

“Wrap it, and she will put it in her reticule.” Outside, she rounded on him. “Fourteen thousand francs! Are you mad, Tony? And nine hundred for the brooch! ‘Tis a fortune!”

“It was a bridal gift, Leah.”

“Bought with my father's money! Papa would—”

“Jeptha Cole did not pay for it—I did. Not one franc expended came from your father,” he retorted as his jaw twitched where he worked to stifle his anger. “And let me tell you something else, my dear Leah,” he bit off precisely, “nothing else I have spent on you is your father's either. Furthermore, if I wish to squander my own money, ‘tis entirely my affair.”

“The settlements—”

“The settlements be damned!” he exploded, losing the battle against his temper. “Do you know what settlements I have had? I did not take your papa's money, Leah—I borrowed seven thousand pounds at interest against a cargo of Jamaican rum!”

“I know he offered you a fortune!”

“Offered! Aye, there's the word we need, my dear—he offered forty thousand pounds, to be exact! But I do have my pride, despite the insults you have flung my direction.” His blue eye blazed with indignation at her accusation. “What I took, however, was twenty thousand pounds settled directly on you and our heirs, and the loan.”

She stared, stunned for a moment, unable to quite believe him. “But the rumors—'twas said you were done up . . .”

“And there the word is ‘rumor'—because my ship went down, ‘twas supposed I'd lost everything. Well, I did not—I lost a large sum, but I was not even near dun territory, my dear. I never have been.”

“You let everybody believe it!”

“I did not choose to dignify the stories—there is a difference, you know. What was I supposed to say? ‘No, you are mistaken—Tony Barsett's purse is far from let?' And how many would have believed me if I had?”

“But even your aunt Davenham—”

“Now,
there
I plead guilty, for I wanted her to accept you, and I could not depend on her liking you before she's had a chance to know you.”

“But
why
?”

“That should be obvious to you,” he shot back. “If you cannot forget you are a merchant's daughter, how the devil do you suppose she can?”

“Oh.”

They were standing in a busy hallway, and when Leah looked away, she became aware they'd attracted a rather large crowd of curious onlookers, most of whom had no idea what they'd said. One fellow, rather lower-class by appearance, offered Tony advice in an idiomatic French she did not understand. In answer, her husband grasped her arm firmly and pulled her along to the first corner. Behind them, their audience broke into applause.

“What did he say?” she asked curiously.

“He said, madam wife, that I ought to take you upstairs and cease haggling over the price.”

“He
what
!”

“And if I were not afraid of the vermin, I'd do it.” He released her and started walking rapidly.

She stood rooted for a moment, just long enough for an elderly man to ogle her thoroughly, and then she all but ran after him. “Wait—are you saying you did not take any settlement?”

“I said it.”