Hostage to Love Page 6

  Henrietta sniffed and rode on ahead of them. Now barred from their conversation, she became more than a little annoyed that her pleasant time in London had been tinged with disquiet.

  “Lady Henrietta.”

  Henrietta looked up from where she’d been lost in a brown study, straight into the smiling eyes of Mr. Hartley. He sat atop a tall chestnut, dressed in a navy-blue coat, fawn breeches, and gleaming black boots.

  “Mr. Hartley,” she said faintly. She seemed to have lost her backbone, and no longer felt up to dealing with him.

  “Surely you don’t ride alone?” He replaced his hat and gazed about, but her father and Mademoiselle Verity walked their horses a fair way behind her.

  “Papa rides with Mademoiselle Garnier.”

  “May I accompany you?”

  “It appears my horse might object,” Henrietta said, as Charlotte tried to nip Mr. Hartley’s horse.

  “She is not very friendly.”

  “She is extremely friendly, but quite choosy.”

  “Surely she can find nothing wrong with Titan. His pedigree is as long as my arm.”

  “Lineage does not always vouch for good behavior.”

  A smile danced on his lips. “Does it not?”

  “On the contrary, there are those that are very poorly behaved right here today.”

  “There are?”

  She flicked her crop. “Look at that man over there for example. He is a gentleman, is he not?”

  “That’s the Marquis of Tavenstock.”

  “Have you seen how he whips his horse?”

  “Can’t say I have. But I do not approve of such cruelty.”

  Henrietta flicked her crop again. “And another, there.”

  “Lord Crompton?” He raised an eyebrow. “He holds no whip.”

  “He rode on ahead of his companion. She is a trifle unsure of herself on a horse, I grant you. And the animal is also rather fat, but he should wait for her, don’t you agree?”

  “That’s his new wife,” Mr. Hartley said, in a strangled voice. “She is the daughter of a wealthy nabob.”

  Henrietta glanced back at the woman dressed in a clash of crimson and puce. “I don’t see how that matters. But these were merely examples, of course.”

  Mr. Hartley chuckled. “Lady Henrietta, you are outrageous.”

  Henrietta cocked her head at him. “I am?”

  He steadied his mount, which disliked coming too close to Charlotte’s bared teeth. “But delightfully so.”

  “Henrietta!”

  Henrietta turned to see her father approach as Mademoiselle Verity rode away.

  “Good day to you, Hartley.”

  “Beaumont.”

  “You must excuse us. We return home immediately.”

  Mr. Hartley bowed. “It’s been a pleasure and an education, Lady Henrietta.”

  They left Mr. Hartley behind to canter through the park. “Was I so very terrible, Papa?”

  “You behaved abominably,” he said, “Have you forgotten your mother was born in France?”

  “Of course not,” she said passionately. “It is only the Republic I despise, not the people.” Henrietta could never forget French blood ran in her veins.

  “However, that’s not the reason for my haste. Your aunt sent me a message. A letter has come from Philippe.”

  Henrietta gasped with relief. “Is he, all right?”

  Her father’s expression offered little reassurance. “That’s what I need to learn.”

  * * *

  Verity rode to join the group of riders she came with, grouped together in conversation at the park gate. An unusual mix of people gathered within the shadow of the demimonde. Poets, writers, painters, musicians, actors, and courtesans, mingled with members of the aristocracy and even royalty. Some actresses did well for themselves. Many did not. Could she now live as they did? Her chest tightened. When this business was at an end, she would retire to the countryside of her beloved France with her father and hopefully be left in peace. But that lay far in the future.

  She wished she could silence the heart-stopping panic she suffered for the men in her life. If she failed to deliver Anthony to Danton, she and her father would both go to the guillotine. She gave a heavy sigh as she trotted her horse up to the gate. Each moment she spent with Anthony only made her like him more. But for her father’s plight, she might stay in London and become his mistress. To remain close to him, she would truly consider it. A liaison of this kind was something the members of the theatre world understood; an arrangement to suit both parties. But even though she was now truly one of them, the very idea was abhorrent.

  “Here at last is mademoiselle,” Mrs. Siddens called from her brougham, her eyes flashing beneath the brim of her strikingly tall hat. “We can now begin our party!”

  She put a hand to her waist and leaned forward as Verity joined them. “Do tell, who was that extremely attractive man I saw you riding with?”

  “Lord Beaumont.”

  “The viscount?” She gave Verity a ribald wink. “Doing all right for yourself there, duckie.”

  Chapter Seven

  Henrietta and her father arrived home from the park to be greeted at the door by Aunt Gabrielle. A letter fluttered in her hand. “This comes not from Philippe, but a trusted servant. Philippe has escaped the tumbrel, traveling safely through the barricades dressed as a pig farmer.” She fumbled for her handkerchief. “He was in Paris when he heard a rumor that an émigré army was to be formed in England. He considered he’d be more useful here, so he set out for the Channel. His servant last saw him riding for Le Havre. But he has since lost contact. Here!” She thrust the letter at Henrietta’s father, her voice hoarse. “Philippe should be on English soil by now.”

  Her father looked unconvinced. He took her aunt’s letter and walked down the corridor with his arm around her. Henrietta wiped away tears. She prayed her uncle was on his way home. She dreaded that her father might go to France.

  After changing her habit for a gown of cream brocade, Henrietta sorted through the calling cards on the silver tray on the console table in the hall. She hoped Mr. Hartley might have dropped his card in on the way to the park, but was disappointed not to find it. Among the callers, she found Mr. Foxwell’s card. She remembered him from Almack’s because he had made her laugh.

  Her aunt appeared to have regained some of her composure at luncheon. Her father had disappeared on business. As she ate her fricassee, Aunt Gabrielle said, “You made a great impression last night, ma fille. Several calling cards arrived this morning. We shall be receiving visitors at two o’clock.”

  “Yes, Aunt. I saw them.” She didn’t find Christian’s card, which left her strangely unsettled.

  “Did anyone among them take your fancy?”

  Henrietta longed to see her aunt restored to her jovial self. She regretted not being able to mention at least one young man who’d made a strong impression on her. “I enjoyed Mr. Foxwell’s company.”

  “Oh, yes, and closer in age to you,” Aunt Gabrielle said.

  Henrietta flushed at her aunt’s perspicacity. “But I don’t wish to marry him.”

  When her aunt moved on to discuss who would attend Lady Henworth’s card party that evening, Henrietta pushed thoughts of the unsuitable Christian Hartley from her mind. Not even an ungrateful niece could spoil her aunt’s mood since now that she was convinced Uncle Phillipe would arrive at any moment.

  The first of the afternoon callers arrived—a widow, Lady Montague and her daughter, Irene. Lady Montague continued to crane her neck to peer at the door.

  She enquired more than once after Henrietta’s father.

  He soon appeared, having changed into dark breeches and a shoulder hugging bottle-green coat, with a silky white cravat at his throat. Lady Montague tittered as he kissed her hand. “Charmed.” He smiled at the ladies, but Henrietta wasn’t fooled. She twisted a curl around her finger, wondering when he would disappear to visit Mademoiselle Garnier again. She found
her question answered when her father bowed and left them to call on a friend. Lady Montague gathered up her shawl and reticule soon after. Before leaving, she issued an invitation for her father, her aunt and Henrietta to join them at the theatre on Friday evening.

  Lord Bixby, the boyishly slender man she’d danced with at Almack’s Assembly rooms, arrived with Mr. Foxwell. Henrietta doubted Lord Bixby was much older than herself. She immediately dismissed him as too green by half. Although she had enjoyed dancing with Mr. Foxwell, the fact was he lacked grace. A tall, lanky man, he folded himself into a Chippendale chair, as though he didn’t know what to do with his legs. But when her aunt left the room for a moment, Foxwell became far more interesting when he explained about the party he was arranging for Friday evening. They were to attend a masked ball at Vauxhall Gardens.

  Lord Bixby reluctantly declined.

  “Masks and dominos? It sounds like great fun!” Henrietta had visions of a mysterious black mask edged in silver, hiding the upper half her face, and a matching cape-like domino lined in purple satin.

  “If your aunt agrees,” Mr. Foxwell said, as they rose to leave. “You are both most welcome to join my party.”

  A half-dozen more people called, and invitations filled the calendar for August and part of September. “I have no intention of going to Vauxhall Gardens,” Aunt Gabrielle said when the door closed on the last of them. The drawing room was quiet again, but for the snuffling of the sleeping dogs. “Not only do I heartily dislike Vauxhall, it is no place for a gently reared young woman.”

  “Who does go there, Aunt?”

  Aunt Gabrielle frowned. “Not those of our set.”

  Henrietta, who’d become sleepy sitting so close to the fire, sat up. “You mean rakes go there?”

  Aunt Gabrielle’s lips firmed. “Indeed!”

  “Shall we go to the theatre?” She wondered if Mr. Hartley would be at Vauxhall Gardens. It sounded like a place he would frequent.

  Aunt Gabrielle’s hand hovered over a plate of sweetmeats. She selected a marzipan. “My literary group meets here on Friday.”

  “I do wish to go. Might I go to the theatre without you?”

  “I don’t see why not. I shall ask Lady Montague to escort you.”

  “Is that necessary? I could meet them at the theatre.”

  Aunt Gabrielle popped sugarplum in her mouth. She waved her hand. “Very well. Your maid can escort you.”

  Henrietta clapped her hands, waking the dogs. “Wonderful.”

  Aunt Gabrielle peered at her over the top of her teacup. “I didn’t realize you were so devoted to Shakespeare, Henrietta.”

  “It’s just that I’ve never been to the theatre.”

  “I shall send Lady Montague a note, advising her of the new arrangements.”

  “Thank you, aunt.”

  Henrietta rushed up to her chamber and scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Foxwell. She would be at the gates to Vauxhall Gardens at precisely nine of the clock. Would he please have a suitable domino and mask there for her? She didn’t mention she would be alone. As she penned the words, a brief stab of guilt at her prevarication bothered her. She hoped her aunt would forgive her if she discovered it. The worry soon faded as excitement mounted. She wrote another note to Lady Montague advising her that she’d changed her mind and would not go. She gave both to Molly for a footman to deliver.

  * * *

  Anthony paid the hackney driver in front of the Pulteney Hotel and stood for a moment staring up at Verity Garnier’s window. She’d taken him completely by surprise, so swept away was he by this fascinating woman. He climbed the stairs, deep in thought. When he’d accepted Verity’s invitation to her rooms the first time, he’d expected to find an experienced courtesan, not a virgin. He was intrigued that she’d give him this gift. Something she’d obviously valued and must have had to fight to keep. Was it merely his patronage she sought? Somehow, he doubted it. Mademoiselle Verity was the most independent woman he’d met. She was a gifted actress and if society was not yet at her feet, they soon would be.

  He paused at her door, his fist raised to knock. Had she a motive he was yet to discover? He’d seen her surrounded by eager young bucks, keen to become her lover. Yet she had chosen him. Caution told him to slow things down. Trouble was, as soon as he gazed into her beautiful eyes, his passion fired, and his brains deserted him. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to get this close to a woman.

  After Anna died, he’d lived like a monk for a while, avoiding courtesans, as he hadn’t wished to sully her memory. In the last few years he’d enjoyed the odd dalliance, but there’d been no one he’d wanted to introduce to his daughter. Yet here he was, wanting to invite Verity into his world. She’d released something in him that proved to be explosive, lust certainly, but was he in danger of falling in love?

  Verity answered his knock. “Beaumont.” She took his hand and drew him into the room. She raised her face to be kissed.

  He obliged enjoying her sweet mouth, then took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away.

  Verity’s remarkable blue eyes searched his. She drew in a breath. “What is it?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  He caught a glimpse of creamy breasts rising above the daintily embroidered stays as she turned away from him with a swish of the delicate silk wrap. He fought to suppress the desire to ease her breast free from its confines and kiss a rosy nipple. High color spread along her cheekbones. “You are early. I’m about to dress.” She looked vulnerable as she curled up on the sofa with her bare feet tucked under her.

  With a rush of understanding, he sat beside her, and placed his arm around her pulling her close. She rested her fragrant head against his shoulder and toyed with his lapel. “What do you wish to talk about?”

  “You gave me your most precious gift. I want to know why. A woman does not reach your age an innocent unless saving themselves for marriage.” He was almost afraid of her answer. He didn’t think himself a coward, but he’d rather face a maddened bull than suffer the fear of losing someone he loved again. And he was in very real danger here.

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. “It became a burden. And I don’t see myself marrying now.” With a rueful laugh she gazed up at him. “Do you have any idea how attractive you are?”

  Anthony rubbed his brow. “So, it’s attraction?”

  Her expression was impossible to read. “I like you. I admire you.”

  “That’s flattering, sweetheart, but you know little about me.”

  “I know enough.” She pushed away from him restlessly, as if his proximity troubled her, and walked around the room, picking up a china ornament from the mantel and putting it down again. She was a vision of grace and beauty en dishabille, and he delighted in looking at her.

  “Why must it be anything more than mutual attraction?” she said, finally.

  There was more to this. He suddenly found he didn’t want to learn the truth as the need she stirred in him worked its magic. His breath caught at his body’s urgency. Must he be ruled by his cock? Annoyed, he thought himself better than that. He’d made her uneasy and sought to rectify it. “There doesn’t.” He stopped her restless pacing, his hand at her waist. Pulled her slim curves against him. She seemed vulnerable and it made him oddly protective of her.

  Her mouth curved in a smile. “Then let’s enjoy each other, oui?”

  Anthony hefted her up in his arms. He continued to kiss her as he carried her to the bed. As he laid her down, her wrap fell open. She was naked apart from her stays. His eyes on her, he pulled off his coat, and then his shirt. It was all too clear what she did to him.

  “Mmm.” The dimple made another irresistible appearance when she smiled. He caught the brief flash of vulnerability again which connected somewhere deep inside. When she held her arms out to him, her exquisite beauty stripped away his last vestige of rational thought. With a soft moan, he joined her on the bed. Pressing kisses on her creamy throat, he breathed in he
r womanly fragrance, and apple blossom perfume. He enjoyed a fleeting vision of paradise—she completely naked, all pearly skin and nubile loveliness, before they went down a path together, to what? It could not be marriage.

  Her fingers threaded through his hair at his nape. “That’s better,” she murmured. “My gallant lover has returned.”

  “You intend to return to France?”

  The sorrow in her eyes seemed genuine. “Oui. When the Season is over.”

  He said nothing.

  “You are so serious today.” She slid the ribbon from his hair. She smoothed it back from his brow then gave a lock a none-too-gentle tug. “You don’t wish to make love to me? Have I lost my appeal already?”

  He grinned at the cocky way she said it then plundered her mouth. Pulling down her stays he cupped a perfect, rounded breast, tweaked a rosy nipple, and drew it into his mouth. Then he gave due attention to the other before kissing his way down her body as she writhed and whimpered.

  Not only beautiful, she was fascinating. Intriguing. She made him feel alive again. Her deft fingers stroked him through his clothes. “I am impatient for you, cheri.”

  Anthony rolled off the bed. His gaze on hers, he flicked the buttons of his pantaloons, kicked them away. If he didn’t know better, he’d think her an experienced lover. “You learn quickly, mademoiselle.”

  “But of course, I am French. And you like me too, oui?” she said, with an endearingly smug smile.

  He gave a strained laugh. “Then it would be cruel of me to deny us both.” He knelt on the bed and drew off her rose silk wrap, threw it to the floor and worked at the corset laces.

  She was breathing fast. “Cut them. There are scissors on the dresser.”

  At a few snips of the scissors, she was naked. He stroked her delicious curves down to the vee of golden hair at the base of her stomach. She threw back her head and moaned.