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But she had these last few moments.
“Then let’s just dance,” she said.
Perhaps it was better not to talk.
When Leonie spoke of Paris, Lisburne’s chest felt tight. He remembered her saying that of the three sisters she’d spent the greatest percentage of her life there. And this night he caught—along with the so-faint hint of Paris in her speech—the small, elusive note in minor key, of loss.
Any idea who your pretty vixen is, really?
Lisburne had thought he knew her, or knew all a man needed to know. She was pretty and shapely. She was clever and surprisingly well read, quick-witted and confident. He’d ended her virginity and discovered the sensuality and passion lurking under the businesslike exterior.
But this wasn’t enough. He wanted to know the girl she’d been before she came to London. The girl Swanton had met in a shop in Paris.
He almost hated Swanton for having seen her when she was—what? Fifteen or sixteen, perhaps. She must have been more French than English then, a girl who laughed more, Lisburne was sure, than she did now, and in other ways, not only the low, intimate laughter that crept under a man’s skin . . .
Whatever she’d done or said, she’d made an impression on Swanton, when scores of women hadn’t.
In those days she must have smiled more easily and naturally, and talked entirely in French, and she must have been more lighthearted and less well armored.
Lisburne wanted that girl as well as the woman in his arms.
He’d almost said that and everything that was in his mind.
He’d wanted to believe she danced so well at least partly because she danced with him, and they were meant to be together, and they’d met in front of the painting of Venus and Mars because they were meant to be lovers, too. It was Fate. Inevitable.
He became aware of her scent first, and realized he was leaning in too close, much too close for dancing in public. He felt her pull away slightly, in the instant before he did.
“They’re all watching Swanton and Gladys,” he said.
“And you think no one notices you?” she said. And laughed.
The music was ending, and more than one head nearby turned toward the sound of her low, rich laugh.
He had the presence of mind to release his hold of her. But not enough to control his tongue. “It’s you they’re looking at,” he said softly. “The most beautiful girl in the place.”
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“That’s the perfect thing to say,” she said. “A perfect ending.”
“Ending?”
“Adieu, my lord.”
She moved away, and he couldn’t grab her and haul her back, with all the world looking on. In an instant she was gone, slipping into the crowd and disappearing, before his brain had caught up with what was happening. Had happened.
And while he stood there, bewildered and on the brink of anger, a familiar voice said, “Lisburne, if you do not save me I’ll find a dastardly way to get even.”
He looked to one side and not very far down, for it was his cousin Clara. She wasn’t exactly an Amazon, although to some fellows she seemed so, but she was decidedly on the tallish side.
The habits of a lifetime came to his rescue. He collected his composure, his manners, and his powers of address.
“Of course I’ll save you,” he said. “Who needs a broken jaw, cuz, and why can’t Val do it?”
“It’s not that sort of thing. It’s Sir Henry Jaspers.”
She made a small movement of her head. Lisburne threw a discreet glance that way—enough to spot a young man of fair coloring and bull-sized proportions—before returning his attention to her.
“He’s bearing down on me,” she said, “And I know that look in his eye. It means a lot of pretty poetry and admiration of my this and that and would I do him the honor of marrying him. He asks once a week, and even Mama cannot seem to dampen his ardor. He has a wonderful obliviousness. And one can’t be cruel to him, because he’s too sweet. But here! At Vauxhall of all places. He means no harm, I know, but if Gladys catches my eye, I’ll never be able to keep in countenance, and one doesn’t laugh at a gentleman in love, even if one doesn’t want him. Oh, here he comes. Do be a darling, Simon, and dance with me, I beg.”
He donned the right smile and said, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
Since resisting temptation wasn’t in her nature, Leonie had to get herself out of its vicinity. Had she gone home to Maison Noirot and Lisburne followed her there, she’d never be able to maintain her resolve. She lacked the strength of character to send him away.
And so she went straight from Vauxhall to Clevedon House, where she often spent Saturday night.
This night she found Marcelline looking well, truly well, for the first time in weeks. Her Grace was in good spirits, too. This was partly because she felt better and partly because today Lucie hadn’t clung to her like a limpet—as she’d done from the time Marcelline had first displayed symptoms of her pregnancy.
Lucie had stopped clinging because Bianca Williams had mysteriously arrived in the house in the middle of the night, “like a golden fairy princess,” Lucie said.
“Bianca is the perfect playmate,” Marcelline said after she and Leonie had withdrawn to the duchess’s sitting room. “She’ll sit still for hours on end while Lucie arranges her hair. She’ll wear whatever outrageous ensemble Lucie concocts. Lucie treats her like a doll, and Bianca, like a good little actress, plays Doll. She’ll play any other part, too. They made scenes from The Arabian Nights and went hunting as Red Indians. They played soldiers and had a tea party to celebrate the end of the battle. They’ve made costumes—and a fine wreck of the nursery, not to mention one of my gowns. Bianca hasn’t Lucie’s sewing skill, but she has strong ideas about proper costume. And props.”
“I believe she was onstage from the time she could walk,” Leonie said. “Or maybe before.”
“She’s been wonderful for Lucie,” Marcelline said. “Clevedon says she was lonely here.”
“But the servants dote on her,” Leonie said.
“Lucie adores Clevedon and she likes being a princess in a grand house with servants, but it’s not what she’s used to,” Marcelline said. “After all that happened in the spring . . .” She frowned. “He seems to understand her in a way I can’t, and when he’s about, she’s calmer and happier. When he isn’t about, she can be a little beast. But Bianca seems to have a positive effect. I’ll be sorry to see Mrs. Williams go. Not that they’ll be allowed to do so right away. She isn’t quite as strong as she pretends. Clevedon is looking about for something suitable for her.” She laughed. “But listen to me with my domestic tales!” She refilled Leonie’s brandy glass. “What about you, my love? Have you something to tell me?”
There had been too much to do lately and Marcelline had been too ill when there was time. And so it was only now that Leonie could tell her the full story of the last two and a half weeks. She didn’t cry. She’d never been one for weeping. But she’d almost wept at Vauxhall.
It’s you they’re looking at. The most beautiful girl in the place.
And her heart had broken then.
She and her sisters had looks, certainly, and they made the most of their assets, but they were not, strictly, beautiful. Leonie was the least beautiful of the three, with her crooked nose and too-sharp jaw and red hair.
But Lisburne had said she was the most beautiful girl in the place and he’d said it in a way that made one believe he believed it, which only a man besotted could do.
“Your taste, as it ought to be, is excellent,” Marcelline said. “He’s handsome to a painful degree.” She patted Leonie’s hand. “I was beginning to worry about you. I feared you’d hold out for a respectable professional man and save your virginity for the wedding night—and our ancestors would turn in the
ir graves.” She broke out into giggles then, and Leonie couldn’t help giggling, too.
When they’d sobered, Marcelline said. “Clevedon didn’t like it because he says Lisburne is slippery.”
“Slippery,” Leonie said blankly.
Marcelline smiled. “I think he means that Lisburne is like the Noirots and the DeLuceys in one way. Charming but elusive. He treats women beautifully, Clevedon says, and stays with them long enough for them to believe he’ll stay forever. Then he leaves them beautifully, with very expensive trinkets to help mend their broken hearts.”
“That’s nothing I hadn’t worked out for myself,” Leonie said. “I knew he was a charmer from the instant I met him. Completely irresistible. Entirely dangerous.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Marcelline said.
“Better to leave than to be left,” Leonie said. “And I preferred to leave on a high note.”
“Without the trinkets?” Marcelline said in mock astonishment. “Can you truly be a Noirot? Or did Gypsies take our real sister, and leave you on the doorstep as a consolation prize, as Sophy used to claim?”
“Oh, I’ll get a trinket,” Leonie said. “But better than jewelry, chérie. My goodbye gift from him will be priceless.”
Lisburne House
