MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (11 page)

‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin’s voice was warm and close.

She felt frozen with horror.
No!
she wanted to say, categorically, unreservedly.
No!
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ‘I’m only halfway through my champagne, Lord Devlin. We’ll dance the next one.’ She forced the smile to her lips.

‘Come, Miss Sweetly,’ he chided in a teasing tone. ‘Leave the champagne. I’ll buy you a bottle of the stuff when we come off the floor.’ And then to her horror he held his hand out in a gesture that was an obvious invitation on to the dance floor. Anyone that was looking would have known that he was asking her to dance.

Her heart felt like it was about to give way. She swallowed. Wetted her suddenly dry lips. Maybe he was not watching. Maybe he had not seen. She glanced over at Razeby.

But Razeby’s dark watchful gaze was fixed upon her. And so were too many other eyes.

Her blood was rushing so fast, twisting and turning in such a torrent that she felt dizzy. Beneath her arms prickled with sweat, but her fingers felt chilled through to their bones.

She knew what she was going to have to do. Knew there was no way out without losing face, without admitting the truth—that this music, this dance meant something to her. That Razeby meant something to her.

She turned her face from Razeby’s. Laid her fingers on Devlin’s waiting hand. And let him lead her on to the dance floor.

Her steps in the dance were perfect. The dance she had been so nervous about, the dance Razeby had taught her, the dance they had practised together so many times alone in the drawing room of the house in Hart Street. Their very first public dance as a couple. When Alice had worn this dress just for him. Their dance, their music, their dress.

She brazened it out the best she could. But there was a cold sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. And the smile she wore felt like it was tearing her face apart. She could not look at Razeby. Not at all through the dance. Until the very end, when it was finally over. And then she could not stop herself. Her eyes moved to the spot where he had stood. But Linwood was standing there alone.

She scanned the room for him, her eyes raking the crowd to find him. But Razeby had gone.

‘Now for that champagne.’ Devlin smiled as he led her from the floor and she felt the small intimate stroke of his fingers against her wrist.

It was done. She had done it. Worn the dress. Danced the dance. Denied him.

‘Are you all right, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin sat her down in her chair. ‘You do not seem to be your usual self. Your cheeks have gone quite pale.’

‘If you would be so kind as to take me home, Lord Devlin.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m feeling a little unwell.’

‘Of course. I will summon my carriage at once.’

* * *

Devlin’s coach rolled away along the road.

Alice was walking up the steps to her front door when Razeby stepped out of the shadows.

‘Razeby,’ she whispered his name through the darkness. ‘What are you doing here?’

She saw his gaze lower pointedly to the green silk of her skirt that peeped, so vibrant and taunting, from beneath her cloak, even in the yellow glow of the nearby street lamp, before coming back up to her face.

‘Are you deliberately trying to torture me? Because if so, it is working.’

The breath was shaky in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but the look in his eyes made her rapidly close it again.

‘Does that knowledge make you happy?’ he demanded.

She stopped in her tracks, glanced round at him, told him the truth. ‘No, Razeby. It doesn’t.’ She turned away, moving towards the steps that would take her up to her front door.

‘Damn it, Alice! Do you think that you can just walk away from me?’

‘Like you did to me?’ She swung round to face him. ‘What did you expect, Razeby?’ She had spent all these weeks denying it, everything she had done had been to hide it—from the world, from Razeby, and most of all from herself. But his words, his being here, the whole night... All of the walls she had spent these weeks building, higher and wider and deeper, exploded apart. The anger, the hurt, the pain—all of it surged up in a great wave to rush through her.

‘That you would understand.’ His expression was one of torment.

‘Understand?’ She walked right up to him and stared into his face. ‘Oh, I understand too well! You cast me aside like I was a piece of clothing that you were done with. Quickly, easily, without a single consideration for my feelings.’

‘It was not like that!’ All denial and shock.

‘No? One minute we were in bed making love. The next minute you were coolly dismissing me. Am I making that up?’

‘Alice...’ He raked a hand through his hair.

‘Don’t you
Alice
me! You could have said something before. You could have had the decency to give me some sort of warning. All that time you were planning it. And not one word did you utter.’

‘You are wrong. I never planned any of it. That is part of the damn problem. Atholl—’

‘Atholl was an excuse!’ She shouted it.

‘No!’

‘Do you think I didn’t know that you were brooding on something all those weeks and months? When you thought that no one could see you.’

He glanced away.

‘Oh, yes, Razeby, I saw. And do you know something? I was worried about you. Not about us—I thought we were happy together. About you.’ She poked her finger hard into his chest. ‘When all along you were planning to be rid of me. Bastard!’ She was breathing hard, shaking with the force of emotion rolling through her.

‘I have already told you there was nothing of planning with you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I have a duty to do. I cannot walk away from it, Alice. No matter how much I might want to!’ There was an agony in his voice.

‘Yes, you do. I never denied that. But there’s a way of doing it, Razeby. A man might do his duty and retain something of a heart in doing so.’

‘I am not without a heart, Alice.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Hell, Alice. I did what I had to do.’

‘In a cruel and callous way. You hurt me, Razeby!’ she shouted. The words were out and there was nothing she could do to call them back. The echo of them resonated in the silence between them.

He stared down into her face, a look of horror in his eyes. ‘Alice...’

‘You hurt me,’ she said again, more softly this time. ‘I just wanted—’

‘To hurt me back,’ he finished quietly.

‘No.’ She glanced down at the small puddles that glistened on the darkness of the pavement beneath their feet. She had never meant for it to be like this. It was not supposed to be about hurting him, but denying that he had hurt her. About salvaging her pride and protecting herself. But there was an element of truth in what he said. ‘I suppose I did, a little bit.’ She swallowed and her throat felt dry and tight. She looked directly into his eyes. ‘But you deserved it. You made me believe there was something more than sex between us. It doesn’t come much more callous than that.’ She turned to walk away.

He moved so fast. One minute he was standing there, the next he had her in the shadows and backed against the wall, his body so close she could feel his heat, smell the heartachingly familiar scent of him.

‘You think I do not have feelings for you, Alice?’ His voice was so harsh with passion that she trembled to hear it. ‘You think that being apart from you is not tearing me apart?’

Her breath was as ragged as his. All she could see in the darkness was the glitter of his eyes, but she could feel the razing intensity of his stare.

‘There are other factors at play, Alice. Things I could not tell you. Things I still cannot.’

‘Things like you were tired of me and that it was time to move on. I saw you leaving Hart Street the other morning, Razeby.’

His eyes narrowed with both incredulity and anger. ‘And you think I am keeping another woman?’

‘It’s what they’re saying.’

‘Then it must be true.’ His tone was cold.

‘Why else would you have stayed there overnight?’

‘Why else, indeed?’

He leaned his face so close that she felt the caress of his breath against her cheek, so close that she thought he was going to kiss her.

His whisper was low and intimate, and dangerous. ‘If you honestly think that, then you do not know me at all.’ He looked at her for only a moment longer, then he released her and walked away into the darkness of the night.

Alice was shaking so badly that it did not matter how hard she bit upon her lip, she could not stop it. She watched him go and could not move. She stood there alone in the darkness, feeling the light patter of the rain against her hair, feeling its dampness mingle with the tears that wetted her face, as the chill of the night air seeped through her bones.

All of her defences lay in ruins around her. There could be no more denials. No more lying. Alice finally admitted the truth to herself. And with the truth came a pain that was hard to bear.

She loved Razeby.

She loved Razeby and he had broken her heart.

Chapter Thirteen

A
lice was sitting exactly where Razeby had thought to find her. On the marble bench positioned in the furthest corner of the room, staring at the painting opposite. Three days had passed since that night outside her rooms, and he had come here to the Royal Academy’s Exhibition Room on every one of the mornings since to look for her.

The Exhibition Room was quiet, only one or two more committed visitors having risen so early to come and study the artworks without the press of the usual crowd. The night’s rain had given way to sunshine, but little of it reached in here. The light from the softly arched ceiling windows was soft and muted, illuminating only the central portion of the floor so that the richness of the paintings hanging upon the surrounding walls would not fade.

His footsteps were quiet against the wooden floor as he made his way across the gallery and sat down at the end of the bench, as if he too were studying the Canaletto’s painting of Venice’s Grand Canal.

She glanced round at him briefly before returning her gaze to the painting.

‘How are you, Alice?’ He spoke quietly, for her ears only.

‘Grand.’

A pause.

‘It has gone far beyond the stage of pretence, Alice. How are you really?’

‘Bearing up.’ She met his eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I have been better.’

She smiled at that, but it was a sad smile. She took a breath and returned her gaze to the painting.

‘I have been sleeping alone at Hart Street because I can still smell you on the sheets and still feel your presence in the rooms.’

He heard the way she caught her breath. ‘Razeby...’

‘You did not really believe otherwise?’

She shook her head, but did not look round at him. ‘Not in my heart.’

‘I am sorry that I hurt you. I am sorry for the way I told you and for the suddenness of the parting. But clean and quick is supposed to be the best way of severing something that one has no wish to let go. I thought it was the best way for us both. I see now that it was not.’

‘I’m sorry, too. I never meant to hurt you that night, Razeby. With the dress, and the music and the dance.’

‘And Devlin,’ he said.

‘You looked as if you might be about to lynch him.’

‘I came seriously close.’

She was still looking at the painting, but she smiled another smile tinged with sorrow. ‘It was all as much a torture to myself.’

There was a small peaceful silence.

‘How did you know I would be here?’ she asked.

‘Just a gut feeling.’ He let his eyes sweep along the yawning turquoise of the Venetian sky upon the canvas. ‘You always said this painting took you to another world. I thought we could both do with another world just now.’

Her hand lay flat upon the bench they shared. He rested his own beside it, feeling the marble of the bench cool beneath his palm. The edge of his little finger just touched against hers.

‘If only.’ Her expression was composed, relaxed even as her eyes rested upon the painting. ‘It looks so beautiful, doesn’t it? The detail of the architecture. The colour of the sky. The way the light shimmers on the water. I’ve never seen a sky that colour.’

‘Riches for the eyes,’ he said.

She gave a little laugh, but there was an unbearable sadness beneath it. ‘Is Miss Althrope the one?’ she asked softly.

‘Not Miss Althrope. I found the one over half a year ago. I just cannot marry her.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Don’t.’

‘Why not? It is the truth, even if it has taken me this long to realise it.’

‘It’ll only make it harder.’

‘It could not get any harder.’

‘You shouldn’t be here with me, Razeby.’

‘No, I should not.’

They sat in silence, their eyes fixed only on the Canaletto and another world.

And then he got to his feet and walked quietly away.

* * *

Alice kept on going. One day at a time. Acting upon the stage most evenings. Rehearsing most afternoons. Sparkling and enticing within the Green Room because that was part of her job as much as the acting, the promotions, and all the other little things that had to be done. She kept on smiling, kept her chin up. But inside she felt hollow, as if everything of any worth had been emptied from her. She kept on going, because she had to, and because she did not know any other way to be. But when no one was looking, when she was alone, it was difficult to bear.

It had been four days since he had come to the Exhibition Room. And she had taken care to avoid him on each and every one of them. Only four days and already it felt like a lifetime. She wanted to see him so much, to hear the sound of his voice, just to look into his eyes, and to see his smile. But it was better this way, she told herself, for them both. She no longer cared if the world knew she was avoiding him.

* * *

The letter arrived the following week.

Lots of men sent her letters. Alice never opened a single one, just burned them as they were. But she did not burn this one. She recognised the rich black scrawl of pen on the front before she even turned it over to see the impress of Razeby’s crest in the seal. Her heart was beating too fast, her hands trembling as she cracked the thick red wax and unfolded the letter, trembling as she traced her index finger along each line of patterned ink. But it did not matter how long she stared at them, or how hard her eyes strained, there were only two words upon the page that she could read, one at the start of the letter, and the other at the end—
Alice
and
Razeby.

She wished she had told him now. She had told him everything else. About her secret life in Mrs Silver’s. About her family in Ireland. Truth and conversation had always flowed easy between them, even from the very start. And yet she had not been able to admit that Miss Alice Sweetly, star of the stage, whom all of London thought could read and write, could do neither; that she had learned her parts only through Venetia. Being an actress was the only proper good thing Alice had ever done in her life. She could not bear to have that one achievement stripped away and be exposed as a liar, not before Razeby of all people. But standing here with Razeby’s letter in her hand, she would have done just that to know what it said.

She could hardly ask a stranger to read it to her. Nor could she take it to Venetia—the letter felt too intimate, too private for that. So Alice refolded the letter very carefully and hid it in the bottom of her travelling bag next to the most precious of her possessions, the engraved pen that he had given to her. Maybe not today, but one day, in the future, she would be able to read it.

* * *

Another week passed and it felt like a month to Alice. She sat alone in the fine, gleaming new black carriage that Kemble had sent to take her to the charity auction, wearing the new dress she had collected only the day before from Madame Boisseron. Using up yet more of the money from her savings, but she knew this was something she needed to do. The neckline, high as a débutante’s, would have them all talking, but Alice did not care.

The carriage rolled to a stop and the door opened. She took a deep breath, summoned up a smile and the protection of her persona, and, taking the footman’s hand, let him help her down to step outside.

A crowd had gathered to watch society’s richest and most famous turn out in force. Newspaper artists were sketching in a frenzy. Reporters were scribbling notes. Voices in the crowd were shouting her name. ‘Miss Sweetly!’

‘Is it true that a dance with yourself is to be auctioned, Miss Sweetly?’

‘Now that would be telling.’ She smiled. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, gentlemen.’

‘I’d pay me last farthing for a dance with you, Miss Sweetly,’ an old man at the front of the crowd shouted. He looked poor, his face lined from a hard life.

‘Then you’re a very generous man, sir.’

The crowd laughed.

She walked right up to him. ‘And I like a generous man.’ She smiled and kissed his cheek.

The old man beamed. ‘God bless you, Miss Sweetly.’

The crowd erupted in a roar of astonishment and delight, then took up the old man’s chant. ‘God bless you, Miss Sweetly.’

She smiled and made her way up the red carpet that lined the stone stairs up into the fine mansion house.

The light of a thousand candles magnified through the crystal drops of the chandeliers and wall scones blazed as bright as daylight dazzling her eyes. She paused for just a moment on the threshold of the ballroom, collecting herself and letting her gaze drop down to the skirt of her dress, the silk of which was newly imported from India. Its colour was a highly unusual pale-green aqua that reminded her of Canaletto’s sky. It made her remember the words Razeby had uttered so quietly at the Royal Academy.

Alice took a deep breath, and Miss Sweetly, with her head held high, walked into the ballroom.

* * *

Within the charity auction ballroom, Razeby was standing with Linwood and Venetia. He had heard the crowd outside chanting Alice’s name. When she walked through the door, the sight of her took his breath away. The dress she was wearing was pure, innocent almost, and yet sensually beguiling in every sense of the word. The colour made it a secret message that only he would understand.

He had thought it hard seeing her when he knew that he could not have her, hard being tortured by watching her dance with Devlin. But these past days of not seeing her were worse.

She smiled and sparkled as if nothing was different. But everything was different. It was so palpable that he wondered that everyone else could not feel it, too. She moved around, circulated, talked to those who had only bought their tickets to come here and see her. But she was very careful to keep her distance and more than careful not to look at him, not once. And by that small tell he knew that she was aware of his presence.

There was a little dancing, and then a light supper before the auction.

He drank champagne and chatted with Linwood and with Venetia, and he watched Alice. On the surface she seemed as she always did, that quiet contentment, that glow of slight innocence. But he could see beneath the façade to the real Alice and it was not happiness that he saw, but a pain and longing that mirrored his own.

On every other occasion she had danced. Tonight Alice stayed away from the dance floor. For the sake of the auction and the dance she was selling, so the whisper of explanation went.

Razeby should have been asking Miss Althrope or Lady Esme Fraser up on to the floor, but he made no move.

When it came to supper, Alice’s plate held a selection from the dishes spread out within the supper room, but she ate not one single bite.

Razeby did not bother to go through the pretence of the supper.

He willed her to look at him.

But she stubbornly refused.

And then, at last, it was time for the auction to begin.

The Foundation for the Support and Education of Orphans had engaged John Philip Kemble himself to play the part of auctioneer for the evening. Kemble’s noble bearing and great acting experience meant he knew exactly how to drum up interest, to create drama and effect and play a crowd. The Foundation wanted as much money wrung from the audience and Kemble was the man to do just that. He auctioned a glass of champagne with Prinny, a promenade around the room with Sally Brooke, a session of secrets and advice from the lady patronesses of Almack’s on how to land your desired catch from the marriage mart—his mother had told him to bid on that one—a personal poetry recital by Lord Byron, and, at last, the one that had generated the most interest, the one for which almost every man in the room had been waiting for—a dance with Miss Alice Sweetly, the sweetheart of Covent Garden.

Kemble introduced her and Alice, clad in the Canaletto silk, walked out to stand before them all. She smiled in that slightly shy way of hers. She was not sophisticated or polished. There was nothing contrived about her in the slightest. She was uncomplicated, beautiful, honest and the warmth in her heart and her soul showed in every glance from her eyes, in her every aspect. She did not think herself some beauty, even though she was. She did not pose or pout. But that indefinable quality shone out of her brilliant as a flame in the darkness. And Razeby knew that every man standing there was helpless as a moth before its pull.

‘Gentlemen, the dance for which you are bidding is...’ Kemble paused for effect ‘...the
Volse.
’

Razeby felt the muscle of his jaw tighten.

He saw the way Alice’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the hint of frozenness in her expression before she covered it with a smile. She had not known.

The hum of excitement moved through the room. The
Volse.
It was a dance of courtship and of wooing, for them at least. A scandalous dance that allowed something of an intimacy of both touching and conversation. It was a dance that belonged to Razeby and Alice.

* * *

The bidding opened up and there was so many tipping of programmes, so many nods of heads and raised hands that Razeby lost count. Like the rutting of stags, there was an undertone of competition and of pursuit. And all the while Razeby stood there and watched it, until the mêlée faded, brought low by the fierceness of the bidding and the enormity of the sums offered. Until it came down to two of the richest men in the room—Hawick and Monteith.

‘Two thousand pounds,’ Monteith offered.

‘Two thousand one hundred,’ Hawick came back.

‘Two thousand, three hundred.’

Quick as a flash, Hawick replied. ‘Two thousand, four hundred.’

‘Two thousand, five hundred?’ Kemble enquired of Monteith. But Monteith shook his head with the graciousness of the defeated.

‘Two thousand, five hundred anywhere in the room?’

Razeby saw the smile that slid across Hawick’s face, the certainty that he had won.

‘Going,’ said Kemble.

Hawick’s eyes turned to claim Alice, as if she was already his.

‘Going.’

Those surrounding Hawick were already shaking his hand.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ Razeby said in a lazy tone.

The gasp that went round the room was audible.