Chapter Seven

C riticizing herself for her ridiculous fright at viewing her former home yesterday, Viv went with Suzette and the footman the next morning to market, then directly to the house.

The maid knocked again, and once more, no one came to the door.

“Perhaps he is away, mademoiselle.”

“I will leave my card,” Viv told her, and fished out from her reticule her silken card case and small pencil. She wrote upon the back of the good parchment of her desire to view the interior and ended with, Please respond. She expected that anyone would know where to find her rented house. The gossips published everything else. Her smooth, low voice, her penchant for vin blanc and chocolate. Even the hated fans.

Resigned to the lack of response from the majordom, Viv led the maid for home in the rue du Bac. The sun was bright, air fresh, their baskets filled with new white asparagus and fresh lettuce from the street vendeurs . All in all, still a good day. But as they paused before a window of Viv’s favorite patisserie, she noticed in the reflection of the glass that a tall fellow also paused.

She thought little of it. Sometimes she was recognized in the streets. Most were respectful and stayed away. A few ventured forward to introduce themselves and praise her work at the theater. Those people were, for the most part, women out shopping with their maids. Unusual, but nonetheless, it happened. They tended to be well dressed and mannerly. Viv had no problems with their approach or praise.

But this man did neither. He dallied as long as she did.

“Let’s go inside,” she told Suzette. “I’ve a desire for a small gateau. Cook has so much to do to prepare for our afternoon reception today, she’ll have less to bake for our guests.”

In the shop, Viv took her time. The apple tarts were of a thousand delicate puffed pastry layers. The tiny creme-filled shortbreads were iced a bright pink today. She sailed around the shop, glimpsing her follower now and then as he lounged on the corner. Crossing and uncrossing his arms, he seemed to give the appearance of one who was lost—or bored. But when she and Suzette emerged, Viv led them down a parallel street to home.

Few walked this lane, and so she could hear the man’s footsteps on the cobbles.

At a wine shop, Viv paused, and so did her man.

She could not lose him. She did not try. She led her maid home and, inside, gave her cloak to her majordom and asked both to remain a minute. “I must speak with you.” She beckoned them toward the window to the street. “Stand away from the drapes. You see this man in dark blue with black top hat?”

The fellow was so silly—yet so helpful—as to remain on the corner, and within sight of her house.

“Note his looks.” Swarthy coloring. A morning’s growth of beard already, at half nine. Large, dark eyes. “He followed us from the market today. If he appears again, you must write down when and how long he observes us. Notify others in the house to his looks so they are aware if they are followed by him too. Come to tell me of every instance.”

They both agreed.

“I will not countenance any of us being threatened.”

*

Hours later, ready for her first afternoon guests, Viv decided she had concentrated on her shadow long enough.

Whoever he was, she did not know him and had not met him. He was dressed as a gentleman, one with enough means to be clean and pressed but not à la mode . Who he was, why he tracked her, she had no idea. If he was a curious theatergoer, all well and good. Instinct said that he followed her for a reason. Yet he did not attack her. Not like those ruffians on the road near Rouen. She now had done what she should and made her staff aware of him. That was the whole of it.

At her resolve, she nodded to herself in the mirror and allowed Alice the last touches to her hair. Little rouge today was necessary because of the effects of the glorious pale pink of her new gown. The décolleté was discreet, fit for midday. She had no need to flaunt her proportions during daylight hours. In truth, she had no wish to display them at night, either. But then, for those invited today, she might still catch a fish.

She rose before her dressing table, heading for her sitting room and the hall when Alice called her back.

“Your fan, mademoiselle?”

“I don’t need it, Alice.”

The maid smiled and pressed her lips together in that look which said she knew better. “You always have it to hand when you entertain.”

“Ah.” Do I? Drat. “So many details.”

The maid had been with Charmaine for three years and knew every nuance of the actress’s habits. Fans in public, silk chemises, fine gloves to match gowns, cognac in her morning coffee, men, certain men, demanding but discreet, with specific sexual appetites. None of those delights had ever been counted among Viv’s particular joys.

She held out her hand for the fan. “ Merci beaucoup , Alice.”

“ De rien ,” said the young servant politely. During her tenure, Alice had learned some French from her mistress, and for this venture to Paris, she had agreed to accompany Viv. She knew only that Viv was to take Charmaine’s place here in France and that she was to go with Viv everywhere and ensure her safety. That was all the maid had been told.

Viv took her staircase down to her first-floor salon. The house on rue du Bac was a four-story townhouse built decades later than her former family home on rue du Four. Rented by the theater manager for Charmaine on her written instructions, the house was completely furnished. Charmaine had required a house ready to be used as an abode and as a place of entertainment. She required a staff to manage the place. Thus Viv had a butler or majordom, chatelaine , footman, housemaid, cook, scullery maid and Suzette, the kitchen maid.

She entered the salon and inhaled the drama of its appointments. Surrounded by pale green walls, the gilded ivory furniture was from the last century. In various shades of green to darker jades, the upholstered settees and chairs grouped together to enhance conversation. Viv preferred her little cottage gathering room to all this folderol, even though she admired its beauty.

“Is it all to your liking, mademoiselle?” Her majordom hovered by the threshold. An older gentleman of pleasing personality, Monsieur Allard Franck was a chubby little man devoted to his work. Her staff ran happily on his every word, and efficiently too. She could not say the same for her chatelaine, Madame Clery, who had few words and no smiles.

“Indeed, Franck. Please thank Cook and the staff for the array of dishes. I am certain the French will admire the pastry and the British the creams.”

“We expect eleven today, mademoiselle.”

“A full drawing room. Wonderful.” She clasped her hands together. “List for me once more those who have responded.”

He began with the ladies who had accepted. Two were wives of Bonaparte’s generals, another a widow of a French comte who had been a friend of her father’s. The last were a mother (also a widow) and daughter, both a lively part of this year’s social circle and both in search of husbands. The others were men, many married, others not. Most she had invited because they held high government posts and indulged in Society events to garner useful gossip. They knew how to carry a decent conversation, little of which focused on themselves. One was a dashing young widower, a vintner whose estate was in the Loire valley. Viv liked Luc Bechard and had invited him because he injected life and color into any salon he entered. She planned to go to Luc this afternoon if her conversation with Cyprien Montagne became difficult.

“A good mix for today,” she told Franck. She fluttered the damn fan. For once she felt natural using it.

She had no reason to be anxious. The afternoon began well, everyone enjoying the diversity of company, the wine an added aid to conversation. Cyprien Montagne took his time attempting to get her alone today. Perhaps he did not attempt to seduce women when the sun shone. Truth was, the man had invited her to three of his dinner parties and to two of his entertainments. She had attended all, heaven help her. Each time he had become even bolder, alluding to his desire to become more than friends. If she could ignore him, she would. Alas, she needed to be in his house and his company if she were ever to chance upon the likes of the Jarre brothers.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle.” Franck appeared before her. He looked perturbed.

“Is there a problem, monsieur?”

“If I might have a word, s’il vous pla?t? ” He nodded toward the hall.

She strolled with him.

“We have an uninvited guest at the door, mademoiselle. I understand he is a family friend, but I hesitate to admit him. He insists you will welcome him.”

Though she suspected who this bold person might be, she asked who he was. She need not have. She did not have Franck bar him. Nor did she scold herself at that weakness so much as welcome the relief he brought by his presence. Tate represented such an old touchstone of safety that, no matter how she wished him gone, she could not rob herself of the assurance of his company.

“I see, Franck. Do welcome Monsieur le Comte upstairs. I know him quite well, and I think he is acquainted with many here.”

Tate had evidently mounted the stairs right behind her man. Tate came strolling in, joyous in his coup, looking superb in stamped sapphire wool frock coat and Pomona-green silk waistcoat. Making her heart sing, he brought such light and air into her day.

“You are happy to see me,” he said with a roguish smile, and bent close to kiss her hand.

“You flatter yourself, sir.” She tossed off the allure of the lush touch of his lips to her skin and sent him a spirited lift of her brows. “Hungry?”

“Famished.” His gaze devoured hers.

“Come have your fill,” she said with a laugh. He was a man for suggestive conversations.

“I intend to.”

She swallowed her guffaw as she walked with him to her buffet. “What will you have?”

He stilled, his blue eyes with those bright green shards absorbing her. “Everything.” He cleared his throat. “I am here to save you.”

“From myself?”

“And any who would carry you away.”

His chivalrous words made her heart beat faster. Ever had he been her knight. “None from my own home, surely.”

“Some”—he paused and found Cyprien paces away—“are wily.”

She should not succumb to his endearments, and so she countered, “Do you not have serious work to do?”

Her footman appeared and offered him a flute of vin blanc .

He took it and raised the glass to honor her. “I am here, doing it. But I admit that I have challenges with my work, as few of my counterparts want to do business. I am often dismissed as if my cravat is too simple.”

She examined the elaborate twists and twirls of his blinding white neckcloth. “They are fools. My compliments to your valet.” Her gaze drifted up to the caress of his large eyes.

He drank, his lips moving with sensuous appeal, his tongue darting out, wet and intriguing. “And mine to you.”

His words hung in the air like gentle kisses.

At last she roused. “Shall I introduce you…?”

“I care not for anyone else.”

“Tate,” she managed, as her whole being flooded with the desire his bass voice imparted, “you are here to be sociable. Conduct business, oui ?”

“No. I am here only for you. To protect you from…anyone. And to invite you to come with me to rue du Four.”

She blinked. That was the last thing she thought he’d say to her. “What? Why?”

“Don’t you wish to go?”

“But…yes.” Did he know she’d been there? She’d seen him following her on occasion, and he admitted it, so…

“I want to go, too, Vi—mademoiselle.”

“To relive it?” She quickly tried to cover his near mistake.

He noticed a movement of others toward them. “Yes. I think it best. And I have news of it.”

“News?” she asked just as Cyprien Montagne joined them.

“ Bonjour , Monsieur le Comte. Good to see you.”

“And you, monsieur.”

Cyprien had already greeted Viv when he arrived, and so the conversation among them easily passed to lighter topics. Her cook’s pastries. Attendance at her performances. Bonaparte’s increasing antipathy toward the accomplished British ambassador, Whitworth, and his tirade against the man in public a few nights in a row lately.

“It worries me,” Tate said. “This peace is fragile, but it can offer us so much if we can agree on increasing commerce between our countries. Don’t you agree, monsieur?”

“I think, monsieurs,” Viv said with a grin, “much as I love a good discussion of money, I leave you to discuss trade and shall attend to my guests.”

*

Two hours later, her receptions completed, the guests drifted out. Tate had whispered he would adjourn to another room to talk. She’d told him to ask Franck for her small sitting room. Behind Tate came the last to leave, Cyprien.

Ever gallant—and opportunistic—he lifted her hand and pressed his cool lips to the back. “ Merci beaucoup , mademoiselle, for the afternoon. I have enjoyed myself very much.”

“I am delighted, monsieur. Please come again. I shall do this each Monday. I love good company.”

“As do I, mademoiselle. I give my annual masquerade in a few weeks. I have sent my invitations this morning and a special one to you, but this is my personal one.” He put her palm flat to his cravat and held her there. The intimacy revolted her. “Come, s’il vous pla?t . I know it is an evening when the theater is lit. Come after your performance. You will add such beauty to the party.”

“You are kind. Is there a theme?”

“The glories of Rome.” His beady eyes blazed with mischief.

She tipped her head—a real ingenue could not appear more na?ve. “That calls for a simple gown of cream.”

“Draped supplely over your perfect curves, mademoiselle.”

A hand to her cheek to hide her anxiety, she feigned joy at the compliment and gushed, “Now, monsieur, you must go home, lest my complexion become a permanent blush.”

She waited until she heard the last of Cyprien’s remarks to Franck drift up the stairs. Then she headed down the hall to her small salon. In a brief conversation, she’d told Tate to find the room as others began to leave the house.

She hurried along the hall, bypassing the staircase down, eager to see Tate and hear why he too wished to go to the house in rue du Four.

*

Tate sat in a chair reading, little Louis snuggled into him, draped over his thighs. She liked this room. Cozy with only two chairs and a chaise longue, it had one wall of bookshelves. The tiny room was made for one who liked to read. Viv spent much of her free time here. She was filled with a sense of déjà vu seeing Tate in a cozy chair with her little pet. Tate and she had always shared a love of books, plays, and animals.

As she walked in, Tate got to his feet. Louis scrambled to find a new comfortable position in the chair.

“Don’t you always marvel how animals remember people?” she said, proud of her pet.

“Those who love remember who loved them, no matter the years that have passed.”

His words felt like a reprimand of her recent behavior toward him. Unsettled, she sought to bring him to the issue at hand. She sat on the chaise longue. “Why do you wish to go to rue du Four?”

“It would be helpful to remember—”

“Those who loved us no matter the years that have passed?”

“That,” he said, his rich jade gaze examining her with sweetness, “and what happened that night.”

She sucked in a breath. “I have not forgotten a thing.”

He gazed at her long and hard as if to question that, then took the space beside her. “Are you certain?”

“I do not forget the who, what, and how of that night.”

His thigh warmed hers. His words were a tender balm against the chill of remembrance. “I recall the color of your gown.”

“Blue with tiny white stripes.”

“Diane’s was—”

“Green,” she said with distaste. “Emerald muslin.”

“You and Diane reined in Charmaine.”

She tipped her head. “The speed with which you jumped from the carriage to get Diane.”

His jaw flexed. “You mean the way I failed. The way the gendarmes hurried her away to a waiting tumbril. Diane was so brave, cursing them, angry. They knew her name. Her full name.”

Viv caught her breath. “They called her by name?”

“They did.”

“I didn’t remember that! How could they know it?”

“I have asked myself that for ten years. Our own carriage was hired. We had no escutcheon on the door.”

She was confounded. “We were four women in that carriage with you. Mama, yes. But who would know we three girls?”

He nodded. “Two who looked exactly alike…”

“Charmaine and me. But Diane was the one who was different. Not blonde, but with copper hair.”

“None of you wore fine clothes,” he said.

“On the contrary—Charmaine wore her pearls,” Viv said with distaste.

“And sat on her gold Louis,” he added, “like a queen on her throne.”

“She didn’t have all her gems,” Viv said, bitter about her sister’s never-ending greed.

“She kept harping on that. Even your mother did not pine for jewelry that day.”

“No. Just my father. That’s all she wanted.” And would never have him near her again.

“I am surprised,” Tate said with a frown, “you have not gone to the house before this.”

“No. I—I’ve been busy. It takes time and energy.”

He stared at her with sorrow in his gaze.

But he did not ask once more why she did this. For that, she was grateful. The assurance of his presence flowed over her. “I do want to go to the house, Tate. If you come with me, we can recall more than if going alone.”

He took up her hand and put it to his lips.

She grew melancholy. “Do you think the majordom will let us in?”

“I do. A friend of mine whom you have not met rented the house months ago. He knows the current caretaker.”

She nodded, eager now and relieved to go. “So too does one of my maids.”

Tate drew her closer. “We are resolved, then.”

His hold on her sent rivers of remembrance through her, of other days and nights when he had touched her. All in friendship. “We are.”

He stood, her hand still in his. “Tomorrow, then? After we ride?”

She laughed, happy he would join her and thrilled he did not let go of her hand. She got to her feet. “Why not?”

“Why not, indeed.” He stood too near, his scent too alluring.

She sought to recall her training as Charmaine. Her older sister would never allow a man she did not want so close. “On…on second thought, not after we ride. All of that is so public.”

“You worry others may hear of it?”

I wonder if my shadow may find it interesting. “Yes. Gossips will read of it, remark and make us into lovers.”

“We know who we are,” he murmured, and those memories of long ago rose up to draw her gaze to his lips, her fingers to curl in want of him. “We will appear to be two old friends who make a journey together to the past.” He put his other hand to her cheek. “The present can be so much more fulfilling than the past.”

She pulled back. “Can it?” I find it more terrifying.

“To be together once more, it will. Give us the chance.”

“Why?” To be with him once more created so many problems. She could not succumb to his charm, and she took a step around him.

He caught her wrist. “When I went to find you on the estate last June and you were gone, I left a letter. You did not answer.”

“I did not know you were in England, nor that you came to see me. I…I have not returned to my cottage since last spring.” That was true. But did she tell him too much? Reveal in her tone how her heart ached to learn this now? Now, of all miserable times, when the admission changed nothing.

“I long to tell you now what I wrote in my letter.”

Her gaze flashed up to seize his. She should not ask. She should not want to know. But she did. “What did you write?”

“An apology.”

“No, no apologies! You’ve given enough!”

“For the years I had to leave you, yes! For my father’s demands. The marriage I could not postpone or annul or even end through divorce.”

His marriage that showed her how she was so wrong for him. How she would never become his wife. “Tate, you are not responsible for what others have done.”

“It made hell for us, for you, so yes! I will say this. All of it. All that kept me away. Now Belinda is dead, Vivi. I did what I must by all the rules of Society and I kept away from Norfolk and you for a year. It appeared I mourned her…but I do regret it was less than that.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She could not see him. But oh, she felt the iron bands of his embrace, the drum of his heart, the fine marble of his male form, and, yes, even his raw desire for her.

She clutched him. The man she’d adored since she was a girl. The man she’d admired and yearned for lo these many years. He was free now. A widower. A man untethered from the woman whom his father had chained him to with wealth untold and threats fantastic.

He lifted her face with both his hands. “I looked for you last spring because I wanted to tell you everything new and bright and possible then, but you were nowhere to be found. I went to George Farland.”

The man whose proposal she’d once considered taking. A tenant of Tate’s. A fine farmer. A fine man. One she could not marry because she did not love him. “Poor George.”

Sorrow suffused Tate’s manly features. “He did not know where you’d gone. I searched and found Charmaine in London. I caught her in her townhouse just as she was moving. But she said she did not know where you were.”

Viv winced. Charmaine always knew where Viv was. But it was news to Viv that Tate had gone to Charmaine, asked for her, and her sister had turned him away with no details.

He thumbed her tears away. “I searched, my sweet Vivi. I wanted to tell you this. Tell you more. Everything I have wanted to say for years!”

Viv stared at him. Charmaine could not tell him last spring where Viv was, lest the news ruin their project. So of course Charmaine had turned Tate away with no information.

Tate’s voice caught as he moved to embrace her. “But I have found you now. And I can say what I have wished to tell you for years. I value you. I admire you. I need you and I will not lose you again.”

Overwhelmed, she caught her breath.

He took her lips. His were warm and firm. He parted hers with a brush of his tongue to the seam. He darted his tongue inside, claiming all of her.

And for once, she let him have her, for she would not, could not, deny him or herself. Her lips molded to his with all the years of longing for him gone with the pressure of one kiss, and two, and another. Her arms bound him closer.

On a gasp, he bore her down to the chaise, her back to the silken damask, her legs open and his between hers. His kisses were stark and deep, fast and luxuriously wicked, his flesh searing hers.

This was what she had wanted from him since she was sixteen. She could not have enough now. His lips on hers. Her hands in his silken hair. His fingertips stroking her throat.

She gazed up at him, shocked she had him in such passion after so many lonely years. But she could not have him. Too much had changed.

She pressed her fingertips to his lips. “We must stop.”

He shook his head. “No. Not now that we have each other again.”

“We do not have each other.” Cannot now.

He reared back on his elbows and shook his head. “Let me be clearer, then. Last year, when I came to tell you I was free, I came with a special license.” He ran his fingers through the tendrils of her hair. “My darling, I came to marry you. I want you as my wife. I want you as my own.”

She stared at him, proud of his choice, furious at her own. “I wish…I wish I’d been there. But I was not, and now…things have changed.”

She’d fallen in love with him years ago. She was young, na?ve, giving herself to fantasies, assuming she could have him. Thinking she was worthy, even though she was no one and poor. But his tenants suffered from his father’s bad management with floods and fires, and famine too. The man demanded Tate marry a girl he’d never met. Viv had been left alone to survive her mother’s creeping madness and death. To see Charmaine leave her with promises of fame and fortune and a prompt return. Viv had raised her chickens, ducks, pigs, and herbs. She’d confided her woes to kind old Fred, her donkey. She’d sold her eggs and chicks and herbal remedies. She’d survived alone.

And to learn that there could have been an end to her strife last spring was suddenly no salve to her wounds. She had gone from her little house, her friends and her animals and her herbs and garden. Left them to her purpose. Now she was committed here in this hellish city. Cursed, she must be, to have found some peace, only to be drawn back into chaos.

She pushed him away. “Stop. We must.”

He slowly let her go. His features, awash in confusion, turned stern. “I will not.”

“We have no future.” She rose and brushed at her skirts. Not with what I plan.

He shot to his feet. The look in his eyes grew dark with longing as he encircled her waist with both arms. “We can take it now. Our path to happiness is clear for the first time in our lives. I adore you, Vivienne. Since you were young, I laughed with you, was at once proud of you, who you were and what you were. And this—this imitation of your sister is nothing you can easily do and get away with, because you are and always have been a terrible liar.”

“You are wrong.”

“I will prove it. Tomorrow morning,” he said as he straightened his waistcoat and shot his cuffs, “we take our ride. Afterward we visit rue du Four.”

He strode toward the door, then faced her. “We will face the past. Then we will see what the man who follows you thinks of that.”

He knew about that man who stalked her! She opened her mouth to warn him off.

“Yes, I discovered him long ago, my darling. I have others following him to his den, wherever it is he hides. We will discover whom he works for. So we ride in security everywhere we go. Then, in hope for a brighter tomorrow afterward, we inspect rue du Four.”

She set her jaw and would have argued.

“But I will hear no more denial of what we are to each other. None.”