her. You know he never wanted us to go away in the first place. Well, not Clevedon, at any rate. Me, he was only too happy to see the back of.”
It was true that Mama had grown increasingly strident in the last few months. Her friends’ daughters, who’d come out at the same time Clara had, were wed, most of them. Meanwhile Mama was terrified that Clara would forget Clevedon and become infatuated with someone unsuitable—meaning someone who wasn’t a duke.
Why do you encourage Lord Adderley, when you know he’s practically bankrupt? And there is that dreadful Mr. Bates, who hasn’t a prayer of inheriting, with two men standing between him and the title. You know that Lord Geddings’s country place is falling to pieces. And Sir Henry Jaspers—my daughter—encouraging the attentions of a baronet? Are you trying to kill me by inches, Clara? What is wrong with you, that you cannot attach a man who has loved you practically since birth and could buy and sell all the others a dozen times over?
How many times had Clara heard that rant, or one like it, since they’d returned to London for the Season? “I know you meant well,” she said. “But I wish you hadn’t.”
“He’s been abroad for three years,” Harry said. “The situation begins to look a little ridiculous, even to me. Either he means to marry you or he doesn’t. Either he wants to live abroad or he wants to live in England. I think he’s had time enough to make up his mind.”
She blinked. Three years? It hadn’t seemed so long. She’d spent the first of those years grieving for her grandmother, whom she’d adored. She hadn’t had the heart to make her debut then. And that year and those following had been filled with Clevedon’s wonderful letters.
“I didn’t realize it was so long,” she said. “He writes so faithfully, it seems as though he’s here.” She’d been writing to him since she first learned to scrawl such inanities as “I hope this finds you well. How do you like school? I am learning French. It is difficult. What are you learning?” Even as a boy, he’d been a delightful correspondent. He was a keen observer, and he had a natural gift for description as well as a wicked wit. She knew him very well, better than most knew him, but that was mainly through letters.
It dawned on her now that they hadn’t spent much time together. While she’d been in the schoolroom, he’d been away at school, then university. By the time she’d entered Society, he’d gone abroad.
“I daresay he didn’t realize it, either,” Harry said. “When I asked him straight out what he was about, he laughed, and said I did well to come. He said he supposed he might have returned sooner, but your letters told him you were enjoying being the most sought-after girl in London Society, and he didn’t like to spoil your fun.”
She hadn’t wanted to spoil his, either. His had not been a pleasant childhood. He’d lost father, mother, and sister in the course of a year. Papa meant to be a kind guardian, but he had very strict ideas about Duty and Responsibility, and Clevedon, unlike Clara’s brothers, had tried to live up to his standards.
When Clevedon and Harry had decided to go abroad, she’d been glad for them. Harry would acquire some culture, and Clevedon, away from Papa, would find himself.
“He ought not to come home before he’s quite ready,” she said.
Harry’s black eyebrows went up. “Are you not quite ready?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Of course she’d be happy to have Clevedon back. She loved him. She’d loved him since she was a little girl.
“You needn’t worry about being hurried to the altar,” Harry said. “I suggested he wait until the end of May. That will give your beaux plenty of time to kill themselves or go into exile in Italy or some such or quietly expire of despair. Then I recommended he give you another month to get used to having his hulking great carcass about. That will take you to the end of the Season, at which point I suggested a beautifully worded formal offer of marriage, with many protestations of undying affection, accompanied by a prodigious great diamond ring.”
“Harry, you’re ridiculous.”
“Am I? He thought it was an excellent idea—and we celebrated with three or four or five or six bottles of champagne, as I recollect.”
Paris
15 April
Seduction was a game Clevedon very much enjoyed. He relished the pursuit as much—and lately, more—than the conquest. Chasing Madame Noirot promised to be a more amusing game than usual.
That would make for a change and a pleasant finish to his sojourn abroad. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to England and his responsibilities, but it was time. Paris had begun to lose its luster, and without Longmore’s entertaining company, he foresaw no joy in wandering the Continent again.
He’d planned to go to Longchamp, in any event, to observe, in order to write Clara an entertaining account of it. He still owed her an account of the opera—but never mind. Longchamp would provide richer fodder for his wit.
The annual promenade in the Champs Élysées and the Bois de Boulogne occurred on the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of the week preceding Easter. The weather, which had promised so well earlier in the week, had turned, bringing a chill wind. Nonetheless, all of Paris’s haut ton appeared, all dressed in the latest fashions, and showing off their fine horses and carriages. These went up the road on one side and down on the other. The center belonged to royal carriages and others of the highest ranks. But a great many attending, of both high and lower degree, traversed the parade on foot, as Clevedon had chosen to do, the better to study and eavesdrop on the audience as well as the participants.
He’d forgotten how dense a crowd it was, far greater than Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. For a time he wondered how the devil he was supposed to find Madame Noirot. Everyone and her grandmother came to Longchamp.
Mere minutes later, he was wondering how it would have been possible to miss her.
She made a commotion, exactly as she’d done at the opera. Only more so. All he had to do was turn his gaze in the direction where the accidents happened, and there she was.
People craned their necks to see her. Men drove their carriages into other carriages. Those on foot walked into lamp posts and each other.
And she was enjoying herself thoroughly, of that he had no doubt.
This time, because he viewed her from a distance, undistracted by the brilliant dark eyes and beckoning voice, he could take in the complete picture: the dress, the hat…and the way she walked. From a distance, he could pay attention to the ensemble: the straw bonnet trimmed with pale green ribbons and white lace, and the lilac coat that opened below the waist to display a pale green fluttery concoction underneath.
He watched one fellow after another approach her. She would pause briefly, smile, say a few words, then walk on, leaving the men staring after her, all wearing the same dazed expression.
He supposed that was what he’d looked like last night, after she’d taken her leave of him.
He made his way through the crowd to her side. “Madame Noirot.”
“Ah, there you are,” she said. “Exactly the man I wished to see.”
“I should hope so,” he said, “considering you invited me.”
“Was it an invitation?” she said. “I thought it was a broad hint.”
“I wonder if you hinted the same to everyone at the Italian Opera. They all seem to be here.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I only wanted you. They’re here because it’s the place to be seen. Longchamp. Passion Week. Everyone comes on holy pilgrimage to see and be seen. And here am I, on display.”
“A pretty display it is,” he said. “And exceedingly modish it must be, judging by the envious expressions on the women’s faces. The men are dazzled, naturally—but they’re no use