Some nights this sort of man, servile and obsequious, amused her. Not tonight. A frigid smile curved her lips. “Doesn’t that particular metaphor better describe blue eyes? My eyes are, in fact, plain brown.”
“Brown? Your eyes are no commonbrown”—The little toad all but spat the word—“Just look how the pink of your dress—”
“I do not own a single pink dress,” she cut in. “This dress is coral.”
“Ah,oui, my paltry English cannot capture the nuance of color. But the way thecoralbrings out the amber of your eyes reminds me of a ray of morning sun piercing a honeycomb with its warm glow.”
“Warm glow?” she repeated on a joyless laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. “I think you were closer to the mark with the diamond metaphor.”
She wasn’t certain about the flawless or brilliant parts, but the comparison cut strikingly close to her transformation over the last few hours. She may have been soft coal this morning, but, tonight, she was a hardened diamond. Tonight, she was adamantine.
Once again, her gaze scanned the garden lit by particolored star lanterns composed of translucentpapier-mâché. Small flames flickered and danced on the whimsical breeze, creating illusory images reminiscent of the fairies who once danced across her childhood ceiling. On a different night, this garden would enchant her.
Tonight, it did nothing of the sort. The cold fury from earlier had given way to an odd sense of distance from herself.
As her gaze darted from vibrant string quartet to perfectly manicured rows of fall flowers and on to the fleet of lanterns floating on the black void of the garden’s central fountain, she still detected no sign of either man. It would be easiest, of course, if Villefranche appeared before Nick arrived. Then she could get the seduction out of the way without any potential interference from Nick.
Of course, it didn’t escape her notice that her plan might have one flaw. Namely, how was she supposed to seduce a man who wouldn’t come within seducing distance?
She nabbed another flute off a passing tray, efficiently trading her empty for a full. The French made it entirely too easy to overindulge.
Sensing an opportunity while she gulped down half of the flute’s contents, the little toad tried another angle. “Your eyes shine with the fiery light of an avenging goddess.”
“Careful now,” Mariana began, “or you’ll deplete your entire repertoire of clichés before the night has a chance to truly begin.”
She was being insufferably rude, but she cared not one jot. In fact, the little toad’s eyes only shone brighter.
She glanced away from him in disgust, even as the wordfierycalled to her. This afternoon, she could have streaked across this garden like a ferocious, avenging goddess. Tonight, however, the emotion necessary to fuel such a dramatic flight lay just out of reach. In short, she felt numb and heavy, divorced from her emotions and bound by the lead weight she’d tied around her own neck: this seduction. She wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
If a little voice protested that seductions weren’t meant to be chores, that seductions were to be savored and enjoyed, she suppressed it with yet another gulp of champagne.
The little toad opened his odiferous mouth to undoubtedly spew yet another round of noxious, hackneyed flattery, when Helene fluttered to her right side. At the exact same moment, Aunt Dot came at her from the left. The little toad was entirely squeezed out. An awkward and uncertain silence stretched with the three women uniformly staring the man down. At last, he heaved a resigned sigh and shuffled off to try his luck elsewhere.
Mariana’s relief at his departure was short-lived when she noticed a palpable tension radiating off the two women flanking her sides. “Aunt Dot, you are acquainted with my honorary aunt, Helene de Vivonne, the Marquise de Chevreuse?”
“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Dot began, her eyes straight ahead. “I am, of course, your aunt by blood”—There was no mistaking the umbrage in her voice—“and we all know blood is thicker than water.”
“How true, Madame Montfort,” Helene intoned smoothly, her gaze, too, fixed in the distance. “I am merely Mariana’s aunt by choice.” Helene squeezed Mariana’s arm. “What is the saying? You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your friends?”
Aunt Dot’s mouth snapped shut, and Mariana began to long for the little toad. Abhorrent breath and leering gaze might be preferable to spending an evening wedged between two women who loathed one another for no better reason than one was French and the other English.
“Shall we take a turn about the garden?” Mariana asked, unable to summon the emotion to care one way or the other. They just seemed like the polite words to say.
“Ma chérie,” Helene exclaimed as their feet found a sedate, collective pace, “do you see our dear Charlet? One cannot miss him. So talented is he with his lithographs.”
Mariana followed the direction of Helene’s gaze and found the painter. He was indeed unmistakable with his towering height and ever-present smile. A small crowd gathered around him, basking in the warmth of a boyish good humor evident even from this distance.
“You are aware, of course, that Charlet was a dear friend to Géricault,” Helene said in a reverent tone. “Such a tragedy was the death of Géricault. The boy was only a few steps into manhood.”
“A tragedy?” harrumphed Aunt Dot. “When is a painter’s death from dissipation and licentiousness so uncommon as to be tragedy?”
“No, Aunt,” Mariana spoke before Helene could respond. “Olivia mentioned Géricault’s failing health when he showedThe Raft of Medusain London a few years ago. He suffered from a persistent lung ailment, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh,The Raft of Medusa—” Helene began.
“Obscene,” inserted Aunt Dot.
“—Tragique,” Helene continued as if Aunt Dot hadn’t spoken. “Those poor souls . . . to be abandoned after a shipwreck by their own captain.”
