“No one ever thought to see Clare a married man,” said one lady.
“Rumors about his, ahem,abilitiesdid abound,” said another.
“Oh, pish,” said yet another, “no one would ever believe such piffle about a man like Clare. Just look at him.”
All eyes swung toward the marquess. Not a breath stirred the air as the collective gaze roved up and down his profile from afar. Hortense understood why. Her husband—with his dark tousled hair, stormy gray eyes, broad shoulders, muscular thighs that showed to particular advantage in his black superfine trousers, and quietly arrogant demeanor—was the sort of man who made a lady’s breath catch in her chest. There was no question as to his, ahem,abilities.
All eyes swung back to Hortense.
“So, the question is—” began one.
“How didyoumanage to catch him—” continued a second.
“Where so many others failed?” finished a third, unblinking.
Hortense tried a dismissive giggle, but the ladies were unwavering in their sincerity. They silently demanded an answer.Now.
Anyone who said aristocrats were soft as butter had never met these ladies. The Spanish Inquisition could have used their services.
She gave her throat a delicate clearing and began twirling the sapphire ring Clare had placed on her finger but a few hours ago. The movement had started as a nervous tick, but once she saw several gazes alight upon it and widen with envy, she used it as a tactic and kept twirling. Mesmerizing, all that sparkle.
“My parents were of minor nobility in France,” she began telling the story she and Clare had agreed upon and leaned heavily into the French accent she usually tried to minimize. “They had to flee the Revolution or lose their heads.” She gave a quick slashing motion across her neck.
This elicited a few shocked gasps from all save one lady, whose eyes had narrowed. “Oh, I understand now.”
“Understand what, pray tell?” Hortense asked. The look in the lady’s eye bade trouble.
The lady glanced about the group. “She’s French.”
The tension evaporated, and the ladies’ faces creased with knowing smiles. Hortense knew enough to keep her mouth shut and allow a knowing twinkle in her eye to do her talking. If that was what they wanted to think, she wasn’t here to argue with them. It would only enhance her and Clare’s notoriety and increase their chances of catching the attention of the Duke of Rothesbury.
“Then you must know the meaning of the French wordenceinte, no?” asked one lady with wide, innocent eyes and eliciting more than a few titters.
“Oh, we French have letters for preventing such an occurrence,” Hortense returned, eliciting no fewer than five shocked gasps.
“Lady Clare, you are a bit of a scandal, aren’t you?” No small amount of delight sounded in the question from yet another lady who had joined the expanding group. Hortense felt herself becoming quite the sensation.
She was opening her mouth to reply when a familiar form caught her eye and tugged on the edge of recognition. It was a lady she’d seen before; she knew it. But who was she…
If the lady’s identity had been a solid object, it would have plonked her on the head.Lady Fortescue.And the lady was now offering a shallow curtsy.
Hortense froze. It would appear the ruse had reached its end. For in a matter of seconds, Lady Fortescue would recognize the woman she’d hired to rescue her not-so-beloved pup from a disgruntled former lover.
Hortense’s heart skipped along in unsteady beats inside her chest. If ever she would lose her nerve, this was the moment. The lady made fleeting eye contact, murmured her felicitations, and kept moving along, her face betraying no hint of recognition, as cool and indifferent as ever.
Hortense released the breath that had hitched in her chest. Lady Fortescue didn’t know her. She could bellow with wild, giddy relief. They’d only met the once, several weeks ago when she’d been hired. For the duration of the interview, the lady hadn’t glanced up from her needlework once. At the time, it had felt bloody insulting.
Now, well, she’d never been so happy to have been insulted.
Mrs. Arbuthnot stood before the open double doors at the far end of the room. “Supper is served.”
A figure appeared before Hortense. The Duke of Wellington held out his crooked arm. “As a most special guest, please allow me to serve as your escort.”
She betrayed not a hint of shock as she gave a flattered giggle. Her gaze flitted about the room until she found the eyes she sought. Clare gave her a tight nod.
Saucy smile upon her lips, she said, “It would be my honor, your grace.”
A more magnificently appointed dining room she’d never beheld. A glittering chandelier, dripping from an opulent gold rose medallion, hung centered above a long, polished table that could comfortably seat everyone in attendance. Along its length ran a silver dinner service comprised of multiple serving platters, bowls, candelabras, and even dancing nymphs that appeared to have some relation to Greek mythology. Yet another spoil of war, no doubt. She’d never seen so much gold, silver, and crystal displayed in one room. This was life lived at its most ostentatious.
