He bowed low over Madame Pertuis’ hand and, rather than kissing the air above, dared to lay a brief kiss upon the back of her glove, before rising and allowing the most provoking smile to curve his lips.
“I heard you were a lover, Your Grace,” Madame Pertuis said, an answering smile playing about her mouth.
Avers surveyed his hostess, her blue eyes making him realise the talk of Madame Pertuis’ beauty was not exaggerated. She had been the rage of Paris in her time.
But he was not here to admire beauty. Nor was he here to be a lover as his hostess termed it. His recent foray into that domain had left its mark and those wounds ran deep. When Wakeford had asked for his help urgently in France, it had been a blessing. Avers had left London and her behind.
“But I should warn you,” she carried on, the smile still present, “I have a jealous husband.”
The women behind them, who had been shamelessly listening in, began to titter at their hostess’ words. Avers inclined his head in submission.
“I should not, for a moment, wish to come between you.”
“You will join us? Or a drink perhaps?” Madame Pertuis asked, raising a hand to beckon a waiting footman. The golden thread in her dress sparkled as she moved, the brilliance of her dress adding to the radiant candlelight glowing from every surface and fixture in the room.
“A burgundy, please,” he answered, directing his gaze towards the footman who bowed and disappeared to procure the drink.
Avers’ hostess led him over to a vacant chair within the cluster of women who had been observing them. The few gentlemen present, standing behind the ladies, looked somewhat peeved by his being given primary position.
“May I present His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine—”
“Good evening,” Avers said, bowing to each lady in turn as Madame Pertuis spoke their names.
Introductions completed, his hostess inclined her head and told the gathering she must go and check on her other guests. Avers felt all eyes on him as he took his seat. There was a brief pause, and feeling some expectation upon him to lead a conversation, he was just taking a breath to begin when one of the ladies spoke.
“And what brings you to Paris?” The woman had been introduced as the wife of a much older gentleman standing behind them. She was fair, pretty, and the heart-shaped patch at the corner of her mouth quirked upwards as she smiled coquettishly at Avers.
He readied his well-rehearsed answer and engaged his audience with a sweeping look. And so the falsehoods began.
Emilie Cadeaux feigned interest in the Marquis de Dartois’ conversation. The gentleman—in his early thirties and a close friend of her main admirer—had been telling her about the latest salon at the Académie Royale.
In truth, she would rather be at home right now, not at Madame Pertuis’ fashionable gathering. The Comte de Vergelles had requested her presence here tonight, and a woman who relied on the admiration and gifts of others did not disobey their wishes. Even if the Comte had yet to appear this evening.
Vergelles had sent his friend on ahead to entertain Emilie, but the poor man did no such thing. Not that she would ever tell the Marquis that. He was always so attentive.
“It was very tall,” Dartois said, describing the sculpture he had seen earlier that day, “and wide.” He stretched out his arms and one limb came a little too close to the bundle of white wispy hair curled up on Emilie’s lap.
The creature unfurled, emitting a growl, and snapped so quickly at Dartois that it nearly got one of his fingers.
“Sacré bleu!” the Marquis exclaimed, snatching his hand away.
“Lutin, no!” Emilie scolded, stifling a laugh.
“Evil little imp!” Dartois nursed his slender fingers as if the small dog really had bitten them. “Why you are wont to keep such a cur as your companion, I shall never understand.”
Emilie bristled. Lutin was indeed a cur—a little stray she had found outside the Théâtre des Tuileries begging for scraps as an abandoned puppy. The memory only incensed her further as she considered the person who had dumped the unwanted animal—defenceless—in the centre of Paris.
But she swallowed the feelings down. She had learned to do so many years ago. Men did not like outbursts of emotion from women. They did not know what to do with them and considered them a nuisance, an irritating by-product of an otherwise entertaining object.
She feigned a laugh, tickling Lutin under the chin, causing the little terrier-like dog to gaze up adoringly at his mistress. “Not you, nor Lucien,” she said, referring to the Comte de Vergelles. “But this petit monsieur—he is my sweetest comfort and safest confidant, are you not mon petit hérisson?”
“I have yet to meet a hedgehog that bites,” Dartois replied waspishly. “Now, where was I?” He launched back into his description of the sculpture and was just regaining his flow when Emilie caught sight of Lucien.
The noble, clad in silver silk, had an effusion of lace at his throat and diamonds twinkling from both there and the buckles on his gleaming shoes. Gliding through the rooms, he gave off some feeling of otherness, moving like a phantom among the living. That’s what had so captured Emilie initially. He had seemed to exude some power over others. A power she could not account for, nor understand.
Many female eyes followed Vergelles’ progress. Eyes that vied to be those of his future wife. Emilie was not in the running.
The title of wife would not be dangled before her. No. The Comte had offered her a different one, befitting her status as a commoner—that of mistress.
She had not realised what the Comte expected in return for his lavish gifts at the beginning of their acquaintance. He’d spelled it out for her soon enough and she had been on the verge of letting him down gently when her living at the theatre had gone up in smoke. Now, her position was precarious and unless some other security appeared, Emilie would be forced to consider accepting his offer.
But not yet.
“Bonsoir, ma cherie,” the Comte murmured as he reached her side.
The French nobleman bowed over her hand, kissing the air above an emerald ring he had gifted her, hoping to speed her choice. Upon rising, his pale eyes ran over her appearance, and one dark brow arched.
“No matching earrings?”
Emilie’s fingers tightened involuntarily around Lutin’s collar.
“I have a fondness for my pearls.” She raised a hand and traced a fingertip over the perfect white gem dangling from her right ear.
They were not the earrings that Lucien had gifted her to match the emerald ring.
“And I think they suit this gown better than the emeralds,” she said lightly, as if it were a little thing, and turned away from his unyielding gaze. Readjusting the little red neckerchief on Lutin’s neck, she focused on breathing, in and out, in and out. He would give in soon. She had to wait for his initial anger to subside, and then she would throw him one of her disarming smiles and hope that he would not hold it against her.
