What was he talking about? Emilie looked at Dartois and then at the Duke. The former appeared as though he had won some verbal game while the latter continued in stony silence. Avers? Who was this Avers? Was he really the Duke of Tremaine? Had he been lying about his identity as well as his purpose in Paris?
“Ah, I think you know my beautiful companion?” Dartois stretched out an arm to the woman who stood behind him who had, until that moment, been obscured from their view. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Gravesend.”
“My Lord, how delightful it is to see you in London again. We were quite lost without you.” The woman stood at Dartois’ side, tall and slender, with fair colouring and fine features, a beautiful dress of pale pink silk hugged an enviable figure and a diamond necklace glittered on her neck.
Her effect on Tremaine—or Avers—or whatever he was known by, was acute.
Emilie saw him jolt at her appearance. His composure, beneath the mask, faltered and then fractured completely. As it broke, she saw deep shock marked in his eyes and open mouth, and her heart ached for the man before her. This confident English Lord, who had been so sardonic and aloof and yet displayed such kindness and care towards her, suddenly appeared vulnerable. Everything within her desired to reach out and smooth away the hurt with a gentle caress.
“Your Grace,” Avers said between gritted teeth.
His voice sounded alien to Emilie, formal and rigid.
“May I congratulate you on your recent marriage to the Duke,” Avers said politely. “He is a fortunate man.”
Whatever effect this woman had on Lord Avers, it did not appear mutual. She remained unaffected and bestowed a condescending smile across the party.
“You’re too kind.”
“I do not think he is, Your Grace,” Dartois said. “Not fortunate but clever. Any man who allowed you to slip through their fingers was a fool indeed.”
The Duchess laughed, the sound light and musical—and practised.
“My companion, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois said, finally presenting Emilie.
The young Duchess only gave the briefest incline of her head, and her pretty lips pursed slightly. Her Grace knew exactly what sort of woman was being presented to her. Despite this, Emilie curtseyed low. When she rose, Avers was still staring at the woman.
Dartois began saying something about the Duke of Gravesend’s vast estates and the Duchess glowed with pride while Avers listened. Emilie watched him, the fractures in his composure slowly closing over and the shock now only visible in his eyes. She saw a muscle bulging at the corner of his jaw where he clenched his teeth. For this woman to have such an effect on him, she had to be…
A deep ache started in Emilie’s chest. This was the woman he loved. The one who’d broken his heart. And to still have such an effect on him could only mean his love for her had not died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Avers recognised the dark pleasure in Dartois’ eyes at the situation he had conjured up. How the Marquis had found out about his connection with Miss Curshaw—that is, Her Grace the Duchess of Gravesend—he wasn’t sure. Yet it felt as though Avers’ appearance here tonight had not surprised him. In fact, it felt as though Dartois had been ready and waiting with the Duchess as his trump card.
“The Duke has skill indeed,” the Marquis said. “Not only to catch you, Your Grace, but to keep you.”
Yes, Dartois knew about Avers’ relationship with Miss Curshaw and he was purposefully needling him.
Then again, most of London had known when Avers had left. That was part of his reason for leaving. That and the pain. Pain which, over the months, had healed, but the shock of being confronted by the Duchess had brought the memories of that suffering back to mind.
And Dartois was like a cat with a bird. Repeatedly dragging the conversation back to places where he could pin it down and inflict the most damage on his English adversary.
“My husband has been friends with Dartois for some time—but you have yet to tell me why we are so fortunate as to have you back in London with us,” said the Duchess. “I cannot fathom why you would choose to leave Paris. It is so beautiful and full of such Society. I long to go.”
Now the initial shock was wearing off, Avers found the discomfort easier to manage. In fact, he was seeing in the Duchess of Gravesend things he had been blind to before. The falseness to her laugh which never met her eyes. The over-flattery she used when speaking to others that carried with it a note of insincerity. And the way she had greeted Emilie—Avers’ indignation had yet to disappear completely. Had the Duchess always been like this?
“Have you enjoyed your trip, Lord Avers?”
Drawn back to the present, he rested his hooded gaze upon Her Grace, realising how cool his feelings towards this woman had become. “It provided a much-needed respite.”
“London was proving to be too much for you? Sometimes one must escape one’s own life, n’est pas?” Dartois taunted.
“London is a large city,” Emilie cut in. “I could understand wanting to get away.”
The Duchess scoffed.
Ignoring Her Grace’s impolite response, Avers turned to look at Emilie and saw in her eyes an understanding of the situation. She was trying to turn the conversation.
Then, Dartois’ hand came up to her elbow and Avers saw his fingers tighten around her in warning.
“And sometimes,” Avers said, drawing the attention back to himself, “that respite provides much needed perspective. With perspective, one can see things for what they are, rather than what one had assumed or desired them to be. Where beauty has beguiled, the truth can shine through, and suddenly something so very appealing is seen for what it is. I find London is not at all what I remembered or yearned for. No, my feelings are quite changed.” He kept his gaze on the Duchess, resting it on her until a faint colour appeared in her cheeks.
“I am here on business,” said Dartois, reclaiming power over the conversation.
“Business—is that what you call it?” Avers asked. He would not allow this man to continue to have the upper hand. There was no need for pretence anymore.
“Ah.” Dartois chuckled and leaned into the Duchess. “He is speaking of my friend the Comte de Vergelles. The poor man was recently apprehended on false charges of possessing stolen papers of some kind. The man’s innocent, but I’m afraid Lord Avers never liked him. Jealous of what another man possessed. It seems there is a pattern of behaviour here, n’est pas?” The Marquis flashed him a wicked smile. “And now he implies I have something to do with this fantastical plot. What an imagination he has! I am beginning to think he does not like me.”
“How awful,” the Duchess exclaimed, glancing between the two gentlemen, as if unsure how to react, before turning her blue-eyed gaze wide upon Avers. “Surely not, my Lord?”
“I’m afraid Lord Dartois has me at a disadvantage,” Avers replied, plucking at the cuff of his jacket to appear uncaring. “I was involved in no such dealings in Paris. He must be thinking of someone else.”
“Ah,” Dartois said, playing along. “Perhaps I am mistaking you for someone else, just as you are mistaking me for a common criminal. It is best, therefore, that we accept we were not what we first believed and part ways amicably.”
“How mysteriously you talk,” the Duchess exclaimed, fanning herself in an agitated manner, clearly unable to follow the conversation and finding her lack of a role within it unacceptable.
