Read Online Mad for Love by Elizabeth Essex - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Essex
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beautiful daughter to His Grace only yesterday, Count Blois.”
“Ahh. Very good. Now you must tell me”—Papa took Sir Joshua’s elbow and began to steer him away—“how goes the exhibition, and what you plan for the summer show.”
Which left Mignon with the large, slightly unkempt duke, who looked as creased as an unmade bed. “Mamselle.” He nodded at her in lieu of a bow over his bulk. “Will you walk with me?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead, my child.” Papa called his permission over his shoulder.
There was no possibility of refusal. Mignon drew in a tight breath. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will.”
“Very good, very good.” The duc placed his hands behind his rather broad back, and began a slow, stately perambulation along the edges of the ballroom. “Norfolk has a very spacious room here,” he observed, by and by. “What do you think it holds, ten, twelve couples? Of course my rooms at Bridgewater House, in Westminster, can hold twenty.”
“How very spacious for dancing, Your Grace.” Mignon said what she felt was required. “Of course your paintings—your wonderful collection—also needs room to breathe.”
“Ah, just so!” He beamed at her. “How good you are to understand that. But your refined sensibilities are, no doubt, due to your being French. English gels are all twelve to a dozen, but you’re like…a breath of fresh air.”
“Yes, that is very nice of you to say, Monsieur le Duc . But my mother, you know, was as English as you are.”
“Ah, was she? Better and better. No doubt she was a great beauty, too.”
“You are very kind to say so. I remember her as such, but perhaps that is only a daughter’s longing for her mother.”
“Just so, just so.”
They lapsed into silence—uncomfortable for her, though the duc showed some signs of unease as well. He was all pursed lips and puckered brow as they turned at the end of the room.
Though she dreaded to ask, she knew she must. “Pray forgive my impertinence, Your Grace, but I have a very great feeling that there is some topic that you are avoiding for politeness’ sake.”
The duke’s grey, bushy eyebrows shot upward. “Oh, well, yes. Yes, you are quite remarkable. Of course you would be very acute. Very sensitive.”
“Thank you.” Mignon searched for the right words—encouraging but consolatory. “I should like to be sensitive enough that you should feel you could confide in me, Your Grace. For your own sake, if not for mine.”
“Yes.” He stopped, and nodded his head, as if he were gathering resolution. “Well, the truth is, it has to do with your father, and—” He stopped and looked around, as if he feared eavesdroppers.
Though her heart was clattering in her chest like a rickety tumbrel, she let him lead her toward the tall windows, where fewer people were to be had. “Yes? About my father?”
“And the Blois Collection.”
“Oh, dear.” The room began to narrow down to the spot on which she stood, as if she were in a tunnel. Every other sound faded until her ears were practically ringing with her own fear.
“Yes, well you see— Devil take me, but this is difficult to speak of.”
She would not give in to the urge to run. She would not allow herself to succumb to the weakness in her legs, or the tight dread in her chest. She dragged in a shallow breath. “Yes, I understand. And I appreciate your discretion.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” A liveried footman stood behind the duke, bearing a silver tray with a card.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” the duke groused. But he still immediately took up the card, and read its contents. “Well, damn—oh, your pardon, mamselle. If you would be so good as to excuse me a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” What else did one say to a duc who held one’s future in his hands? Though her shivering heart could use the rest, the wait boded her quivering stomach no good.
Because there was worse to be had—no sooner had the duc departed, than
“Ahh. Very good. Now you must tell me”—Papa took Sir Joshua’s elbow and began to steer him away—“how goes the exhibition, and what you plan for the summer show.”
Which left Mignon with the large, slightly unkempt duke, who looked as creased as an unmade bed. “Mamselle.” He nodded at her in lieu of a bow over his bulk. “Will you walk with me?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead, my child.” Papa called his permission over his shoulder.
There was no possibility of refusal. Mignon drew in a tight breath. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will.”
“Very good, very good.” The duc placed his hands behind his rather broad back, and began a slow, stately perambulation along the edges of the ballroom. “Norfolk has a very spacious room here,” he observed, by and by. “What do you think it holds, ten, twelve couples? Of course my rooms at Bridgewater House, in Westminster, can hold twenty.”
“How very spacious for dancing, Your Grace.” Mignon said what she felt was required. “Of course your paintings—your wonderful collection—also needs room to breathe.”
“Ah, just so!” He beamed at her. “How good you are to understand that. But your refined sensibilities are, no doubt, due to your being French. English gels are all twelve to a dozen, but you’re like…a breath of fresh air.”
“Yes, that is very nice of you to say, Monsieur le Duc . But my mother, you know, was as English as you are.”
“Ah, was she? Better and better. No doubt she was a great beauty, too.”
“You are very kind to say so. I remember her as such, but perhaps that is only a daughter’s longing for her mother.”
“Just so, just so.”
They lapsed into silence—uncomfortable for her, though the duc showed some signs of unease as well. He was all pursed lips and puckered brow as they turned at the end of the room.
Though she dreaded to ask, she knew she must. “Pray forgive my impertinence, Your Grace, but I have a very great feeling that there is some topic that you are avoiding for politeness’ sake.”
The duke’s grey, bushy eyebrows shot upward. “Oh, well, yes. Yes, you are quite remarkable. Of course you would be very acute. Very sensitive.”
“Thank you.” Mignon searched for the right words—encouraging but consolatory. “I should like to be sensitive enough that you should feel you could confide in me, Your Grace. For your own sake, if not for mine.”
“Yes.” He stopped, and nodded his head, as if he were gathering resolution. “Well, the truth is, it has to do with your father, and—” He stopped and looked around, as if he feared eavesdroppers.
Though her heart was clattering in her chest like a rickety tumbrel, she let him lead her toward the tall windows, where fewer people were to be had. “Yes? About my father?”
“And the Blois Collection.”
“Oh, dear.” The room began to narrow down to the spot on which she stood, as if she were in a tunnel. Every other sound faded until her ears were practically ringing with her own fear.
“Yes, well you see— Devil take me, but this is difficult to speak of.”
She would not give in to the urge to run. She would not allow herself to succumb to the weakness in her legs, or the tight dread in her chest. She dragged in a shallow breath. “Yes, I understand. And I appreciate your discretion.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” A liveried footman stood behind the duke, bearing a silver tray with a card.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” the duke groused. But he still immediately took up the card, and read its contents. “Well, damn—oh, your pardon, mamselle. If you would be so good as to excuse me a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” What else did one say to a duc who held one’s future in his hands? Though her shivering heart could use the rest, the wait boded her quivering stomach no good.
Because there was worse to be had—no sooner had the duc departed, than
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