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Authors: Lauren Willig
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apples in Eden.
“Marston.”
“You know him?”
Adventurer, opportunist, close friend of the First Consul’s brother-in-law, Joachim Murat, Georges Marston had left Paris under a cloud not long after Miss Wooliston’s arrival in Paris.
“Unfortunately. What is Marston doing bothering Emma?” Jane’s brows drew together with concern. “Come along. We’d best rescue her.” She started busily forward.
Augustus didn’t follow. “Are you sure she needs rescuing?”
Jane paused. “Emma may be fierce, but she is small. And Marston isn’t beyond using force. Strength of character only goes so far against brute strength.” From the expression on her face, she wasn’t thinking of Emma.
That wasn’t what Augustus had meant.
“Didn’t you know?”
Jane frowned. “Know what?”
Augustus would have thought all Paris had heard.
Perhaps not, though. It had been two years ago, before Jane’s time. For all Jane’s clandestine excursions, she was still an unmarried female. Paris might be more hedonistic than London, but even in France, there were certain topics one simply didn’t mention in the presence of maiden ladies.
Augustus gestured towards Marston. “That he and your Emma were lovers.”
Chapter 5
“Alack! For sin will out,
Howe’er so far we flee and hide;
To light it rise and know no doubt,
’Twill engulf ye like the rising tide.”
—Augustus Whittlesby,
The Perils of the
Pulchritudinous Princess of the Azure Toes,
Canto XII, 72–75
G eorges Marston possessed himself of Emma’s hand, bending to press a kiss to the back of it.
“Madame Delagardie,” he murmured, and, for a wild moment, Emma thought she had escaped, that he intended to be civilized and let bygones be. Marston lifted his head, his full lips curving in a sensual smile. “Emma.”
Or maybe not.
“Monsieur Marston,” Emma said stiffly, repossessing herself of her hand. “I trust you have been well.”
Marston’s gaze dropped from her eyes, to her lips, and below. “So formal…Emma?”
It wasn’t fair. Most of Paris accumulated amours as though they were going out of style. And she? She had committed one little indiscretion, followed by two years of absolutely impeccable behavior. Well, almost impeccable,unless one counted a little bit of recreational flirting, which hardly amounted to anything by any standards.
Didn’t Marston have a more recent inamorata to bedevil with his attentions? Someone? Anyone?
Emma snuck a glance at Kort. Kort, she was quite sure, wouldn’t understand the culture of casual carnality that had ruled the early days of the Consulate. Nor would he take “It was years ago, really, it was!” as an adequate defense.
Emma thought of her mother and her siblings back home and repressed the urge to shudder. There were some things beyond their comprehension or their forgiving, bits of her life they would never understand. It was all so simple for them. Marry, procreate, go to church on Sundays, attend the legislature in Albany, tend the tenant farmers, and pay calls on cousins. So simple and so easy.
No, no need for Kort to know about Georges. All she could do was attempt to finesse the situation as best she could and hope—oh, hopeless hope!—that Marston behaved himself or that Kort’s French would prove inadequate for nuance.
Unfortunately, a leer was a leer and Emma was Emma in just about any language.
Feathers bouncing, Emma gestured to her cousin. “Monsieur Marston, I don’t believe you know my cousin, Kortwright Livingston. Kort, this is Mr. Georges Marston, who occupies a very interesting position of some sort in Mr. Bonaparte’s army.”
Kort stepped closer to Emma. “A very interesting position of some sort?”
“Oh, you know.” Emma wafted her fan. “Military matters. Marching and things that go bang. What else is there to know?”
Kort ranged himself beside Emma, a self-appointed bodyguard. “Where are you stationed, Mr. Marston?”
“Colonel Marston,”
“Marston.”
“You know him?”
Adventurer, opportunist, close friend of the First Consul’s brother-in-law, Joachim Murat, Georges Marston had left Paris under a cloud not long after Miss Wooliston’s arrival in Paris.
“Unfortunately. What is Marston doing bothering Emma?” Jane’s brows drew together with concern. “Come along. We’d best rescue her.” She started busily forward.
Augustus didn’t follow. “Are you sure she needs rescuing?”
Jane paused. “Emma may be fierce, but she is small. And Marston isn’t beyond using force. Strength of character only goes so far against brute strength.” From the expression on her face, she wasn’t thinking of Emma.
That wasn’t what Augustus had meant.
“Didn’t you know?”
Jane frowned. “Know what?”
Augustus would have thought all Paris had heard.
Perhaps not, though. It had been two years ago, before Jane’s time. For all Jane’s clandestine excursions, she was still an unmarried female. Paris might be more hedonistic than London, but even in France, there were certain topics one simply didn’t mention in the presence of maiden ladies.
Augustus gestured towards Marston. “That he and your Emma were lovers.”
Chapter 5
“Alack! For sin will out,
Howe’er so far we flee and hide;
To light it rise and know no doubt,
’Twill engulf ye like the rising tide.”
—Augustus Whittlesby,
The Perils of the
Pulchritudinous Princess of the Azure Toes,
Canto XII, 72–75
G eorges Marston possessed himself of Emma’s hand, bending to press a kiss to the back of it.
“Madame Delagardie,” he murmured, and, for a wild moment, Emma thought she had escaped, that he intended to be civilized and let bygones be. Marston lifted his head, his full lips curving in a sensual smile. “Emma.”
Or maybe not.
“Monsieur Marston,” Emma said stiffly, repossessing herself of her hand. “I trust you have been well.”
Marston’s gaze dropped from her eyes, to her lips, and below. “So formal…Emma?”
It wasn’t fair. Most of Paris accumulated amours as though they were going out of style. And she? She had committed one little indiscretion, followed by two years of absolutely impeccable behavior. Well, almost impeccable,unless one counted a little bit of recreational flirting, which hardly amounted to anything by any standards.
Didn’t Marston have a more recent inamorata to bedevil with his attentions? Someone? Anyone?
Emma snuck a glance at Kort. Kort, she was quite sure, wouldn’t understand the culture of casual carnality that had ruled the early days of the Consulate. Nor would he take “It was years ago, really, it was!” as an adequate defense.
Emma thought of her mother and her siblings back home and repressed the urge to shudder. There were some things beyond their comprehension or their forgiving, bits of her life they would never understand. It was all so simple for them. Marry, procreate, go to church on Sundays, attend the legislature in Albany, tend the tenant farmers, and pay calls on cousins. So simple and so easy.
No, no need for Kort to know about Georges. All she could do was attempt to finesse the situation as best she could and hope—oh, hopeless hope!—that Marston behaved himself or that Kort’s French would prove inadequate for nuance.
Unfortunately, a leer was a leer and Emma was Emma in just about any language.
Feathers bouncing, Emma gestured to her cousin. “Monsieur Marston, I don’t believe you know my cousin, Kortwright Livingston. Kort, this is Mr. Georges Marston, who occupies a very interesting position of some sort in Mr. Bonaparte’s army.”
Kort stepped closer to Emma. “A very interesting position of some sort?”
“Oh, you know.” Emma wafted her fan. “Military matters. Marching and things that go bang. What else is there to know?”
Kort ranged himself beside Emma, a self-appointed bodyguard. “Where are you stationed, Mr. Marston?”
“Colonel Marston,”
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