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In formal evening dress, he looked more handsome than ever. His high-collared blue velvet coat, worn with a white silk cravat, matched his eyes; the frilled ruffles of his shirt showed at the wrists, and he wore black satin knee breeches and a sword with a ribbon rosette at its hilt. Even the powdered tie wig that went with full dress could not detract from his good looks, and the smile he gave her, lighting up his whole face, made her heart begin to pound.
He came forward to meet her, and she offered him both her hands without thinking to control her emotions. Nothing could spoil her happiness at this moment, not even the fact that out of the corner of her eye she had noticed the duke of Otranto, in his dark coat, leaning up against a wall and watching them with a guarded, sardonic expression.
“Philip!”
He bowed to her in a ridiculously formal fashion, responding in French, “A votre service, mademoiselle!” And then, in a husky undertone, “You are so beautiful tonight! I can hardly believe that I am lucky enough to be here and to see you smiling at me.”
“I am glad that you are here, too! Will you not ask me to dance, and quickly, before that fierce Russian approaches too near?”
The dance happened to be a waltz, newly imported from Vienna, and by the time they had made a few turns about the floor Marisa had recovered enough control over her senses to remember her resolution of a few moments before. It helped her to realize that Philip appeared suddenly to have become tongue-tied, gazing down into her flushed, smiling face as if he could not tear his eyes away.
“Is it true that in this club they call Almacks, in London, a young woman is not permitted to dance the waltz without permission?”
“The patronesses are very strict,” he murmured in a bemused fashion, watching her mouth—the arched upper lip and softly curved lower lip. Why hadn’t he noticed what a red, kissable mouth she had before?
“Then perhaps it is not proper that I should dance the waltz with you?”
“This is France, and it is quite all right. And you—you are so light in my arms, like a feather. I could dance with you forever.”
“I have been taking lessons,” she said demurely, enjoying the slight trembling of the arms that held her. Oh, yes, he wanted her—and she was surprised at herself for thinking in such a fashion.
The rest of the evening seemed to pass far too quickly. She drank more champagne, and it seemed to impart a golden glow to everything.
Marisa had chosen to forget her aunt’s warnings of the afternoon; she was a night-blooming flower, coming into her own in the glow of the chandeliers and the flame in Philip’s eyes. Duty and obligation were words tossed in the teeth of the wind, to be blown away like all her old fears and self-doubts. Tonight she was beautiful and just as sure of herself as any of the other lovely, bejeweled women who flirted behind their ivory fans.
Philip was falling in love with her; she knew it, sensed it, and hugged the thought to her as a talisman against the past. There was nothing violent about him, nothing fierce or savage that would turn on her to use her and hurt her. Tonight she found it easy to banish the memory of storm-grey eyes alternately mocking and angry, bending her to their will in spite of herself.
The first subtle beginnings of dawn had begun to silver the sky before Marisa found herself in her bedroom again, hardly able to stand for weariness. Her maid, grumbling her disapproval all the while, helped her undress. Her last conscious thought before she slept was of Philip—his golden hair shining in the lantern light as he bent his head to kiss her very gently and tenderly on the lips….
She was far too tired to dream, and waking was an effort for she had an unpleasant throbbing in her temples.
“Come on, sleepy head! This is no time to lie abed dreaming of your handsome Englishman! Wake up. Arlene is already packing for you, and we are to leave for Paris this very afternoon!” Edmée’s voice held soft gurgles of amusement as she watched Marisa struggle to sit upright, pressing her fingers against her forehead as she did.
“That’s better! There’s a lot to be done, you know. Some coffee with your breakfast will send away the headache. You drank far too much champagne, petite, but you will have to get accustomed to it, if you are to be introduced to society. And you shall be. Even he was impressed by the way our little sparrow has turned into a bird of paradise. So you are to go to Paris with us and meet everybody. But only if you hurry up and are ready in time!”
Like everything that had happened to her since she had arrived here at Malmaison to be enfolded in affectionate, warmly comforting arms, this, too, seemed like a dream, a rainbow-colored, fragile bubble that might burst at any time, dragging her back to reality. But here was Aunt Edmée reminding her that it was actually happening after all and that she would be staying at the palace of the Tuileries, former home of the kings of France and now the official state apartments of the first consul of France.
Marisa was far too dazed to question anything, and even the wan-faced Hortense smiled to see her pent-up excitement.
She whispered when they were finally in one of the carriages together, “I’m sure you’ll see your Englishman again. Do you think you really love him? He did not look at any other woman all evening. Perhaps, oh, perhaps you’ll be allowed to be happy and choose for yourself!”
Remembering her companion’s own forced marriage, Marisa felt almost guilty at her own feeling of happiness, which threatened to overwhelm her. She gave Hortense’s cold hand a little squeeze.
“Of course I will be! After all, I am no one important, so they won’t care!”
And at that moment, with the past behind her and the future stretching out ahead, she believed her own confident words.
11
Paris—the new side of Paris that she was seeing now was everything she had once dreamed it would be. Escorted by magnificently uniformed hussars, the entourage of carriages with gold-crested doors swept through the broad avenues, while people thronged the streets to stare and cheer.
Marisa became aware of the power that Napoleon Bonaparte wielded, and his tremendous popularity with the people. She almost felt herself part of a royal party, and her feeling was heightened when she noticed the obsequious ceremony with which they were greeted when they arrived at the palace.
Uniformed footmen took care of everything, and rooms had already been prepared with fires burning and fresh-cut flowers to perfume them. There was nothing to do except rest and recover from the effects of their journey here, and Marisa did so obediently for that very evening they were to visit the theater—the famous Comédie Française. And after that there was to be a late supper at the hotel of the Russian ambassador. She would just have to get used to late nights, that was all! She fell unexpectedly asleep then, while thinking blissfully of the crowded days and nights that lay so excitingly ahead.
“Tomorrow, we’ll have Leroy, the great couturier, come by and measure you for all the new gowns you’ll be needing,” the Countess Landrey announced when she swept into Marisa’s room later that evening. She added, with a twinkle, “And there’s no need to look so worried, love! You are my niece—and Landrey gives me an enormous allowance that I may do with as I wish. Later on, after we have written to your papa and he has forgiven you, and I am positive he will when he understands everything—don’t look afraid—well, then you will have your own pin money. But for tonight, you will wear one of my gowns. See. It is what they call here à l’anglais, very plain but cut by an expert, and it is the color that is everything. It was always a trifle too tight on me, but I have had Arlene alter it for you. Do put it on quickly; I feel sure it will suit you.”
Still protesting weakly, Marisa allowed herself to be dressed and turned this way and that as if she were a doll. She was still drowsy and far too dazed to do more than gasp when she saw herself reflected in the mirror.
Cut very low, and tightly banded beneath her breasts, the shimmering thin silk seemed to cling like a second skin as it fell in artful folds to her ankles. She looked like a golden statue, from her flat-heeled gold slippers to the crown of her high-piled hair.
Crimson rose petals, ruthlessly rubbed on her cheekbones and lips gave her pointed face the color it needed; and at last her aunt stepped back with a sigh of satisfaction.
“There! And now you will catch all the eyes tonight. They will all be asking who you are, and there will be many handsome young men begging for the honor of an introduction. And you must try and remember, petite, not to show a decided preference for any one of them. All men like the excitement of the chase—la poursuit, tu comprends?”
She was talking of Philip, of course. Had he thought her too forward, her feelings far too transparent?
‘But I don’t care—and Philip is not at all like that!’ Marisa thought mutinously. And once they had arrived at the theater and were seated in their magnificent box, she could not help letting her eyes wander over the throng in search of him.
She sat back almost immediately, realizing with an uncomfortable feeling that she was being stared at. Ever since the first consul had made his entrance, seating himself to the front of the box next to a magnificently attired Josephine, there had been more eyes on them than on the stage.
The play was an ancient Greek comedy by Aristophanes, one of those she had dutifully read during the past few weeks, but Marisa found it hard to concentrate. Wait until the intermission, she told herself. Surely if he’s here he’s seen us and will come to our box then. She noticed almost absently that her aunt, too, seemed restless, playing with her fan and letting her attention wander from the stage far too often. So she, too, was looking for someone. A new lover? Marisa’s mind went back to the teasing conversation she had overheard the night of the ball at Malmaison, and she wondered casually who her aunt’s latest lover was. Poor, lovely, gay Aunt Edmée—married so young to a man so much older than she was! In an age where marriages were arranged with no thought for the feelings of the woman involved, Marisa suddenly realized how lucky she was to have escaped such a fate. No matter what it had cost….
She had been dreaming, paying scarcely any attention to the play they had come to watch. Suddenly the lights seemed to have become brighter. She realized with a start that the heavy velvet and damask curtains had closed for the end of the first act.
The slight buzz of talk which had been going on all through the performance now seemed to intensify in volume. Heads were turned and lorgnettes raised as the occupants of the various boxes scanned each other. Now was the time for visiting back and forth, but if Philip were here would he dare, with Bonaparte himself present? Bonaparte was scowling in the direction of his sister Pauline, who, as usual, did not lack for male attention. But unlike Josephine, who had begun to chew at her lip nervously, Pauline paid no attention whatsoever to her brother’s displeasure.
Seated towards the rear of the box, Marisa began to look around again, trying not to make herself conspicuous. Perhaps Philip was not at the theater tonight. She had not known yesterday that she would be here herself.
There was a slight flurry as Napoleon Bonaparte, accompanied by his brother Louis, left the box. Josephine had a fixed smile on her face, but her fingers were pressed against her temples. Marisa felt sorry for her as she remembered the gossip she had heard that the first consul was enamored of a certain actress who was in this very play.
She heard Pauline’s shrill laughter as one of her admirers put his hand on her bare shoulder, and she leaned forward a little so that she could see better. Doing so, she encountered, with a disagreeable shock, the enigmatic eyes of Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto. He bowed and his thin lips curled slightly in what passed for a smile. Marisa looked hastily to the next box, and her own smile froze on her face.
She recognized Philip at last; he looked just as handsome and magnificently clad as ever, but ill at ease for all that. He was flanked by two women, one much older than the other, wearing a flowered turban and holding up a diamond-encrusted lorgnette. The younger one, an insipid, mousy-haired young miss wearing white muslin and pearls, had to be Lady Arabella Marlowe. How dared he? After kissing her last night, murmuring in a shaken voice the next minute that he was sorry to have been so bold but that her eyes in the moonlight had bewitched him completely.
And then, to add to her mortification, Marisa heard her aunt’s laughing voice saying, “Darling, do turn around and give us some of your attention! Here’s the Prince Benevento come to pay us his respects, and you’re wrapped up in some girlish dream!”
Flushing hotly, Marisa turned her head, and the shock she received rendered her speechless.
Her eyes, widening involuntarily, met and clashed with a pair of furious, steely grey eyes; and over the buzzing in her ears Talleyrand murmured urbanely, “May I present an American friend of mine, who is, I believe, already acquainted with the Countess Landrey? Captain Dominic Challenger—and this, of course, monsieur, is the pretty young niece of our lovely countess….”
Marisa hardly heard what he said. He bowed, without a word, his mouth hard and contemptuous. And she barely retained the presence of mind to incline her head stiffly.
Marisa felt as if she had been turned to stone. It was her aunt who saved the situation by putting her hand up to touch Captain Challenger’s sleeve as she murmured teasingly, “Shame on you, sir! After all your avowals last week, I had expected you to join us earlier.”
So he was the new admirer her aunt’s friends had referred to as her “dark-haired cavalier.” The last man on earth she had expected to turn up here—and just when she had begun to forget and feel secure.
Her knees had begun to tremble and turn weak, but thank heaven his eyes had transferred themselves from her to her aunt, who was smiling at something he had just said.
Marisa felt that she was not capable of coherent thought, and she felt vaguely grateful to the limping Talleyrand, prince of Benevento, who was tactful enough to engage her in casual conversation while the other two carried on their blatant flirtation.
“And how are you enjoying your first evening in Paris, mademoiselle? Or do you still miss the quietness of Malmaison?”
She answered mechanically, wondering all the while when the painful, angry thudding of her heart would grow less violent, allowing her to think.
Why was he still in Paris? She had wished—hoped—him halfway across the seas by now! And was it possible that he was actually her aunt’s lover? What a strange situation she found herself thrown into! She daren’t say anything—but then, neither did he.
Their box was suddenly crowded with people who came to pay their respects to the wife of the first consul and her friend, the vivacious, sparkling Countess Landrey. Marisa watched Dominic Challenger leave, without so much as a polite bow in her direction, with mixed feelings. She was relieved that everything had passed off so easily—and filled with rage at the same time, because she could not have denounced him in front of them all.
‘I acted like a frightened ninny! After all, I have nothing to be ashamed of. I should have been able to show him that his sudden appearance meant less than nothing to me, that he is the one who should be afraid in case I tell them all what really happened!’ Where had he gone? Would he be back?
Marisa’s thoughts were still confused when the next act began and all the visitors had left their box. She was still slightly stunned and quite unable to take any interest in what was happening on the stage.
“Darling, whatever is the matter? You haven’t been paying attention to anyone or anything! It wasn’t seeing your young Englishman with his bride-to-be, was it? If you remember, I tried to warn you….”
Edmée seemed unusually flushed as she leaned over to whisper to Marisa, and an unreasoning wave of hostility stiffened Marisa’s spine, forcing an unconcerned smile to her lips.
“You must remember that this is all so new to me! And as for Philip, he is merely fulfilling his obligations. Why should that matter to me?”
Edmée’s eyes widened at hearing her niece almost snap back in such a cynical, offhand tone. But she caught a frowning glance from the first consul and subsided into silence, her mind soon filled with other thoughts. The American—Dominic Challenger. It had been a long time since a man had intrigued and provoked her so. What had started out as a game to alleviate her boredom at the dull soirée where she had first been introduced to him had turned into something else since.
He had been plainly dressed and aloof, and it had amused her to flirt with him deliberately; she expected him to be dazzled—an easy, casual conquest. Instead, he had managed to turn the tables on her by living up to his name and remaining detached, even while he responded to her show of interest with all the proper gallantries. She had almost despaired of bringing him to heel until tonight when he had abruptly and almost bluntly asked her for an assignation.
Perhaps she should not have acceded so eagerly? Edmée’s fan fluttered vigorously, cooling her hot cheeks. There was something primitively male about him that made her shiver at the thought of having him make love to her. Those diamond-hard, silver-grey eyes that seemed to see right through her defenses, sensing her surrender before she had realized it herself. And that wicked-looking scar that added to the illusion of savagery barely held in check. She was almost frightened—but pleasurably so. She must remember to ask Talleyrand about him since the prince had introduced Monsieur Challenger as a friend.
Fortunately unaware of her aunt’s thoughts, Marisa was trying to compose her own emotions. She did not want to remember—anything! All those unpleasant events of the past had happened to someone else, not to her. Without quite realizing it, she kept her eyes on Philip. Had he seen her yet? Surely he must have! He looked awkward and ill at ease—in fact his face wore a strangely hard expression she had never seen on it before.
The plain young woman at Philip’s side kept fidgeting in her seat, fingers playing with her fan as she now and then cast shy, wondering glances at him. On his other side, the forbidding-looking dowager leaned over to say something—and to her he listened with every appearance of attentiveness.
Marisa found herself biting her lip. Oh, if only Philip had been sitting here, beside her! She would have liked to show Dominic Challenger that she had a young and handsome escort of her own. At least now that he knew she wasn’t the gypsy wench he’d thought her, and now that she was under the protection of the first consul himself, he would surely take pains to stay out of her way! ‘For all he knows, I could have told them everything—the way he treated me and then planned to sell me off to another man. Oh, but I would like to see him punished!’
Marisa’s cheeks were flushed, and her golden eyes held a brilliance they usually lacked, making them appear larger than ever in her small face. Had she but known it, she herself was the target for many admiring glances that evening. There were many questions asked. Who was she? Where did she appear from? And some of the glances shot her by other women were far from friendly. Her aunt’s gown, so daringly cut, gave her an appearance of sophistication. Tonight she was undeniably a woman, a very attractive woman.
Making his way to the American ambassador’s box, Dominic Challenger, his face a hard, cold mask that hid his fury and his feeling of being somehow made a fool of, heard comments that made his lips tighten.
“She’s probably Bonaparte’s latest flirt. Poor Josephine, no wonder she’s wearing a sad look of late. They say he forces her to keep his mistresses about her….”
What a transformation she had undergone! From gypsy pickpocket to drenched cabin boy, and now, in the space of the few weeks that had elapsed since she had run away without a word of explanation, Bonaparte’s mistress. Was she really the lovely Edmée’s niece?
Mr. Livingston, United States Ambassador to France, cast a quizzical glance at the scowling face of his fellow American, who lowered himself into his seat without a word. Captain Dominic Challenger was something of a mystery, and in spite of his preoccupation with other affairs, the American minister could not help but wonder, as he had done before, how many of the stories about this particular man were true. Less than a hundred years ago, he would have been labeled a pirate and would probably have been hanged for his crimes. Today he was a privateer—when it suited his inclinations, and when he needed the money. Livingston had heard the tale of how Captain Challenger had sailed into the port of Charleston in a captured English ship—renamed and flying the American flag. He’d stirred up a lot of old scandals since then, besides creating new ones of his own. Was it really true, for instance, that he had arrived uninvited at Monticello when Mr. Jefferson was entertaining certain prominent gentlemen from the state of Tennessee, to ascertain, he’d said quite bluntly, whether one of them happened to be his real father?
Challenger wasn’t his real name of course. His legal father had been an Englishman, a Tory whose estates had been confiscated after the Revolutionary War. But whoever or whatever he was, Captain Challenger had the advantage of friends and unofficial backers in high places. Hard faced and closemouthed, he had the look and manner of a born adventurer—not the kind of man that Robert Livingston would normally have cultivated, but in this case—
Livingston sighed to himself, recalling the subtle and not so subtle diplomatic negotiations that were taking place at that very time. They involved the question of the possible purchase from France of the port of New Orleans since it had been confirmed that Spain had indeed ceded the whole territory of Louisiana back to France. After the scandal of the X-Y-Z Affair and the ensuing strained relations between France and the United States of America, it seemed as if at last Bonaparte seemed willing to negotiate. Thank goodness the sole responsibility would no longer be his for he’d learned that the president was sending one of his most trusted advisors, Mr. Monroe, to help finalize matters.
Dominic Challenger had delivered certain secret dispatches from President Jefferson himself, along with others from Mr. Pinckney in Spain. Obviously, the president trusted him, and he also had contacts in the territory of Louisiana itself, not to mention New Spain, which made him knowledgeable enough to help in the negotiations that were going on. It was for this reason that Captain Challenger stayed on in France.
He’d managed to find himself certain sweet forms of consolation, however. The American minister let his hooded eyes wander from the stage to the first consul’s box, where the vivacious Countess Landrey sat leaning forward slightly, her full lips curved in an enigmatic smile. Was she the reason for the angry scowl that still darkened his companion’s features?
The drama that was being enacted on the brightly lighted stage went unremarked by far too many people although at its end there would be the usual storm of enthusiastic applause.
Marisa, trying to curb her disturbing thoughts, kept her eyes fixed on Philip Sinclair, willing him to look in her direction. She did not notice, as her aunt and godmother belatedly did, that Napoleon, who had returned to them in an angry mood, had begun to glance at her far too often, a thoughtful look on his face.
Philip Sinclair, for his part, made a conscious attempt to keep his eyes from straying towards a certain other box and its occupants. He realized that he still held his shoulders far too rigidly, but he could do nothing about it. The shock he had received upon recognizing a certain tall figure had made him go white, and even Lady Marlowe had remarked on it. Still stunned, almost disbelieving his own eyes, he had said more than he should, to be bombarded with eager questions from the old gossip.
God! He should have had more control over himself. But the sight of the last man in the world he had expected or wanted to see again, and here, of all places, had almost numbed his mind. Dominic—who should have been dead, or rotting away in a Spanish prison in Santo Domingo. Did his uncle know he was still alive, and not only that but on apparently good terms with the American ambassador in Paris as well? What was he up to? And—although he told himself grimly that he must not let the thought frighten him—had Dominic seem him? It was all he could do to remain seated, pretending that nothing was wrong and that his whole future and prospects hadn’t begun to crumble around him. A few more years—with his uncle’s legal heir presumed dead, he would have inherited everything. Damn those lazy, lethargic Spaniards anyhow! They had been paid enough, through obscure, secret sources, to make sure he died, working alongside their black slaves under the broiling Caribbean sun. And then, a few years later, when the proof was delivered—what had gone wrong?
Philip waited impatiently for the performance to be over; he wished he could have been seated in a less conspicuous place. He must see Whitworth, the British minister, and ask him to deliver a message to his father, who would know what to do. Thank God Whitworth was an old family friend! And he must see Marisa. Why hadn’t she mentioned she was coming to Paris? He had not seen her until the intermission and then, soon after, he’d received his second shock of the evening when Dominic had followed Talleyrand into Napoleon Bonaparte’s box. ‘Perhaps Marisa will be able to tell me what he’s doing here, and what name he is using,’ Philip thought feverishly. God, but she looked lovely tonight! If things had been different, he would have thought of nothing else.
Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto, had also been watching but for different reasons. It was his duty to watch all that was going on, and make his own deductions—helped, in part, by the efforts of his agents. Tonight had proved exceptionally interesting, and a chilling smile curled his thin lips as in his mind he began painstakingly to fit tiny pieces together that would eventually form a whole picture. All visitors to France during these tense times came under the surveillance of his men, and especially since there were more rumors of royalist plots in the offing.
Loyal to no one but the first consul himself, he trusted no one, not even Napoleon’s own wife and her friends—especially those out of the past. Now he allowed his eyes to rest again on the young girl in the golden gown who sat just behind her aunt. Such a strange reappearance, that! Her mother had been executed as an enemy of the Republic, and the girl had fled France as a child, only to return unexpectedly and mysteriously as a young woman. But how had she got here? With whom—and why? He had burned to question her from the beginning and had been put off; but now, at last, he had been given his instructions. Napoleon, his master, was inexplicably interested in the chit, and like any one of his prospective mistresses, her background was open to investigation.
He would enjoy questioning her, Fouché thought slyly. Was she really as innocent as she seemed or merely a pawn in someone else’s game? He would find out.
12
Unaware of all the intrigue swirling around her, Marisa tried to force some semblance of gaiety into her manner when at last they left the theater to drive to the magnificent hotel of the Russian ambassador. Far from being ended, the evening was only just beginning!
Josephine was silent, suffering from one of the migraines that made her husband so impatient with her of late, and Hortense was her usual quiet self. But the Countess Landrey seemed exhilarated as she teased her niece softly, “You seem very quiet, all of a sudden, my love. Surely one night in Paris cannot have left you bored? That dull performance at the theater tonight was only a prelude—I’ve heard that the Russians are lavish entertainers!”
Edmée’s high-strung mood drove Marisa to ask herself whether perhaps her aunt was expecting to meet her latest lover again here. Marisa drew in her breath sharply, in order to dispel the angry thoughts that flooded her mind. No, she couldn’t tell her aunt, not yet. And having seen her and learned of her true status, she hoped that Captain Challenger would not dare intrude his presence upon her again. If only she could forget and force herself to act as if nothing had ever happened between them! If only…
Her preoccupation with her own problems led Marisa, who was usually sensitive to the moods of those about her, to be impervious to the subtle difference in the atmosphere since they had left the theater. She was not to know that Napoleon had had a quarrel with his latest mistress, the actress in the play they had seen, and that when he had returned to their box in a rage, he had suddenly noticed her, as if for the first time.
It took her some time to realize that she was being singled out—and even that realization came only when the dark-visaged Lucien Bonaparte, the one brother-in-law whom Josephine disliked excessively, had drawn her away from under the very nose of the Russian prince who had paid her so much attention at Malmaison.
“The Russians are our allies for the moment, but there’s no reason why they should be allowed to get too friendly! Do you regret losing such a determined admirer, mademoiselle?”
Both relieved and puzzled at the same time, Marisa held herself stiffly in his arms, finding herself unable to either trust or like him. However, she shook her head as she answered mechanically, “No. As a matter of fact I don’t like the prince at all. He’s far too bold.”
“And you don’t like boldness in a man?”
While she sought for a light answer to his forward question, she wondered why he suddenly spoke to her so familiarly.
“I don’t like men who presume too much on the strength of a slight acquaintance. I suppose I am not worldly enough by your standards!”
He gave her a rather cynical smile. “Why, my standards are broad enough to embrace the whole world, mademoiselle ! However, my brother is surprisingly old-fashioned, and—shall we say conventional? Especially when it comes to women—of late, that is.”
‘What is he talking about?’ Marisa wondered, while at the same time she decided she did not blame her godmother for disliking this particular Bonaparte.
She was even more confused when after a few turns across the crowded ballroom floor, Lucien brought her to a halt before his brother, who had been engaged in a low-voiced conversation with Tsar Alexander.
Not knowing what to do or how to act, Marisa dropped into a low curtsy, hoping that the embarrassed flush that had spread across her face would go unnoticed. She kept her head bent, wishing that she did not have to rise, and it was Napoleon whose extended hand helped her erect again.
“And this is my charming little guest, the Señorita de Castellanos, who is goddaughter to my wife. You see, she is still young enough not to have forgotten how to blush!”
Finding herself presented to the tsar, Marisa’s tongue stumbled over her words, but he seemed flattered at her obvious confusion and gave her a gracious smile. She was all too conscious of Lucien Bonaparte’s dark, enigmatic presence at her side, and the fact that the eyes of all the gathering must be fixed on her at this moment. What did it all mean? Why had Lucien suddenly asked her to dance with him and then brought her here?
