Wicked Loving Lies

Fortunately she had no more time to think just then. Napoleon himself was expected to arrive that evening, and there would be a crowd of notables for dinner. She had to bathe and dress extra carefully, and she did not dare be late for it was well known he could not bear unpunctuality.

Trying to distract herself while her maid fussed around her, clucking impatiently, Marisa went over the guest list in her mind: The other two consuls—Sieyès and Ducos, who of course were now merely figureheads since Bonaparte had just been appointed consul for life; his foreign minister Talleyrand, prince of Benevento; Joseph Fouché, minister of police; and generals, admirals—and a sprinkling of foreign diplomats as well. It had even been whispered that the new tsar of Russia, Alexander I, might be present.

It was to be a glittering, grand assembly, and in spite of herself Marisa began to feel a nervous fluttering in her stomach as she fervently hoped she would not disgrace herself.

Thank goodness for the current simplicity in fashion! Her sheer white muslin gown was embroidered with tiny gold flowers and ended in a train. A crisscrossed gold velvet sash was belted under her breasts and matched her velvet slippers, and her hair was caught up in a mass of curls, artful tendrils falling over her forehead and temples.

“Ravissante!” her maid sighed, quickly twisting a gold chain several times around Marisa’s neck then standing back to admire the effect before handing Marisa a fine silk fan, spangled with gold, that matched her shawl. A touch of rouge next on her lips and high on her cheekbones.

‘Is that really me?’ she wondered, staring at her reflection in the long mirror.

Her aunt came quickly into the room, smiling with satisfaction.

“You look quite charming, my love! But come along now, we must hurry. They are starting to receive already.”

“I feel half-naked!” Marisa whispered, feeling sure that everyone could see right through her thin taffeta petticoat.

Edmée, resplendently dressed in silver-spangled gauze, gave a gurgle of laughter.

“Wait till you see Pauline! She is naked under her silk gown, I’d swear! She doesn’t look at all like a mourning widow, and he will be furious with her, but then, Pauline doesn’t care for anything but her own pleasure.”

‘Neither do I!’ Marisa thought recklessly as she went downstairs with her aunt.

Usually, she never touched champagne, for its taste reminded her unpleasantly of the first time she had tried it. But tonight she consumed several glasses of it, and that and the knowledge that she looked as beautiful and sophisticated as any of the women present gave her the courage that she needed to go through the evening.

The rooms were overheated for Napoleon, who felt the cold, always ordered fires lit, even on the hottest summer days. A film of perspiration beaded her face, giving it a glow, and her thin gown clung to her figure, outlining her small breasts and slim thighs.

The château gleamed brilliantly; even the gardens were lit up, to accommodate the overflow of guests who wished to stroll outside in the cool air and engage in whispered flirtations in dark corners.

Only the most important guests had been asked to come earlier, for dinner; the others would arrive later for the dancing and a late supper served buffet-style. Princes, dukes, and the highest ranking diplomats. Even the blond, handsome Tsar Alexander himself, who was given the place of honor beside Josephine.

Following the example of the other women present, Marisa found that flirting was not too hard after all, if one used one’s fan and one’s eyelashes to advantage. She was seated next to a Russian prince, one of the tsar’s entourage, and in spite of his outrageous compliments in a heavy accent that made them difficult to understand, she managed to keep him at bay. On her other side, Joseph Fouché, the minister of police, who had recently been appointed the duke of Otranto, smiled his thin-lipped smile and toyed with the stem of his wineglass, drinking only sparingly and seeming to observe everything through his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Marisa decided that she did not like him very much. And how was it that he had not brought his wife?

The Russian begged her to show him the gardens when dinner was over, and Marisa lowered her lashes demurely, neither refusing nor agreeing. Under the tablecloth, he put his hand on her thigh, and she tapped it with her fan, as she had seen her aunt do.

“You are far too bold, monsieur!”

“And you—can you possibly be as innocent as you seem, my golden beauty? I would like to find out.”

“And if I let you, I would no longer be innocent, would I?”

She wanted to giggle then, delighted with herself for being so quick to answer him. Flirting was easy, after all, and especially in the midst of a crowd like this where she felt quite safe. All the same, she must try to avoid this persistent Russian after dinner, she thought, picking at her food as course after course was served and then whisked away. If only she didn’t have the uncomfortable feeling that Fouché was listening to every single word that was said! But then, why should she care?

All the same, Marisa was relieved when Josephine gave the signal that the ladies should retire. “I will see you later,” the prince whispered when she rose with a polite, murmured excuse. Fouché said nothing, but she thought she could feel his eyes following her, and the thought made her strangely uneasy.

Listening to the high-pitched babbling that went on all around her, she managed to put him out of her mind.

“You are quite a success tonight, my love!” Aunt Edmée whispered to her. “And when we all return to Paris tomorrow, you are to go with us. You cannot imagine how exciting it is—but then, you will quite soon grow as blasé as the rest of us!”

Would she? Glancing around her, Marisa did not think it possible. But then look at Hortense—so recently married to Louis Bonaparte and looking pale and withdrawn instead of radiant as a new bride should be. And Pauline le Clerc, so recently widowed and excitedly talking of her latest lovers. Even Aunt Edmée had a dreamy look in her eyes when one of the other women teased her about a certain dark-haired man who had paid her so much attention at the last ball they had attended. Marisa thought perhaps what she, too, needed was a lover, to make her one of them, and wipe away all the unpleasant memories. Even the memory of Philip…. And then she thought boldly, her mind overexcited and floating with the effects of too much champagne, ‘Why not him? If I can’t have him as a husband, then perhaps I should give him something to regret! Yes—and I’d like her, that Lady Arabella, to know, too, that she was only his second choice!’

Gleaming with mischief and defiance, her golden eyes seemed larger than ever. And when the ladies emerged from the drawing room, the first person she set eyes on was Philip!

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.