Duke Takes All (The Duke's Secret, #3), page 11
“I dinna understand.” Diana swallowed. “He is here. . . with ye?”
“Non!” Madame protested heartily at once. “For les ducs? To be here is not to be with me.”
It seemed difficult to believe but there wasn’t any deceit in Madame de Coqueville’s countenance.
“Oh?” breathed Diana.
Madame de Coqueville glanced upward as if she could see through the delicately-painted mural on the ceiling. “They are here to be with each other.”
“N-now, I truly dinna understand,” Diana stammered.
“Bien sûr.” Madame de Coqueville sighed. “Men. They are tres mysterious, non? Always making things complicated.”
“I suppose Max does.”
“Oh, mon cher, you cannot even imagine.”
Diana drew up a bit short, considering taking offense but then she stopped herself. By all accounts, Madame de Coqueville had known Max a very long time and knew him quite well. . . which was the very reason she’d come.
“Lead the way, Madame,” Diana suggested, eager to be out of the hallway.
Madame did just that, sauntering into a sapphire-hued reception room.
Diana followed into the luxurious domain.
The room was hung in striped blue silk brocade. Paintings by great masters hung from the walls, all sensual whether they be bowls of tempting peaches or ladies reclining in dishabille.
Madame de Coqueville crossed to an exquisitely made cherry wood sideboard, covered with drinks and crystal goblets. She pulled a green bottle out of a silver urn and poured two glasses of bubbling liquid.
Diana stared at the champagne. “I’m no’ certain that I feel like celebrating.”
Madame laughed softly. “Champagne is not always to celebrate, Madame Duchess. It is to lighten one’s heart. So, you will drink with me, non?”
“I will,” Diana agreed, rather looking forward to it. The world felt a most odd place at present.
“And you must call me Yvette since I think we must share many, many secrets.”
Diana blinked, surprised. Of course, Madame de Coqueville knew why she’d come.
“Sit,” Yvette said, gesturing with a slim, pale hand to the settee near the fire.
Diana sat, happily allowing the warmth of the crackling blaze to ease some of her tension.
“To good men, though they be few!” Yvette said, lifting her glass.
Surprised by the toast, Diana raised her glass quickly in answer. As she drank the bubbling liquid, she was surprised to find how rich it was as it danced over her tongue.
“You see!” enthused Yvette. “You are already smiling. A good start. Now, why are you here?”
“Ye seem verra wise.” Diana cocked her head to the side. “Do ye no’ ken?”
“I have an idea,” Yvette replied. “But I prefer to be direct.”
A direct French woman? From everything she’d read, French women played the coquette, masters of play and charades. Well, Diana had clearly been led astray by several novels. . . all written by men, of course. She should have known from Yvette’s own writings that there wouldn’t be anything but directness in her speech.
After all, how many women would have the bravery to go before the Assembly in Paris and demand the equal rights of women? Not many.
They had bayed for her blood and nearly gotten it.
Diana struggled not to squirm. After all, it was a most delicate conversation. “I wish to ken more about my husband.”
Yvette sat down on the settee next to Diana, lounging back elegantly. She pursed her rouged lips then drank a deep sip. “Mon cherie, you should ask him about himself, non?”
“Och, Yvette, I barely see him,” Diana all but groaned. “The longer we are married, the less I see of him. How am I to ask?”
Yvette tilted her head forward, her red curls teasing her neck. “Tell me more of your endeavors with him.”
“Well, he takes interest in what I see as my work in London. In my Aid Society,” Diana clarified, taking the opportunity to drink more champagne. “He helps me with those difficulties. And he’s taken my brother in hand. But aside from that? He has barely been home to dine. I think he takes most of his meals at his club.”
Yvette sighed. “Oh dear. I think he likes you.”
“Likes me?” echoed Diana, finding the idea preposterous. “He has an odd way of showing it.”
“Oui. That he does.” Yvette frowned. “But what do you know of him?”
“No’ a great deal,” Diana admitted. “He’s a powerful mon. He helps people.”
“Ah! Mais oui. He helps people. Do you know how far he goes to help people?”
“Well.” Diana bit her lip then said, “He married me.”
“You are most honest. A quality I admire.”
“Thank ye. It’s no’ terribly flattering but—”
“Cherie,” Yvette cut in kindly. “He would not have married you if he was not willing to be attached to you for the rest of his life. So, he was drawn to you. There is no question. Max is a hero, but not a martyr.”
“Oh.” Diana sat up a little straighter, feeling pleased for the first time in some days regarding her husband. “I see.”
“Do you?” Yvette tsked again. “I think perhaps not. For the more he knows you, the more he likes you, and the more he realizes he must stay away.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.” Diana frowned and took another sip of champagne. After all, it had all been quite trying. “I would understand if he stayed away because he found my company to be unpleasant, something I’ve begun to suspect—”
“He is afraid of caring too much about you,” Yvette declared.
Diana’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”
“Have you ever suffered?” Yvette asked without preamble. “Not a bit of pain, mind you, but suffered? An agonizing loss you did not think you could bear?”
Diana considered this. The truth was that aside from the recent events, her life had been one of contentment and normalcy. At least, riding through the wild hills and swimming in the loch had been normal to her. She had known little drama. “The only pain I’m acquainted with is natural. Both of my parents died from illness. But their ends were no’ shocking or abrupt. And. . . all children must lose their parents.”
“Oui. Of course, it hurt you,” Yvette soothed. “Even such natural occurrences are most difficult. When I was a small girl, my mother died and my father sent me away to live with the nuns. But I do not consider that suffering. Not in the way I mean.”
Diana leaned forward, desperate to understand. “Ye are suggesting to me that Max has suffered?”
“Oh, yes. A great deal, though he would never admit to it or even acknowledge it.”
“I feel as if he wishes me to believe that he is a simply an English duke, and yet. . .” Diana frowned, thinking of all their encounters and the way her soul had recognized his. He was no simple man. “I ken it canna be true. It is as if there is a deep cave within him, filled with secrets.”
“I knew you were an intelligent woman when I met you.”
Diana smiled though she felt little humor. “It has no’ aided me.”
“Because you have little experience with men. Young women are always told to wait. To let the men do the chasing. Pfft.” Yvette rolled her eyes. “No, one may let the man think he is chasing, but women are far more reasonable. All you have to do is take things into your own hands.”
Yvette’s words were astonishing! Diana sucked in a sharp breath as she truly took them in. “I should pursue him?”
“If you are waiting for Max to suddenly pursue you, you could be waiting for years.” Yvette waggled her brows. “Now, you shall be married all your lives so, perhaps, you are willing to wait. I do not have that sort of temperament.”
“I am no’ the most patient person,” Diana admitted. “And I’ve been accused of boldness, but. . .” To pursue Max? At that, her nerves quaked. “Where do I even begin?”
“You are not. . . how should I say? A wilting violet?”
Diana laughed. “I’m a Scottish thistle."
“Oui! Brava! I know this flower.” Yvette’s eyes lit up as she sipped her champagne. “The Scots and the French have long had a special relationship. I am glad to hear you are beautiful, capable of thriving in a harsh clime, and a bit thorny.”
Diana laughed again. It did, indeed, seem an apt description of her. “He seems so. . . inscrutable. How do I seduce him?”
“Non! Oh, lalalala!” Yvette dramatically touched her heart. “You mistake me. He will not like guile in you for I cannot imagine you seducing him.”
Diana arched a brow. “I’m no’ sure if I should be insulted.”
“You are a marvelous woman,” Yvette said plainly. “You are a wife. Not a mistress. And you are direct, like moi.”
Diana coughed. “Like ye.”
“But of course!” she said with a shrug of a shoulder. “You are pleasant to look upon, intelligent, and unafraid of Max. I am much more jaded. The years and a revolution have had their effects upon me.”
She could not see herself as being like Yvette but, clearly, the French woman saw similarities between them. Perhaps, she wasn’t entirely mistaken. “I still dinna ken what I should do.”
“You have not been to bed with him?” Yvette asked in the manner one asks if they take lemon with their tea.
A hot flush stole up her cheeks.
“From the color of your face, that is a non.”
“A non,” Diana agreed.
“Max admires your strength, your determination, your intelligence.” Yvette twirled her jeweled wrist, looking for her next words. “He will admire you if you do not play about. Non. You must tell him exactly what you desire. Tell him you do not wish to be but on the periphery of his life. You are his wife. His duchess. You are the moon to his sun, the ocean to his desert. And he best get used to the idea. And then tell him you will wait no longer to consummate your marriage. And then he will stop handling you with kid gloves.”
Could it be so simple, and yet, so daring? Diana could scarcely take in the idea of such a conversation but she was bold. So, it could be possible, if she put her mind to it. If her happiness depended upon it.
“Ye think so?” Diana queried.
“No doubt, he worries you are still upset over the circumstances which led you to him. And he fears the leap into your arms.” Yvette tapped her shoulder lightly. “So, you must dare him to do it. He could never resist your dare.”
Diana bit her lower lip, suddenly feeling most on edge. “Has he ever leapt into. . . well. . .”
“My arms?” Yvette peeled with laughter. “It would be like leaping into the arms of a sister. Quelle horreur! He is younger than I by a few years, not many, but he stole me from the guillotine, not because he had bedded me but because he is a great man who cannot bear injustice.”
“He did what?” choked Diana.
Yvette leaned forward. “Did you not know, cher?”
“Ken what?” Diana asked, gasping now for the champagne she’d drunk burned down in her hasty gasp.
“That you married a spy?” Yvette whispered.
Diana drew in several breaths then drank her champagne to the dregs. “I confess no’. Is he still a spy? A duke and a spy?”
“Non.” Yvette pursed her lips. “He could not be. He’s far too well known. But do not think he has given up his secrets.”
Oh, Diana could believe that. Likely, he accrued new ones every day. She leaned forward and held out her champagne glass. “Tell me more about Max in Paris.”
Yvette crossed to the champagne bottle then poured them fresh glasses. With a purely wicked smile, she winked and said, “Where can I possibly begin?”
“At the beginning, of course,” Diana replied before she drank another gulp of champagne, knowing she was likely going to need the bottle by the time this story was done.
Chapter 18
Max hurried down the stairs, shoving at his darker demons, willing them back to whence they’d come. Usually, he controlled them quite well. Dwelling in darkness didn’t help a man. No, it hindered him. He’d only allowed himself to simmer in agony once before and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
No, one had to pick oneself up and keep moving forward. Otherwise one would be consumed.
Still, Ardore’s tragedy had been undeniable and his sympathy for his friend was strong. It had. . . struck him. How easy it was in this life for things to go terribly, terribly wrong.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at the foyer.
There was a man there in the shadows.
Which was deuced odd. They were not in the habit of having fellows linger in the hallway of Number 79.
If it was a friend of Yvette’s, it was doubtful she’d have left him alone in such a place.
He slowed his step, quiet, careful now as he assessed the danger.
But the moment he reached the bottom step, the man swung around and their gazes met.
That penetrating blue stare was unmistakable. “O’Malley?” Max asked, struggling to believe his eyes and his wits. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Well now, Your Grace, to say it without dancing about, I’m waiting on the Duchess of Raventon.”
Max stared, understanding overtaking him. “My wife?”
“Indeed.”
Max nearly groaned. “She’s here?”
O’Malley quirked a brow then pointed to Yvette’s salon.
Max threw back his head and sighed. If his wife and his dearest female friend were in a tête-à-tête, he was possibly in for very murky waters.
What in the blazes might Yvette reveal about him?
As he considered the many and varied things Yvette was a party to, the possibilities were endless and potentially torturous. Surely, she wouldn’t. . . she wouldn’t reveal it all?
Some of it wasn’t a secret. Not truly. Not his work in France. Too many years had passed to bother with keeping many of those secrets.
But the present ones?
Very few knew those. Only his closest friends, the other dukes, and Yvette knew of them and they’d only known for a very short time the work he did for the government.
Still, he doubted Yvette would risk exposing him entirely. Surely.
He found himself flummoxed. For wasn’t, in a way, this what he had wished? For Yvette and Diana to be friends? Yes, of course he wished it. . .
So, he took himself in hand and knocked on the salon door lightly then stepped inside.
Yvette and Diana sat on the sapphire silk settee, heads close together, champagne glasses in hand, laughing.
When Diana turned towards him and their gazes met, his breath froze in his chest. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, her cheeks glowed with good humor, and her mouth seemed poised to say something terribly witty.
At the sight of him, she beamed. “Ye’ve joined us.”
“You knew I was here?” he asked rather stupidly.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. I smelled yer cologne.”
He laughed a sound that was a half-moan of acceptance. “Of course.”
Hadn’t he thought she would have made an ideal recruit for his Paris days? Even now. . . she was a woman of heightened intelligence and consideration. He doubted that Diana missed much.
“It was kind of you to wait for me,” he said.
“To be truthful,” she replied quite honestly, “I wasn’t truly waiting for ye. Yvette and I were swept away by our conversation.”
He hesitated. “About?”
“You, mon cher!” Yvette announced. “And Monsieur Sheridan.”
“I am longing to see School for Scandal. And I’d like to see Congreve’s Country Wife, too,” chimed in Diana, charmingly inebriated as she declared her passion for the theater. “I’ve read them, of course, but then plays are no’ written to be read, are they? They’re written to be seen.”
“Very true,” Max said, a bit blown over by the turn of the conversation. He’d been slightly unsettled about how she’d react to the things Yvette might tell her. Yet, here she was eager to discuss the theater.
“Och, Shakespeare is the same, I think,” Diana said with all seriousness. “But I should hardly ken, having seen only a terribly dreary country house party presentation of Much Ado About Nothing. The reading of it was definitely better than that rather sad performance.”
“We should all go see Twelfth Night! It’s on in Drury Lane!” Yvette said lifting her glass.
“Oh, yes!” Diana all but bounced upon the settee with her uncurbed enthusiasm. “It would be wonderful to go out in the evening. Will ye escort us, Max?”
At that rather sad remark, Max realized how terribly remiss he’d been. He’d left her alone. My God. No wonder she’d sought out Yvette.
She was likely wondering if she’d married a total boor.
He hadn’t taken her to dinners, or balls, or card parties, or the opera, or the theater, convincing himself it was better to be safe at present. But that was absolutely absurd because he made no attempt to stop her endeavors in the East End with O’Malley’s protection.
No, plain and simple, he had been avoiding his wife’s company. Because, quite simply, he was afraid of liking it too well. He, who had faced the hordes of Paris mobs at their worst. He, who had laid subterfuge to Robespierre. And he, who had marched across the battlefields of Europe to face the cannon, columns, and cavalry of Napoleon’s army, was afraid to become too close to his wife.
The realization hit him with a powerful blow. He’d abandoned her. All because he was afraid.
He swallowed. His fear was reasonable. The agony he’d suffered after his last loss. . . it had nearly driven him mad. Still, he was being an arse.
Yet even knowing this, he felt a hesitation in immediately saying, of course, they should all go to the theater.
For, he’d lost so much over the years. He wasn’t certain he could bear to become attached to her.
After all, it was that lack of attachment, that fooling the world into thinking he was a pleasant, jovial man, that made him so skilled at his job.
But he took one look at his glorious, new wife and knew that if he failed her in this, though he might save her in many endeavors, he would be securing a distance between them that would be most difficult to repair. It would grow their entire lives, leaving each of them cold and alone.
