Wicked Loving Lies - Rosemary Rogers

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daughter, who accompanied them on their walks. But all the same, they had opportunities to talk together; and if she had far more freedom than a young English gentlewoman her age, Philip never mentioned it or acted any differently.

      He was intrigued by her. Not only because of the faint air of mystery that clung to her, but also because of her transformation from timid, trembling street waif to budding beauty. With her burnished, dark gold curls arranged in the Greek fashion and her clinging, fashionable muslin gowns she looked like a wood-nymph, still slightly shy and ready to run if frightened, but already showing promise of beauty.

      At first it had been curiosity and an almost protective sense of responsibility that had taken Philip back to see her. But now, he admitted to himself ruefully, he was on the way to becoming completely bewitched. Who was she? The long name that she had repeated so solemnly to him on the occasion of their first meeting meant nothing to him; the fact that she was Madame Bonaparte’s goddaughter and the niece of Countess Landrey established her as wellborn, at least. But how had she turned up in Paris so suddenly, without her relatives’ knowledge? And who or what had she been running from that day? He did not dare press her for details, and her small face always clouded when he ventured a casual question.

      Not wanting to frighten her off or destroy her growing trust in him, Philip let it be, hoping that one day she might confide in him. In the meantime, there were other matters that needed his attention, among these being the reasons he had traveled to France in such uneasy times. He said nothing of these to Marisa, leaving her to conclude that he, like all the other English aristocrats, was merely here on an extension of his grand tour. She was always transparently happy to see him, and admitted, without guile, that indeed she did miss him when he had to stay away for a few days.

      It was left to the Countess Landrey, returning from a week of whirlwind activities in Paris, to warn her young niece to caution before she gave her heart away to Philip Sinclair.

      10

      “But why should I be, as you say, ‘careful’ with Philip? Why? What is wrong with him? He is a gentleman, you have said so yourself!”

      Turning away from the window, Edmée-Amélie made a moue that was half-playful, half-dismayed.

      “Ah no, chérie! I did not mean to say that there is anything wrong with this excellent young man, far from it. But you see—” she looked into her niece’s rebellious golden eyes and sighed, choosing her words carefully this time “—it is you that I worry about, Marisa. Looking at you now, so chic, so pretty, it has been difficult to remember what a sheltered life you have led all these years. This Philip is the first young man you have flirted with, is he not? Yes, he is very handsome, his manners very charming, and you look upon him as the gallant chevalier who rescued you, oui? But you must not begin to mistake gratitude for—for something else. Soon you will be meeting other young men, all just as handsome and dashing and—more suitable.”

      “Suitable!” Marisa burst in, her eyes flashing, but her aunt only shook her head warningly.

      “You do not like this word? Ah, I remember when I was told of this English earl, what we would call a count here, and was told how rich and suitable a match he would make for me, I, too, shook my head. However, if I had stayed in France and married the penniless young man I thought I loved, I would have gone to the guillotine. Philip Sinclair is a pleasant young man, but his father is only a baron and a gambler—a member of the Carleton House set. There is not much money there, only wildness. In fact one of the reasons Mr. Sinclair is in Paris at the moment was to pay court to a certain heiress, also English. Lady Arabella Marlowe is here with her formidable mama to see Paris and improve her French. And tout de suite, Lord Anthony scraped up the money to dispatch his son here, also. He is expected to make a rich marriage, to please not only his father but his uncle as well. You comprehend?”

      Marisa’s eyes, beginning to shine with tears, looked stormy. “No! How could you expect me to? If Philip was in love with another woman, he would have told me so—he is honest and kind! And—and he spends almost all of his time here, because he wishes to see me. I cannot believe that he would be so cold-blooded as to allow himself to be forced into a loveless alliance merely because his family wants such a match. He—”

      “Ah, yes, he is bedazzled by you, ma petite. That much is easy to see. But for how long? Soon he will begin to think guiltily of his duty—and you may be sure that if his uncle who is the head of the family hears what’s been going on, he will waste no time calling for his return to England, and then what? Do you think he will be brave enough to take you with him? What will he live on? Be sensible, my love; that is all I am asking of you. Flirt, yes and enjoy yourself! But don’t be foolish enough to lose your heart.”

      Later, when she had retired to her room to fight back the treacherous gale of weeping that threatened to engulf her, Marisa could not help feeling as if a heavy stone had been placed over her heart.

      Her aunt had meant well, she was sure of that. But oh, the humiliation of realizing that she had let her growing feelings for Philip, and her delight in his company, show so obviously! It was true; she had not learned to flirt or to hide her emotions. Did she love Philip? She didn’t know. And certainly he had never overstepped the bounds of convention in their talks together. But he did like her, he did! And it wasn’t fair that his father and this powerful uncle of his should be allowed to plan and order his whole life. As for this English heiress, this Lady Arabella….

      Marisa’s hands clenched into small fists at her sides as she began to pace angrily about her room. Did she not have enough spirit to refuse a suitor who did not love her and was forced to pay his addresses to her for the dowry she would bring him?

      ‘I would not do it,’ Marisa thought, and then the recollection of her reckless flight and its consequences made her face burn hotly with shame and anger. Suddenly, unbidden, the image of Dominic Challenger’s dark, mocking face rose up to haunt her, and she remembered without wanting to the feeling of his hands on her body and his body driving into hers. Hateful! Philip would never treat her like that: he was gentle and tender and respectful.

      But if Philip knew—would he still respect her? He was English, not French, and everyone knew the English were rigidly conventional when it came to women. She could not bear the thought of telling him and watching his face change.

      Her thoughts went round and round. ‘But if he found out that I was an heiress?’ Then perhaps, if he loved her enough, it would not matter. But by now her father might be so angry that he had disowned her; her Aunt Edmée had suggested she should write to him and tell him she was safe, but guilt had made her put it off. She must do so. Perhaps he would understand and forgive her after all.

      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

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