Wicked Becomes You(42)
His brow lifted. Her accent startled him, maybe. One didn’t expect to hear such posh tones emerging from an unaccompanied woman—not here, at least.
This realization revived her anger. Her hand closed over the visceral memory of her stinging palm, all those endless raps from the ruler. We do not say “tha,” Miss Gwendolyn. We say “you.”
Why, she thought, I have been a trained, talking dog. No wonder Alex showed contempt to her. For all her life, she had done as she was told, and when she had yapped for attention, it had taken but a word to make her sit quietly.
“Perhaps you can tell me,” the gentleman said, “since my companion seems to know no English.” He glanced at said companion, releasing her elbow with a smile, ignoring her quick protest. “Was there not meant to be singing, tonight?”
Gwen felt the girl’s glower as a hot pressure on her cheek. “Yes, but not until midnight.” It seemed unnecessary to add that this information came from her guidebook rather than any firsthand knowledge.
He nodded slowly. “What a pity,” he said. “I shall have to find something else to occupy my time.”
His accent wasn’t quite as good as hers. She heard it now—some buried, rural inflection that wormed up through his vowels, sabotaging him at the occasional syllable. For some reason, the realization emboldened her. “I have a very nice singing voice,” she said. “Alas, I know no lyrics for this sort of music.”
“Oh?” The Englishman turned his body just enough to give the French girl his back. This marked signal made her cross her arms over her chest, then whirl and stalk away. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said pleasantly. “I am Mr. Rollo Barrington, of Manchester.”
“Far from home,” she said lightly.
“And all the better for it,” he said, eyeing her. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Manchester, but I always say that escape is the only verb that properly describes one’s departure from it.”
She laughed. “And how does one term one’s departure from Paris, then?”
“Punishment,” he said with a smile. “I say, mademoiselle—might I make a bold proposal? The surroundings certainly encourage it.”
Through the double doors standing open to the ballroom, she spied Alex wending his way back through the crowd. Her heartbeat stuttered, then quickened. “You may attempt boldness, sir. I do not promise to encourage it.”
He had a charming laugh, light and free of malice. “Then I will gather up my courage, and ask if I might have the honor of watching you drink a glass of champagne.”
She hesitated. Alex expected to find her exactly where he had left her. Of course he did. Trained dogs did not wander, after all.
Fresh anger lurched through her. It felt stronger and even headier than the beer she’d been drinking.
She produced a smile. “I suppose you may watch me drink champagne,” she said. “But I have two conditions.”
Mr. Barrington sketched a bow. “I pray I may meet your terms.”
“Oh, my terms are very simple,” she said. Amazing how well her smile worked! The gentleman leaned toward her, now, his manner attentive and intrigued. She felt another heady rush—of satisfaction; of power; perhaps of relief. Alex would learn he did not know her as well as he thought. “First, you must allow me the same honor, for champagne is never meant to be drunk alone. And second, you must guarantee that we drink to celebrate an achievement.”
He laughed. “And what achievement might that be, dare I ask?”
“Why, your success in smuggling me into that elephant.”
A bribe of five francs satisfied the lad standing guard by the elephant’s trunk. Gwen entered first. The short flight of iron stairs led to a carpeted platform lit by bluish gas lamps, with a red velvet love seat at the center. Exotic silks covered the walls, shades of scarlet and teal and saffron embellished with silver embroidery and fringed with gold coins. At the end of the platform stood a large wooden screen, intricately carved, concealing the remainder of the space. From somewhere behind it came the rhythmic jingling of bells.
“Not yet,” Mr. Barrington called out. The smell of pomade and cigars surrounded her, and then his gloved hand closed over her elbow, giving her heart a startled lurch. “Careful,” he murmured. “The floorboards are uneven.”
Alone, in the dark, with a stranger: this was certainly a proper adventure. Gwen stepped forward, out of Mr. Barrington’s grasp, but only to examine the lamps set into the walls: cunning brass sconces, inlaid with squares of red and yellow glass. Remembering how Alex had trailed his finger down the wine bottle at the café, she put her fingertip to the lamp, tracing the pattern engraved into the brass. Casting Mr. Barrington a flirtatious glance over her shoulder, she asked, “What is this space for? Do you know?”