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,
