Free The Husband List -2 by Victoria Alexander Page A

ridiculous, skirted the dance floor, and headed toward the open doors, where the festive crowd overflowed onto a gaily decorated terrace.
    Lady Forester’s home was well suited to grand entertainments, and she had arranged the evening with a theatrical flair, even out of doors. Lanterns danced on the slight breeze and led the way into the gardens below, trailing into shadow for those guests seeking a private moment. Huge flower-filled urns and swags of netting and ribbons festooned the balustrades. Everywhere servants dressed in dominos offered refreshments.
    The hostess’s setting extended to her guests. Men were expected, if not required, to wear masks. She was not quite as strident in her requirements for female guests, however, stipulating only that they carry a mask and not necessarily wear it. Gillian’s dangled from a tie at her wrist. Lady Forester was ever aware of the possibility of mussing an elaborately concocted hairstyle and even more acutely aware of the need to have a mask close at hand should a guest require anonymity for whatever reason.
    “The crush is barely less out here,” Richard muttered and scanned the area. “This way.” He escorted her to the stairs leading down into the garden. A stone pathway encircled a large pool and gently trickling fountain. Paved walks branched off at precise intervals. Larger-than-life marble statues stood like white, silent sentinels over the grounds. Just off the first turn, a stone bench sat half hidden by a huge marble figure, providing discretion for privacy but not secluded enough for an illicit rendezvous. “Do you think anyone will notice us here?”
    “I think everyone will notice the two of us everywhere. Especially going into the gardens. Lady Forester’s gardens have a formidable reputation.” She smiled and leaned her back against the statue. “All manner of amorous activities are reputed to take place here.”
    “Need I worry about compromising your reputation?”
    “I really haven’t much of a reputation. Not like ... well, any number of women I could name.”
    “Why not?”
    “Why?” She stared in disbelief. “Goodness, Richard, you do ask the most unexpected questions.”
    He shrugged. “I am simply trying to learn all I can about you. You’re a beautiful woman. You spend much of your time surrounded by writers and artists. Why is it you haven’t succumbed to the lure of a well-turned phrase or a seductive brushstroke?”
    “Seductive brushstroke?” She laughed. “You certainly do know how to turn a phrase.”
    “And I am scarcely trying,” he said with a grin, “But I do find it hard to believe no poet has ever written of the stars in your eyes—”
    “An ‘Ode to Gillian’ perhaps?”
    “No artist has sought to capture your spirit on canvas.”
    “On canvas?” Odd that he should mention that. Just today she’d received a miniature portrait of herself from the French artist whose landscape she’d so admired. She’d planned on bringing it with her tonight to show Richard and perhaps get his opinion. It would have given them something to talk about other than themselves, but at the last moment she’d decided against it. There was something about the tiny image that struck her as rather personal. A feeling, more than anything else. Still, it was a strange sensation, and she wasn’t quite certain how Richard would react to it. The man did seem to be remarkably perceptive. There was time enough to show him the miniature at a later date. “Don’t be absurd.”
    “So there have been no artists,” he said lightly, “no poets—”
    “No.”
    “No composers, no politicians—”
    “No. Richard—”
    “No butchers, no bakers—”
    “No! No one! Honestly, Richard.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “I haven’t... what I mean to say is...”
    “You have no reputation.”
    “Exactly,” she huffed. “Are you happy?”
    “Blissful. Although,” he shook his head in mock distress, “we should probably consider my