“There’s only one man here whom I truly have a fancy for,” she said, leaning confidentially close.
Harriet breathed a little sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure that she was ready to fend off Nell. She had the distinct impression that if Nell decided to join someone in bed, that man would have little choice in the matter.
“It’s Strange. But he’s impossible to approach. I’m sure I could make him love me. You saw how he looked at me, and how he brought you over to me directly. I think he has a secret affection for me, but he doesn’t know how to express it.”
“You think he can’t express himself?” Harriet asked dubiously. Strange struck her as the kind of man who would know exactly how to express any emotion he wished. In fact, the very idea of Strange expressing desire made her feel a little weak behind the knees. He would look at a woman and she would—she would—
“I think he desires me, if that doesn’t shock you too much, young Harry,” Nell was chattering. “But I’m young and beautiful, and he’s old, you know.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-two,” Nell said. “I looked him up in this book full of birthdays and he’s thirty-two. Really old. He has a daughter, you know, though I’ve never seen her. I’ve heard she’s absolutely brilliant and speaks in mathematical equations.”
Strange was five years older than Harriet. Which did not feel old. Quite the contrary.
“The problem is that he doesn’t have much to do with women,” Nell was saying. “I’ve been watching him for the last week, ever since we came here.”
“He never has anything to do with women?” Harriet said. “I thought he was notorious for his liaisons.”
“He is, but I can’t understand why. Well, you only have to look at him to know that he’s had lovers,” Nell said. She had an utterly blunt way of talking that Harriet found enchanting. No woman in the ton ever spoke like this.
“Perhaps he does have a lover,” Harriet suggested. “Look at him now.” Strange was dancing with an older woman. She was beautiful in a terrifying sort of way.
“Mrs. Cummingworth,” Nell said, with a curled lip. “She’s ancient. She’d fall into a dead faint if he’d even give her an interested look, but he won’t. Look at his face. He’s listening, but he doesn’t give a damn. He looks like that quite a lot of the time.”
It was true. “How peculiar,” Harriet said. “How long has his wife been dead?”
“Eight years. She died in childbirth. He can hardly be mourning her. Besides, everyone knows that he had an affaire with Corisande de Grammont.”
“Now Lady Feddrington?”
“Yes. She never comes here any more, but apparently before she got married she was so desperately in love with Strange that she threatened to throw herself off a bridge if he didn’t sleep with her.”
“And?”
“He slept with her. But he said afterwards that if anyone forced him to spend a second night with her, he would be the one to jump off a bridge.” Nell gave a little shiver. “It’s a challenge. I know—I just know—that if I could have him in my bed for one night, I could make him love me.”
Harriet thought Nell was an adorable, funny actress. And she thought that if Strange ever found himself in Nell’s bed, he would be bored.
How she knew that, she couldn’t quite say.
“I wonder who that is,” Nell said sharply.
Harriet looked up, to find that Isidore was in Strange’s arms. Compared to Nell, Isidore was like a vivid flame. Nell was pretty; Isidore was beautiful. And more: Isidore had a wild intelligence about her that made watchers think she was about to throw off her clothing, do something daring, kiss the man before her.
Harriet felt a pang of envy. She herself wouldn’t have a chance interesting a man like Strange, and yet how could he resist Isidore? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“Just look at the way she’s smiling at him!” Nell said. “She’ll discover soon enough that Strange isn’t taken in by such obvious maneuvers. He’s not—”