An Innocent In Paris. Barbara CartlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
Finally they picked the lady up in their arms and carried her upstairs again.
Gardenia stared after them. She was not used to the ways of the sophisticated world. The fact that one gentleman carried the lady’s feet and the other two supported her round the shoulders appeared to her very daring and in some ways even scandalous.
She was so intent on what was happening on the staircase that she was suddenly startled to hear a man’s voice say,
“Mon Dieu! And what is this new enchantment that Lily has for us?”
She looked up to see two men gazing down at her. The one who had spoken was quite obviously a Frenchman, dark, young and handsome, with eyes that appeared to take in every detail of her creased travelling dress of black bombasine and plain turned-up black hat below which her hair, owing to the extremities of the journey, had escaped in tiny curls.
“But she is enchanting!” the Frenchman exclaimed again, speaking in English.
Gardenia, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks as she looked at the other man.
He was English she decided. He also was handsome, but there was a kind of deep reserve about his stern cynical face that made her sure that she recognised a fellow countryman.
And strangely there was something in his eyes that made her drop her own. It seemed to her that it was a kind of contempt or had she been mistaken?
“It must be a new entertainment,” the Frenchman said, still speaking to the Englishman. “We cannot go now, Lord Hartcourt, this will be amusing.”
“I doubt it,” the Englishman said in a slow almost drawly voice, “and anyway, my dear Comte, enough is as good as a feast.”
“No, no, you are mistaken,” the Comte replied.
He put out his hand and to Gardenia’s surprise took hers in his.
“Vous êtes charmante,” he said. “Quel rôle jouez-vous?”
“I am afraid, sir, I do not understand,” Gardenia replied.
“I see you are English,” Lord Hartcourt interposed. “My friend is anxious to know what is your act. Does that ancient portmanteau you are sitting on contain conjuring tricks or do you play a musical instrument?”
Gardenia opened her lips to speak.
But before she could say anything, the Frenchman interrupted.
“No, no! Don’t tell us. Let me guess. You pretend to be a jeune fille from a Convent, you go into your trunk dressed as you are now and when you come out – pouff!” he snapped his fingers to the air, “there is very very little and what there is all golden glitter. Am I right?”
Gardenia pulled her hand from his and rose to her feet.
“I must be very stupid,” she said, “but I have no conception of what you are trying to say. I am waiting for a message to be taken to my aunt to tell her that I have arrived here – unexpectedly.”
She caught her breath on the last word and then looked, not at the Comte but at Lord Hartcourt, as if appealing to him.
The Comte threw back his head and laughed.
“Wonderful! Magnificent!” he said. “You will be the talk of Paris! Come, I will visit you tomorrow. Where else do you perform? At the Mayol? Or is it the Moulin Rouge? Whichever it is, you are the prettiest thing I have seen in a long time and I must be the first in this house to salute you.”
He put his hand under her chin and Gardenia realised with a kind of horror that he was about to kiss her. She turned her head away just in time, pushed at him with both her hands and struggled to free herself.
“No, no!” she cried. “You are mistaken! You don’t understand.”
“You are enchanting,” the Frenchman said again.
Now, with a feeling of helplessness, Gardenia realised that his arms were going round her and drawing her close to him.
“No, no! Please will you listen to me?”
She beat ineffectively against him and knew that, from his hot breath against her cheek, he was drunk and that her resistance was merely inflaming him.
“Please, please!”
Then suddenly a quiet Englishman’s voice said,
“Wait a minute, Comte, I think you are making a mistake,” and to her surprise, Gardenia found herself free with Lord Hartcourt standing between her and the Frenchman.
“Make him – understand,” she murmured, her voice trembling.
Then, to her horror and consternation, she felt her words fading away on her lips and the hall swimming dizzily around her.
She knew that she was going to fall and she reached out to hold on to something and felt a man’s arm go round her. This time it gave her a strange sense of security as she slid into a darkness that seemed to come up from the floor and encompass her utterly.
*
She came back to consciousness to find herself lying on a sofa in a strange room. Her hat was off, her head was resting on a pile of satin cushions and a glass was being held to her lips.
“Drink this,” a voice came commandingly.
She took a sip and shuddered.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” she tried to say, but the glass was pressed closer.
“Drink a little,” the same voice persisted. “It will do you good.”
She obeyed because she did not seem to have any choice. The brandy trickling warmly down her throat cleared away the mist from her eyes and she looked up to see clearly that it was the Englishman who was holding the glass.
She even remembered his name.
Lord Hartcourt.
“I am ‒ so sorry,” she stammered, blushing in embarrassment as she realised that he must have carried her to the sofa.
“You are all right,” he answered. “I expect you were tired from travelling. When did you last have something to eat?”
“It was a long time ago,” Gardenia admitted. “I could not afford the meals on the train and I did not like to get out at any of the Stations we stopped at.”
“I rather thought that might be the case,” Lord Hartcourt replied in a dry voice.
He put down the glass he had been holding to Gardenia’s lips, opened the doors of the room and she heard him speaking to someone outside. She looked round her and guessed that this was the morning room or the library that opened off the hall.
With an effort she sat up, her hands going instinctively to her dishevelled hair and then Lord Hartcourt came back into the room.
“Don’t move,” he smiled. “I have sent for some food.”
“I cannot just lie here,” Gardenia answered him a little weakly. “I must find my aunt and explain why I have arrived.”
“Are you really a niece of the Duchesse?” Lord Hartcourt enquired.
“Yes, I am really, although your friend did not believe me. Why did he behave in such an extraordinary manner? I think perhaps he had been drinking.”
“I think he had,” Lord Hartcourt agreed. “These things happen sometimes at a party.”
“Yes, of course,” Gardenia nodded, realising how very few parties of any sort that she had been to and certainly not ones where gentlemen became drunk and ladies were carried upstairs.
“Did you let your aunt know that you were coming?” Lord Hartcourt asked.
“I could not,” Gardenia replied. “You