On the way home in the carriage, Noelle fell victim to the early morning hour and the champagne that had so beclouded her judgment, and was asleep long before they reached Northridge Square. Quinn carried her into the house and, with his teeth grimly set, deposited her on the narrow daybed. As he left the dressing room he firmly shut the door between their rooms.
The next day all of London was gossiping about Quinn and Noelle and the passion that blazed so uncontrollably between them. They were said to have ravished each other in the center of the Atterburys' ballroom. Noelle publicly ignored the comments and privately swore to drink no more champagne. In the meantime she and Quinn were the rage of London. A party could not be considered a success without the Copelands in attendance.
The fashionable elite never seemed to tire of speculating about them. A few sharp eyes had noted that the glow was back in the Baroness von Furst's lovely cheeks. Others commented that although the Copelands were seen everywhere together, they seldom spoke. The mystery of it all was delicious.
As Constance had predicted, Noelle became a fashion trend setter. This fact was brought home after the Atterburys' affair when she and Quinn attended a ball in the Berkeley Square residence of Lord and Lady Whitney. Lady Whitney herself greeted them in a violet gown cut open to the waist. As Noelle stepped into the ballroom she quickly counted seven other dresses of different colors and fabric but with the same bare bodice.
The fashion followers were, in turn, inspecting Noelle's new gown with smug superiority. It was a simple black crepe completely covering her from neck to hem. There were sly whispers. The gown was well cut, certainly. The little pearl choker collar quite pretty. But, really, it was all so plain and unoriginal.
It was only as Noelle passed through them that the guests saw the dress had no back. The smooth line of her spine, the contour of her shoulder blades, the glowing ivory of her skin, had all been daringly exposed to a point several inches below her temptingly slender waist.
From that time on, there was a line of carriages at the door of Madame LaBlanc's establishment. The new customers were graciously accommodated by Madame's ever-increasing number of assistants while the sly Frenchwoman reserved her considerable creative energies for the woman who was making her the most important dressmaker in London. Noelle Copeland was an original in both spirit and fashion, and Renée LaBlanc was going to make certain her client would not be outdone.
Noelle was not the only one being imitated. All over the city, young gallants were growing beards and clenching thin cheroots between their teeth. It was a pitiful imitation, however, for no matter how hard they tried, none of them could match the swaggering self-assurance of Quinn Copeland. They were all left feeling slightly foolish when, just as their beards reached a respectable length, Quinn shaved his off. One afternoon the couple appeared in Hyde Park. She was leading her pretty chestnut mare, he his ebony stallion. It was only when she mounted that the onlookers saw that the full skirt of her royal-blue riding habit had been cunningly split at the center, forming two side legs. From that day on, Noelle Copeland rode astride.
The weeks passed. No sooner had the gossip from one episode died down than another reared its tantalizing head. There was even a rumor that Quinn Copeland was supporting a group of urchins in one of London's most disreputable tenements. Drawing rooms buzzed, dinner tables sparkled. Never in recent memory had a season been so entertaining.
In Northridge Square, however, things were not quite so gay. Except in public, Quinn and Noelle saw little of each other. Most nights he would escort her home only to leave her at the door. In the morning Noelle would awaken to find the covers on his bed undisturbed. He made no attempt to explain his absences, and she asked no questions about them.
There was one matter, however, about which she did question him, and that was the future. Surely he did not intend their farcical marriage to go on much longer? But no matter how hard she pressed, he refused to commit himself. She could not understand his perversity, especially since she was certain that he chafed to be away from Northridge Square and all that life there entailed.
Something else puzzled her. Last October, shortly after Quinn had reappeared in her life, Simon had told her that his son had accepted a position with a firm of shipbuilders in New York City. If that were true, what was holding him here now? And why had he and Simon, despite the animosity between them, been closeting themselves in the library with ledgers and stacks of files?
She still had not mended her tattered relationship with her father-in-law, so she could not ask him about Quinn's plans. There was always Constance, but Noelle found one excuse after another to postpone discussing the problem with her. Finally she admitted to herself that she was afraid of what she might hear, for there was always the horrifying possibility that Quinn was actually planning to take her with him.
In December, Simon left for the continent, and Noelle found herself missing his booming orders to the servants, the way his laughter filled the house when his friends came to call, and, unreasonably, the sense of security his presence seemed to give her. Even Constance could not help dispel Noelle's loneliness, for she too had left the city.
It was another departure, however, that had a more immediate effect on Noelle's life. Her sleek figure swathed in black silk, Anna von Furst was seen abruptly leaving London one morning. The next day, the newspapers announced that the Baron Otto von Furst had died in a hunting accident in Bavaria.
More frequently now, after the dinner parties and balls and assemblies were over, Quinn and Noelle would climb the stairs to their bedroom together. Whenever it happened, Noelle's heart would thump frantically. Was this going to be the night Quinn would try to open the door that separated them?
It became more and more difficult to repress the memory of the time in Yorkshire when he had made love to her. As if reading her thoughts, Quinn would stalk her with scowling eyes, but he made no attempt to touch her. They snapped at each other over trifles. Noelle was sharp with the servants. Quinn got into a fight at the faro table. Things could not go on as they were much longer.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Ever since the gentlemen had finished their cigars and brandy and joined the ladies in the drawing room, Hugo Meade, the Marquis of Blystone, had been pressing his thigh hard against hers. Noelle barely noticed. Not even Quinn's grim scowl from across the room could penetrate her good humor. Just when she thought she could not bear living another day with him, everything had changed.
It happened so unexpectedly. Tonight, on the way to their third dinner party of the week, Quinn had abruptly announced he was going to leave London in two days to assume permanent control of the Cape Crosse shipyard. Noelle, he declared, would stay here. He had set up a generous bank account for her so she could purchase her own residence and maintain her current style of living. Although there could be no divorce, they would no longer be together.
Noelle's heart sang. She was finally to be free of him!
The marquis's pressure on her thigh had become so relentless that Noelle was recalled to the present. With a shock, she realized he had been murmuring endearments to her.
"… adoration for you. All evening your beauty has sparkled like the finest wine waiting to be sampled by a true connoisseur."
"Really, Lord Blystone, you should not say such things." The arm of the sofa pushed up against her other thigh as she tried vainly to move away from him.
"Don't pretend with me," he pursued. "I know you return my passion. We must arrange to be alone so I can show you how much I love you."
Before she could snatch them away, he had caught up her fingers and brought them to his lips.