The Booklover’s Absolutely Amorous Affair (The Notorious Briarwoods #9)

Chapter 1

The Isle of Wight

1797

I n times of trouble, Miss Nimue Cheverton turned to books. She would scamper over the countryside with a satchel of her favorite volumes in hand, find a good spot, settle herself down, and read. It was really the only logical choice because, essentially, her entire life had been a time of trouble. Perhaps she should have known, having been born in 1776, that her life would be fraught with peril, or at least unpredictability.

The modern world was one of continual change, and the present was no different to the year of her birth. When those colonies, now a country, had made their Declaration of Independence some time ago and changed the world forever, it had started a trickle of defiance, which had become a river and rushed into France.

England was nervous.

Everyone in the country was nervous. They kept eyeing France and had been for several years now. But the nervousness had increased of late. France was up to a great deal, and the world was watching as they won military victory after military victory on the Continent.

Historically, England, with just a body of water between its shore and France, did have a tendency to eye France with tremendous suspicion.

But to be fair, France had made England nervous for centuries, and so Nimue refused to allow herself to be overly rattled by it, despite the fact that a French invasion was quite possible. She had heard the stories of French soldiers off the coast of Ireland. There had been that incident not long ago where French soldiers had landed and been captured.

Even so, she had more confidence in England than most, and the fact was that the people of the Isle of Wight had looked out across the water to France and been stalwart. Centuries of war between the natural enemies, England and France, had made people resilient, and she quite enjoyed being resilient.

When she found herself growing ill at ease, well, she simply read more. It did one no good to overly fret about the comings and goings in the newssheets or gossip.

She read the newssheets, of course. She was no uneducated person. Her parents had made certain of that! But even more importantly, she read a great many books on philosophy, the latest commentary on France by Edmund Burke, and various other important writers of the day.

She would not be caught unaware, nor would she allow herself to ruminate and be terrified of the growing power of a nation that had seemed on the point of collapse just a few years ago.

Resigned but cheerful, she sat herself down on the rocks overlooking the Channel. It was February. It was cold. It was not as cold as the previous winter, which was a good thing. Everyone was still recovering from that hellish encounter. But this year, the sun was out, the air was brisk, and it smelled of salt.

Was there anything more blissful than to sit wrapped up in wool blankets atop a good rock overlooking the sea, with a book in hand? She thought not. Oh, she did obtain a great deal of joy from all of the work she did in her small but sprightly community. She loved her family. She loved her village. She loved being a part of everything. But sometimes, after being a part of everything, and given the trouble of the time, the best thing was to be alone for a bit in the air, contemplating other worlds written by greater imaginations than her own.

Her favorite book was Le Morte d’Arthur . She carried it with her almost always as a comforting measure, even if she was reading something else.

She had been named after a character from that important early work, and she took a great deal to heart from that. It said a great deal about her father that he loved Le Morte d’Arthur so much that she should be named after someone from its romantic pages.

Her whole family were optimists and she was rather glad of it. She’d seen the lives of pessimists. They were terribly unhappy, and while she could understand the point of pessimism, the truth was it really didn’t matter if one was an optimist or a pessimist. One was either miserable or joyful. The end result was the same.

Stroking the cover of Le Morte d’Arthur with a smile and a familiarly pleasant ache in her heart, she put it aside and pulled out Ann Radcliffe’s latest novel, which she had already read, and prepared to read it again. Reading books repeatedly was wise, she thought. After all, it was like meeting an old friend, smiling at them, cozying up, and exchanging a feeling of understanding that always bolstered one.

She opened the cover, turned the page, and tucked a lock of her hair back before the wind could whip it into her eyes. She began poring over the pages and disappearing into the absolutely delicious horrors of the book. Few things could steal her attention from troubles like Mrs. Radcliffe.

“Good, is it?”

She whipped her attention from the book up to the owner of the voice that was tinged with a French accent.

She readied a smile. What else could she do?

She did not really wish to be disturbed, but nor did she wish to spill her bad humor at being disturbed onto whoever it was who was no doubt just trying to be pleasant.

She was not prepared for the sight before her eyes.

Whoever he was, he looked as if he had stumbled out of the novel she was reading. He was shockingly beautiful and rather melancholy looking. His dark hair spilled over his visage. His eyes were riveting and looked as if he had seen things that no one should be required to.

His shoulders were broad under a coat that looked as if it had seen a good bit of trodding through the mud, though it was excellently tailored to his svelte form and cut from expensive cloth.

His cravat was loose, and his hands were encased in black gloves. His boots were covered in mud, suggesting that he had stormed over the land with no concern for keeping clean.

She found herself quite intrigued. Had she produced the hero from her book? He did look as if he would be at home in the castles of Mrs. Radcliffe, which made her wonder if he was about to sweep her away.

If it was all imaginary, she wouldn’t mind. He was shockingly good-looking and had a delicious sort of energy about him. But gentlemen in the countryside who were strangers could not be confused with romantic heroes.

“Excuse me, sir, I do not know you. Would you mind acquainting yourself with me?”

He gave a slight smile before bowing in a sort of elaborate way that no English gentleman would attempt. “But of course. I am Jean-Luc Benoist, the Comte de Gastyne. I am the cousin of the Duke of Westleigh, and I stay with his family, the Briarwoods.”

My goodness, that was a mouthful of titles and lineage and power.

“And I am Miss Nimue Cheverton.”

He inclined his head, the breeze whipping through his hair and causing the long tails of his walking coat to wave about his long, formidable legs that were clad in fawn breeches. “I considered simply walking by you, but I thought it better to alert you to my presence.”

She took more significant note of his French accent, considered his title, and stilled once again. The locals were slightly suspicious of the French at present, but, given his bearing and the fact that he was staying with the Duke of Westleigh, she realized that he was likely one of those people who had been forced to flee France some years ago.

The Duke of Westleigh was a recent wintertime addition to the island. He had built a rather beautiful yet unostentatious house, and the family had come to visit in January. The rumor was that they intended to winter on the slightly more hospitable island than stay on the Westleigh estate, which was rather grim in the darker months of the year.

So far, they were no trouble. They had actually slipped into island life quite well, and she found herself intrigued.

“I appreciate that you did not wish to alarm me.”

She waited for the beautiful fellow to depart.

He did not.

She wasn’t certain if she was pleased or displeased. Her book was quite compelling and she had no interest in being the focal point of any gentleman. She was quite content alone. But he was, without doubt, a unique, handsome character. She could quite safely say she’d never met a French aristocrat.

“May I ask what you are you reading?” he asked, folding his gloved hands behind his back.

She was surprised. She would’ve thought that a gentleman striding out by himself in February would prefer to stride alone, but he seemed as if he wished to make conversation. She pursed her lips. Should she engage? He had the potential to be very interesting. She supposed she would be ridiculous for turning down the chance to converse with him.

She closed her book with only a moment’s regret. It would be waiting for her. She looked up at him…expecting disdain at her reply.

“Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest novel,” she stated.

Often, when speaking with gentlemen—and certainly gentlemen who considered themselves to be highly intelligent—a look would cross over their visage when she mentioned Mrs. Radcliffe’s name. The look was one of appalling superiority, but she refused to be ashamed of her reading choices. She read everything, and she was not about to disparage Mrs. Radcliffe or hide the fact that she devoured the woman’s books.

“ Magnifique !” he declared, his French accent growing thick with his enthusiasm. “Her books are some of the few that make it possible for me to escape the present.”

She blinked at him, astonished. “I beg your pardon?”

He gave a shrug of his impressive shoulders. “It is the thrilling nature of them, is it not, which makes them so compelling?” He waggled his dark brows. “The delicious horror.”

“You find them delicious?” she asked, surprised anew and suddenly very curious about the man before her.

“But of course,” he returned, a genuine smile tilting his lips, though his gaze still contained that melancholy she had noted. “I long to know what’s going to happen to the heroines with each exciting turn of events. Do you not? Is that not why you read them?”

She let out to laugh. “That is exactly why I read them.”

He cast his gaze about the rocks. “But in such a location. Is it not cold here?”

She grimaced. “It is, but I’m accustomed to it, and it’s one of the few places where I can be uninterrupted. You see, my family is rather enthusiastic, and it is difficult for me to read alone in the house, so I must find other places.”

“Forgive me,” he professed. “I’m interrupting your reading. How terrible of me.”

And with that, he took a step back and looked as if he was preparing to stride off.

“No, no,” she called. “I will not send you away. I am most curious about you now, given your excellent taste in books.”

But he shook his head. “I should go. It is best we are not alone. You are an unmarried lady, I think.”

“That is true,” she said. It was the only difficulty of being young and unmarried. People could be quite silly. She looked forward to aging and not gaining the notice of anyone in such regards. One day, she’d be able to go about and do almost anything she pleased as a wealthy, unmarried lady.

“I have no wish to accidentally compromise you,” he said with surprising concern. “Firstly, I would not cause you harm and nor would I insult my cousin, the duke. The Briarwoods, our family, wish to be accepted on the island. So, I shall simply keep walking, though I will treasure this strange little encounter of ours.”

Would he treasure it? She was fascinated. “Would it be better, then, to discuss books in an appropriate situation?”

He blinked. “And what is an appropriate situation?”

“I discuss books with my family every week in an official meeting of minds. We gather together, drink tea, and discuss our latest favorites.”

He hesitated before allowing, “A most civilized proposition.”

She grinned and nodded. “Then you shall join us?”

For a single moment, much to her surprise, his gaze swung out towards the sea, looking towards France. In that moment, she felt his soul grow strangely sad. What was he searching for as he looked out across the water?

“I am not always the best company,” he said.

“Nor am I,” she replied, arranging her blanket tighter about her limbs. “Nor is anyone. But if you like books, and it is clear that you do, you shall be most welcome,” she said softly. “I shall take it as an insult if you don’t come tomorrow at one o’clock. The Chevertons.”

And then she wished to swallow the words back. He looked uncomfortable, and she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake, but it was too late.

“It is a very kind invitation,” he replied carefully.

The comte gave her a bow with an incline of his head and a rather elaborate twirl of his wrist, then he walked on without another word.

Despite the fact that she tried to keep her gaze fixed on her stack of books, she couldn’t stop sneaking looks at his rather noble departing figure.

He was striking with his straight back, long coat, and bearing. He did not look back.

As he disappeared from her sight, she tried to read Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest, but she felt the strangest sense of unease, and she knew what it was.

It was the first lacings of attraction.

Excitement was flitting about her belly and her breath felt shallow. Her skin tingled. And she couldn’t shake their conversation from her mind, nor how ridiculously appealing he was.

She had read of this in books, and she let out a low groan. How very terrible.

She had no wish to be attracted to anyone, or to be married to anyone. And then she laughed at herself and her silly thought. She would never marry, and she would certainly never marry a French aristocrat. Not because she did not think marriage wasn’t a perfectly acceptable institution, but because she dearly loved her own present life. She had an ideal one, and she had no desire to change it. So, she drew in a breath, turned the page, and refused to be bothered by him.

Perhaps he would come to her family’s book gathering. Perhaps not.

It really didn’t matter. Not a bit.