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

Chapter 3

“D o you truly think he shall come?” Nimue’s mother asked, rearranging the blue-painted porcelain plates on the long, lace-covered table. Each plate was lovingly filled with all the family’s favorite treats.

“I do not know, Mama,” she confessed, reaching out to take a rose-shaped marzipan.

Her mother tsked and swatted her hand away. “Not yet, my dear! Wait until we begin. Though…perhaps a small nibble.”

Her mother took up a violet-shaped marzipan and popped it into her mouth, her eyes closing with delight. “Bliss.” When her mama opened her eyes, she wiped the sugar crumbs away with a lace-edged handkerchief and prompted, “Tell me again.”

“I invited him and told him our name, but he did not seem as if he would or would not come. He was quite ambiguous, actually.”

“A French comte in our house!” her mother exclaimed. “It shall happen. I just know it. You could not have met him without a friendship developing between himself and our family. Perhaps since we know him, we will be invited to the Duke of Westleigh’s home.”

“Mama!” Nimue laughed. Her mother was ever cheerful. And she adored it about her mama. The truth was she loved that her mama was happy to make friends with all people, the highest and the lowest. For her mother, people were a collection of stories, and one was always improved by knowing more stories.

Her mother nodded. “I have heard that the Briarwoods are an absolutely marvelous group of people. I, for one, should like to visit with them.”

Quite frankly, Nimue was surprised that her mother had not yet gone over to the Duke of Westleigh’s new house, but perhaps it had seemed a trifle bit intimidating to go up to such an establishment with a welcoming gift and bang on a duke’s door. It wasn’t as if the Chevertons were small or unimportant. Well, important was a relative term. On the island, they were one of the wealthier families. They had a lovely home and a large farm, and her father had been exceptionally good at making investments. They had one of the largest libraries on the island too. And her mother had expanded it over the years.

Her mother’s love of books exceeded even her father’s. The two of them had read every night for years, bestowing a love of learning upon their children. Nimue was deeply grateful. Her sisters and her brother all enjoyed life.

They also enjoyed books.

In this house, when one wasn’t certain what to do in the evening, one picked a volume from the large library that was always growing. Every now and then, they did donate books to various people in the village, but it was difficult for any of them to part with books.

The family gathered every week to discuss the book that they had all picked to read together, and she was exceedingly curious as to whether or not he was going to arrive to witness one of these discussions.

For her mother’s sake, she rather hoped he did, but that was not the only reason. Much to her surprise, she rather hoped that he came for his sake. She looked about the cozy drawing room, which was set for the meeting. There were several chairs set up, enough for her two sisters and her brother, her father, her mother, and the comte.

It was going to be most awkward if that chair remained empty, but she had optimism in her heart. As her boisterous and chatty sisters filed in with her brother, each started for the table laden with sweet treats and savory ones.

Her mother, who still bore a sugar crumb on her cheek, tutted, “No, no. No touching it at all. It must look magnificent for when the comte arrives.”

“Mama, he’s not going to come,” her younger sister, Guinevere, said, flouncing into a chair.

“Of course he is,” her mother countered before giving a pleased smile and announcing, “I saw it in my dreams.”

“Oh, Mama, please don’t say anything like that in front of the comte,” her brother, Algernon, drawled as he contemplated the plate of cheese. “We don’t want him to think that you are descended from seers.”

“Why ever not?” her mother huffed, folding her hands before her lacy bodice. “It is true, my dear. It runs in the blood. Your Aunt Ellie could tell when—”

“Mama!” her brother croaked.

They all adored their mother deeply, but she was given to rather intriguing flights of fancy. She also had a very strangely correct sense of intuition.

They did not believe that her dreams came true, nor that she saw ghosts as she sometimes claimed, but their mother was a person with incredibly good instincts about circumstances and people. So, if her mama believed that the comte was coming, Nimue rather thought it was quite possible. As if on cue, the bell rang in the hallway.

She could hear their servant, Maisie, scamper across the wooden floorboards in the hall and open the front door.

There was a bustle of his deep voice mixing with the young servant’s. Then as they all stood, eager and curious, Maisie darted in with wide eyes and announced in tremulous tones, “The Comte de Gastyne.”

Said comte swept in.

Nimue had rather begun to believe that she had imagined him, that his handsomeness was a figment of her imagination, because no gentleman could be so good-looking or so fascinating. But when the French comte stood at the doorway with his dark hair artfully disheveled about his perfect face and his long coat brushing the floor, she realized that she had actually failed in her remembrance.

He was more handsome than she recalled.

Her sister Elspeth sucked in a little breath, and her mama let out a laugh that was deep and rich and also slightly amazed.

“Do come in. Do come in!” her mama urged with a gesture of her hand.

With that, the comte did as he was bid.

He gave elegant bows all around. “It is exceedingly kind of you to invite me into your home. I adore books, and I am most pleased to be here.”

There was something slightly stilted about his speech. Nimue felt fairly certain that he was not actually pleased to be there, but that he was being a good sport because she had invited him.

She fought a frown. No doubt, he’d felt compelled to come lest they discuss him and make mincemeat of him for being too high in the instep.

He did not smile, but he strode into the room and looked at the table of things her mother had put out. “Beautifully arranged,” he said.

Her mother preened with pleasure. “What a compliment coming from you, Comte,” she said. “You must have dined upon the most wonderful foods. Every single English lady I know longs for a French cook.”

He tensed ever so slightly. “Of course, Madame,” he began. “The food was remarkably good.” And then he smiled, a surprisingly kind expression as he took Nimue’s mother’s hand in his and bowed over it. “But I find that English cooking can be quite lovely. Especially on these cold days, there’s something heartening about it. And about English company.”

Her mother’s eyes lit with joy. “We are so happy you are here and look forward to hearing all about your favorite books. It is the price you must pay for the sweets on the table.”

“Price?” he teased. “To discuss books? It is I who should bring you sweets for allowing me to participate.”

Nimue couldn’t deny how her dratted heart softened then, for he seemed genuine in his kind words to her mother.

Words which her mother would float on for days. And her mother deserved the kindness, for she tried so hard to include everyone and make them feel at peace.

Without any sort of ado, her father charged into the room, crossed to the table, took up a scone, took one look at the French comte, and said, “Ah, you are the fellow, aren’t you?”

The comte blinked. “I suppose so—”

“I am Mr. Cheverton,” her father said brightly and then took a bite of his scone. “What do you think of that fellow Napoleon?”

“Papa!” Nimue exclaimed, only slightly horrified by her father’s passion for immediately driving straight to the point. “Please give the poor man a few moments before such conversation. No doubt everyone asks him such a question simply because he’s French.”

The comte’s lips actually twitched. “It is true. Everyone wants to know my opinion on Napoleon.”

“I should dearly love to hear your thoughts,” her father replied with unabashed curiosity. Her father was a curious soul who adored speaking to those who were not from the island or born upon it. And he read every bit of information he could on the affairs in France.

They’d all read Burke’s book on the revolution multiple times over the years.

She gave her father a warning scowl.

The last thing she wanted was for the Comte de Gastyne to feel put on the spot and as if he had to discuss the horrors happening in his homeland.

But then the comte drew in a long breath and gave a shrug that seemed to contradict the severity of his words. “He’s dangerous. He’s arrogant, and he’s charismatic. His men will follow him anywhere and do anything for him, and I think that the Directory in France is going to learn that men like that cannot be controlled.”

Her father looked at him carefully and said, “I agree with you. I think Napoleon is a great danger, not just to Europe, but also to France and certainly to England. We’re going to need a few good fellows who are strong enough to match him. Do you not think Admiral Nelson enough?”

Again, the comte was still. This time there was no shrug. “No, I don’t. He’s a good start, but it’s not anywhere near enough. Napoleon is too good on land.”

Her father nodded. “The stories that are coming out are quite…intimidating.”

The comte grimaced, his handsome visage now looking like one of those dying gladiator statues she had seen in print. “It is true,” he said. “My homeland has become a source of pain and suffering. And I pray to God that one day it shall stop.”

“And when it stops,” her father prompted, “will you go back to France? Do you think you’ll ever be able to reclaim your title?”

“Papa!” Nimue hissed, horrified by such an intimate question. Her sisters, brother, and Mama were watching the conversation, captivated.

The comte raised his hand. “It is a perfectly understandable question, but I think your father is intelligent enough to know that France will never go back to what it was. No one can go back, and I don’t wish to. It would be full of too many painful memories.”

At that, her father had the good grace to look sheepish. “Apologies. I did not mean to bring up unhappy things for you. My daughter brought you here so that we could discuss—”

“Books!” the comte exclaimed, his grief-stricken face transforming with relief.

“Indeed,” her father said. Crossing to the comte, he said with the sort of genuine kindness her father possessed, “So, let us do it.”

With that, her mother clapped her hands, beamed at the French comte, then gestured for him to sit beside her on one of the straight-backed chairs that had been in the family for centuries. “Do sit down, do sit down.”

He gave a look about the room as if he was uncertain who was going to sit on his other side. His gaze flitted to her.

But she decided to take the seat opposite, for she wished to see his face, and the last thing she wanted was for him to think she was setting her cap at him. She was not going to set her cap at anyone. She was very happy. Her parents were very happy, and quite frankly, it was her intention to look after her mother and father when all of her siblings had left the house.

She loved the creaky old house. She loved the library. She loved their farm, and she loved the island. There was nowhere she’d rather be.

It didn’t matter if the French comte was handsome or wealthy or well-connected. He was merely a distraction, a curiosity, a window to a world that she had no desire to enter. And yet she was curious about that world… And what delights he and it had to offer.

As they all took a seat and Maisie came in and began handing out tea, her mother collected the book The Italian from the small table at her elbow.

She cleared her throat, holding the tome reverently. “Now let us discuss it. Is this worthy of being read or, as some people seem to suggest, should it be tossed into the bin?”

The comte gave a horrified look, nearly dropping the teacup Maisie had given him as his eyes bulged. “Toss a book into a bin?” he demanded, his accent thick.

“Oh yes,” her mother lamented. “There are many people who seem to think that some books should not be allowed. Especially books that are audacious.”

“I don’t think anyone should dictate what’s in a book,” he stated.

Her mother beamed at him. “Good. We shall get along marvelously.”

“Was that some sort of test?” the French comte teased.

“Yes, it was.”

He let out a soft laugh. “You are most surprising, Madame Cheverton.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He grew serious again before he mused, “I have read The Italian , and in my opinion? I would hate to think that someone would discount Mrs. Radcliffe simply because her books are so very fun to read.”

If Nimue had feared he might not fit in, this one statement proved this was exactly where he belonged. French comte or no, in the drawing room of her parents’ house, a friendship was born.

And Nimue’s heart warmed. For the world needed more friendship, more hope, and more jolly fun books.