Chapter 4
“S how him the library, my dear! You simply must show him our delightful library,” trilled Mrs. Cheverton, who was clearly very pleased with the afternoon’s events.
As was Jean-Luc, if he was honest.
Jean-Luc admired the lady and her exuberance. She was not afraid of him, nor did she give the sort of deference that so many did to aristocrats. Of course, she was landed and wealthy. The house was a beautiful country manor house that contained several rooms and a charm that harkened back to a time long before the likes of Voltaire, Burke, and the modern novel.
Even so, the gap between a landowner and someone with a title such as his or his cousin’s was generally understood as vast. Though he had lost everything in France, he still had his title, and he had, through his mother’s side and his father’s remarkable acumen, several estates in the north of England and Scotland. He was no pauper, as many of the refugees of France were.
So, he did not merely bear an empty title.
He quite liked how Mrs. Cheverton was secure in herself and he found it incredibly freeing, as well as reassuring, for he could be in her presence without having to put her continually at ease.
It was, of course, why he liked her daughter so much as well.
Miss Cheverton had spoken to him without hesitation when they had met whilst she’d sat overlooking the Channel and reading her book, and it was much the same here in the Chevertons’ household. The whole afternoon had gone very well indeed. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t remember enjoying himself so much in some time.
Discussion of Mrs. Radcliffe’s book had been full of much passionate debate and laughter.
He adored his Briarwood cousins. They were all great fun, but there was something very simple about this family that made him feel a sort of peace that he couldn’t recall experiencing ever before.
There was no performing, no antics, just simple enjoyment of life and food and books. He had grown up in one of the most ostentatious courts that history had ever known. The ancient Romans certainly would’ve been able to keep up, but the Versailles of his childhood had been legend.
The rules there, the ridicule, and the importance of saying just the right thing had controlled the lives of all the courtiers. He had grown up watching people be crushed in the mill of that gilded machine. It was both a beautiful and terrifying place. He’d grown up surrounded by the most powerful men in the world, the most skilled musicians, the most profound philosophers, and the greatest disparity between the wealthy and the poor.
So, here in this charming manor house on the Isle of Wight, he was out of place, or at least he should have been. But standing here before Mrs. Cheverton with her daughter at her side, he did not feel out of place at all. Somehow, they made him feel as if this was exactly where he should be.
“I should dearly love to see the library,” he replied with good humor. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”
“I’m sure you have seen far grander, Comte,” Miss Nimue put in.
He certainly had. There was no question about it. Not even considering Versailles and his own family chateau, he had traveled Europe, after all, and the libraries in the various palaces and castles had been mind-boggling.
England had beautiful castles, of course, and great houses galore, but there was a certain lack of ostentation in the country. The fashions of the last one hundred years had not quite swept England in the same way that they had France. Though there was a good bit of gold and filigree in England, it did not touch the elaborate, frothy architecture of the Continent.
So, yes, he had seen many grand libraries. Yet, it didn’t really matter because one could enter those libraries filled with tomes and not feel the reverence that he felt in this house—this beautiful farmer’s manor that, by English standards, was quite excellent.
Here, he had a strong feeling that the library would have the same sort of warmth as the family.
Both ladies stared at him expectantly, and he cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter about the grand libraries I have seen,” he said. “I should always like to see another, no matter its size, and I can see how important it is to the family.”
Mrs. Cheverton beamed at him. “Exactly. I’m so glad you understand us.”
And oddly, he thought he did. They were earnest people, good people, and he thought the world needed far more of that than any of the aristocrats of Versailles. He had grown up around very intelligent, very important people, but often they were cruel people and deeply unhappy. The Chevertons were clearly very educated and very intelligent, yet they were kind.
He found himself drinking that in. They were remarkably like his Briarwood cousins, but the difference in class was certainly evident.
They were landowners and gentlefolk.
Jean-Luc was fortunate in that his cousins were not snobbish. Nor was he. They all valued the character of a person. Most aristocrats were not like that.
He offered his elbow to Miss Cheverton. “Will you lead me?” he asked.
Mrs. Cheverton all but bounced upon her slippered feet, clearly pleased that her daughter was going to go off with a French comte. Or so it seemed.
Hopefully, she was not going to get any ideas on the matrimonial score. Much to his relief, he supposed, Miss Cheverton did not appear interested in pursuing him as a catch.
He thought he was relieved. He should be relieved, and yet there was a little part of him that hoped she was as intrigued by him as he was by her.
Before he allowed Miss Cheverton to lead him out of the room, he gave one last incline of his head to his hostess. “Your gracious hospitality and wonderful conversation have truly brightened my day, Madame,” he assured.
Her eyes danced with joy. “Oh, you must come again. We read a book a week together.”
“I should like that,” he said politely. Except…he realized, his reply was not just polite. He actually meant it.
Suddenly Mrs. Cheverton’s mouth opened and she swung her gaze back and forth between her daughter and Jean-Luc. “I have an idea.”
“Mama,” her daughter warned with a loving sort of censure.
Her mother tsked playfully. “My dear, since he enjoys walking so well, and is clearly adventurous, you should take him out to explore tomorrow. You will know all the best places. Ones he could not possibly know.”
“Mama,” Miss Cheverton said gently, “I’m sure the comte is far too busy—”
“I dearly love an adventure,” he cut in.
Miss Cheverton swung her gaze to him. “You do?” she asked. “For if you do, I shall promise you an adventure.”
“I do,” he affirmed, “but only if you do indeed know the best places. Otherwise, I shall love none of it,” he teased.
“I do know them,” she replied, laughing. “I know this island up and down, inside and out.”
“Then you will show me her secrets.”
They exchanged a strange sort of smile that seemed to make everything but the two of them slip away. Secrets. What secrets could this island or Miss Cheverton possibly have?
None.
But in that moment, he found his spirit quite looking forward to spending time with her spirit.
The truth was, Jean-Luc had no idea why he was agreeing to all of this, but he’d been doing things the same way for so long now since his flight from France that he needed something different. Something less busy. Something less ornate.
Something true.
Something that gave him peace.
Again, there was that word. Peace. It was a word he’d never truly valued as a young man. But now, it suddenly seemed vital.
But why would he feel any different here than he did with his Briarwood family? The Briarwoods were wonderful. He dearly loved his family and yet… He did feel different with the Chevertons. He wondered if it was because there was a certain expectation in the ton, in powerful families, that simply didn’t exist on a farm.
Here, he did not have to worry about his lost ancestral homelands or the rules of the ton.
Mrs. Cheverton waved her hands at him. “Now, I have much to do and the library awaits,” she declared before she bustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.
“Shall we?” Miss Cheverton gently placed her hand atop his.
Her warm skin grazed his, and the spark that traveled through him was so intense, so shocking, that he snapped his gaze to hers.
She blinked and, for a moment, he was certain she would pull back her hand, for she had felt it too.
But she did not. Quite the contrary. Instead, her lips curved in a welcoming smile as if she enjoyed all new experiences. “Come along then,” she said happily.
Happy.
Were all the Chevertons happy?
The Briarwoods were alive. Fully. And joyously. But they were not all necessarily happy all the time. For they were full of the fits and foibles of any grand family.
Yet, the Chevertons seemed untouched by the cares of the world.
It was a powerful lodestone.
He nodded slowly. “But of course.”
He let her guide him out into the long but slightly dim hallway, for the windows were small and high.
“Turn here,” she instructed brightly.
“Wherever you say, mademoiselle, I shall go.”
“How very grand of you, and a rather dangerous promise. Very French. I’m assuming the French cannot be accused of being sincere?”
A laugh burst past his lips. “How very blunt and correct. The French value the art of speech.”
“But surely, the true art of speech is to be accurate and to be honest.”
How beautifully naive to think so! Versailles had been all about saying what one did not mean. But then again… Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps the art of Versailles had been false, hollow, and, in the end, without merit.
“It is difficult to admit the English might be correct in terms of speech,” he replied ruefully.
Her brows rose. “One doesn’t need to be right all the time.”
“Doesn’t one?” he returned.
“How very boring, to be right all the time,” she countered. “For does that not suggest that there is nothing left to learn?”
“Very astute.”
“But I will say,” she allowed as she patted his arm, “I approve of your manner with my mother. Your compliments meant a great deal…even if they were not sincere.”
“You may thank me, but I promise that my words to your mother were most sincere. You all bring a strain of earnestness out in me that I did not know was there. Your mother is lovely. I enjoy her honest passion for life.”
A laugh tumbled past her lips. “How diplomatically put. But thank you, if you mean it.”
“I do,” he replied as she indicated they turn again.
As they headed down the hall towards the west side of the house, she rushed, “I must beg your apology for my father.”
He shook his head. “Why would you ever apologize for your father? He is clearly a very interesting and intelligent man.”
She groaned. “Yes, but the way that he pressed you?” She sighed. “Now turn again here.”
He did as instructed, savoring the way her skirts swayed about her, brushing his legs. It was like a secret caress, and the warm press of her hand to his? It was a simple, unexpected bliss.
He found himself enjoying the winding corridors and low frames of the house that had clearly been built closer to the time of Shakespeare. It was like living in a house that could give one a warm embrace.
He hesitated, then said, “I like your father and his honest concern. I like his willingness to say exactly what he was thinking. If the French had been more like that, perhaps we could have actually fixed our problems before they overwhelmed us.”
She gave him a sympathetic yet simultaneously grateful look. “I love him very much. But not everyone understands him. Or my mother.”
“Parfait,” he replied. “It should not be possible to be understood by everyone. No one should wish to be so bland. Are you bland, Miss Cheverton?”
“Not a bit,” she replied merrily as she maneuvered him into a long room that was clearly the pride and joy of Mrs. Cheverton.
He felt his lips turning in a smile. His former chateau had a library that was the size of half this house. But he would not say such a thing. The Cheverton’s library could have fit into the Duke of Westleigh’s library a few times.
Yet, this library was significant considering the house. It was also surprisingly intimate. It beckoned one in, promising comfort and ease in a world fraught with confusion and danger.
The many shelves were lined with book after book after book. Clearly, each one had been chosen, not because it would impress anyone, but because it would be loved and read. The leather bindings shone in the early afternoon light. The gilded titles and authors’ names also glimmered like promised treasures. There were long oak tables where one could go and sit and read and pull out maps, and there was a fireplace around which chairs had been arranged.
Windows framed the far wall, spilling gentle light in through stained and clear glass panes. The thick older walls allowed for window seats at each window. Plush pillows and blankets were tucked into each seat, a sanctuary for those who needed it.
It was obvious the entire family liked to come here.
There were stacks of books all over the place. It wasn’t the sort of room that was meant to be shown off. It was the sort of room that was meant to be enjoyed.
“How do you like it?” she asked as she slipped her hand from atop his.
Much to his surprise, he hated the loss of her touch. If it was up to him, he would have held her hand for an eternity.
It was a mad thought, but he had it just the same.
He shook it away and folded his hands behind his back, making a grand show of looking about with pleasure.
“Ah,” he declared, “I like it very well. And your parents clearly have very good taste.”
Her brows shot up. “How can you possibly say that, having grown up in such places as you have? I am well aware of the importance of French architecture. Everyone mimics it.”
He blew out a sigh. “You might be aware of the importance,” he said, “but sometimes living in those grand places can be rather like living in a cathedral. Very nice to look at, but impersonal and cold.”
He gestured to the crackling fireplace, the window seats, the tables strewn with beloved books. “This room looks as if it has never been cold a day in its existence.”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed about as if seeing it through his eyes. “You are most astute if you speak of the spirit of the room. But I confess,” she teased as she slipped closer to the windows and lifted a hand towards the glass panels, “these occasionally get covered in frost.”
Shivering, she winked at him.
The playful gesture was a surprise. For he knew there was nothing calculated to it. There was no seduction. No ridicule. Just pleasure.
She stroked her hand along the window seat cushions. “This is a wonderful place to sit.”
For a moment, he had the absurd wish that he was the cushion, basking in her touch.
She sat down in the window seat and gazed out the window for a long moment.
“So…” she mused as she continued to look outward, “you like our little life here?”
He crossed to her slowly, then dared to sit down in the window seat beside her. “I do,” he said. “It’s a wonderful little retreat.”
“Ah but to us,” she said, turning slightly towards him, causing her skirts to brush his knee, “it is not a retreat. To us, it is our world, and it is far from the grandeur of the Duke of Westleigh’s world.”
He studied her carefully. “That is true, but this house. Your family. You… You are from a world that I don’t really know,” he breathed.
She licked her lower lip, as if she was considering his reply, before she tucked a lock of her hair back behind her ear. It was an endearing gesture he realized she liked to repeat.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his. “Is it a world you’d like to know better? My mother seems bound and determined to drag you into it.”
His fingers ached to touch that lock of hair, to touch her cheek. “Perhaps,” he said, “but you see, I no longer belong to any world. So slipping from one to the other is most interesting. It is a relief from the pain inside me.”
Her face softened at that, clearly surprised that he was willing to be honest about his pain. “How very terrible for you. I’m truly sorry for all that has happened to you.”
“Don’t be,” he said quickly. “And your father was correct to be curious about Napoleon and the goings-on in France. It’s good that he’s so interested. So many people don’t care or pay attention. That’s dangerous.”
She nodded before she ventured, “It can be exhausting paying attention though, can’t it?”
He stilled. “What do you mean?”
She licked her captivating pink lips again. “Well, if one is always afraid of what’s coming, can one ever actually prepare for it?”
He hesitated. “I do not know, and I do not think we should live driven by fear, but I can tell you that the aristocrats of France refused to acknowledge what was coming. They would not see, though it was right before them. They did not pay attention. They ignored every single sign. Perhaps if they had taken it more seriously, they’d all still have their lives, and France would be a place that was good and not a place where so many have died. Where so many more will die if it continues as it is.”
Her brows drew together, and her gaze darkened with kindness. “You suffered a great deal, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, determined not to engage in self-indulgence. “My suffering is nothing compared to others.”
She frowned. “I think comparing suffering can be quite tricky.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, surprised.
She paused, clearly in no hurry, clearly determined to give a thoughtful response. “Suffering is suffering. I do not think it is helpful to deny the suffering of a person who escaped Paris. It is terrible for those who were executed there. There is no denial of the heinous barbarity that occurred in the streets. But that does not mean that your loss of an entire way of life should be ignored.”
Something in the gentle power of her words slipped through him, shaking at the control he had long ago learned to have over his memories and how he thought of the past.
He did not allow himself to contemplate his pain much. He kept it stored away. Managed. He had sorted through it all long ago with the aid of his cousins. Truly. While it was true that he had come to a very different conclusion about the world than his cousins, he was certain it was best for him.
The Briarwoods threw themselves into love, believing there was only the moment to live for.
He knew this was a lie. Those who survived? They had an eternity of agonizing moments to endure. And he would not drag another human into that. Especially one he could love.
So, he sat up a little straighter and said, “I did lose everything, except my sisters. But we survived. And that is enough.”
“Are they happy here?” she asked.
Happy. It was a strange word. He felt the Chevertons’ happiness, but it was likely an emotion that could only be felt by a group of people who had managed to insulate themselves from the world.
For him, happiness did not exist. Contentment, and the ability to endure with a laugh, was more than enough.
“I don’t think happy is the word,” he replied. “They’ve never been quite right since we left. But they do well, especially with our cousins. You’ll have to come and meet them.”
“You wish me to meet your sisters? I am but a simple country girl—”
“Simple?” he echoed with an arched brow. “I think not. They would like you very well, and it seems to me you are making assumptions, which is a surprise given how well-read you are. I didn’t think that was the kind of person that you were,” he said without malice.
“And what kind of person do you think I am, Comte?” she asked.
“You must call me Jean-Luc. And what I see? I see a generous woman. An interesting woman. A beautiful woman,” he rumbled before he could stop himself, leaning towards her, his knee pressing into her gown.
Her eyes flared, both with surprise and clear enjoyment. “There is the Frenchman in you.”
He laughed softly. She was right. He would always be a Frenchman who knew the beauty of women and how they should be celebrated. “Perhaps. Now what adventure is it exactly that you are going to take me on tomorrow?”
She gazed down at where his knee touched her gown and then a playful look crossed her face. “Perhaps I shall take you to meet the cows, Comte.”
He blinked, then a bellow of a laugh bubbled up from him. “Will you always be such a delightful surprise, Mademoiselle Cheverton?”
“Indeed I shall,” she boasted. “But if I am to call you Jean-Luc, you must call me Nimue.”
“You truly are beautiful, you know, Nimue.”
She pursed her lips. “I have been told.”
“Good,” he declared boldly, enjoying how they were now being so blunt with each other. “Then you are like a young French lady. You know your worth.”
“Of course I know my worth,” she returned. “Don’t you know yours?”
No one had ever asked him such a thing, and it stole the air out of his lungs. “I don’t know. Perhaps, perhaps not, but I know whoever you marry will be lucky.”
She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, but there shall be no such man.”
He frowned, trying to make sense of her reply. “How could someone like you not wish to marry?”
“Someone like me?”
“Someone so full of life and passion,” he explained. “Shall you go to your death a spinster and having never been kissed?”
The very idea felt outrageous to him. Surely, a young lady such as Nimue deserved to be worshipped by a husband. To be taught the joys of the marriage bed. To be protected. And then to know the joys of a family—she seemed as if she would be a perfect mother.
“How can you turn away from bliss?” he asked, shocked.
She drew in a long breath, then blew it out with dramatic flair. “There you go again, proving yourself to be French. All this obsession with kissing and passion. From what I can see, that is not the focus of most marriages.”
He pursed his lips. Perhaps she was correct.
“Forgive me,” he replied, wincing. “Many marriages are not full of passion.”
And then she tilted her head to the side and said, “Just because I’m never going to be married doesn’t mean that I haven’t ever been kissed or that I never will be again.”
He considered this and could not stop the smile that tilted his lips. “Ah, Nimue. That is a very French thing to say. And because of that, I shall take my leave.”
For despite the open doorway, he knew if he stayed, he would not be able to resist being the one to kiss her next.
He gave her an elaborate bow. “Until tomorrow?”
“Until tomorrow, Jean-Luc.”
As he headed out the door, he had a rather strong feeling that the adventure she had promised him had already begun.