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

Chapter 12

T wenty years ago, Jean-Luc never could have imagined such a scenario. Certainly, as an aristocrat at the Palace of Versailles, he never would’ve mingled with people who were so… Well, as people in his circle would’ve said, below him.

By the standards of Versailles and the French court, he should not have even noticed them.

Well, not he, thank goodness. He had been different. His mother and father had been different, and perhaps that was what had saved him and his sisters. Perhaps that difference had allowed them to see the encroaching dangers when everyone else had ignored them.

And of course, there had been his cousin Achilles who had come to stay in Paris and had helped him to see the world that was outside of the French court. Helped him to see the common people of Paris and their growing rage.

The French court had been such an exclusive place, so cut off in many ways from the real world and what he would deem real people, that none of the aristocrats ever would’ve considered an outing such as this.

To associate with mere farmers? Oh, the aristocrats owned farms. More land than most could ever dream. But one did not associate with people who were not deemed important by the court.

The Briarwoods were not fooled by such idiotic thinking.

It was why he loved his cousins. It was why the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh, the matriarch of the Briarwoods, was so wonderful. She made certain that her children understood the world and the way it actually was.

No doubt, this was because she had been born in the East End of London and lived as an actress. As a common person.

She was not from the storied world of lords and ladies. She was from where the real pain, suffering, and sorrow came from, where the salt of the earth made the world strong. And because of that, her children were strong and knowledgeable and understood the dangers.

Nor did they refrain from mingling with people that were supposedly beneath them. Jean-Luc loved it. He loved watching the Briarwoods with all of these people from the Isle of Wight, and he loved the fact that Mrs. Cheverton had invited everyone from her own circle with no thought of embarrassment.

In her own way, she was as great a marvel as the dowager duchess. How could it be that the world did not have more strong women like them in it? No doubt, there were many more of them waiting to get their courage up.

Of course, there were a few more women who were already powerful and true to themselves, but he hoped beyond hope that soon women like Nimue and the dowager duchess’s daughters and daughters-in-laws would populate the world and bring it to an entirely different place.

Gentlemen were all well and good, but they caused too many problems. Like wars. Wars bred poverty. And poverty bread bloodbaths.

He swallowed back this last thought, determined not to let himself sour the evening.

The room was washed in color and light and music filled the air.

He’d danced every dance with ladies from the local towns, and they all giggled, of course. Ladies did have a tendency to giggle in his company, but they also all asked him salient questions about France and if he enjoyed the Isle of Wight. True, they discussed the weather, as the English insisted on doing, but they also discussed the state of being on an island when the world was coming undone or seemed about to.

All through this conversation, the enjoyment had been palpable.

Yet, all of this meant nothing compared to the way he felt drawn to Nimue.

As he crossed the room, winding his way through the packed crowd of people making merry, drinking lemonade, dancing to country dances, he crossed to her, the beacon in the room.

Meeting her gaze, he extended his hand out to her. “My darling lady,” he said, “will you dance with me?”

Her gaze, her perfect gaze, reflected the candles dancing in the room and yet that light was nothing compared to the one that shone inside her as she teased, “I must check my card, Comte, and see if your name is upon it.”

She pulled at an imaginary little piece of paper from her wrist and laughed. “I suppose I can squeeze you in. Now, are you a gentleman for a jig or do you prefer a reel?”

He let out a burst of a laugh. “I am so very grateful your card can manage me. And in truth, I am a gentleman for a minuet, but I shall do whatever you please.”

“A minuet,” she moaned with an exaggerated look of horror. “No, no, far too formal, far too demanding, far too slow. I do not have the patience for it, and I have not been trained.”

“I can teach you,” he said softly, tilting his head down towards her.

Whether she realized it or not, she licked her lips, leaving a sheen on her lower lip. “Will you indeed teach me to do the minuet?”

“If you would like,” he said, his voice all but a growl as his desire of her began to take hold.

“I always dearly like to learn, Comte,” she said, and with that, he took her to the floor and a reel began.

The word comte on her lips, in this situation where she clearly did not feel she could say his given name without shocking the company, was somehow delicious to his ears. How he loved her playfulness.

He also loved the country dances, and he loved the way that she loved them.

Yes… With her, he loved many a thing! But surely, not real love. It was just a word he was now throwing about. Hyperbole, of course. He was loving pretending to love.

Yet her eyes filled with light did something to him he couldn’t name.

Not to mention her cheeks, a glorious pink from the exertion, which caused him to think of how they glowed with color as she crested from his devotion.

She was the sole subject of his thoughts these days, and because of that, his entire mood had lifted.

As they danced happily to the music, bouncing up and down, traveling back and forth, weaving and interweaving with the other couples, he couldn’t stop his ridiculously earnest smile.

Earnest! How had he become so earnest? A Frenchman treasured his worldliness and ennui! But with her? One could not be anything but joyful.

She gave him spirited grin. “I should like to learn anything you would like to teach me,” she returned at last.

It was an innocent enough thing to say, but with her smile and in his mind… Mon Dieu, he knew all the things he wanted to teach her, but he would have to wait until they were alone in the cottage. The days they had spent together had been the most joyous he had known in years, and he was allowing himself to have them.

They wouldn’t last. February would come to an end, and he would leave the island with the Briarwoods. He always went wherever the Briarwoods went, save that time he had traveled, trying to find himself and peace again.

They were his anchor and, frankly, he did not wish to lose that. Besides, he needed the distraction of London. The Isle of Wight was all well and good for a short period of time, but soon his demons would crawl in. They always did.

Yes, his thoughts would become unpleasant, and he would need to continually entertain himself with the opera, with museums, with the academies in the city, with lectures and the Season. If he did not keep himself continually preoccupied, he would find himself swirling into despair for humanity and its future.

At least here, for the duration of their stay for Zephyr’s yearly winter episode, Nimue was a distraction for him too. In all truth, she was the greatest distraction he had ever known. So far, she was also the most successful, but it surely could not last.

As he gazed upon her beautiful face and smiling lips and beaming eyes, he wondered why she was the antidote to it all.

Could she fix him? Did he need to be fixed?

He nearly tripped while contemplating that thought. He’d never thought of himself as someone who needed to be fixed or that a lady could do it.

Surely, that was all false. But he wondered because she made him feel…

“Are you quite all right?” she asked. “Does the music displease you? Has something happened?” she asked. “Did you smell something terrible?” she whispered, leaning in. “Sometimes Mr. Blankensop can…”

“No, no,” he rushed. “I was merely thinking about how happy I am with you.”

Her brow shot up. “And that caused the look upon your face? Should I be concerned?”

As the reel came to an end and they each bowed and curtsied to each other, he took her hand and placed it over his. “No concern is needed. Can I tempt you with a glass of lemonade?”

“Oh, yes,” she rushed. “The room is quite hot, isn’t it?”

“For the winter, it is astonishingly so,” he said pleasantly. No doubt, Zephyr was overjoyed.

He looked over and spotted his cousin dancing with his wife, the former governess. The fellow did look delighted, and Jean-Luc felt a wave of accomplishment, for he had helped ensure that Zephyr chose his health. And now look at the man! He was so much better and married to a wonderful woman who understood him.

Jean-Luc guided Nimue to the refreshments table. “Your mother has done a wonderful job preparing for everyone.”

“You must tell her,” she said swiftly. “It will give her a great deal of pleasure. I will, of course, do it for you if you do not.”

“No, no, I am happy to. I like your mother very much, and she should feel proud.”

“I’m glad,” she replied, giving him a shocking wink. “I like her too.”

He thrilled at that wink, as if she had taken him in and there were no barriers between them. “She is a great woman, Madame Cheverton.”

“I am very lucky,” she agreed. “I cannot imagine having a different mother.”

“I’m glad you know it,” he said softly. “Many daughters don’t like their mothers.”

His own sisters had gotten on well enough with their mother, but their relationship was nothing like Nimue’s with her mother.

For his mother had been preparing her daughters for the French court. Unlike many mothers, she had not sent her daughters away to be educated in a French convent. But even so, she’d spent most of their time training them for the nuances of a dangerous court where one could be at the top one moment and then shunned in the next.

“I don’t know why,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I suppose it must be in the conflict of growing up, but she and I have never really been at odds. I’m deeply grateful for it. Mama has always supported what I’ve wanted, and she’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t wish to be.”

“Including being a spinster?” he teased.

She inclined her head. “Especially in being a spinster. We play cards well together, you know. And we shall do so when I can no longer dance a jig.”

“Astounding,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine that age would ever stop any of the Cheverton ladies from dancing a jig. After all, Nimue’s mother had danced a great deal this evening.

“What was your mother like?” she asked suddenly.

He was slightly taken aback, for people usually did not ask about his deceased family, fearing to be indelicate. He cleared his throat. “My mother was a great lady, but we did not see much of her, except for when she tutored us on court manners. She was very, very busy with her role.”

“I can’t imagine such a thing,” she confessed. “I have been with my mother almost every hour of every day for my entire life, unless, of course, I’m out for a walk. Every night, she read to me. I sat upon her lap while she read book after book. Every afternoon, when we all grew bored or finished our tasks, she again read me book after book. Then when I was old enough, I read to her.”

A strange sensation, almost envy, filled him then. “Books are the story of your life, aren’t they?”

“They are the great constant,” she said. “Some people need to escape places. Some people need to run away. Some people want to leave the Isle of Wight. They can’t wait to get away. I’ve never wanted to leave it because I don’t have to.”

He narrowed his gaze. It was as if somehow she had understood what he was thinking earlier, the need to run away, to be distracted, to go to London soon. For here she was discussing distraction.

“You’ve never longed to go anywhere else?” he queried as he poured out two glasses of lemonade and passed one to her.

She took it in her delicate hands and lifted it to her lips. There was something about the way she drank that stoked his hunger for her.

Nimue looked so pleased by that simple glass.

How was it possible that some people could take pleasure from such simple things? He would’ve thought, after years of pain and seeing dismay and learning as much as he had from the Briarwoods, that simple things would have given him such pleasure, but he had not yet found the art of it. He supposed some people would forever be on that journey, chasing it for a lifetime. It rather brought his spirit down, that he was one of them.

But then he took in her face again and realized he would not allow his own disappointments to bring him down at present.

“No, there is no reason to leave,” she continued as if the lemonade had fueled her passion on the subject. “I have everything that I want here. I have my family. I have the farm. I have my books. It is a beautiful, beautiful place. I could run away forever and see all the new things in the world, but why would I if I’m content inside?”

“Content inside,” he echoed, clutching his glass. How wonderful would it be to feel thus? He’d always felt a great roiling and bubbling of all sorts of emotions in him that he barely kept at bay.

None of those emotions was contentment. Acceptance? Yes. Contentment? No.

He sipped his own lemonade, savoring the cool, tart taste. “Can you teach me how to feel that?” he asked.

“What?” she asked, surprised. “To be content?”

He gave a nod of his head.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Perhaps we shall have to ask my mother,” she teased. “Because she’s the one who taught us all to be content.”

“She taught you?” he asked. “Not your father?”

A gentle smile warmed her face. “My father is a remarkable individual and I love him dearly, but my mother is the one who beats the drum that we all walk to…including him.”

He studied her then for a long, aching moment, feeling as if the room was spinning about them. Could she be the one to beat the drum for him?

He’d been so certain there could never be a one .

No, no! He would not surrender to this one foible in the Briarwood thinking. They had all fallen in love, but it wasn’t magic or fate. It was because of their attitude and their insistence that it would happen. That was all.

And yet…a part of him that had always been there, deep down, whispered, why not me? Was he not a Briarwood? His cousins delighted in reminding him of it often.

It was ridiculous! There was no such thing for him. Nor did he wish it. He knew what he needed, and it wasn’t a woman to fall in love with. Not when such things could be ripped away, leaving one to feel devastation.

He would go, he would enjoy this time with her, and then perhaps next year when he came back, they could resume their affair. After all, she didn’t wish him to be the one either!

So, he would not dare to contemplate something that would only end in disappointment.

“Come,” he said softly, eager to drive out his mad thoughts. “Another dance.”

She nodded, and they both set down their lemonade.

Determined to think of nothing but the present, for that was all anyone had, he took her out to the floor and left all thoughts of love behind.