Chapter 10
“Will your friend Lord Fernsby break the heart of Amelia Broom?” asked Danielle Allard. She’d twisted to watch the rapidly
diminishing figures of the couple. They walked arm in arm up the path to the village.
“I beg your pardon?” Luke blinked down at her. He could think of no useful response. She was a tumble of lavender strewn across
the bow. Awareness strummed through him—he was aware of closeness, aware of the privacy of this boat, aware of the crackling
energy between them. He had the errant thought to pull up the punting pole and stab it through his own chest.
“Your friend?” she prompted. “The viscount? Can you vouch for his intentions toward Amelia?”
“No. I cannot.”
“You will not or you cannot?”
“I have no idea of his intentions,” he said.
“What of his honor, then? As a gentleman? Is he the sort of man who seeks out women for dalliances everywhere he goes? I can
only guess a titled peer, a decorated veteran, a relative of the king, has many women vying for his affection. It begs the
question, what could he want with Amelia Broom? She is sweet and fetching but a vicar’s daughter from Ivy Hill, Kent.”
“I cannot speak to the preferences of the viscount. Considering he suggested this bloody outing and then deserted us, neither can he.” Luke punted another stroke.
“I can say that he hasn’t ‘dallied with women,’ in the years since I’ve known him.
Unless I’m mistaken, he enjoys chamber music, and military history, and bird-watching. ”
“Oh,” she said.
She turned and propped an elbow on the huff, staring into the bottle-green water. The wind chopped up the surface of the river,
scaling it into little tiles. The shoreline was close enough to touch, and she snapped off a stalk of river grass. He eased
the boat forward, and she dipped the blade of grass in the water, dragging it along.
“I believe Fernsby to be a good man,” Luke finished.
“And what of you, Captain?” she asked, turning to him. “Are you a good man?”
His heart clenched. “No. I am not.”
She twirled the grass above the surface, watching it drip. “For what reasons are you not good?”
He shook his head. He would not stumble into another discussion about himself. She already knew he was a smuggler. The point
of this outing was to describe her life; to identify her.
A family of geese paddled close, the mother gliding gracefully while her goslings zipped behind her like bugs. The line of
the boat dissected their formation. The mama and two goslings swam along one side, while the other three goslings paddled
up the opposite side, squawking. Miss Allard pulled off her gloves and scooted them along.
When the family was reunited, she asked, “Why do you call yourself a bad man?”
He sighed. Enough. He said, “I’ve something to tell you, Miss Allard.”
She went still and looked up.
He gave his head a shake. “Danielle,” he corrected.
She waited.
“Forgive me,” he bit out. “I’ve never known how to address you.”
“I’m called Dani,” she said carefully. “You know this.”
“I will not refer to you as Dani.”
“Alright. How will you refer to me?”
They’d come to a fork in the river. The gnarled roots of a massive willow created a dam, diverting the river to the right.
To the left, a small lagoon was concealed by the canopy, a heavy curtain of green. Luke jabbed the riverbed with the punt,
slowing the boat. “Where the devil does this lead?”
“If we remain on the river, we’ll turn up in Swanley and the tearoom Amelia favors. But can you push left? That’s Beckley
Pond. It’ll be easier to turn around in the pond. The River Len reduces to little more than a stream in Swanley.”
“Watch your head,” he said, maneuvering the boat under the fronds of the tree. She leaned, and the fronds of the willow slid
over her like a sheet on a line. Luke pushed again, bending and twisting his body to pass through without being knocked into
the river. When they emerged, he was hatless and had a stick in his hair. There was a spray of feathery willow leaves at his
feet. Miss Allard laughed.
“Funny, is it?” he asked. “I see now, you’re trying to garrote me.”
“My plan revealed. You shouldn’t have allowed your chaperones to mutiny.”
“The chaperones were for you, m’étoile, not me.”
She blinked at him. A blush rose on her cheeks. Luke swore. He’d not meant to use the term of endearment. Never in his life had he referred to a woman by some pet name. It simply . . . slipped out. Several times now it had slipped. My star.
“Why do you call yourself a bad man, Captain?” she repeated.
“Forgive me, I misspoke. Put it out of your head.”
“Fine,” she said. “Why this confusion over how to address me? You are aware of my name.”
She’d handed him the perfect inroad. No question was better suited to what he had to say. He need only find the bloody words.
He swore again, avoiding her gaze. Of all the people on the entire planet, why was he the man burdened with revealing her identity? How had Fernsby described it? A conversation that would impact the entire rest
of her life?
Luke stirred the murky water with the pole, buying time. Jabbing downward, he tested the depth. The pole went, and went, and
went—the pond was far deeper than the river. The water was nearly to his glove before he pulled back. He gave a shout and
hopped backward, trying not to fall in.
“Careful,” she said.
He blew out a breath and lifted the pole. For a long moment, he held it out, allowing mud and plant life to drip. Beckley
Pond was swampy and overgrown. Lily pads clogged one side and the willow-tree dam bent over the other. In the middle, there
was a sandy little island.
Miss Allard waited. He refused to look at her. There were hooks on the side of the boat for the pole, and he busied himself,
snapping it in place. When his hands were empty, he sat down on the opposite end, resting his arms on his knees.
“Have mercy, Captain,” she said softly. “Please.”
He nodded. “Give me a second.” He closed his eyes.
“I can admit that I know very little of flirtation, or betrothals, or even men,” she said. “This is obvious to someone of your experience.”
He opened one eye.
“It’s displeasing to you,” she continued. “You’re—”
“I am not displeased,” he countered, even though he’d avoided innocent women for as long as he could remember.
“You are remote,” she accused. “You will not communicate. It gives me no pleasure to hound you for conversation, but I am
bold enough to ask, and ask again, until I learn what’s happened. You were perfectly friendly before the . . . before the
library at Eastwell Park. And now you are detached. And yet I know from my parents that you intend to move forward with a
wedding. You are detached and yet you intend to marry me. What’s happened? And what do you mean, you are a bad man? In what way? You don’t know how to address me—why not? You’ve something to say to me—what is it?”
“Stop—please stop,” he said, holding out a hand. “You have not offended me. Your innocence is an undeserved gift—one that
should be opened by another man. I am the unfit person in this boat, not you.”
Her eyes were huge, her cheeks pink. The wind blew ebony curls across her face. He looked away, biting off his gloves and
rubbing the back of his neck.
“I hesitate,” he continued, “because words fail me. Rest assured, it’s not bad news—what I have to say. That is, it’s not
bad as in hurtful. Or threatening.”
The wind blew, and the boat began, slowly, to spin.
“Is the betrothal off?” she asked in a rasp.
He eyed her. He realized that she wanted to marry him. Having her want him was better than having her recoil from him, but the fonder she became, the more complicated this would be. Even so, he felt the sail inside of his chest fill and puff out.
“No,” he said. “It’s not the end of the betrothal, it is the reason for it. Moreover, it’s information for which you’ve asked.
Repeatedly. Information you deserve. I beg your pardon in advance. You’ve waited far too long to hear . . .” an exhale “. . . what
I’m about to tell you.”
He looked to her, and her expression was so raw and desperate, he looked away.
“What I’m trying to say is,” he continued, “if I addressed you properly, I would invoke your title. I would say, ‘Your Serene Highness.’ ”
“What?” She searched his face. She had the look of someone given a riddle to solve.
“In France,” he went on, “this title, ‘Your Serene Highness,’ is the form of address attached to princesses of the blood.
And you, Danielle Allard, are actually not English. You are French.”
“I am French?” The words came out in a whisper. She looked down at her arm as if to find a label that said this. She touched
a hand to her dark curls. She gaped at him.
He forced himself to continue. “The parents of your birth were French. You come from a long, and in fact, very distinguished
line of French aristocrats. Forgive me, I am only learning your precise lineage myself, but I do know that your surname is
not Allard—that is, Allard is only part of your name. There is more, and the second part of your surname is part of your title
as well. It is Orleans.”
“I am French,” she repeated.
“Your full name is . . .” he swallowed “. . . Princess Danielle Allard d’Orleans.”
“Princess?” The word came out on a little choke. She pushed forward, sitting on her knees.
He went on. “The reason you were taken as a baby from France and from the family of your birth, is—was—the Revolution. In France. Twenty-some-odd years ago. Your family, which is a cadet branch of the French royal family, was
being hunted down, imprisoned, and executed by rioters. Your tutors, surely, taught you about the French Revolution. Do you
understand?”
She shook her head. The confusion and trepidation on her face tore his heart. He had the overwhelming urge to go to her; to
pull her to him and speak the rest of it into her hair in a soft voice. He must not, of course, touch her. He could tell her,