Chapter 5
Giselle fretted as she stood before her mother in their drawing room.
She wore a white muslin dress with triple flounces in the skirt and a sweet little spencer of royal-blue velvet, which had double frills at the neckline.
Giselle liked flounces and frills—not only did they make her feel feminine, they reminded her of her favorite flowers, carnations.
Besides, the skirt was just high enough to show off her matching royal-blue velvet boots.
But Maman was certainly taking her time about assessing her ensemble to determine its suitability for an outing. Giselle wished Maman would say she looked beautiful, that the earl would fall right into her arms.
What a foolish wish. For one thing, Maman never gave such effusive compliments.
For another, Giselle did not want him falling into her arms. Her life had become complicated enough as it was.
And the earl would probably only fall into her arms if he wished to offer a more indecent arrangement. She was having none of that.
“Well?” Giselle asked impatiently. “What do you think, Maman?”
“May I see the bonnet?” her mother asked.
“Oh! That is the best part!” Moving to the chaise longue, Giselle picked up her blue velvet bonnet, placed it on her head, and tied the wide blue ribbons with a little flourish. “Is it not glorious? I love the white silk lily ornamentation that contrasts with the blue.”
Her mother sighed. “You look like a princess in that ensemble.”
Tears sprang to Giselle’s eyes. Perhaps her mother could give effusive compliments after all.
“And far too lovely for the earl,” her mother added.
“Maman!”
A frown crossed her brow. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were spending time with the man at your half sister’s home. Why would you hide that?”
The question felt like a dagger sliding into her heart. Not that Giselle had ever experienced such a thing, but she imagined it would feel exactly like this awful pain in her chest.
The deception was so hard. She did not regret her decision, but she did regret how it affected Maman.
She turned around to gaze into the mirror so she would not be forced to lie to her mother’s face. “I-I did not know what would come of Lord Heathbrook’s attentions. I was not sure he was seriously interested in me until he proposed. And then everything changed.”
“You are happy to be engaged to him, aren’t you?”
Facing her mother once more, she smiled broadly. “I am very happy.”
That was actually true. It was as if Lord Heathbrook . . . Heath . . . had lifted a weight off her chest. She had passed onto him the responsibility of getting proper papers for her and Maman, and now she could breathe again.
A knock came at the door, and Giselle turned toward the sound. “He is here!”
For pity’s sake, stop that! This is not a real courtship.
Yet Giselle could barely keep from hurrying to the door.
That was for their manservant, Mr. Carr, to do.
Unlike their lady’s maid, Brigitte, who was as French as they were, Mr. Carr was a real English butler, recommended by their landlord in Bath.
So, Giselle forced herself to stand still and let the man perform his duties, so that Heath could see she had not lied about their financial prospects.
Granted, beyond Brigitte and Mr. Carr, they only had a cook and a maid-of-all-work, but Maman’s inheritance from Giselle’s stepfather was enough to pay them every year.
And that was perfectly adequate. They were adequate without an earl wandering about, suddenly hoisting her into the air, and then giving her a kiss that was much more than adequate.
She sighed. When had she started wanting more than adequate? Why did she feel her pulse quicken when he entered? Why did the frank male appreciation in his gaze as he looked her over make her heart thump madly in her chest?
He bowed to Maman. “Bonjour, Madame Bernard.”
After Maman nodded and greeted him back, he turned to Giselle, and his voice turned husky, like thunder at the very beginning of rumbling. “Bonjour, ma fiancée.”
“Good afternoon, Heath,” she said primly. Why, oh, why, must he appear so very fine in his beige trousers and his double-breasted coat of chocolate-brown superfine with gold buttons? Not to mention his brown leather riding boots?
“You look like a veritable water nymph in that gown,” he said in English, his eyes practically eating her up.
“Thank you, sir.” She looked him over critically to hide the way she wanted to eat him up with her eyes, and added offhandedly, “Meanwhile, you look handsome as usual.”
He laughed. “How is it you manage to make looking handsome sound like a character flaw?”
“I did not mean it to be taken so.” She strolled toward him.
“But I should point out that I have never once seen you with your hair disheveled or your teeth sporting a piece of green onion from breakfast or your perfect white cuffs bearing even the merest dot of a spot of coffee. However do you achieve such perfection?”
“First of all, I don’t drink coffee. I drink tea as every good Englishman should. Second, I do have a valet who makes sure I don’t leave my bedroom with a hair out of place or food detritus in my teeth.”
She brightened. “I know that word, détritus. It is French!”
“I’m aware,” he said with a lazy smile.
“And it is not your valet who keeps you in good order. Even in the camp, where your clothes were old and . . . er . . .”
“Ragged. You can say it.”
“Very well, ‘ragged.’ Even there, you always managed to make sure they were as kempt as clothes could be in such a place.” She tapped her chin. “Oh, dear, is ‘kempt’ a word?”
“I believe that ‘kempt’ was once a word centuries ago, but after it spawned its companion ‘unkempt,’ it retreated from the field forever.”
She laughed. “My point is, you like your appearance just so, which is the true mark of a dandy.”
Once more she must have stepped awry, for he drew himself up, suddenly haughty. “I should hope not a dandy. And again, you make being handsome and ‘kempt’ sound like a character flaw.”
“Is ‘dandy’ a character flaw? I thought it meant ‘gentleman’?”
“No,” he said, his tone softening. “It means a gentleman who is fastidious—méticuleux—to the point of being ludicrous.”
“I see,” she said, though she did not really. “You are not that, to be sure.”
That seemed to mollify him. But the English certainly had strange ideas sometimes.
What was wrong with caring about the neatness and cleanliness of one’s clothing?
Although she must admit that when he appeared looking so deliciously perfect, it gave her a strange urge to muss him up, to disorder his hair and perhaps unbutton his coat and waistcoat so she could—
The clock chimed three PM, and thankfully his gaze turned to it, so he did not see her blushing like a silly schoolgirl.
“Shall we go?” he said. “If we are to finish our drive in Hyde Park before it gets dark, we should leave now.”
“Of course.” She retrieved her reticule from the chaise longue. “I am ready.”
“Not quite. It’s warmer than usual for October, but still fairly chilly outside. You should probably bring a winter cloak, if you have one.”
“I do.” She beamed at him for being so considerate. Then she caught herself, and added saucily, “Fortunately for you, it matches this gown.”
“Why fortunately for me? What would happen if it didn’t?”
“I would have to change clothes,” she called back as she hurried to fetch it, “and we would be much later to the park.”
“Ah. Then thank God for matching cloaks,” he told her.
As soon as she had donned it and come back, she asked, “And do you have a greatcoat, sir?”
“My tiger has it, just in case. But I rarely get cold, and certainly not on a day as fine as this.”
She looked at him as she drew on her thick gloves. “Jon claims the same thing. He says it is because of the time he spent at Bitche, when the nights got so cold. He grew used to it.”
“Yes.” Before she could ask him to elaborate, he nodded to Maman and asked in French, “What time do you wish us to return?”
“Whenever you please,” Maman said, then added, “Before sundown, I suppose, to be proper. But we are not slaves to time as you English are. We prefer to enjoy life at a leisurely pace.”
“Understood,” Heath said, but muttered under his breath in English, “I’m sure your cook just loves not knowing when dinner is to be ready.”
Giselle fought to suppress a laugh as he offered her his arm. But as she took it, she could tell he was still somber. As soon as they headed out the door, he said, “Your mother doesn’t like me.”
She sighed. “She does not trust you. She can tell we have secrets, and she does not like that.”
“Ah.” He led her down to his phaeton and helped her in before climbing up beside her and taking the reins his tiger handed up to him. “ ‘A mother always sees what her child most tries to hide.’ Or so my own mother used to say.”
After his tiger took a seat on the footboard in back, Heath paused a moment to settle a blanket over their laps before he got the horses going. It was rather cold out today, so she appreciated being able to keep her hands warm.
Once they were clopping along at a brisk pace, she said, “You never talk about your mother. What was she like?”
“Rather like yours, I would imagine. Something of a stern taskmaster, and fiercely protective of her children, even when her children wanted her not to be.”
Giselle suspected there was more to it than he was saying, but this was probably not the time for discussing it. Especially since she had more important things to ask. “Were you able to see Beasley? Or any government officials?”
“I did see Beasley. It turns out that the man you encountered is named Vaughan Jones, not Lewis Nash.”
Giselle caught her breath. No wonder neither of them had remembered Lewis Nash. “Though I do not think I ever met him at Verdun, the name Vaughan Jones does sound familiar.” She frowned. “Did not Jones try to convince Sarah to run away with him?”