Chapter 8 #2
“What were we supposed to do—just let him devour all of Europe?”
“Of course not. But I should think you, of all people, would hate war as much as I. You were not even a soldier, and you ended up as part of the war anyway. You went to France on business with your father and then had to spend years in a prisoner’s camp because our emperor had a fit of pique. War is good for no one.”
He frowned. “You’re certainly right about that.”
The procession moved on with its variety of colors and costumes and music until the whole purpose for its very existence came around a bend. The Lord Mayor approached, riding in his bedazzling state coach drawn by six white horses.
Giselle gasped. “That coach is . . .”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes. But extravagant. So much gilding! It is blinding. It must be very heavy to require six horses.”
“The king’s coach is traditionally drawn by eight. The Lord Mayor is allowed six for this procession, which is significant, since no one in the peerage is allowed more than four.”
She smirked at him. “So, you are not as important as the Lord Mayor.”
“I don’t get to ride around in a gilded carriage,” he joked, “so probably not.”
“You could buy one and keep it for special occasions.”
“But that would be too extravagant for you, would it not?”
“I am a child of the Revolution,” she said coyly.
For the rest of the procession, she was easier with him than before, and he couldn’t help but be relieved. After all, he still needed her help. That was his only reason for giving a damn.
Right. That, and the fact that he’d started wondering what she might like or want or need from him. What he might like or want or need from her. Except for her in his bed, of course.
He sighed. He really had to stop thinking about her that way or he’d never make it through the next week. He was scheduled to go to court in a few days, and the last thing he needed was to alienate the one woman who could help him there.
Once the procession was past, everyone returned inside to warm up by the fireplaces. He and Giselle found Madame Bernard sitting alone, so they went over and asked if she would want food now. When she professed to be famished, they headed off to the supper room.
“When does the dancing begin?” Giselle asked.
“Probably soon. They’ll wait until people have had a bit to eat first, but then the musicians will start up.”
“I love to dance,” she said, a hint of yearning in her voice. “Especially the waltz. I learned how to waltz in Bath.”
He stifled a groan. Obviously, she was hinting that she wanted to be asked.
Generally, he felt indifferently about dancing.
But aside from the fact that he didn’t know the waltz well at all, he certainly wasn’t going to dance it with her, especially not the way she looked now.
The idea of holding her close in a dance that practically mimicked the act of lovemaking . . .
No, he mustn’t. He couldn’t bear dancing any dance with her. He already ached to seduce her—dancing with her would turn him into a slavering beast who was liable to take advantage of her. And that wouldn’t be good for either of them.
So, he changed the subject as they entered the supper room. “Will you choose some things for your mother to eat?” Heathbrook asked. “I confess I still have no clue what she likes.”
“You are safe if you remember that she adores any kind of cheese, but dislikes anything that swims. Or so she always says.”
“Not even frog legs? I thought everyone French enjoyed those.”
She eyed him askance. “Not everyone French.”
“So, she doesn’t like frog legs.”
Giselle tipped up her chin. “She does, actually, but—”
“You just proved my point,” he said with a laugh.
“I do not myself enjoy them,” she said with a sniff. “That is surely proof of my point.”
He leaned close to whisper, “Ah, but you’re only half-French.”
“Must you remind me?” she said lightly. “It is such a curse to have even a minute amount of English blood.”
“Watch it, minx,” he murmured. “Your fiancé is rather proud of being English.”
“My faux fiancé,” she reminded him in a whisper as she filled two plates with food, one for her mother containing a selection of cheese-based dishes. “So, I need not trouble myself about your English blood. Tell me, sir, do you eat frog legs?”
He turned his attention to piling shrimp and whelks upon his plate. “Um . . . I do, actually. I eat anything that swims.”
“Do not tell Maman. She will lecture you about the ill effects of eating things from water.” When he arched an eyebrow at her, she shrugged. “Maman is what is often called ‘eccentric’ by you English. She also happens to think that water has little invisible creatures in it. Ridiculous, non?”
“My mother thought that peas caused indigestion. Yet I still eat peas.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “Is there anything you do not eat? Because, if memory serves me correctly, you never turned down a single dish at the lodging house.”
“Madame Dubois happened to have a very good cook, if you’ll recall. I missed that chap terribly once we were at Bitche, believe me. I used to dream about his galettes.”
Occasionally, he dreamed about her, but he figured it wouldn’t be wise to mention that.
Giselle sighed. “I myself miss his galettes. Maman’s cook is not so good with them.”
“I have a French cook, you know,” he murmured. “He makes a blueberry galette to rival even those of your cousin’s cook. Now, don’t you wish I wasn’t merely your faux fiancé?”
“Hardly, monsieur,” she said sweetly. “Because then I would have to endure your sly hints about Gog and Magog’s giant verges.”
His bark of laughter at her mention of penises in French gained him a few looks.
He didn’t mind. For one thing, he loved having a woman appreciate his wicked sense of humor.
Very few did. Besides, with so many détenus here, the more attention he drew to him and Giselle, the more likely the détenus were to gossip about their engagement. That certainly played into his plans.
“You should have had your cook make a galette for today,” Giselle said.
“Why?”
“It is your birthday! Or have you forgotten?”
“I had forgotten, actually. But that’s not surprising. I haven’t celebrated one since my last before Father and I went to France.”
She gaped at him. “You never celebrated in the camp?”
“Do you remember me celebrating?” he asked, bemused by her interest.
“Come to think of it, no. Jon did. Scovell did. Even my papa did. Why not you?”
He shrugged. “My father thought birthdays were for children. Once I was grown, he saw no point. So, I saw no point.”
“Well,” she said, her tone full of outrage, “we shall celebrate yours. Perhaps not today, but tomorrow.”
“I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Doing what?”
He grinned at her. “Watching you plant hyacinth bulbs in my garden. It’s my birthday present, you know.”
“It is, indeed,” she said. “And you must have a galette, too.”
“If you say so.”
They walked back with their plates to join her mother, only to find Madame Bernard engaged in a long conversation with a French gentleman from Verdun.
Then Heathbrook heard a familiar voice behind him boom, “Heathbrook? Is that you?”
He turned to see Sir Percy Tindale standing there in the flesh. “Percy!”
The two shook hands vigorously as Giselle went over to bring her mother her plate of food. “What are you doing here?” Heathbrook asked.
“Probably the same as you, old chap. Watching the Show.”
Just then, Giselle returned to say, “Maman is very engrossed, so if we wish to dance, perhaps we can stay for—” She broke off as she caught sight of the baronet. “Sir Percy? I cannot believe it!”
“Mademoiselle Bernard!” He broke into a broad grin. “I didn’t expect to find you here tonight. Or, for that matter, in England.”
Taking the hand she offered, Percy stood back to examine her thoroughly. Too thoroughly, as far as Heathbrook was concerned.
“You look as ravishing as ever,” Percy said smoothly, and kissed her hand.
Bloody flirtatious arse.
“Thank you, sir.” She blushed as she extricated her hand from his. “And you look very good for a dead man.”
Percy blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Rumor had it that you died in Arras,” Heathbrook explained.
“But you did not believe it,” Giselle reminded Heathbrook. She looked at Percy. “The earl remarked that you were very good at getting out of trouble.”
“That’s what people always said about me, anyway,” Percy drawled.
Heathbrook took in Percy’s robust frame, fine clothing, and golden hair carefully coifed into the Brutus style. “Giselle’s right. You do look good for a dead man.”
“Clearly, rumor is as inaccurate as ever,” Sir Percy said with a shake of his head.
Heathbrook had a hundred questions for his old friend, but about half would be better asked in a more private setting.
He nodded to an opening leading into a hallway.
“Come with me. I saw a deserted drawing room earlier. I want to hear everything about where you’ve been and how you got here.
And I’d rather not be interrupted by strangers while we chat. ”
Percy laughed. “That sounds ominous.” Then he halted, forcing Heathbrook to stop, too. “Are you joining us, Mademoiselle Bernard?”
“If I’m allowed,” she said coolly.
Heathbrook could have kicked himself for letting her think otherwise. “Of course you’re allowed, ma chérie. Why wouldn’t I want my fiancée along?”
Percy appeared surprised by that but swiftly hid his reaction. “So, you managed to snag Mademoiselle Bernard, did you?” He gave Heathbrook an assessing glance. “Good for you. And lucky, too, since otherwise, I might have snagged her first.”
With her free hand, Giselle took Heathbrook by the arm. “You could have tried, anyway,” she teased Percy, then gave him one of her musical laughs.
Heathbrook fought a scowl. He didn’t like the idea of Giselle flirting with Percy. He hated the idea of Percy flirting with her. And he positively despised the fact that he felt that way.
She was already halfway to twisting him about her finger as it was; if he gave in to jealousy, he’d soon be putting the shackle on his own leg. “I’m no fool,” he drawled, feigning nonchalance. “I can tell a good woman when I see one.”
“It took you long enough,” Giselle said, her expression veiled. “I have known you already for ten years, non?”
“I take my time when I’m choosing a prospective wife.” Heathbrook looped his arm about her waist and pulled her close. “I like to be thorough.”
“Ah, but were you being thorough, old chap?” Percy asked. “Or simply sowing your wild oats?”
She cast him a gleaming smile. “Yes, mon chéri. Which is it?”
“I’m not fool enough to answer that,” he said, somehow managing to chuckle, though it sounded false even to his own ears.
Then he halted outside the door to the drawing room. “Here we are.”
Percy grabbed a tray of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter as Heathbrook opened the door to find the room still empty. Then Heathbrook nodded to indicate they should all enter.
After they did so, Heathbrook closed the door. “So, tell me, Percy, how in hell did you manage to return to England when everyone said you died in Arras?”