CHAPTER FIVE
GISELLA
“Excuse me.” A soft, deep voice sent a shiver rippling over me, caressing my collarbone.
My phantom.
I spun on my heel, determined not to shriek. He was only a man, after all.
But it wasn’t just a man, but the man. The coachman from last night. Midnight eyes surveyed me, the barest hint of humor lurking in their shadows.
Was he…laughing at me?
“Good morning,” I croaked, fervently wishing my voice would work as expected when called upon.
I aimed for an imperious look but when my gaze swept over him my intentions crumbled as I gawked at the man, seeing his face in full for the first time.
Deep red lips dominated a swarthy complexion framed with lustrous, thick hair, highlighted by a sheen of rare obsidian. I watched his lips move as he spoke, entranced. Then I realized he had spoken, and I hadn’t heard a word.
“I’m sorry.” I blinked at him. “What did you say?”
His eyes hooded, he gazed back at me. “I hope that you enjoy your…stay, madame.”
“I’m sure I will.”
While my brain screamed that I would do no such thing, I could do nothing but stare as my hand lifted of its own accord, apparently. He bowed low over my fingers, and I could have sworn he kissed my hand, a flicker of sensation zinging over my skin though there remained a distance between my flesh and his. His eyes lifted to capture mine again.
My body reacted as though I were too close to a blazing bonfire, both drawn to his beauty and alarmed by his intensity. Heat pooled low between my thighs, my breasts aching with the need for more .
I stepped toward him as though he had asked it of me, intent on studying his face further when he straightened. The sharp gesture froze me where I stood. The lightest smile graced the corners of his lips. Inclining his head, he watched me a second longer and strode away. The hall’s incessant darkness swallowed him until he might never have been there at all.
I stood still, life and the household’s manic pace resuming as a sudden onslaught of servants bustled around me. Blinking once more into the darkened end of the hall, I berated myself for the notions that ran about in my head, warding them away, and headed in the opposite direction.
At the top of the stairs, a suited manservant greeted me.
“You would like a tour, madame?”
“I’m not a madame,” I protested, though some part of my brain reminded me I had been married last night, and might, in fact, be madam of this house. I blinked wide eyes at the footman— butler? —no doubt appearing as stupid as he expected me to be.
To my surprise, he placed a kind hand on my arm.
“You are welcome here. Please, allow me to show you your new home.”
His touch lightened, hesitant. I wondered again at the rules of this place, the social etiquette of a mismatched patchwork quilt. Not wishing to be impolite, I gestured with my other hand.
“Lead on…?” I let my sentence hang.
“Charleton, madame.” He bowed low, dropping his hand as though recognizing the impropriety.
Despite the lapse, I smiled. Charleton was the first true connection I’d found in this place, other than with my maid, and I refused to let the small social aspect evade me.
The staircase descended in a broad arc that curved around a central pillar, wide enough for ten men to stand abreast across it. “Down here, you will find the dining room and the library. Though there is a small library on your floor you might prefer,” he added.
“Oh?” I pressed my slipper into the scarlet carpet. The sole sank deeply, but when I turned to look back, there was no trace of our passing.
Heavy, brocade drapes covered every window, removing sunlight from the house’s interior in its entirety. Wall sconces lit the staircase and lower floors in a kaleidoscope of flickering shadows and dancing flames. Had I not looked out my own small balconette, I would never have known what time of day it was— or if it was day, at all.
“I believe his Lordship has stocked the room with as many French books as possible. Some classics, some more…risqué.” His lip curled on the word French , and by the time he had finished, white teeth glistened between pale lips.
I studied the man. Maybe a few years past his prime, his otherwise sallow skin glowed in the house’s unnatural light.
“Could we open the curtains, perhaps?” I smiled at the pasty man, who had a European look. I wondered when he had emigrated.
Charleton jumped as though I had shoved a hot poker up his trouser leg. “The—the light is very bright here, my lady… you must understand, we must save the portraits—the ark—the art!” Managing to enunciate his excuse, he coughed, stumbling over his words. “Yes, the artwork. We must protect it always. From fading,” he added, unconvincingly.
I frowned at bare walls, tracking my eyes along the corridor for anything that would require saving .
An iron hand pressed in the center of my back propelled me along, and we turned into an enormous space. Black and white square tiles filled the floor more suited to Paris than this strange land I still didn’t understand. Pillars were decorated with silver vines that crept along tall columns to meet the high ceiling. A dark fresco was painted there, a scene of hunting and firelight and death.
In the middle of the painting, a chandelier half the width of the room descended, tiny crystals shattering light across the floor from its great height, giving me the impression I walked across an expanse of stars.
“The ballroom.”
I nodded, turning in a circle with my mouth hanging open. I didn’t care if I drooled; it was the most beautiful room I’d ever seen.
“It’s—it’s—” Apparently, I’d caught Charleton’s stutter. The man was contagious.
“Magnificent.” A soft, deep voice swept across the room, wrapping around me like a chilled wind and warm fire at once.
Charleton’s eyes widened. He bowed, backing from the room, his gaze lowered to the floor.
I turned in circles again, looking over my shoulder in every direction, but I was the sole occupant in the room. Spinning around, my mouth opened to call out for—anyone, really, I came face to face with a man who stood motionless inches from me.
I jerked, stumbling as a whimper left my lips. I hated the moment the sound escaped, but that didn’t appear to deter my stalker. He didn’t move, but opted to watch me with those same midnight dark eyes that filled his perfect, angular face.
Everyone here is too beautiful for their own good.
I huffed inside my head as I righted myself, taking in his pointed collared shirt, bright beneath slim lines of a black coat and breeches. A shadow brushed his chin, as though he hadn’t shaved in a day or more.
The same face that had accosted me earlier; the same face of the coachman from the evening before, now dressed as though he owned the place.
As the penny dropped to an empty purse, I realized that he did.
Surely, this was my husband.
Sebastian.
“My lord, I?—”
“Magnificent,” he murmured again, the words swirling around me, stepping forward. His eyes never left me, and I knew he wasn’t talking about the ballroom anymore. “I am not your lord.”
“Oh.”
Eloquence left me. My mind a total blank, I decided it must have left its residence, too.
“Sebastian.” My own manners deserted me as the butler’s had earlier.
I expected a proffered hand, mine already grasping in response, but there was nothing. I jerked my fingers back, confused. My heart beat faster, thrumming in my ears. A tingle itched at my skin again at his proximity. Should I run and hide from this man? Even at this simple level of engagement, he reminded me of the alligator breathing beneath the water, waiting.
Everything about this place was nothing I’d ever encountered before.
Is all of the new world like this?
If it were, then they were an odd offshoot of the British, having strayed so far from the proverbial tree.
“And you— this is your place?” I asked, my mind still finding its feet.
“This is my home.” The final word came out guttural and twisted.
Why did the owner of a mini-castle drive his own carriage to collect me yesterday but not introduce himself?
Why did I not marry this man, instead of a nun?
He’d been there, on the coach. Watching. Waiting, like now.
None of my questions made it as far as my lips. My brain jammed, attempting to process too many ideas at once.
“Why did you not say who you were last night?” My brain finally caught up with my situation to ask a relevant question.
See? Not fanciful.
“I did not want to frighten you.” His words were a soft admission, not quite an apology.
My husband studied me frankly, and I returned the favor, taking in his height, the substantial width of his chest and shoulders. Again, the diminutive feeling swept over me, his presence bigger than the man himself.
I wasn’t alone in my study. Done with my face, his gaze detoured along my frame. I refused the urge to clench my fists beneath his surveillance. As his gaze rose back to my face, his coal eyes darkened. An unfamiliar heat flushed my cheeks.
“You are my husband.” I raised my chin, determined to maintain some semblance of control.
“Yes,” he almost hissed the word, stepping forward into my space, covering the short distance in a graceful stride. One moment, he was away from me; the next, he stood too close.
I swallowed, planting my feet so I couldn’t retreat, but started as his hand wound around my elbow. His touch was cool, but it was his eyes that sent a riot of shivers over my skin.
Hooded and dark, they promised nights of dark sin, as though he would devour me, never allow me to see the light of day once more. Sebastian wound me into him, bit by bit, until a layer of thin material separated us.
It was like being next to a carved statue; nothing emanated from him. No heat, no life, but at the same time, the huge man was imposing beyond belief. His presence emanated from a distance but up close, he was a void against the stark beauty of the room.
But his eyes—those were alive with a shadowy passion. Shivers crossed my skin again, and this time it had nothing to do with his touch. His hand dropping, he retreated. Those midnight dark eyes never leaving me, he dipped in a bow, lips parting as though about to speak.
That same void, a sense of all and nothingness returned, freezing time itself. With a brisk nod, he turned, disappearing in a blur of movement.
My feet carried me to the edge of the large room as they chased him of their own accord. When I reached the doorway, I was alone.
I blinked, wondering what I had missed, and what in all of Dante’s circles just happened.
For a house as populated and large as my new home, no one was around when I searched. Charleton had disappeared into the depths of the house, it appeared. Retracing my steps ended up being the best thing I could do. Lost in a myriad of hallways, I discovered studies and sitting rooms, bed chambers enough to house a hundred guests, and a small salon.
Finally, I ended up in a long portrait gallery. Lined with the same, heavy carpet that filled most of the house, it was a muted, quiet hall. Thick floor to ceiling drapes covered an entire section at one end of the hall.
The row of paintings appeared to be of the same man, over and over, in different clothes. The evolution of Sebastian’s forefathers was like watching the passing of the ages in a static form. Apparently, there was a strong family resemblance in Sebastian’s line. I shook my head. Not a lord. I didn’t even know his proper title.
None of the portraits had a name plaque, but the fashions gave me an idea of the era each one had been painted in—perhaps a one-hundred-year gap between each. Not a single window decorated this hall— protect the artworks, my panniers.
Charleton was conspicuously absent in my journey.
Three more drawing rooms, two sitting rooms, and a library later, I was still alone in the house. Or, so it seemed. Every time I entered a room, I could have sworn a person sat in one of the chairs, or beside the fireplace.
But when I looked closer, my phantoms proved to be no more than a play in the flickering light from the sconces that dominated every wall space. Dancing shadows in my periphery remained the lone artwork on the walls of this barren place. However luxuriously fitted, the building lacked something. Life, I supposed, looking around for the servants who had overpopulated the rooms this morning and were now conspicuous in their absence.
A small pile of books sat on a lone desk. Far from a cluttered space, the cherrywood furniture sat back against the far end of the room, beneath midnight blue curtains that cast the room in a cool, masculine light. I strode across the space, determined to see sunlight, and wrenched the curtains apart.
A blank wall stared back at me.
I swallowed, the wall looming over me as if I were prey. My hip hit the edge of the desk. With a soft croak, I moved around it, gathering the books on top as though to prove that they, at least, were real, and backed from the room, straight into a soft, warm body.
“I’m so sorry!”
I turned, hands grasping for purchase on the doorframe. The books thumped onto the floor. A small, bird-like maid swayed before me. Pasty, and looking as though she was about to retch, she sank to the floor. My hands wrapped around her head, scraping the carpet as they bore her weight to the floor.
“Charleton!” I screeched over the maid’s head, her cap tumbling from her hair as I straightened her on the floor with careful hands, praying the man had omnipotent qualities. “Help me!”
The young woman’s eyelids fluttered over closed eyes, red staining her starched collar. I wrenched at the edge of my skirts, pressing the torn fabric to her neck. Brushing away hair, I saw a thin line across her neck, weeping bright scarlet beads onto her clothes.
Holding material bunched into my hand, I yelled for Charleton again, but not before I saw a collection of similar thin, white lines decorating the other side of her neck.
Charleton appeared beside me, lifting the woman into his arms.
“I’ll take her, madame.” He dismissed me.
My skin prickled with unspent rage, fear and a heady dose of confusion.
“Press something to her neck,” I snapped, refusing to release the maid. “She’s bleeding. And if she is part of this household, then she is mine to look after.” I glared at the manservant over the maid’s small frame. A moment of stillness, then he gave a jerk of his chin, motioning to her things on the floor where she had collapsed.
“If you would, please…” He glanced down at the still form in his arms, gripping her with aged, white-knuckled hands. “Follow me.”
I nodded silently, collecting her tools.
The servant’s quarters were as bland and functional as a room could be. The distinct opposite to the luxury in the rest of Sebastian’s house, I wondered that we didn’t see more revolts between servant and master. Or perhaps they protested in other, more silent forms where a wary eye would strain to notice.
Stark, unadorned rooms, tiled floors and colored walls filled the servant’s quarters. Did anyone live in this place? Charleton placed the maid onto a sagging bed, its slim mattress hanging low in the middle, a flat pillow stacked at one end.
He took bandages and a vial of clear liquid from a box on the floor, reminding me of the casket I carried across the seas. I raised a hand, ready to object as he began to treat her himself until I saw the steadiness of his hands, the way he touched her. A faint smile tickled the corners of my lips; love hadn’t forsaken this unusual place, yet.
Finally, the tall, thin man rose. Exhaustion etched his features. I drew him from the tiny room—little more than the cell I’d been placed in at the abbey—and closed the door behind us.
“Does she do it often?” I asked, softly.
Charleton started. “What?”
I hadn’t believed he could be any pastier, but at the rate blood drained from his face, he would become a cadaver himself soon enough.
“She hurts herself, yes?”
He stared at me for a long moment, as though ready to argue with me. Thin lips pursed, he nodded. “She—hurts.”
That’s not the same thing.
But it would have to do.
“How long have you looked after her like this?” I asked. “You’re quite fond of her.”
“No! I—” he cut himself off.
“No?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Well, yes...It’s been a long time since we had a lady in the house,” he said, managing to meet my eyes, though he bobbed his gaze back to the floor soon after. “A long time.”
His words held an undercurrent I couldn't decipher. I tucked the information away to look at later.
“Madame.” My maid, Minette who had introduced herself during her flurry earlier, her words sinking in slowly throughout the day, appeared by my elbow with a glass of water. “Food will be brought up to your rooms.”
I thought of my bedroom—enormous, luxurious, and empty.
“Might I have lunch with you?”
Minette’s eyes widened, flicking between Charleton and myself.
I hastened to reassure her. “I don’t mind who I eat with. I’ve been on board a ship, stuffed into cabins for months and here—here, I am so lonely,” I finished softly, aghast at the quiet truth of my words.
Not even one full day.
Minette nodded, letting me follow her through the warrenlike halls in her preparations. Despite her chatty nature, she was silent through lunch, a collection of small meals that might have been leftovers from the day before. Each held a French flourish, a kind reminder that this new home and my old had some connection other than me.
I closed my eyes, sitting back in the low armchair. When Minette had been hesitant to set the large dining table, I suggested a small salon on the ground floor that overlooked the gardens. A maze of hedges disappeared down an incline, the forest I’d seen from my window above invisible from where we were seated.
When I opened my eyes again, the late morning sun had passed over the house, leaving the room in shadow. Minette fluttered nearby, shifting the same ornaments as I came out of my semi-dream state, the ground rocking beneath my feet from some remnant of a dream I couldn't remember.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I said tiredly.
When had I become so exhausted? Maybe it was the food. It might have the French touch, but the fare was still heavier than what I was used to. Though, after my stint on the ship, I’d take anything over the hardtack biscuits with their consistent complement of weevils.
“It’s not that, madame,” Minette bobbed a quick courtesy. “It’s nearly dinner time. The Master will want to eat with you. I think.” She slipped the empty glass dangling from my fingers and disappeared into the house’s underbelly.
I looked up at Charleton who had appeared at my elbow, keeping a discrete distance between us.
“You should eat with his lordship,” he reminded me, gesturing up the hall.
More food? Something groaned within me, but it wasn’t my stomach. My feet refused to work, gluing themselves to the worn floorboards beneath my feet.
“I thought he wasn’t a lord.” My mind returned to the ballroom, the way he’d touched me. Charleton’s lips turned up in a kind smile.
“Of course not, madame. He is a viscount, currently, though I believe he left the title when he left his country. But if you find the house...oppressive, my lady, you are welcome at our humble table whenever you wish.” He gestured down the hall. A poor cousin to a half-smile returned his sentiment.
“Thank you.” I followed him along the corridor.
Minette was already in my room when we arrived at the door. A heavy brocade draped over her arm, she armed herself with two combs and a bejeweled hair piece.
Charleton left me at my door with assurances my rooms were stocked with all the accompaniments a new wife needed, whatever those might be. “If you are uncertain,” his brow furrowed with concern, “yours is the fifth door on the left. The smaller library I mentioned before is across the hall from your room, a door down this way.” He gestured to the opposing wall.
I thanked him again; at least I would have something to fill part of my day in the morning. I was halfway down the hall when a thought occurred to me. Pivoting on my heel, I realized he was still waiting at the top of the wide staircase.
He’s making sure I don’t wander into the wrong room.
“Is there anyone else on this floor?”
Charleton took a step away, casting his face in shadow. There was a pause, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer me.
“His lordship, madame. In the room across from your own.”
“Oh.”
My mind a blur, I stumbled back to my room to dress for dinner.
Minette primped me in silence while I threw questions in her direction about my husband. Bows tied, curls set, I looked like a show dog, ready to be put through its paces.
“Minette... the portrait gallery.” She stared at me, mute as she’d been the entire night. Had one of the staff told her not to speak to me? The housekeeper, perhaps. I was yet to encounter the formidable personage who must keep command over this tidy household. “When did the family emigrate?”
“Many years ago.” Minette disappeared into my hair, tugging curls into a semblance of something fashionable.
“Do you know where they came from?”
Minette hesitated. “Picardie. Fr?—”
“France,” I finished for her.
Sebastian had come from an area less than half a day’s travel from my own. Though mine had disowned me; his, I expected, had not.
“Yes, madame,” she whispered, her fingers twitching in my hair.
“ Merci, ” I murmured as she finished her handiwork and collected her things. “The dining hall is…?”
“Down the staircase, along to the left. It opens into a wider room. You won’t get lost,” she assured me. “Charleton will assist you this evening.” A blush rose in her cheeks, combining a pretty mix with her blonde, ringlet hair.
The pink hue suited her. I wondered if I could convince her to wear a hint of it on her half-day off.
I smiled. “And is there a… particular valet who might catch your attention?” A small ‘ o’ separated her rosebud lips. I hastened to reassure her. “If it is a secret, then I shall keep it for you. I am not someone to be feared.”
“No, madame.” She bobbed, clutching my trembling hairbrush.
“So, the young man?”
“Oh. Yes, he—that is, James, he—he’s been with the house for many years. We grew up together.” Eyes round with memory, Minette bobbed again. “Will you need me again tonight, madame?”
“I’m sure he’s lovely,” I said belatedly. “No. I’ll manage to undress myself this evening.”
I’d spied the nightdress she’d laid out on the bed, and knew a fresh brick would be waiting at the bottom for me, though the nights were anything but cold.
“He is,” she said, smiling brilliantly, returning to our prior conversation. It transformed her from a small, tiny girl, into a radiant young woman.
She left quickly, and I was glad of it—tears sprang to my eyes. While Minette had the memory of her childhood sweetheart, I didn’t have a single friend inside the house. I resolved that tomorrow, I would make a few of my own.
Minette did me the favor of laying out attire for dinner after I assured her I would dress myself, unused to being so assisted and waited upon, and having no intent of starting a daily trend now. On special occasions, perhaps. Thankfully, rather than being offended, my new maid selected an ensemble I could get into on my own.
The material was a deep burgundy brocade, heavy, and completely unsuited to the climate here, though that didn’t surprise me—women’s attire often had little to do with circumstance over what appealed.
As long as we were all kept looking pretty.
Berating myself for my lack of charity in the face of so much—I’d walked off the ship yesterday with naught but a wooden box and the worn dress I arrived in. The more I stared at the brocade that gloved my too-slim figure, the more it reminded me of portraits in houses my father had taken me to visit in years long gone, as a child.
I’d studied those pictures, because none of the men my father befriended seemed to have children, or at least any of my age, and so I was left to wander. The portrait galleries gave me hours of entertainment, and a little fashion-based education. This fabric looked to be two-hundred years or so out of date by continental standards, though by the grace of God—or an amazing seamstress—it was tailored into a newer style.
I gave in to the urge to investigate and flipped the material over. Beneath, new darts and seams had been sewn over older, yellowed threads, bringing the dress into something more of this century. A light over-jacket with a ruffle along the front would hide the altered waistline and changes to the neckline.
Though it didn’t need it, I mused; the alterations were masterfully done. I wondered if Minette had a hand in it.
The gown slid on easily enough and wasn’t as heavy as I’d expected, though it did fit like a glove—adding to my suspicion it had been altered for my fit.
I fussed with my hair, straightening loose flowing curls, and added a little powder to my face. It was nothing on what Minette could achieve—I knew her skill in that already—but I’d told the girl she was free for the evening, perhaps to pursue her beau. I wasn’t about to break my word so fast and for such a small thing.
If a few loose hairs upset my husband, then we had more problems than what stood at face value. And besides, my resolution was to make friends—and the only people I could do that with was the downstairs staff, if the locale offered nothing else in the realm of population. Besides, I was already in love with their burgeoning relationships. A romantic at heart perchance, but what else should a Parisian be? Maybe that made me a gossip, but a girl had to entertain herself somehow.
A faint rap on my door announced dinner. The sound froze me, my limbs stiff as I stared at the door. The rap came again, and I stepped up to the door and pulled it open, ready to berate the manservant.
“Charleton, I?—”
I halted mid-sentence because it wasn’t Charleton at all. I stared at an unadorned waistcoat that surrounded a wide chest leading to broad shoulders.
Dressed in a fresh charcoal jacket adorned with colorful embroidery, matched to a black velvet waistcoat and cravat beneath, Sebastian looked impeccable. My gaze halted at his face. Dark, liquid eyes stared at me from beneath finely-lined brows, giving an appearance of youth, a much older soul lurking beneath his elegant exterior.
The soft black of his cravat provided his alabaster skin with a marbled quality, the deep red of his lips in direct contrast.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a frump.
Even in my singular dress I’d worn from France had I not been so out of place as I was before this man who had taken me to wife.
I am his wife.
While I'd been thinking of him as my husband, I’d forgotten to call myself his wife. Somehow, that elevated status made my observations that much worse. I stilled in my self-consciousness, unwilling to say or do anything that might draw his attention to me but that wasn’t by my choice; his gaze lit on me and refused to leave.
I knew the dress I wore was beautiful, but I was insignificant next to the carved beauty before me. Out of my control, my mouth opened but nothing came out. Making sure every muscle did as I asked, I shut it, letting my eyes roam over him.
“I thought we might dine together.” He coughed at the false start, proffering his elbow.
“Yes,” I nodded. Sliding my fingers around the fine material of his jacket —is that silk?— I matched his pace along the hallway, neither of our footsteps making any noise on the heavy carpet. I expected Charleton to be at the top of the stairs where he had been this morning— was it this morning?— his absence sitting peculiarly with me. “Charleton mentioned it.”
My throat was still dry, regardless of how much I swallowed, so I held my silence for once, praying I wouldn't be like this all night.
“Did he?” The corner of Sebastion’s mouth twitched, but I couldn't tell if he was amused or irritated.
Will I ever get to know you?
“Yes,” I whispered. My mind blanked, leaving me in that odd void I had experienced in the ballroom with him before.
Sebastian looked down at me, his eyes tinged with amusement, the hidden smile still present at the corners of his mouth. I wondered if he would kiss me, what his mouth pressed over mine would feel like. Lost in his dark gaze, I leaned forward. He paused mid step, pulling me around to his front.
The movement broke my spell, and I gasped, giving my head a small shake to try to clear it. A flush rose in my cheeks, heating my entire face. I was sure I matched the color of my dress.
I’m acting like a virgin on her first outing.
I was, but that was beside the point. I didn’t have to act like it.
“Would you like to eat downstairs, or in the library?” His eyes never left mine, but his hand dropped to my waist, slim fingers curving half around it. He seemed so large, his presence so intimidating.
Who the hell had my father sold me to? Who had the King of France sold me to?
I smiled, perhaps a little too bright as his eyes narrowed. “The library sounds wonderful.” Ahh. My voice returned. That was nice.
“Good,” he murmured, turning me in his arms to face a doorway on the opposite side of the hall. His hand shifted to my back as he opened the door, pressing gently.
A shiver rode along my spine at his touch. I was glad of the coat, certain my skin would be covered in la chair de poule, should he touch my bare flesh .
I want his touch.
I craved it.
Always so fanciful.
I shook my head and would have bitten back a laugh had that been what tempted my tongue, but it wasn’t a laugh that sat behind my closed lips, but a sigh.
Sebastian’s firm hand nudged me deeper into the room. I stepped into an intimate library, muffling our steps with carpet as heavy as was fitted out in the rest of the house. A large desk sat at one end of the room. Two winged chairs framed each end of the desk, facing one another across its short length. A bottle of champagne rested between a pair of fine, engraved crystal saucers.
I turned on my heel to face him.
“You knew I would choose the library?” I frowned. Had he been expecting someone else? My God, did he have a mistress?
Not that a husband taking an extra interest was unusual. France was full of jilted wives and pampered playthings. Even in my innocence I knew of such things. But still…an established mistress provided an ill-fated beginning. Ignoring the spreading jealousy that seeped through my chest—I’d known him for all of a day. No, known wasn’t the right word. I let my imagination run away for a full second. Then I pulled myself together, looking at my husband for a precious glimpse of clarity.
“I had hoped.” That was all he said, guiding me to one of the wingback chairs.
Long, manicured fingers curled around the high back as I seated myself, wishing they were around me, instead.
His proximity alone left my body trembling with overexcited nerves. I took a deep breath, focusing on his slim hand as he poured the effervescent fluid into the glasses where the champagne bubbled and danced within its new confines.
“ Merci ,” I murmured, forgetting to speak English for a moment.
“ Je vous en prie .”
You’re welcome.
I started at hearing my native tongue. The words he used were formal, respectful. He is French. I knew that, but hearing the words made the familiarity more…real. True conversation had been lacking in my life since I’d landed in this unknown place.
Sebastian grinned, the simple motion lighting his entire face. It changed him; the formal man fell away, despite his regal way of speaking, blinding me with a look into his real self behind the lord-like facade.
“I forgot you were French.” I couldn't escape those eyes, still dark and fathomless, though his smile put me at ease.
“It’s good to know I can surprise you.” His hand shot out at a blurring speed, cool fingers wrapping around my own in a possessive grip.
My body reacted to his touch in an instant. Heat rushed from my face to settle around my chest, my nipples tightening beneath my coat. I heard my own gasp, jerking in surprise but he held my hand still. The golden liquid in my glass never sloshed, though the flattened goblet sat crooked in my tense grip. Sebastian set my glass upright, not releasing my hand.
“My maid said you have been here for a while?” I stretched for conversation, and this was the best I could come up with? My upbringing failed me daily.
“Did she?” Sebastian lost his smile, repeating the words he’d said earlier in the hall. His thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist, resting against my pulse. “What else did your maid say?” His gaze sharpened, narrowing on me.
A thrill tore down my spine, my breath hitching until he lowered his gaze, and I could breathe again. I made a note to never let him know something one of the staff said to me, or that I had designs to befriend them. Such prejudices weren’t unusual in our culture, similar to a man taking a mistress despite a willing wife at his side or in his bed.
Bias was more than common within the nobility, as much as it was within the lower classes, though their outlook was more deserved, in my view.
I tugged my wrist free as my past and present collided in a mix of memories that threw my focus away for a moment. Months in a single dress on a ship when my father had essentially sold me as the King’s whore would do that. After all, a woman paid for sex was still a courtesan and was simply a bird of an unusual color in my rank.
That thought had run about my head the entire trip, though I had never acknowledged it until now. Was that how Sebastian saw me? A paid, painted woman?
“Afraid the archangel will take you, courtesan?”
The nun’s words as the unnamed abbey filtered through my mangled thoughts. Swallowing my fear, I refocused on the man before me. My husband.
His family must have been affluent for many years—though considering my dress, I wondered if he had fallen on hard times out in the wilds of the new world, or if he struggled with the different cultures the Americas presented.
“Do you not vet your own staff?” I asked, then shook my head, softening my tone. “Min—She has been very welcoming, very helpful.” I clamped my mouth shut over my waffling before I mentioned the events in the other library.
Sebastian held my gaze a moment longer then nodded, seemingly to himself. He uncovered a plate of amuse-bouche ; a term whose literal translation meant bites of food to amuse the mouth . Back home, they were considered a delicacy, presented at a chef’s whim. Sebastian must be on very good terms with his.
He slid the plate my way. I took a bite, delicate, flaky pastry dissolving into a savory center. Flavor filled my mouth, the sensation so good, so like home at my father’s table when my mother still lived, that I could have moaned.
Dark eyes pinned me in place. His study tore away all the barriers I’d put in place, curling my hair, dressing in finery that felt both like him and a falsehood all at once. Determined not to falter before him, I peered around the small library.
Wood paneled walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling rows of books. Most looked quite old, and I couldn't wait to learn what my husband stocked in his private library, because surely this space was his own workplace. Why else keep such a diminutive room, when there were so many others, larger and better suited to the purpose in his home?
A small cough brought me back to the meal. “You’re not eating.”
A home where servants cut themselves in a bid to escape this place.
The drawn curtains suggested a monster hidden in plain sight, a face amongst the masses of servants hired with the sole purpose of serving a single master…and now me.
I quashed the foreboding in my stomach, hoping it wasn’t the food—which was amazing. Mon Dieu, could the fare be poisoned? As though reading my mind, Sebastian huffed. The corners of his mouth turned up again—definitely a smile this time.
Unsure whether to fake an emotion I didn’t feel or run screaming from the room and let my fancies get the better of my senses, I placed my fork beside the half-empty plate with deliberate gentleness.
When did I become a glutton?
“Is this a joke to you? Am I ?” I couldn't finish the sentence and regretted saying anything.
What if he answered me, confirming my suspicions? Would I hide in my room for the rest of my life? Run away?
And been eaten by alligators? Don’t be daft.
For once, I agreed with the little voice in my head.
Sebastian rose from the other end of the short desk. His height—enough that I needed to tilt my head back to catch his gaze if I were standing next to him—filled the room, constricting the air to a choking point.
When he leaned forward, halting over me, a predatory expression crossed his face, a feral thing both ancient and inviting. My back arched in response to his pose, my head tilted back. His smirk promised sin, and darker things.
I might be safer with the alligators.