Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Lamartine lay in bed, his body stiff from the strain of keeping as far as possible from the snoring lace merchant next to him.
An arm’s length away, a lawyer and his clerk shared the next bed, grunting and swallowing in their sleep.
He’d been stranded at this inn for nearly two weeks, sharing a bed with passing strangers, inhaling their odors, listening to their bodily functions, and inane chatter.
Two more days, he reminded himself, two more days until the postal carriage arrived and he could make his way to London.
He’d stumbled into the inn, his head pounding and his stomach rejecting whatever boiled slop the English passed off as food.
The widowed innkeeper had allowed him to remain and recuperate, accepting as payment his assistance with her bookkeeping and correspondence.
Women were such fools. Under her trusting gaze, he’d gradually regained his health and his fortune.
He patted a corner of the mattress. People in public inns should learn to keep a better eye on their belongings.
He was sleeping on a growing cache of coins, snuff boxes, and watches.
And a lovely sharp knife he’d taken off a sleeping sailor.
Traveling in a strange country, one couldn’t be too careful.
Several days after the Beaumont’s assembly, Madeleine de La Brou and Phoebe Davenport stood watching Rafe, Alix, and Cole playing cards at a quiet party hosted by the Percys.
Madeleine was standing very still, her dark eyes distant, and her fan moving in a slow methodical wave.
Phoebe studied the elegant French woman wondering idly how she made mourning look so dashing.
“So Madame de La Brou,” she asked, “you do not join the games?”
“Ah bah, playing cards makes me feel like an old woman. Since I am in mourning, I may not dance, but I refuse to hide myself in a back room playing cards with the dowagers.”
Phoebe eyed the comtesse in her black silk gown trimmed with purple ribbons. “I doubt, madame, that anyone would consider you in your dotage, or that one so lovely might be hidden even in a quiet card room.”
Madeleine laughed and her fan swept Phoebe’s emerald silk gown.
“You are quite lovely yourself and most flattering. I suppose I should hold it against you that you are an American since my country was bankrupted by supporting your revolution.” She shook her head.
“And your dreadful republican ideas. But I confess I find you quite charming and besides, I believe one should never allow politics to spoil a perfectly agreeable evening.”
Phoebe smiled. “I must agree with you, madame. As my husband is English and I have chosen to make England my home, I have found it wise to eschew political debate.”
“Your husband. He is the handsome devil playing cards with my daughter and Lord Moreham?”
“You are correct madame, on both accounts.”
“That he is your husband and that he is playing cards?”
Phoebe laughed. “That he is handsome and a devil.”
“I can see by the way you two keep trading glances that you are most unfashionably fond of one another.” Madeleine tapped Phoebe with her fan. “And your friend, Moreham, do you think he is in love with my daughter?”
Phoebe studied the card players, noting how Rafe’s eyes lingered on Alix. “I think, madame, I have never seen him so captivated by a woman, nor so determined to win her. He’s not a man who takes things lightly, Rafe Harcrest.”
Madeleine sighed. “I have not always had a chance to be a good mother to my daughter, but now that she is in my care I would like to do what I can to see that she is happy.”
Phoebe nodded. “I believe that is Rafe’s desire too, madame.”
Madeleine turned and smiled at Phoebe. “That is good to hear.”
She might have said more, but Lord Rothwell appeared at her elbow and offered to take her for a walk along the gallery.
Madeleine made her excuses and Phoebe watched her go, reflecting that there was something quite charming about the way Rothwell bent his craggy gray head to hear Madeleine’s conversation.
The comtesse looked like a tiny dark bird that had landed on the branch of a venerable tree, she mused.
Phoebe strolled over to the card table and rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Cole glanced up at her and smiled.
Alix was studying her hand, her gray eyes intent; she cast a pensive look at Rafe. “I know you must have the queen, Lord Moreham.”
Cole’s dark eyes twinkled. “The bettors at White’s have been asking nearly the same question, mademoiselle. Is his lordship holding one queen or two and which shall he discard?”
“I assure you I am holding only one queen,” Rafe said. His tone warming, he glanced at Alix. “And I also assure you, I plan on keeping her close to my chest.”
Alix laughed and slid several coins across the table to him. “Then I believe, my lord, you win.”
Rafe murmured softly. “But of course, my lady, I always play to win.”
Cole cleared his throat, “I think I shall take my wife for a stroll now.” Rising and taking Phoebe’s arm, he said, “You don’t mind do you, Moreham?”
Rafe, who was still looking at Alix, nodded.
Alix watched them go. “Have they been married long?” she asked.
“Nearly fifteen years.”
“They seem like newlyweds. Like newlyweds should be.” she amended.
Rafe placed his hand over Alix’s. “Like we will be.” He studied her face for a moment, unwilling to spoil the moment and uncertain how to begin. “Alix, I’ve been thinking... I’d like to buy you a wedding gown.”
She cast a glance at his pile of winnings, “I’m not quite so impoverished as that, my lord.”
He shook his head. “I’d like it to be my wedding gift to you.” He smiled. “Something in a shade other than gray.”
“You don’t approve of my mother’s flair for the dramatic?” Alix laughed. “I confess, yours are the only unflattering words I’ve heard about my gowns since I’ve arrived in London. Why just the other day Lord Minton sent me a sonnet entitled, To a Silver Siren.”
Rafe grimaced. “Spare me. I’ve heard Minton’s poetry before and it’s not much better than his taste in waistcoats.”
She glanced mischievously at him. “It’s really quite good. I think I have it all by heart. Would you care to hear it?”
“Alix,” he growled warningly.
She laughed again. “Just enjoying my last days of freedom. For all I know, after we’re officially married, you’ll drag me off and bury me in the countryside never to be seen in polite society again.”
“Dragging you off does have a certain appeal. But I’d never bury you Alix, if that’s what concerns you.”
She felt his heated gaze like fingers caressing her skin and struggled to keep her tone light. “That and a pastel wedding dress with too much lace and too many rosebuds,” she managed. “Rafe, I know I’m not the bride you might have chosen, but you can’t remake me into a copy of Anne Dinsmore—“
“That’s not what I intended,” he began, but she waved a hand to stop him.
“Leaving France, leaving my father’s house, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I felt so alone and I wasn’t sure I could make it.
With everything I’d known falling down around me, there were times I wasn’t even sure I wanted to survive.
But I did and I’ve discovered qualities within myself I never knew I had. ”
She could see he was listening. “My father was always going on about the warrior blood of the de La Brous. It seemed like old-fashioned fairy tales. But now I think differently. It may sound silly to you, but for the first time in my life I feel strong, even a bit courageous. I know as your wife my body and my goods will belong to you. I’m asking you to leave me some space to grow. ”
She reached her hand out and covered his. “I know you’re accustomed to ordering things about you, but if you’ll allow me my freedom, I can be a good wife to you.”
Rafe felt as if a hand were squeezing his heart.
Was this how she saw him, as a dark cloud seeking to smother her light?
How could she read so much into his offer to provide her with a wedding dress?
His only wish was to make this second wedding day perfect, to wash away the memories of the previous ceremony, and to make a fresh start with her.
He frowned, inwardly cursing the proprieties that kept them so far apart.
Always a chaperone with them whenever they were together, watchful eyes making sure they did not stand too close or touch for too long.
He needed to touch Alix, to feel her close.
Somehow when they were skin-to-skin everything seemed so much clearer, so much simpler.
He wondered if he dared risk another late night foray into her bedchamber.
“Well?” Alix asked softly, and Rafe realized she was still waiting for an answer to her question.
He looked up and smiled at her, “I shall await your selection with great anticipation.”
Alix studied Rafe. He was frowning and his eyes were dark and unreadable.
Had what she said offended him? Had she made a mistake in reminding him that he’d had little choice in this marriage?
She reflected on how desperately she had wanted to escape his company in France, and now, how she would give anything to spend more time alone with him, to somehow see into the depths of his heart.
There was a rustle of satin next to the table and Alix looked up to see Elizabeth regarding them thoughtfully.
Rafe glanced at his sister, trying to control the annoyance he felt, and inquired lightly, “Shouldn’t you be mingling with the young people?”
“The young people are dull, the lemonade is tepid, and the cakes are stale. I thought I might find more interesting entertainment here among the older crowd. Though I don’t see that Alix is all that elderly.
” She took a sip of Rafe’s champagne. “Besides, I saw that she was in danger of violating your sacred rule of two’s, so I hurried over to save her reputation. ”
Rafe took his glass back from his sister as Alix raised a questioning brow. “The rule of two’s?”