Chapter 7
Jealousy gnawed at Gareth as he watched Fleur at dinner.
She’d donned a yellow gown that skimmed just over the top of where her nipples must be in a delectable revelation of breasts he’d only speculated about.
She’d done something with her hair as well, with curls and braids twining here and there among pearly beads.
And it was all for Farnham, who to his credit was trying to avoid staring at Fleur’s bosom.
Damnation.
While opening the champagne that afternoon, Gareth seized the opportunity to tell Sherington how he’d obtained so many cases. It was a story he’d only hinted at before, deflecting Laurence’s questions.
Today he’d told him the tale: his capture, his escape, his rescue by the Veuve, the upcoming visit by Etienne Marceau, and Fleur’s kinship with the family.
He hadn’t quite told him the full truth of the arrangements for marriage, but Sherington must have intuited it. When Gareth spoke of his plans to ride over to Bicton Grange that afternoon and speak with Fleur, Sherington said he had a better idea. Fleur was coming to dinner, and they’d be allowed a private conversation. He added that he could see Gareth cared for her, but before he could say more, Farnham appeared.
Some plan this was that Sherington had concocted, with Fleur attired like a society lady and batting her eyelashes at Farnham.
He glanced up the table and saw Sherington’s sly grin. Gareth picked up his fork, addressed the fine piece of trout on his plate, and took up his conversational duty with his dinner partner, Cousin Esther.
“Whist,”Sherington proclaimed. “Shall we play ladies against gentlemen? Farnham, you’re with me. Dulcy and Esther will oppose us. We shall have our work cut out for us, Farnham, for I know both ladies to be wicked good card sharps.”
Sherington didn’t look his way, but he knew this was his chance. He took Fleur’s hand and tucked it over his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the gallery?”
“Why not fetch us a bottle of champagne, lad?” Sherington said. “Gareth has not returned from France empty handed, Farnham. Go along, Miss Hardouin, and see my cellars. The captain is on good terms with my butler. He’ll serve as chaperon.”
Gareth snatched up a candle and hurried her out, ignoring her sputtering objection. When the door of the drawing room closed, he paused in the chilly hall.
The twilight filtering in through the floor length windows illuminated her breasts, the twin globes rising and falling, sending his heart racing.
He looked around. No servants lingering—they were alone.
They could go to the cellar with Sherington’s ancient butler tottering behind them.
Or they could go to the place where his most exceptional wine was stored. There they’d have privacy.
And temptation. Yes. Just one taste of her lips before he lost her. That’s what he wanted.
Fleur’s gaze fixed on him, her eyes luminous, her full lips trembling.
Fleur trembling? His protective instincts stirred.
She was saving herself for marriage; he could respect that. And blast it all, she would be safe with him, though it might kill him. He’d claim one kiss, if she’d let him, but he’d never hurt her.
He took her hand and led her up the grand staircase and down a long corridor to his bedchamber.
* * *
Fleur’s handand arm and shoulder tingled where the parts of her touched the parts of him, and her breath came in short bursts. Her free hand itched to pull her bodice higher, though she’d tried that in private without success. All through dinner, she’d caught him watching her. Each time his eyes slid down her face and neck to her décolletage, heat spurted down to her nether regions. She was heady and jittery and, now that they were away from the safety of their older companions, filled with anticipation.
An answering tension radiated from him. Wherever they were going, he was going to try to kiss her, and maybe more.
She’d been kissed before by some of Quidenham’s more devious guests. She’d even deflected attempts at the maybe more from the so-called gentlemen. On occasion, she’d experienced tingles.
But never like this. She’d never experienced this…this…magnetic pull, this urge to throw off all caution—along with this indecent gown.
He opened a door and nudged her inside, still holding her hand.
A bedchamber. Too breathless to speak, she squinted until her eyes adjusted to the room’s dimness. A discarded waistcoat draped a chair, and a man’s brush and toiletries rested atop a side table. Embers smoldered in the fireplace, ready to be stirred. This was his bedchamber.
Her heart beat a frenzied tattoo. “Gareth,” she said on the first breath she managed. He was going to make love to her.
Behind her the door snicked closed, and his hot breath touched her neck.
Perhaps she would make love to him.
She must not. What of Mr. Farnham, playing cards below?
Oh, Hades, Mr. Farnham had barely looked at her bosom, and that one glance had been not a bit spine-tingling. He’d made no declaration of interest tonight, much less courtship.
Gareth’s familiar scent—shaving soap and brandy and tobacco—floated around her. She closed her eyes and savored it.
A kiss. A kiss wouldn’t ruin her.
“Gareth.” She swallowed and hugged herself. He moved away, set aside the candle, and returned.
“I’m not… Oh Fleur.” He nudged her arms open and took her hands.
A speechless Gareth was a sight to see. His dark gaze sent her insides melting, sensation curling through her. She freed a hand and traced the scar etching his square jaw, watching his eyes darken and glitter. His was a strong face, usually a jolly one, probably a hard one when he was fighting, but not with her. The boy he was, the man he’d become, were not so very different.
“Dear Gareth,” she said. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders, and she let it.
His mouth softened and he touched his thumb to her lips. “Dear Fleur.”
Her hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck. Her heels lifted her closer. Her lips sought his and pressed against them, softly, secured in a tender embrace.
His hand skimmed her waist and settled upon her back, the other wandering lower and pulling her against him. He angled his head, deepened the kiss, and breached the barrier of her lips.
Mon dieu. A shaky moment passed wherein she tasted brandy so potent it burned through her like liquid heat. She surrendered and then gave back with all of her heart.
When his lips left hers, she muttered a protest until she felt the soft press on her neck, and groaned. The hand on her bum pulled her even tighter, the other slid under her breast, and then up, stroking her through her gown until her nipples became hard points, every gentle caress echoing in her nether parts. She was burning, burning.
The bed—let’s go to the bed.
Gareth’s mouth stilled against her breast. A growl escaped his lips. He straightened and brushed her cheek. “We mustn’t, Fleur.”
She’d spoken the words aloud.
Fleur held her breath while he tucked her breast away and straightened her bodice with his long deft fingers. Gareth was right, of course, but why should he be right? Why shouldn’t they… why shouldn’t she…
She swallowed. Of course, she had others to think of, not just her own desires.
He picked up her shawl and draped it over her. “How beautiful you are tonight, Petal. I confess, I couldn’t help myself.”
Petal—the cheeky pet name brought her further back to reality.
“Come.” She heard the shakiness in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I have something I must show you.”
“In your bedchamber, Gareth?”
“Actually,” he said tugging her along to a door near the fireplace, “in my dressing room.” At the door, he stopped and pulled her shawl higher around her shoulders, casting a dazed glance at her breasts. “There’s no heat in there.”
A closed trunk and a chest of drawers sat against one wall, wooden crates against another, and against a third, a cot with a thin mattress and a folded blanket.
“Your valet is very tidy.”
“I have no valet.”
He set the candles upon a wooden crate and lifted the lid on the one next to it. Fleur pushed up next to him to look. Rows of bottles lined up neatly in a grouping of twelve.
“The champagne,” she said.
“Not just any champagne, Fleur.” He lifted a bottle and dusted the neck with those long bare fingers, sending another frisson of longing through her.
She shook herself.
“This is the vin de comête of 1811.”
Wine of the comet.
“This wine, it’s fantastic.” He blew a kiss to the case. “It’s said that the comet affected the grapes that year.”
“I know of the comet.” In fact, she’d seen the great comet of 1811 herself when it was visible over England around harvest time. Dulcinea’s dilettante cousin had been in his astronomy phase, all abuzz about the event. He’d allowed her a look through his telescope.
“But there’s more to tell you.” He moved the candles closer and lifted the paper label tied by a string to the bottle.
His hands trembled. Her gaze met his, and she caught a troubled look.
“The label. Look closely.”
Squiggly, ornate cursive circled around a central name in large, bold letters: Veuve Hardouin.
Below that in small letters the label proclaimed Hardouin and Marceau.
“And so?” They were no relation to her. She had no relatives.
Gareth cradled the bottle so tenderly, irritation stabbed at her. “The Veuve—the Widow Hardouin, Fleur, she’s your grandmother. It’s true. It was she who rescued me when I was all but done for. When I told her I’d once met a little girl named Fleur Hardouin, she showed me a miniature of your mother, and I thought... As a little girl you resembled her. And now, you look just like her. The Veuve asked me to find you. She wants to meet you.”
Stunned speechless, Fleur stared at his simply tied neck cloth, unadorned with the sort of bejeweled stickpins other men affected. He’d remembered her surname, after so many years. She blinked back a surge of moisture.
He gentled the bottle into its case and took her hand. “I thought it would be difficult to find you but… She wants to meet you.”
“The Veuve Hardouin.”
“Yes.”
“Who believes she’s my grandmother.” It certainly couldn’t be true. “She’s mistaken, I’m sure.”
“The Veuve is one of the most famous winemakers in France. Inventor of remuage—er, riddling we call it in English. Ridding the wine of sediment. It’s fascinating, and it was her idea. The bottles, you see, are stored at an angle and then turned a fraction every day. Simple, but effective. Did your father or mother never speak of her?”
She shook off his hand and tugged her shawl closer, wishing she could throw it over her head and disappear. It was cold in this dressing room, and dark in the dim candlelight. No wonder he stored his precious wine here—it was almost as cold and dark as the cellars.
A flash of memory left her breathless. The scents of jasmine and grapes, a woman’s soft shoulder, cold darkness. She slowed her breathing and straightened her back.
“No,” she said. She knew almost nothing of her father. Angered that he’d dumped them in Bern, her mother had never spoken of him. Bicton-Morledge’s report said he’d died at Lyon under the guillotine.
“Fleur, there was a man with the Veuve when she rescued me, Etienne Marceau, her great nephew. Though the business still carries his family name as well, the Marceaus have only a small stake left.”
Who cared about this Etienne Marceau? He’d be only a distant relation, if he were any relation at all. The Veuve Hardouin would be her father’s mother. If she were any relation at all.
She wants to meet you.
Her insides were trembling. She shook her head. “I’m not traveling to France.”
“Fleur.” He pressed a finger to her chin and lifted it, a determined look in his eye. He’d put the precious bottle aside and was preparing to turn the full force of his charm upon her.
Moisture pooled in her eyes, unbidden and unwelcome.
“You don’t have to, at least, not right away. Your cousin, Etienne Marceau, is in England. He brought cargo and has been in London dealing with wine merchants and auctions. He’s coming to Reabridge for the harvest festival. And most especially, to meet you.”
At those last words, Gareth had winced.
And then she knew. Gareth hadn’t been interfering with her marriage plans because he wanted her for himself. He was attempting to match her with this Frenchman.
Rage pounded through her. She drew herself up, hands clenched against more trembling, jaw aching. “I shall meet him,” she said, “to settle this madness. Does he speak English?”
“Some.”
“Dulcinea shall translate for me. And I shall write a letter for him to carry to this widow and ask her…” she took in a breath.
Why didn’t you come for me?
She shook off the self-pity. Would this Veuve share with her the bounties of war? If the house was famous enough, there must be those.
Imagine—she and Dulcinea, English women supported by the profits of Napoleon’s wine-swilling?
“I’d much rather grovel to a stuffy English husband than to an old Frenchwoman.”
She turned and fled the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
* * *
The next day,and the days following, Fleur had no choice but to keep herself busy. While Dulcinea sat with Helena, all able hands were needed in the kitchen, still room, and herb garden, even those of the little Bicton-Morledge girls. Haskell stopped in more than once, passing through the kitchen on his way to the steward’s office, making a point to exchange pleasantries with Cora. Cora’s blushes told Fleur his interest was welcomed.
She still wasn’t sure she approved. The Bicton-Morledges were solidly of the gentry class, and the Haskells were laborers. So far, though, Haskell had not set a wrong foot forward, and he’d earned the respect of local landholders and the men he managed.
She put that worry and her own husband-hunting aside though. Helena’s time was drawing near. The work needed to be done, and if they had to leave, they’d take the preserved fruits of the kitchen garden and orchard with them.
On the Thursday before the harvest festival, a hired chaise disgorged Mr. Jedidiah Morledge, the presumptive heir to Bicton Grange, on the doorstep. He’d come, he said, to attend the harvest festival and stay on through his dear cousin’s confinement. An unpleasant man of middling years, Fleur took an instant dislike of him, and the sentiment was returned. She was all for sending him off to the Book and Bell, but Helena, perhaps wisely looking to her own future, gave him Cora’s bedchamber and had Cora move in with Fleur.
Gareth had called only once while she’d been off running errands. Thereafter, she hadn’t heard from him. Perhaps he was busy helping with the harvest at Sherington Manor.
On the Fridaybefore the festival, Mrs. Knollwood waylaid Fleur in the still room, begging her to visit Mr. Clark’s Mercantile for lemons they’d need for the new mother’s caudle.
She was approaching the turnoff to Sherington Manor when she saw a man running toward her.
Fear made her clutch the lines, slowing the gig, and then she realized it was Haskell. Movement behind her and to her left caught her eye. In the field to the south, men were gathered around something.
The crowd shifted and she spotted a man stretched on the ground. She stopped the gig and jumped out.
One of the field workers waved. Fleur clutched her skirts and dodged through a clump of low hedging, with Haskell an arm’s length behind her.
* * *
Gareth pokedhis head into the study and found Mr. Sherington pouring over his harvest reports.
“All’s well in those last fields, sir.” He handed over a written report. “Your tenants there have finished.”
“I thank you, Ardleigh.”
“How goes the rest?”
“I wish I knew. Where is Chigwell? He promised to report to me an hour ago.”
“Not in his office. I stopped there first.” He’d scraped the mud off his boots and dusted his buckskin pants before making his way deeper into the house. “Shall I go look for him?”
A few minutes later he was mounted and making his way down the drive. At the turn onto the lane, his heart thudded.
Men were huddled in a nearby field. The Bicton-Grange cart—Fleur’s cart—was stopped on the roadside. She was running—toward Sherington Manor, with a man chasing her.
His blood pounded and he spurred his horse. Even at this distance he recognized Haskell.
The devil. She ought to be shouting. Why weren’t the others running to help her? Unless Haskell was chasing her toward them.
He’d break every bone in the bastard’s body.
Before Gareth could reach her and scoop her up, she swerved and ran towards the group in the field.
The men parted, waved, shouted.
Gareth reined up, leapt from his mount, and hurried to join them. The bulky body, the shaggy white hair—it was Chigwell.