Chapter Fifteen
Evan promised that their carriage ride would be brief.
Warmed by the carriage blanket, her husband’s fine French brandy, and his firm embrace, she enjoyed the hour and anticipated the act that would truly make her his wife.
“Do most couples in England travel away from others for what you call a honeymoon?” she asked.
“Some take a few weeks alone at home. Others go away. Some remain away longer, a month or more. Now that the wars are occurring on the Continent, no one travels so far. Most go to the country. Many need the time to get to know each other.”
Like us. She examined her new husband’s handsome, happy face.
He knew so little about her, who she was, what she had done.
But she wanted this marriage, short though it would be, to be strong, perfect for him.
Getting away from London gave her strength.
Perspective. She regained some of her stubbornness and a bit of valor.
She would find a way to save him. Save them both, she hoped.
So, she would devote herself to him and ensure he knew that she had come to him wishing that she could be his loving wife until their last breaths.
She had this sweet moment to make that impression on him. “We will do that.”
He refilled her glass with more Hennessy. “What is your favorite food?”
“Ah. How long is our carriage ride?”
“An hour or so.”
“I like good soft cheese from the Loire. Freshly baked bread. Our own estate’s white wine. Trout filleted and cooked in fresh butter and garlic.”
“And what is your favorite pastime?”
She lolled her head against his broad shoulder. “I play the fortepiano. You missed my performance at the Ashleys’. Perhaps there is an instrument where we go. Do you know?”
“I have no idea.” He regarded her as if he searched for something in her. “What do you like to play?”
“Brahms, Beethoven. Lully is lovely but very demanding.” She recalled the many evenings when she had played for the French general staff and the admiral of the French Atlantic fleet.
“I would like to hear you play.”
The way he searched her face left her wondering what he inquired of her. “Good. What would you like to hear?”
He gave a shrug, blinking and perhaps pushing away the questions he really wished to ask her. “Whatever you like. I will love it all.”
“Ah, mon cher, speak not too soon. I have not played regularly in many weeks.”
“No? Why is that?” A certain mystery appeared on his face once more.
“No time.”
“But you bought a piano recently for your house.”
“I did. It is a good German of high quality. I look forward to bringing it to your house.”
“Our house. We have one in the small parlor, but we can place yours in the main salon.”
She grinned at his generosity. “I’d like that…assuming, of course, you do not press me to entertain your guests.”
“Our guests. Our house.”
His generosity brought hot tears to her eyes. Arching up, she kissed him. “Thank you. What do you say here? I am a flower pot.”
“A water pot.” He thumbed a tear from her cheek. “What did I say to cause this?” His mood was suddenly changed to that of the endearing bridegroom whom she adored.
She sniffed. “I have had few in my life the past few years who have wanted to do any kindnesses for me. I get a lump in my throat when Amber or Gus or Scarlett help me. I am used to being alone.”
He pulled her firmly into his embrace. “Nevermore alone.”
Tears dribbled down her cheeks at that. He must never be harmed by her actions. “How I love you,” she whispered to him.
And as his violet eyes went wide with shock and pleasure, he put his mouth to hers and took all of her. His lips were hers. His tongue met hers. His fingers in her hair grasped her, held her to him so that he ravished her with his possession.
She ground out his name as he trailed kisses to her ear, down her throat, and found once more her lips. His fingers were urgent to the black fox fur at her collar as he opened her coat and caught her at her waist to press her to him.
Her wedding gown she had replaced with a new transparent, frilly peach muslin with a low décolleté. She had even avoided a corset. Her choice had been purposeful, her hopes high that her husband would notice and need to claim her there and everywhere.
#
He was a man of ethics and education. A man who adored his family of a smart and sassy mother and five sisters.
A man who liked women in all shapes and sizes.
He liked them to be educated, of course he did.
He preferred them to have taste and ambitions.
Those need not be ones to take over the world. Hell. Few men had that.
He considered his wife, who strolled about the fashionable salon of the cottage that was Rafe Durham’s and now was their residence for their first days of marriage.
He had hopes for those days. Not just the obvious, but ones that would prove useful to solidify their vows and make the two of them more like one.
He knew intimacy could do that. He knew it could endear his bride to him as affection only could, one to another.
But he did not want that to be all by which they were defined. He had a right to hope for more. He could work for it.
But he was urged on by his desire to possess her, as now he could. Yet reason held him in its clutches. What could he do other than encourage her to talk to him?
He stifled a laugh. Would mere words put her to his bed?
He watched her touch the keyboard of a fortepiano adorning the salon. She bent to inhale the fragrance of a vase of hothouse flowers that Rafe’s servants must have placed there for them to admire. She rubbed the edge of a rose petal between two fingers, then let her gaze drift to the hall.
Upstairs, the maid who had been assigned to them from the main house dropped something on the floor.
The thud had Inès catching his eye. “She’s in a hurry to leave us,” she said, chuckling.
He took the settee and patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit with me.”
A skeptical expression flashed across her face.
So when she sat, he took one hand in his and said, “Tell me why our stay here may be a challenge for you.”
“I…” She licked her lower lip and met his gaze. “I have not told you everything I have done. The Ramseys said—”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “Nor have I told you about me.”
She took a sharp breath. “I daresay none of that is controversial.”
Intriguing word. “That depends on your point of view.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“When I was twenty, I went to the Continent with a friend on our grand tour. We were to buy art for our respective houses.”
“Did you?”
“I saw a portrait of the old Duc d’Orleans and bought it. Spent more than I should on it.”
“And who painted the portrait?”
His face spread in dimpled delight. “Jacques Louis David.”
“The portraitist whom Bonaparte loves? The one who paints his court?”
“One and the same.”
She grinned. “Marvelous! How did you find such a rare gem?”
“A traiteur shopkeeper near the H?tel de Ville told me about it, and he produced it from his back storeroom.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“Bear in mind, this is 1792. The mob has just guillotined Louis. And I am eager. The shopkeeper told me the painting was worth thousands. But I could buy it for one thousand Louis.”
“Did you?”
“I got his price down to three-hundred and forty-five.”
She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head.
“But I did not buy it.”
“No? Why not?”
“I made plans to steal it.”
“Steal? No. I do not believe it.”
“You are right, I didn’t. But I planned it. Disguised myself as a peasant. Spread grime on my face and into my nails. Bought old shoes. I was quite ready to do the deed.”
“And?”
“I couldn’t do it. I got to the shop after midnight. My friend went with me. I broke the glass in the window and crept inside. I took it.”
Her mouth was open. “But that is not the ending of your story, is it?”
“No. I hurried back to my hotel with it, kept it under sheets for a few days, then invited a local art agent to attend me. He was a friend of a friend, so I felt quite safe asking him, thinking he would not turn me in to the local commune if he knew of the theft.”
“He was discreet?”
“He was. He did not appear to know about any recent theft of such a painting. I asked him for an assessment of its value. He took his time. Questioning me about its provenance, I said it was a purchase from a friend who lived in Chantilly.”
“In the Duc d’Orléans’ chateau to the north of Paris?”
“Exactly. But then he removed his monocle and told me he did not think this piece was worth the money I had paid for it. He apologized for hurting my feelings. Of course, I said I was sad to hear his decision. But I asked him why he thought it not worth the money I had supposedly paid for it.” He paused, feeling the shame once more of his actions.
“And?”
“He said there was no indication at all that the portrait was by David. I was shocked and asked why that was. He said David was a fast friend of Robespierre, an ardent revolutionary too, and would never have painted the royal cousin of the king. Nor would the Duc d’Orleans have sat for any such portrait. ”
She shook her head. “That is a sad story.”
“Of which I am ashamed.”
“But that is still not the end of your story, is it?” She encouraged him with a grin. “What did you do? Did you keep the painting?”
“I did. I keep it at home in the country in my office.”
Her gaze cleared of anguish for him. A smile teased her lips. “It reminds you of your actions.”
“It does. I was horrified, of course. Critical and outraged at my stupidity. Why had I not checked on the provenance? Invited an authority to certify the painting in the shop? How could I have been so stupid?”
“Why did you want to buy it? Can you define the reason?”
“I craved it for its notoriety. I wanted it for my ego. I wanted to brag about finding such a gem.”
“But it was a fake.”