Lady of Shame (9 page)

The servants hadn’t liked him much when he first came. The French Devil, they had called him, a play on Deval, his chosen last name, but that had been over a long time ago. The war was over too, and if people still fought it in their minds and in the taverns, they did not fight it here at Castonbury Park. Or not openly. The butler and the housekeeper saw to that. Of all the servants, though, only Joe would have the temerity. And the lingering hatred. He’d lost brothers in the war with Napoleon.

André got up and threw the contents of the dish into a slop bucket. It was so bad, not even pigs would eat it. It would have to go into the privy.

It wasn’t so much the problem with the food that had him fuming inside; it was the message from Claire. Not Claire. Not even in his mind. He’d given up that right willingly. Yet now he felt torn by the difference in their station. He found himself speaking to her as an equal instead of obeying orders with a shrug as he had for so many years. It was because she looked at him as a man. The attraction that danced between them. But always she withdrew, as she should. But that distancing made him sometimes wish he had not given up all claims to his birth.

No. He would not go down that path. Not for anyone. Especially a woman. That part of his life was over.

She was Madame Holte. And must always be so. Otherwise he would probably let her name slip from his tongue in some unguarded moment when they were alone, tasting food, talking, feeling the sparks that exploded between them.

How could she believe he would ruin a dish deliberately?

He had said things he had no right to say, it was true, but that she would believe him capable of such cruelty was gut-wrenching.

It was quite obvious from her message, delivered in such a colourless tone by the butler, that she indeed thought he had deliberately ruined her attempt to woo this Mr Dyer.

His fists clenched. He would not let her go to bed thinking he had deliberately ruined her chances with this man. He might have wanted to do so. He might even secretly feel a little glad, but he would never have given in to such a temptation. Not with his reputation on the line. And especially knowing how much she would be hurt.

On his way through the grand hall to the family wing, one of the servants told him that she was to be found in the nursery with the dowager marchioness.

So not all of the guests had left. Perhaps he should leave this until the morning. He would, if he was wise. But he was too angry, too disappointed in himself, to wait.

He took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. A dreadful thought occurred to him on the way along the corridor. What if the children’s meal had been similarly spoiled? What if she was up there, comforting a child with a stomach ache or a throat burning with fire?

Would she know what to do? He quickened his pace.

But as he approached the nursery and adjoining school room, the voices were calm and there was laughter. Children’s laughter.

He let go a sigh of relief. Why had he been worried? He had delivered the food to Miss Jane personally because the footmen were too busy looking after the dining room and the duke.

The door was open and he cautiously looked inside.

His jaw dropped.

Not only were Madame Holte and Lady Hatherton seated on the floor with their children, but so was the duke, in banyan, cap and slippers. He had the baby bouncing on his knee and was listening to Mademoiselle Jane recite. The little girl stood in front of him twisting her body from side to side, but her smile said she was happy.

Lady Hatherton was a very pretty woman, but tonight Claire, Madame Holte, had never looked more radiant. The gown of shimmering bronze looked stunning. The artfully arranged curls at her temples drew attention to her fine widely spaced grey eyes. She was smiling at her daughter. But the smile was tight and her eyes seemed a little sad.

His gut gave a lurch. Had she been so set on this man, then? This politician? He was a man chosen by her brother, but she might also have loved him. Stranger things had happened, he supposed. The oddest people fell in love in books. Why not in real life?

It was not something he had ever experienced. Love of a woman. Nor did he want to. Once he’d believed in the love of his family. Discovering it was all a lie had ripped out his heart. Left him confused and weak. He never wanted to feel that way again.

And it seemed that the more he saw of Claire, the more in danger he became of forgetting that.

The duke bounced the little boy on his knee harder. The child giggled wildly. Mademoiselle Jane chucked him under the chin and the duke pulled her close for a hug. ‘A niece and a grandson,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘How lucky can an old man get?’

André crept away. It was not his place to be here watching this private moment. This family. He had no family. And nor did he want one. The odd feeling in his chest was merely his frustration with the occurrences of the evening. The knowledge that his words with Madame Holte would have to wait.

Thinking of her as
madame
cooled the storm of emotion, but left him feeling cold inside.

Chapter Seven

C
laire trudged along the corridor to her chamber door. What a calamity of an evening. From the dinner party to the duke entertaining Alicia in the nursery. Giles would be furious. Smithins had said so when he collected his charge. How had His Grace learned of his grandson’s presence in the house? When Claire had asked him, he’d looked at her blankly.

She sighed and turned the handle on her chamber door.

A shadow loomed out of the darkness. Silent yet forceful.

On a gasp she swung around.

Monsieur André stood a few feet away, barely discernable in the shadows cast by her candle. But she knew him by his height and build.

André. She lifted her candle, casting him in light and flickering shadows. It seemed to make him all the more menacing. ‘What on earth are you doing here? You gave me a start.’

He leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his formidable chest. His eyes dark above the stark lines of his cheekbones and jaw bored into her. ‘There is a little matter of a message, Madame Holte. We need to talk.’

She swallowed, her throat dry, as she recalled her angry words. She was too tired for this now. Too weary to fight. ‘Not now,
monsieur
.’

‘Yes, now.’

How dare he speak to her this way? She’d resolved that never again would she suffer this kind of abuse. The heat of her earlier anger rose up in a red mist.

‘It is past midnight. It will wait until tomorrow.’

A clenched fist struck the wall behind him. A silent blow. A physical manifestation of anger held under control. ‘Now, if you please,
madame
.’ His voice was low and harsh.

With any other man she might have been fearful, certainly with George, who had not the least control on his temper. She did not fear this man because beneath the anger she sensed a need she could not in all fairness deny. A driving need to present his side of the story.

She sighed. ‘Very well.’

She opened the door a crack and from inside her chamber she heard the sound of the maid, Daisy, tidying up her chamber, preparing to help her to bed. If she should catch her and Monsieur André having a conversation outside her bedroom door, it would be the icing on the worst evening of her life.

She closed the door quietly. ‘Not here. Meet me in the library in five minutes.’ She turned and swept back the way she had come, surprised to discover her weariness had fled and her footsteps were swift and sure.

He did not follow her, naturally. He could not. He turned for the servants’ stairs.

He was already waiting when she stepped into the library, standing by the open curtains and looking out into the night, his shoulders stiff and uncompromising. Much like her brother’s shoulders had been the night she had told him of the man she had fallen in love with.

Why did that memory have to come back to haunt her now? That part of her life was over and done with. She had learned her lesson. She was not the same girl who had fallen madly in love and run off to get married.

She was a sensible widow and a mother.

He swung around to face her when she stepped over the threshold.

She lit a table candelabra and set her night candle down. She rubbed at her arms in their thin silk, feeling the chill of a room with no fire, as she stared at this handsome arrogant Frenchman. He wanted to explain and therefore only one word came to her mind. ‘Why?’

His expression was grim, his jaw hard. He looked like some avenging dark angel. Still angry, then. She was the one who should be angry.

‘Why what, Madame Holte?’

Oh, why did that voice of his have to strum every nerve in her body. Why did the intensity in his eyes give her the sense that he could see right through to her very essence? And why was he pretending he didn’t know what she meant?

‘You did it deliberately,’ she said. ‘You spoiled that one particular dish on purpose. When I tell my brother what you did—’

‘I did nothing of the sort.’

Her own anger rose. ‘Who else would have done such a thing?’

He pressed his lips together. Gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘I swear that dish was perfect when it left my kitchen. As good if not better than the dish you tasted when we agreed on the menus.
If I had wanted to do that, I would have been far more subtle about it. Mr Dyer would have enjoyed every bite and only the following day would he have felt the effects of something bad in his diet.’

‘Good God, you have thought about this.’ The laugh she gave was hard. ‘Do you suspect one of the footman, perhaps?’

He winced. ‘Much as I would like to say one of them did it, they could not. None of them have access to the pantry.’

‘Are you saying it was an accident? Come now, Monsieur André, surely you do not expect me to believe it was a mistake? Not after our conversation yesterday when you presumed to give me advice.’

He breathed in through his nose, his chest rising and then finally falling as if he was doing all in his power to restrain his temper.

Claire retreated a step or two, memories of George, his stinging slap to her face one day when she had argued, making her put up a hand to keep him at bay.

His eyes widened.
‘Madame,’
he said softly.
‘Milles pardons.’
He backed up, giving her the space she needed for comfort. He took a deep breath and his rage seemed to subside in an instant. ‘Forgive me. My anger is not directed at you, but at whoever ruined that dish.’ His gaze remained on her face, unflinching and level, and she believed him.

‘It would afford me nothing to serve inedible food,’ he said with a lift of his shoulders. ‘All I have is my reputation. These dinners are as vital to me as they are to you. Mr Dyer is an important man, known in society. One word from him and my future would be ruined. Please believe me, the dish was fine when it left my kitchen.’

The passion in his voice, the way he looked directly into her eyes, convinced her. ‘Then who? And why?’

He frowned, not at her but at the carpet. ‘I don’t know.’ He raised his gaze, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know if it is someone who meant to do you harm, or me. Some of the servants here do not like a Frenchman in their midst.’

Could that be the explanation? ‘The war is over.’

‘But the consequences linger on.’

‘You have been here for months, have you not? Did something like this happen before?’

He huffed out a breath. ‘No. And yet I honestly do not believe any of the servants would dare. Not even Lumsden, though he is a pretty cold fish.’

‘Not all fish are cold,’ she said, remembering fiery cod’s heads.

He flashed a faint smile. ‘Not a matter for laughing.’

‘Not at the time, the poor man.’ The image flashed into her mind and she felt a chuckle grow in her chest. ‘I wish you had seem him. His face looked just like one of those awful fish he favours, only red.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

He grinned, shaking his head. ‘The sauce was as hot as Hades,
madame
. He will suffer for days.’

They smiled at each other, the anger so fraught only moments before dissipated by the laughter they’d shared.

‘Perhaps it was some dreadful mistake that will not happen again,’ she said.

‘
Non.
It was deliberate. Could it have occurred in the dining room?’

‘Well, I can assure you that neither Reverend Seagrove nor his daughter would tamper with one of the dishes.’

‘Nor Mr Dyer’s mother,’ Monsieur André said in musing tones.

They looked at each other. ‘Lady Hatherton,’ they said together.

‘Why?’ Claire asked.

‘Mayhap she sees you as a rival. Mayhap she had designs on Mr Dyer before you arrived. She is a widow.’

‘And quite lovely.’ Claire sighed. ‘If she wanted Mr Dyer, she could no doubt have him with a snap of her fingers.’

Monsieur André stared at her for a very long moment. He took another step forward. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’

She shrugged. ‘I have no illusions about myself, Monsieur André. I am far beyond the age most men think eligible for marriage. I never was a diamond of the first water like Lady Hatherton. My only advantage is my connection to the duke. But she is the mother of his heir. That is a powerful situation for any woman.’

He reached out, his hand steady as a rock, and placed one finger under her chin, turning her face with the gentlest of pressure towards the light. ‘You are wrong about not being beautiful, Claire,’ he murmured. ‘Your beauty goes deeper than mere features, lovely as they are. It is in the depths of your eyes, and the glow of your skin and in your spirit.’

His voice was like a drug on her ears. She could listen to the sound of it for ever. Her skin absorbed it like gentle summer rain on the parched earth. And the words were a balm to her feminine soul.

She couldn’t move for the pull of his body on hers. The magnetism that seemed to hold her in thrall. Slowly she raised her gaze to his harsh dark features, to his gaze that scorched her skin as he searched her expression.

Looking for what?

‘It is something else too.’ A crease formed between his brows. ‘You have…calmness. It soothes me.’

As he spoke, he lowered his head, his eyelids drooping, his gentle touch angling her face to receive the touch of his mouth. A brush of warm lips on hers. Velvet soft. A whisper of a kiss.

A small cry issued from her throat. A protest. Not that he should stop, but that he not leave it at only a kiss.

She cradled his face in her hands and returned the kiss, with fervour, with passion, with the heat raging out of control.

And then he was kissing her. Really kissing her. His mouth open on hers, their tongues tangling silkenly as they tasted each other.

He tasted of wine and mint. He smelled of dark spices, some hot, some subtle. Like the most tempting of the dishes he had prepared for this evening.

But the appetite and hunger driving her on had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the beauty and maleness of this man.

And she tasted and she took.

He pulled her close, up against the hard length of his body. A body hardened by exercise, muscled and lean. And heaven help her, young and strong.

And she gave herself up to the kiss. Sank into it. Disappeared into its darkness, hearing only their hearts beating in unison. Feeling only the brush of his hair on her hands, the warmth of his skin above his collar, the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles beneath his coat. And then the pressure of his hard wall of chest against her breasts and his hands wandering up her back and pulling her tight against him. A large palm followed the contours of her back, the dip of her waist and the rise of her buttocks.

He pulled her firmly against his hips and she arched into him, feeling his burgeoning arousal.

A bolt of what felt like lightning shot through her body, leaving in its wake the flames of desire.

A need so powerful she gave voice to it in a long heartfelt moan.

He broke the kiss and raised his head, looking down at her. The raw sensuality in his expression was as seductive as hell.

Overwhelming.

And completely inappropriate.

She pushed him away. He looked surprised, then puzzled and finally chagrined.

He stepped back. Spun away.
‘Milles pardons, madame,’
he said, his voice husky, his breathing as laboured as hers.

‘No apology is required, Monsieur André.’ She picked up her candle. ‘Under different circumstances…’ She shrugged. ‘However, things are as they are and this must not happen again.’

‘It will not,’ he said softly, regretfully, and she saw determination in the set of his jaw.

She strode out of the library on legs that felt too weak to carry her, and headed for her chamber. It will not. The words ran through her head over and over. He was much stronger than she was, clearly. And tears welled in her eyes.

* * *

Trembling inside, but outwardly calm, she hoped, Claire waited for the chef’s arrival. If she thought of him as the chef, it would keep her distanced.

Initially she had thought she would not meet with him this morning, but then she had issued a very public request. She could hardly go back on it.

He knocked and entered. He didn’t scratch the way most servants did—oh, no, he knocked, brisk and businesslike.

That was why he was different. He did not act like a servant, not even an upper servant. He acted as if he was equal to anyone or anything.

It ought to be a mark against him, in her world, but it was not. Instead he instilled in her a trust which had been so often lacking in her marriage. He made her feel like a person whose thoughts and ideas mattered.

George on the other hand had scorned her opinions.

She forced herself not to clench her hands when he closed the door behind him and stood before her, waiting.

His expression was carefully blank. No hint of what had passed between them the previous evening reflected in his dark eyes. He looked at her as if she was a stranger. His employer. Nothing more.

Damn her, why did that hurt?

She allowed herself a brief smile. ‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur André.’

He waited silently.

The frankness with which she had spoken the previous evening seemed illusive. She struggled to put her thoughts into some sort of order. ‘What happened yesterday was regretful, but we shall speak no more about it.’ Oh, that did not sound right. He would think she meant the kiss. Not that she planned to talk about that either.

Heat flushed her cheeks. ‘I mean, what happened with the meal. I shall expect our next dinner to go off without a hitch. I assume you can manage that?’

‘Yes,
madame
. Thank you,
madame
.’

Even uttering the servile words, he sounded arrogant, but was there some relief in his gaze?

‘I sent word to Mr Dyer apologising for what happened and indicating that it was the duke who requested the extra heat with his cod fish. That he finds it helps to clear his head. You were not aware, of course, that the duke had decided not to join us, or that a separate dish was required.’