So in Love (16 page)

“Were you very much in love, Papa?”

“With all my heart,” he answered and that part at least was true.

“But she died,” she said, an ending to the story she’d never added before, making him wonder if she did so for her cousins’ benefit. “And I got sick and wouldn’t eat. Do you think it’s because I missed her?”

Douglas welcomed the spurt of anger. He should continue to remember happier days and not the more recent ones in Edinburgh. Or even when he’d rescued his daughter. “No doubt,” he said. “But now it’s time for sleep, Meggie.”

She nodded, but he knew she’d be up and about the moment he left the loft. But he wasn’t in the mood to be a disciplinarian. The summer month at Gilmuir was the time to be adventurous and daring. There was time enough when they returned to Edinburgh to be proper.

A lesson for him as well.

Charles Talbot stood watching the MacRae house in the darkness, waiting for signs that the young maid at the Hartley home had been correct. “Miss du Marchand’s working
for the MacRaes, sir. She sent one of their maids to the house for her locket.”

“Are you sure of this?” He’d reluctantly parted with the last of his coins, wishing there was some way that the information hadn’t proven to be so costly. He hoped that du Marchand would pay him well for the information.

She bobbed a curtsy and was out the door before he could question her further.

The house was a large one, situated on the end of the square. The Comte’s daughter had come up in the world, it seemed. As he watched, an elderly manservant came out of the front door and lit the lamps beside the steps. However, there was no sign of the woman.

He waited for another quarter hour before resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to verify her presence for himself.

If she had been there, he might have approached her himself, possibly even suggest that the sale of the ruby could make her future secure. But if she truly had stolen the ruby, then ownership of it would be in doubt, enough that he couldn’t sell it to a reputable buyer. Perhaps it was better to allow the Count to secure the stone.

However, he didn’t trust du Marchand, and it had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s arrogance and everything to do with the look in his eyes. He’d seen contempt before; he’d been subjected to that expression from his neighbors in Inverness before he’d decided to move to Edinburgh. There was that emotion, but added to it was a cruel glint in du Marchand’s eyes, a hint that the man would stop at nothing to achieve his aims.

Charles had often felt the same. Now it was only a simple question of which of the two of them would achieve what he wanted.

T
he nine years at the Convent of Sacré-Coeur had been marked by deprivations. Jeanne had grown used to one meal a day, to the stark emptiness of the cell she’d been assigned, and even the paucity of conversation. One of her greatest pleasures, that of reading, was prohibited because of the scarcity of books. Even if she had been allowed the time and the luxury, she wouldn’t have been able to discern the words on the page. Her precious spectacles had been hidden in the secret niche at Vallans. Now, however, they perched on the end of her nose as she sat engrossed in a novel by Mr. Henry Fielding. Numerous times she closed the book and stared at the spine, then opened it again, so fascinated with the tale of
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
, that she could not put down the book.

Jeanne had spent countless afternoons in the sunny yellow parlor in front of the cold fireplace, her feet propped up on the needlepoint footrest, her mind adrift in a fascinating world. Reading had helped the time pass until Douglas returned, and had kept her occupied. Otherwise, she would no doubt have roamed through the house aimlessly,
feeling the emptiness of his home and missing him beyond measure.

Sometimes Betty would bring her tea and stay to talk, but mostly Jeanne was left alone. Today, however, Betty rapped on the doorframe, interrupting her. With some difficulty, Jeanne pulled herself from Sophia’s protestations and blinked at the maid.

“You have a visitor, miss,” Betty said, peering into the parlor. “Lassiter wanted to announce him but I told him I’d let you know.”

Lassiter didn’t quite know how to treat her. As a governess she wasn’t subject to his regulations, so it would have been perfectly natural for him to ignore her. However, Douglas had evidently given orders that she was to be treated as a guest in his house, which meant that Lassiter had to consider her well-being, ask her preferences for meals, and appear willing to serve. The confusion of roles left him frowning at her when he wasn’t being overly obsequious.

“A visitor?” Jeanne asked, standing. She placed the book she was reading on the table and removed her spectacles, blinking at Betty until she came into focus. “I don’t know anyone who would visit me here,” she said, confused. The only people she knew other than the Hartleys were those in the émigré community, but none of them knew she was here.

“Well, know him or not, he seems a very proper gentleman,” Betty said. “He’s wearing a very fancy suit with a vest embroidered with gold thread. He’s got a cane in his hand and I thought he was going to strike Lassiter with it, so impatient is he to see you.”

“I truly don’t know anyone like that,” Jeanne protested.

“Shall I bring him into the parlor?”

Jeanne nodded, smoothing her hands over her skirt, then
from her temple to her nape, wishing that she had a chance to look in the mirror before greeting an unexpected guest.

Who was coming to call on her? Robert Hartley? Surely not. Taking a deep breath, she faced the door and clasped her hands together in front of her.

As the visitor was shown into the room, she sat abruptly, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

He should have shown more signs of dissipation, some wear, considering his age. True, there were more lines around his eyes, and his blond hair had whitened considerably. But his face was tanned, and the fact that he left his hair unpowdered suited him.

His attire was less ornate then she remembered. Although his vest was embroidered, his waistcoat was an almost somber brown. There were no jewels in his shoe buckles, no rings on his fingers, yet he managed to appear both immaculate and prosperous. Not an easy feat for an émigré.

“Hello, Father,” she said, remaining seated.

He tilted his head in acknowledgment of her rudeness.

“Jeanne. You’re looking well.”

“You’re looking magnificent, considering you’re dead,” she said with no effort at humor. “How did you manage to resurrect yourself?”

“A rumor put out to assuage the mobs, my dear. I merely became a citizen of France.”

He bowed slightly in a sardonic gesture.

The last time she’d seen him he’d been ordering her into a carriage bound for the Convent of Sacré-Coeur. He’d ignored her pleas as if she were nothing more than a tiresome stranger, and then gave the orders for her to be bound and gagged.

“Why are you here?” she asked, deliberately refusing to offer him a chair. She would not play the hostess. He could
die of thirst and hunger before she lifted a hand to offer him refreshments.

“Such a cordial greeting, daughter,” he said, smiling benevolently at her. She noted, however, that his eyes didn’t change. They were still watchful, still predatory, the expression of a hawk or a falcon. Glancing at the empty chair beside her, he said, “Are you not going to offer me a place to sit, Jeanne?”

“You’re not welcome here.” She didn’t stand, thinking of all the days in the convent when Marie-Thérèse had made her kneel on the rough-hewn floor of the chapel and confess her sins aloud, including the shame she’d brought to her family, and her disobedience toward her father.

“I can see that,” he said, tapping his walking stick on the floor. “However, I came to see my only child. To wish you well and offer my felicitations. Perhaps we could compare notes on your escape. How did you manage that?”

“How did you even know I was in Scotland?”

He smiled. “Perhaps I learned from a mutual friend.”

“Justine?”

He looked surprised and it was her turn to smile, an expression that lacked humor. She remembered only too well her last encounter with Justine at Vallans.

Jeanne had never felt the emotion she was experiencing now, a loathing so deep that she felt cold with it. She stood, finally, but didn’t approach him.

He raised one eyebrow and looked imperiously at her. “Are you still aggrieved about that incident? You’re not the first aristocrat to find yourself with child. What I did was for your own protection. Don’t be so naïve as to believe the world accepts bastards, Jeanne. You were never that provincial.” He laughed, a titter that was an affectation at court and sounded even more brittle and false here in this lovely parlor.

At least he didn’t pretend to be other than what he was.
If once he had loved her it was because she had either amused him or resembled him. She had been a perfect child until she’d erred and then she was tossed away with no more regard than her baby daughter.

“Get out,” she said, surprised that she could manage the words at all, but hatred evidently made her both resolute and strong.

“I would have thought the convent taught you respect,” he said, his mask of geniality beginning to slip.

“They taught me a great deal, Father. However, I endeavored to forget those lessons the moment I left.”

“A pity,” he said. “You might have become a more tractable woman. A man does not admire a woman of rough temper, Jeanne.” He looked around him at the room with its hint of luxury. “However, you’ve managed to do well enough for yourself. Another post as governess? Or something else entirely?”

She felt her face warm, and cursed both her embarrassment and his knowing smile. But before she could answer, he raised his walking stick and pointed it at her throat.

“I want your mother’s necklace,” he said, surprising her. “Give me that and I’ll not trouble you further.” Smiling, he added, “I’ll be dead to you again, a reasonable arrangement, do you not agree?”

Her hand closed over the locket. “Why?”

“Because it belongs to me.” The mask of gentility slipped completely even as his face seemed to age, the grooves on either side of his mouth deepening. “Everything at Vallans belonged to me. You stole it.”

She smiled. “I hid it before you sent me away,” she said, grateful for the strength to appear amused. “And found it among the ruins. Do you want my spectacles and journals as well?”

“I want the necklace,” he said, his gray eyes wintry.

“No.”

Walking to the fireplace, she pulled the bell cord beside it, summoning Lassiter. She and her father wordlessly stared at each other until the older man entered the room.

“The gentleman is leaving,” she said. “See him to the door, Lassiter. If you need any assistance, summon one of the stable lads.”

One thing for which she could not fault the majordomo was his instant recognition of the circumstances. He bowed slightly, his voice low and respectful. “Sir,” he said. “If you’ll follow me.”

Her father stared at her. “I want it, Jeanne, and I’ll have it,” he said, before turning toward the door.

“You’ll get nothing else from me,” she said as he left the room. As she stared after him, she whispered, “You’ve taken too much as it is.”

D
ouglas scooped his sleeping child into his arms and left the carriage. Margaret had fallen asleep as soon as they’d reached land. Smiling down into her face, he walked up the steps to his house, dismissing the coachman with a softly voiced command.

Margaret mumbled something in her sleep and curled her cheek against his chest, much as she had done as a baby.

In that moment he felt as though the past and the present were pulling him in two. He wanted to visit Jeanne and yet at the same time Douglas knew that it would be safer to condemn her to perdition and get on with his life.

A month must have dampened Jeanne’s allure. He wouldn’t be as enthralled with her as he had been before leaving Edinburgh. The time apart would have acted as a sanity-inducing respite.

Nevertheless, when he opened the front door of his home to be greeted by a sleepy Lassiter, the first question he wanted to ask was about Jeanne.

“Is all well, Lassiter?”

“Very well, sir. Welcome home.”

“It’s good to be back,” he said.

Bless the instinct of well-trained servants, he thought a moment later when Lassiter turned and led the way to the stairs, casually remarking, “The young lady has been asking when you would return, sir.”

“Has she?”

Lassiter only nodded, and the subject was exhausted, which was just as well. Douglas didn’t know what else to say.

“She had a visitor when you were away, sir,” Lassiter said.

Douglas glanced at his majordomo. “Who?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Lassiter said. “A Frenchman. He carried a gold walking stick and had blond hair. Not a young man, but not old, either. Near to my height.”

“How long did he stay?”

“A few minutes, no more. He looked decidedly put out when he left. Nor did the young lady seem pleased at his appearance.”

The Sherbourne estate in England, his father’s boyhood home, boasted a chapel complete with a set of clarion bells. Each one of them was ringing in his mind even now.

He walked upstairs, depositing Margaret in her bed. Betty bustled around him, helping to undress her.

Bending down, he kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Goodnight, Meggie.”

She looked up at him, rubbing her eyes. “Are we home, Papa?”

“We are. But it’s late, and you should go back to sleep.”

She nodded groggily at him and he didn’t doubt that she would soon be asleep again.

“Should I stay with her tonight, sir?” Betty asked, bobbing a small curtsey.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But tuck her in well, Betty, it was a rough journey.”

The seas from Gilmuir had been choppy, yet the summer storm they encountered had made Margaret laugh. He had been slightly less euphoric, thinking that their ship could be easily dashed on the rocks. But the only casualty on their journey had been a sail that had come loose and wrapped around the mainmast. It would be repaired tomorrow at Leith.

After he left Margaret’s room, Douglas walked down the hall to his own chamber. Closing the door, he went to the fireplace to light a candle. The flame flickered and then caught, and he placed the holder back on the mantel and shrugged out of his jacket.

He’d never considered hiring a valet, and now he was doubly grateful that there wasn’t anyone bustling around him. There were times when his life was simply too busy, when the demands of his company, his family, and his responsibilities pressed in too much. He exempted Margaret from that sense of duty simply because she was the one for whom he worked so hard.

Nor, surprisingly enough, did he put Jeanne in the category of obligations. She brought back his youth, his past, a feeling of being young and too excited about life to be wise. She was his glorious error, his profligacy, and his imprudence.

And a temptation he didn’t want to ignore.

He pinched the flame out between two fingers and left his darkened bedroom before he could change his mind. His conscience surprisingly did not speak during the long walk down the hall to Jeanne’s chamber. Placing his hand flat against the door, he wondered if she had locked it against him. There would be none in this house who would dare disturb her, so if the latch was engaged, it would be a signal to him alone.

He pushed on the handle and the door swung open eas
ily, almost in invitation. Closing the door quietly, he stood with his back against it, waiting for a sign of either welcome or repudiation.

A lone flickering candle on the bedside table was the only illumination. Jeanne was sitting up in bed, attired in her threadbare nightgown, her knees drawn up and her arms around them.

“I heard your carriage,” she said, her look direct and unflinching.

Fool that he was, he answered her with too much truth. “I was away too long.”

She only nodded in response, as if afraid to reveal her vulnerability. But she had never been fragile as a girl.

Standing, she came to him, took his hand, and led him back to her bed. He allowed her to mount the steps and sit on the edge of the bed, and slowly untie his stock.

“Did you miss me, Jeanne?” he asked, the words like jewels in the silence, each one as precious as a ruby or diamond.

“Yes.”

She halted in the act of undressing him and looked at him, her eyes hiding nothing. He had the discomfiting thought that if he stared long enough he might unearth the contents of her soul and all manner of secrets.

“It’s been a long time since I had a woman companion,” he said, deliberately crude. “I should have a mistress.”

She hesitated for a moment and then resumed her efforts, his stock finally untied. With deft fingers, she began unbuttoning his vest.

“Should you?”

How calm her voice sounded, and yet he had the feeling that it was difficult for her to speak with such aplomb.

He reached down and tilted up her chin with one finger.

“I haven’t asked you to be my mistress,” he said.

“Don’t now,” she said, reaching out and placing her fingers against his lips. “Please, don’t say such things. Later,
after we’ve loved, there will be time enough to wound one another.”

Startled, he drew back from her touch, gripping her hand tightly. Immediately he realized he’d been too forceful and bent and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist in a wordless petition for forgiveness.

“Do we wound each other, Jeanne?” he asked softly.

Once again, he had the feeling that he would be safer leaving her. He wanted to be around her more than was wise. When he was separated from her, it felt as if his very soul ached.

She placed her hands flat on his chest, surprising him. In the candlelight, her look was somber. He should have guessed her next words. “Why are you here, Douglas?”

He placed his palms against the backs of her hands, thinking that they felt soft and warm, almost fragile. She was trembling, but he couldn’t have discerned that from her steady look.

Did he terrify her as much as she did him? How strange that they were going to be lovers again, fearing each other so much.

Why was he here?

She had forced him into looking at his own motives. He stepped away from the bed, turning and walking toward the window. He should have left the room, but as difficult as this moment was, he still didn’t want to leave her.

He didn’t want her comfort, although physical pleasure wasn’t something he’d willingly forgo. He didn’t want forgetfulness—there were some memories that could never be expunged from his mind. Nor did he lie to himself and hide behind the pretense that he wanted to avenge his daughter.

Why was he here?

Not even because she was his past. He had been a boy and was not one any longer. But the man could fall in love
with her as easily as the boy had. Perhaps that emotion would last longer than before and be twice as destructive.

“For forgetfulness,” he said finally. “For a bit of comfort in the night.” Twin lies that he offered up to her to hide his own confusion.

He wanted to ask her why she’d done what she had to their child, but that was a question that could not have a good answer. Instead, he concentrated on the view of the park, the wrought-iron gate with pointed spears and benches arranged in strategic spots. A lantern on all four corners illuminated the park and was kept lit by a man paid to patrol the area.

Money guaranteed him privilege but it didn’t assure him peace of mind.

Douglas realized that he didn’t want to invite the past into this room. It had no place in his life at this moment. He wanted an hour or two of Jeanne. Of pleasure. Of love.

God help him.

He turned to find her standing beside him. Her smile was enchanting and utterly damning. This was the woman who had tried to kill his child. But even that accusation sounded wrong, as if he were missing part of the puzzle of Jeanne du Marchand. He made a decision, in that moment, to wonder about it later. Now he wouldn’t think.

“The world is filled with fools,” he said cryptically. “And I’m just one of them.” A statement he didn’t mean to make. But then, he had not meant to bed her the first time or the second, and he should not have come to her tonight.

Slowly she unfastened his shirt, before placing her hands flat on his bared chest, her thumbs meeting and her fingers splayed wide, as if to claim him with her touch. His hands remained at his side, the one part of his body that was obeying. His erection, however, was rampant and rebellious, seeking an escape from the tight confines of his trousers.

He removed her hands from his chest and picked her up and carried her to the bed, arranging her so that she sat on the edge, her feet dangling. He gripped her worn nightgown in the middle of the neckline and slowly began to tear it down the middle.

She didn’t utter one word of protest, her silence an aphrodisiac of its own. As if he needed one at the moment.

Jeanne sat until he finished, until the frayed edges of the material framed the perfect globes of her breasts. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her to him. He wanted to kiss her but he wouldn’t, not yet. Not until her eyes were dark with desire, and her breath was nothing more than a gasp.

He bent down and tasted one nipple, his tongue tracing a path first around the aureole. She shivered in response and made a sound deep in her throat. He smiled as she wound her hand around his neck to flatten on the back of his head. Her fingers pressed against his scalp and urged him closer.

Teasing her instead, he touched only the very tip of her nipple with his tongue. She placed her other hand beneath her breast. This time he succumbed to her urging, tasting the whole of her nipple, sucking her until his cheeks hollowed and her indrawn breath was expelled in a sigh.

Separating the gown, he looked at her illuminated by the candle. Her eyes were closed and her hands clenched the sheet on either side of her.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

“I want you to watch what we do.”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his as he reached out and caressed her breasts with both hands.

“You’re very responsive.” His thumb brushed over a nipple, felt it grow tighter, and he bent down to lick it in praise.

“Am I?” Her voice sounded choked.

He placed both hands at her waist and helped her from the high bed. When she stood before him, he gently turned her.

“Lift up your hair.”

She hesitated for a moment before moving, holding her hair up from her neck in a thoroughly feminine gesture. Her hair wasn’t long, only shoulder-length, and he realized that it was because of her years at the convent.

When she bent her head, he saw her scars once again.
I did something that earned my father’s displeasure
. Had the Comte sent her there because of their love? Because she’d met him countless times in secret assignations? Because she’d borne a child?

The questions begged to be asked, but the moment they were, more revelations would follow. He didn’t want to hate her tonight. He didn’t, God forgive him, truly want to know.

One by one he kissed her scars before turning her. She stood in front of him, her eyes pooling with tears. When had she learned to show so much emotion in her eyes? He didn’t want her grateful or sad. He wanted her needy and desperate with it.

Wordlessly, he helped her to the bed again, pulling her so that she sat on the edge, her feet dangling. Pulling off his stock completely, he wound it around one breast and then the other, framing them with the white cloth.

“It’s silk,” he said when she only looked at him, surprise banishing her tears. “Do you like the feel of it?”

She nodded, and he was grateful she didn’t speak. He didn’t want to hear her voice if it was laced with any emotion other than lust. He pulled on the ends of the stock and both breasts were gently constrained. He pulled harder and she closed her eyes.

With the fringed ends of the stock he brushed a nipple,
still impudent and tight. He blew on it, and it seemed to lengthen beneath his ministrations.

“Do you want me to kiss you there?” he asked.

She nodded.

He ceased moving until she opened her eyes.

“Do you want me to kiss you there?” he asked again, and this time she spoke.

“Please,” she said, her voice throaty and seductive.

“Why?”

She looked confused for only a second before a small smile curved her lips. “Because I like the way your mouth feels on my breasts.”

They had teased each other years ago, and she’d not forgotten the game, it seemed.

He kissed her breast, drawing out the nipple between his lips. She sighed again, and he wanted to be in her, now. But he delayed, knowing that the pleasure to come would be greater for not being easily gratified.

Gently his hands stroked over every inch of her body. Tenderly, he touched her, making her sigh or gasp. This woman alone of all the women he’d ever met confused him and delighted him and made him behave with such reckless abandon that he should have been worried for his immortal soul.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said as his fingers touched the curly, soft hair between her legs.

She licked her lips as he spread her legs, unsurprised to find that she was damp at his touch. She’d always been receptive and passionate.