Winter Garden (13 page)

Brushing breeze-blown hair from her forehead and lashes, she squeezed his arm once and released it. “Thomas, I have been with my share of men,” she admitted softly, “but you are the only one who has ever made me feel like a beautiful woman with just common words.”

He opened his eyes and slowly pivoted his rigid form to look at her.

She smiled faintly into those soft brown circles that bore a distinct hesitancy to believe, clutching her cloak with both hands to keep from reaching for him. “You are not poetic but you are sincere and descriptive in a very romantic way. Next time you will make me feel beautiful with your body, and I intend to share in it and make it last. I only hope that I can prove worthy enough for such a giving man.”

The harsh contours of his face relaxed minutely; his gaze softened for her, sparking with what she could
only describe as pleasure, and perhaps a shade of amazement at her response.

She straightened to carry on. “So. What do you intend to do today?”

A flash of amusement crossed his features at her quick change of topic, but she ignored that, keeping her expression blank and her chin lifted self-assuredly.

“I intend to call on Mrs. Bennington-Jones in the hope of visiting with, or learning something about, Desdemona,” he said in a feather-soft drawl. “And you?”

Madeleine had the most difficult time keeping her lips from his, fighting the intense urge to seduce him right there on the bench. If she walked two feet forward she'd be in his arms.

“I think I will bathe at the inn then dress to call on Rothebury,” she instead forced herself to say. “It is time for us to meet.”

Without waiting for a reply, she lifted her skirts and retraced her steps to the edge of the brush. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she caught him staring at her, eyes narrowed in assessment, hands still in his pockets, his large, imposing body filled out impressively.

“Be careful,” he cautioned in a husky timbre.

For the first time in her career, she wasn't offended by the edge of male superiority in a colleague's words and manner, because this time she sensed a flicker of emotional caring. He'd meant what he said, not because he was a man and she a woman, but because he liked her. Madeleine relished that knowledge, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply, how strangely, he affected her.

“I think I should be warning you of the same thing. Mrs. Bennington-Jones could beat you to death with
words.” Looking him up and down, she lowered her voice to impishly add, “And I am very, very glad you are not impotent after all.”

His deep chuckle reverberated through the trees.

M
adeleine had originally intended to surprise the baron at his home, knocking on his door and introducing herself to him in a neighborly fashion. The problem with that plan, however, was that she had no valid reason to do so. He might not be in residence, or, of even deeper concern, her visit might look suspicious. As a village newcomer, it would be more appropriate for him to call on her, and, of course, he would never do that. Her only alternative, then, was to stumble across him as he rode along the path beside the lake, making it appear as if the meeting were coincidental.

At ten o'clock she set out, wearing her morning gown, traveling cloak and gloves, her hair brushed into a long braid that she'd wound atop her head. She'd also added just a trace of color to her cheeks, lips and eyes. It wasn't enough to notice really, but she wanted to en
hance what she could. First impressions were everything.

She had only traversed the path for a few minutes when she spotted the baron coming toward her through the trees. He sat atop his gray horse, dressed appropriately in dark brown riding clothes, his face taut with either physical effort or concentration, assessing the curves on the trail as he had yet to notice her.

Madeleine drew a deep breath and smoothed her hands over her cloak, assuming a casual air. It would only be a matter of moments until he saw her, and she wanted to be prepared.

And then he did.

Still some distance away, the baron pulled gently on the reins to slow his horse's gait. He didn't appear to be startled by her sudden presence, although he carefully studied her from head to foot, and obviously so, seemingly unconcerned whether she would take offense at his intense scrutiny. She pretended not to be aware of his indelicate behavior, giving him first a gentle look of surprise at finding him there, followed by a beautiful smile and a slight nod of her head as she continued to walk toward him.

He moved closer as well, likewise producing a grin on his mouth just as quickly as he saw hers. It was contrived, and she knew it. It never reached his eyes.

“Good day, monsieur,” she said pleasantly, strolling to his side.

“And a good day it is, madam,” he instantly replied in a heavy drawl, brazenly looking over every inch of her face. “Or at least it is now that I've come across such a lovely woman on my path. Are you a vision or reality?”

Such artificial, calculated words were meant to im
press the insecure. Or the innocent. Did he think she would be so naive? Likely not. He had called her madam, which meant he either assumed she was or had been married, or he knew her identity already. He was smart, challenging her position here now with adulation and subtle seduction, waiting for a reaction. Madeleine felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck.

“Goodness, monsieur,” she returned through a soft chuckle, “you flatter a lady so. I hope you don't mind that I am walking on your property, but I didn't realize anyone owned it.”

She let the words trail off into the crisp, calm air, expecting an introduction at last. He didn't disappoint, but neither did he dismount—an overt attempt to remain in a superior position as he looked down on her from above.

“I am Richard Sharon, Baron Rothebury.”

He stated that almost boastfully, evidently expecting her to know who he was. She played to his vanity.

“Ahh, yes. You own the house in the distance,” she replied sweetly. “Mrs. Bennington-Jones and her daughter Desdemona mentioned you at Mrs. Rodney's tea one afternoon.”

He didn't blink or lose his smile, but she did notice just the slightest tightening of his lips. She carried on thoughtfully before he could interrupt.

“She even suggested that your home was so old it might have been a haven for those not afflicted with the Death. I found that fascinating.”

“Fascinating, yes,” he conceded quickly, “but only rumor. When ladies gather at tea, they can be drawn into conversations of the most amazing nature, don't you agree?”

She wondered how on earth he would know that. “I suppose so.”

He tipped his head toward her once in approval. “Actually, I own much of the surrounding land—from the edge of the lake to several miles south of here, and, of course, as far east as the Hope cottage at the edge of the village.” He lifted one corner of his mouth even as his thickly lashed, dark hazel eyes narrowed with suggestion. “You are the Frenchwoman living with the scholar there, are you not? I've seen you through the trees once or twice, and have found myself staring. You're beautiful from head to foot, and such rare beauty is truly difficult to ignore.”

He tried to impress as he spoke, his voice deep and velvet soft, suspecting, or at least hoping, she'd understand his seductive intent. He was an intriguing man in a rather mysterious way, quite attractive to look at, and he probably appealed to the smaller sex in a very gracious but sensual manner.

His face was hard of line, cheekbones high and defined, his skin clear, clean-shaven and smooth. His eyes were arresting and intently focused, his mouth wide and inviting. He wore new, polished boots and clothes expensively tailored to fit his muscular form, his sandy-red hair and side whiskers trimmed to the fashion of the day, only slightly tousled from his ride.

Yes, he was quite handsome, and a very sexual man; he possessed an alluring presence that silently promised erotic pleasures in the bedroom. An innocent would be swept away if he chose her as his conquest. Madeleine, however, was experienced in the art of seduction and lovemaking, and understood his allure enough to guard against it. Or use it.

Smiling vividly now, she sauntered closer to his mount, even as instinct told her to back away. “Yes, my name is Madeleine DuMais. I am in Winter Garden temporarily while I translate Monsieur Blackwood's war memoirs into my native tongue. He is a quiet but agreeable host, and the village is enchanting.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “I am very much enjoying my short stay here but am anxious to meet others.”

His brows rose. “Indeed. Then it is a pleasure to meet you, Madeleine,” he offered richly. “Perhaps the two of us can become better acquainted while you're in England.”

His attraction was obvious, and so was his intent as he used her given name without awaiting the customary permission. She played on that.

Gracing him with an enticing grin, she reached up to pat the neck of his horse. The animal stirred, but the baron didn't respond to it and neither did he take his eyes from hers.

“I should enjoy that, Monsieur Baron,” she intimated invitingly. “I've met several of the ladies from the village but none of the gentlemen.”

He glanced out over the water, toward the cottage, and Madeleine hoped profoundly that Thomas wasn't watching conspicuously. She'd purposely avoided him in her last comment when referring to gentlemen of Winter Garden, and the baron seemed to grasp this. She didn't want him thinking she and the scholar were lovers.

Suddenly his cheek twitched, and his gaze met hers again. His expression had softened, but his eyes were hard as glass. Penetrating. “You are not familiar with your employer, Madeleine?”

The hushed question, spoken with such bluntness, took her completely aback. She hadn't expected him to be so straightforward in his approach. Then it occurred to her that maybe he was testing her to see just how virtuous she was.

Indecision sliced through her, but after only a second's hesitation, she decided to play the experienced.

Dropping her voice to a delicate murmur, she admitted, “No, Richard, we are not familiar with each other. Mr. Blackwood tends to keep to himself.”

“Does he.”

He sounded convinced, but Madeleine detected a suspicious undertone in his simple reply. He wasn't sure he believed her, and that gave her the very first advantage.

She was about to suggest they stroll, he on his horse, she beside it, back in the direction she had come, when he unexpectedly lifted his leg over the back of the animal and dropped to the ground to stand at her side.

He wasn't a tall man, but he was toned and hard of stature. Next to her he stood just above her in height, but somehow towered over her in feel. It made her nervous—the advantage once again his—and she countered it by starting to walk. He followed, pulling his horse by the reins.

“So, Madeleine,” he continued jovially, “how long do you intend to stay in our lovely community?”

She shrugged negligibly, acutely aware of his presence at her side. “Until the work is finished, I suppose. I imagine I'll be here most of the winter.”

“That seems like a rather long time to translate.”

“Does it? I hadn't considered it, but then I've not translated war memoirs before.”

“Mmm. What war, may I ask?”

She looked up to his face. “The Opium War. Are you familiar with it?”

“Oh, my, yes,” he replied without pause, his eyes boring into hers. “England had much at stake in the opium trade. Still does. Did Mr. Blackwood become a cripple in the East Indies, then?”

His tone fairly dripped with condescension, angering her because she was nearly certain his tactlessness was deliberate.

“I believe so, during one of the many skirmishes with China, although we haven't reached that point in our work. I have yet to learn of his later war years, or earn his full confidence in the matter.” That thought turned her anger to sadness. She really had no idea how he had acquired his injuries, since Thomas had yet to trust and open himself to her as he had asked her to do. Soon, though, she would insist on it.

“I see,” the baron responded thoughtfully, adding nothing more.

Suddenly he reached out and grasped her arm, bringing them both to a standstill. Madeleine felt the pressure of his touch through her cloak and gown, and she fought the desire to shake herself loose.

He didn't withdraw. She stared into his eyes, a forced, partial smile upon her lips, her expression inquisitive as she tried not to appear threatened. Thomas had said the baron was as smooth as oil, and that description fit him precisely. He looked at her frankly now, his gaze falling momentarily to what he could see of the curve of her breasts. When he raised his eyes to lock with hers again, they were heated, and he made no attempt to hide that fact.

For the first time that she could recall, Madeleine was intensely unnerved by the advances of a man. She stood alone with a stranger in a cold forest, the sun behind the thickening clouds, the silence deafening, and the baron understood her concern. He had to, and he was using it. The man was a snake. No, not a snake. A spider. Creeping silently in and out of people's lives, his eyes calculating as they watched and absorbed many things at once, drawing innocents into his web where they could not escape. Now he wanted her and made no attempt to conceal it.

His horse fidgeted again, and without looking at it, the baron yanked on the reins to quiet it. Madeleine didn't know a thing about horses, but she was certain Rothebury was never gentle with them, and his harsh approach at controlling the animal didn't seem to help.

“Perhaps, Madeleine,” he proposed in a gruff whisper, “you would like to attend my annual ball the second Saturday after Christmas? It is a masked affair, but I would be honored to introduce you to local gentry and those of importance who will all, of course, be attending.” Very slowly, he began caressing her arm with his thumb. “It would also give us a chance to become better acquainted.”

Despite the brisk, still air and the restless horse, Madeleine centered her thoughts on only his words. Not their suggestive nature, but the fact that he wasn't inviting her into his home before the ball three weeks from now. That was remarkably strange. He didn't want her in his home, and yet it was more than apparent that he desired her physically.

His wrist brushed the side of her breast as he stroked her arm, making her shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asked with feigned concern.

“Extremely.” She gave him a lucid smile and embraced herself, clasping her elbows with her palms, effectively cutting off his hold on her as he had no other option but to drop his arm. “I'm not used to such a chilly climate. My native Marseille has much more appealing weather.”

“Of course.” He stood back a little, and for a moment Madeleine feared he might take his leave in annoyance. As much as she desired it, she wasn't ready for him to depart just yet.

Against her inner counsel, she took a step toward him, lowering her lashes so that they half covered her fair eyes, tilting her head and toying with the buttons on her cloak.

“It would be my pleasure to accept your generous offer, Richard. I adore parties, and it would be the perfect excuse to get to know you better. But it would only be proper if I were escorted by Mr. Blackwood. I assume he is also invited.”

A shadow of something fell across his face. Doubt? Irritation?…Alarm? But he played the gentleman by not arguing.

“He will also be welcome as my guest,” he said with just a shade of reservation.

“Wonderful.” Her lips twisted coyly. “And I do hope you will show me some of the rooms in your great house. Lady Claire has told me of your marvelous book collection and your interest in trading them. A library is the perfect place to…talk alone. Don't you agree?”

That startled him. He tried to hide it, but he was disturbed by her statement. He blinked; his forehead crinkled in the slightest of frowns, and she knew it
wasn't because he was surprised at her suggestion of an interlude between them. He was concerned either about the books, or about Lady Claire discussing him. She had the upper hand again.

“So you've met Lady Claire,” he maintained, his voice betraying his caution.

“Once a lovely woman, I'm sure.” It was the best compliment she could think of.

Abruptly he returned to his slippery, charming self. “Yes, indeed, though her beauty could never compare to yours, Madeleine.”