If Marie couldn’t remember the formula to her chemical—and quickly—England was doomed.
And if he couldn’t banish these arousing images of his captive naked and willing in his bed, he was doomed.
“Why do you lock my doors every night, Max?”
She asked it softly, but the question had the effect she desired, stopping him in mid-sentence as he was droning on about yet another aspect of science that he seemed to find endlessly fascinating.
He looked up from the books spread out across the desk between them, his gray eyes cool behind the spectacles he wore for reading. “To protect you, of course.”
“To protect me from whom?” Her silk gown rustled as she curled up on the plump chair and tucked her slippered feet beneath her.
“From the men who are searching for us. If they somehow find us and get into the house, ma petite, I would like them to face a few obstacles. I have no intention of allowing them to simply snatch you from your bed.” He glanced down at the book again. The morning sunlight that streamed in the window behind him glistened on his golden hair. “Why should you wish to go wandering about the house at night anyway?”
“I don’t. But I…I don’t like the feeling of being locked in. It reminds me of the asylum. It makes me feel like a…a prisoner.”
“Oh, Marie, no.” His gaze met hers again. “You mustn’t feel that way.” He reached across the papers that cluttered the desk and took her hand in his with a light, brief caress, his thumb brushing over the ruby ring she wore. “You’re not a prisoner, you’re my wife. And it’s my fault that you’re in danger. If anything happened to you, I could never forgive myself. I’m only doing what I must to keep you safe.”
The warmth in his expression and the feel of his hand covering hers had an inordinately potent effect—probably because he had been so remote, so restrained for the past two days. Fire rose in her cheeks and that odd, tight feeling fluttered in her stomach.
This was the first time he had purposely touched her since that night in her room. Since their first—and only—kiss.
She tried to wrest her thoughts away from the heat of his hand and back to the issue at hand. “Max, I’m tired of being protected. I’m tired of spending all our time in this house, in this stuffy room. None of your scientific demonstrations or discussions are helping to bring my memory back. I think it’s time to try something else.”
“But I told you, darling. Science was always your favorite pursuit. There was nothing you enjoyed more. Don’t you think your favorite subject is the most likely to spark your memory?” He released her hand and leaned back in his chair.
She almost wanted to blow a puff of breath over her skin to cool it from his touch, as he had shown her to blow on hot soup at dinner last night. Instead she rubbed her palm against her cinnamon-colored skirts. “But it’s not sparking my memory.”
“Certainly it is. We’ve discovered that you remember how to read and speak German and English.”
“Yes, I know. And you said that’s because some of the most important chemistry journals are in those languages. But I don’t care about—”
“I’m only trying to help you, Marie. You can’t expect your memory to magically return overnight.”
She felt chastened. “I know. And I…I know you’re trying to help. Our discussions aren’t really bringing my memory back, but they do help. Just like the painting and my belongings that you brought from home. They help me to believe that you’re really my husband. That you’re telling me the truth.”
He looked offended. “You think that’s why I brought them?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Well, maybe a little bit.” She wet her dry lips with her tongue. “I think you wanted me to know that you mean me no harm.”
His expression changed to one of hurt and he looked down at the book again. “Of course I mean you no harm.” He sighed. “I’m doing everything I can to keep you from harm and help you get your memory back, but you’re not making it easy, chérie.”
She shifted in her chair again. “I’m sorry, Max. I don’t mean to be impatient. And I have enjoyed our evenings together.” After supper each night, after he read the newspapers, he relaxed with her in the parlor, teaching her a game called “chess” or playing cards. “But I don’t understand why we have to spend every day working. And I don’t understand how in the world science could have been my favorite pursuit. I must have been very dull before.”
“Not at all. You were—are—a brilliant woman. You used to spend much of your time helping me with my experiments. That’s why I decided to start prodding your memory with a review of chemistry.”
“But we started with it two days ago. Can’t we finish with it for now? The day is so sunny and lovely. Let’s go outside. Maybe I’ll see something familiar that will really help my memory.”
He turned a page. “You know we can’t do that. We can’t go outside for the same reason that your room must be locked every night. For your safety.”
His tone indicated that the subject was closed. It was a tone he used often, and one she was beginning to find irritating.
He adjusted his spectacles with an absent gesture. “Now then, we were discussing combustion.”
“You were discussing it,” she muttered. “I was being bored.”
“‘The combustion process is normally accompanied by the evolution of both light and heat,’” he read as if he hadn’t heard her, “‘which may be marked by either a gradual or violent agitation of the materials involved…’”
Sighing, she tried to settle more comfortably in her chair. After a moment she began toying with the lace that peeked out from beneath her sleeve. A “pagoda sleeve,” Madame Perelle had called it: tight at the elbow, fastened with a ribbon, then flaring wide over the lower part of her arm.
There was so much she didn’t remember. So many unfamiliar words she had to relearn. Like the fact that the frilly lace undersleeve was called an “engageante.” And her gown was a “sacque” gown, fitted at the bodice with a loose skirt that flowed over the “pannier” strapped about her waist. Which made her hips look terribly wide. Just as the “corset” beneath it all made her breasts look larger, thrusting them upward and forward until they nearly overflowed the bodice of the gown.
She couldn’t remember ever wearing anything like this before. All she knew was that the garments were awfully uncomfortable. This morning especially, she felt a bit dizzy, and wasn’t sure whether the sensation came from a lack of air, the stuffy room…or from Max’s brief caress.
He didn’t seem to understand that she not only didn’t remember chemistry, she didn’t care about not remembering chemistry. She didn’t care about microscopy or mineral acids or the half dozen other aspects he had covered so far. As for this morning’s topic, all she knew or remembered about combustion was…
What it felt like.
Light and heat and violent agitation.
Yes, that definition summed it up perfectly. She darted a hesitant look at her husband.
He looked less like a ruffian and more like an angel this morning, dressed in a dove-gray frock coat and breeches, his jaw clean-shaven, the sun gilding his hair, his eyes intent on the book. The pistol had lent him an air of danger and unpredictability the other night, but by day, wearing the spectacles, he looked civilized and intellectual and almost…
No, she couldn’t quite say harmless.
His jaw was too firm, his gaze too quick, the shoulders beneath the soft fabric too broad for her to feel completely at ease. She shifted in her chair, leaning away from the desk.
Unfortunately, Madame Perelle hadn’t been at all helpful on the subject of husbandly rights. The older woman was very nice, a bit plump, and terribly shy. She had become flustered at the question, her ruddy features turning even more red. And she had forgotten completely that she must speak slowly so that Marie could understand. She had bustled about, her words flying faster than her feather duster, saying that Marie “mustsimply endureit” and “d
oher wifely duty.”
That was all Marie had been able to glean from the conversation: in addition to husbandly rights there were wifely duties.
She felt more confused than ever. And she got the impression that she wasn’t supposed to feel such a fluttery, warm excitement when Max kissed her. Apparently such a response was considered unseemly. Madame Perelle was of the opinion that a “truelady” always acted modest, even “in the boudoir.”
But Marie didn’t feel ashamed of her reaction. Try as she might, she just couldn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t a “truelady.” She wanted Max to kiss her again.
Looking at him, she felt shivery even at the thought of it. But he hadn’t said a word about what had happened in her “boudoir” the night they arrived, so she hadn’t raised the subject either. She dropped her gaze to her lap. According to Madame Perelle, it was a wife’s duty to do as her husband wished in all things.
On the whole, marriage didn’t seem a very fair arrangement from the wife’s point of view.
“Max, do you love me?”
He stopped reading. “Darling, how can you ask that? Of course I love you.”
She looked up to find him regarding her with a pained expression—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those silvery depths held the same coolness she had seen in them for two days. The spectacles only added to the effect, almost as if they had the power to deflect feelings the same way a mirror reflected light.
“I’m asking because I…I can’t feel it, and I can’t remember what it feels like. Any more than I can remember what I used to feel for you.”
“But you will. You’ll remember all of it. That’s why we’re working so hard.”
“But working hard isn’t helping. I don’t want to remember scientific information. I want to remember important things. Like…” She looked down, picking at the lace “engageante” beneath her sleeve. “Like my family. And where I come from. And my childhood. And how we met. And why…” She glanced at him again. “Why you married me. And how we felt about each other before the accident. Can’t we get out of this room and out of this house and talk about the things that really matter? Maybe I’ll see someone or something that will bring back an important memory.”
“Marie,” he said in a slow, patient voice. “There are men looking for us. If we start wandering around outside, it will make it rather easy for them to find us.”
“Even if we just went to the park? Madame Perelle says there’s a lovely park a few streets away—”
“Yes, and it’s filled with lovely people who might report our whereabouts.”
“Then we could just go for a walk in this area.”
“No.”
“Max, I don’t see how a walk down the street—”
“You are being most difficult today.”
She liked that tone even less than his commanding tone. It sounded so…so…
She couldn’t remember the word, and that doubled her frustration. The dizzy feeling in her head was quickly becoming one of her painful headaches.
“I’m only being difficult because you’re being difficult,” she declared.
“Now you’re being childish.”
“That’s better than being bored.”
“You never used to find science boring. You used to find it fascinating.”
“If I used to find this fascinating, then I don’t know if I want to remember the old Marie. I’m not sure I even like the old Marie.”
He pushed the book aside and took off his spectacles. “It’s not a question of old or new or liking or not liking. This is who you are.”
“Is it? Is it, really? Who am I, Max?”
“You’re my wife,” he said in a slow, precise way that told her his patience was fraying. “Your name is Marie Nicole LeBon. You used to help me with my experiments—”
“And I had a dog named Domino. And a large house in Touraine. And I liked white roses. And I loved to spend sunny days indoors cooped up with dusty books. But I don’t remember any of that, Max. I don’t feel it. I don’t want to know who I am. I want to feel it. It’s not the same.”
Frowning, he turned to select another text from the stack beside the desk. “You’re not making any sense. The facts are the facts, Marie. You can either accept them or study them further, but please do so with your intellect.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Don’t you think that feelings are important?”
“I didn’t say that. But emotions tend to impair one’s judgment. It’s best to keep them in their proper place.”
“And what might that be?”
“Controlled by one’s reason and intellect. Mind over matter. The wise man is ruled by his head, not his heart.”
“I see. And what about the wise woman?”
He was still examining the stack of books. “Unfortunately, very few exist. At least few with your considerable gifts. Women on the whole tend to be overly emotional creatures.” His gaze flicked to hers. “But not you, Marie. Believe me, you never used to let feelings stand in the way of your intellectual pursuits.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
“I’m really not sure I like the old Marie at all,” she said softly.
Scowling, Max selected a book, opened it on the desk, and put his spectacles back on. “Let’s change to a more useful and interesting discussion, shall we? How about dephlogistication?”
Her head throbbing, she didn’t try to argue further. He was using his “subject closed” voice again. Plunking her elbow on the desk and her chin on her palm, she widened her eyes with feigned interest.
His lips thinned in annoyance at her sarcastic gesture, but it didn’t stop him from plunging into this new yawn of a topic.
“‘All materials give off a gas known as phlogiston when they burn,’” he began. “‘The German chemist Georg Ernst Stahl was the first to set forth the theory that…’”
Her gaze shifted to the window over his shoulder. The study faced the courtyard at the back of the house, and the sun glowed invitingly over a small garden and a row of fruit trees, enclosed within the wall of squarish leafy-things. A bird landed just outside on the window ledge. Almost unconsciously, she noted its coloring, its feathers, its quick, bouncy way of moving along the ledge. Max’s voice gradually faded to the fringes of her awareness.
This ability to focus her mind still struck her as rather odd. She had discovered it the morning after they arrived, when she sat down to examine the contents of her dressing table. When she concentrated on an object, really studied it, everything happening around her seemed to sink into the background. She supposed she must have learned it while helping Max with his experiments.
The bird flew away, and she fastened her attention on one of the trees. It was rather nice, sometimes, to be able to shut out the rest of the world, to think so clearly and sharply.
Especially when one was annoyed with one’s husband. If Max was doing all this out of concern for her, he didn’t have to be so abrupt and—
Condescending. That was the maddening tone he had used with her earlier.
Remembering the word didn’t make her feel any better. She was beginning to chafe at the way he made all the decisions, without asking what she wanted.
On the other hand, he did have a few qualities that she rather liked. He might be stubborn, but he could also be kind. She remembered the rose he had left on her pillow that first night.
And he seemed extremely intelligent. Perhaps even brilliant. He had presented one scientific demonstration and lecture after another over the past two days, often without using any of the books or journals. He not only understood the various subjects, he understood them in several different languages. And he clearly enjoyed them all.
And he clearly hoped that she would share his enthusiasm.
She felt badly about disappointing him. In fact, she had discovered a new reason to get her memory back, one that surprised her: she wanted to please Max.
But it didn’t seem fair that the slightest b
rush of his hand could make her feel so much, when he remained so…
So distant. So controlled.
Mind over matter. He was obviously an expert at that. She wondered whether he had had a great deal of practice. In fact, she found herself almost as curious about Max’s past as she was about her own.
But she doubted he would tell her about it, certainly not at present. He was too busy lecturing. He didn’t have time for anything so frivolous as feelings.
No time at all.
Thank God for the desk.
Max had never felt grateful toward a piece of furniture, but the expanse of polished walnut prevented Marie from seeing that his mind was rapidly losing control over the matter of his lower body.
He had only held her hand, for God’s sake. One touch. One necessary reassurance. One brief brush of his skin against hers, and he was on fire. How was it possible that she could provoke a response from him so easily?
His heart thudded in his chest, his throat felt dry, his entire body felt feverish. The more he tried to control himself—to think and not feel—the more every fiber of his being burned with need.
And she wanted to go for a walk? No, by God. Even if there weren’t troops of French agents looking for them, they would stay right here, in this study. With this nice large desk between them.
By sheer force of will, he kept his gaze fastened on the page, reading aloud one sentence after another, barely aware of what the words said…all the while trying to use every bit of reason he possessed to undo the knot of desire coiling tight inside him.
He had to focus on his mission. King and country, old man. King and country.
He mentally reviewed their progress thus far. Though Marie had shown no aptitude or even interest in chemistry, he saw reason for hope. And not only because she could remember how to read and speak German and English.
Yesterday in her boredom she had started doodling. He had almost asked her to stop—until he saw what it was she was doodling: chemical symbols.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 9