by Jenna Jaxon
“You look beautiful this evening. Très belle.”
“You cannot even see me in the darkness.” She tossed her head, though his words sent an alarming thrill through her.
“I can see enough.”
“You are very bold for a valet who has stolen away from his master.” She certainly didn’t want him to be dismissed on her account. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning the marquess’s boots?”
He laughed and motioned her back toward the bench. “They are already taken care of. My master doesn’t mind if I step out once my duties are finished. But it’s sweet of you to be concerned about me.”
“I would hate to think I caused you to get the sack.” She clutched the slats of the bench to keep from fidgeting. Lord, he made her want to fly to pieces.
“Thank you, but I will be fine.” He relaxed against the back of the bench, his presence hulking, and dangerous, and exciting. “Are you well?”
“Oui. As well as one may be with madame calling for me every moment she is not eating, sleeping, or paying calls. Tant pis. It is my lot.” As soon as she met the duke, however, all of that would change, Dieu merci.
“You must be very skilled that she relies so heavily on you.” He never took his gaze off her, which should have made her uncomfortable, but did not. Not even when it seemed to linger on her mouth.
“She is overly concerned with how the people of the ton think of her. Possibly in the past they have been unkind, and she is now determined to be above reproach in her appearance.” She shrugged. “Lady Chalgrove annoys me at times, but she has served her purpose in getting me to England.” Now it was up to her, and perhaps Monsieur Carpenter, to meet the duke.
“So, have you managed to see the Duke of Rother yet?” He shifted, and the faint moonlight blazed in his eyes.
“Non. Yesterday, madame went for a drive with the duke, and I thought it might be my chance, but I caught a glimpse of him only.” She fisted her hands in her lap. Mon Dieu, why was a simple introduction so difficult? “I suppose you have not been able to arrange a meeting either, Monsieur Carpenter?”
He freed her hand from the folds of her gown, his grin broadening. “As a matter of fact, mademoiselle, I have.”
“What?” She squeezed his hand, shock making her grip him tighter than she should have. Her quest was at an end. Her dream would come true at last. “Why did you not tell me immédiatement? This is wonderful.” She threw her arms around him, unable to contain the joy within her. “Oh, merci. Merci beaucoup.”
Her lips met his, and suddenly nothing else mattered. The world disappeared as she clung to him, her anchor in a turbulent sea. When, at last, loud laughter from the house brought her back to herself, she thought she might die of shame. She twisted away, her face hot as though she’d stood too close to a fire. Indeed, she had scorched herself in his flames. “Mille pardons, Monsieur Carpenter. I should not have done that.”
“I didn’t mind, Gabriella.” He smiled, rubbing his finger over his lips. “And having done it, I insist you call me Horace.”
Her whole body like a lit match, realizing too that he had called her Gabriella, she jumped up and stumbled away from the bench. “I do not think that is wise, Monsieur Carpenter.”
“Horace,” he said firmly, following her.
“And how am I to meet the duke?” She turned to him, infusing her words with determination, willing him to allow them to continue as they had before.
“How am I to meet the duke…Horace?” His grin assumed her defeat.
Wretched man to leave her no choice. “Horace.” Having said the name, she grew warm again, from the inside out.
He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his elbow, and led her back to the bench. “My master has a distant relation, Lady Celinda Graham, who also happens to be the duke’s goddaughter. I once did her a kindness, and she has agreed to introduce you to the Duke of Rother.”
Ah, that explained it. She had wondered how a valet had managed such a thing.
He sat, not relinquishing her hand, and patted the seat beside him. “Sit. I promise not to bite.”
“I am fine to stand, merci.” She tugged and, reluctantly, he let her go. Lord, so difficult to remain true to her goal. More than anything, she would have loved to sit beside Horace, to feel his lips on hers once more. Non, she must not allow herself to be distracted. “When will Lady Celinda arrange the meeting?” She scowled. “It will not be easy to steal away from madame.”
“I will speak with her shortly and tell her when you can meet her.” He cocked his head. “Is there some impediment?”
Gabriella bit her lip. This might be the most difficult part yet. Lady Chalgrove led such an active social life, she might call upon Gabriella almost any time of the day or night to assist her. Her afternoon off moved at her mistress’s whim. Unfortunately, if she asked for a particular day off, madame might ask why. Or simply refuse. She sighed. “My time is seldom my own.”
“What day is your lady at home?” Horace rose to stand beside her.
“Thursdays, the same as Lady Hamilton.”
“We could perhaps ensure that Lady Chalgrove would be well occupied with visitors for several hours when you would not be needed.”
Gabriella smiled up at him, so tall and handsome that her heart beat fast whenever she looked at him. He would have made an excellent footman with his dark good looks and magnificent physique, although he seemed too intelligent for a servant, even a valet. She would not be surprised to hear sometime that the Marquess of Halford was in need of a new gentleman’s gentleman. “You may have hit upon an idea, Horace. If enough callers arrive at, say, fifteen minute intervals, madame will be well occupied and with no need of me until at least three o’clock.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “You can arrange these callers, of course?”
“Lady Celinda can. I will ask her to arrange the meeting with the duke at one-thirty in the afternoon on Thursday, while her friends and relations flock to Lady Hamilton’s for the latest on-dits and tea.” His hand lay warm on her arm. “I will arrange for you to be taken to Lady Celinda’s home. She will have made plans for the duke to receive you there.”
“Will you be there?” Now that her plan was coming to fruition at last, her confidence had begun to wane. She needed a friendly face to help her through the ordeal.
Horace shook his head, his face once more in shadow. “That may not be possible. I will introduce you to Lady Celinda. She will chaperone you and make the introduction. You can trust her as you would me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You are simply meeting the duke to fulfill your lifelong dream, true? He thrust his head forward, peering at her so intently that she looked away.
“Why would it not be true? For a poor girl like me to meet such a great man should be the dream of a lifetime, vous ne pensez pas?” His close presence distracted her thoughts. When his arms slid around her, she stiffened, fighting the longing she couldn’t deny, then gave in and relaxed against him. She had dreamed of him last night and awakened to find her pillow damp with tears of longing. Why would she feel so about a valet when nothing could come of it? After she spoke to the duke, she could no longer dally with this man. “Horace, we should not—”
“Shhh.” He turned her in his arms. “Why not? You are a very beautiful woman, Gabriella, more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen.” He smoothed a strand of hair back behind her ear, and she shivered with desire.
“Merci, mon ami.” She cupped his face, so handsome and strong. Why would fate tempt her with him at this moment? “Vous êtes très beau, et très cher.” She swept her lips across his, a fleeting kiss that thrilled even as it tortured. “I must go, mon cher. I dare not stay here longer.” She broke through his grip, though his touch still lingered.
“You but trifle with me.” The bitterness in his voice smote her heart. “If I were instead my master, the marquess, you would not run from me.”
“Oui, non, oh sacrebleu. You cannot understand,” she wailed then dropped her voice. The
y must not be discovered.
He grabbed her hand. “Then tell me.” He twined his fingers with hers, and her willpower failed. “I thought you felt something for me beyond your little flirting smiles. When we kissed, there was something wonderful between us, I will swear to it.” He pulled her back down onto the bench. “Do you deny it?”
“I…I…” Mon Dieu, but she wanted, non, needed to deny it, to tell him instead she flirted only, and felt nothing.
He gazed at her, his sharply shadowed face yearning toward her. “Gabriella, please.”
Madness seized her. She grasped his face and pressed her mouth to his, tingling from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Before she knew it, she had her arms around him, pulling him closer, never wanting to let him go.
He put his arms around her, his warmth like a blessing, and she reveled in it. Too soon, however, he broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers, a touch almost as intimate. “Does that mean I’m right?”
“Oui, you are correct, mon chéri.” She sighed and leaned back. “Much as I wish to deny it, I cannot.”
He drew her back to him, leaning her head onto his broad shoulder, capturing her hand in his. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, each stroke a whisper of a caress. “Why would you wish to deny your feelings for me, Gabriella? Do I displease you in some way? Are you ashamed of me?”
“Non, non, that is not it at all.” She stopped his mouth with her hand. “Never think that, Horace.” She blushed, the heat in her cheeks as hot as the burn in her breast. “It is not you, mon chéri.”
“Then what is it, my love?”
She thrilled at the word. If only it could be true. They had known each other a matter of days, yet something in this man called to her as no other ever had. Even had he not been handsome as sin, the kindness in his nature would have drawn her to him. Such kindness was rare in the world, rarer still in the highest echelons of the English ton they served. Perhaps that made the difference, although servants in other grand houses, of lower rank than herself, had snubbed her because she was French. To find a man so kind and handsome verged on a miracle; that she must reject him seemed too cruel a fate.
“It has to do with the Duke of Rother and why I must meet him.” Gabriella sat up, her hands twisting in her lap. She had confessed this to no one. “You are correct that my longing to see the duke is not merely a child’s dream, although it truly has been my desire all my life.” Oh, but he would hate her for this. “I am sorry I misled you, Horace. I did not wish to tell you half-truths. I want you to trust me, but it was necessary for me to lie to gain your help.”
“You didn’t think I would help you if you told me…what?”
Gabriella breathed slowly and stared into his beautiful eyes. “That the Duke of Rother is my father.”
Chapter 6
Hal’s mouth dropped open. Of the many things he’d imagined behind Gabriella’s desire to meet the duke—wish, secret lover, bribery—this had never occurred to him. He cleared his throat. “The Duke of Rother is your father?” The statement was simply too preposterous to be true. “But you’re French.”
“I am also half English. I am certain it seems a wild tale to you, yet it is true.” She sat with her head bowed, the night breeze blowing the sleeves of her gown. “You do not believe me.”
He waited, marshalling his thoughts before opening his mouth and ruining whatever chance he had of preserving her trust. Could her outrageous statement actually be true? He must tread softly. “Putting my beliefs aside for the moment, why do you believe this is true?”
“My mother has told me the story since I was a little girl.”
Hal fought to retain control of his face. He could show nothing but interest and confidence, or she would likely storm off and refuse ever to see him again. “What story, my dear?”
“The tale of an English duke who came to her village when she was sixteen years old.” Gabriella kneaded the folds of her skirt, her hands rustling the fabric. “I suppose if you do not believe me, I have no hope of the duke doing so either.”
In that she was likely correct. Rother might have had numerous affairs in his youth, any one of them producing a child. To suppose he would remember a single night’s pleasure out of all his escapades took greater faith than Hal possessed. Yet who was he to deny anyone their belief? He took her chilly hand in his and leaned closer, shielding her from the strengthening wind. “Tell me.”
She sighed and nodded, gazing out at the shadow shapes of the early pea vines. “In 1800, a stranger who said he was a French nobleman overturned his carriage outside the town of Angouleme. One of the wheels came off and the carriage, which was going quite fast, went into a ditch. The nobleman survived, as did his valet. His coachman, however, was killed. The nobleman sent the valet into Angouleme for help and returned with the wine merchant, Monsieur Jacque Dubois. The merchant invited the man, who said his name was le Comte du Maine, into his home for the night, until a new carriage and coachman could be found.”
“Did he stay only the one night?” Hal had gotten caught up in the story despite himself. He wanted as many details as possible.
Gabriella shook her head. “Non, because that night at dinner, the daughter of the house herself, Veronique Dubois, served the comte. Only sixteen years old, with long blond hair and a will of her own, she was determined to draw his interest.” Gabriella paused, a wistful smile creeping over her face. “She said he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, tall and straight, with broad shoulders and long, dark hair. The moment she saw him she knew he was the man of her dreams. They flirted with their eyes during dinner, and laughed together over the wine and dessert before she was sent to bed. Her father had seen their glances and feared the worst. He was a very astute man who knew his daughter—and the ways of men—well.”
She shrugged and spread her hands. “In the end it did no good. His daughter had been overcome with a mad passion for the handsome young comte.” Gabriella looked up at him, a tight little smile on her lips. “I believe you may know something of this feeling?”
Hal nodded and clasped both her hands in his. Yes, he knew that passion well.
“That night the daughter went to the comte’s bed, and every night for the week that he lingered there. In the darkness of his room, they shared many things. One night he told her he was in truth an English marquess and would one day become the Duke of Rother. When she asked how he had come to be in Angouleme, he spoke of his travels, how he had been mad to take his Grand Tour, even though wars raged on the continent. Still, he had journeyed to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. When he wished to return to England, he decided to go through France.”
“But in 1800, England and France were at war.” Hal had to point this out, despite how engrossed he’d become in the tale.
Gabriella shrugged. “The war had lasted long, and the marquess was an impatient man. He disguised himself and began his passage home.”
Hal had to admit it certainly sounded like Rother, bold as brass. He’d known the man for years, although they didn’t run in the same circles. Still, this particular story had never surfaced in the ton.
“The marquess also told her he was betrothed to an English lady, daughter of another marquess, and therefore could not marry her, though now he wished it with all his heart.” She laughed softly. “She told me she smiled to herself when he said that, for she knew he would not have married the daughter of a French wine merchant in any case. Still, it was noble of him to say this. When he left at the end of the week, on a boat heading for Bordeaux, she cried, but swore she regretted nothing.” Gabriella stopped and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
Hal slipped his arm around her. Rother had indeed married the daughter of a marquess in the early years of the century. Uncanny how the stories matched, although he assumed the tale was not yet done. “There is one more piece to the story, I suspect?”
“Oui. One more.” She leaned back against his shoulder. “Soon after her lover left, she realized s
he was with child, as she had hoped. She had wanted to keep something of the man she had fallen in love with, and what better than his child? Her father had expected as much and arranged a marriage for her with another wine merchant in Paris, one of his good friends, Maurice d’Aventure.” Gabriella shrugged. “He was a good man, who knew everything from the beginning. He was very kind to my mother, and after I was born, he raised me as his own daughter, especially when there were no children to follow me. He indulged us in anything, even when my mother insisted I learn to sew well enough to become a modiste and support myself without the necessity of marriage.”
“Why did you not become a dressmaker, then?”
“Oh, I did, for a time. That is how I met Lady Chalgrove. But I do not like sewing,” she said, grimacing at the word. “As we sewed in our rooms above the wine shop, my mother would tell me stories. One of them was of the marquess and her precious time with him. I vowed to myself that I would find him one day, tell him who I was and see to it he remembered my mother.” Gabriella ducked her head. “She said if he agreed to acknowledge me, I could become as one of the ladies at court.”
Hal peered at her, heart racing. “Is that what you desire, my dear? To become a lady such as your mistress?”
She raised her head, eyes bright with tears. “Non, not exactly. I thought I would spend time with my real father, come to know him as my mother had described him. And that eventually he might arrange for me to meet a fine gentleman who would marry me, either here in England or in France. But now…”
“But now?” He forced himself to remain calm, even though he longed to seize her in his arms and tell her everything.
“I have met you.” She brushed at a tear as it trickled down her cheek. “I still wish to meet my father, but if he acknowledges me, we can never be together. A duke would never allow his daughter to marry so far beneath his station.” She gripped his hand, her brows lifting. “I could instead simply meet him, tell him I am his daughter, but ask for no more.” Her face filled with excitement. “Then we could be together, Horace.”