A Convenient Fiction

by Mimi Matthews

  He didn’t reply. Not in words. But she heard the sound of fabric rustling, of feet padding across the carpet to the bed.

  A flash of panic constricted her chest. Dear lord, had he removed his trousers? She wasn’t ready for such intimacy.

  The mattress depressed beside her, the ancient four-poster bed creaking as he sat down. “Open your eyes,” he said gently.

  She did as he asked, darting a wary glance downward. He was still wearing his trousers. Not only that, he’d put his shirt back on. Her gaze lifted to his, confused. “What—?”

  “Let’s not complicate things. Not until we’ve talked.”

  Her bosom rose and fell with equal parts relief and disappointment. She didn’t know what she wanted him to do—or not to do. Her emotions were in a tangle. “You must think me an absolute ninny.”

  “I think you charming.” He reached out and very softly brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Charming. Beautiful. Brave beyond measure.”

  “Not brave. I’m quivering with nerves. And my face must be as red as a tomato.”

  His fingers traced the edge of her jaw. “Your blushes enthrall me.”

  She trembled at his touch. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “I suppose because there’s not much that can inspire them.”

  “You inspire them. And with some regularity, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  His half smile briefly spread into a full one. “Is that it? No wonder I’m so fond of them.”

  “Alex—”

  “Right, no more teasing.” His hand dropped from her face. “You want to know about Weatherwax.”

  The solicitor’s name was as effective as a douse of cold water. Laura sobered instantly. “Yes, though I’ve been trying not to dwell on it. On losing so much of what I promised Teddy—and what I promised you.”

  His humorous expression faded. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you we had a farm in Dorset, and a factory in London. Properties that could be made to turn a profit—and quickly. I’d hoped that if you saw there was at least the prospect of wealth, you might be persuaded that you could make a life here. But now…”

  “You believe me entirely motivated by money?”

  “Not entirely, no. But I know it holds some attraction for you. Far more than my poor self.”

  “Your poor self?” A sudden laugh rumbled in his chest. “God help me if you ever come to realize the power you hold over me.”

  She ignored the compliment in his words. She didn’t dare trust it. “Am I wrong? Now that there’s no fortune to be had—”

  “Your property in France is still intact. Weatherwax claims he’s been leasing the land to another perfumer.”

  Her brows knit. “That’s something, at least. The crops will have been tended, but in what state is the distillery? Neglected, I daresay. Left to rust and ruin.”

  “Probably,” Alex acknowledged. “Which isn’t to say it has no value.”

  She plucked at a stray thread on the counterpane. “When my father was alive, our income was derived almost exclusively from the farm in Dorset. Papa supplemented it with earnings from the flower crops in France, it’s true, but the property there was always more of a fancy than a sound business decision. I’ve never even seen the place.”

  “You could.”

  Her gaze jerked to his. “Do you mean to suggest—”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” She had ample justification for not leaving her family, but for some reason those justifications didn’t roll from her tongue as easily as they usually did. She struggled for the right words. “Because I have responsibilities here. My aunt, and Teddy, and—”

  “I’ve spoken to Teddy.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “We’ve had a thorough discussion on the subject of Weatherwax and Hayes’s Perfumes.”

  Her throat constricted. She was tempted to leap up and rush to her brother’s side. “What on earth were you thinking? It’s my job to—”

  “Teddy’s fine.” Alex circled her wrist with his fingers. It was a gesture that seemed designed to both comfort and gently restrain. “He was glad to hear it first. Glad to have an opportunity to make some decisions for himself—and for the family. He wants to be the man of the house, you know. It brings him no pleasure to be coddled like a child.”

  “I don’t coddle him!”

  “You shield him from the facts you deem too upsetting. It’s not much different.”

  She bristled at the criticism. Alex had been acquainted with her brother less than a month, and already he presumed to know what was best for him? Teddy was her responsibility. “Why should he have to bear the burden when I’m capable of managing—”

  “You are capable, sweetheart. More than capable. But you don’t have to bear it. That’s the whole point. Your brother is nearly one and twenty. A man, not a boy. He wants the burden of it. Shouldering it would do him a world of good.”

  Sweetheart.

  The unexpected endearment completely derailed her train of thought.

  “Alex…” She exhaled a frustrated breath. “I’m never going to be one of those ladies who permit gentlemen to take charge of every little thing. I need to keep control. Otherwise I feel as if…as if I’m drowning.”

  “You are drowning. The responsibilities you’ve taken on are suffocating you. What use will you be to your family if you make yourself ill with worry over them?”

  She opened her mouth to object, only to clamp it shut again. He was right, drat him. Though she couldn’t admit it to him, she must at least admit it to herself.

  It was a bitter tonic to swallow.

  “Let your brother take the reins awhile,” he said. “A month or two at the most. Just until we return. He may surprise you.”

  Her heartbeat quickened. “Return from where?”

  “Grasse. That’s where the distillery is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but…” She could think of no good excuse. Even if she could, she had the feeling he’d counter it as deftly as he’d countered all her other arguments.

  “I’ll take you there. And to Paris. It can be a honeymoon, of sorts.”

  “A real honeymoon?”

  “If that’s what you truly want.”

  She did want it, most desperately. Romance, adventure, and the thrill of falling in love. She wanted it all.

  And she wanted it with him.

  It felt very much like taking a step across a deep chasm. An unknown path that could either lead to somewhere wonderful, or plummet her straight down into the abyss.

  She moistened her lips. “I thought that tonight…”

  “I thought the same.” He shot a frowning glance at the thin walls of her bedroom. The sounds of Aunt Charlotte bustling about next door were as loud as if she was in the room with them. “But this is never going to serve. Not for a proper wedding night.”

  “I don’t understand. Aren’t you going to—”

  “Sleep with you, here in your childhood bedroom? With your ruffled bed hangings and porcelain dog figurines? I’d feel like some vile despoiler of innocence.”

  Her blush deepened.

  “Not to mention the fact that your aunt can likely hear everything we say and do.” He tugged absently at the ribbon trim on the sleeve of her nightgown. “I want to do this right, Laura. You deserve that much from me.”

  He was so solemn. So seemingly sincere. How could she not believe him? “I suppose I shall have to defer to your greater experience.”

  “A wise idea.” His hand slid to hers. Their fingers briefly twined together. “I’m going to sleep in Teddy’s old room tonight. And then—”

  “Yes?” She looked at him in expectation.

  “And then, if you can make yourself ready in so short a time, tomorrow we’ll depart for Dover.�
�

  Paris, France

  September, 1860

  Alex shepherded Laura into his suite of rooms at the Hôtel des Rois. The heavy damask curtains were open, revealing an enviable prospect of the Champs-Élysées. The fashionable Paris avenue was ablaze with gaslight. It was the same view that had attracted him so many years ago.

  It attracted Laura as well.

  She walked to the window as she stripped off her gloves and bonnet. He heard her catch her breath. “Good heavens.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  He regarded her from across the room. She’d spent most of the rail journey from Surrey poring over the documents Weatherwax had sent to them. At Dover, however, Alex had taken charge of the papers and directed her attention to more pressing concerns. The steamer ship, and the sea, and the exciting adventure before them.

  Her wide-eyed wonder as they’d crossed the channel and traveled by rail from Calais had made the sights and sounds of France new to him again. He felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The beauty of the countryside, the dazzling lights of Paris. And most beautiful of all, his new bride. A lady he admired. That he adored beyond reason.

  A lady he hadn’t even properly kissed yet.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

  “A few years, off and on.” He dropped his hat and gloves on a marble-topped table near the door. “Though I wouldn’t call it living.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “It isn’t a home,” he said. “It’s simply a place I come to rest when I grow weary of traveling.”

  “You must feel some affinity for it. Why else would you keep coming back?”

  “Convenience.”

  Her lips tilted in a smile. He recognized the expression on her face. She didn’t believe him. Not entirely.

  Alex couldn’t blame her.

  He wandered past the tufted velvet sofa to the glass oil lamp at its side. As he lit the wick, he heard Laura moving about the room behind him. The skirts of her green silk traveling dress rustled over her starched petticoats, the fragrance of her perfume a faint but stirring floral note in the stale air.

  “I’ve never brought a woman here before.” The words tumbled out, unplanned. He grimaced to hear them. “Not that you’re just any woman. That is to say—you’re my wife.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  He turned to look at her again, feeling oddly out of his depth. “Are you tired? I can order dinner for us here. Or we can go out. Whichever you prefer.”

  “I think I’d rather stay in, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” He half smiled. “One of the benefits of living part time in a hotel. And they launder the linens.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been back here?”

  “A few months. Longer. I can’t recall.” It had been nearly a year, in fact. Indeed, he’d been sitting right here, in an armchair near the fire, reading the London paper, when he’d come across the notice of Justin’s marriage.

  On the 27th September at the District Registrar’s Office in Abbot’s Holcombe, Burlington Street, Captain Justin Thornhill, of King’s Abbot, to Lady Helena Elaine Reynolds, daughter of the late Earl of Castleton, Hampshire.

  Alex wondered if Justin loved his wife. Was their marriage one of mutual respect and affection? Or had Justin wed Lady Helena solely for her wealth and pedigree? Either way, a registrar’s office seemed a ramshackle place to marry. At least Alex had wed Laura in a church. They’d had a proper ceremony, with all of the trappings.

  And now they were going to have a proper wedding night.

  He rang for a footman. The summons was answered almost immediately by a hotel employee in impeccable livery. He took their dinner order, and departed, promising to return within a half an hour with their meal. As the door shut behind him, a knot of anxiety formed in Alex’s stomach.

  Never had anything been so important. He was determined to get it right.

  And—for the next two hours—it seemed as if he did.

  They ate a sumptuous meal of jardinière soup and sautéed filets mignon of beef, and they drank a bottle of Bordeaux. He told her about Paris. About the sights they could see, and the things they could do. Carriage rides along the Champs-Élysées. A picnic on the banks of the Seine. A visit to the music hall or the theatre.

  “What about your birthday?” he asked. “Is there anything particular you’d like to do to celebrate?”

  She sat across from him at the small, linen-covered table, her face aglow in the candlelight. “It’s enough to be here with you.”

  “I’m pleased you think so. But we must do something to honor the day.” He refilled her wineglass. “What did you do last year?”

  “Nothing extraordinary. Aunt Charlotte helped Mrs. Crabtree to bake a fruitcake. And Teddy gave me a drawing he’d done of Magpie.” Her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass. “I’ve never had a birthday apart from them.”

  “Are you going to miss them tomorrow?”

  “I already miss them.”

  “Then I shall have to endeavor to distract you. What do you say to a champagne supper and dancing at the Salle Valentino?”

  Her brows lifted. “The Salle Valentino? That sounds very grand.”

  “It’s a fashionable dancing hall in the Rue St Honoré. It has a circular ballroom with an orchestra in the center. They play waltzes, quadrilles, any dance you can think of. And one needn’t keep as much distance from their partner as at the assembly rooms in Margate.”

  Her mouth curved up at one corner. “Aunt Charlotte warned me about Parisian dancing.”

  “Yes, it’s quite risqué. Good thing we’re married.”

  A blush rose in her cheeks. She raised her glass to take a sip of wine, but there was no disguising the fact that he’d flustered her.

  He felt a little flustered himself. Uncertain of how best to proceed. “There’s no cause to go immediately to Grasse, is there? We can enjoy the city for another day or two. Longer if you like.”

  She set down her glass. “Must we decide now?”

  “Not at all. We can wait and see, if you prefer.” He didn’t press her on the subject. Not yet. So much hinged on their wedding night. If things went well between them, no doubt Laura would wish to linger in Paris. To enjoy the city as lovers. And if not…

  Well.

  He’d escort her to Grasse without delay.

  After dinner, they repaired to the sitting room for coffee. Laura sat down on the sofa. She unfastened the top button of her bodice. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the footman brought in our dinner.”

  “I trust it met with your approval.”

  “To put it mildly. It was the richest food I’ve ever eaten—and the best. I believe they must soak everything in wine and butter and cream.”

  “I believe you’re right.” He came to sit down beside her. Her skirts bunched against the side of his leg. “Laura,” he began.

  “Have you enjoyed living abroad all of these years?” she asked at the same time.

  They both laughed and begged the other’s pardon. Two nervous newlyweds, Alex thought grimly. The tension in the air was palpable. He would have to take charge of things soon, for better or worse.

  “To answer your question,” he said, “it’s all I’ve known.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Did you never yearn for home?”

  “I’ve never had a home to yearn for.” He took her hand gently in his. “Not until you.”

  Her bosom rose and fell on a breath. “Oh Alex, I wish…”

  “What?”

  “I wish you would tell me something of your life. Something true, even if it is unpleasant. I want to know you for who you really are.”

  The prospect sho
uld have alarmed him. And perhaps it did a little. But he didn’t object. In truth, it seemed a small price to pay for the intimacy he was going to share with her. “What exactly would you like to hear?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Anything.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you could tell me about your childhood.”

  “In the orphanage?”

  Her brows knit with concern. “Is it too upsetting?”

  “No. It’s…” Good God, it was upsetting. But it shouldn’t be. Not after so many years had passed. He forced a smile, certain it must look more like a rictus of pain. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Had you lived somewhere else before you came there?”

  He shook his head. “I was brought there as an infant. A newborn. The orphanage is all I can remember.”

  “Was it in London?” she asked.

  “North Devon. By the sea.”

  Understanding softened her gaze. “That’s where you rescued your friend.”

  Alex gave a tense nod. “We used to climb down the face of the cliffs. There was a rowboat on the beach. We’d row it to an old abbey down the coast. There were rumors of buried treasure there. Just the thing to appeal to young lads.” He swallowed hard. “One day, some of the rocks on the cliff gave way. One of the boys I was with slipped and hit his head. He fell into the sea. Another of the boys dived in after him, but he couldn’t find him in the water. That’s when I went in.”

  “You saved his life.”

  “Barely. He was badly injured. I don’t know if he survived.” He moved his thumb over the curve of her palm. “I left not long after.”

  “For France?”

  “I stayed in London for a time, but yes. In the end, I caught a steamer across the channel. I’d run away from the orphanage. I had the urge to keep running.” He managed a faint smile. “I daresay I still do.”

  “How was it you came to live here? The truth of it—not the fiction about Monsieur Giraud.”

  “It’s not much different from the story I told your family at dinner, though perhaps a bit less humorous.” He paused before explaining, “I did meet a gambler on a steamer. But it wasn’t while coming home from a holiday in Alexandria with my godfather. It was during the channel crossing. He was an Englishman named Henry Garrick. He’d become so recognizable in London gaming clubs that he was obliged to leave the country for a time.”