Laura’s words were left unfinished.
Alex didn’t press her. They hadn’t the privacy for it.
He leapt out of the carriage to hand her down. She was wearing a dress he’d bought her in Paris. A beribboned affair of striped grenadine, with an overskirt of fine French muslin, and a silk sash at her waist. The matching leghorn hat—a dainty scrap of femininity—was pinned to her ebony hair, a white ostrich plume curving gently along its edge.
He’d have liked to have had more time with her in Paris. A chance to purchase her a whole new wardrobe. Something better than a few dresses pilfered from another lady’s order—gowns Alex had had to bribe the modiste to part with.
His wife shouldn’t have to wear last season’s fashions. He wanted her to have the best. Not just of clothing and millinery, but of everything.
He wanted to be the best for her.
A better man, at least, than when he’d commenced this mercenary enterprise with George.
The coachman called out again in rapid French.
“What did he say?” Laura asked.
“He wants to know if he should wait for us.” Alex addressed the coachman. “Revenez dans une heure.” He tucked Laura’s arm through his. “I told him to come back in an hour.”
She gazed up at the façade of the building as they walked across the courtyard. “It looks empty.”
No sooner had she spoken than the front door was pushed open. An older man in a homespun linen shirt and trousers emerged. He removed his cap, mopping his brow on a beefy forearm. When he saw them, he stopped and scowled.
“Qui êtes vous?” he demanded. “Que faites vous ici?”
“Je m’apelle Alex Archer et voici ma femme,” Alex replied. “Son nom de jeune fille était Laura Hayes.”
“Hayes?” the man repeated. “Are you English?”
“We are,” Laura said. “We’ve come to see my father’s factory.” She offered him her hand.
The man wiped his hand on his trousers before he shook it. “I was grieved to hear of his passing. A fever was it?” The man shook Alex’s hand as well. “Quel dommage.”
“And you are?” Alex asked.
“Gabriel Marchand.”
Alex recognized the name from Weatherwax’s documents. “You’re the caretaker.”
“Oui, Monsieur. I worked for Monsieur Hayes for many years. On his death, Monsieur Weatherwax hired me to look after the property.”
Laura’s expression tightened. “Mr. Weatherwax is no longer involved in any aspect of my family’s business. My husband and I have charge of things now. We’d like to see inside.”
Marchand bowed. “It would be my pleasure to show it to you.”
Laura followed along after Monsieur Marchand, taking in the vast emptiness of the building. It bore no resemblance to the distillery in Dorset. There were no stills or steam-powered machines. No great vats filled with rose petals, peppermint, or stalks of lavender. And no jars containing the precious residue produced from distillation. Only a lingering floral scent hinted at what it once had been.
“The equipment—” she began.
“Sold,” Monsieur Marchand said. “On Monsieur Weatherwax’s instructions.”
Anger boiled in Laura’s veins. She felt the reassuring weight of Alex’s hand at her back. “How long ago?”
“Two years? Three? I have copies of the bills of sale, if you’d like to see them.”
“We require all of the relevant documents,” Alex said.
Marchand glanced at the two of them with interest. “Will you be resuming production?”
“We don’t know yet,” Laura answered.
“Yes, we will,” Alex replied at the same time.
She looked at him, brows raised in enquiry. In response, he merely gave her one of his roguish half smiles. Her heartbeat quickened. She’d thought she couldn’t feel anything stronger for him than the swell of affection she’d felt when he offered to take her to the seaside in Cannes.
She’d been wrong.
As she looked at him now, she was filled with such all-encompassing warmth. Such endless gratitude. Such…love.
Good heavens, she loved him.
She loved him.
The realization fairly took her breath away.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“Perfectly all right.” She slipped her hand through his arm.
Monsieur Marchand continued their tour, oblivious to Laura’s roiling emotions. “You’ll have to purchase new equipment and hire back some of the men. Many have left for other perfumeries.”
“What of the flower crops?” Alex asked.
“You’ve missed the harvest,” Monsieur Marchand replied. “Monsieur Beauchamps— c’est votre locataire… How do you say?”
“Our tenant?” Alex frowned. “The perfumer who leases the land?”
“Yes. Him. He has already taken the flowers. There’ll be nothing again until next year.”
“We’d still like to see the fields,” Laura said.
“Mais bien sûr.” Monsieur Marchand motioned to the door. “I will take you there.”
It wasn’t far. Only a short distance by carriage, along a tree-lined road that led to a lush valley at the edge of the hills. There, the fields rolled out before them in orderly division—acres of rose and lavender bushes void of their blooms, rosemary and thyme, and Seville orange trees cut back at the branches.
Laura gazed out at them, a warm feeling of recognition settling in her breast.
The flower fields in Dorset had looked similar after the harvest. She recalled trailing down the rows of lavender behind her father as he discussed perfume production with one of his assistants. She’d often touch the plants as she walked past, sliding her gloved fingers along the stalks and leaves. It left a clinging residue of scent. Sweet, clean lavender. The fragrance she associated with the best part of her life.
Alex watched her face. “Shall we get out?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Please.”
The carriage came to a halt at the edge of the lavender fields, and he assisted her down.
She inhaled a deep breath. The air was alive with the scents of fragrant leaves, woody bark, and well-irrigated soil. It was a warm day but not an uncomfortable one. Indeed, it was nothing like the English climate she was accustomed to. It was better. Perfect. The sort of place one might dream of existing, but never did except in one’s imagination.
And yet, here she was. In the flower fields of Southern France, kissed by the sun and soothed with cool, hilltop breezes.
Alex stood beside her, looking out across the fields. “Do you know what all of these are?” he asked. “What you can do with them?”
“I believe so.” She tucked her hand through his arm. “That’s lavender, of course. And those are rose bushes. Rosa Centifolia, if I’m not mistaken. The hundred-leaved rose. Papa used to use it in his perfumes. But I’d planned to use it to make rose water.”
“And those trees?”
“Bitter orange. We use the blossoms for perfume, and the fruit and the branches, too.”
“What about those fields?” He directed her attention to a patch of land in the distance. There, the fields appeared empty. Nothing but clean, even soil raked into rows.
“Tuberose,” Monsieur Marchand said. “The bulbs are planted in the spring, and harvested in the summer. You can still smell the fragrance. Un doux parfum exotique.”
They walked out among the lavender bushes. Laura touched them with her hand, just as she’d used to do as a girl.
“There’s so many of them,” Alex said.
“There has to be. It takes a half ton of flowers to make six pints of lavender oil.”
“That much?”
“It’s worse with the roses. I prefer the lavender. It’s much easier, and the laven
der water has always done well for us.”
He gave her one of his inscrutable looks. “Perhaps it will again.”
By the time they returned to their hotel room, it was early afternoon. Laura withdrew to the washroom to freshen up. It occurred to her that her new gown hadn’t been the best choice for venturing out into the flower fields. Her hem was dirty, and she’d snagged the silk sash at her waist on the thorny branches of a rose bush.
She washed her face and hands, and tidied her hair, before rejoining Alex. He was sitting in a chair near the window perusing some of the documents Monsieur Marchand had given them. When he saw her, he stood.
“Everything appears to be accounted for so far,” he said.
“That’s something.” She sat down in the chair across from him. “Did you mean what you said about reopening the distillery?”
He resumed his seat. “Do you object?”
“No. Not at all. I was merely surprised. I’d wondered if you mightn’t prefer to sell the place. Getting it running again will be costly.”
His eyes met hers over the top of one of the papers he was reading. “If we sell it, you’ll have no property left. Bramble Cottage is let, I take it?”
“From Squire Talbot.”
“Would you be content to have nothing?”
She might have asked him the same. Indeed, she was quite tempted to do so. But she didn’t ask. She feared she already knew the answer.
A gentleman of three and thirty didn’t spend decades of his life in pursuit of money only to give up that pursuit after a month of courtship and marriage. It was what had brought him to Lower Hawley—and what had brought him to Grasse.
“It’s disappointing enough to discover Weatherwax has sold the other properties,” he said. “We’d be foolish to dispose of the single one remaining.”
She smoothed her skirts, watching him from beneath her lashes as he returned to reading the documents. He was clad in tan trousers, with a matching waistcoat worn over a linen shirt. His cravat was loosened, his coat disposed of over the back of the nearby settee. He looked very much like he had on the beach at Margate. Roguish. Devil may care.
The only difference was now she knew him.
She knew the strength of him. The feel of his body as it covered hers. The silky thickness of his hair. The way he looked at her. The way he kissed her.
And yet, there was still so much about him that was unknowable. A secret, vulnerable part of him that made her vulnerable in turn.
“Were you very disappointed?” she asked.
Alex glanced up again. “I was. On your behalf.”
Laura supposed that was something. She held out her hand. “May I read through them?”
“Of course.” He handed half the stack of documents to her.
She leafed through the pages. The majority were in French, much to her chagrin. Thanks to Papa, she could speak the language a little, but she wasn’t able to read it. “I can’t make head or tail of these.” She gave them back to him. “I wish you would teach me proper French.”
His brows lifted. “Now?”
“Not now. Someday, I meant.” She rose from her chair, feeling cross and restless. “Pray don’t get up. I’m only going to the desk.” There was an escritoire in the corner, stocked with paper, pens, and ink. “I must write to Teddy and Aunt Charlotte.”
His gray gaze followed her as she crossed the room. “Have I done something to upset you?”
“No.” She sat down at the desk and opened the top drawer, withdrawing several sheets of paper.
“Then why do I have the distinct feeling that you’re angry with me?”
“I’m not angry, I’m—” She broke off, muttering, “I don’t know what I am.”
Alex set aside his papers and came to the desk. He sank down on his haunches beside her chair. “Do you want to sell the distillery?”
She gazed down at him. He was so handsome. So exceedingly dear. She smoothed his hair from his brow, combing it back into place with her fingers. He went still. Trusting her. Allowing her to handle him as she pleased. “No. I don’t want to sell it. But you know what all of this means, don’t you? Another year to wait before there’s any kind of profit to be had. A year of nothing but expenses.”
“What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”
The mere thought of it squeezed at her heart. Little more than a week of marriage, and she already couldn’t imagine her life without him. “Consulted with the bank, probably. Teddy and I spoke of borrowing against the property in order to resume production. But that was the farm in Dorset.”
“I don’t see why we can’t do the same with this property.”
“We don’t live here. We won’t be on hand to oversee things. And after Mr. Weatherwax’s misconduct…I don’t want to leave it to a solicitor, or someone like Monsieur Marchand. I couldn’t trust that they’d do what was right.”
He regarded her steadily. “Give me some time to come up with a workable solution.”
“It must be workable for all of us. Teddy and Aunt Charlotte, too.”
His mouth hitched into a smile. “That goes without saying.”
Laura’s heart swelled.
And she wanted to tell him that she loved him. That she was in love with him. But she couldn’t seem to work up the nerve. Not when she didn’t know whether or not he felt the same.
But life was about taking risks. Wasn’t that what she’d told him in Surrey? One couldn’t be a spectator, watching the parade go by. She certainly wasn’t. And she didn’t wish to start being one now, no matter how afraid she was of the consequences.
She touched his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes as she took her courage in her hands. “I love you.”
Alex flinched. For an instant, it seemed he might pull away from her touch. But he didn’t move. He stared at her, his big body as still as a marble statue.
“I love you,” she said again.
His throat convulsed on a swallow. “Laura—”
“You don’t have to say it back. And you don’t have to promise me anything. All I ask is that you be true to me. That’s all I want. To know that I’m yours, and that you’re mine. Just as you said on the beach at Margate.”
He covered her hand with his. “I am yours. Only yours.”
She managed a tremulous smile. “Well, then.”
“Well, then.” His eyes held hers, even as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Now that we understand each other.”
“Yes.”
After a long moment, he stood, drawing her to her feet along with him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that we’re on our honeymoon.”
“I haven’t forgotten either.”
A glint of heat shone in his gaze. “Come here.”
She moved closer to him, her pulse quickening.
He curved one large hand about her waist before bending his head and kissing her. Heat flared between them as it always did, weakening her knees and flooding her veins with warmth.
And suddenly it didn’t matter that he hadn’t said it back. That he might not love her as she loved him. All that mattered was that she was his wife, and that she was in his arms.
Sometime later, she rose from their bed and slipped back on her clothes. Alex was asleep on his stomach amid the crumpled sheets, the bare skin of his muscled shoulders and back rendered golden by the sunlight that filtered through the curtained window. He looked vulnerable in sleep. No longer wolfish or dangerous. His body was relaxed, his dark hair wildly disheveled.
She brushed her own hair into some semblance of order and pinned it at her nape before returning to the sitting room desk to compose a letter to her aunt and brother. It wasn’t a lengthy missive. She’d already written Teddy from Paris, telling him all about the channel crossing and the railway journey through France. Now, she simply needed to
inform him of what they’d discovered at the distillery.
It didn’t come easily. Her every instinct told her to protect her brother. To cast events in a positive light in order to save him from distress.
But Alex was right.
Despite his infirmity, Teddy was no longer a boy. He was a man. She must begin to treat him like one. And if that meant upsetting him on occasion with the grim facts of the family finances and business, then so be it.
When she’d finished her letter, she sealed it and carefully wrote out the family’s address at Bramble Cottage. It was nearly three o’clock. Still early enough to catch the post.
She ducked back into the bedroom and leaned down to whisper into Alex’s ear. “I’m going down to the front desk to post a letter.”
He turned his head on the pillow, his eyes opening a faction. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”
“There’s no need.” Laura pressed a quick kiss to his stubble-roughened cheek. He reached out for her, but she evaded his grasp. “I’ll be back directly.”
Their hotel was small but fashionable. It was run by an Englishman and his French wife, and appeared to be patronized primarily by well-to-do couples on summer holiday. There were several already waiting at the front desk when Laura entered the lobby, some to check in and others to check out.
She squeezed into an empty spot beside a bespectacled gentleman who was signing the register, and set her letter on the counter.
“Is that for the post, madame?” the clerk asked.
“It is.” Laura pushed the letter to him with her fingertips. “I’m not too late, am I?”
“No, madame.” He took her letter, bowing to her before moving off to help another guest.
Laura turned to leave.
The gentleman at her side cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
She gave him a questioning glance. He was a respectable-looking man. Even handsome, after a fashion, with a slim build, brown hair, and light blue eyes. He regarded her solemnly from behind his silver-framed spectacles.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I couldn’t help but notice your ring.” His gaze dropped to her left hand, where her ruby glinted against her skin. “That’s a very distinctive stone.”
A Convenient Fiction Page 25