Whatever happened in the future, she could never repay the gift that Raoul had given her.
“These should do for your Magi costumes,” she said, pointing to the shirts. Her father had been a large man, and the material would drape the boys from neck to toe in some semblance of robes.
“What about crowns?” Willie at last demanded.
“Hmmm.” Sarah considered for a long moment. “I suppose we could make them out of evergreen branches.”
Willie wrinkled his nose. “If we were really kings, they would be made of gold.”
“With rubies,” Jimmy added.
“Aye.” Willie nodded. “And diamonds.”
“It always seemed to be a silly tradition to me,” Sarah said.
“Every king needs a crown,” Willie protested.
“A good king tends to his people, not his vanity. Do you know how many hungry citizens could be fed with those rubies and diamonds? Better an evergreen crown and people with full bellies.”
“You should listen to Miss Sarah,” a whiskey-smooth voice murmured from behind. “If our leaders possessed even a portion of her good sense, the world would be a finer place for us all.”
With squeals of pleasure, the boys raced to Raoul, who casually leaned against the doorframe to the parlor, drawn to his compelling presence like moths to a flame.
She could sympathize, she ruefully acknowledged. It was only years of self-discipline that kept her from streaking across the floor and tossing herself into his arms.
As if sensing her inner conflict, Raoul glanced across the small space, his eyes dark with a raw awareness that sent a blast of heat over her skin.
Reminding herself to breathe, Sarah ran a shaky hand down her pretty cherry and black gown, vainly pleased she had chosen to attire herself in her Sunday best. Not that she could ever hope to compare to his golden beauty, she ruefully acknowledged.
In his black tailored jacket and gold waistcoat, he appeared more fitted for the elegant drawing rooms of London than a simple country cottage.
Reaching his side, Willie jumped up and down until Raoul glanced down at him with an indulgent smile.
“I don’t want to be a king,” he informed his current hero. “I want to raise horses.”
“A fine career,” Raoul swiftly approved.
“I should like to be a king,” Jimmy said, his expression pensive. “I would do lots of stuff different.”
Rather than laughing at the boy’s impossible dream, Raoul squatted down until he was eye to eye with Jimmy.
“A wise man can wield power regardless of whether or not he is born into royalty.”
“How?”
“First, he must be willing to study and learn as much as possible. Next, he must be determined to work harder than any other.” Raoul smiled. “When I first began my acting career, I was willing to take on any role, no matter how small, for an opportunity to be on stage. And I let nothing dissuade me, not even rotten tomatoes, from following my path.”
Jimmy tilted his chin. “I can be determined.”
“Then I do not doubt you will succeed.”
Possessing little interest in ruling the world, Willie grasped his younger brother’s arm and dragged him through the doorway.
“Come on, Jimmy, we need to get the evergreen for our crowns.”
There was the sound of the boys pulling on their winter garb before the front door was yanked open and then slammed shut.
Sarah winced. She had yet to convince the boys that the door could be shut as easily with a slight tug as with a vigorous bang.
Strolling forward, Raoul cast an amused glance over the various piles of clothing.
“Costumes?”
Her heart fluttered as he neared, her body tingling with a painful awareness. Dear lord, she felt starved for his touch.
“They cannot compare to what you are accustomed to, but they should do well enough,” she husked.
“I have worn worse, I assure you.”
Halting directly before her, Raoul cupped her face in his hands and took her lips in a sweetly savage kiss. Sarah moaned, her hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders as her body went weak with need.
Oh…yes.
This was what she needed. What she craved.
All too soon, Raoul was pulling back, his rasping breath and the color staining his cheekbones the only evidence of his arousal.
Well, perhaps not the only evidence.
Delicious flames curled through the pit of her stomach as she felt the unmistakable thrust of his hard erection.
“You have been baking again,” he whispered.
“I am making seedcakes for tea.”
“Seedcakes.” His gaze lingered on her lips, his eyes smoldering with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. “You shall have me as fat as Prinny if I do not have a care. I cannot imagine you would desire your husband to be trussed in a corset and creaking with every step.”
“Behave yourself,” she muttered, trying to ignore the stark longing that clenched her heart. “Maggie is in the kitchen.”
“I have been behaving myself for days,” he muttered, his fingers running a restless path down her throat and then boldly over her breasts, cupping them so his thumbs could tease the hardened nipples. “I very much want to misbehave, ma belle.”
“Oh.” She trembled, the need to tug off his clothing and press herself to his male heat nearly overwhelming. Unfortunately, one of them had to be sane. “No, you must halt.”
“Must?”
“Yes.” Wriggling out of his arms, Sarah shivered as a cold chill replaced Raoul’s welcomed warmth. “Did you have a purpose in calling?”
With a heavy sigh, Raoul scrubbed his hands over his face before regarding her with a rueful expression.
“The simple truth is that I cannot stay away,” he admitted, his lips twisting at the blush that touched her cheeks. “But it does so happen that I did have a purpose.”
“And that would be?”
“We shall have a need of a few pieces of furniture for tomorrow’s performance. Two small chairs, and something large enough for the boys to hide behind to change their costumes.”
Sarah frowned. “I had nearly forgotten. We can look now if you desire.”
“You know what I desire.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, heading toward the foyer. Another moment alone with Raoul Charlebois and she would not be capable of keeping her hands off him.
Good heavens…what had happened to her?
By nature, she had always been a happy, contented sort of person. But this giddy, almost dizzying joy whenever Raoul was near was utterly unfamiliar, and more than a little disconcerting.
“Come along.” Pausing near the doorway, Sarah gathered her woolen cape and settled it around her shoulders as she led her companion down the short hallway to the kitchen. “I haven’t had a fire lit, so it is bound to be chilly.”
“The colder the better,” he muttered, so low she barely caught the words.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Sensing it was best not to press for an answer, Sarah crossed through the kitchen, ignoring Maggie’s amused gaze as she tugged open the heavy wooden door that led to her long workroom.
“I have most of the furniture here.”
Together they bypassed the small space she had claimed for her painting supplies and easel, moving to the very end of the workroom.
Halting in front of the numerous Holland covers that shrouded the various piles of furniture, cast-off ornaments, and tightly rolled carpets, Raoul’s expression tightened with that familiar bitterness.
“You said these came from the Great House?”
“Yes, my father brought them here rather than allow the lot to be burned.” As he stood rigid, Sarah reached out to tug a few of the covers off the furniture. “Do you have memory of them?”
“A few pieces,” he grudgingly admitted, pointing toward a set of satinwood chairs with scrolled legs. “Tho
se were in the foyer.”
Sarah bit her lip, hating the shadows that darkened his eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if we ask the Vicar to bring…”
He gave a sharp shake of his head, his jaw tight. “No. These will do very well.” He glanced toward the opposite corner. “What is hidden over there?”
“Mostly portraits, if I recall properly.”
Pacing the short distance, Raoul yanked the sheet aside, revealing over a dozen framed portraits. They both coughed at the cloud of dust that filled the air.
“Odd that my father would wish to burn these. Usually dead ancestors are condemned to the attics, not to the bonfire.”
Sarah tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and scrubbed at her nose. “Lord Merriot is obviously not a man devoted to the memory of his family.”
“Lord Merriot is a man devoted to himself and his own pleasures.”
“If that is true, then you are nothing like him.”
He stiffened, then slowly turning his head, he met her steady gaze with a wrenching vulnerability.
“I might have been if not for Dunnington,” he softly confessed. “He was a gentleman who inspired others to believe that they could accomplish great things, but also to understand that with success comes a duty to others.”
She reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I wish I could have known him.”
“He would have adored you. In many ways you are alike.”
“Oh.” She blinked back a ridiculous urge to cry. “I believe that is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me.”
With a rueful chuckle, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You are a baffling woman, Miss Sarah Jefferson.”
“No more baffling than you, Mr. Charlebois.”
“Then we would seem to be a perfect match.”
It felt perfect. Splendid and terrifying and utterly perfect.
“Perhaps,” she whispered.
As if able to sense a weakening in her resolve, Raoul narrowed his gaze.
“Sarah…”
“You should have the portraits removed to your town house,” she nervously interrupted, not yet prepared for the question hovering on his lips. “From what I recall, most of them were of indifferent quality, but there were one or two that appeared to be worthy of keeping.”
Frustration glittered in his eyes, but with obvious effort, he returned his attention to the paintings.
“I have no more interest in the past Merriots than my father. Still, a few of the larger ones might be used as wings.”
She frowned in puzzlement as he began shifting aside the small canvases to reach those hidden in the back.
“Wings?”
“To mark the sides of the stage,” he explained, seemingly indifferent to the dust marring his beautiful jacket. “We can prop them against a chair, and the boys could change behind them.”
“Ah.” She stepped forward to assist him in shifting aside some of the smaller paintings. “There are a few at the back that should be tall enough to serve your purpose.”
Raoul paused to study one of the portraits, grimacing at the forbidding gentleman who glared from the canvas.
“Mon Dieu, they were a motley crew.”
“They do seem to be particularly miserable,” Sarah agreed. “I remember playing here as a child and wondering why they were forever scowling at me. Although…”
He glanced at her with raised brows. “What?”
“Nothing.” She gave a perturbed shake of her head. “I just have the strangest feeling there is something I should remember. Unfortunately, each time I try to call it to mind, it slips away.”
His lips twitched. “No doubt a symptom of your advancing years.”
“Advancing years?”
He ignored the dangerous edge in her voice. “Well, ma belle, it does happen to all of us. Which is why you really should consider wedding without delay.”
“I see.” She fought back her smile. “And do you have anyone particular in mind I should consider wedding?”
“Obviously you have need of a gentleman who appreciates your young boys, and has a love for gingerbread.”
“Truly? And I always assumed I desired a kind, modest sort of man. Perhaps a local farmer or merchant.”
He snorted in disgust. “You would be bored to tears within a month. You are a woman who needs a challenge. Why else would you have taken in two high-spirited lads?”
She could not fault his logic. Although her life had been quite busy with her artwork and tending to her neighbors, she had still felt an emptiness. She had needed a purpose.
That did not mean, however, she was willing to leap blindly into danger.
“There are some challenges more risky than others,” she muttered, grimly returning her attention to setting aside the small portraits to reach those in back.
“And some are worth the risk,” he said, his hand cupping her cheek. “Sarah…” His words faltered as she abruptly stiffened in shock. “What is it?”
“That.” She pointed at the portrait she had just uncovered, her mouth dry and her heart refusing to beat. “Oh, my God.”
Grudgingly turning his head, Raoul cast an indifferent glance over the exposed canvas, clearly unimpressed by the painting of the pretty honey-haired woman holding a baby in her arms and the elegant gentleman standing at her side, gazing at the child with obvious devotion.
At least he was unimpressed until he caught sight of the gentleman’s familiar countenance.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed.
Instinctively, Sarah reached to touch his arm, not surprised to discover his muscles as hard as granite beneath her fingers.
Who wouldn’t be shocked?
Raoul might have posed for the picture himself, if not for the clothing that revealed it had been done some years ago. And of course, the large French chateau that was prominently displayed in the background.
“I knew you reminded me of someone, but I could not recall why,” she at last managed to say.
“You have known me since you were a child,” Raoul rasped. “Of course you remembered me.”
“I was very young when you left for London, and I rarely caught sight of you on the few occasions that you did return.” She shivered as an inexplicable chill trickled down her spine. “This is why you are so familiar. It is astonishing.” She turned her head, her stomach twisting with fear at Raoul’s alarming pallor. “Mr. Charlebois?”
There was a long, brittle silence. Then, with a shake of his head, Raoul appeared to come out of his trance.
“Who are they?” he demanded, his voice thick with emotion.
“Wait.” Leaning down, Sarah brushed the dirt off the small plaque at the bottom of the frame. “The Comte and Comtesse de Suriant,” she read aloud. “They must be relatives of your father. Do you know of them?”
“No, and I am certain they are not related to the Merriots.”
She frowned, glancing from Raoul’s beautiful countenance to the man in the portrait.
“They must be. The resemblance is uncanny.”
“My father rarely spoke of his family except to condemn them as prolific wastrels, a charge that possesses a great deal of merit according to most,” he said. “But as a youth, I spent many rainy afternoons hiding in the library where the family Bible was left to gather dust. My recollections might be vague, but I assure you I would have recalled mention of French nobility.”
Sarah felt a pang of sadness, easily able to imagine a young Raoul sitting alone in a vast library, unloved and unwanted.
“Perhaps there was some sort of falling out, and this Comte was disowned,” she suggested softly.
Raoul snorted. “It would not matter if he cavorted with the devil, my father is too great a preening peacock to ever deny a relationship with members of the aristocracy.” His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge of bitterness. “Besides, unlike many English families, the Merriots have no claim to any foreign nobility.”
Sarah chewed her bottom lip, try
ing to sort through the various possibilities. A task that would be a great deal easier if her brain was not refusing to cooperate.
“Then they must be related to your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Your family.”
His expression tightened. “A family who sent me to England and promptly forgot I existed.”
“You do not know that for certain,” Sarah protested, wanting more than anything to ease this man’s pain. “Just consider the turmoil in France thirty years ago. They might have sent you away to keep you safe.”
“They have had a great deal of time since the bloody revolution to contact me,” he gritted, his jaw clenched. “I am not, after all, entirely unknown in France.”
She bit back the obvious explanation that they had not survived the revolt. Surely fate could not be so cruel as to offer him the hope of a family, only to steal it away?
“You at least have a name to assist in your investigation.”
“True. There has to be someone who can tell me what happened to them.”
“Yes, there does.” She squared her shoulders, ignoring the crippling pain that wrenched her heart. “But so long as your father refuses to speak, you must find your answers elsewhere.”
“Sarah…” Abruptly turning, he grasped her face in his hands. “I do not want to leave you. Come with me.”
She wanted to. Dear heavens, she wanted to be with Raoul more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.
“You know I cannot,” she husked.
Even in the shadows, his eyes shimmered with the rare beauty of sapphires.
“We could take the boys,” he urged. “They would love London, or even Paris if I am forced to seek information there.”
“Mr. Charlebois, even you must comprehend the scandal such a journey would cause.”
“Not if you were my wife.”
Chapter 18
Sarah closed her eyes, battling against the wave of longing that threatened to overcome her common sense.
It would be so easy to say yes.
She loved him. Perhaps even more important, she liked him.
He was intelligent, thoughtful, amusing, and capable of great kindness to others. And of course, she desired him with a desperation that was downright embarrassing.
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