To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  Last night he’d caught her off guard and seduced her; the only thing he’d felt was relief. The next time he’d teach her what he liked. Chelsea Harris would be an apt pupil. He was sure of it. A small brown wren could never stir a man’s desires like a single scorching glance from a dark-feathered swan.

  At the noon hour when the men broke for their midday meal, Harlow had even been tempted to return to the house to see her. Irmaline had been the perfect wife for a man struggling toward success, patient and enduring and steadfast. Chelsea was the kind of woman a man needed once he’d achieved his goals and was moving on to take his rightful place in society. Beautiful, poised, witty, a natural lady—qualities he might have searched the world over and been unable to find in one woman. He would be the envy of his business associates, and she would belong to him. A suitable treasure to add to the glory of Bellefleur. She would grace his table and decorate his house, and she would follow him with those deep, tawny eyes. Other men, richer and more influential, would toast her with Bellefleur wine and want to drown their envy.

  Harlow’s attention was captured by the sight of his son, Franklin, riding into his line of vision. Bare-chested and browned by the sun, he was an imposing sight. Young. So young. At that moment Harlow felt old. Chelsea was younger than Martha; she was of a more fitting age to marry Franklin than himself. Then Harlow laughed, a lusty sound. Franklin might be half his age, but he was also only half the man. No, Harlow assured himself, he would have no trouble satisfying Chelsea, regardless of her desires. These young men like Franklin with their sullen mouths and self-indulging natures could never be a threat to someone like himself.

  When Franklin came abreast of him, Harlow’s tone was sharper than he had intended, colder than he wanted. Why did this son of his always bring out the worst in him? “I told you to trim back the sauternes and keep a watch for mold since that rain last week. What are you doing on horseback? There’s work to be done.”

  Franklin screwed his face into a tight grimace. Dammit, why did it always have to be like this: Father giving orders and he being subservient? Did he give him no credit at all for using his head? Why couldn’t he ask a civil question and wait for a civil answer? With an effort he swallowed his wrath, but his voice betrayed the intensity of his emotions. “I checked the sauternes, and they don’t need trimming. This blasted sun is so hot they need every bit of cover the leaves provide. I saw to the watering, and now the men are working among the muscatels. If we’re not careful, we’ll harvest a crop of raisins instead of wine grapes. I was just going to the cook’s shed for something to eat.”

  “I said the sauternes needed trimming. We’ve got to lighten the boughs or the fruit will be hanging in the mud and go to rot. Now see to it!”

  Franklin’s hazy gray eyes, so like his father’s, darkened with sudden hatred. Regardless of the fact that he’d been raised among the vines, Father still refused to trust his judgment. Now he would have to cart the men back to the sauternes and see that they carefully cut a leaf here and a leaf there, just to satisfy the old man’s pride and feelings of proprietorship. “Why can’t you trust my judgment for once?” he said abruptly. “The men are near dead on their feet in this damnable heat, and I tell you the sauternes are holding up better than we are.”

  “Watch the way you speak to me, Franklin. I will not tolerate disrespect from any of my children.”

  It was on the tip of Franklin’s tongue to tell his father that in order to gain respect one had to give it. Instead, he flicked the reins and rode off defiantly toward the shed, his initial destination.

  Harlow wasted no time watching his son. He walked to the end of the row and hefted himself onto his own mount, digging his heels ruthlessly into the animal’s sides, spurring the horse forward. He would see for himself whether Franklin had spoken the truth.

  At dinner that evening, Chelsea took her place at the table and forced herself to look directly at Harlow. She was stunned to see him smile at her. There was nothing in his eyes to indicate what had transpired the evening before. As he continued to act as though nothing had happened, anger replaced Chelsea’s nervousness. How dare he! She wanted to scream out what had happened to the entire table. Instead she pasted a smile on her face and sat quietly, adding to the conversation only when directly spoken to. Once she pleaded tiredness, and Harlow smiled fondly in her direction. She almost choked on the food in her mouth.

  After Mrs. Russell’s plain but excellently prepared dinner, Harlow apologized to Chelsea for his family’s lack of graciousness. “We’ve all eaten like gluttons,” he told her. “We’ve been without a woman’s hand in this household for too long. Your insistence that I hire servants for Bellefleur was advice well taken. Neither Martha nor Emma have much talent for housekeeping.”

  “Chelsea nearly worked us to death today, Father,” Emma complained. “Look at my hands, just look!”

  Chelsea was taken by surprise at Emma’s complaints. Of the two Kane daughters, she’d expected only Martha to tattle.

  “I see them,” Harlow said smoothly, “just as I saw the kitchen looking as a kitchen should look, and as I see this dining room cleared of a month’s red dust. I take it your time was well spent, Emma.”

  Chelsea felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. And then Emma continued her complaint. “But did you know that she insisted we scrub the garden house for her, and now she wants our furniture to be put there?”

  “She is the cat’s mother, Emma. You will please restrain yourself from referring to your future stepmother in such a disrespectful manner. And stop whining. I approve of a good day’s work, and I’ve already had two workmen bring the furniture down to the garden house. Chelsea prefers to stay there until we are married, and I respect that decision.”

  Both Martha and Emma were astonished at their father’s easy acquiescence to this young woman. Even Franklin, who had been silent and sullen throughout dinner, seemed to show a glint of respect in his heavy-lidded eyes. Chelsea felt giddy with relief.

  “Harlow, I promised Mrs. Russell I would ask you for a handyman to repair the back step,” she said—pressing her advantage. “It’s quite a hazard, and we wouldn’t want an accident, would we? There is also other repair work to be done, as well as some painting. Bellefleur could use a face lift, don’t you agree? Especially with our wedding in the not-too-distant future.”

  The words were out, and now she couldn’t take them back. Our wedding. Hers and Harlow’s. Subconsciously she must have made the decision to stay while she worked. She’d known in the back of her mind that there was no place for her to go. Or was she playing a game, waiting to see what would happen? She was dangling herself in front of Harlow the way a cat dangles cheese for the mouse. His attitude today, his generosity, was making it easy for her to do a turnabout. Maybe last night had never happened; maybe she’d dreamed it. There was every possibility it would never happen again. If she did decide to go through with the wedding, she’d make sure she had a voice in what went on as far as her own welfare was concerned.

  And now her intended was about to refuse her request; Chelsea could read it in his eyes. She stared at him intensely, willing him to agree, and felt more than satisfied when she saw a flush stain his cheeks.

  Harlow cleared his throat. He never allowed useful labor to be wasted on the house when it could be put to better use in the vineyards. His children, knowing this, suppressed conspiring smiles and waited to hear his refusal. Harlow, meanwhile, was remembering his decision to take his rightful place in society. Chelsea was right, the house was a disgrace, and he would be shamed before his peers.

  “I’ll send several men, use them as you will,” he told Chelsea. “There’s still several weeks till harvest, and their labors in the field are not quite so necessary.”

  Martha gasped audibly. How easily Father offered luxuries to this interloper, the same luxuries he had denied her mother, who had worked like a slave.

  Harlow, aware of Martha’s reaction, added, “And do whatever you t
hink best for the house. We’ll have a prenuptial party such as Bellefleur has never seen.” He turned abruptly to his son, who had been very quiet all evening and was now reaching yet again for the privately labeled wine bottle. “Franklin, you’ve had more than enough. Get to bed or you’ll be useless in the fields tomorrow.”

  Harlow’s voice and manner were harsh, as though his son were a small boy in constant need of reprimanding. Chelsea saw an emotion very close to hatred spawn in the young man’s eyes, and bitterness draw his full, sullen mouth into a thin line. Without a word, he pulled himself to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair, and stalked out of the dining room toward the front hall, shoulders square, head high.

  Suddenly she felt very bad for Franklin. Harlow should never have humiliated him that way in front of his sisters, and especially not in front of her. But she’d noticed throughout dinner that Harlow was not kind to his children, and she worried that his display of deference to her would cause irreparable jealousy.

  “I’m very tired myself,” she announced, placing her napkin on the table and rising. “I’ll be going to bed if you’ll excuse me.” Heart hammering in her chest, she held Harlow’s gaze with hers, eyes unwavering, almost daring him to even consider a repeat performance.

  “I’ll walk you to the garden house,” he offered, ignoring the look in her eyes. All during dinner he’d done nothing but think of her naked in his arms. Right now, he wanted to reach out and touch her to prove to himself that she was real and that what he’d experienced last night hadn’t been some kind of dream.

  “No, thank you, Harlow,” Chelsea said firmly. “I prefer to say good night here. I’m very tired, and tomorrow promises to be equally exhausting. Good night, Martha, Emma.” If he made one move, gave any indication that he was going to follow her, she’d walk out of his life right now. She would suffer his conjugal rights once they were married, but not until then. She could feel Harlow’s eyes burning through her as she swept out of the room. She didn’t care. Let him take his outrage to bed, anything, as long as she was able to avoid being with him herself. There was only one man whose touch she wanted, one man whose body could evoke her response. And he would only come to her in her dreams.

  Chapter 10

  The long days ahead were filled with work, but also with a sense of accomplishment. Chelsea had taken the unpolished gem of Bellefleur’s house and made it gleam. If all this was to be hers, she reasoned, she would turn it into something worth having. Somewhere in the past week or so she had begun to think of herself as already married to Harlow Kane, and of his house and its surroundings as hers. Once things were restored to their former elegance and order, she would live the life she’d always dreamed. It was all so simple, really. Marry Harlow and all of it would be hers. If only she could drive Quaid Tanner out of her mind the way she cleared dust out of corners. But each night she dreamed about him, all day her thoughts were with him, and the knowledge that he was just over the hill at Clonmerra offered little comfort. She wanted to be with him, to touch him. And when her need for him grew too great, she plunged herself into restoring the house on Bellefleur with a vengeance. She would prove her worth to Mr. Quaid Tanner, show him that her past didn’t matter and that she merited the respectability of marriage.

  Soap and water were used by the vat. Bedding was brought outside to air in the bright sunshine. Carpets—Turkish carpets, Martha explained—were beaten and brushed and scrubbed clean of years of dirt and neglect. Furniture was polished till it gleamed, and every dish, crock, pot, and pan was scoured spotless. Emma was put to polishing the silverware and serving trays in the wood ashes from the cook stove; by the time she was through, she was covered with the black slag and looked for all the world like an itinerant chimney sweep. Windows were scoured and curtains washed and draperies cleaned. Bette proved to be an excellent laundress, but there was so much ironing to be done, Martha had to help her, spending hours using the heavy flat irons that were heated on the stove.

  Chelsea elected herself overseer for the two handymen Harlow assigned to the house. The back steps were fixed, and the veranda floors were sanded and stained and finally given a fresh coat of polish. The shutters were revitalized with fresh paint, as were the walls of the drawing room. The whole downstairs took on a freshness that made Chelsea glow with pride. Later, after vintage, they could begin work on the upstairs bedrooms.

  Always at the end of the day Mrs. Russell rewarded them with an excellently prepared dinner. And always Chelsea would suffer through the meal listening to one of Martha’s unending monologues. “My mother had that chifforobe brought from France, that table came all the way from Italy, and the carpet is from Turkey. The china and crystal were handed down from Aunt So-and-So, and the service plates were imported by Uncle What’s-his-name, and the wallpaper in the hall was Chinese, and the dining room table is English.” Chelsea knew the sour-faced Martha was trying to impress her with the Kane family background, and although she absorbed and memorized each morsel of information, it was difficult not to resent Martha’s attitude of superiority.

  A month after her arrival Chelsea felt the house was in near perfect order. All the bed linens, so patiently and expertly embroidered by her predecessor, Irmaline, were mended and laundered and stored among packets of fragrant sachet. Jenny had worked a miracle in the dairy, and fresh milk and butter were in plentiful supply. Mrs. Russell, a magician in the kitchen and an avid admirer of Chelsea, supervised Bette and Jenny and the house on Bellefleur.

  During the busy month Harlow had not pressed himself on Chelsea, although she noticed that his eyes always seemed to be following her, hot and yearning. Maybe he was remembering her words on the night he’d attacked her, that waiting only sweetened the inevitable. He knew she would be his soon. Not once had he referred to that night, nor had she; now, it was almost as though it had never happened. Only in the darkness of the little garden house did she remember. Actually, he was the perfect gentleman with her, and right now she couldn’t ask for more. The house was beginning to run with clockwork precision. Harlow was filled with compliments that brought color to Chelsea’s cheeks. And Martha and Emma did their share of the work, albeit grudgingly.

  Only Franklin remained aloof and unapproachable. All of Chelsea’s attempts at friendship with the young man had been futile. She remembered Emma’s revelation that Martha was convinced Chelsea was only after Harlow’s money, that the marriage would only cheat the rest of them. Did Franklin really believe his sister’s accusation? “He’s such a mean boy,” Emma had said, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “So ungrateful for anything Father has done for him. He was sent to the best schools, and the summer he was eighteen he was allowed to explore the western territories with a group of his classmates. He hates Bellefleur, too. He wanted to read the law and become a barrister, but Father wouldn’t hear of it. As the only son, Franklin has to stay on Bellefleur, and now he says it’s draining the life out of him. Mother used to say that Franklin was a sensitive child. I remember the way she cried when Father wouldn’t allow him to continue school. He’d been accepted to Oxford, you know, but Father refused to pay for his education, saying he would get all the schooling he’d ever need right here growing grapes and becoming a vigneron. Franklin always says that when Father dies we’re going to sell Bellefleur and go to England. Now, Martha keeps telling him that once Father marries you, there won’t be anything left for us.”

  Chelsea had taken this information under advisement. Martha, it seemed, was not about to wait for Harlow to close his eyes. His oldest daughter had made it stingingly clear that the only way Chelsea could exist at Bellefleur without constant mutiny from her was to convince Harlow to send her to England, now! Chelsea decided that if Martha proved to be a constant bone of contention, then sending her to England was the best thing for all concerned.

  Chelsea believed she had a little influence with Harlow, whom she now realized was something of a slave driver where Bellefleur was concerned. Whenever in his presence, she held
herself aloof, plying her best manners and keeping him at a reserved, ladylike distance. She entertained him at dinner, saw to his creature comforts through Mrs. Russell, and always reaffirmed the notion that, above all things, Bellefleur came first and foremost. This last alone endeared her to Harlow, and he now believed himself to be getting a veritable treasure, thanks to Chelsea’s keen acting ability. He repaid her in kind with compliments and praise and never overstepped the bounds she’d established. But Chelsea was well aware of the effect she had on him and knew that he was growing impatient to lay claim to Chelsea herself. The prospect of becoming his wife sometimes struck her with a wild desperation. She had only to witness his treatment of his children and to remember his attack on her to know how insensitive and cold he could be. There was every possibility that once the marriage took place, she, too, would fall prey to his ruthlessness.

  When Chelsea’s thoughts took her as far as actual marriage to Harlow, she quickly occupied herself with other things. It was as difficult to see a life for herself at Bellefleur as it was to picture herself out on her own again, without the sort of life Bellefleur promised. She told herself that this was just another role she was playing, all the while biding her time to find a way to get to Quaid. There was only one man in her heart, and she dreamed of him each night after allowing Harlow a modest kiss on her cheek.

  Somehow, some way, Quaid would come to her rescue and save her from her duplicities. How could she have ever thought him a common farmer? How could she have been so blind as to let ambition stand in the way of her having the only man she’d ever known who could set her pulse racing and accept her for herself? That he hadn’t actually offered marriage when he’d asked her to come to Clonmerra with him … well, that was a simple detail time would correct. It worked in her favor that Quaid and Harlow were fervent enemies. After all, if Quaid had any feelings for her at all, and she knew he did, he wouldn’t want Harlow to have her. All she had to do was arrange a meeting, preferably by chance, and then allow things to take their natural course.