A Matter of Indiscretion

by Jackie Barbosa

  She thudded back into the chair and winced because her bottom was still sore from the endless hours in the carriage. “Fine. You are right. I am not good for anything but sleeping right now.”

  “I will go downstairs while you get ready for bed. That is, if you think you can manage on your own.”

  The longer she examined her body’s signals, the more unsure she was that she could manage on her own, but she was also not going to put either herself or him through the agony of his helping her to undress and don her night rail. That would be like unveiling a banquet in front of a starving man and then denying him permission to eat. For both of them. “Yes, I can manage,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

  With a nod, he stood. As he turned to walk toward the door, she caught sight of the unmistakable bulge in the front of his well-fitted breeches, and all the yearning she had managed to tamp down swelled up inside her like a storm cloud, ready to burst into a torrent. But before anything could come of her loss of control, he was out the door and closing it gently behind him.

  She squeezed her thighs together in an effort to lock down the ache that gathered between them and swore under her breath in an entirely filthy and unladylike manner.

  This was only the first night. The fall was inevitable. Resistance was futile.

  13

  By the time Thomas returned to the room, Sabine was asleep on the far side of the bed, entirely obscured beneath a thick layer of blankets. Thanks to a decidedly unhealthy dose of brandy and his own exhaustion—he had, after all, been traveling almost nonstop for the better part of two weeks—he was able to climb atop the bedclothes, fully clothed, and fall asleep almost immediately.

  He also rose before she did the following morning, which saved him the indignity of explaining that his erection upon waking was a function of basic biology and had nothing—or at least very little—to do with the fact that he had snuggled up against her for warmth during the night. Having slept atop the covers, he was able to roll off the bed without disturbing her and managed to accomplish his morning toilet in the weak light that seeped in through the crack in the heavy curtains. Once he had finished washing, shaving, and dressing, he sat on the edge of the bed and shook her shoulder gently to rouse her.

  She came to consciousness slowly, her bright blue eyes dulled with sleep and, he suspected, the after-effects of too much alcohol the night before. Before going to bed, she had plaited her hair somewhat haphazardly, and the braid hung over her shoulder, resting over one breast like a brightly colored signaling beacon. Thomas’s fingers itched.

  “Mm, what time is it?” she asked, her voice thick.

  “Between six-thirty and seven, I would guess. But we should be on the road as soon as possible. I would like to make La Chapelle d’Angillon tonight, and that is nearly as far from here as Duval’s was from Igny.”

  Levering herself into a sitting position, she grimaced and gave him an embarrassed smile. “I drank too much wine last night.”

  “Perhaps a touch,” he agreed. He should have been relieved, truthfully, that she had over-imbibed. If she had been sober when she’d asked him what they would be doing if they were married, God knew he might not have been able to stop himself from showing her. And yet, he was more than a little disappointed that he hadn’t been forced to try.

  Or to fail.

  “Ugh,” she said, licking her lips and making a face. “I will not make that mistake again. I feel dreadful.”

  Which meant he’d get a chance to try or fail tonight.

  “But you had a good, long sleep as a result,” he assured her, “and you will probably feel better after you eat. I will go downstairs and order breakfast. How long will you need to get ready?”

  “A half an hour.”

  “Very well. I will be back with food then, but make sure you have your hair covered, just in case I am not alone.”

  She pressed her fingers to her temples and nodded.

  He fled as quickly as he could to prevent himself from taking over the effort of easing her pain from her and thereby falling into something he couldn’t climb back out of. Something deep and tender and far more dangerous than mere physical attraction.

  “So, how is your English?” Thomas asked once they were underway. After everything that had transpired yesterday, he knew they needed something to keep them occupied over the course of the many hours they would be spending together, or the tension would become too thick for even a knife to cut.

  Sabine scrunched her nose at the question. “Why do you ask? You said everyone speaks French.”

  “All the members of the well-educated, upper-class do. But most of the working class—including most servants—do not, and you will need to be able to communicate with them, too. So,” he asked again, this time in English, “how is your English?”

  “Not very well,” she admitted in the same language, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. “I have a few words, phrases. No more.”

  Thomas switched back to French. “I suspected as much. English is very much a backwater language, after all. Why would you have learned it when you already speak the most common language in the world?”

  “I can speak Italian and German fluently, too, and my Latin and Greek are serviceable.”

  “Of course. You are well-educated. No one but Englishmen and possibly Americans think English is a necessary part of a good education. But if you are going to live in England, you will need at least a basic knowledge of common words and phrases, and we have a lot of time to pass between here and Le Havre, so we could get started on that now. If you would like,” he added, recalling her distaste for being ordered around.

  “Yes,” she said in English. “That idea likes me.”

  He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching just a little at the grammatical error, which was a perfectly sensible one for a native French speaker to make. “I like that idea,” he corrected. “Or that idea pleases me.” He switched back to French. “The English ‘please’ is closer to plaire than ‘like.’ ‘Like’ is closer to aimer or savourir.”

  Her expression cleared. “That idea pleases me, mais I like that idea.”

  “Just so. Either is fine, but the second is more…informal.”

  She nodded, and he could see her mind working through additional concepts and trying to translate them to English. “I like the color…” she began, then pointed at his coat, “…blue. Yes?”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “I like…” she cast about for something else to like, and her gaze fell on the bonnet lying on the seat beside her, “…no, I like not bonnets.”

  “Do not like.”

  She gave him a profoundly annoyed look. “That makes no sense at all,”

  she objected in French. “That is an entirely unnecessary extra word.”

  He snorted. “You are right. English is inconsistent and perplexing. But do not worry too much. If you tell people you ‘like not bonnets,’ they will understand your meaning.”

  “But they will probably laugh and make fun of me.”

  “Not to your face. You are the premiere’s daughter, after all. And you can snicker about their terrible French accents and occasional grammatical errors behind their backs. I know I do. The British elite may speak French, but they don’t speak it like natives.”

  “You do,” she pointed out.

  “Because I learned French from the cradle and from a native Lyonnaise. Few English people have ever spoken to someone who is a native French speaker, much less learned the language from someone who is.”

  “If you say so. But I do not see how I am going to learn English in ten days. Especially since it is so inconsistent.”

  “You will not learn English, but I am sure you can learn enough to get by with servants and most other non-French speakers you encounter. We just need to begin with common questions, requests, and phrases. For you, that starts with things related to horses, since you will have to hire a new stable master and stable hands once you’re settled
in England. So, let’s start with that.”

  “That sounds…good.” Then she added in English, “I like you.”

  “You mean you like it,” he corrected.

  “No,” she said emphatically, “I like you.”

  Sacre bleu, he liked her, too.

  That deep, tender feeling opened up a little wider in front of him, inviting him to fall right in. And he wasn’t even sure any longer that he wanted to escape if he did.

  The weather turned foul shortly after they stopped for lunch, and by late afternoon, it was raining in sheets, and the road became so muddy as to be nearly impassable. Needless to say, they did not reach La Chapelle, but were forced to overnight in a village nearly ten miles short of their original destination. Thomas tried not to fret overmuch at the delay, but if the storm continued into tomorrow at the same intensity, they would miss their planned arrival at the safe house outside Paris by more than a day.

  Due to the harsh conditions, Sabine insisted on seeing to the horses herself, an oddity Thomas explained to the innkeeper by saying that the pair had been her dowry, and she was therefore more concerned for their well-being than most women would be. The innkeeper, a short man with a round, ruddy face and a barrel chest, had taken one look at the Percherons and agreed that the pair were certainly an asset well worth protecting.

  While Sabine was out in the stables, Thomas invited Joubert for a drink in the public house, which the young man accepted after changing out of his sodden clothes. Thomas hoped the convivial imbibing of spirits might lessen his sense that Joubert was going to be the mission’s downfall, but if anything, the conversation increased his sense of impending doom.

  Joubert was halfway into his second brandy when he announced, with the utter conviction of youth, “She does not belong in England. My uncle could keep her safe here in France.”

  “For the love of Christ, keep your voice down,” Thomas whispered. “We are in a public house. And do you think your uncle would have supported this effort if he felt he could offer a better alternative?”

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “But it is miserable sitting up there all day alone, driving. I knew it would be unpleasant, but I thought I would at least have the opportunity to talk to her at the end of the day. Instead, you keep her locked up in your room and do God knows what with her.”

  Thomas ground his teeth. He’d known the boy had developed a tendré for Sabine from that first night in Vornay, but he hadn’t realized how much it had skewed Joubert’s perception of reality. “I do not keep her locked up. She stays in the room to reduce the risk of being seen and recognized,” he gritted out. “You will notice she is not in the room now, but out in the stables seeing to the horses, something you would have volunteered to help her with if you were any kind of driver. But instead you are in here where it is warm and dry.” Joubert opened his mouth, but Thomas held up a hand to stay his objection. “As to what I am doing with her, I am not accountable to you or anyone but her, but please feel free to ask her whether I treat her with anything less than the respect she is due.”

  The boy’s mouth made several ineffectual opening and closing motions before he finally sputtered, “Well, I can hardly ask her since I never see her! I will tell you what—tomorrow, you can drive the carriage, and I will sit with her in comfort all day and be her husband for the night. How about that?”

  Thomas had to thank his training as a diplomat for his ability to keep from rolling his eyes. “You were sent to drive us to Le Havre, Monsieur Joubert, and that is what you will do. But even if I were willing to take on the task of driving, I cannot, because I do not have the proper attire for such a role.” He heaved a ragged breath, trying to regain his temper. He needed to smooth this over, or Joubert actually might do something reckless in the belief that he was protecting a helpless young woman from a ruthless despoiler. “I realize that today must have been especially difficult, given the weather, and I appreciate your concern for her well-being. I will make sure tomorrow morning that you have adequate opportunity to speak with her to assure yourself of her safety. But we cannot be at odds with one another if we are to keep her safe from the true threat, and you understand as well as I do that threat is not me.”

  Joubert tossed back the last of his brandy, his pretty golden curls glinting in the illumination of the oil lamp mounted on the wall behind him. “Alone?”

  “Alone?” Thomas repeated.

  “I mean, you will allow me to speak to her alone? Where you cannot overhear. If you are mistreating her, she might be afraid to say so in your hearing.”

  God save me from knights in shining armor! “Yes, where I cannot overhear.”

  “That is acceptable, I suppose,” the boy allowed. He rose to his feet, swaying just enough to demonstrate that he’d imbibed rather more than his limit. “Now, I need the privy.”

  Thomas watched the young man walk rather unsteadily to the back of the pub and shook his head. He didn’t know if he had made the situation better or worse, but he felt fairly certain he had changed it.

  14

  Pleased with the thorough grooming she had given Gaston and Copine and assured that both animals were healthy and sound despite the rigors of the past few days, Sabine slunk back to the room via the coaching inn’s back stairs to avoid being seen. Anyone who had caught sight of her in the stables attending to her horses must have thought her a strange sight—a woman wearing a plain woolen dress, work boots, and a fancy white lace-trimmed bonnet with an exceptionally deep brim—but hopefully, they would imagine she was attempting to conceal a rash or an unsightly birthmark rather than her identity.

  Monsieur Pearce was not in the room when she opened the door with her key, for which she was grateful. Despite the cold, wet weather, she was as damp with sweat as with rain after her labors, and she wanted to wash up.

  The water in the pitcher on the basin stand was cold, but she found a pot over the grate in which to heat it. While the water warmed, she removed her bonnet, took down the braid she had tucked up beneath it, and unplaited her hair. Once she finished brushing out the wavy strands, she checked the water and found the temperature to her satisfaction. She poured it back into the pitcher and carried it to the basin stand, then removed her boots and stripped off her dress, laying it over the back of one of the two wooden chairs. After scooting the second chair closer to the basin stand, she removed her stays and chemise, baring herself to the waist, and laid them on top of the dress. Then she poured some water into the basin and began the process of washing.

  She might have heard the key turn in the lock if there had not been such a racket in the courtyard below the window. A carriage had just come into the yard, and between the rain pelting the glass and the shouts of people trying to direct the horses and coach to the stable, the snick of the key was indistinguishable from the other noises.

  And thus she found herself, naked but for her drawers and stockings, staring into Monsieur Pearce’s very brown and very…hungry eyes. He stopped in the doorway, his gaze fixed on her in the way a cat might fix on a mouse hole—focused, intent, ready to pounce.

  Her nipples, already hard as a result of being damp in the none-too-warm room, drew to almost painful peaks, and the flesh between her thighs seemed to swell and grow warmer, wetter. Any sensation of being cold fled. She should get up, should grab something to cover herself, but she couldn’t seem to move, pinned by his stare.

  Instead, she said, “You had better close the door.”

  He could have turned and walked back out the door again, shutting it after he left, but instead, he pushed it closed behind him. “I should have knocked,” he said in a gravelly tone that seemed to her half apology, half explanation.

  “I should have heard the key and called out,” she answered.

  He took two steps in her direction. “I did not know you were back yet.”

  She stood, dropping the cloth she had been using to wash herself on the basin. “I see that.”

  His han
ds were fisted at his sides, his shoulders high and taut. “I should leave and let you finish.” But he didn’t make any move to go.

  “I was as good as done anyway.”

  She wasn’t sure how it happened, because she had no recollection of either of them having moved, but they stood within arm’s reach of one another now, as though gravity had somehow drawn them together without any effort on their parts. Her skin was damp but aflame with the heat radiating from his gaze. The air crackled with pent-up emotion, with barely leashed restraint. She forced herself not to reach out, not to be the first to touch. Not this time. This time, the choice had to be his.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. She could see the pulse beating there—fast but steady. With a shudder, he reached out with one hand…and grabbed a towel from the rack beside the basin stand. Pressing the dry cloth against her torso, he used it to create the thinnest of barriers between them as he stepped in closer to her. So close she could feel the warmth of his body and smell him—mint and cloves and man.

  “I am not leaving because I want to,” he told her, his voice low and so rough, it vibrated her bones. “I am leaving because I want to not leave more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, and that makes me certain that I am not in control of myself.”

  She clutched the towel to herself as he pulled away. “I think I would prefer you not in control.” Her voice trembled a little. Pleading, perhaps.

  He shook his head. “No, you would not. Because you have no idea of the things I am imagining doing to you and with you, and that is a side of me you are not prepared to see. Or perhaps it is a side I am not yet prepared to let you see.” His eyes closed, and he seemed to regain a thread of his composure, for he said in a nearly emotionless tone, “I will go and order our dinner now.”