The French Maid

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Darling? Please? The uncharacteristic words moistened her parched heart, and she swayed toward him. He clasped her close as he lowered her to the bed, showering her with kisses, covering her with caresses.

  They made love quickly, both of them overeager and fired by need. Emboldened by his earlier response, she tried things she’d never attempted, caressed him in places she’d previously assumed were unacceptable—arching her body into him as she sought to learn every part of this man she scarcely knew.

  And as he took her, it felt as if he struck to her very soul. She opened to receive him as she never really had before. “Ah, my darling wife,” he growled into her ear as he drove harder, deeper, faster. “You are exquisite, my angel …”

  That was all it took to make her explode and cry out her release in his arms.

  After they were done, he dragged her into his arms, and whispered, “You’re a seductress, Eleanor, a bloody seductress. Why did you never show it before?”

  She smiled with immense satisfaction. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention.”

  He nuzzled her hair. “Well, I’m damn well paying attention now.”

  Clasping her close, he settled her against his chest. She waited for the easy breathing that generally signaled the end to their intimacies, but instead he talked. And talked. And talked some more.

  He asked her questions and told her of his childhood. He coaxed her into doing the same. She was stunned by the secrets he kept inside, as stunned as she was by the secrets that poured from her own mouth.

  When he made love to her again later, she knew something had changed between them, for he’d never made love to her more than once in a night. And this time it was a slow burning sparked with tenderness, followed by a sweet pleasure that drowned her in contentment.

  As at last they drifted off to sleep, she hugged him close. Tomorrow everything would be different. Babette had been right. All it took was boldness. Why hadn’t she tried it before?

  * * *

  When she awakened, she felt a faint unease to find she was alone. Surely Henry had stayed the night as usual. She glanced at the clock and jerked upright.

  Oh, dear, it was already 9 a.m. No wonder he was gone— Henry always rose quite early. If he wasn’t in his room, Henry would be fretting at the breakfast table. She hurried from the bed and tried the connecting door, but it was locked as always. That bothered her a bit, but she tried not to read too much into it. Henry liked his privacy, after all.

  Changing out of her new nightdress buoyed her spirits once more, however, for she couldn’t help remembering how Henry had slowly stripped it from her last night, turning every brush of silk into an enticing seduction.

  She was still blushing when she strolled into the dressing room to find Babette waiting for her. “You look … contented,” the maid said smugly.

  Eleanor’s blush deepened. “I am contented, thanks to you.”

  “I only gave a little push. You did the rest.”

  “Was Henry here when you came in earlier?” Eleanor asked.

  “No. Perhaps he returned to his own room?”

  Tamping down her disappointment, Eleanor said, “I don’t think so. He’s probably already at breakfast.”

  “You must not expect everything to change overnight, my lady.”

  “I know.” Still, today was their wedding anniversary, and she had hoped …

  But surely he would not have forgotten, not now, not after last night. She brightened. He might be awaiting her downstairs this very moment with a gift. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t stayed.

  As soon as she finished dressing, she hastened to the dining room, but instead of Henry, she found a note lying on the plate set at her place. She opened the folded paper, her heart sinking as she read the terse words:

  Sorry I couldn’t join you for breakfast, but I have an important Parliament session to prepare for. I’ll be in my study. Do have a tray sent in to me before time for the session this afternoon. If I’m late tonight, don’t wait up.

  She read the words twice, a cold despair snaking about her heart as she crumpled the note in her hand. Nothing had changed. Only this time, it was so much worse. Her disappointment was so intense it destroyed her dreams for the future and shattered her pleasure in last night’s intimacies.

  Numbly, she climbed the stairs to her room. Until now, she’d always considered the image of a heart breaking to be silly. A heart was made of flesh and muscle—how could such a thing break?

  But now she could swear she heard her heart crack, split right down the center. She certainly felt the pain radiate through her limbs.

  When she entered her room, Babette was there, but Eleanor paid the maid’s surprised look no heed. Instead, she walked to the clothespress and began dragging out gowns and tossing them onto her bed, the one she’d shared so joyously with Henry only last night.

  “Babette, please have John bring my trunk from the attic,” she said in her coolest, most mistress-like voice, to discourage the French Maid from further conversation.

  She should have known better. “What are you doing, my lady?” Babette asked.

  Eleanor whirled around. “Do you know what today is? It’s the first anniversary of my wedding to Henry. I expected… I hoped…” She broke off, emotion choking her throat. “It doesn’t matter. This is what Henry has planned for our special day.” She dropped the note at Babette’s feet, then continued folding clothes into neat little piles.

  Babette scanned the note swiftly, then cursed in French under her breath. Eleanor couldn’t make out the words, but thought that she’d called Henry an ass. Eleanor quite agreed.

  Babette lifted her head. “So you are running away.”

  “Yes. Go on, say whatever you like.” Eleanor’s lower lip trembled, though she struggled for calm. “I’m going to visit my mother for a few days. With any luck, things will have returned to normal when I come back.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No!” Clutching a half-folded petticoat against her belly, Eleanor bent her head to hide her tears. “I want Henry to love me as I love him. But trying to make him love me is not working.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s too hard, and it hurts too much when he doesn’t. Perhaps you’re right—I am lazy and afraid to risk my heart. But I’ll go mad if this keeps happening. I’d rather go back to the way it was before, when I didn’t know …”

  She choked back tears. “When I didn’t realize how wonderful he can be when he chooses and what I’m missing when he locks himself away.” Her eyes met Babette’s sympathetic ones, and she swallowed. “There are too many locked doors between us, Babette. And I lack the beauty or the strength or … something to break them down.”

  She’d expected an argument from Babette, who’d been such a fountain of advice yesterday. But apparently the fountain had dried up, for the French Maid merely said, “I understand” and began to help her pack.

  * * *

  Henry sat in his study and stared blindly at the pages in front of him. That was all he’d done for the past two hours, all he’d been able to manage.

  He couldn’t stop thinking of last night. No matter how much he tried to concentrate on his work, he kept remembering the surprises … the warmth … the sweet caresses. He could still hear Eleanor’s hushed voice washing over him, commiserating with all the nonsensical pains of his childhood, all the minor disappointments of his life. Last night Eleanor had crept inside where no one ever had, and the truth was, it terrified him.

  He hadn’t meant to let her in. Deep down he’d probably always known that if he did, she’d turn his world upside down. And now she had. One night of bliss, and she already invaded sacrosanct territory—his work, his thoughts, his control. What would she expect of him after this?

  What demands would she make upon his time, his energies?

  How could he possibly satisfy them?

  Damn her! It had been so much easier to move in the comfortable flow of marriage, without
thinking, without worrying about her feelings. It had differed little from being a bachelor, except that a wife had proved to be pleasant company whenever he required such a thing.

  But now …

  Now he’d tasted what it was like to have more. It was anything but comfortable or easy. And he wasn’t at all sure he liked it.

  A knock sounded at the door, and despite his misgivings, he hurried to unlock it, sure that it was Eleanor, wanting inexplicably to see her.

  To his surprise, it was not Eleanor standing there when he opened the door, but the French Maid he’d hired for her. And she looked decidedly grim.

  He stiffened in disappointment. “Good morning, Babette. I know that you are new to our household, but someone should have informed you that I do not like being disturbed when I am in my study.”

  Her eyes flashed at him. “I have come with a message from my mistress. She left an hour ago to visit her parents in the country. That is all.”

  Something very like panic filled his chest before he quelled it. “She left? Without informing me? I don’t understand.”

  She sniffed. “That does not surprise me.” Cocking her head, she examined him with cold gaze. “Tell me, my lord, do you know what today is?”

  “It’s Thursday.”

  “No, no, the date. Do you even realize the significance of the date?”

  This conversation made no sense to him at all. He thought a moment. “The 26th of April. Why?”

  “It is your first wedding anniversary, my lord. Perhaps such a date is of no significance to a man, but to a woman—”

  “Enough,” he murmured as shame swept over him. “I can’t believe I forgot it.” Then he realized that he was explaining himself to a lady’s maid, and he drew himself up haughtily. “Thank you for the reminder, Babette. Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “If you had remembered, would you have troubled yourself to buy your wife a gift? Do you even know what colors she likes, what scents are her favorites, what jewelry she prefers? For that matter, do you know her dreams and hopes, what she wishes from you? Do you know anything about her at all?”

  He thought of last night’s intimacies and his regret deepened. When he caught the maid’s hard gaze on him, he scowled. “What I know about my wife is none of your concern.”

  “Which means you know nothing, and have never bothered to find out.” She snorted. “I was right—you are the laziest man I ever saw.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he protested, his dander rising. “Did she tell you that? If I forget such things occasionally, it’s because of the important work I do. I’m very industrious, I’ll have you know. Besides, if not for me, she’d still be living with her bloody parents. She’d have no household to preside over, no place of importance in society …” He drew back to glare at her. “And no expensive French lady’s maid, either. Perhaps you should remind her of that the next time she calls me lazy.”

  “She did not call you lazy, my lord. I did. Because you are willing to stand by and let the one truly important thing in your life slip from your fingers without making an effort to hold on to it.”

  His panic returned. “She is not … leaving me for good, is she?”

  She tipped up her chin in the perfect expression of contempt. “Never fear. Good English women do not leave their husbands. Your wife has merely gone to her parents to purge all caring from her soul. When she returns, you may ignore her as much as you wish.” With a toss of her head, she turned away. “She will be the perfect English wife again—obedient, cordial, civil. She will grace your arm at parties and satisfy your needs, but she will never again be so foolish as to bare her heart for you to trample on. You may relax, my lord. You are safe now.”

  And with those impudent words, she swept off down the hall.

  He stood staring after her for several moments. Safe. Never had a word sounded so innocuous and hollow.

  But the chit had the audacity to call him lazy! If she wasn’t careful, Mademoiselle Babette would find herself in the street, blast it! It was absurd to think him lazy when he was so preoccupied with matters of state. What did the Frenchwoman think—that he could spend precious time flitting about London in search of the perfect anniversary gift for his wife? That he could give so much of his energy to such nonsense?

  Eleanor does it for you every day.

  The thought sliced through him from out of nowhere, followed by guilt that rose hot and acid in his throat. It was true. He could not spare time for her, yet she not only to ran his household, but accompanied him to his meetings, shared his passions, took the crumbs of affection he offered. Until now, he’d accepted that as his due. Yet what a sacrifice it must have been for her, of time and energy and devotion.

  In exchange, he offered her one night a week in bed and his companionship for the occasional meal. She waited for him, attended him, did what she could to be part of his life, everything except make demands or intrude upon his privacy. Like the “perfect English wife.”

  An involuntary shudder shook him. He’d once thought that was precisely what he wanted. Now he knew it was not. He wanted the bewitching creature who’d shared his bed last night, the warm woman who’d regaled him with tales of her first dance lessons, the angel who’d listened to his hurts and soothed them with tender words.

  Yet to his shame, he realized Babette was right—he didn’t have the faintest idea what Eleanor liked or what he could give her. He’d never bothered to find out.

  He didn’t know how to keep her. But he would learn. Because he now realized he couldn’t be happy without the Eleanor he’d come to know.

  He only prayed he hadn’t left the learning until too late.

  * * *

  Eleanor had reached the halfway point to her parent’s estate just outside London when it dawned on her that she was being foolish. She bade the coachman turn around, but he had to change the horses, so they stopped at an inn.

  Now she sat inside, drinking a cup of steaming tea and toying with a slice of cake as she waited for the coachman to make arrangements.

  Running off to Mama would not solve anything. She couldn’t go back to the way things were, no matter how long she stayed with her parents. Her feelings for Henry couldn’t be turned on and off like a spigot—now that she’d unleashed them, she’d never be able to force them back into the pipe.

  All she could hope for was to find a way through the swirling whirlpool of emotion. Trying to make Henry care was too painful, but perhaps if she threw herself into reform work or social affairs, spent as little time at home as he did …

  A noise in the inn yard arrested her attention. Someone else had stopped at the inn, and she edged closer to the fire, hoping not to be bothered in her misery.

  Then she heard the familiar deep tones of her husband echo in the empty common room. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our anniversary, Eleanor.”

  Her first reaction was joy that he’d bothered to come after her, that he’d even taken the time to check at all the inns along the route. Then his words sank in, and she rose to face him, all her frustrations twisting into anger. “Don’t tell me you have remembered it.”

  To her shock, he flushed a dark red. She’d never seen Henry embarrassed, and it took her quite by surprise.

  “I admit that I required some help,” he murmured.

  That didn’t exactly assuage her anger. “I suppose Babette told you. I swear, that Frenchwoman has gone too far—”

  “No, I’m glad she did.” He stepped closer, reminding her that they were alone in the room, as private as two people could be in a public inn. “Though I plan to remember our anniversary without prodding next time.”

  Eleanor swallowed, trying not to take hope from that promise. “Do you?”

  “In fact, I plan to do a number of things without prodding in the future.” He searched her face. “But here’s the rub. I don’t know precisely what to do. I’m not used to satisfying a woman’s needs. Would it be asking too much to have you point me in the ri
ght direction on occasion, tell me what you want and what you need?”

  “You’ve never cared about that,” she said warily.

  He winced. “I know. But I care now. And I’ve brought something to prove my sincerity.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. Did she imagine it or did his hand shake as he held it out for her? “Here. This is for you. An anniversary present.”

  She took it, wondering how he could have had time to find her a gift. She’d scarcely been gone two hours. Fingers trembling, she opened the box, but what lay inside merely perplexed her. There were two ordinary-looking keys.

  “One unlocks the study. The other unlocks my connecting door.” He dragged in a harsh breath. “I’ve kept the doors locked between us for too long, my darling. I don’t want to lock you out any more.”

  When she said nothing, her throat too clogged with happy tears for speech, he went on hastily, “I do plan to purchase you a more conventional present, mind you, but you left so quickly, and I did not wish to wait—”

  “No, Henry, it’s perfect. They’re perfect.” She lifted a face filled with joy to him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

  Only then did she realize how difficult it must have been for him to swallow his pride and come after her. His relief was palpable, swamping his features, making him reach for her.

  She went eagerly into his arms, her heart leaping in her chest.

  “I have been such a fool, my darling wife.” He brushed a kiss against her hair. “All this time I’ve had a treasure under my very nose and I was too absorbed in my own affairs to see it.”

  She snuggled against him with a sigh of contentment. “What changed?”

  “You. Me. Everything. Last night I discovered how wonderful our marriage could be, and it frightened me. That’s what I was doing in the study this morning, trying to hide—from you, from myself. And then Babette, of all people, said the oddest thing. She claimed that I was—”

  “Lazy?”

  He drew back to stare at her. “How did you know?”