Claudia fell gracefully in a cloud of dark green silk onto the chair across from the nervous footman and leaned across the table, looking earnestly at him. After a moment of animated conversation between the footman and the innkeeper, the innkeeper hurried away. She smiled fully at the footman then, and Julian felt the force of it from clear across the room. She had smiled at Phillip like that once, across the table at a Christian family fete.
He shook his head, jerking at his collar as it had gotten incredibly warm all of a sudden, and decided that he was hardly in a mood to suffer the Demon’s Spawn just now, particularly after she had made it quite clear at Château la Claire that she despised him. Well good God, when he had come to France to surprise his sister Eugenie with an impromptu visit, he had no idea she would be at Château la Claire. With the exception of an occasional glimpse of her from across a crowded ballroom, he had not seen her since Phillip’s death almost eighteen months ago. He would never have even ventured across the Channel if he thought it remotely possible she would be here!
And just how in the hell was it that she could look even more luminous now than she had a fortnight ago when he had encountered her so unexpectedly?
Sighing heavily, Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t possible for her to look any more beautiful than she had that day when she had appeared as if walking out of his dreams, gliding barefoot across that wide green lawn with his two nieces, who were dressed in little medieval costumes. The whole scene had been so surprising that it had literally taken his breath away. His heart had begun to pound like a drum, his palms had gone all sweaty, and he had stood there like a dolt, completely mesmerized as she came to the fountain terrace where he was standing.
He had smiled at her—at least he thought he had. Her blue-gray eyes had warily assessed him, a probing gaze that unexpectedly unnerved him, and he had quickly leaned down to hide his discomfort behind a kiss for little Jeannine. “You look like a princess, my love,” he had remarked.
“I’m a knight.”
“Me, too,” chirped Dierdre, lifting a child’s wooden sword for his inspection.
“Ah, I see,” Julian drawled, and flicked his gaze to Claudia. “And you are …?”
The girls giggled; the briefest hint of a smile graced Claudia’s lips. “Merlin, of course. This is Sir Lancelot,” she said, motioning to Jeannine, “and Sir Gawain.”
Dierdre suddenly smacked his shin with her sword; the two girls looked at him, their faces turned up like daisies as they waited for his reaction. Julian grimaced. “Slaying dragons, I take it.”
Claudia smiled then, and Julian felt his fool heart plunge to his toes. “You might say that,” she said, laughing when Dierdre whacked him again. Only harder.
“Darling, I am not a dragon,” he kindly informed his niece, restraining the urge to snatch the wooden sword from her chubby little hand and break it over his knee.
“In France you are,” Claudia blithely informed him, and Jeannine walloped him with her sword, mimicking her sister. Julian hastily stepped out of their reach as Claudia asked, “What brings you to Château la Claire?”
God, if only he knew. “You might say the wind blew me here,” he said with a shrug, and suddenly found himself captivated by the shades of dark gold mixed with the earth brown of her hair.
“It must have been a gale,” Claudia remarked. Her lips moved erotically over those words, and the desire to touch those lips with his own was almost overwhelming … until Dierdre poked him in the gut with the tip of her sword. “Are you passing through, then?”
Wincing, Julian lied, “For a time.” In truth, he hadn’t the slightest notion of what he was doing in France, or for how long, or what came next. The only thing he knew for certain was that the London Season had ended, and with it, the distraction of the festivities surrounding Parliament.
She had cocked her head thoughtfully to one side, and aware that he was gazing at her too intently, Julian smiled down at his nieces, grabbing Jeannine’s sword before she slammed the tip into the toe of his boot. “Shall I show the knights a bit of swordplay?”
That pleased Sirs Lancelot and Gawain enormously, but much to Julian’s chagrin, Claudia was quick to relinquish her claim on the little knights. She stepped back, bid the girls mind they not hurt their uncle too terribly much, and with one last flick of her blue-gray eyes across him, had abruptly turned toward the château. Julian had watched her walk away, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue and a longing unfurling through his body until his nieces had demanded his attention.
Now, in Dieppe, Claudia chatted with the footman over two tankards of ale as if they were old friends. Fine. She chatted with a footman, but she had barely spoken to him at all those few days at Château la Claire.
Not that he wasn’t glad for it. He had felt like a clumsy oaf around her, his tongue like leather, unable to speak French or English. He, Julian Dane, a man who had seduced and bedded more women than he could count reduced to a blathering idiot in her presence.
And exactly when had that malady stricken him?
He hadn’t always felt such yearning for Claudia Whitney. Years ago he had thought her an amusing child, then an annoying miss, and then a shy young lady. She had practically grown up with his sisters. The only child of the powerful Earl of Redbourne—her mother having died in childbirth—Claudia met Eugenie and Valerie at an exclusive school for girls shortly after Julian’s father had died, and the three became fast friends. When Julian decided the girls’ education would be better delivered—and received—under his supervision and with a host of tutors at Kettering Hall, Eugenie and Valerie had pined for their friend until Julian wrote Lord Redbourne to request Lady Claudia visit the country for a month or so. Thus began what was to become an annual summer event for the Dane sisters and Lady Claudia until they were grown.
He certainly hadn’t longed for her then, he thought, noticing a man at a nearby table looking at her like a dog salivating over a piece of meat. He could hardly blame the poor chap—Claudia had a way of capturing a man’s attention. She was strikingly beautiful—a little taller than average, slender, and terribly curvaceous. She followed her own rules and set her own standards. If Claudia Whitney determined the grass would be blue, half the bloody ton would follow suit. She refused to bow to the latest fashions, yet she possessed more grace than the most fashionable. Somewhere along the way, when he wasn’t looking, the little demon had blossomed into a beautiful and poised woman.
In the last few years, Lord Redbourne, as a member of the Privy Council, had King William’s ear on most matters. His home on Berkeley Street was one of the most popular London residences on which to call, and that was due, in large part, to Claudia. It was said that an invitation to one of her supper parties was as coveted as an invitation to Carlton House. She was witty and clever and not afraid to enjoy life. Yet for all her bravado, she had a soft heart and eagerly used her position to gather donations for various worthy causes. It was that which Julian admired most about her—not that he didn’t appreciate her beauty enormously—but he admired her even more for being her own woman, and an alluring one at that.
It was funny, he mused, that he had never really noticed her until two or three years ago. But one evening at some ball or another, he had seen her as if for the first time. He could recall it vividly—she was dressed in a gown of gray velvet, decorated with tiny little sequins that reflected the light around her. Her hair was artfully done in a simple twist and fastened with jewel-tipped pins that rivaled the sparkle in her dress. When she had entered the ballroom on her father’s arm, it had seemed as if the world had stopped to catch its breath. She had been a brilliant, ravishing young woman with clear blue-gray eyes that could pierce a man’s very soul and a voluptuous shape that begged for his arms.
In the space of that single evening, Julian’s esteem for Claudia the Woman had rooted in his heart and sprouted like a weed.
Unfortunately, so had Phillip’s.
The strange sen
se of discomfort came over him again, the odd feeling that he was packed into his skin too tightly, and he wondered for the thousandth time what might have happened had he noticed her first. But Phillip had beaten him to it, and the unwritten code of honor the Rogues had forged through twenty years of friendship had demanded he deny his growing attraction to Claudia.
Heaven help him, he had tried desperately to deny it—had pushed it down, tried drowning it with whiskey and an endless round of parties—but none of it had worked, and he despised himself for his inability to stay completely away from her. Even after Phillip was dead, he felt guilty for even thinking of her.
Julian suddenly drained the last of his tankard. Guilt had eaten at him these long months, and when he had seen Claudia at Eugenie’s, the discomfort had seized him with a vengeance. Unfortunately, it had only gotten worse in the course of the next few days at Château la Claire when he realized that Claudia was completely indifferent to him. Good Lord, she seemed to prefer the company of sheep to him, taking long walks where no one could find her, eating her meals in the solitude of her rooms. After enduring several days of her aloofness, he had eagerly accepted an invitation to accompany Louis to Paris where he had enthusiastically numbed himself until that Frog had intervened.
Thinking of which, he could certainly use a whiskey now, and tugged again at his insufferable collar.
He was sick to death of denying his longing for her. Phillip had been dead for more than a year. Whatever he thought he might have done differently, however he may have contributed to his friend’s tragic death, the fact remained that Phillip was gone and there was no earthly reason why he should deny what was in his heart any longer. If Claudia could befriend a lowly footman, he thought irritably as she lifted her tankard to her lips, then she could very well treat him as if he were someone other than a malevolent stranger. Frankly, he could not remember a time when a woman had ever treated him with such disdain. Ridiculous little chit—who did she think she was?
Julian looked away, searching for the innkeeper. Catching that man’s attention, he signaled for another tankard, then glanced toward Claudia’s table again, and started badly. She was looking straight at him; her clear blue-gray eyes boring a hole clean through him.
Unbelievable!
How was it possible that of all the days, the hours, the moments in villages and countries around the world, he should appear here, in a small inn in an even smaller French village? He was supposed to be in Paris! her mind screamed, and after all the trouble she had gone to just to make doubly sure she would not see him, here he was!
Maybe her mind was playing a trick on her. Maybe that handsome gentleman was actually unknown to her—after all, it was growing rather dark, and he was sitting in the shadows. She pivoted in her seat. “Herbert,” she said to the footman, indicating the man in question, “Qui est-ce?”
Herbert squinted at the gentleman; a smile spread across his face. “Monsieur le Comte de Kettering, madame.”
Oh, honestly! Claudia turned toward the wastrel again and he smoothly acknowledged her with a nod. All right, all right, how long until the packet boat sailed? Three hours? Maybe four? She was not going to invite him to her table. She would preempt him, have Herbert send the innkeeper to tell him he was not welcome!
“Herbert,” she began, then paused, pressing her palm to her forehead as she racked her brain for an appropriate French phrase. As none was forthcoming, she slid her gaze to the rogue again as the innkeeper placed another tankard in front of him. One corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile; he lifted his tankard in silent salute.
Lord God, the man was impossibly handsome, she thought as he came indolently to his feet. An Adonis, really. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet. His wavy black hair was far too long, nearly to his shoulders but terribly appealing—particularly as unkempt as it was, with one thick lock draping his forehead. His coal black eyes reminded her of a raven, keen and glittering as if they focused on his prey. His nose was perfectly straight and patrician, his face sculpted into high cheekbones and a square jaw that was covered with the shadow of a beard. He possessed a pair of broad shoulders, but even more startling, she thought wildly as he started toward her, was that his legs looked to be all muscle in the form-fitting trousers he was wearing, impossibly long—and the unmistakable protrusion between them … oh, Lord.… Suddenly frantic, Claudia turned to Herbert and whispered loudly, “Herbert! Ah … aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît!”
Her clumsy request for help startled Herbert. “Pardon?”
She could hear each clop clop clop of his boots on the oak planks as he neared them. “Don’t let him sit here!” she whispered madly.
A light dawned on Herbert’s face. “Ah!” he exclaimed, and nodding eagerly, straightened in his chair as Kettering came to a halt next to their table. Herbert fairly exploded into French, gesturing wildly at Claudia, then his foot. Kettering folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to one hip as he listened patiently to the footman, nodding occasionally. His casual stance belied his appearance; his neckcloth was stained, his coat rumpled, and the heavy stubble of his beard suggested that he hadn’t shaved in more than a day. Actually, he looked as if he had been involved in some altercation. As Claudia was pondering that, his gaze slid to her and one brow arched quizzically. From the sound of it, Herbert was now explaining the unfortunate accident—mimicking his version of events, naturally—and then he made the unmistakable gesture for Kettering to sit.
“No!” she cried, and grabbed the back of the empty chair as she jerked her gaze to the blackguard. His black eyes were gleaming with delight. “Merci bien, monsieur, je vous suis très reconnaissant,” he said to the footman, and then to her, “You don’t understand a word, do you?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Not many,” she confessed irritably.
He laughed then, crinkling the corners of his eyes and revealing straight, white teeth. “I always suspected you were lax in your studies,” he remarked as he pulled the chair away from her and sat. Before she could respond that she was not lax in her studies, but preferred to study something more exciting than dead languages and needlework, he had turned to Herbert and spoke what sounded like flawless French.
The poor footman, having spent the better part of the afternoon unable to communicate, responded excitedly, gesticulating toward the table and the ale and at her—undoubtedly revealing everything about her flight from la Claire. Judging by the way Kettering cast looks of amusement at her, Herbert was embellishing the whole, rather innocent story. After all, she had left Eugenie a perfectly suitable letter explaining her need to return to England, etc., etc., etc. What harm was there? Eugenie might have been gone for weeks visiting Louis’s ailing aunt! Oh, but she had to leave—she had to be gone from Château la Claire before he returned. Before his presence dredged up all the regret and sorrow she’d felt over Phillip’s death. She had explained all that to the ridiculous footman.
Herbert abruptly collapsed against the back of his chair, exhausted. He had, apparently, finished his explanation of what they were doing in Dieppe and why his foot was wounded.
Kettering shot her a sidelong glance. “Are you in the habit of running over all footmen, or do you reserve that for the French ones alone?” he asked casually.
Claudia frowned at Herbert. “Well, I certainly didn’t ask him to drive me, and I hardly meant to run over his foot, but …” Wait. What was she doing? She did not owe this rogue any explanation! He was looking quite amused, and she was suddenly reminded of the many times she and Eugenie and Valerie had been called to his study to account for some misdeed. Would you care to try and explain your behavior? Or shall we move directly to your punishment?
She looked him square in the eye. “How is it that you are now in Dieppe? Did the tide wash you up?”
He laughed roundly at that, and though she was loath to acknowledge it, the rich sound of his laughter actually made her skin tingle. “Something like that,” he said, grinning.
The brow arched again. “Actually, I thought to join you.”
Oh, fine! Claudia frowned. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, my lord, but I prefer not to have company presently.”
He ignored her and glanced curiously at her tankard. “Ale, Claudia? Rather pedestrian for you, isn’t it?”
“I adore ale!”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Yes, indeed. I drink buckets of it every day.” Oh good Lord, what a ridiculous thing to have said!
Smiling, Kettering said something to the footman. Whatever it was, the two of them shared a belly laugh over it. “Might I inquire what you find so terribly amusing, sir?” she asked, glowering at him.
He surprised her by suddenly leaning forward. “Why do you address me so formally, Claudia? You have called me by my Christian name since you were a girl, when you most certainly should have addressed me formally.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Don’t you suppose we are acquainted well enough to dispense with the formalities?”
No! Well … maybe. Honestly, she hardly knew him well enough anymore to know what to call him. He wasn’t the same man she had known in her childhood, something she realized the day he had called on her to explain in that condescending way of his that she wasn’t good enough for Lord Rothembow and should therefore set her sights on other men. This from the man who led Phillip to his demise with the constant gambling and drinking and Lord knew what else. Granted, sitting beside her now he looked the very same as the Julian Dane she had known all those years ago. The same Julian Dane who still made her insides turn to jelly. But he couldn’t possibly be the same man, because that Julian Dane had disappeared when Valerie died, only to be replaced by this imposter. This incredibly handsome, exceedingly virile imposter.
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