All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  Meg smiled and shuffled her feet.

  Jean-Marc swung around and saw her. He hitched at his neck cloth, then scowled at the green stains on his fingers.

  “I didn’t know you liked to arrange flowers,” she said, when she could find her voice.

  “I don’t. I made the mistake of telling Mrs. Smothers—the Reverend’s wife—that I wanted to help. Look at this.” He indicated the crowded vase.

  Meg went slowly to his side and contemplated his efforts. “Perhaps you should start yet again. I’ll help you.”

  He studied her for far too long, so long that her skin turned burning hot. “Very well. Why not?” Once more he removed the blossoms and set them down.

  “First, the flowers,” she told him, holding out the white rose he had chosen before. “In the base of the vase there are spikes. Make sure you secure the bottoms of the stems on those.”

  A jab, and the rose stood like a sentinel in the middle of the vase. He actually looked pleased with himself. Several more stems joined the first, and from her direction, Meg noted a list to starboard.

  Next she handed him an iris, but this time she curled her hand around his and guided the way he placed the purple beauty. Flower after flower was dealt with in this manner, with Meg standing at his shoulder, the top of her head level with that shoulder, her breast pressed to his arm.

  She didn’t expect him to swiftly change positions with her, placing her in front of him, with his hand over hers as they finished the task. His breath moved the curls at her temple and brushed the side of her face. Her back melded with his solid chest, her bottom with his groin. She attempted not to notice that she felt him respond to her.

  “What a lovely job you’ve done,” she told him. “You are obviously a natural.”

  He snorted. “Yes, indeed, a natural. The question is, a natural what?”

  “A natural whatever you wish to be or do.”

  His free arm stole around her, and he spread his fingers on her tummy.

  “We are in church,” she pointed out.

  “Yes,” he said, but didn’t stop holding her.

  “I hired a coach to come to Windsor,” she said. “In fact, one of yours was in front of Number Seventeen. When I asked the coachman to recommend where I might find a suitable vehicle, he said he was allowed to take fares and brought me to Windsor. He said I was to pay him after the return journey. That was a forward thing for me to do. I’m sorry.”

  Forward? He thought not, particularly since he had told the coachman to be much in evidence in case Miss Smiles showed the slightest sign of wanting to come to Windsor.

  “I’m glad you came, Meg.” Glad she’d come before he was forced to give up controlling himself and go after her.

  “Thank you.”

  So formal.

  “I realize that you are no longer interested in me,” she said.

  That would probably be, Jean-Marc decided, because he was pressing her against his erection and massaging her belly and thighs while his breathing grew heavier—as did hers.

  “How could you be interested after all that has happened? But just in case you have any bad feelings about what has passed between us, and the way it all turned out, I hoped you would give me a few minutes of your time so that I could tell you all the reasons why you shouldn’t have considered getting involved with me in the first place.”

  “Do you like the church?” he asked.

  Meg didn’t look around but said, “Well, yes, very much, thank you.”

  “Good. So do I. What about Castleberry?”

  “Pretty and inviting.”

  “It will improve shortly. Did you like Riverside when you were there before?”

  “I thought it beautiful. A comfortably elegant place with the feeling of…a home.”

  Ah, good, good. “Very observant of you. When did you last bleed?”

  A silence fell, so thick it roared, and Jean-Marc released Meg, aghast at the bald manner of his very personal question.

  She bowed her head, but not before he saw how her cheeks turned red.

  “That was unpardonable,” he told her. “Please forgive me.”

  “We should leave the church and find a suitable place to talk.”

  “Yes, yes.” He offered her his arm, and she decorously placed her hand there.

  Désirée waited outside, apparently trying to train Halibut to walk at her heel on his ribbon. Jean-Marc met his sister’s eyes and made a decision. “Go ahead with it,” he told her, giving her two sharp nods, the sign they had agreed upon. “I’ll bring Meg back myself.”

  Désirée smiled broadly, but more or less contained her excitement. She gathered up the cat and rushed away without another word. At Riverside she would set great activity in motion.

  Jean-Marc was grateful Meg had been too preoccupied to notice his sister’s high spirits.

  “Would the river suit you?” he asked. “There are so many quiet spots there, and it’s a perfect day.” A perfect day for a man to sabotage his last chance at happiness.

  Without agreeing or disagreeing, Meg took her hand from his arm and led the way. He fell in at her side, and they went the length of the village street to the lane beyond. No word passed between them, other than Meg’s thank-you when Jean-Marc helped her over the stile, and his, “A pleasure,” in response.

  Apprehensive as he was, he couldn’t help noticing how Meg’s pale yellow skirts swished through long grass threaded with bright flowers, how the flowers flattened beneath her hem, only to spring up again as she passed.

  She held her head high. From this angle, her straw bonnet hid her face. A single stray curl at her nape flirted with the skin of her tender neck.

  Too soon they reached the river, and she paused, looking to him for direction.

  He longed to take her hand, but pointed instead to a place beneath a willow, a bower where branches arched and dropped their tips into the satiny waters.

  Jean-Marc reclined on the grass and rested his back against the tree. He held out a hand to Meg. “It’s so peaceful here,” he said. “Join me.”

  She stood over him and said, “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Then I must also stand.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Have you ever thought that a woman might like the advantage of looking down on a man occasionally?”

  “You say the most extraordinary things.” He thought about it. “But you may be right.”

  “I am a fraud,” she said. “I tricked you into hiring me. Finch…Viscountess Kilrood, that is, didn’t suggest I apply to you for a job. She simply mentioned that you and the Viscount are friends, and that you had moved into the square. And, of course, she wrote about your sister and how difficult it would be for you to do all you must. So, I saw an opportunity and took it. I apologize.”

  “I needed you. Regardless of how you came to me, you were a blessing. And I soon found out you had fabricated your introduction. I chose to do nothing about it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh. I lied about Désirée. I pretended she was charming and malleable and excited about her debut. She hated all of it.”

  “Yes, I know. I knew almost at once because of the way she behaved, but it was my choice to stay because I wanted the money.”

  “Please sit down, Meg.”

  She turned from studying the river and did as he asked. She tucked her legs beneath her gown in her abstract thinking position and proceeded to tear up blades of grass. “My plan,” she said, “was to use the connections I would make through you and the Princess to meet an eligible man and marry him. That seemed the only way to overcome our financial disaster, and I decided to take it. I had every intention of taking advantage of you.”

  “Did you?” he asked softly.

  Their eyes met, then he looked at her lips, her pointed chin, her full breasts.

  “I did,” she told him.

  “I see. And I soon had every intention of taking advantage of you—which I did. I enjoyed it. Didn’t y
ou?”

  Little beads of perspiration broke out on her upper lip. Her smooth skin bloomed, and the slight tremble he felt more than saw heightened his desire for her.

  “Well, anyway, I did,” he said.

  “And so did I. Or I did once I knew what it was. Then I just wanted you to keep on doing it.”

  He managed not to laugh at the odd turn of phrase. “Why did you really come to me today, my love?”

  Her great golden brown eyes shimmered a little too much. “I thought…That is, I had some foolish notion of asking if you still wanted me even the tiniest bit.”

  Have a care, Etranger. If he overwhelmed her, she could be frightened into retreat, and the whole process of wooing her would take longer than he could bear.

  He intended to get his way.

  “Of course I’ve embarrassed you,” she told him. “You need someone who is far more a woman than I am. I had planned to tell you that if I could be of some comfort to you, I’d…”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d be with you on whatever terms you chose and I wouldn’t expect anything permanent from you, ever. There, it’s said. I should go at once.”

  “Ah, Meggie, you aren’t going anywhere. Not without me. Never again.” He saw how rigidly she held herself, but he took her by the arms and tipped her toward him. “You’ve just told me you’ll be with me on any terms. I accept. Now I must make arrangements at once. Rooms here, a house to your liking somewhere in Town. Perhaps a Scottish hideaway.”

  Meg’s heart thundered, and her body responded to him, and great emotion welled up within her, making her head light. He removed her bonnet, and reason prevailed once more. “Everything about me is a lie,” she told him. “I am a very ordinary woman. My eyelashes are not nearly so dark without kohl. The Egyptians used it, you know, and now a lot of ladies in other countries do. I used it to make my eyes look more alluring. And I put paint on my cheeks to make my complexion more enticing. And I did the same on my lips.”

  “Your lips,” he murmured, moving closer with evident intent to kiss her. “Yes, your lips. But you forget that I have seen you without kohl or paint, and found you just as irresistible.”

  She watched his mouth draw closer, and her lips parted. Her breathing quickened, and her pulse, and she throbbed in places where only Jean-Marc had ever made her throb.

  “No!” Meg snapped her lips together and pulled away to look over her shoulder at the river once more.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are you going to tell me your meditation and veils and sudden silent withdrawals are also a trick?”

  “They are not,” she said angrily. “They are real and a part of me.”

  He settled a hand on the back of her neck. To make love to her here, in the sweet, warm grass, would be both beautiful and erotic.

  “What you do not know, Count Etranger, is that my hair is a dull, mousy brown, or perhaps chestnut, I suppose. Like some street strumpet, I dye it red.”

  All of the ground-floor rooms at Riverside had been thrown open and extravagantly decorated with the field blooms that had been Meg’s choice. In the forty-eight hours since she’d arrived from Town, the entire house was transformed into a fairyland of flickering candles, of silver garlands and puffs of white tulle with poppies and daisies at their centers.

  Sibyl still felt stunned by it all. She and Hunter kept company with Adam, Latimer and Lady Hester—who continually exclaimed at the wonders of Riverside, and the marriage that had taken place in St. Simian in the Fields. Her questions about banns had been put to rest by the information that those banns had, indeed, been called three times prior to the wedding, and that the wedding license was in perfect order. The romantic Count Etranger, she’d been told, had surprised his bride with a dream day designed by himself alone. Meg had not as much as seen her finished gown until today.

  What Lady Hester didn’t know, but Sibyl did, was that to be ready in time, Meg’s dress had been modified from another, using a drawing Princess Désirée found among her music. She didn’t recall where it came from, but was correct in thinking it would become Meg.

  A short distance from Sibyl, Jean-Marc lifted his bride’s chin and smiled down at her. “I think we should leave our guests to enjoy themselves. Our presence forces them to be too decorous.”

  “Not at all,” Meg said. “We must watch the Princess with poor Adam.”

  “Why poor Adam?”

  She looked at her husband with pity. “Because he sees an interesting subject in her—to paint—whereas she looks at him and thinks he’s in love with her.”

  “I spoke to Chillworth about that.”

  Meg winced. “You did?”

  “Nothing to worry about there. Don’t give it another thought. Let’s retire to our rooms.”

  Meg’s stomach flipped. “Latimer is a lonely man, you know.”

  “Really. Good enough looking fellow. Quite a presence. I do believe I’m growing tired.”

  “Once I thought Hunter and Sibyl would make a match.”

  “The world is full of disappointments.”

  “I’m glad Sir Robert came, and Anthony FitzDurham. Now there’s a man who can’t keep his eyes off the Princess.”

  “The devil you say.” Jean-Marc craned his neck to locate the hapless FitzDurham. “Yes, well, there’ll be time enough for that. Aren’t you tired, my love?”

  Rench, who had taken complete control of the household at Riverside, hurried toward them through the small crowd. “My Lord,” he said, “there’s a person to see you. I managed to keep her at the door. She seemed likely to make quite a fuss.”

  “Not to worry,” Jean-Marc said and clapped Rench on the back, causing the man to stumble. “I’ll have a word as the Countess and I make our way upstairs.”

  Meg didn’t miss the instant flicker in the man’s eyes, or the faint knowing smile. “Thank you, My Lord,” he said.

  Jean-Marc raised his voice. “We’re going to leave you now. Time you could really get down to the business of revelry.”

  Chuckles abounded.

  “They know where we’re going,” Meg whispered fiercely. “How embarrassing.”

  “Because they’re all jealous? Hardly.”

  Amid cheers and laughter, they left the gold reception room. At the open front door, Rench barred Lavinia Ash from entering.

  “There you are,” she called.

  “Her voice has really changed,” Meg said. “I’ve never heard that happen before.”

  “You deliberately kept it from me,” Ash said. “The wedding.”

  “Sorry,” Jean-Marc told her. Later he’d have something to say to Rench, who knew very well who the “person to see you” was. “You’d have been more than welcome, Miss Ash.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d have stopped it. I’d have told how the two of you are already married to other people.”

  Meg gasped.

  “We’re not,” Jean-Marc said shortly. “Good day to you.”

  “I’d have said it just the same. It would have stopped you. Where did you get that dress?”

  Meg’s knees shook. “It was made for me.”

  “Lies. It’s mine. I designed it, and not for you.”

  “She’s mad, Meg. Come away.”

  Ash shouted, “Don’t you dare leave me like this. Very well, I’ll give you my blessing. There, see how generous I am. Sibyl’s coming to live with you, isn’t she?” Her voice boomed through the foyer. “And why not set Adam Chillworth up with a studio here? And perhaps Latimer More could be useful to you.”

  “Sibyl will remain at Number Seven,” Meg told her. “So will Latimer and Adam. They have lives of their own. Not that these things concern you.”

  “No,” Ash insisted. “Sibyl must come to you. A young woman shouldn’t be alone in a city like London.”

  Without another word to Ash, Jean-Marc swung Meg into his arms and said, “I shall have to be overbearing with you or I shall never get you into my bed.”

  “Shush.” She
placed a finger to his lips.

  He began to climb the stairs.

  “This is an outrage,” Ash bellowed. “After all I’ve done for everyone, this is the thanks I get. It’s going to stop, I tell you. And don’t think I don’t know where you two are going. More debauchery. And I’m left trying to control the unruly Peeping Toms who will not behave themselves.”

  “Absolutely mad,” Jean-Marc said, and paused to give Meg a long, deep kiss that stole her breath.

  “Laugh if you want to,” Ash shouted after them. “I’m going now. But you haven’t heard the last of me. Ash will return to oak and a familiar, hard resting place. Nothing like it for renewing vigor. You don’t know the restorative properties of a good newel post—yet.”

  Meg looked up at Jean-Marc and said, “Newel post?”

  Dozens of yellow-gold candles illuminated the bedchamber. He had given instructions for plenty of light, and a fire. The evenings always grew chill inside the thick walls of the house. Besides, he liked Meg by firelight.

  He closed them in and could not help but see how nervous she was. She looked for all the world as if they had never lain together before.

  The bridal gown was of lush ivory satin cut low to a point between her breasts, the entire bodice finely pleated. A belt of matching satin closed in front with a diamond and pearl-encrusted buckle. He approached her, smiling into her eyes all the while, and unclasped that buckle, removed the belt.

  “It’s so bright in here,” she said.

  “I wanted it so. I want to see you well—for the first time.”

  Meg looked at the floor.

  Her sleeves were extravagantly puffed and stiffened beneath with net. Tight bands of satin clipped the fullness to her wrists. Insets of lace showed skin at her shoulders, and the same lace edged the yards and yards of satin that made up her fabulous skirts.

  “The gown is perfect for you,” he said. “But I believe it will be more perfect when I take it off.”

  This time she shuddered and held unnaturally still. He walked behind her to undo the many satin-covered buttons that closed the bodice and extended past her waist. Then he eased the wedding dress down her arms.