by Allegra Gray
“Lily, I know things haven’t always been easy for you.” Her cousin flushed, probably wondering how much Elizabeth knew—which was enough to know Lily’s last two positions hadn’t lasted long. Elizabeth softened her tone. “I think you’ll find your time here to be an exception. Bea—Lady Pullington—is a respectable widow. She’d never come out here to be painted without a companion for propriety, though I doubt you’ll have too much to do besides enjoy one another’s company.”
Of course, if her dearest friend returned to London still a proper, respectable widow, Elizabeth would be ever so disappointed. Fortunately, she knew one way to ensure Bea and her handsome French painter weren’t monitored too closely. She hesitated only a moment before mentioning it. After all, what harm could it do?
“Oh, and Lily?” she said casually, “please consider Montgrave your home during your stay. The house and grounds are entirely open to you—though,” she paused as if just remembering something, “if you don’t mind forgoing my husband’s brandy collection—the cabinet just through the door to the study, there—I’m sure you’ll find the wines served with meals are perfectly pleasing to the palate.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Lily said, her gaze darting to the open study door and back to Elizabeth. She nodded, eyes wide. “I shall go nowhere near it.”
Elizabeth gave her a smile. “I knew we’d reach an understanding. I believe I’ll go have a bit of a lie-down. Traveling tires me of late. But I’m certain Monsieur Durand and Lady Pullington will be happy to have you join them. The garden is just a little way into the wood, down the path and to the left.”
Elizabeth’s smile grew smug as she shut the door. She’d chosen the perfect chaperone. She knew Lily well. If pointing her cousin toward the liquor cabinet didn’t do the trick, nothing would.
Lily stared at the door that closed behind her cousin, unable to believe her good luck. Satisfied she was alone, she jumped to her feet, spun in a circle, and chortled with glee.
Who would have thought Miss Elizabeth Medford would one day be Lady Bainbridge, Duchess of Beaufort? And now she, Lily Moffett, a widow of limited means, was going to get to spend the next two weeks playing at being a great lady.
She went to the window, where the view of the fine spring day reflected her sunny mood. From here, she could just make out the path leading into the woods. Somewhere within, Monsieur Durand and Lady Pullington waited—but there was no hurry. She’d already made a brief exploration of the house upon arriving, since no one but the staff had been present to greet her—not that she’d expected a duke or duchess to drop what they were doing and rush out to the country on her account. Just being here—the only family member besides Elizabeth’s sister, Charity, to garner such an invitation—was enough.
Lily’s self-guided tour of Montgrave had not, however, included the study. She wandered toward it now.
She paused at the door. A man’s space, definitely, with a massive desk and heavy chairs, though the tall hearth and thick rug managed to convey warmth. And just inside, the cabinet that held the duke’s brandy collection.
Lily swallowed, her throat inexplicably dry, her gaze focused on the cabinet. Her hand lifted as though controlled by another. She caressed the polished wood.
Realizing what she was doing, she snatched back her hand and turned in a quick circle. She let out a breath. Still alone.
She touched the wood again, her heart pounding. What sort of brandy did a duke collect? Surely it would do no harm just to look.
The cabinet door gave a soft snick as she eased it open.
She sucked in a breath. Ah. Before her stood bottle upon bottle of fine spirits. Commoners like her couldn’t afford whisky or brandy—the taxes had driven all but a few distilleries out of legal operation. The duke’s collection, however, extended well beyond anything she’d seen before. French brandy, Scottish whisky…smugglers were more than willing to ensure England’s aristocracy did not go without.
She squatted to see the bottles better. The ones in the shadowed corners of the cabinet were too hard to read, but it didn’t matter. The ones in front told her all she needed to know. A week’s wages would not purchase the least of these bottles.
She sank to her knees. One finger stroked the closest bottle lovingly. No. What was she doing?
But to be so close, and not even learn what such fine brandy smelled like?
Her fingers closed around the bottle. She drew it to her, cradled it as she removed the stopper. She inhaled deeply and let her head fall back, her eyes closed as the aroma penetrated her nostrils.
Lord have mercy, but that was fine.
“Shall we begin, Lady Pullington? You know already where to stand.” Philippe waved a hand.
Bea moved toward the basin at the center of the abandoned rose garden, swallowing her disappointment at his use of her formal title, rather than the “ma chérie” she’d grown accustomed to when they were alone. She adjusted her skirts, then readopted the pose she’d held in the sketch they’d both selected.
The latent tension she’d sensed in Philippe earlier was back, but she kept quiet as his charcoal scratched across the paper. He, too, worked in silence, sometimes nodding as though in approval, other times frowning at something on the paper, rubbing at it with the heel of his hand.
She held the pose until her arms grew tired, and the temptation to move, to use one slippered foot to scratch the itch on the opposite calf, was driving her mad.
Suddenly he thrust the papers away. “This isn’t working.”
Bea sucked in a breath. “Am I standing wrong? I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You are in position. It isn’t that. I cannot concentrate.” He paced, frustration evident in every feature, every movement.
“Monsieur?” Never had Bea met a man who expressed himself as fully, as freely, as Philippe, and yet the force of that expression had some of her old nerves rising to the surface. She dropped the pose and cautiously asked, “Is something bothering you?”
“Oui.” He rounded on her. “Beatrice.” She thought she heard frustration, but not anger, in his tone. And something else. Pleading? “About last night.”
She swallowed. She’d known this was coming.
“I can think of no good reason for a lady such as yourself to be slipping through the back corridors of the Royal Haymarket Theater. If your hurry to escape me during intermission was not due to an illicit rendezvous with a lover, then what were you doing?”
This time, she was prepared. “Foolish man.” She batted her eyelashes, and offered up a half truth. “I have no lover. I followed someone I thought I knew…but it turned out I was mistaken.”
He folded his arms. “You thought you knew the Wilbournes’ footman?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Their footman?” she repeated.
“The man who exited after you. He works for them.”
She tried not to let her excitement show at what he’d just confirmed. “I…no, I did no trealize that. As I said, it was all a mistake. Are you certain that man works for the Wilbournes?”
Philippe nodded. “He served us at their card party last week. I tend to remember faces.”
“A benefit to someone in your profession, I should think.” Bea exhaled slowly, some of her nerves receding at his logical explanation. Philippe knew the servant-spy because he’d been served at a party, and because as an artist, he noticed people—not because he’d dealt with the man in any other forum.
“Indeed.” But Philippe was not to be dissuaded from his topic. “Beatrice, you are an intelligent woman. Please do not ask me to believe you make a habit of following strange men into dark places.”
“No. I was—I was caught up in the moment,” Bea explained, sticking to at least a portion of truth. She laid a hand on his forearm. Every muscle was taut. “He reminded me of—of a favorite cousin, whom my family thought was lost at sea some years ago. Foolish, I know. In fact, I had just reconsidered the wisdom of my actions, which is when you saw me emerging.
” Bea was amazed how easily the lies rolled off her tongue. Perhaps she ought to write novels, rather than poetry.
Philippe met her gaze directly, holding it for a long moment. Finally he seemed to accept her answer, for she felt his muscles relax. “I am glad,” he told her, his eyes darkening, “for it was driving me mad to think of another man doing this.”
“Doing wh—”
Bea’s remaining words were lost against the crush of his lips.
The kiss was fierce, the onslaught on her senses complete as his arms closed around her like steel bands, hauling her inch for inch against his form. Her head tipped back against the pressure, and his tongue drove into her mouth. All she could smell, all she could feel, all she could taste was Philippe, who kissed her so searingly she felt as though he was trying to brand her.
Too much. She couldn’t breathe. Too much, Bea thought wildly. She pushed away, scrambled backward.
“No!” Chest heaving, she dragged in air. She scooted around the stone basin, putting it between them.
Philippe, too, breathed heavily, staring at her, then down at his hands which had so recently grasped her.
“Wh—what are you doing?” Bea asked, when she could find her voice.
“I do not know.”
She heard the surprise in his voice.
“Merde,” he swore. “That was not…I did not mean…never have I reacted so strongly to a woman…to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
He leaned across the basin, his hands extended in an earnest plea. “I am so very sorry, ma belle. Please know that. I could not stand thinking another man had taken such liberties only minutes after what we shared in the carriage on the way to the theater. But I did not mean to frighten you. Here.” He stroked her arms reassuringly, until the wild beat of the kiss dissipated, and Bea felt her heart slow.
A bird chirped, and she looked around. The rose garden remained as normal, and the look of concern on Philippe’s face melted away her fear.
“I am recovered now, I think,” she whispered. “It was only—I was not prepared…”
“Je suis si très désolé.” He cupped her cheek. “I am desolate at the thought of causing you unhappiness.”
“I am not unhappy,” she promised him. “Only—that kiss was…was so uncontrolled.”
His brows arched, but if the Frenchman had thoughts regarding her statement, he kept them to himself. “Let us return to something simpler then, oui? You will pose again, while I sketch?”
“Yes.” As she posed once more, Bea wondered, irreverently, how much faster she and Philippe would complete this project if they didn’t get distracted with kisses each time they came out here? Although, unless one of her “companions” discovered a heretofore untapped sense of duty and actually showed up at the rose garden, she had a feeling such distractions would continue.
Philippe worked as quietly as before, but Bea sensed a change. There were fewer slashing strokes and rubbing out of lines that did not please him. Indeed, this time when he set the paper aside and stood, he was smiling.
“Much better. I am nearly done. This will be different than any work I have yet completed. I can feel it.” His blue eyes lit with creative passion.
Bea shivered—though from the spring chill, or Philippe’s intensity, she couldn’t say. “Different? But what if people don’t like it?”
“Do not worry, Beatrice. With your lovely face gracing my canvas, the work is sure to gain admiration from even the staunchest of my detractors. They shall love it. One moment.” He retrieved his pad and made a few quick strokes with the charcoal pencil. “Or if they do not,” he continued, “it does not matter. I do not paint to please the public. I never have.”
Setting aside the sketch, he moved closer. His fingers brushed her neck as he tilted her chin, lingering until she held the new pose, then a moment longer.
“Ma chérie, je veux juste te faire plaisir.”
My darling, I only want to please you. Bea shivered again. More dangerous words were never spoken.
“Why me? I offer nothing in return.”
“Not true. It is something in your face, your eyes…” Philippe mused. His fingers trailed down her neck as he dropped his hand. “It is why I could never paint in the stiff and formal styles of old, for it shutters out the soul. People are drawn to faces—after all, is it not said that the eyes are the windows to the soul? It is our nature, that desire to connect with other human beings, to be recognized. To be loved.”
Her flesh tingled where his fingers had so recently rested. Foolishness.
“You are a master of flattery,” Bea whispered. She knew better than to fall for such words. Even Charity had seen his act for what it was. He might not be a spy, but he was definitely a seducer.
“Of course.” He laughed. “But do not think for a moment, ma chérie, that I am insincere.”
He held her gaze, and her breath caught at the intensity burning there.
Heat flooded her senses, and she forgot she was supposed to be holding a pose as her hand moved instinctively toward him, tentatively brushing the front of his jacket. His fingers caught hers, guiding them to his lips.
“I can make you feel…” he murmured, his accent growing thick, “what it is you seek.”
“What I seek?” she echoed. She drew her hand away from his lips, reluctant to relinquish his touch. What was she doing? She had to think this through.
He wasn’t going to let her. “You want to be kissed, do you not?”
Bea had no answer to the bold question. Denial was impossible, but admitting it would be an even greater folly.
The corner of those sensual lips quirked upward, acknowledging her dilemma. “You do.”
“Arrogant beast.” But there was no malice in Bea’s tone.
He laughed. “Ah, chérie. Accept that you wish me to kiss you, and stop worrying about what will happen if I do.”
“What will happen?”
“Shh.” He placed a finger over her lips. “Only this.”
He replaced the finger with his lips. A gentle brush. Not the fierce branding of before, but a tender caress. When she didn’t pull away, he returned, molding his lips to hers, the pressure firm, yet not demanding.
“I will not frighten you this time,” he whispered, his breath warm against hers.
But Bea wasn’t frightened—she was kissing him back. Oh, yes. Forget thinking things through. She needed him to touch her, taste her like that.
His hands slipped into her hair, cupping the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. Her head swam, and she held his shoulders as the rest of her surroundings fell away.
Before Bea was ready, Philippe pulled back.
“Ah, Beatrice.” He slowly let out a breath. “So much fire beneath that polish. And a widow.” He chuckled. “In France, you would have never remained a widow for so long.”
Bea wasn’t so sure—but now was not the time to mention that the flames of passion had hardly been present in her marriage, or that her widowhood had been quiet, respectable, and equally passionless.
He leaned in again, and Bea met him willingly. This time he took a nip at her bottom lip, and when her lips parted, his tongue slipped in for a taste. The flames leapt up again, within her, and her breath caught. Her tongue met his, tasting, stroking, until a small whimper of need escaped her throat.
He broke the kiss gently, leaning his forehead against hers while they both caught their breath. “The daylight hours wane, ma chérie, and I have a sketch yet to complete. And, I promised not to frighten you.”
Bea’s every sense hummed with awareness, her lips still moist and parted. No, he hadn’t frightened her—she had to bite back the temptation to wantonly ask for more. Instead, she stood still and allowed Philippe to pose her like a doll. The sensual turn of his lips as he did told her he knew exactly what she was feeling. What he’d made her feel.
Cool air washed over her skin as he moved away, resuming his position at the edge of the garden as he
finished the sketch.
How could he return so calmly to his charcoals and pad, when everything inside her tumbled like waves breaking on a stormy beach?
What was she to do? He sensed her fears and assuaged them, sensed her desires and offered to fulfill them.
Except that Bea—at least when her senses were calm—desired far more than Philippe had guessed. A thousand melting kisses could not give the lifelong companionship, the love and understanding she ached for deep within.
But he hadn’t promised love. Only pleasure.
Bea gave him a little smile as he glanced up, then bent his head over the pad, his artist’s concentration absorbing him once more. A snatch of the Wordsworth poem she’d quoted upon first bringing Philippe here returned to her mind, unbidden:
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
She could take the simple pleasure he offered, tell herself it would be enough. But it would be a lie. Her heart was already involved.
Chapter 10
Jasper urged the horses to a quicker pace as the cart bearing Lady Pullington and Monsieur Durand’s trunks rolled toward Montgrave. He’d been assigned the watch on Lady Pullington—a natural choice, since Peters and Miss Kettridge both had “regular” employment that limited their flexibility.
Though they teased him for his lay about ways, Jasper considered himself a man of opportunity—when one arose, he was there to take it. Monsieur Denis knew who he could turn to. The others could laugh all they wanted. Jasper would get the job done.
Watching Lady Pullington had been easy, until a conversation with one of her footmen this morning indicated today’s outing to Montgrave was not a mere day trip. Then, he’d had to scramble.
It had been easy enough to secure the job of delivering Monsieur Durand’s luggage from the hotel to the estate. He’d done odd jobs for the hotel manager before. It had been even easier to convince Lady Pullington’s staff that there was no sense in sending two separate vehicles for such a mundane task—he’d simply take her trunk as well.