by Brenda Hiatt
“Jack Ashecroft, as I live and breathe! And who is this pretty lady? ’Tis one I’ve not seen in Paris before. Did you import her from England, perchance?”
“Hello, Teddy. Still getting drunk before noon, I see. This is my wife, Lady Foxhaven.” Jack, Nessa noticed, was careful to interpose himself between her and this newcomer.
“So Uncle Luther stuck his spoon in the wall, did he? And you’ve become a sober married man. Guess there’s no use in my suggesting a ménage à trois then, eh?” With an elaborate bow toward Nessa, he went off laughing.
Nessa looked curiously at Jack. “What did he mean?”
Again Jack began the throat-clearing that she now knew signified embarrassment. “Er, nothing. Teddy always was a nodcock. Wonder if his family even knows he’s still alive?”
Though she suspected there was more to that comment than the literal meaning, “household of three,” she allowed the subject to drop. “I had no idea I’d married such a very popular fellow.” Nessa forced herself to speak lightly, though in truth she was rather unnerved by such flagrant evidence of his former lifestyle.
They entered the Louvre then, and Nessa forgot all other concerns in her awe at the artworks displayed there. They spent the next few hours lost in beauty and amazement, only recalled to reality by increasingly insistent hunger pangs.
Jack suggested Tortoni’s for afternoon refreshment, and Nessa eagerly agreed. That celebrated establishment was crowded with people of all nationalities, but as Jack appeared to know several of those present, including the waiters, they were served in surprisingly short order. They had finished their meal and were just beginning the famed ices when shouting on the opposite side of the room rose above the general din.
A French officer and a man Nessa thought might be Prussian from his accent exchanged first words and then blows. A moment later, at least a dozen other patrons joined the fray. Chairs and tables were overturned, and a shot rang out.
“That is our exit cue, my dear,” said Jack urgently. “This way.” He ushered her outdoors, pushing his way through the crowd surging in the opposite direction to join or witness the melee. More shots sounded behind them, along with a piercing shriek.
“Goodness!” Nessa exclaimed shakily once they’d gone a safe distance down the street. “Does that sort of thing happen often in there?”
“There and most other places in this volatile city. Are you all right?” Jack examined her face with a concern that warmed away her fear.
“Perfectly,” she assured him. “I … had not realized Paris was such a dangerous place.”
“Debauchery and danger often go hand in hand.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and turned toward the Tuileries. “When people lose respect for themselves and their own lives, ’tis but a short step to losing respect for others, and fiery young men must have an outlet for their passions.”
Nessa swallowed. “And you were one of those?”
“I … suppose I was, though I pursued amusement more avidly than violence.”
She wasn’t sure whether that made her feel better or not.
During the remainder of the day and evening, Nessa began to realize that her girlish fantasies about wickedness had had little basis in reality. Here, the actuality was all about her, impossible to escape.
Prostitutes—they could be nothing else—boldly approached passersby in even the most genteel sections of the city. Gambling dens appeared to occupy almost every corner, and shots rang out frequently, either close at hand or in the distance. Wild laughter floated from doorways, and the moans of what must be sexual couplings from open windows above.
No longer did she envy the freedom of the women she saw everywhere displaying their legs and bosoms. Instead, she felt almost ashamed to share their gender. The Tuileries and its gardens, just beginning to hint at spring glory, were lovely, and the Palais-Royal amazing in its colorful variety, but by midway through the evening Nessa was both tired and oddly depressed.
Jack seemed to sense something of her mood. “Why don’t we return to our hotel and have dinner sent up to our suite?” he suggested as they completed the circuit of shops and cafés. “I think we’ve both had enough of Paris for one day, don’t you?”
Though she hated to admit it, Nessa had to agree. No doubt her enthusiasm for new experiences would revive after a good night’s sleep, but for now she confessed herself sated by them.
The next morning, however, she awoke to a vague queasiness. “I fear all of this rich French cuisine has rather overset my digestion,” she told Jack apologetically. “Can we perhaps ask that something simpler be sent up for today’s breakfast?”
Immediately he was all concern. “Certainly, my dear! I’ll send Parker down at once. Is there anything else you require?”
“Now, you needn’t play the mother hen,” she teased, though she could not help feeling touched. “I shall be fine, I am certain. Nor will you escape showing me more of Paris by exaggerating my little indisposition.”
Indeed, after some tea and toast she felt much more the thing, and ready to see a few of the monuments which had been erected in Napoleon’s honor. But though they took things easily that day, she found she could not summon up her former eagerness to see all that Paris had to offer. And there were still interruptions by some of Jack’s former acquaintances, from noble to homeless.
It was all too easy, with the evidence before her, to imagine just the sort of life Jack must have led before she met him. Former officers referred to wartime exploits and the women who had followed them from camp to camp. Others made comments about the money they had lost to Jack or, less frequently, that he had lost to them.
And it seemed that every woman in Paris knew him far too well!
By the end of their fourth day in Paris, Nessa felt she’d seen enough of debauchery to last her a lifetime—though she could not yet bring herself to admit it to Jack.
For his part, Jack was finding Paris both tedious and unpleasant, with its constant reminders of a life he’d left behind—a life he discovered he did not miss in the least. Yes, there were occasional temptations to renew old friendships, but the drinking, dicing, and wenching no longer appealed.
Two months ago that knowledge would have disturbed him, but now he felt profound relief. Evidence that Paris’ dubious charms were palling on Nessa brought him even greater relief. He began to realize that Nessa had a core of purity that even Paris could not touch, however she might try to hide it.
Still, he was worried about her. Her stomach had been unsettled for the past three mornings, and though she always seemed to recover by early afternoon, he could not be entirely easy about her. No doubt the noxious atmosphere of Paris was taking its toll on her system, brought up as she had been to the clean air of the English countryside.
He’d meant to stay in Paris for a week at the least, but now he began casting about in earnest for alternatives. By the evening of their fourth day there, he had found one.
“What would you say,” he asked her over dinner that night, “to spending the next two weeks in the French countryside rather than the city?”
Nessa set down her fork and looked curiously at him, both hopeful and wary, he thought. “The countryside? But how? Where?”
“I sent a message to an old friend who owes me a favor,” he explained. “This afternoon I received his reply. He owns a charming little cottage less than twenty miles from Paris, on the outskirts of a particularly pretty village. I remembered visiting it last summer, which is why I inquired. He rarely stays there, and has agreed to let us make use of it for as long as we like.”
Her eyes shone. “Oh, may we really?” But then she seemed to recall herself. “That is, I am enjoying Paris immensely, of course, but a change might be nice.”
Valiantly, Jack kept his expression solemn. “Just what I’d thought, as well. We’ll leave tomorrow, if you have no objection.”
“No objection at all,” she said with a smile, belatedly adding, “Assuming, of cou
rse, that we may see the rest of Paris later on.”
“Whenever you wish to do so,” Jack agreed. He hoped, however, that she’d truly had her fill of Paris by now, as he rather suspected she had.
The next morning, the first of March, they left early, as Jack recalled that the roads they would traverse were not of the best. Though Nessa again woke to an upset stomach, she refused to delay on that account.
“I shall be fine within the hour,” she promised. “I always seem to be.”
By the time the carriage was loaded, her prophecy had been fulfilled. Two hours later, however, as they bumped along rutted, twisting lanes, she appeared to be in some distress again. Finally, she asked him to stop the coach so that she could step outside for a breath of air. A moment later, he was supporting her as she rid herself of her breakfast.
“I’m terribly sorry, Jack. Normally I’m not made at all ill by travel. Even that rough channel crossing we had did not upset me, if you’ll recall.”
“No need to apologize, my love.” Tenderly, he brushed a few tendrils of hair away from her face. “These execrable roads would do up the strongest constitution.”
She smiled up at him gratefully. “You are so good to me, Jack. Thank you for salvaging my pride—not only now, but also about Paris. I wanted to leave desperately, but was too proud to admit it. I’m not quite the woman of the world I’d like to believe, am I?”
Jack had to swallow the lump in his throat before replying. “You’re the best woman in the world, Nessa. I honestly believe that.” He bent to kiss her, but she held up a hand.
“Not until I’ve rinsed out my mouth, Jack! But I certainly can’t doubt your sincerity now.” She grinned weakly.
He chuckled and helped her back to the coach, where she took a sip of the wine they’d brought along. Truly a remarkable woman! Why on earth had he not yet told her he loved her?
That question occupied him for much of the remainder of the journey, as Nessa dozed with her head on his shoulder. He’d told Miranda Dempsey, of all people, but had not yet summoned the courage to tell Nessa herself. Why?
Fear, he finally admitted. Fear that she would laugh, or, worse, parrot the sentiment automatically—as he’d done to so many women—without meaning the words. He didn’t think he’d be able to bear that, not from Nessa.
As twilight fell and they neared the end of their journey, he finally faced the unpleasant truth. Jack Ashecroft, celebrated hero of Salamanca, Vitoria, and Paris, was a coward.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nessa awoke from her doze when the bumpy forward motion of the carriage suddenly ceased. “What has happened?” she asked drowsily. Were there highwaymen in France?
“Nothing, my dear. We have finally reached the cottage.” Jack helped her to sit up just as the coachman opened the door. The fresh, cool air streamed in, reviving her at once.
She peered out and caught her breath at the scene before her. The little house nestled cozily in its garden. Rose vines on trellises, leaves just unfurling, covered its whitewashed walls. Diamond-paned windows twinkled, reflecting the setting sun in wondrous hues of crimson and violet, making it seem like something out of a fairy tale.
“Oh!” Nessa gasped. “Oh, how perfect! And we’re really to stay here?”
Jack grinned at her response as he helped her from the coach. “We are indeed. I said it was charming, did I not? A bit rustic, of course, but we can obtain necessities from the village. No food of Paris quality, but this is still France, so you won’t starve, I promise you.”
He walked up the raked gravel path, took the key from his pocket, and opened the door. Pulling her wrap close against the evening chill, Nessa followed him into the cottage. Though not furnished with fashion in mind, everything within was comfortable and clean, save a thin patina of dust which showed it had not been inhabited for some time. She and Simmons at once set about remedying that small defect, however, and by the time the luggage was brought in and fires lit in the parlor, kitchen, and bedrooms, all was as neat and cozy as she could have wished.
“Now, my dear, that’s quite enough of that,” said Jack, coming back into the parlor as Nessa finished dusting the oaken mantelpiece. “You sit here by the fire and get warm and rested, while Parker and I go into the village to get dinner.”
“Dozing all day in the coach was scarcely tiring,” she pointed out. But even as she spoke, she realized that she still felt lethargic. She sank luxuriously into the deep armchair nearest the fire. “See if the bakery has any of those lovely croissants. Nothing in England compares to them.”
Jack saluted her. “Your wish is my command, madam wife.”
He and Parker left, while Simmons went into the bedroom to unpack the trunks. Nessa leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Already she could feel the tight-wound frenzy of Paris seeping away, to be replaced by the serenity of the country. What an excellent idea of Jack’s, to come here! It was just what she—what their marriage—needed.
She had hoped that the vaunted romance of Paris would infect their relationship, but romance was not what she’d found there. Debauchery, she now understood, was not romantic in the least. But without love, what separated her relationship with Jack from what the Parisian courtesans shared with the men there?
At first, the heady discovery that there was pleasure—great pleasure!—to be found in the marriage bed was enough for her. But more and more, of late, she was finding herself dissatisfied with mere physical pleasure, odd as that sounded. There was a part of her she had yet to surrender to Jack, and a part he had not surrendered of himself. Until their hearts were involved, until they could trust one another completely, their marriage could never be complete.
Nessa opened her eyes and looked around the cozy room with its chintz curtains, simple woodwork, and deep upholstery. Surely here, in the quiet of the country, with no distractions from Society or Jack’s estate, they could finally find each other? She was determined to try.
She must have dozed, for the next thing she knew, Jack and Parker had come in through the kitchen and were making quite a racket as they put things away. Rising, she hurried in to see what they had obtained.
“There wasn’t much selection, as two of the three shops in the village had closed already,” Jack said in response to her query. “But we were able to buy bread, butter, eggs, and milk.”
“That should be sufficient for tonight, I should think. Is that a root cellar?” she asked. “If there are potatoes or onions, they will round out the meal nicely.”
There were both potatoes and onions, as well as a quantity of garlic in the small root cellar. Simmons made it quite clear that she considered kitchen duty far beneath her, but grudgingly agreed to help.
“If I can do it, certainly you can,” Nessa pointed out to the affronted lady’s maid.
“Hmph,” was Simmons’ only comment as she stoically cut up potatoes and put them into a pot to boil.
An hour later, the four of them sat down to their simple but hearty dinner at the large table in the kitchen. Simmons and Parker had both resisted this arrangement as beneath the dignity of their master and mistress, but were won over by Jack’s argument that there really was no other suitable table in the house.
“Very well,” Parker said, “but only this once. I cannot but think sharing your meals in this way must undermine the romantic atmosphere of this setting.”
Nessa started and stared at the man, but he had turned his attention to his bread and potatoes. Jack merely chuckled and shook his head.
The moment the meal was over, Parker ushered Jack and Nessa into the parlor, then pressed the tight-lipped Simmons into service to help with the washing up.
“That was lovely,” Nessa declared, sinking back into the comfortable armchair she’d occupied before.
“Lovely? My dear, you are absurdly easy to please, I must say.”
Though she knew Jack was teasing, she answered him seriously. “I don’t require fancy food and elegant surroundings to be
happy. A peaceful setting, with you at my side, is enough.”
He looked at her strangely, and she felt a twinge of panic. Had she said too much, revealed her feelings too clearly? Or was he merely unable to share her sentiment, and baffled by it? His next words reassured her somewhat.
“I can’t promise your surroundings will always be peaceful, but I shall do my best to be a part of them. I had always believed that I would wither without excitement, myself.” His voice deepened. “Now I come to realize that excitement takes many forms.”
Even as she felt her body responding to the suggestiveness of his tone, Nessa couldn’t help wondering whether he saw their lovemaking as simply an agreeable way to pass the time. Was he counting on her to keep him amused—excited—in this rustic exile?
Still … “It does indeed,” she agreed. She would not let this odd obsession she’d developed to tap Jack’s deepest emotions deprive her of the pleasure she found in his arms. “Will the fire in the bedroom have warmed it yet, do you think?”
He rose and took her hand. “Let’s go find out.”
Though tiny in comparison to their chambers in London, Fox Manor, or even the Paris hotel, the bedroom was as comfortable and cozy as the rest of the cottage. The bed dominated the room, piled high with feather mattresses and pillows under its colorful counterpane. One glance at it, and Nessa felt desire and sleep begin to wage a battle within her.
“As Parker and Simmons are otherwise occupied, I suppose we must make shift to undress each other,” Jack said, closing the door behind them.
“I suppose so.” Without further prompting, Nessa began loosening the intricate folds of his cravat.
Encircling her with his arms, he unfastened the row of tiny buttons down her back, one by one. Pausing occasionally for long, leisurely kisses, they worked their way downward until both were stripped to the skin.
“And now,” said Jack huskily, sweeping her into his arms to carry her the two or three steps to the bed.