by Eileen Wilks
“It is my reputation,” she said. “My risk. My choice.”
Lucien stared down at her, an arrested expression on his face.
For a moment her words seemed to echo between them. My life. My choice.
For no reason at all, her heart stood still.
“Sometimes our choices have consquences beyond what we can imagine,” he said at last. His face was flat, unreadable. “Let me take you back.”
He was rejecting her.
Aimée recoiled as if she’d been slapped. She supposed she should be grateful to be rescued from a fate like poor Finch’s. Perhaps by tomorrow she would even appreciate Lucien’s restraint.
Right now, though, she was mortified. Her face, her chest, her whole body burned with humiliation and frustrated desire.
She bent to hide her face, retrieving the branch from the ground, ignoring the barbs that pricked through her gloves. “You go back if you want to,” she said coolly. “I have work to do.”
Clutching her bouquet of holly, she left him there alone under the trees, leaving behind her a trail of berries like heart’s blood on the snow.
Chapter Seven
The following afternoon was Christmas Eve. Julia sat in front of her mirror as Aimée coaxed another blond ringlet around the brush handle.
Julia turned her head one way and another, critically regarding her reflection. “Mama offered to send her own maid to me. But she always leaves a frizz in the front.”
Aimée pinned the curl on top of Julia’s head. “I don’t mind helping.”
“As long as you have time,” Julia said.
Aimée popped a hairpin in her mouth before she said something hasty in response. She had been kept running all day. Now that the greenery could be brought indoors, she needed to direct the decoration of the house and the arrangements for the ballroom. She had barely gotten started on the kissing bough when Julia’s summons came.
“It’s very inconsiderate of Finch to disappear like this,” Julia continued. “Ouch, you’re poking. I wonder where she’s gone.”
Aimée had a very good idea where Finch had gone. And with whom. Last night, long after the houseguests were in bed, Finch had come to Aimée’s attic room to ask if Mr. Hartfell’s manservant could be trusted. Aimée had assured the maid she would be in good hands, pressing money on Finch for the journey to London.
Now Aimée wondered how Lucien was faring without his valet.
Her throat tightened. Not that it was any of her business.
She secured another curl, pleased that her hand did not tremble.
“I don’t know how I am to get ready for the ball tomorrow without assistance,” Julia fretted. “Those blasted wings. I don’t know what Mrs. Pockley was thinking.”
They both looked at the dressmaker’s form in the corner. Julia’s gown shimmered, high-waisted and graceful, with a low, square neckline and diaphanous skirt. But it was the wings that raised the costume to ethereal fantasy, extravagant wings of stiffened taffeta with silver ribbons that tied under and across the bodice, exquisite and ephemeral as the promise of youth or a dream of young love.
It made Aimée want to spit. Or cry.
“She was thinking how beautiful you will look.” Aimée forced enthusiasm into her voice. “Like a butterfly.”
Assuming butterflies’ wings were sewn with hundreds of glittering crystals.
“Psyche,” Julia said glumly.
Aimée pinned the final curl. “What?”
“Not a butterfly.” Julia frowned into the mirror. “I’m supposed to be Psyche. Mr. Hartfell is dressing as Eros.”
Aimée swallowed the lump in her throat. They were still a couple, then. Psyche, the personification of the human soul, and Eros, god of love. Not the chubby cherub that infested ceiling corners, but the sculpted young god of the Greeks, naked, winged.
Her heart stumbled. She found it shockingly easy to picture Lucien with a gleaming sweep of powerful wings. But . . .
“Surely Mr. Hartfell is too”—masculine, hairy, large—“old to play Eros?”
Julia shrugged, oddly indifferent. But then, Aimée reminded herself, Julia had never seen Lucien rising naked from his bath, water streaming from his chest and down his thighs. Her face grew hot.
“Tom says costumes are silly, anyway,” Julia said.
Aimée regarded her cousin’s drooping mouth in concern. Yesterday she’d thought Julia and Tom had made up their differences. But perhaps their understanding had not survived the return from the woods.
“You shouldn’t let what Tom says ruin your pleasure,” Aimée said gently. Swallowing her own pain, she added, “It is Mr. Hartfell’s opinion you should care about.”
Julia twisted the bracelets on her arm. “I suppose.”
Aimée tried again. “What matters most is what you want.”
Their eyes met in the mirror.
“You’re right, of course.” Julia’s smile broke like dawn. “Thank you, Amy.”
Aimée smiled back uncertainly, a pang at her heart.
What if what you wanted most was something you couldn’t have?
The pots of rosemary and bay, decorated with silver ribbon and gold paper, had been moved to the ballroom. The buckets of holly branches and ivy vines stood almost empty. But the scent of green, growing things lingered in the potting shed, a promise of life and rebirth in the midst of winter.
Aimée twined ivy around the kissing bough, already heavy with waxy white berries of mistletoe. Each time a man claimed a kiss beneath the bough, he would pluck a berry until they all were gone.
She stared sightlessly at the glossy foliage, remembering Lucien’s kiss, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of homecoming in his arms. Her lips tingled. She pressed them together.
Why had he stopped?
She was an innocent, but she recognized a man’s desire. She had felt him, felt it, hard against her stomach. Her body pulsed, remembering.
She would not have stopped him.
The realization lashed heat into her face. She barely understood her own reactions. She did not understand his at all. Was Lucien truly concerned about the risk to her reputation, as he claimed? Or had he worried that lying with her would jeopardize his courtship of Julia?
Did it matter? Either way, he had demonstrated more honor and restraint than she had.
Either way, she had to live with the knowledge of his rejection.
“Very pretty,” Howard observed behind her.
A chill slithered down her spine.
Her fingers stretched for the pruning shears before she turned. “I thank you for the compliment. I think it will look well in the ballroom.”
“I was not speaking of your arrangement.” Howard’s smile flashed, displaying all his teeth. “Though I like it. A kissing bough, is it not?”
Her heart banged. With Finch on her way to London, Howard had already been deprived of one victim, whether he knew it yet or not. She was not eager to be his next quarry. “Yes.”
“Perhaps we should test its efficacy,” he suggested.
Aimée swallowed. She wasn’t afraid. Not truly afraid, not yet. But he was blocking the door. “I think not. There are only a limited number of berries. Once they are gone, the bough no longer serves any purpose.”
“Then we should make the most of this opportunity.”
She tightened her grip on the shears, reluctant to meet his gaze, afraid he would see the knowledge and disgust in her eyes. “Your absence will be noticed in the drawing room.”
“Not at all. The tea tray is gone. Our guests are all in their rooms dressing for dinner with their servants in attendance. No one will miss either of us for some time.” He strolled forward, running a fingertip down her arm to her elbow, displacing her shawl. She restrained her shudder.
“You deserve the chance to enjoy yourself,” he murmured, watching her face. “You must feel very confined here. Lonely. No one truly appreciates your talents, do they? I could make your duties m
uch more pleasant.”
She twitched up her shawl, jerking her arm away. “If you are offering your assistance, Cousin, there are still some pots to be carried into the ballroom.”
He pressed closer, trapping her against the potting bench. “I had other duties in mind. Personal duties.”
Bile and rage rose in her throat. “I would rather scrub floors.”
He laughed softly, making her skin crawl. “I quite like the thought of you on your knees.”
“Enough,” she said firmly. “Let me go. Or I will tell your mother.”
“She will not believe you.”
Aimée raised her chin. “Perhaps her guests will. I am still a lady, Howard. You cannot assault me with impunity.”
Society would look the other way as long as Howard confined his attentions to the servant class. But Sir Walter and Lady Basing could not let it be known that they tolerated his abuse of their own young relative in their home.
Howard’s eyes shifted. His expression hardened. “Then I will have to make sure you don’t tell anyone.”
He reached for her.
She flung out her hand to stop him, to push him away, and the shears in her hand slashed his chin, drawing blood.
His face twisted. “Bitch.”
He grabbed her hand, wrenching cruelly, wresting the clippers from her grasp. She opened her mouth to scream, and his meaty hand clamped on her jaw, stifling her cry. Ah, no. She fought as hard as she could, kicking him with her thin slippers, rolling and scratching to get away, but she was hampered by her skirts, her shawl, her tight sleeves. His weight, his strength, overpowered hers. The edge of the table ground into her back. His fingers dug painfully into her cheeks as his other hand scrabbled at her skirts.
She struggled, panting and twisting. Inciting him. She could feel his erection pushing at her, and her gorge rose.
Dear God. She could not scream. She could not breathe. Her mind grayed with terror. He was going to ravish her, and she could not stop him.
She bit his hand.
He swore, his breath hot and harsh against the side of her face.
And then his weight was gone, plucked, ripped from her. She staggered, catching herself against the table, as he catapulted across the shed and crashed into a wall. Buckets overturned. Water sloshed onto the floor.
Lucien stood over him with a face like thunder, flexing his knuckles. To her fevered imagination, he almost seemed to glow, lit from within by righteous anger.
An angel come to save us.
The answer to her prayers.
“Get up,” he ordered, his voice low and deadly.
Howard shook his head, sprawling in a puddle of water and branches. “She’s not worth it.”
Lucien hauled him to his feet by his neckcloth and smashed a fist into his stomach. Howard doubled over, wheezing.
She should stop them, Aimée thought numbly. But she could not find her voice, could not make her shaking limbs move. She clung to the table for support.
“She is a lady,” Lucien said through his teeth. “Worthy of protection and regard.”
Howard wiped blood from his chin. Licked his lips. “You don’t know her. Or maybe you do. She’s a hot little piece. I only gave her what she was panting for.”
Aimée cringed.
Lucien slammed Howard up against the wall. A pot fell from a shelf and shattered.
Howard clawed at Lucien’s arms.
Lucien shook him like a mastiff shakes a rat. “You don’t touch her.” More blows, hard and punishing, to Howard’s ribs and gut. “You don’t look at her. You don’t bother her ever again.”
“This is my parents’ house,” Howard said thickly. “You have no authority here. I’ll have you thrown out.”
“Not before I tell Sir Walter and everyone else the reason why.”
Howard’s face was greenish white. “They won’t believe you. It will be your word against mine. The word of a bastard.”
“An acknowledged bastard,” Lucien shot back. “The Earl of Amherst never abandoned his by-blows. My word will be accepted. And once the story of your villainy gets out, your family’s reputation will be ruined.”
He released Howard, dropping him to the floor. “I cannot deal with you here as you deserve. But if I hear you have troubled Miss Blanchard again in any way, you will be lucky to escape with your life. Now take yourself out of my sight.”
Howard stumbled to his feet, blood dripping from his chin, one eye swollen nearly shut. The other shot a hate-filled glance at Aimée. She shivered, pulling her shawl around her.
“I will inform the company that you are indisposed,” Lucien said still in that deadly soft voice. “Doubtless you will wish to remain in your rooms until your return to London.”
Howard lurched from the potting shed without answering. The door banged shut behind him.
Lucien turned to Aimée. “Are you all right?”
Her hands trembled. She made an effort to pull herself together. “Yes. Thank you.”
Lucien’s brow creased. “I cannot prevent him from coming back in the future. But bullies prey on the defenseless. I believe he is sufficiently cowed now to leave you alone.”
“I did not arrange to meet him here,” she said, twisting her hands together. “I did not invite his attentions.”
“I know,” Lucien said.
“How can you know?” she demanded. “I certainly threw myself at you. How can you not think I am ripe for any man’s attentions?”
“I know because I know you,” Lucien said. “You are passionate, not promiscuous. And far too wise, too fine, for the likes of Basing. The man is an ass.”
Startled, she met his gaze. Slowly, her lips curved. “He is an ass,” she admitted.
Lucien made a move toward her, quickly checked. Understanding flooded her. He was afraid to touch her, to remind her of Howard’s attack.
So she went to him. Slipping her arms around his waist, she laid her head on his hard chest.
His arms came around her. His hands moved down her back, stroking, comforting. With a little sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut. He was warm and solid, wrapped around her, and she nestled against his big body, absorbing his comfort. His strength.
“Do not be afraid,” he murmured. “You are safe now.”
A memory tickled, soft, dark, velvet. She opened her eyes in wonder, recognition unfurling inside her like a flower.
“I know you.”
His arms tensed. His breathing stilled.
“I recognize you.” She lifted her head to study his features. Wide, clear brow. Long, straight nose. Firm, unsmiling mouth. His fair hair, long and untamed, an aureole of gold around his angel face.
“You are overwrought,” he said carefully. “Under the circumstances, it is natural for you to imagine . . .”
Her breath exploded, a puff of impatience with him, with herself. “I am upset. I am not stupid. I do not ignore the evidence of my senses.” Or the prompting of her heart. “It was you. In the prison.”
It was you all along.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Aimée.” Just her name, like the whisper of leaves. His green eyes were full of shadows and secrets like a forest. She could get lost in those eyes.
“Tell me,” she said fiercely.
He sighed. “During the Terror, Amherst organized a secret ring to smuggle victims fleeing France across the channel. When I went to live with him, I . . . joined them.”
When he was seventeen, he’d told her yesterday. Before that, he remembered nothing.
Her blood drummed in her ears. Her mind boggled, teetered on the edge of comprehension. A great void opened at her feet.
It was not possible. The man who had spirited her to safety seven years ago had been no youth of seventeen. He had appeared out of the darkness like the answer to a prayer, tearing her from her old life, setting her on a new course. The same man. This man, Lucien Hartfell. Her brain could not conceive it.
S
he could not hear, she could not think, over the pounding in her head. She could not remember every word overheard eight years ago in the barn, in the dark. So she listened to her heart instead.
“When you came to Moulton to court Julia, did you know you would find me here?” she asked.
Lucien held himself as stiffly as a prisoner before the Tribunal, condemned before he opened his mouth. “No. I lost . . . track of things for a while.”
An unexpected tenderness unfolded inside her, an aching pity, a sorrow for something she did not understand.
When you lose your powers, your memory goes, too.
Had she recalled those words? Or imagined them? It did not signify. What mattered was that Lucien was not invulnerable after all. In his own way, he was as lost, as confused, as she.
“Then I must be grateful,” she said, “to God or the Fates, who brought you to me again when I was in need.”
His gaze met hers, stunned.
She smiled and stood on tiptoe to press her lips lightly to his. “I am grateful. For both times.”
His marble face flushed. He made her a bow, oddly formal. “I am always here,” he said. “If you need me.”
Chapter Eight
Everyone—from Sir Walter and Lady Basing in their separate rooms on the second floor to the hall boy on his pallet by the kitchen fire—was settled for the night.
Aimée tossed on her narrow bed, unable to get comfortable. Her feet were too cold. Her sheets were too rough. An unfamiliar restlessness invaded her veins. She thanked God and Lucien that for the first time in weeks she could sleep without a chair jammed under her door, alone without fear.
Except she no longer wanted to sleep alone.
Aimée flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She was a Frenchwoman. She must be practical. Lucien had rejected her once for what she was certain were very good reasons. She was not at all sure she had the courage to gamble her heart and risk her reputation only to be rejected a second time. She needed to think of her future.