by Erica Ridley
“I know everything I need to know about you and your kind.” Mr. Shelling’s lip curled in the direction of the phaeton as though the sight of the French flag was just as abhorrent as the thought of his daughter in a Frenchman’s arms. “That’s enough, Eve. The story is over.”
Mr. Shelling let go of his daughter’s arm seconds before Bastien was about to stalk forward and rip his hand away.
Eve walked beside him with wooden legs, a chastised marionette hanging from her strings.
Even Duenna slunk behind with her tail between her legs.
Bastien curled his shaking hands into fists and slammed them atop the closest table. He couldn’t go after her. That was her father. The only family Eve had left. Bastien couldn’t—wouldn’t—force himself between them.
Not physically.
But he had to do something to get her out of that appalling situation. No. That was highhandedness talking. “Bastien knew best,” no better than her overbearing father.
Eve deserved choices.
He closed the smithy and headed straight for the castle. When the town’s founder died, the old man’s will and testament left Marlowe Castle and its wealth in a trust overseen by Mr. Thompson, the castle solicitor. As guardian, Mr. Thompson’s power was limited, but he was far from impotent.
More importantly, Mr. Thompson believed in women. There had been until recently a female managing the counting-house. The vacancy had been long filled and Bastien doubted Eve would have wanted it anyway, but surely there was someone who would recognize her worth and pay her for her work.
If she chose to remain under her father’s thumb, Bastien would support her. But if she wanted to make her own way, however that might look and whatever that might mean…
He would move heaven itself to make her wish come true.
Chapter 10
By the following afternoon, Eve and her father had mastered the art of walking past each other with open contempt, the thump of his walking-stick and the grinding of her teeth the only sounds amongst the deafening silence of mutual disappointment.
But Eve was tired of silence. Of not being heard. Of doing absolutely everything that was within her power to do, and still not garnering enough respect or autonomy to live her own bloody life.
This time, when her father passed the drawing room without looking at her, she placed herself directly in his path.
“I’m an adult.”
Her father did not bother to hide his annoyance. “You’re four-and-twenty.”
“Exactly.” She drew herself up straight. “Yet you treat me like a child.”
He leaned on his walking-stick impatiently. “You’re my child.”
“I’m your daughter, not a rag doll to be dragged about by the arm.” The memory tightened her throat with shame. “You embarrassed me.”
Father barked a dismissive laugh. “You embarrassed me. I went to buy bread, and the baker mentioned you’d been seen frolicking about the village in that Frenchman’s phaeton—”
“Is that the problem? That Bastien is French?” She stepped forward, fingers tight. “Would we be having the same conversation if he was English?”
Father sniffed. “I don’t care if he’s from the moon. He’s not good enough for you.”
“How do you know he’s not good enough?” Even as she asked the question, the answer punched into her chest.
Because the last man you fell for never intended to stay. The last time you swore you’d found a “good” one, someone we cared for died.
Father didn’t have to say the words. They hung in the air between them.
“Bastien isn’t like that.” Except for the leaving part. “He’s good and honest, caring and trustworthy.”
“Concentrate on the Gazette. Type has to be set this week in order to print and ship before the first of November.”
“I know how to run the Gazette. I’ve been setting type and meeting dates for years without your help. I also know how to run my own life.”
“You clearly do not. Rules are rules, Eve, and the rule is: Stay away from Sébastien le Duc. I forbid it.”
He forbade it? Her nostrils flared. Well, she didn’t accept his proscription! Every beat of her heart rebelled against it. She was going to lose Bastien in a few weeks, but not yet. Not because her father dismissed him out of hand without bothering to seek the truth.
She ground her teeth. “Just because I—”
Father turned before Eve could finish her thought, dismissing her mid-sentence. He strode into his study and shut the door without a backward glance.
Her shaking fingers curled into fists. What the devil did he even do in his study all day? The Gazette provided the family’s only source of income, and she was the one who ran it. Without Eve, he wouldn’t even have that luxury!
She snatched her pelisse from its wooden peg and stalked out of the front door.
Duenna joined her, tail wagging.
“We’re going to see Bastien,” Eve informed her, though the bullmastiff hadn’t asked. If anything, she’d seemed to assume as much. Her paws pointed in the direction of the smithy without question.
The brisk walk in the cold air, surrounded by the sun setting on Cressmouth’s rolling autumn beauty helped rub away some of her hurt and anger.
Father was never going to change. People never truly did. She could either resign herself to a life that was never any different than it was at this moment, or she could follow her passions and seize joy wherever she could find it.
Eve chose the latter.
When she and Duenna reached the smithy, the doors were closed. The walking path to one side led to the cottage nestled next to the woods behind the smithy. Might Bastien be at home? Well, she hadn’t disobeyed her father’s prohibitive edicts just to turn back now.
As they neared the cottage, a shadow moved on one side and Duenna dashed forward to investigate.
Eve picked up her hem and gave chase before her bullmastiff could tackle some innocent gardener or scullery maid out picking carrots.
She drew up short.
The shadow was not a maid or a gardener, but an enormous hog whose spine was as high as Eve’s waist. The impressive girth indicated this pig weighed about three times as much as Eve and Duenna put together.
Undeterred, Duenna pranced about the pig at a safe distance, barking in delight.
A window opened.
Bastien’s eyes laughed at her. “That’s Chef. He won’t eat Duenna, if you want to come inside.”
Cheeks burning at being caught skulking outside his house when she’d actually come to apologize for her father’s rude behavior, Eve left Duenna to play with the pig and made her way to the front of the cottage.
When she arrived, Bastien stood in the open doorway, lounging against the wooden frame.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she blurted. “Father had no right to assume—”
“Didn’t he?” His brows arched sardonically. “Your father misinterpreted the situation, but he wasn’t wrong about me. I have taken liberties with you without any promises for the future.”
“So did I,” she reminded him. “And I’d do it again.”
“Then by all means…” He stepped back from the door. “Come inside.”
Eve stepped into a beautiful entryway. Although the exterior of the le Ducs’ cozy home looked no different from the other cottages, the interior managed to look rich and elegant without the presence of ostentatious gewgaws or blatant displays of wealth.
Bastien caught her gaze. “Not my handiwork, I’m afraid. Désirée and Carole are the ones responsible for the men not living like the pig.”
Carole was Carole Quincy, the friend who not only created the swan woodcut for the Gazette, but had also designed the Duke of Azureford’s billiards room. She would make an excellent subject to interview for the spring issue. Eve pulled out her journal to jot a note.
Bastien stared at her. “If you’re adding ‘would sleep with the pig’ to my article…”
&
nbsp; She burst out laughing. “No one would believe it if I did. You’re the closest Cressmouth has to an out-and-out dandy.”
“Close to a dandy?” His spine straightened in faux offense as he looped a worn kitchen apron about his neck. “You find me merely close to sartorial perfection?”
She thought him close to perfection full stop, but restrained her reply to a cheeky grin as she followed him into the kitchen.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Are you hungry?”
The delicious scents of thyme and garlic hit her nose.
Her stomach growled in response.
He pointed to a wooden stool. “Sit. I’m going to feed you.”
She sent him a startled look, heart pounding. “You are?”
“Duenna is in the garden with Chef.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do not want him in charge of your supper.”
She sat, and rested her elbows on the table to watch him.
“Coq au vin,” he explained. “Almost ready. It takes just over two hours.”
“Have you considered you were destined to be a cook rather than a blacksmith?”
He rolled his eyes. “And perform on cue as some English aristocrat’s prized French chef?”
“You dislike aristocrats?”
“How can I, when…” He busied himself serving the fragrant braised chicken.
Her chest kicked with sudden understanding. “You’re an aristocrat?”
“No,” he said quickly. When she didn’t look away, he sighed and met her gaze. “With luck, I’ll never be. Lucien is the first in line.”
Eve’s mouth fell open. No wonder he was eager to return to France.
All this time, her father was right. She and Bastien were poorly matched. But not because he wasn’t good enough for her. She was the one whose status was beneath his.
“It’s the worst thing that could have happened to us,” he warned her. “That’s why my parents were killed in Southern Brittany during the so-called ‘peasant revolt.’ They were unapologetic royalists.”
Royalists believed in dividing people into classes, passing the power from father to firstborn son. Of course they would not back a rebellion that sought to redistribute their advantages to ordinary, lower class citizens.
She itched to pull out her notebook and ask a thousand questions. Forget the smithy. This was a story that would get people talking. Conflict and controversy, politics and emotion. When did unequal privilege become too much power? Was violence ever the right answer?
“That must have been terrifying,” she said softly.
His gaze was raw. “I was ten that day. Old enough to understand what had happened, but not old enough to understand why. Désirée was even younger. At thirteen, Lucien suddenly became the head of our family.”
She covered his hand with hers and squeezed.
His smile did not reach his eyes. “The servants left. We had no access to funds. Perhaps they wouldn’t have stayed even if we could pay them. Our pantry was well-stocked, not that we had any idea what to do with any of it. The night Uncle Jasper came, Lucien had sliced open his finger trying to filet a fish, and Désirée was sitting in the middle of her room crying because she couldn’t untangle her hair.”
Eve’s voice softened. “Where were you?”
“Sewing Lucien’s finger.” Bastien fingered the hem of his jacket. “I got better at sewing. All three of us learned to cook. But back then, we were scared, grieving children who had been on our own for all of four days, and were failing horribly.”
“But your uncle came.” She could not imagine what walking into such a scene must have felt like. Or how earth-shattering it must have been to have everything one moment and nothing the next.
Bastien inclined his head. “Uncle Jasper gathered us up and everything of value we could carry, and we left that very night. He brought us back here, because there was nowhere else for us to go.”
Thank God for Cressmouth. It was just the miracle they needed.
Sort of.
“That’s when Mr. Marlowe forced your family to sign a predatory lease?” she remembered.
He shook his head. “Uncle Jasper signed willingly. It was that, or sleep on the floor in the smithy.”
“Just because you choose to do something doesn’t mean you truly had another choice,” she said quietly.
Bastien picked up their empty plates and carried them to the basin without comment.
She followed. “What happens when you go back?”
“We don’t know. Now that the Bourbon monarchy is restored, Lucien is petitioning for the return of our land. Others have had some success, and he is hopeful we will, too.”
She frowned at this phrasing. “You’re not hopeful, too?”
He shrugged. “I don’t need land. I was born to be a dandy with no other cares or skills, and instead I became a dandy who can forge iron, harvest vegetables, feed pigs, season chicken, and sew a bloody fine seam. We want our birthright, but we don’t need it. We can survive anywhere.”
And the place he’d chosen was France.
She pretended the reminder didn’t claw a hole in her chest. “When are you leaving?”
“The morning of Epiphany. I’ve sent away for passage.”
Of course he had. He’d been waiting for this opportunity for years. Freedom, to live where he wished, to do as he pleased. Who wouldn’t be counting down the days?
Maybe she should do so, too. They had a finite number of hours in which to enjoy each other’s company.
She let her gaze linger on the muscles of his upper arm, on the breadth of his strong shoulders, on the thrilling familiarity of his wide, firm mouth and how sensual it had felt against her own.
He caught her staring. His eyes lowered to her parted lips. She licked them. His gaze heated.
Neither of them were thinking about Christmas or pigs or a sea passage anymore. The only thought in her mind was that an arm’s length away from her was much too far for him to be. She wanted his kisses. Yearned for his embrace. If he was waiting for a sign… she’d give him one.
“Dessert?” he managed, his voice a raspy growl.
Absolutely. She lifted on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
This kiss was different than the ones before. They knew each other now. Not just in the sense of two people whose mouths had entwined in passion on multiple occasions, but as two people who were no longer afraid to show their true selves.
He knew how much she loved the Gazette yet felt stifled by it; how much she loved her father yet felt stifled by him. Bastien didn’t pat her on the head for having aspirations or suggest the only thing missing in her life was a husband to take over all the pesky thinking. He trusted her to think for herself. He thought her talented, capable. Attractive.
Heaven knew no man could hold a candle to Sébastien le Duc. He wasn’t afraid to bare himself fully. Iron calluses, scullery work, a jacket molded so perfectly to his muscled frame that any pink of the ton would weep to have such tailoring in their own wardrobe.
He seemed to believe she would think these things betrayed his inferiority, but they only made him more real. More special.
She ran her hands up those hard muscles and locked her arms about him tight.
“Eve,” he said between drugging kisses. “I’d kiss you for the next straight fortnight if I could.”
Her heart skipped. “But?”
“But…” He kissed both corners of her mouth. “We’re standing in my kitchen and I don’t live alone.”
Oh, God. Her pulse jumped. His family could walk in at any moment. “Is there somewhere else we can go?”
He held her gaze, his brown eyes dark with passion, then his mouth crushed hers. They were no longer standing in the kitchen, but bouncing against a wall, weaving down a narrow corridor, lurching through an open doorway.
Bastien kicked the door closed, engaged the lock, and then his arms were wrapped around her once more. She melted against him. He was so there, so solid, the rest of t
he world seemed like a faded watercolor in comparison. His kisses stole her breath and her heart, leaving her no choice but to surrender.
They tumbled backward toward a soft mattress, but she was already falling, had already fallen. Her equilibrium had vanished the first time he’d kissed her. She was here because there was nowhere else she’d rather be; no one she’d rather be with; nothing else she’d rather be doing than drowning in his kisses.
Eve showed him with her hands and mouth and tongue the words she dare not admit aloud.
She loved him.
There was no other explanation for giddiness at the sight of him, the yearning when they were apart, the terror at the thought of losing him forever. He’d lived down the road for the past eighteen years, and somehow she had just found him. Every moment before their first kiss was wasted time. She would not waste the time they had left.
She had always promised herself that if she ever met a man who respected her enough to trust her with complete honesty, a man she could trust with anything at all… she’d hold back nothing.
When his fingers skated so, so close to the nipples straining against her bosom, she grasped his hair and demanded, “Touch me.”
Again, the fingers circling, teasing, but not quite reaching. “Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Rather than cup her through the linen, he tugged the hem of her bodice below her breast and captured the sensitive peak with his mouth.
She gasped in pleasure. This was not what she expected. This was not even something she’d known she could expect. This was so much better.
Without lifting his mouth from her bosom, he yanked up her skirts just far enough to slide his hand beneath and—ohhh, yes. Exactly there.
Had she thought his mouth and tongue delicious torture? What his fingers were now doing had her panting, writhing, bucking, pleading for a release she’d only ever found home alone in her bedchamber. It was about to happen here. With him.
Margaret loved to tease that Eve didn’t know what she was missing. Now was just the perfect time to find out. Bastien was the only man Eve wanted to find out with.
Even if she could only have him for a short while, every stolen moment together was well worth the future heartache. Tonight, she would finally find out what she’d be missing when he left…
