A Convenient Fiction

by Mimi Matthews

  “Were you really only thirteen?”

  “I was. Garrick liked the idea of having an apprentice. Someone to whom he could teach his tricks. Not out of any sense of altruism, mind. Having a protégé allowed him to earn extra money without the danger of being called out as a cheat and a rogue. He’d send me out into the city to play street games and the like. It was a lucrative business for him.”

  She looked appalled. “He took your winnings?”

  “The greater portion of them. He also saw that I had somewhere to sleep and that my belly was filled. And it’s true he often told people I was his son. But I had no illusions. Had I not had an aptitude for cards, he’d have had no qualms about leaving me behind.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Two years. Until I outgrew him. It wasn’t as easy to take my earnings then—and I was less inclined to part with them. Garrick didn’t have any use for a lad he couldn’t control.”

  “Two years,” Laura mused. “That would have made you fifteen. Still just a boy.”

  Alex looked into her eyes. They were as soft as blue smoke in the light from the oil lamp. Her hair was coming loose from its pins, ebony strands curling at her temples to frame her face. A face he very much wanted to kiss.

  Good lord, he should be wooing her with sweet words. Coaxing her to bed, not burdening her with stories from his past.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I traveled about, playing cards with whoever would indulge me. Luckily I won more than I lost.” He brought her hand to his lips. “And one day, many years later, when I was at a faro bank in Marseilles, I met George Wright.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “And then I met you.”

  She drew her fingertips along his cheek. “Many, many years later.”

  “The only thing good to come out of any of this.”

  Her eyes searched his. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do.” His heart thumped hard as she lifted her hand from his to cradle his face. Her thumb moved over his jaw in a slow caress. There was a tenderness in her touch. A possessiveness, too.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.

  He set his arm about her waist, drawing her closer. “So am I,” he said. And he bent his head and captured her mouth with his.

  Laura’s hand slid from Alex’s cheek to curve around his neck. His lips were warm and firm, the evening scruff of his beard deliciously abrasive against her skin. Warmth infused her veins, just as it had when he’d kissed her beneath the yew tree. But this time…

  This time, there was nothing impulsive in his touch.

  He held her fast against him, so close that she could feel the heavy beat of his heart, and he kissed her slowly, deliberately. Deep, drugging kisses that turned her limbs to melted treacle.

  It was impossible not to respond. Impossible not to tangle her fingers into his thick hair, and to kiss him back with soft, half-parted lips.

  She inhaled a tremulous breath. He smelled of railway smoke and polished leather; of travel, and adventure, and endless, thrilling possibility. Her stomach clenched as his mouth moved on hers. Had she been standing, she was certain her knees would have buckled beneath her.

  “Was that any more memorable than last time?” he asked when he finally pulled away.

  She gave him a dazed look.

  His forehead came to rest gently against hers. There was a smile in his voice. “Better than a buss on the cheek from an aged uncle?”

  Her sharp words from the pond came back to her in a flash. She exhaled a breathless laugh. “Yes. Much better.”

  “Good.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his voice a deep murmur as he nuzzled her ear. “Let’s go to bed, shall we?”

  She should be anxious. Lord knew she’d been half dreading this moment since they arrived in Paris. She was so worried about disappointing him—and about being disappointed herself.

  But as he held her in his arms, she wasn’t afraid anymore. She wasn’t even the least bit skittish. All she knew was that she wanted him.

  And that he wanted her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Please.”

  For the rest of her life, Laura would remember that week in Paris with Alex Archer. They spent every hour together. Mornings breakfasting in bed. Afternoons exploring the city. And evenings. Long, intimate evenings spent in each other’s arms.

  Her new husband was a changeable lover. As chameleonlike as in every other respect. One moment touching her with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. Another moment teasing her and making her laugh. He was frequently romantic. Always solicitous of her smallest desire. But it was in their most intimate embrace when she finally felt she knew him. He held her, and took her, and loved her.

  And she dared to hope that the feelings he had professed for her in Lower Hawley were deepening to something stronger. Something more than mere caring or attraction.

  Because her own feelings were certainly deepening for him.

  At the end of the week they departed for Grasse. There was no more postponing it. As much as she didn’t like to dwell on the matter, their future depended on what they found there. Not only hers and Teddy’s future, but Alex’s, too.

  Despite the new intimacy between them, he’d still not committed to staying with her.

  Laura owned to a certain sense of bitterness on the subject. As they settled into their first-class compartment on the train from Paris, she couldn’t help but press him. “I daresay you’re beginning to grow bored with me.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. She realized it as soon as she said it. Stupid and childish.

  Alex cast her an amused look. “If I was any less bored, we’d still be at the hotel.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks.

  Of course he wasn’t bored with her. Rather the opposite. They couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. Indeed, they’d lingered in bed so long this morning, they’d nearly missed their train.

  At half past eight, they’d finally risen and dressed, Alex helping to lace her corset and fasten her gown, and Laura tying his cravat, the whole production punctuated with soft touches and kisses. “We’re going to be late,” he’d finally said, his lips at her neck.

  No, he wasn’t bored with her. Not yet.

  She glanced out the velvet-curtained window. The French landscape passed by in a blur as the train rattled along the tracks, leaving the city far behind them. “It feels as if it’s all over now that we’re leaving Paris. As if we’ve come to the end of things.”

  He took her gloved hand between both of his. “It’s not over.”

  “No,” she said softly. “It’s just…I suppose I don’t trust it yet. It’s all still so new to me.”

  “It’s new to me, as well.”

  She gave a sudden laugh. “Well, that’s not very comforting. You’re meant to be the one with experience in this sort of thing.”

  Alex didn’t laugh in return. “It all feels new. Because of you. Because of caring for you as I do. I’m fumbling along in the dark. It’s rather unnerving. Any moment I know I shall make some irreversible mistake.”

  “No mistakes are irreversible.”

  “Some are.” He toyed with her hand, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “You say that now, but…” His brow furrowed. “I don’t expect you ever dreamed of marrying a man like me.”

  “I can’t say I ever dreamed of marrying at all. Not as some girls do. Though…I do recall picturing my wedding day.”

  “How did you imagine it?”

  Her mouth curved in a smile. “The usual trappings. The village church. Mendelssohn and orange blossoms. My friends and family all about me.”

  “And the groom?”

  “A mystery. I never pictured him. I only knew that I’d
recognize him when I saw him. That one day we’d meet, and I’d know he was the one. The gentleman I was destined to marry.”

  “George Wright,” Alex said.

  Her smile faded. “For a long while I thought it was him. But something was always missing. It never felt completely right. Not until—”

  “Until when?”

  She gave him a wry look. “Until I met you.”

  He returned her gaze, an expression in his eyes hard to read.

  “That day at Talbot’s Pond, I felt something for you. You felt it, too. A thread of connection. That’s how you described it the day we walked to the Roman ruin.”

  “I did. It was devilish inconvenient.” He paused for a long moment before asking, “What happened between you and George?”

  She went still. It wasn’t a secret. Nevertheless, it was an incident she didn’t much fancy revisiting. “Does it matter?”

  “Chalk it up to possessiveness. That, or husbandly curiosity. I already heard his side of the story—”

  Her gaze jerked to his. “When?”

  “In Margate. He didn’t present himself in the best light.”

  A spark of anger flickered in her breast. “Nor should he.”

  “What happened?” Alex asked again. “Did he break your heart?”

  “He never had my heart. What I felt for him was closer to schoolgirl infatuation than it was to love. After Papa died, I spent the year in mourning. George kept his distance. Out of respect, I thought at the time. The following December, when my mourning period was over, I went to Edgington Park for their annual Christmas ball. George spirited me out to the terrace. I thought he was going to ask me to marry him.”

  “Instead, he asked you to be his mistress.”

  “I wasn’t insulted. Not at first. I was too stunned. I remember staring at him, unable to formulate a single word. That was when he kissed me. If you can call it a kiss. He was very…forceful.”

  Alex’s jaw hardened. “I should thrash him within an inch of his life.”

  “Oh no. A slap was more than sufficient. Indeed, in the following days there were moments when I feared I’d broken my hand. I can only imagine what his cheek must have looked like.”

  “You didn’t see him again?”

  “No. He left not long after. Gone to London, his father said. I confess I was relieved. The idea of facing him…” She grimaced. “I still had my pride, after all.”

  “You must have been shocked at his return last month.”

  “Not shocked, no. Surprised, perhaps. It was unexpected.”

  “I’m amazed you responded to Henrietta’s summons.”

  “Why? It had been two years. Long enough for any hurt or embarrassment to have faded.” She pressed Alex’s hand. “In truth, I’ve actually come to be grateful for that kiss. It was decidedly lackluster. I knew in an instant that George wasn’t the man for me—childish infatuation or no.”

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Alex said. And then he laughed. “But who am I to talk?”

  “You’re my husband.” She stretched up and kissed him, her lips clinging to his.

  He drew her into a fierce embrace. “Laura… My dearest…” His breath was warm on her cheek. “You make me forget we’re on a public conveyance.”

  “And you make me shameless,” she whispered.

  “It’s my fault, is it?”

  “Entirely.” She kissed him once more before settling back in her seat. “No matter. I expect we’ll arrive at our hotel soon.”

  He gave her a piercing look. “Not soon enough.”

  Grasse, France

  September, 1860

  They finally arrived in Nice long after night had fallen. Alex ordered dinner for them in their hotel room. It was more convenient after a day of traveling. Laura could take off her corset, and unpin her hair. He was becoming accustomed to a certain level of comfort with his wife. A certain sense of responsibility, too. She was his to look after. His to have and to hold, just as he’d promised when they stood up in front of the vicar.

  A month ago, he might have laughed at the very idea of feeling the way he did. But now…Laura was everything.

  When the footmen departed after delivering their luggage, she slipped her hands inside his frock coat, sliding her arms around him. He buried his face in her hair, his own arms encircling her tightly.

  “Coach travel on roads like these should be outlawed,” she said. “My bones are aching.”

  Alex couldn’t disagree. There was no direct rail access from Paris to the South of France. At Lyon, they had been obliged to disembark from the train and travel part of the way by coach. It hadn’t been a very comfortable journey. The last carriage had jostled them mercilessly as it navigated the hills, shaking and shuddering so badly it seemed the vehicle might collapse at the seams.

  “Poor darling.” He moved his hand up and down over the curve of her spine. “I’ll order a hot bath for you.”

  For the next half hour, hotel staff bustled in and out of their room, laying a table for dinner and carrying in a cast iron tub. When the last footman had gone, Alex and Laura shared the bath together—an intimacy Laura confessed she wouldn’t even have been able to contemplate a week before.

  “How much things have changed,” she said as they ate a leisurely dinner in their dressing gowns.

  “For the good, I hope.”

  “For the good. I don’t know why I keep expecting something to go wrong. Force of habit, I suppose.”

  Alex didn’t give voice to his own sense of foreboding.

  He’d been alone for the better part of his life. Ever since he’d left North Devon. There had been other people around, naturally. Even other women. But at his core, he’d known there was no one he could trust. No one he could rely on.

  But now there was Laura.

  Suddenly, he was no longer alone.

  The feeling was…indescribable.

  That night in bed, he held her in his arms as she slept. Her slim back was nestled against his chest, her arm folded over his at her waist. He burrowed his face into her neck. The fragrance of lavender and clean linen lulled him to sleep.

  He wanted to protect her from the world. To shield her from the harsh realities she’d been obliged to face for so many years on her own. But she was no hothouse flower. She was too strong-willed. Too determined. The most he could hope for was to watch over her. To stand at her side, come what may.

  In the morning, when he hired a carriage to take them to Grasse, he prayed she wouldn’t be disappointed by what they found there.

  He’d never had much occasion to travel into the hills of southern France himself. Certainly not to Grasse. It was a quaint little medieval town, known for its perfume factories, and for its fragrant crops of flowers. Laura spent much of the journey gazing out the window.

  They booked rooms at a busy hotel off of the main road. A short time later they were in another hired carriage—an open gig pulled by two sprightly bays—and on their way to the distillery.

  Laura was uncommonly quiet.

  “Worried?” Alex asked.

  She tilted her parasol back over her shoulder. “I’m afraid we aren’t going to like what we find.” She flashed him a rueful glance. “I’ve learned to be pessimistic.”

  He felt an ache of sympathy—and frustration. It was completely nonsensical. He hadn’t even known her at the time her father died. Nevertheless, the very idea that she’d been ill and alone, and that he hadn’t been there to protect her, provoked a storm of anguish in his breast. “The last three years must have been a trial.”

  “Not all of it. But we’ve had much to contend with. I’ve found it’s better to be realistic about things. To confront them head-on. I’d rather know the worst than be kept in the dark.” She resumed looking ahead. “I hate being out of control of things.”

  �
�And yet you love the sea. A force that’s completely uncontrollable.”

  “It’s different in the water. I can’t explain it.” She hesitated. “I suppose I feel powerful. Unencumbered. There’s only myself, and my own strength. To sink or swim alone.”

  “Do you still feel that way? Even after what happened at Margate?”

  “I didn’t at first. Even now…sometimes I think of that day—what it felt like when the sea was too strong for me—and it sends a shiver down my spine. I daresay I should go back into the water before too long. Just as one gets on a horse directly after falling off. You become scared otherwise.”

  “I’d rather you never went in the sea again,” Alex said frankly.

  She gave him a look. “Do you mean that?”

  “I do. But I know how much it means to you. If you want to swim again, I won’t forbid it. I only ask that, in future, you never venture into the sea unless I’m there.”

  Her brows lifted. “You intend to go in with me?”

  “Ah. As to that…no. I shall remain firmly on the shore.”

  “With a spyglass.”

  His mouth curled into a smile. “If the occasion calls for it.”

  She laughed. A soft, husky sound that warmed him to his heart.

  “We’re not far from the sea,” he said. “Indeed, the clerk at the front desk informed me that we’re but ten miles from Cannes. The beaches there are quite beautiful. Perhaps, when we’ve finished our business in Grasse…”

  She stared at him, her laughter fading. “You’d take me there? To swim in the sea?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Oh, Alex.” Her eyes shone soft as velvet. “I—”

  “Vous êtes arrive, monsieur,” the coachman said. The carriage slowed to a halt in front of a modest building of cream-colored stone. It was set halfway up a hill, with an iron fence about it, and a small courtyard leading to an entryway flanked by palm trees. The same stately palm trees that lined many of the streets in town.