by Lora Leigh
She must not be seen amusing him.
Too late.
“Ah, Cousin Amy.” Her stomach dropped into her thin-soled evening slippers as Howard Basing approached from the direction of the tea tray. “Teasing another gentleman?”
“Basing.” Hartfell nodded shortly. “You must not blame Miss Blanchard. She is guilty only of bearing with my company. I am at fault for monopolizing her attention.”
She lifted her chin. “I was telling Mr. Hartfell I do not play.”
Howard leered. “As I know, to my sorrow. You are cruel to deprive your admirers of enjoying your . . . hidden talents.”
She was growing very tired of Cousin Howard, his wandering eyes and speaking pauses. But she must not make a scene in Lady Basing’s drawing room. “You must content yourself listening to the other ladies,” she said.
“Must I? But they are tame entertainment.” Howard’s gaze flitted over her face and fastened on her bosom. “I prefer more vigorous, ah, pursuits.”
Aimée’s cheeks burned.
Freddy Keasdon had just enough wit to look embarrassed.
Lucien Hartfell took a half step forward, looming very large indeed. “Your comments are offensive, sir,” he said, his voice chilled and soft.
Aimée’s heart beat faster. She might have appreciated his gallantry—One rake defending her from another?—but it would not do at all for Julia’s chosen suitor and her brother to come to blows over a perceived insult to a poor relation. Julia would be mortified. Aimée would be disgraced.
“I am sure Mr. Basing meant only that he would prefer dancing to singing,” she said.
Hartfell narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.”
She looked at Howard. “I believe your mother plans a ball on Christmas Day. That should be sufficient outlet for your energies.”
“Then you must save me a set, Cousin.” Howard smirked. “I can only be satisfied in your arms.”
Hartfell inhaled sharply. But as long as she did not protest, there was nothing further he could say.
And nothing she could do, Aimée thought. Her skin crawled as if she had touched a slug. But her mother’s cousin refused to hear any criticism of her son. In Lady Basing’s eyes, any improper behavior must be Aimée’s imagination.
Or her fault.
She held her tongue.
The silence stretched.
Howard’s smile broadened. “You will dance with me? I have your promise?”
The unfairness of her situation burned her throat. But she must be practical.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“If the music is not your liking, Basing, I suggest you visit the card table,” Hartfell said, still in that calm, cold voice. “I see Lady Basing has set up a game. Perhaps Keasdon here will partner you.”
Prompted, Freddy blushed and stammered his willingness to play.
Hartfell waited while the two men made their way to the opposite side of the room. He bowed curtly to Aimée, his face impassive. “I will leave you to your amusements, Miss Blanchard.”
Dismay washed through her. He could not believe she encouraged Howard’s improper attentions.
But of course he could, she thought as he walked away. He had just heard her excuse Howard and then agree to dance with him. What else could he think?
Howard probably thought the same.
She felt faintly ill. And unreasonably disappointed. Why she cared for Hartfell’s good opinion she did not know.
Except for that moment when their eyes first met and she had felt a quiver of . . . What? Recognition? Yearning?
Foolishness.
She watched him cross to Julia’s side, his broad, black back, his gleaming golden hair, and her vision blurred suddenly.
She took a deep breath. She would not indulge in regret or self-pity.
It was stupid, stupid, to sigh and dream over a man simply because he had sought an introduction and shown her a little courtesy. Women like her—dependent females at the mercy of their relations—had little chance of attracting a suitor or changing their situations.
Besides . . . Her gaze skittered to Howard, taking his seat at the card table. Hartfell’s politeness, innocent as it was, had had the unwelcome result of provoking Howard. Her cousin was like a dog snarling over a bone, anxious lest it be snatched away.
She sighed. She had no desire to be slavered over. Or mauled. Better for her, safer for her, to avoid them both.
Chapter Four
Lucien stared out the long French windows at the snow covered lawn and frozen pond. The winter clouds were cold and gray as steel, the ground as hard as iron.
In his mind he saw her eyes, blue as the October sky, heard her voice, warm and fierce as sunlight. You tear me away from everything I know. You will rip me apart.
His hands clenched behind his back. He knew who she was now. Amy Blanchard. Lady Aimée, daughter of the Comte de Brissac.
What he didn’t know was what the devil he should do about her.
His head pounded. Maybe nothing.
He was no angel, after all. His responsibility for her had ended eight years ago when he delivered her from prison and the guillotine. Damn it all, he’d saved her life.
You are killing me.
His jaw set. Bollocks.
A burst of laughter recalled his attention to the room behind him, where pretty Julia Basing was holding court by the fire.
He felt no desire to join them. For the past several days, he had been confined to the house and his role as Julia’s suitor. The hard frost, followed by an inch or two of snow, had discouraged even the most avid sportsmen from going out. There had been one foray to the local taproom to take tea, where the very young ladies in his party had declared the private dining room dirty, the cakes dry, and the whole trip scarcely worth the trouble. In desperation yesterday, Lucien had proposed an expedition to the tiny Norman church in the village to admire the twelfth-century frieze. A shivering Julia Basing had refused even to descend from the carriage, demanding to be taken home.
Aimée Blanchard had not joined either outing.
“Is Miss Blanchard indisposed?” Lucien had asked Julia that morning.
Julia had blinked at him, obviously bewildered by his interest in her cousin. “Amy? No, why?”
“I did not see her at breakfast.”
Nor had she been at dinner the past two nights nor in the drawing room to play cards or charades.
Julia’s pretty face had pleated. “I think Amy is taking her meals in the nursery. She is a great favorite with the children, you know.”
He could imagine.
He could also guess that Aimée’s popularity with the children made life a great deal easier for the other adults in the household.
Irritation rose in him.
It was none of his business if Aimée was taken advantage of by her English relatives, he reminded himself. She was not his charge. But he found himself watching for her all the same, driven by emotions he did not understand and could not name.
Attraction? Guilt? Concern?
Behind him, the conversation had turned to the Christmas ball and whether the guests would come in costume or wear dominos.
“Costumes, definitely,” Howard Basing said. “At least for the young ladies. Why cover their charms? I quite fancy myself a satyr disporting with nymphs and goddesses.”
Several of the young ladies in question tittered.
Lucian clenched his hand on the windowsill. He did not like Howard Basing. The only satisfaction he had was that Basing had spent the past few days with the rest of the house party. Whatever Aimée was doing, at least she wasn’t with him.
Movement disturbed the gray and white landscape outside. Figures lugging a basket down the gentle slope that led to the frozen lily pond. A woman, he guessed by her clothes and her size, and two—no, three—children. She carried the smallest in her arms.
Lucien’s pulse quickened. Aimée.
He watched from the window as she set the child down and grinned
at the boy with the basket. Lucien had imagined her confined to the nursery, pressed into reluctant service while the house party went on without her. But there was nothing false in the smile she flashed the boy, nothing forced in the way she took the little girl’s hand, nothing grudging in her manner or apparent affection.
“Mrs. Pockley is making my costume. She says I have the prettiest figure she has ever measured,” Julia confided. “Of course, she is only the village seamstress, but she has some very interesting ideas for matching costumes.”
One of the girls clapped her hands together in excitement. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“Mars and Venus.” A giggle.
“Anthony and Cleopatra.”
“Punch and Judy,” muttered Tom Whitmore.
Lucien ignored them all, his attention on the scene outside.
Aimée Blanchard was . . . By thunder, she was actually lying down with the children on the snowy bank, all of them waving their arms and swooshing their legs as if they had been struck by illness or madness. He could not hear them, but the two little girls were clearly giggling. Aimée’s face was bright with laughter, her bonnet knocked sideways in the snow, her dark hair and pink cheeks glowing against the stark white backdrop.
He did not think her existence as an unpaid servant in her cousin’s house could bring her much joy. And yet frolicking with the children, she looked genuinely happy, young, exuberant, and vividly alive.
Perhaps she made her own happiness.
She slid on her bottom and rose carefully to her feet, leaving a crude outline behind her on the snowy ground.
An angel.
Inside him, something stirred and yearned like a hawk stretching its wings, straining to be free.
“Mr. Hartfell,” Julia called. “What is your opinion of matching costumes?”
He forced his attention from the window to focus on her pretty, expectant face. “My opinion must depend on the preferences of my partner.”
“And on her identity?” Julia suggested, with a sideways look at poor Whitmore.
Lucien was already tired of her game, but he had come to Moulton to play. Because he needed a rich wife. “Certainly on her identity.”
Julia dimpled, satisfied. “Then perhaps you should apply to Mrs. Pockley for suggestions on your own costume.”
The chit was telling him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to dress to match her own disguise.
He bowed. “I will be guided by Mrs. Pockley’s expert knowledge.”
The conversation around the fire turned to what feathers and trimmings the dressmaker might have in stock, what ribbons and laces might be purchased locally, what treasures might be found in the guests’ own wardrobes or in the attics. A reconnaissance trip to the village was proposed.
Outside, Aimée and the children had abandoned snow angels to troop to the open summerhouse. She lined them on the bench while she dug through the basket. Lucien caught the glint of metal, a tangle of straps. Skates.
A smile tugged at his mouth. His first winter at Fair Hill, Tripp had taught him to skate on the mill pond.
“And I must have silver ribbons,” Julia declared. “Perhaps we will go this afternoon to look for silver ribbons at the shop. What do you think, Mr. Hartfell?”
Aimée kneeled before the smaller girl to strap on her skates. They were not her children. But she cared for them as if they were.
Did she have so much love to give, then, that she would lavish it on anyone?
He watched her hold the little girls’ hands as she coaxed them to stand.
“I think,” Lucien said slowly, “I would rather go skating.”
“Stay near the shore!” Aimée called as ten-year-old Peter Netherby struck out for the center of the pond.
After three days confined to the house, she understood the boy’s restlessness. Fortunately, the harsh weather that had kept them all in the nursery had also frozen the pond across. Aimée was almost as happy as the children to be outside again. But she was not taking any chances with their safety.
Near the bank, Harriet, two years younger than Peter, waved her arms and fought for balance.
Five-year-old Lottie Netherby clung to both Aimée’s hands, her short, double-bladed skates scratching back and forth on the ice. “Look at me! I’m skating!”
Aimée smiled down at her, towing her gently along. “You certainly are.”
Lottie’s cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, her lips almost blue with cold. Despite their thick stockings, pantalettes, and petticoats, the girls’ pelisses and play dresses simply did not provide the protection of Peter’s breeches and overcoat.
It had been a mistake to make snow angels before skating, Aimée admitted. The back of her hair and her skirts were damp, and ice had melted under her collar. She would have to herd the children back inside soon before they all caught cold.
A burst of women’s laughter floated like snow on the air, followed by the rumble of men’s voices. Aimée glanced toward the house. A line of bonnets and top hats bobbed along the balustrade—the house party, coming to invade her snowy sanctuary.
Howard. A chill trickled down her spine.
And Mr. Hartfell.
Her heart beat faster. She knew him at once, his powerful body and chiseled profile making him stand out from the other gentlemen.
But it was more than his golden good looks that drew her. Something about him teased at her memory or imagination like the refrain of a familiar song, like a scent from childhood, beloved and familiar. As if her body recognized him, as if her soul responded to his.
Lucien Hartfell.
Julia’s suitor.
Who believed she was encouraging Howard’s attentions.
She gave herself a mental shake.
“Peter! Harriet! It’s time to go in.”
Predictably, the children protested and delayed. Aimée managed to cajole them toward shore as the adults ambled toward the frozen pond. Hoisting Lottie onto the bank, Aimée turned to give a hand to Peter.
“There’s Mama,” Lottie observed, keeping hold of Aimée’s skirts.
“And Papa.” Peter dropped Aimée’s hand and lurched unaided up the slope.
“Mama! Look at me!” Harriet called, wobbling on her skates.
But the adults milling in the open summerhouse either could not or chose not to hear.
Harriet’s face drooped. “Why don’t they come see us?”
Aimée’s heart squeezed. She understood—too well—the little girl’s disappointment. After her own arrival at Moulton, Aimée had quickly learned that Lady Basing had little time or attention for her own children, let alone the demands of a penniless orphaned relation. Lady Basing’s daughter Susan was obviously cut from the same maternal cloth.
“Come,” Aimée said quietly. “I will ask your maman to visit the nursery before dinner.”
Peter sneered with an older brother’s superiority. “She won’t come see us.”
Aimée feared he was right. The one time Susan had sent for the children, she had returned them to the nursery a half hour later, complaining their noise made her head ache.
Harriet scowled. “Why not?”
“Because you’re ugly,” Peter said cheerfully. “Your nose is all red.”
“It is not!”
“Peter . . .” Aimée warned.
He was old enough to have accepted his parents’ neglect. Lottie, perhaps, was too young to have noticed. But Harriet . . .
“Look at me, Mama!” she cried. “I’m skating!”
She took two bold strides out onto the ice.
Aimée started down the bank, only to be stopped by Lottie’s grip on her pelisse. “Harriet!”
Several heads turned.
Buoyed by her success in attracting the adults’ attention, Harriet skated faster, flailing her arms, headed for the smoother ice in the center of the pond. “I can skate! You can’t stop me!”
“Take your sister,” Aimée ordered, thrusting Lottie at Peter.
Too late.
The ice cracked with a sound like a falling branch. Aimée watched in horror as Harriet flung up her hands and collapsed in a billow of blue skirts through the fractured surface of the pond.
Aimée’s heart froze in fear.
A woman screamed.
A man leaped the low bench in front of the summerhouse and rushed down the hill. A tall, blond man in a long black coat that he tore off as he ran.
Once again that sense of almost-recognition brushed through Aimée’s mind like wings. Lucien.
He launched himself onto the ice.
Her stomach jumped into her throat. “Careful!” she cried. “The ice won’t hold you.”
“The air will,” he said, she thought he said, or maybe that was the roaring in her ears.
Three longs strides and then he stretched out on the ice, reaching for the girl in the water.
Aimée scanned desperately for something to help him, a fence rail or a fallen branch, but the manicured landscape was bare.
She spotted Freddy Keasdon, running with the other guests down the slope, and shouted, “The house! Get help!”
He stared at her, mouth ajar in his white face, a boy not much older than Peter.
“Run!” she yelled.
He bolted for the steps.
She turned back to Lucien. Somehow he’d managed to grab hold of Harriet’s arm and the back of her coat. With his arms fully extended over his head, he lifted the child straight from the water—an amazing feat of strength—and hauled her onto the ice.
Susan Netherby was sobbing. “My baby! Oh, my baby!”
Lucien inched backward, dragging Harriet, dripping, slipping, and crying, with him.
Aimée held her breath, afraid to venture nearer. Surely the ice would break under their combined weights.
But it did not.
Another inch. Another yard. In a long, smooth motion, Lucien pulled Harriet level with his shoulders and then pushed her down toward his feet.
Aimée skated forward and snatched her up. Clutching the wet, shivering child to her chest, she stumbled to the bank.
Hands grabbed and supported her up the slope.
“You stupid girl! I thought you were watching her!” Susan’s face was pinched and pale. “How could you be so careless?”
