It did have, she noticed, a certain uncivilized enthusiasm.
It also left her glad to have Paxten's arm about her. She had not felt safe earlier, but with him, she knew a sense of being protected. How had she come to rely on him for that in just a few days? The question unsettled her.
But had she not always relied on someone? On her parents to guide her, even to the point of selecting her husband. And on Bertram. She had to own that he had known how to smooth the world for her. Or at least his title, position, and wealth had done so. What did she really know of anything beyond the small circle of Society? Had that been part of her decision not to go with Paxten? Was he in part right—had Jules been an excuse? A way to avoid stepping into a frightening unknown?
Lowering to think that it might be so.
But possible. She had to admit that.
Still, she had brought Diana to France. That had been a step out of the usual. A bold step. And she had made it because she was so dreadfully bored with her life. Of course, she had come with her servants and her possessions and her title to make everything easy for them. Again. But all that was gone.
Fear shivered in her at that stark reality of the world that now lay before her. She almost turned to go back to the room.
However, Paxten shifted his arm from her waist and took her hand, speaking in slow, lazy French. "The dancing's started. The ale is good. And I've heard that a play begins in an hour or so. What is your pleasure, Madam and Mademoiselle Marsett?"
Diana bounced a little. "Oh, dancing, please. And then the play. And may I have some ale?"
Paxten grinned at the girl's rapid flow of requests. Of course she would want everything. But Alexandria pressed close to him and said nothing of her preferences. She had her chin up, and even in her peasant garb she looked too much like the bored aristocrat. However, he had felt the tremor in her fingertips, and he knew that she did not know what to make of this sort of entertainment.
He made a path for them through the press of bodies nearest the musicians, who sat under the spreading limbs of an ancient oak. He used a smile, a pleasant word, a touch to someone's shoulder to carve the way—the charm had always come easy to him. He had that from both his parents, he thought, for his mother had always been the most irresistible of creatures. And what he remembered of his father was of a man with an easy, quick smile.
Lanterns cast soft, yellow pools of light around them. The moon had risen to add its glow, and while the evening held a chill, no one seemed to notice. Two fiddlers, a man with a hand drum, a flute player, and a dark-haired fellow with a guitar kept the music flowing. The dancers—mostly young people—kicked up the dust around the tree as they danced. Skirts flew high. Jackets and waistcoats came off. He knew it must look indecent to Alexandria—she stared at it with those expressive eyebrows of hers lifted high.
It also looked marvelous fun.
"Come on," he said, tugging on Alexandria's hand.
She shook her head. "Dance with Diana. I shall stand here and watch."
Here meant next to three black-garbed, old women, one who grinned even though she had no teeth. He shrugged, and then asked the women if they would look after Alexandria for him. They smiled, and one passed a rough, wood mug into his hand. He took a swallow of the frothy ale and gave the mug to Alexandria.
"As you like, my dear," he told her in French. With a grin, he grabbed Diana's hand and whirled her into the dancing, and devil take it that it made his side ache.
Alexandria watched, but too quickly lost track of them in the crowd. She stood there, mug in hand, the three old women smiling at her and urging her to sample the ale. She had nothing else to do, so she took a sip.
The froth left a bitter taste, but the ale went down with a nutty flavor. She took another sip. The ladies smiled, muttering French at her—something about her pretty daughter and handsome husband. She had not the words to correct their impression—nor the desire to do so—so she smiled back at them and drank more ale for an excuse not to speak.
As the music shifted to what sounded a jig, her foot began to tap. The old women grinned at her. A jug passed from hand to hand and was tipped to fill her mug.
She tried to protest. "Non. S'il vous plaît, non." But the women answered in rapid French that left her baffled as they filled the mug to overflowing anyway.
She had to drink more of it just to keep it from spilling—it settled with a pleasant warmth.
She had half emptied the mug again when Paxten materialized from the crowd. She frowned at him, but found it difficult to keep the expression in place. She would much rather smile. Still, she had a responsibility here, and so asked with her stuttering, basic French, "Where is Diana?"
He gestured at the dancers, and Alexandria caught a glimpse of her niece, hair falling down her back in a golden cascade of curls as a tall, earnest-faced young man whirled her about by both hands.
She leaned closer to Paxten so she could speak in English, for she doubted any but Paxten would hear her given the noise. "Who is he? She has not been introduced!"
He took the mug from her, drained it and handed it back to the grinning old woman with a wink. Turned to Alexandria, he held out his hand. "Stop worrying. Come and dance."
She hesitated, shook her head, and put her hand into his outstretched one. "Are you certain you—"
"If you once mention my wound tonight, I shall run howling into the woods, leaving everyone to think you have driven me mad."
"I was going to ask if you are certain you wish to. Dance with me, that is."
He smiled, a slow smile that set his eyes glittering and lifted her pulse. "Oh, I wish it."
With one hand on her waist, he spun her into the crowd. She clung to him, afraid that if she let go she would be lost amid the swirl of dancers. As she thought that, he spun her away from him. Someone else caught her hand and turned her, and suddenly Paxten had her hands again. She only just managed to keep upright as she bounced along to the music, twirling from one partner to the next.
It was, in a sense, the same as any country dance, with changes of partners and two-hands-round and turns and steps. But it all happened so fast, with no stately grace, nor even a moment to pull in a breath. And all of it bouncing. All the dances she knew paused for flirtation and to allow dancers to watch other dancers. But this—she grinned suddenly—this left her giddy and her heart pounding.
As did Paxten every time he caught her, a smile curving his lips and those deep brown eyes darker than ever.
Oh, this was not a safe thing to do.
She lost track of time, of her niece, of everything except for Paxten, who managed always to find her again.
The music ended with a flourish, leaving everyone red-faced and clapping and begging for more. Leaving Alexandria caught in Paxten's arms. She stared up at him, delight dancing in her blood. He dipped his head to cover her mouth with his, a quick movement that left her no time to protest. Bone, muscle, and the will to resist melted in her. Just as with the first time he had kissed her.
#
"I am going to kiss you, you know."
Alexandria looked up with alarm at the man dancing with her in the middle of Lady Amberleigh's ornate ballroom. The dance had only just begun. She had only just been introduced to this gentleman, Mr. Paxten Marsett. Of course, he had stared at her throughout dinner, an unnerving, dark-eyed stare that had robbed her of appetite even as it left her intrigued. She was not a woman at whom gentleman stared. Nor was she the sort of married lady to be propositioned so casually.
Yet, was it a proposition? He spoke with absolute assurance, as if stating a fact such as that it had rained today. And his voice, low and deep as thick velvet, brushed across her with just the faintest of accent in his words. No, not so much an accent. More an inflection—French perhaps? Did his nationality account for why he would make such an provocative statement? No English gentleman would be so brazen. At least no English gentleman that she knew.
She stared at him, a little shocke
d. And fascinated. She had never had much flattery before she wed. In the years since she had become Lady Sandal, she had become adept at the light flirtation required by Society, but she had never been given such shameless words.
The movement of the country dance separated them and brought them together again. That gave her time to pull together a cool stare for him.
"You are very bold, sir."
He smiled, dark eyes lighting up in a way that notched her pulse to a tempo far faster than the music. "And are you? Shall you kiss me back?"
She had no idea what to say to that, and she had to offer her hand for him to lead her down the two lines of dancers—gentlemen on one side, ladies on another. Her throat dried. But she smiled and stepped through the figures. He squeezed her fingers before he let them go, and allowed his gloved fingers to slide slowly away from hers, his stroking touch suggestive of other ways he wanted to caress her.
Face hot, she glared at him. "You are making sport of me."
"Not at all. I'm in love with you."
Her breath caught at that. He sounded as if he meant it. Startled, she gave a small laugh.
The dance parted them again, and again they met. His eyes had darkened. A lock of deep brown hair had fallen forward across his forehead. He wore his hair long, like one of those radical sans culottes who were making a revolution in France. In defiance of fashion, he also wore a plain, dark brown coat and pale breeches. No elaborate embroidery, not on his waistcoat, nor on his coat. No rings. No flashes of jewels from his buttons. Just raw masculine power under the satin cloth. And a lean face with a strong nose and a sensual mouth.
That mouth pulled down now. The dark eyes stared at her, intense, unnerving, beguiling. "Ah, but you wound me—it is you who makes light of my feelings."
She snapped open her fan to cool her face. They had reached the end of the set and had to stand out before rejoining the lines of dancer to go through the movements and up the lines again.
What did she answer to that? Did she beg his pardon? But he was the one saying such outrageous things. This was impossible. She could not dance with him.
As if he had seen her thoughts he said, "Would you care to stroll in the garden instead of this?"
She almost said yes, but she caught the gleam in his eyes and remembered his words. He would kiss her. Where better, after all, than a garden to attempt to make good on such a scandalous promise?
"Thank you, but no. I doubt my husband would care overmuch if I were to venture out with out." And what a lie that was! Bertram would not even notice.
Mr. Marsett lifted one shoulder in a gesture she had seen on no other man—a careless shrug. He had been introduced to her as Mr. Paxten Marsett, a very English Christian name and a very French surname. And he said, "And why should I care what your husband likes—you are my only concern."
He took her hand. She stared at him, astonished. A gentleman did not take a lady's hand—he waited for her to offer her hand. His thumb brushed across her palm, smoothing the kid glove against her skin. Her throat dried and she had to wet her lips.
"I want to do that," he said, stepping closer.
"Do what?" she asked, her mind suddenly empty.
He smiled. "I want to lick your lips."
Her face flamed and she tugged her hand free. "Mr. Marsett, that is enough!"
"Enough of what? Enough passion? Enough honestly? How can you have enough of those qualities in life?" He stepped closer and she glanced around them, wishing they had to move back into the dance or that someone would rescue her. But he did not touch her. He stood before her, so close that it appeared as if they were in deep, intimate conversation. "When I first saw you, do you know what I thought?"
She should not ask. But curiosity stirred. She lifted her chin. "What—that I should be an easy conquest for you?"
"I thought, there is a beautiful woman dying of boredom."
The absurdity of it struck her. Absurd, and accurate. She laughed. Others glanced at her and she put her fingertips to her lips to stifle her amusement.
His eyes smiled down at her. "How long has it been since you laughed?"
She looked away.
"It's been too long, has it not?"
Desperate now, she glanced at him. "Please. I am a married woman. I cannot—"
"I don't care." He took her hand again. Tugging gently, he led her from the dance.
She let him. He had made her laugh and she wondered if he might do so again. Nervous, trying desperately to hold onto the appearance of composure, she followed him, guilt making her glance behind them even as he pulled her along. What would she do if he took her into the garden?
"I...I...." she said, stumbling for a reasonable argument to make to him.
He smiled at her. "Finding more excuses?"
"I wish I could. You are outrageous!"
"So my relatives tell me."
Instead of taking her to the garden, he simply pulled her into a curtained alcove. One step, one tug on her hand and he had behind the blue velvet curtain. The fabric screened them, but panic tightened in her chest. Anyone could find them just by parting the thick fabric. Footsteps and voices drifted past on the other side.
She looked up at him, heart thudding and breath shallow. He could not possibly think of kissing her here. Could he?
He stood before her, slowly pulling white gloves from his long, elegant fingers. He had wide palms and strong wrists. With one bare fingertip, he traced the line of her throat, down through the center hollow and lower, to between her breasts. Heat pooled inside her. Why had she not worn a necklace, or some lace, or something to stop this?
Please do not stop.
Closing her eyes, she let her head tilt back. Longing caught in her throat. Had anyone ever touched her so?
Voices drifted past the curtain and her eyes sprang open. This is mad! I cannot do this. I do not even know him! Her senses returned and she started to protest, but she made the mistake of looking into his eyes.
"Ma biche," he whispered to her. "My doe, I did warn you."
"But you cannot—not here. What if—"
His lips stopped her words. The hunger in his open mouth loosed raw desire from her. She pulled in a breath. His arms came around her. He pressed her against the wall, his mouth hot on hers. She gave to him—gave because she could do nothing else. Because she wanted nothing else. Heat boiled inside her, melting thoughts and resistance.
Madness.
A part of her mind screamed the word.
She arched to him, and her hands clawed into his back. Sweet, sweet madness.
His mouth moved from her lips to her throat and she struggled to save herself—to save them both.
"You cannot...please." Was that last a plea for him to stop or to go on? "This is mad!"
He pulled away, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark beyond anything she had ever seen, and he took her face between his hands. "I can. To say I cannot is to say my heart cannot beat. Come—be mad with me! Or do you want to die knowing that you turned love away?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alexandria had put her arms around him years ago. She had kissed him when they first meet.
She did so again now, as she had before. Desperate for him. Her body stretched to breaking with need. She had, she realized now, never really believed such love possible. Yet, as his arms wrapped tight around her in the swirling, loud fair—so unlike that sedate ballroom of a decade ago, and yet still an echo of it—she knew she had found something rare with him. He had fallen in love with her at once. Had she ever said those words to him? Could she now? Did she dare?
His clever mouth and tongue teased away such thoughts, leaving her with only sensations. Fever swept into her, and the sweet ache for him. She gave to the pleasure of it with a soft moan and his arms tightened around her, dragging her against him, pressing her hips to his, crushing her breasts to the broad, hard flatness of his chest.
Diana's bright voice, her French loud, interrupted. "Is the play not due to start
soon?"
Paxten pulled away with an abrupt start, and it took Alexandria a moment to steady herself. She stared at Diana. The girl stood next to them, a forced smile in place. Alexandria glanced at Paxten. He seemed amused, and he looked not the least dazed by that kiss.
Putting a hand to her hair, she remembered that she had worn it down already down. She had no pinned curls to tidy this time, unlike so many years earlier. Thoughts and feelings tumbled as if tossed loose into the ocean. She glanced at Paxten again. The man could turn her inside out it seemed.
Is that what he wanted from her? To put her under his spell again. Did he love her still? Or was she now merely an amusement? Her head spun and she knew she could not make sense of anything. But still she wondered: Was he still the man who had fallen so instantly, so passionately in love with her?
Only how could he be after she had hurt him so deeply?
One thing remained clear to her. She would be a fool not to try now for that love he had once offered her.
But what if he had really had changed from the man she had once loved into someone far different—what would that mean for them trying again for something between them?
She had no time to think for Diana dragged them towards the other end of the square where a makeshift stage had been raised. Still dazed, Alexandria allowed it.
They sat on the ground. Paxten brought them wine and left to return in a few moments with apple tartlets and thick slices of soft cheese.
The food distracted Diana enough that Paxten had time to seat himself next to her aunt. Diana looked up to see him leaning close to her aunt, saying something—perhaps translating the play that had started.
Color bloomed in her aunt's cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. Diana frowned even more.
It would not do. No, it simply would not do for this Mr. Marsett to seduce her aunt in this shameless fashion—he had kissed Aunt Alexandria again, and had said not a word as to marriage! That alone showed him to be a rogue. Even worse, he had been involved with another woman only a few days ago. And Aunt Alexandria seemed not even to recall such a thing.
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