“I’ll get them for you, Grandmother,” Frederick said gallantly.
“Oh no,” Grace demurred. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving your grandmother of a moment of your company. Let me go.” It was exactly what she was supposed to say. Frederick’s company was valued. Hers was not. She dropped into a tiny curtsy. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Over his grandmother’s head, Frederick smirked at her, something between amusement and desire flashing in his eyes. He was not particularly appealing, but if she’d managed to raise the interest of Frederick Musgrave, she needed to do whatever it took to secure him. A younger son of an earl was no small thing and, as Lady Bosworth had so helpfully pointed out, she was a desperate woman.
Perhaps it would have been better had she never had the chance to live with Gen. If she’d gone straight to work at fifteen, orphaned and penniless, she’d have made her own way, probably have married some shopkeeper by now and forgotten all about her noble origins. Instead, she’d gone to Gen, mixed in the highest London Society, made friends she thought of as sisters, and she’d begun to hope that somehow, fate would intervene and allow her to stay—to reclaim everything she’d lost at the hands of her father. But as she’d known from the time she was a girl, fate was not her friend.
If she went into service, she’d be closed out of that world forever. Genevieve, and her friends from those years, Victoria and Amelia, would never abandon her, but their friendship would have to remain separate from the rest of their lives. As a governess or a milliner, she could never mix among her wealthy friends’ other guests. Although her current situation had also subtly set her apart, at least on the face of it, she still belonged.
By the time she’d made her way through the crowds of revelers back to their suite of rooms at the hotel, retrieved the dowager’s gloves, and returned to the plaza, a new festivity was well underway.
The older people had moved off to watch from the comfort of the many cafes and restaurants in the heart of Menton, leaving the plaza and surrounding streets to the younger people. Grace paused at the edge of the plaza to watch for a moment. Everyone held a candle, the young men and women alike. The goal seemed to be to attempt to blow out your partner’s candle while keeping your own safe from a similar attack.
A few feet away, a beautiful dark-haired French girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Grace, laughed and dodged through the crowd as a handsome young man pursued her. He caught up to her at the edge of the fountain and made a lunge toward her candle. She shrieked in delight and raised it high over her head, out of his reach. With his free arm, he grasped her around the waist, pulling her body against his as he strained to reach her candle and blow it out. After a few moments of giggling, halfhearted struggle, she lowered it enough that he succeeded. She feigned outrage before her young man relit her wick with his own. He waited expectantly, her candle glowing between them, until she paid for the light with a kiss.
What must that feel like? To flirt with a young man simply because he pleased you and you pleased him? She’d never done it, never been free to do it. Her social life had revolved around attempting to engage the interest of whichever man Genevieve had considered a viable matrimonial possibility. Her own desires had nothing to do with the activity. Romance, flirtations, love...those were indulgences she couldn’t afford. But what could it hurt to watch someone else’s story unfold for a moment? Her own dreary life would still be waiting when she returned to it.
Across the darkening plaza, she sensed someone watching her. When the crowd cleared for a moment, she could see it was a man, sitting alone at one of the cafes. He was little more than a flickering impression at this distance, but she registered dark hair and a sharply rendered face. A frisson of awareness skated along her nerves.
Ordinarily she’d have immediately averted her eyes. A young lady did not encourage the attentions of strange men. But something about the romance of the night swept her up and she boldly stared back. She couldn’t discern much about him, but she allowed her imagination to fill in the details. Tall, and handsome, of course, with dark eyes. She liked dark eyes. He’d be intelligent and powerful, naturally, but considerate and kind. She quite liked this man in her imagination. Pity then, that the real one across the way would no doubt be a disappointment, should she ever encounter him in the clear light of day. Real men were always a disappointment.
She should return to the dowager and give her the gloves still tucked in the pocket of her skirt. She should spend the evening securing the interest of Frederick Musgrave. And she would, in just a few minutes. For now, she hovered at the edge of the plaza, half-cloaked in the rapidly descending darkness, watching lovers laugh and pursue each other in the flickering light of a hundred candles, and imagined that a handsome stranger was watching her.
“Mademoiselle, ici! Ici!”
An elderly gentleman with an elaborate white curling moustache stepped in front of her, startling her. He was pressing a lit candle into her hands.
“Pardon, non,” she protested, attempting to return it to him. This game was not for her.
“C’est le moucouleti!” he insisted, waving a hand at the game unfolding in the plaza. The “moucouleti”—that was the name for this game.
She shook her head again. “Non, je ne peux pas.” No, I can’t. That was the truth. No games for her. Not when she’d been a child and certainly not now.
“Telle une jolie jeune fille!” he cried, patting her cheek. “Allez chercher votre le grand amour!”
Go and find your true love.
With a wry twist of her lips, Grace relented and took his candle. “Très bien.”
He chuckled and moved on. What a romantic notion, that a girl like her could find her true love in a darkened plaza. Or anywhere else. Love was for girls who had the luxury of choice.
When she looked back across the plaza, her handsome stranger was gone. Ah, well. See? No more magic for her. Time to set aside her fantasy and return to the dowager. But the candlelit crowd was so pretty. For now, she wanted to soak up the magic of this night, even if the magic could never be hers. Instead of skirting around the plaza, taking a direct route back to the dowager, she stepped into the crowd, deciding to indulge in one more magic moment in a life otherwise devoid of any magic at all. What could be the harm?
After a day spent sorting out the sordid details of his late father’s estate, the last thing Julian had patience for was some sort of citywide celebration. It had unfolded around the plaza as he sat eating dinner at a café, and now he was trapped by it. He didn’t have the energy to fight his way through a throng of flirtatious young people, so he poured another glass of wine, sat back in his chair and waited for the crowd to grow bored with the game.
It was some sort of lovers’ revelry that involved candles and kisses. How fitting that it was taking place today, as he settled the affairs of the late, reprobate, bohemian Earl of Knighton. His dissolute father would have loved these festivities, had no doubt participated in them frequently when he’d lived here. Perhaps that’s why they held no appeal for Julian. He’d been too busy holding things together back in England to indulge in this kind of frivolity.
He was idly watching the crowd when he spotted her, a slim, still figure alone at the edge of the gaiety, observing it but not a part of it, like him. She was so self-possessed, so separate from everyone around her. What held her back from joining in?
At that moment, she looked across the plaza and locked eyes with him, and his idle curiosity was supplanted by a visceral awareness. It snapped between them, tempting him to push through the crowd to reach her. He left his chair and moved to the edge of the crowd, the better to see her. But an elderly Frenchman stepped between them to speak to her, and he lost sight of her. The spell was broken. He returned to his chair, his mood even blacker than before.
It must be this place, causing him to indulge in such an irrational impulse. Hi
s father was the one who indulged in his impulses, and in doing so, he’d damaged the lives of nearly everyone around him. Indulging in impulses was a selfish thing to do when people were depending on you. The sooner Julian concluded his business in Menton and returned home, the better.
He poured himself another glass of wine and when he looked up again, he saw the same woman, now part of the throng, weaving through the crowd and clutching a candle of her own. There even seemed to be a gentleman with her, one of the performers from the parade earlier, dressed in a mask and cape. Just as well. She was no business of his.
Then, as she reached the edge of the plaza, she glanced back over her shoulder at the caped man with fear all over her face. That was no lover’s pursuit. She was in trouble. Julian was back on his feet in an instant, following them through the crowd, snatching one of those bloody candles from a stranger’s hand to light his way.
Almost immediately, he lost them in the tangle of darkened lanes off the plaza, and he cursed himself. Now he’d have to walk these streets all night until he found her and assured himself of her safety. He cut to the left, then to the right, and as he turned right again, intending to circle back to the plaza, he heard footsteps, light and rapid. More distantly, a heavy set of footsteps sounded in pursuit. She was coming straight toward him in the darkness.
Without thinking it through entirely, he stepped to the side, into a dark alcove—the tiny walled courtyard in front of a narrow townhouse—and waited.
Then she was there before him, hurrying past him in a rustle of skirts and rapid breathing. He reached for her and pulled her into the alcove, curling his arm around her and covering her mouth to silence her as her pursuer lumbered past. She struggled against him briefly until he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Shhh. Just let him pass by and I’ll see you back to safety.”
At his words, she stilled, and when he chanced to look down into her face, she was looking up at him, panting against his hand. The frisson of awareness when their eyes met back on the plaza was nothing to what he felt now, an electric shock burning under his skin. He dropped his hand and took a step back.
The flickering gold light from his candle danced over her pale skin, gilding the curves of her fine features. Large, gray eyes gazed up at him, fringed with a wealth of dark lashes. His eyes dropped down to her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted and he recalled the softness of them pressed against his palm just a moment ago. His skin still tingled where he’d touched her.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes off his. “Thank you,” she murmured. Her voice was clear, soft and steady, like everything else about her. She was English, of course. He’d guessed as much from her dress and bearing. Her accent indicated that she was highly bred. Hardly a surprise, as Menton was overrun with wealthy Britons during the winter months.
He licked his lips. His mouth had gone dry. “Do you know him? Will he be waiting for your return?”
She shook her head, pressing her palm to her chest to calm herself. “He was just a performer from the parade, looking for mischief, I think. He saw I was alone and took advantage.”
“Were you separated from your family? Will they be looking for you?”
She hesitated for a moment, then, “No one will be looking for me.”
An odd statement. Well-bred young women were always under someone’s watchful eye. Without family, what was she doing in Menton?
“Ah, you’re hiding something. A husband, perhaps?”
Her lips twitched as she fought not to smile. Something quite peculiar happened in his chest at the sight of it. She raised her left hand to show him and waggled her bare fingers.
“No husband, then.” His tone had become light, nearly flirtatious. Julian wasn’t sure he’d ever flirted with anyone in his life. He hadn’t known he could until he was doing it. “A lover? Did you leave one back there on the plaza? No.” He shook his head. “You’re too sad to have a lover out there.”
Those remarkable gray eyes widened. “You profess to know me very well.”
He shrugged. “I can only speak to what I see, and there’s something about you...” Wisps of her silky, sable brown hair had escaped during her flight and brushed against her cheeks. Julian saw his hand, almost as if it belonged to someone else, reach up and brush the strands away from her face. The move was entirely too bold, but she didn’t pull away. “Something sad. But why?”
One elegant eyebrow rose, as regal as a queen’s. “You think I could have no cause for unhappiness?”
“Are you ill? Is that why you’re in Menton?” Wealthy Europeans often spent long convalescences in Menton. She looked well enough, but not every illness manifested itself on the outside. The idea that she might be wasting away gave him an unexpected pang.
But she shook her head, that hint of amusement tugging at her lips again. He wondered how often she unleashed a true smile. She seemed adept at reining them in. “No, I’ve always been steadfastly healthy.”
“A broken heart, then. You’re fleeing a doomed love.”
“I thought we already dismissed the possibility of my lover.”
“You never answered.”
It almost happened then—a real smile. A glimpse of her teeth, the lightening of her expression, the lowering of her eyelids, even a hint of color stealing into her cheeks. She ducked her head to hide it. “Aren’t you full of romantic notions?” she murmured.
“I am the least romantic individual you’re ever likely to meet.”
She cast a look around them, at the dark alcove they stood in, at the tiny candle he held, the flickering flame barely touching the deep shadows on all sides, and raised an eyebrow at him again. He laughed.
“For someone who professes to possess no romantic inclinations, you’ve certainly secured quite a setting for this liaison.” She caught herself as she uttered the last word, her eyes going wide.
He bit his lip as it sent a shock of pleasure down his spine. “A liaison, is it?” Even saying it felt seductive.
“Encounter,” she amended hastily.
“So you find this encounter romantic, do you?” he teased, wanting to see her fight that smile again.
“I find very little romantic. I could possibly rival you for jaded cynicism.”
“But you were out on the plaza for the festivities. A jaded cynic would hardly engage in something so frivolous.”
Far from a smile, her expression went suddenly blank, as if the light behind it had gone out. She let out a sigh, too tired and world-weary for someone her age. Her eyes left his, staring woodenly into the darkness over his shoulder.
“You’re right. Those games aren’t for me.”
He wanted to ask her why. She was young, lovely and free. Why was there no lover pursuing her through the plaza? What had taught her to hide her smiles? But her eyes had gone flat and she’d drawn herself inward, a clear indication the subject was closed.
“And what of you?” she challenged suddenly. “Where is your young lady tonight?”
He didn’t feel precisely guilty, for his situation didn’t warrant guilt. He didn’t have a spoken obligation to anyone—only a plan, a sensible course of action he meant to follow one day. It was amusing, really, imagining pursuing that other young lady through the dark with a candle. Such a thing would never happen. This game was all romance. That arrangement, when he made it, would be all common sense.
“No, these games aren’t for me, either.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, considering, but she didn’t press for an explanation, which was a relief. As unromantic as he was, he didn’t want the pragmatism of his real life breaking whatever fragile spell held them both in this moment.
“Shall I return you to your friends now? Surely someone’s waiting for you.” That was the last thing he wanted to do—returning to the
brightly lit real world, making the expected introductions, slipping back under the mantle of respectable society. He wanted to stay here in this dark alcove with this nameless woman all night.
She shook her head. “There’s no one.”
His eyebrow shot up. “You are alone here?”
“Not precisely. I am here with...friends. But I assure you, no one has missed me.”
She was hiding the truth of her circumstances, but she hadn’t pressed him for explanations, so he wouldn’t press her. Right now, he didn’t care. Those pointed little details of rank, association, and connections belonged to some other place.
“So you’re determined to remain a woman of mystery.”
“Mystery is too romantic for a practical creature like me.”
She was far too bitter and resigned for a girl her age. He itched to know more, but she was probably right. Facts would bring an end to this encounter.
“Where are you staying? I’ll escort you home.” He didn’t want to do that, either, but he couldn’t keep her here all night. She was a lady, he was a gentleman. He had to respect that.
“My hotel is just off the plaza. There’s no need.”
“At least let me relight your candle. It seems to have gone out during your flight.”
She smiled softly, no attempt to hold it back, and he was almost abjectly grateful he’d had this opportunity to see it. She glowed, as if a candle already burned inside her. Her eyes danced with amusement as she raised her candle in front of her. He touched the burning wick of his to hers, holding his breath as the flame caught.
“There,” he said, when hers was burning steadily again. His eyes met hers and the unspoken words hung between them. Out on the plaza, girls were gifting their lovers with kisses in exchange for the lighting of a candle. He wanted to claim one from her. Desperately. He wasn’t a man given to unbridled passions but something inexplicable was happening in this tiny alcove, between him and this mysterious young woman. It felt as if time had stopped, or rather the two of them had momentarily stepped outside of it. A hundred yards away, well-heeled English aristocracy enjoyed a mild winter night in a luxurious South of France seaside town. But here, there was only her and him, illuminated by the flickering glow of their candles.
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 2
