by Danice Allen
“Without saying good-bye?” Sam interrupted.
“If you will but allow me to continue, miss,” Smead intoned gloomily.
“Please go on, Smead,” Julian prompted him, fascinated by the turn of events. It seemed that Madame DuBois was as unpredictable as her daughter.
Smead cleared his throat and stood a little straighter, as if about to spout a lengthy recital of some sort. “Madame DuBois instructed me to inform you that she has gone to the theater.”
“You already said that!” Sam complained impatiently.
Smead gave her a dampening look and continued, “As I said, Madame DuBois has gone to the theater, but she begs you to stay and enjoy the hospitality of her home for as long as you like.”
“What?” Sam exclaimed.
“Furthermore,” Smead went on with a pained look, “Madame DuBois has instructed me to tell you that you will be entirely alone in the house since I, and the other members of the staff, have been given the night off.”
“Good for you, Smead!” Julian said heartily.
Smead sniffed ungratefully. “None of the staff will be permitted … that is, none of us will be returning from our er … holiday till Madame DuBois returns herself, tomorrow morning at seven o’clock.”
Sam darted an embarrassed look at Julian, her eyes wide with astonishment. “What can she be thinking, Julian? Surely this is a mistake!”
Julian shrugged and tried to look as perplexed as Sam. But he knew exactly what her mother was up to, and it suited his purposes exactly.
“Madame DuBois said that you would probably wonder what her reasoning is in offering you an empty house for the evening,” Smead continued in a weary voice. “Therefore she instructed me to tell you that she was doing it because, and I quote, ‘You are both too proud and stubborn for your own good. It is obvious that a long, frank talk between you, conducted in complete privacy with no interruptions, will clear the air and reveal your true feelings. And if you still cannot be happy, I daresay there’s nothing more a loving mother can do.’ Unquote.”
Julian laughed out loud! He couldn’t help it; Smead had recited Genevieve’s heartfelt words with absolutely no expression on his face or in his voice. He sounded quite put out and bored to tears.
On the other hand, Sam was looking more and more confused and distressed. She stared at Julian as if he’d lost his mind.
“Was there anything else, Smead?” Julian said at last, feeling quite mellow after such a good laugh and anxious to be rid of the Friday-faced butler so he could apply himself to the task of helping Sam relax, too.
“This champagne is for you and Miss Darlington, my lord,” Smead said, lowering the tray and placing the bottle of wine on a rosewood console by the door.
Julian stepped forward and picked up the bottle, examining the label. “An excellent sort, and a good year,” he murmured approvingly.
“It is the best of Madame DuBois’s stock,” Smead informed him with a slight puffing of the chest. “The mistress also begs you to eat whatever you choose out of the pantry and highly recommends a basket of fresh-picked and washed strawberries that have been left on the table in the kitchen, along with a bowl of heavy cream that has been whipped to a superior thickness.”
“Your mistress thinks of everything,” Julian observed dryly.
Smead nodded smugly and moved to the door, but just before he left, he turned and said, “Oh, and one thing more, my lord.”
“Yes, Smead?”
“Madame DuBois gives you leave to use any chamber in the house to do your … er … talking.”
“Thank you, Smead,” Julian said gravely, and finally the butler bowed himself out the door and was gone.
Sam was thoroughly perplexed. Didn’t her mother realize that by leaving her and Julian alone in the house that she was setting the scene for disaster? Perhaps her mother wasn’t aware of it, but in the society Julian had introduced her to, such a situation would give rise to speculation that a compromise had occurred—even if it hadn’t! And knowing Julian’s notions of honor, there was no way he was going to compromise his ward, then turn around and marry Charlotte Batsford without batting an eyelash.
Sam sighed. No, he wouldn’t compromise her … more’s the pity. He’d make quite sure the “madness” he’d fallen victim to in the library that afternoon would not be repeated. As a rule, the man had inhuman self-control. Perhaps if he loved her, he’d be less able to resist her, but he had demonstrated his lack of love for her when he proposed to Charlotte.
But then Sam had another thought. Maybe her mother perfectly understood the repercussions of putting two members of the opposite sex together in an empty house! After all, why else would she supply them with champagne, strawberries, and whipped cream? Mrs. Descartes had been very enthusiastic about the aphrodisiac effects of that sparkling wine, luscious fruit, and rich cream.
Then the most disturbing thought of all burst upon Sam with the impact of a lightning bolt. Maybe her mother was trying to trap Julian into marrying her!
Sam’s own sense of honor recoiled at such an idea. As well, she had no desire to be wife to a man who only married her because he’d had to. That would not fit her ideas of marital bliss at all. No indeed. She would be deliriously happy to be married to Julian, but only if he loved her to distraction.
“Sam?”
Julian’s voice recalled Sam from her reverie. He was standing by the door, holding the champagne bottle under his arm.
“I can’t imagine how he forgot them, but it seems that Smead did not bring us any glasses for the champagne,” he said. “But then perhaps he assumed we’d fetch them ourselves when we went in search of those lovely strawberries. Shall we go to the kitchen?”.
Sam eyed Julian warily. His expression was bland, his words were innocuous, and he appeared to be perfectly at his ease. But there was something about her guardian at that moment that made Sam’s skin tingle. He exuded a sort of latent power behind his calm, almost languid, facade … like a tiger crouched for the pounce. And behind his slightly drooping eyelids, his eyes shone brilliant blue.
“Why … why must we go to the kitchen?” she finally stuttered, stalling for time.
“I thought I just explained that, Sam,” he said smoothly. “Unless we do like the bohemians and drink the champagne straight out of the bottle, we need glasses.”
“Must we drink the champagne?”
Julian cocked a finely arched brow. “Oh, don’t you want to? Champagne goes wonderfully with strawberries and whipped cream. Have you never before had them together?”
“No. Never.” Though she hadn’t meant it to be, her tone was wistful.
“It is a highly sensual experience,” he assured her with a faint but devastating smile. “The flavors fairly burst on the tongue.” His gaze drifted to her lips, paused there a breathless moment, then returned to her eyes. “As your tutor, I feel it my duty to introduce you to another ‘first experience.’ ” He reached forth his hand. “Come to the kitchen with me, my dear. I have no doubt you will enjoy yourself excessively.”
Why did she get the impression he was inviting her to do something more than eat strawberries? Even if his intention was only to eat fruit, a few days ago Sam would have given anything for such an opportunity. But now that they were both promised to others…
Sam looked at Julian’s outstretched hand. She had always been fascinated by his hands … the long, elegant fingers and neatly clipped, short nails. They were beautiful, but strong and manly, too. That afternoon she had felt them on her body, caressing her, loving her…
Sam put her own hands behind her back and stood a little straighter. “Julian, I think it is time we were off to the McAdamses’ soiree,” she announced primly. “Jean-Luc will wonder where I am. And Charlotte will probably be there, too.”
Mentioning the names of their intendeds did not seem to faze Julian in the least. He shrugged carelessly. “It is not even nine o’clock yet. Surely, Sam, we have time to talk a little over a glass of champagne. It
was your mother’s wish, you know.”
“But she thinks that by giving us all this … this privacy to talk, that we’ll … we’ll—”
“Come to the conclusion that we are meant for each other? That you are the only woman for me, and I’m the only man for you?”
His tone was so matter-of-fact that Sam felt a little foolish. But she stood her ground and said, “Yes. I’m afraid that’s exactly what she thinks.”
“But, my dear, I would never break a positive engagement to another, and neither would you.”
“No, not if it is a positive engagement,” Sam admitted miserably.
“Then what are you worried about? Come, Sam, don’t tell me you’re afraid to eat strawberries with me? What could possibly happen?”
Full of doubt, but tempted and … yes … even a little hungry, Sam frowningly studied Julian’s expression. His smile was lazy and mocking. Amusement twinkled in his eyes. His whole manner seemed to dare her.
And Sam never could resist a dare…
Chapter Eighteen
Sam walked beside Julian down the candlelit hall. The short journey between the parlor and the kitchen had a sort of processional feel about it, as if she were being formally escorted to an important event, like an ordination or, perhaps, a beheading. There was a definite feeling of anticipation—fearful, ominous, and exciting all at once.
The events of the last hour seemed like a dream to Sam, and everything still felt strange and unreal. Indeed, the situation in which she presently found herself was certainly unusual and unexpected. She never would have believed she’d be alone in a strange house with Julian, and given full leave by her mother to go into any chamber they chose in which to talk, drink their champagne, and eat their strawberries and whipped cream.
Sam’s hand was tucked snugly in Julian’s arm. She could feel his muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. She looked shyly up at him. He gazed down at her and smiled. The candlelight flickered in his eyes and glinted off his white teeth. Sam shivered like a lamb in the clutches of a wolf … and liked it rather too much.
There was a fire burning in the kitchen hearth, and a three-tapered candelabra stood on a long, narrow wooden table in the middle of the large room. The walls were lined with copper pots that reflected back the light from the fireplace and candles. It was very warm and cozy and homey. Sam allowed herself to breathe a tentative sigh of relief; certainly the kitchen was no place for a seduction.
As promised, there was a large china bowl full of strawberries on the table, and a smaller bowl of glossy whipped cream with peaks that towered two inches above its rim.
“We must be grateful to some poor maid with a sore arm,” Julian commented. “I’m sure it took an hour of beating to get that cream so stiff and lustrous.”
“It certainly looks very delicious,” Sam agreed carefully, gently pulling her hand free of Julian’s arm and moving to the opposite side of the table. To avoid the confusion and blushes that came so easily to her that evening, Sam did not look at Julian. Instead she fixed her gaze on the whipped cream. She decided that the frothy confection looked innocent enough, but had a suspicion that it hid some quality in its pure white folds that was latently dangerous to a young girl’s willpower.
“Why don’t we see how it tastes?” Julian suggested. “But first I’ll get the champagne glasses.”
He set the bottle on the table and turned away to open a glass-fronted cupboard full of crystal and plateware. Estimating that she could now safely look at him without his looking back, Sam lifted her gaze from the whipped cream to Julian.
Even from the back, he was beautiful. His broad shoulders and narrow hips were the perfect shape that all men should aspire to, she decided. But then she didn’t suppose that most men could attain Julian’s elegant and athletic form. She suspected that even though he was extremely active, honing his skills in the boxing ring with Gentleman Jackson and riding hell-bent-for-leather with the best of them on the hunting field, he had simply been born beautiful and would always be beautiful.
He turned, holding two fluted wineglasses. “We shall sample the champagne first,” he announced, “then the strawberries.”
Sam could do nothing but nod, then watch silently as he expertly poured the champagne into the glasses. He handed her a glass across the table and lifted his own in a salute.
“What shall we toast to, Sam?” Julian asked her, his eyes snapping devilishly in the firelight.
“To King and Country?” she suggested, for want of a better idea.
Julian’s brow furrowed and his lips curved in a smiling scowl. “How boring, Sam,” he teased. “And how terribly … predictable.”
To have her own words thrown back at her so effectively made her want to smile, but Sam was so nervous she knew she’d end up giggling like a schoolgirl instead, so she bit her lip and remained silent.
“Instead, I propose that we toast to ‘first experiences,’ ” he said. “After all, that’s what tonight is all about, isn’t it?”
“You mean … you mean because I’ll be eating strawberries and whipped cream with champagne?” she stammered.
“Of course,” he said with a faint smile. “What else? To first experiences.” He stretched his long arm across the table and tapped his glass of champagne against hers.
“To first experiences,” she repeated uncertainly, then took a sip of the effervescent wine. She liked champagne very much, but if she drank too much of it, she always got a little giddy. Deciding that caution ought to be the order of the day, she set the glass down on the table.
Julian raised his brows. “You must be ready for strawberries,” he observed, setting down his own glass. “But you will have to come round to my side of the table, Sam, because you cannot eat strawberries with white gloves on, and I daresay you need someone to help you remove them.”
Sam had not thought of that, but, indeed, her gloves would be stained with red berry juice if she kept them on, and she couldn’t get them off without help. Each glove had a dozen tiny pearl buttons that started at her wrist and continued to just above her elbows. She had only managed to get them on earlier that evening with the assistance of her abigail.
Sam knew she would feel more comfortable if she could stay where she was, but she also knew she would appear extremely foolish if she made Julian unbutton her gloves across the table. So she bravely went round to his side, turned her wrists to reveal the underside of her gloves, and offered Julian both her arms.
Again he raised his brows. “Just one arm will do,” he said. “Relax, my dear. In fact, why don’t we sit down?”
Sam couldn’t imagine feeling relaxed with Julian unbuttoning any part of clothing she might be wearing … even gloves. But she obediently sat down in a chair he pulled out from the table, lowered her left arm to her side, and propped her other arm on her knee. Julian smiled approvingly, a gleam of something like amusement in his eyes. Goaded by that gleam, she lifted her chin and tried to act completely unfazed by the whole business.
Still looking amused, Julian pulled out another chair and sat down directly in front of her, so close their knees were brushing. Unnerved by this closeness, Sam sat ramrod straight, her bottom pressed against the back of the chair. He took hold of her right wrist and said, “Bend a little, Sam.”
“What do you mean?” she asked stiffly.
“I mean … lean closer,” he clarified, smiling crookedly. “I want you to lay your arm on my leg.”
She swallowed hard as he pulled on her wrist till she bent forward, and till her arm, from the elbow down, rested flat on his thigh. “This way I can use both hands to work at the buttons and you won’t have to hold your arm up and get tired.”
Sam couldn’t dispute the sense of resting her arm on something, but a fuzzy part of her brain told her that the table would be a more logical surface to use for the purpose. However, Julian had already started on the first button at the very top of her glove and she felt she would appear prudish and silly if she objected to t
he present arrangement.
Besides, she liked the present arrangement … Julian’s head was bent over his task, the shiny blond hair so close to Sam’s face she could smell the soap he used to wash it. She could hardly resist the urge to bury her nose in the golden waves and breathe deeply. She desperately wanted to run her fingers through his hair, too. He didn’t use pomade, and she knew it would be clean and silky-soft to the touch.
His fingers worked dexterously on the buttons, revealing a bit more of flesh as each one was undone. Feeling the cool air kiss her freshly exposed skin was an exquisite torture. His mere proximity made her body temperature soar to an uncomfortable degree, and the feel of his hard thigh next to her arm was very disconcerting.
Finally he finished with the buttons of the first glove and slipped it off her hand with slow deliberation. “There,” he said, his voice a deep purr, “how’s that feel?”
It felt wonderful. Everything felt wonderful. Too wonderful.
“It feels much better,” was all she dared admit. “The buttons were pinching me a little.”
He hadn’t met her gaze since beginning his task. He still held her hand and appeared to be examining her arm, the white skin showing tiny spots of pink where the buttons had pressed into her skin.
“I see what you mean,” he murmured, lightly trailing his fingers up and down her arm. She shivered.
He lifted his gaze to her face. The gleam of amusement was gone from his eyes, to be replaced by an expression that took Sam’s breath away. “Those damned buttons,” he said softly, seductively. “How dare they hurt you?” Then he bent his head and pressed his lips to her wrist.
Sam gasped. The delicious shock of Julian’s lips against her bared flesh sent a thrill up her arm and into her heart. And he didn’t stop with one kiss. It seemed that he intended to kiss every small pink circle the buttons had made, working his way up from her wrist. Sam could only close her eyes and allow her head to loll to the side, every nerve quivering and focused on the feel of his mouth against her skin.
When he came to the tender hollow of her elbow, he lingered. Her fingers convulsed around his, gripping them tightly. The sensation of pleasure was so intense, she wanted to moan. But before she could utterly make a fool of herself, he lifted his head.
