Tess took a step closer and reached out her hand as if to touch Suzanne, but Leonie stepped back, holding the child more tightly than before.
“I wanted to see her.” Tess let her hand fall to her side. “I know you think I don't care about her, but I do.”
“What sort of mother abandons her baby?”
Tess's throat clogged up at the accusation, and it took her a moment to reply. “I had reasons for leaving,” she finally managed. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I will not allow you take Suzanne.”
“I don't want to take her. I can't keep her, and besides, I know that Alexandre loves her very much.”
“I will never forget the look on the Comte's face when he came back from Marseilles. He had followed you there, you and your lover. When he came back, he looked a broken man. I cried for him.” Her frown deepened into contempt. “Be gone. Have you not done enough to hurt him?”
Leonie bent and lifted Elise into her other arm, then she tried to step around Tess. Desperate, Tess blocked her path, hoping for a few moments more. “I don't want to take Suzanne away from Alexandre,” Tess reiterated, looking at her beautiful baby, burning the button nose, plump cheeks and red-blond lashes into her mind. “I only wanted—” Her voice broke, and she had to force the words out. “I only wanted to see her.”
Leonie's hostile posture relaxed, but only a little. “She is well. You have seen that she is cared for. Now, go. And do not come again.”
Leonie walked past her toward the inn. Tess turned, and as she watched the other woman taking her baby away, Tess was no longer able to hold back the pain. “I only wanted to see her,” she called, watching them go through a blur of tears. “I only wanted to see my baby.”
***
Alexandre snapped the reins across the horse's neck, quickening the animal’s pace from a gallop to a run. The morning breeze stung his cheeks and sent his hair flying behind him as he raced the horse across a meadow, making for the elegant estate in the distance. He'd been to the inn to see Suzanne, where Leonie had told him of Tess's visit the previous afternoon, and anger seared through his veins like acid. Anger and fear.
Perhaps she was having second thoughts about her choice to give up Suzanne. Perhaps she wanted the child back. If so, her desire was futile, for she could prove no legal claim on the baby. He wouldn't let her take Suzanne from him, not as long as he drew breath.
By the time he had changed out of riding costume and arrived at the conservatory to begin their session, she was already seated, waiting for him. He came in, and her eyes widened in surprise as he closed the door behind him, but she said nothing.
“You went to see Suzanne.”
Her chin rose a notch. “Yes.”
He wanted to shout and rage and rip her heart out as she had done his.
“Don't do it again.” He walked past her to the worktable by his easel and began mixing paints, vowing he’d have this picture finished within two days and be gone from here. To that end, silence reigned for the next few hours as she posed and he worked. Like him, she did not seem inclined to talk, for which he was glad, but the lack of conversation didn’t make his task easier. He still had to look at her, he still had to capture the eyes that had looked at him with what he’d thought was love. He still had to paint the mouth he had kissed and the skin he had touched.
“Alexandre?”
He froze, staring at the canvas. “What?”
“I only wanted to see her.”
“Why?” he demanded and tossed down his brush, sick of having nothing but questions. He wanted some answers. “Why should you want to see her? If you have any idea of trying to take her back, think again. I will not give her up.”
“I don't want her back.”
“That doesn't surprise me.”
“Damn you.” She jerked to her feet and came toward him, and when he looked at her, he saw an anger in her eyes that matched his own. “I love my daughter.”
“You have a fine way of demonstrating it.”
The fight seemed to drain out of her as quickly as it had come. She sighed, pressing her fingers to her forehead, silent for a moment. “Alexandre,” she said at last, lifting her head. “I'm sorry. I know I hurt you, but—”
“Who is Suzanne's real father?”
She blinked, astonished by his abrupt question. “W...what?”
“You heard my question.”
“I heard you. But I don't quite know what answer you are expecting.”
“Perhaps the truth?”
“Nigel, of course,” she answered, a frown of bewilderment knitting her brows. “How could you ask me such a question?”
“I was wondering why a woman who was married and expecting a child would run away from her husband. And I was wondering why that woman would journey all the way to southern France to have her baby. It seems to me there's only one reason.”
“You think I had a lover,” she said slowly. “You think I left my husband because I was having another man's child and my husband would realize it? You think I ran to avoid facing a scandal?” She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that hurt him. “During the past seven months, I have often wondered what you must think of me,” she managed. “Now I know. The worst part is, I can't blame you your conclusions, as wrong as they are.”
“Why did you leave Suzanne behind, if Nigel is her father?”
“Nigel would not...” She paused to take a deep breath. “Nigel would not have wanted a daughter. He would not have been a good father to her.”
“So, you didn't take a lover?” His voice was harsh to his own ears, and his heart seemed to stop as he waited for her answer.
“Yes, I did. I did take a lover once.” She looked at him, not a hint of shame in her expression. Instead, he saw what he remembered—the soft tenderness of the woman he’d thought had loved him. “But he's French, you see. And he has the blackest eyes I've ever seen. And the m...most glorious hair. And he was so good to me, he loved me, and I left him. I—”
Something inside him snapped, broke apart. He pulled her into his arms, cutting her off mid-sentence, and captured her mouth with his. The taste of her was like heaven. And like hell.
Her arms came up around his neck, and she returned his kiss with a passion that matched his own, burning away all anger, all fear, leaving only need. The need to have her.
Suddenly, she broke the kiss, tearing free and taking a step back, out of his arms. “I have to go,” she choked out and ran for the door, but in the doorway, she stopped and turned. “Leave, Alexandre. Take Suzanne, and leave. There is nothing for you here.”
He didn’t try to stop her. Breathing deep, he raked his hands through his hair and tried to gather his scattered wits. She was right, of course. When the painting was finished, there would be nothing to keep him here, and he would have to leave. He just hoped that when the time came, he would have the strength to do it.
***
Alexandre spent the afternoon with Nigel, forced to endure a tour of Aubry Park. Fortunately, the tour was not a long one, and when they had finished, he was still able to spend a bit of the afternoon with Suzanne.
He ordered a picnic from the innkeeper's wife, and took Suzanne to a pretty spot he'd noticed earlier in the day. But he’d barely put her on the blanket and opened the picnic basket before she turned over, hoisted herself up on her hands and knees and began to crawl away across the grass. In her long skirts, she couldn't crawl very fast, and he was able to catch her simply by stretching out one arm and cupping his hand under her belly. Laughing, he hoist her up and wrapping his hands around her plump midsection, he stood her on his knees facing him.
“And where were you intending to go, ma petite? Exploring?”
The baby wriggled in his grasp, clearly wanting that very thing. “All right then,” he said and stood her on the grass, kneeling in front of her. “If you wish to explore in that pretty dress, it might be easier for you to walk than to crawl. Shall we see if you can?”
He held her by her hands until he felt that she no longer needed his support, then he let go. She wobbled a bit, but stayed upright, and he moved backward on his knees, watching her carefully, his hands outstretched and ready to catch her if she fell. “It’s only a few steps,” he told her as she remained still, looking at him, her brow puckered with doubt. “You can do this.”
Her frown deepened as if in concentration, and her left foot moved clumsily forward, and his breath caught, watching her, his heart tight in his chest as he watched his daughter take her first step. She managed three more before the grassy, uneven ground proved her undoing and she stumbled, pitching forward into his waiting hands.
“Epatant!” he praised her, lifting her against his chest and pressing a kiss to her golden-red hair. “That was splendid!”
Those words were barely out of his mouth before he heard another sound, something rather like a choked sob. Frowning, he turned his head and froze.
Tess was standing at the edge of the meadow, only about fifteen yards away, one fist pressed against her mouth. Before he could speak, or even react to her presence, he saw her turn and run for the shelter of the forest.
She disappeared amid the trees, and before he could even rise to his feet, he heard the thud of horse’s hooves against the ground that told him there was no point in trying to chase her down. And what would he say if he caught her? Stay away from your daughter?
She loved Suzanne. He knew that. The agony in her expression a few moments ago as she’d been forced to watch her baby from a distance left no doubt about that. And it was because of Aubry that she’d left Suzanne behind.
Nigel would not have wanted a daughter. He would not have been good to her.
He thought of Aubry's careless disregard for Tess, of how unhappy she was, and how little he seemed to care for her well-being. If he treated a wife so callously, he would hardly treat a daughter better.
It seemed he had answers to all his questions—all but one. And when he asked her that last question, her answer would decide his destiny.
***
Tess had dinner in her room. She'd told Nigel she wasn't feeling well, and he hadn't insisted on her presence at the table, much to her relief. She hadn't lied to Nigel, for she was sick—sick at heart—and the sight of Alexandre right now was more than she could bear.
She’d known he would be a good father. It had been both beautiful and painful to see how he'd coaxed Suzanne to take her first steps, the way he'd been there, ready to catch her if she should fall. But she’d known that, too. Alexandre would always be there for Suzanne, just as she knew she could never be.
The next morning, she knew she had to sit for her portrait, but she dreaded it. What if there was a repeat of yesterday, when both of them had lost their heads for one glorious, blissful moment? What if Nigel walked in and saw them as they had been yesterday? Fear dogged her steps as she went down to the conservatory.
Alexandre was there when she arrived, already working on the painting. He glanced over his shoulder as she came in, but he didn’t speak, and she to her chair. “How can you paint me when I’m not here? Don’t you need to have me here?”
Alexandre paused, but he didn’t answer her. He could have told her that everything about her—the fiery color of her hair and the green of her eyes, the curve of her mouth and the shape of her body—were burned in his memory. He said nothing.
As he worked, he tried not to look at her, but sometimes, he had to, and when he did, he always saw the same thing: the woman he loved looking back at him as if she loved him, too. But what he still didn’t know was if that woman was real, or if he was only seeing her as he wanted her to be. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and he set down his palette and brush.
“Why?” he asked softly, throwing all his pride away as he walked toward her. “Why did you leave me?”
She tilted her chin back to look at him as he paused in front of her chair. “I had to. Nigel came for me, and I had to go. He's my husband. I had no choice.”
“And if you'd had a choice?”
She turned her face away. “Don't,” she whispered. “Don't make me imagine choices that I never had.”
He knelt in front of her. “Do you love him?”
“No. I did once.” Her voice faltered, and swallowed hard. “I was stupid, foolish. I loved the man I thought he was.”
He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. “You don't love him,” he said. “So what shall we do about it?”
“Do?” She stared at him in bewilderment. “There's nothing I can do.”
“Yes, there is. You could leave with me now, this minute.”
“I can't. You know that isn't possible.”
“It is possible.” He knelt before her and grasped her shoulders. “We could go somewhere he'll never find us.”
“There is no such place!” she cried, pulling away from his touch.
“I love you. Do you love me?”
“What does it matter?” She shoved back the chair and rose to her feet. “Don't you understand? There’s nowhere we could go that he wouldn’t find us. And when he did, he'd force me back, and I would have to go. I'm his wife.”
“Petition for divorce.”
“On what grounds? The courts would never grant me a divorce!”
“A separation, then.”
“Nigel would have to agree, and he won't. I'm trapped. Don't you see?” Her voice broke. “I'm trapped.”
She stepped around him. “Go away, Alexandre. Please go back to France.”
Her voice caught on a sob, but she didn’t stop. She ducked out the door and disappeared. He could have gone after her, but he let her go. She was right about divorce or separation. He couldn't imagine that pompous English ass granting his wife either option. But he couldn't leave her here, knowing she was trapped in a loveless marriage, so unhappy that she was wasting away.
So what was left for them? A clandestine affair, carried on until they were caught? Alexandre picked up his palette and brush. He continued to work, trying to find comfort in painting the woman he loved, trying not to give in to the despair that threatened to tear him apart.
***
Margaret knew she was the sort of woman who faded into the background. People often forgot her presence. As a result, she had become a keen observer of life, rather than a participant. She had also developed the ability to eavesdrop on conversations without feeling guilty and without being caught.
When she heard Tess's footsteps, she slipped noiselessly out of the corridor and into a nearby room, listening until the sound of Tess's footsteps faded away.
Margaret turned, leaning back against the wall. It was inevitable, she supposed, that Tess should take a lover. Her son was not an easy man to love. He was so much like his father.
A vision of her husband came before her eyes, and Margaret shivered. He had been dead for many years now, but he refused to die in her memory. Even now, he had the power to make her afraid.
Father and son. So much alike. Both handsome and charming on the surface, but with the same rage seething beneath. When Nigel was a boy, she had already been able to see what he was learning from his father's example. The years had passed, she had hoped she was wrong. When Nigel had fallen in love with Tess, she had hoped their marriage would change her son. None of her hopes had come to pass.
Now Tess was suffering the same fate she had suffered, and guilt weighed heavily on Margaret's shoulders. She should have spoken to Tess about it, tried to warn her. But she had kept silent. Unable to watch her own marriage being replayed in front of her, she had withdrawn permanently to her home in Northumberland, only returning to Kent for a dutiful visit once a year.
She buried her face in her hands, very disturbed by the conversation she had overheard between Tess and the Frenchman. Clearly, Tess had met him when she'd run away to France. Margaret knew her son had beaten Tess and to protect herself, she'd shot him. Nigel thought he'd kept that a secret, but Margaret knew the truth. She als
o knew it wasn’t the first nor the last time her son had hit his wife. Information was easy to pry out of servants if one knew how to go about it.
The question was what to do with all the information she had. Tess and Dumond were in love. Margaret knew what would happen if Nigel found out. She had to do something before it was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tess was alone in her room, preparing for bed, when a soft knock sounded on her door. She glanced up as Margaret stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Margaret?” She stared at her mother-in-law with surprise and concern. “It's very late. Is something wrong?”
The older woman came to stand beside her. “I overheard your conversation with Dumond in the conservatory,” she said. “I know he wants you to go away with him.”
Tess felt her face grow hot with embarrassment, even as inside, she went cold with fear. If Margaret told Nigel—
“Go with him, Tess.”
Tess stared at her mother-in-law in astonishment. Slowly, she sank onto the edge of the bed. “What did you say?”
“Go with him. This may be your last opportunity to escape. Go now, while you have the chance.”
“Go where?” Tess's question was bitter.
“My dear, I know better than anyone in the world how you feel.”
“How could you know? How could anyone know?”
“I know.” The words were soft but spoken with conviction. “Tess, I've known you since you were a little girl. I've watched you grow up. You were such a happy child, and you grew into a lovely young woman. But you are no longer happy.”
Margaret sighed and sat down beside her daughter-in-law on the edge of the bed. “I have done you a great disservice,” she confessed. “I knew a long time ago what my son's character was. I suspected what would happen when he married, and I dreaded it. But I said nothing. I did nothing. I told myself that Nigel would change his ways when he married you. I convinced myself that he would not do to you what his father did to me.”
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