by Anna Small
Other than that, they had not left the chateau, which seemed to suit Aunt Adele just fine. Her cold had returned, and she’d wrapped an old piece of flannel around her throat, even though the day was warm. Lady Priscilla, plump and pretty, did not care for exercise, and the two sisters spent their days in the sunny garden, drinking tea like two British matrons rather than the worldly travelers they liked to pretend they were.
Georgiana sighed, her breath disturbing the curtain, which was so sheer it resembled a spider’s web. The buzzing bees in the roses and hyacinths below the window hovered lazily at their task. Her eyelids fluttered, and she had to rouse herself. If she didn’t do something soon, she would become as lazy as the white cat in the garden. Fat on mice and garden moles, it had flicked its whiskers at her once before closing its yellow eyes and going back to sleep.
She turned from the window and hastened to her dressing room, where she quickly chose a ball dress for the evening. The silvery blue color complemented her eyes and skin, and she preened before the mirror. She imagined she was dancing with a handsome Parisian around a ballroom ablaze with a thousand candles. She closed her eyes in a peaceful daze, and almost heard the strains of violins. Her body swayed to the music in her head, and she struggled to put a face to her partner.
One of the gardeners in Lady Priscilla’s employ had dark, gypsy-like eyes and long black hair. He’d winked at her a few days ago when Aunt Adele wasn’t looking.
Humming a tune, she twirled in a small circle, enjoying a slight breeze on her legs as her skirts floated around her. The gardener was spinning her about a grand ballroom, his full red lips turned upward in a smile. She lost herself in her reverie and gave a spontaneous giggle at an imagined compliment. Before she could stop herself, her phantom dancer’s dark eyes lightened to the color of the sea on a stormy day. Jack’s rakish grin transformed her fantasy Frenchman. The dark hair vanished, changing to burnt gold. Her eyes flew open, and she threw the dress down with a murmured oath.
“Oh, get out of my head, will you?” she snapped. She began rifling through her jewelry and hairpins, as if it were the most important thing in the world to be perfectly accessorized.
Chapter Seven
Alphonse was a droopy-eyed, sad-looking fellow with lank black hair and a perpetual frown. Georgiana wondered if she should bring some smelling salts in case her escort collapsed during the evening. Lady Priscilla and Aunt Adele cast each other significant glances, and Georgiana stifled a laugh at the idea of being courted by someone as dull as Alphonse. No matter he was the first Frenchman she’d met and her salvation from her mundane life so far. He was not the least bit interesting, and she earnestly prayed her aunt was not thinking of matchmaking the pair of them.
He sat opposite her in the carriage and stared out the window, refusing conversation. She’d tried her French on him but gave up when all she received was a noncommittal grunt. Not bothering to stifle a sigh, Georgiana smoothed the wrinkles from her gown, which shimmered in the waning sunlight. As dreadful as her companion was, she anticipated her first night out. What a treat not to worry about Aunt Adele watching her like a hawk, or Jonathan hovering over her shoulder every time a potential dancing partner emerged from the crowd.
She’d been sheltered most of her life, but that was not uncommon with young ladies of her class. Her mother had been a successful debutante, catching the eye and hand of her father at her very first ball. Georgiana had no such conquests. After the incident, she had refused to make her debut, much to her brother’s grievous concern. She didn’t see the point, really, which was for a debutante to meet her future husband while in the guise of attending as many balls and events as possible. Marriage was the furthest thing from her mind. Tonight, she was going to have fun.
She turned away from the window and started a little when she met Alphonse’s penetrating gaze.
“You are a long way from home,” he commented in near perfect English.
“Yes, I am. Have you ever been to England?”
He shrugged, and she thought she’d imagined he’d ever spoken at all.
A few more moments of silence followed, and she cleared her throat. “Will you meet some friends at the ball?”
“No.”
Her heart sank. Lord above, would she have to remain at his side the entire night? She nearly wrinkled her nose at the odious idea. She was looking forward to dancing with as many partners as she chose.
“Perhaps…one friend,” he said at length, watching her carefully. She nodded encouragingly, as it seemed he wished to convey a confidence. Even coming from Alphonse, it was the most exciting thing she had heard in a fortnight.
“A young lady?”
“She is the daughter of a miller. My aunt and my parents frown upon the match.”
“I see.” Georgiana didn’t know why she should be shocked the same prejudices existed in France as they did back home. “Well, I believe you must follow your heart in these matters, Monsieur Alphonse.” She smiled, but he only seemed dourer, if that were possible.
“I have not the freedom to make my own choice, Mademoiselle Lockewood.” He gave her just the slightest smile in return and looked out the window again.
She could think of nothing else to say and was almost relieved his melancholia had been based on yearning for love rather than a dull personality. “My brother wishes for me to marry,” she said, then cringed at her lack of propriety.
His thick black eyebrows flicked upward with interest. “Are you in love with your fiancé?”
“I have no fiancé just yet.”
Her palms sweated inside the sheathlike gloves. How much time remained before Jonathan insisted she marry one of the suitors he’d chosen? He hadn’t mentioned any by name, but she’d seen important looking cards coming to the house with various crests and arms embossed upon them. Once, she’d caught him and Sophie whispering in the breakfast room, and when she’d entered, Sophie had beamed at her, nodding once at Jonathan and exclaiming, “He would be perfect!”
Thinking they were talking about a new stallion Jonathan coveted, she’d dismissed the conversation. Now, she wondered if she’d missed something much more important. She’d promised Jonathan she’d consider marriage if he allowed her to go abroad, and he’d kept his word. She must keep hers, regardless of the outcome.
“I shall not marry for love.” Whenever she tried to imagine the nameless suitors Jonathan had brokered, she could only see bland, nondescript features. No romantic notion filled her heart. Her back stiffened against the padded carriage wall.
“Why not?” He leaned forward, as if she were a fascinating specimen on a table, and he was about to dissect her.
“Because it is not real. Because it does not last.”
He turned away with a smirk. “English girls are very strange.”
“It has nothing to do with being English.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying more. The last thing she needed was for Alphonse to go back to Aunt Adele and report her scandalous words. She cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps it is an English thing.”
“You have not been in love before, mademoiselle. If you had, you would not say that.” He looked a little too smug for her liking. A sharp image of Edward flashed through her mind, searing his dark eyes into her brain before she could prevent it. She gulped almost painfully.
“Perhaps you are right. I have never been in love before.” How easy to lie to a stranger. Her stays crushed her ribs with her rising anxiety. She glanced out the window but couldn’t concentrate on the pastoral countryside. Several coaches were parked along a stone wall, and their driver slowed the horses.
“That is unfortunate.” He ran his hands through his hair, but the gesture only flattened it. “We are here,” he announced, rather unnecessarily, as the coach came to an abrupt stop outside a gaily-lit building overcrowded with couples and groups of people dressed for a ball. Georgiana took the footman’s hand as he helped her out, and she waited for Alphonse to offer his arm and escort her insi
de, but he was indifferent. He seemed to be looking for someone, and she guessed it was the miller’s daughter.
His sour expression suddenly brightened, and he called out something in rapid French that she barely caught. A pretty girl in a pink dress and white roses in her hair skipped across the lawn to him and threw her arms around his neck.
Georgiana gaped in surprise, then allowed the couple their privacy and walked into the building along with the others. Not one word of English did she hear, and she realized quickly that for all her proper conversational French, she did not understand the idioms and local dialect very well. Groups of young girls fluttered about in pairs or trios, flirting blatantly with handsome young men, who pinched their cheeks and stole kisses left and right.
Excited but wary, Georgiana got caught up in a group who herded her into a refreshment room. She’d already had her supper and usually had a light appetite, but the intriguing smells and sights of so many delicacies forced her to sample a slice of cake and some bonbons. Someone jostled her elbow, and she nearly dropped her plate. She turned as a tall, dark-haired man struck the head of the man who’d bumped her.
Her gallant knight grinned down at her. He swept into a low bow, and when he straightened, she met his mesmerizing black eyes. She curtsied, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see her blush. He was the living vision of her phantom dancer.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he said in a rich, low voice. “I hope that fiend did not distress you.”
“He did not.”
“Do you dance this evening? A lady as tres charmant as yourself should be dancing.” His eyes twinkled in the light of the candelabra on the tables and overhead. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her to refuse. Surely, a man with such wickedly handsome good looks and bewitching eyes could mean nothing but trouble. She should find Alphonse and request a dance with him, even though he was probably deeply involved with his illicit romance.
The stranger held out his gloved hand expectantly. Before she knew what she was doing, Georgiana set down her plate and allowed him to lead her to the main room where a quadrille was already forming.
How delightful to have such an attentive partner, and no suspicious chaperone clucking in disapproval. For the first in a long time, Georgiana felt a rush of freedom. This is what it must be like for Jack. Her head spun as she whirled around the room.
The dance was over before she knew it, and her partner took her hand and held it almost possessively. Excited by the vibrant music and the general gaiety of the other dancers, Georgiana didn’t mind when they were at a table spread with more sweets and bowls of punch. He offered to get her a glass, and she nodded happily, looking forward to the rest of the evening. More than a few young ladies had glanced at him, and she was proud he’d chosen her.
She toyed with the idea of inviting him for tea the next day and giggled when she realized she didn’t know his name. How positively liberating to be so carefree and improper! He returned with the punch, and she held the cup to her lips, eager to continue dancing.
The glass slid from her gloved fingers and crashed to the floor, sending crystal shards and rose-colored liquid to spatter the hem of her gown. She ought to have minded the murmured words of concern from her partner, who knelt to pick up the worst of the pieces, but she was unaware of his or anyone else’s presence.
Save one.
Across the room, a man returned her stare, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were about to speak. The thick black brows flickered up in surprise, then lowered as a smirk spread across his face. After an interminable time, he turned his back in a pointed manner and continued his conversation with his companions.
Impossible.
Her frozen heart melted at the sight of his broad back. Had he always been so tall, so broad-shouldered? Had his hair always curled just a little bit, onto his collar? Had the sharp cheekbones always looked as if carved from marble?
She didn’t realize the dull ache in her chest was a sob rising to her lips. Stifling a gasp, she pushed past her concerned partner and stumbled out onto an empty veranda. Before she could give in to tears, rough fingers grabbed her arm while another hand groped at her breast. She jerked away, only to collide into another man. The stale stench of his breath nauseated her.
“Mademoiselle, where are you going?” He pulled her hard against him.
She raised her hand to strike his face, rage burning through her, but he caught it as easily as if it were a mouse in a cat’s paw. The other man was behind her, pressing against her.
Panicking, she threw back her head to scream, but a grubby hand closed over her mouth. Swiftly, they moved toward the corner, taking her with them in some unspoken understanding. She lifted her knee and narrowly missed her attacker’s groin, but he only laughed. His fingers fumbled with her bodice while his companion worked on raising her gown.
Her attacker’s expression turned from intent leer to one of absolute terror. A silver blade glittered against his throat. At first, she thought he had a red ribbon tied around his neck until a thin, bright stream of blood dripped from where the blade pressed his throat.
“Release her, and I might let you live.” A very annoyed, heavily accented English voice speaking French reached her through the blood pounding in her ears.
The man let her go and backed away, his swarthy face even darker from his suppressed anger. His partner joined him, and they stumbled backward, making their way off the veranda and disappearing into the night.
“Jack!” she stared at her rescuer with a mixture of shock and relief. Her legs gave out, and she would have fallen had he not caught her.
“Are you hurt? Did those bastards touch you?” His big hands patted her roughly, as if he could assess any damage with his bare fingers. She shook her head, a hysterical laugh rising to her lips.
“No, I am unhurt. Your arrival was very timely. How long have you been here?” She suddenly found it difficult to stand on her own. He gripped her elbows and gave her a little shake, his head suddenly close to hers.
“Long enough. What are you doing here alone? Where is Aunt Adele?”
She looked around, feeling as helpless as if she were a child lost in the woods. The shock of her near attack must have been telling on her, and she merely stared beyond the veranda into the dark landscape.
“She is at home. She wanted me to go out for the evening and enjoy myself, but I’m afraid I lost my escort.”
“Who is your escort?”
“Lady Priscilla’s nephew, Alphonse.” She hiccupped, and a nervous, frightened giggle burst from her. “I do not know where he is. I was dancing with another gentleman. I do not know his name.”
“Dancing with a stranger, Georgiana? And no escort, save a lovesick boy?”
“How do you know he is lovesick?”
“Because all Frenchmen are.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll take you home, and we’ll sort this out in the morning. Lady Priscilla’s nephew deserves a good thrashing for abandoning you, and I’m just in the mood to give it.”
He led her through one crowded salon to another, until they reached the main hall. He collected his hat and ordered his carriage. She turned back toward the ballroom to see if Edward had remained where she’d seen him, but he was gone. She longed to give in to a good cry, but Jack was already ushering her into the carriage in a brisk manner, not unlike a mother hen she’d once seen at Fairwood Hall, when her chicks had gone astray.
****
Jack smothered the curses lurking in the recesses of his throat. He resolved to see her safely home and then planned to return to the ball and find the two ruffians. And when he did—
“I cannot go back to the chateau. Aunt Adele will have a fit if she hears about this. She will insist we return to England immediately, or write Jonathan about it. Either way, I will have to go home, and I’d rather not. It is not Alphonse’s fault he abandoned me. He was making a tryst with a young lady to whom his parents object. She’s a miller’s daughter.”
“He will demand my return. No, Jack.” She shook her head stubbornly. “You can chastise me about making bad choices in the morning if you like. But I will not go home. Not yet.” Her lip trembled. “I’d rather not entertain the thought of suitors at the moment.”
“Perhaps you would be better off with a husband’s protection,” he reasoned, but she only pressed closer to the wall of the coach. “Your brother cannot always be there to protect you, nor can I.” He thumped his fist on the side of the door. “What would have happened had I not been there to stop those brutes? And what of dancing with a man whose name you did not know? He could have set them up to...” He swore below his breath. “You are not in England anymore. You are too trusting for your own good.”
“Then why not spend the rest of my life locked in a tower? You and Jonathan will never have to worry about poor, helpless Georgiana dragging you away from your gaming tables and boxing matches.” She sniffed deliberately. “Or women.”
“So elegantly put, Georgiana.” He forced back his temper. She was upset, and understandably so. “But you must see reason. Sooner or later, you will have to marry.”
“And why should I? What does it matter if I marry or not? Perhaps I should go into a…a convent. There’s a lovely one down the road from the chateau. Perhaps I should knock on their door tomorrow and demand sanctuary from you and my brother. I speak French quite well and will fit in nicely with all the other lost girls.”
Before she could burst into tears, he tucked the rug around her knees, but she pushed it away. A light beading of perspiration dotted her forehead, and he opened the window to allow a cool breeze to filter inside the coach. He patted her shoulder.
