The duke leaned forward. “But you haven’t proposed to her?”
“No. We only met last night, at Lady Hamilton’s ball. But I thought it would be prudent to inform you, Your Grace. Because, as I said earlier, there is the possibility of a small impediment.”
“Spit it out, Halford. Stop this infernal shilly-shallying.” He banged his fist on the desk like a gavel.
“She’s…French.” Hal blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“French! God in heaven.” The duke sank back in his chair and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. “All the best English ladies to choose from and you take a fancy to a French girl? Who is her family?”
“D’Aventure.” Hal closed his eyes and prayed. His father’s interest in anything French, other than spirits, wouldn’t fill a thimble. If luck was with him, the name would mean nothing.
Fingers laced together, the duke ruminated, his brows wiggling up and down, his lips pursed. Finally, he shook his head. “D’Aventure? I cannot place it. Was her father a soldier promoted by Boney? That was all the rage ten years ago.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Of course, there could always be land involved with the settlements. Who is her father?’
“I don’t exactly know, Your Grace. I scarcely had time to talk to her. We spoke of other things than families.” Speaking had been the least of it.
“I take that to mean you spent the time you should have been gathering her particulars making love to her instead.” His father poured them another libation. “First things first, my boy.”
“If you mean courting her, Father, then yes. I thought making a good impression with her the best way to begin. I could hardly blurt out, ‘Who is your father and what is his rank?’” Hal tossed down his drink. It was a decent enough question, however. Perhaps Gabriella had sufficient lineage that the leap from maid to marchioness wouldn’t be a strenuous one. “However, if you have no objection…?” He let the question linger in the air. Let his father take the bait.
“Oh, I’m positive I will have objections of some sort. But if the lady is gently born, we may see our way clear to an agreement.” The duke held the decanter out to Hal.
“No, thank you, Father.” He rose and donned his hat. “I must find Miss d’Aventure, or, more specifically, I must find her father. I will keep you apprised of my progress.” With a bow, he turned and walked sedately from the interview, although jumping with wild glee on the inside.
Tomorrow night’s appointment with Gabriella would be even more crucial now. Not only must he arrange her meeting with the duke, he must ferret out her father while making her none the wiser. A tall order for a man not particularly given to intrigues. He hoped for his sake he was up to the challenge.
Heart of Delight: Chapter Five
The clock in Lady Atherton’s servants’ hall ticked at an annoyingly loud, steady rate. Gabriella had been staring at it for the past hour while the Atherton servants ran to and fro in a frenzy of activity. Platters of savories, and trays crowded with champagne glasses, pots of tea, and coffee were whisked up and down the stairs by more footmen than she could count. After she’d inadvertently almost tripped one carrying a towering bowl of sherry trifle, she’d been relegated—by a very angry housekeeper—to the cramped chamber where the shoes were shined and the silver polished.
When the pungent smells of lampblack and Bath brick became intolerable, she crept to the doorway seeking fresher air. The kitchen was steamy, the stove blazing as Cook turned out batch after batch of gooseberry tarts and meringues destined for the supper room. Gabriella’s stomach growled. There’d been no time for dinner after working for three hours on Lady Chalgrove’s toilette—her coiffure hadn’t wanted to cooperate, taking twice as long as usual. She’d even needed to start over once. Gabriella looked longingly at the parade of dishes headed upstairs and prayed there would be something left over.
Stephen, the young footman she’d almost tripped, appeared from upstairs, a plate of crumbs and two tarts with broken crusts in his hands. Gabriella eyed the flaky pastry, her mouth watering, then sent him a soulful look. The gawky boy must’ve caught it, for he turned his back to her, deftly juggling the plate until it came to rest behind him, right in front of her and shielded from the remaining staff. She grabbed the tarts, thankful she’d learned to flirt at a very early age, whispered, “Merci, mon ami,” and sprinted out the rear door.
The cool night breeze refreshed her after the close atmosphere of the kitchen, and she settled onto a stone bench in what appeared to be a small kitchen garden. The first bite exploded in her mouth, the tart gooseberries tempered by the sweetness of the sugar and cinnamon. Cook certainly had a light hand with pastry. She’d not tasted anything this good since she left Paris. The first tart disappeared with alarming speed. Best savor the other one. She broke it in two and nibbled the flaky crust, licked some of the sweet filling, and sighed. A good sauterne would complement it nicely. She missed Papa’s wine shop so much. Bien sûr, in England, she could at least continue her quest for the duke. She licked one sticky finger after another, determined not to waste a drop.
“Mademoiselle d’Aventure.”
She spun around, almost dropping the other half of the tart.
Monsieur Carpenter, once more in shirtsleeves, beckoned to her from behind the bush enclosing the garden. His face lay in shadows, the faint light of the half-moon doing nothing to dispel them.
Excitement coiled within her.
“What are you doing here?” She wiped her fingers on the hem of her petticoat and got to her feet.
“I told you I’d meet you here.” He grinned, showing very white teeth in the dark, as he stalked toward her like a lynx. “I am a man of my word.”
“I see you are.” She could not hold back a smile. Why was she so pleased to see him? Much as she wanted to believe it was merely for the introduction she hoped he’d arranged, the rush of her heart said differently. That didn’t bear thinking about. She needed no distractions to deter her from her quest. And Monsieur Carpenter might prove a dangerous one.
“You look beautiful this evening. Très belle.”
“You cannot even see me in the darkness.” She tossed her head, though his words sent an alarming thrill through her.
“I can see enough.”
“You are very bold for a valet who has stolen away from his master.” She certainly didn’t want him to be dismissed on her account. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning the marquess’s boots?”
He laughed and motioned her back toward the bench. “They are already taken care of. My master doesn’t mind if I step out once my duties are finished. But it’s sweet of you to be concerned about me.”
“I would hate to think I caused you to get the sack.” She clutched the slats of the bench to keep from fidgeting. Lord, he made her want to fly to pieces.
“Thank you, but I will be fine.” He relaxed against the back of the bench, his presence hulking, and dangerous, and exciting. “Are you well?”
“Oui. As well as one may be with madame calling for me every moment she is not eating, sleeping, or paying calls. Tant pis. It is my lot.” As soon as she met the duke, however, all of that would change, Dieu merci.
“You must be very skilled that she relies so heavily on you.” He never took his gaze off her, which should have made her uncomfortable, but did not. Not even when it seemed to linger on her mouth.
“She is overly concerned with how the people of the ton think of her. Possibly in the past they have been unkind, and she is now determined to be above reproach in her appearance.” She shrugged. “Lady Chalgrove annoys me at times, but she has served her purpose in getting me to England.” Now it was up to her, and perhaps Monsieur Carpenter, to meet the duke.
“So, have you managed to see the Duke of Rother yet?” He shifted, and the faint moonlight blazed in his eyes.
“Non. Yesterday, madame went for a drive with the duke, and I thought it might be my chance, but I caught a glimpse of him only.” She fisted
her hands in her lap. Mon Dieu, why was a simple introduction so difficult? “I suppose you have not been able to arrange a meeting either, Monsieur Carpenter?”
He freed her hand from the folds of her gown, his grin broadening. “As a matter of fact, mademoiselle, I have.”
“What?” She squeezed his hand, shock making her grip him tighter than she should have. Her quest was at an end. Her dream would come true at last. “Why did you not tell me immédiatement? This is wonderful.” She threw her arms around him, unable to contain the joy within her. “Oh, merci. Merci beaucoup.”
Her lips met his, and suddenly nothing else mattered. The world disappeared as she clung to him, her anchor in a turbulent sea. When, at last, loud laughter from the house brought her back to herself, she thought she might die of shame. She twisted away, her face hot as though she’d stood too close to a fire. Indeed, she had scorched herself in his flames. “Mille pardons, Monsieur Carpenter. I should not have done that.”
“I didn’t mind, Gabriella.” He smiled, rubbing his finger over his lips. “And having done it, I insist you call me Horace.”
Her whole body like a lit match, realizing too that he had called her Gabriella, she jumped up and stumbled away from the bench. “I do not think that is wise, Monsieur Carpenter.”
“Horace,” he said firmly, following her.
“And how am I to meet the duke?” She turned to him, infusing her words with determination, willing him to allow them to continue as they had before.
“How am I to meet the duke…Horace?” His grin assumed her defeat.
Wretched man to leave her no choice. “Horace.” Having said the name, she grew warm again, from the inside out.
He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his elbow, and led her back to the bench. “My master has a distant relation, Lady Celinda Graham, who also happens to be the duke’s goddaughter. I once did her a kindness, and she has agreed to introduce you to the Duke of Rother.”
Ah, that explained it. She had wondered how a valet had managed such a thing.
He sat, not relinquishing her hand, and patted the seat beside him. “Sit. I promise not to bite.”
“I am fine to stand, merci.” She tugged and, reluctantly, he let her go. Lord, so difficult to remain true to her goal. More than anything, she would have loved to sit beside Horace, to feel his lips on hers once more. Non, she must not allow herself to be distracted. “When will Lady Celinda arrange the meeting?” She scowled. “It will not be easy to steal away from madame.”
“I will speak with her shortly and tell her when you can meet her.” He cocked his head. “Is there some impediment?”
Gabriella bit her lip. This might be the most difficult part yet. Lady Chalgrove led such an active social life, she might call upon Gabriella almost any time of the day or night to assist her. Her afternoon off moved at her mistress’s whim. Unfortunately, if she asked for a particular day off, madame might ask why. Or simply refuse. She sighed. “My time is seldom my own.”
“What day is your lady at home?” Horace rose to stand beside her.
“Thursdays, the same as Lady Hamilton.”
“We could perhaps ensure that Lady Chalgrove would be well occupied with visitors for several hours when you would not be needed.”
Gabriella smiled up at him, so tall and handsome that her heart beat fast whenever she looked at him. He would have made an excellent footman with his dark good looks and magnificent physique, although he seemed too intelligent for a servant, even a valet. She would not be surprised to hear sometime that the Marquess of Halford was in need of a new gentleman’s gentleman. “You may have hit upon an idea, Horace. If enough callers arrive at, say, fifteen minute intervals, madame will be well occupied and with no need of me until at least three o’clock.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “You can arrange these callers, of course?”
“Lady Celinda can. I will ask her to arrange the meeting with the duke at one-thirty in the afternoon on Thursday, while her friends and relations flock to Lady Hamilton’s for the latest on-dits and tea.” His hand lay warm on her arm. “I will arrange for you to be taken to Lady Celinda’s home. She will have made plans for the duke to receive you there.”
“Will you be there?” Now that her plan was coming to fruition at last, her confidence had begun to wane. She needed a friendly face to help her through the ordeal.
Horace shook his head, his face once more in shadow. “That may not be possible. I will introduce you to Lady Celinda. She will chaperone you and make the introduction. You can trust her as you would me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You are simply meeting the duke to fulfill your lifelong dream, true? He thrust his head forward, peering at her so intently that she looked away.
“Why would it not be true? For a poor girl like me to meet such a great man should be the dream of a lifetime, vous ne pensez pas?” His close presence distracted her thoughts. When his arms slid around her, she stiffened, fighting the longing she couldn’t deny, then gave in and relaxed against him. She had dreamed of him last night and awakened to find her pillow damp with tears of longing. Why would she feel so about a valet when nothing could come of it? After she spoke to the duke, she could no longer dally with this man. “Horace, we should not—”
“Shhh.” He turned her in his arms. “Why not? You are a very beautiful woman, Gabriella, more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen.” He smoothed a strand of hair back behind her ear, and she shivered with desire.
“Merci, mon ami.” She cupped his face, so handsome and strong. Why would fate tempt her with him at this moment? “Vous êtes très beau, et très cher.” She swept her lips across his, a fleeting kiss that thrilled even as it tortured. “I must go, mon cher. I dare not stay here longer.” She broke through his grip, though his touch still lingered.
“You but trifle with me.” The bitterness in his voice smote her heart. “If I were instead my master, the marquess, you would not run from me.”
“Oui, non, oh sacrebleu. You cannot understand,” she wailed then dropped her voice. They must not be discovered.
He grabbed her hand. “Then tell me.” He twined his fingers with hers, and her willpower failed. “I thought you felt something for me beyond your little flirting smiles. When we kissed, there was something wonderful between us, I will swear to it.” He pulled her back down onto the bench. “Do you deny it?”
“I…I…” Mon Dieu, but she wanted, non, needed to deny it, to tell him instead she flirted only, and felt nothing.
He gazed at her, his sharply shadowed face yearning toward her. “Gabriella, please.”
Madness seized her. She grasped his face and pressed her mouth to his, tingling from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Before she knew it, she had her arms around him, pulling him closer, never wanting to let him go.
He put his arms around her, his warmth like a blessing, and she reveled in it. Too soon, however, he broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers, a touch almost as intimate. “Does that mean I’m right?”
“Oui, you are correct, mon chéri.” She sighed and leaned back. “Much as I wish to deny it, I cannot.”
He drew her back to him, leaning her head onto his broad shoulder, capturing her hand in his. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, each stroke a whisper of a caress. “Why would you wish to deny your feelings for me, Gabriella? Do I displease you in some way? Are you ashamed of me?”
“Non, non, that is not it at all.” She stopped his mouth with her hand. “Never think that, Horace.” She blushed, the heat in her cheeks as hot as the burn in her breast. “It is not you, mon chéri.”
“Then what is it, my love?”
She thrilled at the word. If only it could be true. They had known each other a matter of days, yet something in this man called to her as no other ever had. Even had he not been handsome as sin, the kindness in his nature would have drawn her to him. Such kindness was rare in the world, rarer still in the highest echelons of the English ton they served.
Perhaps that made the difference, although servants in other grand houses, of lower rank than herself, had snubbed her because she was French. To find a man so kind and handsome verged on a miracle; that she must reject him seemed too cruel a fate.
“It has to do with the Duke of Rother and why I must meet him.” Gabriella sat up, her hands twisting in her lap. She had confessed this to no one. “You are correct that my longing to see the duke is not merely a child’s dream, although it truly has been my desire all my life.” Oh, but he would hate her for this. “I am sorry I misled you, Horace. I did not wish to tell you half-truths. I want you to trust me, but it was necessary for me to lie to gain your help.”
“You didn’t think I would help you if you told me…what?”
Gabriella breathed slowly and stared into his beautiful eyes. “That the Duke of Rother is my father.”
Heart of Delight: Chapter Six
Hal’s mouth dropped open. Of the many things he’d imagined behind Gabriella’s desire to meet the duke—wish, secret lover, bribery—this had never occurred to him. He cleared his throat. “The Duke of Rother is your father?” The statement was simply too preposterous to be true. “But you’re French.”
“I am also half English. I am certain it seems a wild tale to you, yet it is true.” She sat with her head bowed, the night breeze blowing the sleeves of her gown. “You do not believe me.”
He waited, marshalling his thoughts before opening his mouth and ruining whatever chance he had of preserving her trust. Could her outrageous statement actually be true? He must tread softly. “Putting my beliefs aside for the moment, why do you believe this is true?”
“My mother has told me the story since I was a little girl.”
Hal fought to retain control of his face. He could show nothing but interest and confidence, or she would likely storm off and refuse ever to see him again. “What story, my dear?”
“The tale of an English duke who came to her village when she was sixteen years old.” Gabriella kneaded the folds of her skirt, her hands rustling the fabric. “I suppose if you do not believe me, I have no hope of the duke doing so either.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 56
