by Louise Allen
‘I am sorry about your singer,’ she said. She had promised not to interfere with his enjoyment, she recalled guiltily. ‘Is she nice?’
‘Nice?’ Rhys chuckled, amused, it seemed by the foolish word. ‘I have no idea. But she is very beautiful.’
Of course. Beautiful. Thea felt the champagne fizz of happiness go flat. For a brief few moments, veiled, elegantly gowned, she had been fought over and pressed against a man’s body as though he lusted for her. But, of course, it was no such thing. Her old friend Rhys had simply been protecting plain, ordinary Thea who had got herself into a pickle and had taught her a hard lesson. The air of Paris must be a drug, making her think she wanted something that, of course, she did not desire in the slightest.
‘Here we are,’ she said as the lamps outside their hotel came into sight. ‘You must promise me you will not be angry with Hodge. It was all my fault.’
And most of all, my pleasure.
* * *
‘Good morning!’ Thea sounded quite disgustingly cheerful as she went to the buffet to inspect the chafing dishes.
Rhys scarcely glanced up as he rose to his feet, the French newspaper crumpled in his grasp, then sank back onto his chair to bury himself behind its pages. ‘Morning.’
He was not good at mornings and especially not after a restless night filled with highly charged, and highly confusing, erotic dreams. For some reason the woman he had been chasing, futilely, had brown hair, not blonde, and as he reached for her over and over again he was shaken by feelings of unfamiliar guilt.
In broad daylight the dreams blurred into a half-remembered, discomforting muddle that he was doing his best to forget. He had completely overreacted with Thea last night; he could see that now in the bright light of morning. He could have rescued her from the importunate stranger and packed the lot of them back in a hackney carriage and brought his own evening to its probable outcome. As it was, he found he could not regret the missed encounter, which was strange.
His mood was not helped by Hodge, who started nervously every time Rhys spoke and obviously found it hard to believe that he was not about to be instantly dismissed for allowing Thea to go to the Palais Royale. As if the man had a hope of stopping her once she got an idea into her head.
‘More coffee, Rhys?’
‘Please.’ With half his attention he was conscious of her bustling about while he wrestled with smudged newsprint and colloquial French. A waft of fresh coffee, the clink of china, the rustle of fabric as Thea settled herself at the table, a faint drift of subtle rose scent.
Rustling? Scented? Thea? Rhys folded the newssheet and laid it beside his plate so he could study her. The soft mouse-brown hair was gathered into a neat arrangement of plaits and pleats, her hazel eyes regarded him with slight wariness and small pearl earrings dangled from her lobes. Her face, which was developing a puzzled frown as he stared, was the familiar oval, unadorned by so much as a smudge of lamp black or a grain of rice powder.
And yet...she was curiously soignée. The French word, one that he would never have thought of before in connection with Thea, swam up from somewhere and he realised it was perfect. She was groomed, elegant and perfectly...plain. If plain could be applied to the soft gleam of fine wool cloth, to the narrow edge of Brussels lace around the muslin fichu at her neck, the glow of the little pearls. Or creamy skin that was developing a blush as he stared.
Under his scrutiny she shifted slightly and there was that soft rustle again—silk against linen, he guessed. Good Lord, what was she wearing under that elegantly simple morning gown?
‘You have been shopping,’ he accused. It was bad enough having to make conversation at breakfast without being confronted by a disturbingly different Thea.
Thea rolled her eyes. ‘You know I have. You saw one of the evening gowns last night.’
‘I was in no mood to notice anything but your hatpin,’ he growled.
‘I left home with the smallest portmanteaux I could find and only two old gowns. I have bought two morning dresses, three walking dresses, two evening gowns, several pairs of shoes and all the, um...associated linen.’
‘Just linen?’
A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, unfamiliar and utterly feminine. ‘You cannot believe the luxury of silk petticoats.’
‘No, I cannot,’ Rhys said repressively, as much to his own imagination as to her. ‘You look extremely...elegant.’
‘Thank you.’ Thea reached for the butter, apparently unflustered by the compliment. ‘I came to the conclusion when I first came out, and Stepmama was making such a fuss about my looks and figure and everything else, that frills and ornament do not suit me. I am never going to be pretty, but I knew I could achieve elegant if I put my mind to it. And I confess to loving luxury. Beautiful fabrics, well-made clothes, soft leather gloves and shoes, lovely scents and soaps...’ She gave a little wriggle of pleasure and applied herself to her omelette.
‘How did you find so much in only one day?’ How did you turn from a tomboy into such a feminine creature? But she is still plain, he argued with himself. No, she isn’t...exactly. He struggled to superimpose this elegant creature onto his image of Thea.
‘Ready-to-wear gowns seem to be much more easily obtained in Paris than in London. Not everything has been delivered yet—some had to be altered slightly—but I am not out of the common way in any dimension, which appears to help.’
Rhys took a tactical mouthful of coffee to avoid any form of comment on Thea’s dimensions.
‘The only thing I am not happy with is the riding habit. It was foolish of me not to pack my own.’
‘You are unlikely to do any riding.’ Rhys, on the other hand, was strongly considering hiring a hack and removing himself from the chaise as much as possible. If he’d had sisters he would have been better fitted to deal with this, he acknowledged. But the only women he spent any time in private with were from the muslin company and that was no help at all in negotiating the shark pool of life with an unmarried, virtuous woman who was not related to him.
‘No?’ She wrinkled her nose, the expression so at odds with her ladylike appearance that Rhys laughed. Yes, his Thea was still there. She grinned back. ‘That’s better! I was thinking how serious you looked. I have spoken to Hodge, by the by. Thank you for not blaming him for yesterday evening.’
Rhys shrugged and reached for the butter. ‘I should not have expected him to be able to influence you when you had made up your mind to anything. I certainly never could. I have told the hotel to place a large footman at your disposal when you go out. With Hodge, Polly and a bodyguard you should be safe from unwanted attention.’
‘Thank you.’ The smile she flashed at him was warm, with just a hint of mischief. Rhys relaxed. ‘I hope you have a very pleasant day today.’
‘I intend to visit an antiquities dealer who has a pair of globes that sound as if they would suit the library at Palgrave Hall, then I will do some shopping on my own account—Hodge has recovered sufficiently to observe that his lordship requires at least half a dozen more shirts and several more neckcloths if he is to present even a passable appearance in Paris.’
‘And will you see if you can persuade your opera singer to oblige you?’ Thea regarded him with clear, innocent eyes above her coffee cup.
‘Does nothing put you to the blush?’ Rhys demanded hoarsely through a throat full of croissant crumbs inhaled on a sharp indrawn breath.
‘I meant oblige with her agreement to travel to England to appear at the Opera House. If you are put out of countenance because of anything else you want from her, well, you told me about her yourself last night,’ Thea pointed out prosaically while he spluttered. ‘Would you like me to slap you on the back or would a glass of water help, do you think?’
‘Thank you, no. I will certainly send her a note of apology for abandoning her so abruptly.’ And that was all. Rhys mopped his streaming eyes and attempted to sound repressive. He had been mistaken in finding Thea the slightest bit allu
ring. The chit was as unmanageable as she had been at sixteen.
Thea pursed her lips over what he suspected was an unrepentant smirk. ‘I expect it is the prospect of shopping that puts you in such a grumpy mood—men always seem to hate it.’
‘Grumpy!’ Rhys dug his knife into the butter and recovered his sense of humour. This was Thea, for goodness’ sake. A few silk fal-lals and fine plumage were no reason to get hot under the collar. She hadn’t changed in any way that mattered—certainly not for the better—but she was in Paris for the first time. ‘Shall I get tickets for the opera tonight?’
‘For us?’ The excitement lit up her face and made him feel like a toad for the way he had reacted the night before.
‘Wear something discreet and a veil and we’ll sit in the stalls. No point in drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘Thank you.’ Thea jumped to her feet and came to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘You are an angel. Now I will go and leave you in peace with your newspaper.’
That was positively sisterly. Rhys turned a page and tried to feel like an indulgent brother. Even so, he was definitely going to ride tomorrow.
* * *
Thea gazed out of the window onto the Burgundian countryside. Three days from Paris and Rhys had ridden every mile while she sat in solitary state in the chaise.
It was not as though having the leisure to observe an athletically built gentleman in well-cut breeches was in any way a hardship, of course. Even the fact that the horses available from the posting stations were far below the standard Rhys would normally ride in no way diminished the sight, for it only showed his skill to advantage. As a boy and a young man he had been gangly. Now he had filled out and most of it appeared to be well-coordinated muscle. What did a gentleman do to keep fit, she wondered, other than bed sport? Sporting pursuits, she supposed, firmly instructing her imagination to cover that body with clothing.
A modest gentlewoman would not stare, let alone permit speculation to run wild through her daydreams. Which doubtless meant that she fell far short of the standards of breeding expected of her. Thea contemplated this lowering conclusion for a moment, then decided that she did not care.
Rhys’s amorous interest was fixed, as it had always been, on curvaceous, tall, blue-eyed blondes of a coming disposition, and he would be thoroughly embarrassed to discover that his childhood friend had rediscovered the youthful attraction that—thank Heavens!—he had been blind to before.
The problem now was that the innocent adoration of her fourteen-year-old self had been replaced by the more mature understanding of a curious and uninhibited young lady. She understood what her body wanted and she was coming to regret, very much, that it was not going to experience it.
Still, it did no harm to fantasise. She was sure now that she was not going to find a man to love and who would love her in return, which meant she was not prepared to marry, even if Papa did find her and drag her back.
Thea stamped on the stirring of panic and made herself think of the present. If she did not marry, then that inexorably led her to the conclusion that she was never going to know what it would be like to lie naked with a man. She could not find the slightest shame in her for wishing to experience lovemaking, not after her experience with Sir Anthony. But it was certainly inconvenient for her composure that, if she had to choose a gentleman from a fairly wide acquaintance for the experiment, it had to be this one.
The vine-clad slopes of the Côte d’Or rolled past to the right of the chaise. The stop at Beaune for a change of horses had been regrettably short. The town had looked intriguing and the vast, bustling market colourful and exotic, but Rhys wanted to reach Lyon that evening, for some reason. When she had asked him the reason for his haste he’d simply closed his lips into an implacable line and strode off to talk to Tom Felling, the coach driver.
The horse Rhys had chosen at the livery stables was rather better than the previous one, Thea mused, her attention drawn back from the passing scene to the rider on the wide grass verge. He guided his mount to the side to jump a fallen tree and her breath caught at the fluid beauty of man and animal as they cleared the obstacle.
How would his skin slide under her hands—like silk or would it feel more like kidskin? How would his weight be, over her? He was so much larger than she was that it must be a matter of technique, she supposed. How would it feel when he sheathed himself within her? Would it hurt? Probably, it had with Anthony. She was less clear what happened then in bed, when lovemaking was a leisurely matter of mutual pleasure giving—movement, obviously, with that hard, strong body and her own soft, lesser strength somehow finding a rhythm and a unity.
She had seen Rhys naked as a child, swimming in the lake, but a man’s body was different. Did he have a hairy chest? Would that chafe against her breasts or tickle? They tingled at the thought. She would run her fingertips through—
‘Whoa!’ From behind, Tom Felling shouted at his team. The chaise juddered and skidded as the postilions reined back their horses and Thea jerked her attention to the window at the front and the view beyond the be-capped boys and their waving whips.
A diligence, one of the lumbering French stagecoaches, had overturned, its bulk teetering over the deep ditch that bordered the road. In the road half a dozen passengers seemed stunned with shock and the driver and guard were struggling with the team as they thrashed in panic in the tangled traces.
Thea pushed open the door and jumped down as Rhys dismounted, shouting at the postilions, ‘Hold our horses. Felling, go and help them free the team.’ He saw her. ‘Thea, get back in the chaise, this is no place for you.’
‘I will do no such thing. There are people hurt.’ She ran to help a stout woman to her feet, then pulled off the fichu around her neck to hold to the forehead of a slender young man who was slumped against the bank, blood pouring down his face. This is no time to have missish vapours about blood, she told herself firmly, swallowing hard.
‘It is just a cut,’ she began in English. ‘They always bleed dramatically from the head. Oh, pardon, c’est—’
‘I am English,’ he said faintly and lifted his hand to hold the pad in place. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I will do well enough. Please, see if anyone else is in need of your help.’
A young woman was screaming, in shock more than pain, Thea thought as she ran to her. Then she saw the girl was pointing a trembling finger towards the wide ditch. ‘Mon fils, mon fils!’
The diligence had been stopped from sliding down only by the spokes of one broken wheel and a scrubby thorn bush growing up from the side of the drain. It was slowly collapsing under the weight, the wheel making ominous cracking noises.
For a moment Thea could not see what the girl was panicking about, then she heard a faint wail and saw movement from a bundle of white cloth in the mud, directly under the collapsing carriage.
‘Rhys! There is a baby!’
‘I see it.’ He slid down into the ditch, ducked under the edge of the coach and braced his back to it, his feet dug into the bank. The cracking stopped, but how much longer could he hold it? Thea scrambled down at the other end and crouched to look. The veins stood out of Rhys’s forehead, his hands were white where the load pressed down, his body was bent double like Atlas under the weight of the globe. She wriggled closer and grabbed for the baby in the narrow space.
‘Get out,’ Rhys hissed between gritted teeth. ‘I don’t know how long I can hold this.’
‘You can hold it,’ she said, utterly confident as she got onto her stomach and wormed closer. This was Rhys: in that moment she trusted him to hold the world up if lives depended on him. Her fingers touched, gripped, pulled. The baby howled as she dragged him towards her. The wheel slid down with a jerk, Rhys cursed, shifted and it stopped.
There was movement at her feet, someone trod on her leg, apologised in English. ‘Sorry. Can you slide out under me?’ It was the injured Englishman, supporting the other end of the coach.
Thea wormed her way back with all the speed s
he could muster.
‘She’s out!’ the Englishman shouted as hands reached down to haul her and her burden up the bank.
‘Then roll free, this is about to go,’ Rhys called, his voice strained to the point of being almost unrecognisable. ‘On my mark. One, two, three—’
The young man landed in an ungainly heap in a patch of nettles as Thea thrust the baby into the arms of its sobbing mother and the diligence subsided into the ditch with the sound of splintering wood. ‘Rhys!’
It seemed to take minutes, not seconds, to reach the side of the coach he had been supporting. Now he lay clear of it, on his back in the mud, eyes closed, hands bleeding, face white. Thea hurled herself down beside him and pressed her ear to his chest. Surely he hadn’t broken his neck?
Under her hands she felt him drag air down to his diaphragm. Not dead, then. ‘Rhys! Rhys, wake up.’
‘Thea?’ He seemed to come to with a jolt and she scrambled to her knees as he reached for her, his eyes opening wide and dark in his pale face, his grip on her wrists painful. ‘You aren’t hurt?’
‘No, just terribly muddy. I thought you were under that when it fell.’ She collapsed back onto his chest and hugged as much as she could of him.
‘Mmm,’ Rhys murmured. ‘Much as I appreciate being cuddled, I prefer not to be sinking into the mire at the same time. I seem to be squashing a frog.’
‘Idiot! I thought... I feared...’
‘Don’t you dare cry on me,’ he said mildly. ‘How do you think I felt when I saw you wriggling into that death trap, you madcap creature?’
Thea got to her feet, trying not to tread on him. He was battered enough without squashing what breath remained in him. ‘Well, who else did you think was going to go in?’ she said belligerently to cover her reaction. ‘The passengers were too shocked or too large. Are you hurt?’
