by Lisa Bingham
This woman truly didn’t remember what had happened that night so long ago. She couldn’t possibly remember.
Holding Aloise’s fingers a little more tightly, he drew her down the hall behind him. But they had only taken a few steps when she balked and refused to go any farther.
He lifted one brow in silent inquiry, seeing the proud tilt to her chin, the flush to her cheeks. Her frustration had not completely vanished. She might have given him her hand, but he knew by the sparkle in her eyes that she would soon be gathering her courage for another escape attempt. He would have to be on his guard every minute of the day. Even so, Slater could not deny that he found himself feeling delighted at the challenge rather than peeved. He couldn’t remember a time when a woman had so intrigued him.
When Aloise did not speak, he tugged at her hand. “Do you intend to stand here in the hall?”
She didn’t even seem to hear his question. “How do you know my name?”
Ah, so that was the problem. “Miss Nibbs informed me that the name was sewn in your chemise. I did not think you would stoop so low as to steal another woman’s unmentionables.”
She frowned at his glib explanation, clearly suspicious of him, but unable to claim he’d lied since her name had indeed been stitched—quite untidily—in pink thread on the neckline of her gown. No doubt the evidence of some exercise in embroidery she’d experienced some time in the past.
When she did not force the matter, Slater took her the length of the corridor, halting at a pair of double doors located in the eastern corner of the estate.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Since you did not prove to be as hungry as I had thought you would …” he drawled, knowing her stomach must be rumbling mightily at the moment but needing to reassert his power over her, “… I thought we should tend to other more basic needs.”
Releasing her hand, he threw open one of the doors and ushered her inside. The narrow music room was in chaos. Women swarmed about bolts of fabric and piles of lace. Gowns, in various stages of completion, had been thrown over every available surface: tables, settees, even the pianoforte.
Stepping into the room, Slater picked out a tiny Frenchwoman who was clearly in charge and inquired, “Madame LeBeau, have you something ready for my guest?”
Chapter 9
At Slater’s query, every woman in the room became silent and turned. A palpable wave of admiration flowed toward the man, so much so that Aloise wanted to stamp her foot in disgust. These ladies could not have become more subservient had they knelt and bowed before him.
“Slater!” A tiny, birdlike creature with a carefully arranged powdered wig rushed to take his face between her hands, kissing him on either cheek. “You ’ave come to see my work?”
“Of course. I’ve also brought you the woman who will be wearing your creations.”
Madame LeBeau quickly surveyed Aloise, not seeming in the least surprised to see her wearing nothing more than a pink satin comforter. Her lips curved in a genuine smile and she clapped her hands together. “What a charming leetle one you have found. She eez small, just as you said, so delicate, so beautiful.”
Without waiting for a response from Slater or Aloise, she whirled toward her seamstresses. “Vite, vite! Bring zee gown we ’ave just finished. Come, mademoiselle.”
Aloise was ushered behind a privacy screen tucked against the far side of the room. There, she was stripped of her comforter and bid to stand still as a host of women swarmed over her like bees, helping her to don silken hose and garters, a delicate lawn chemise, brocade stays, and cotton petticoats. One pair of women tended to her hair, while another buffed her nails, dabbed perfume behind her ears and in the hollow of her elbows. Then she was swathed in a yellow silk underskirt embroidered with birds and a tightly tailored jacket with a beaded stomacher.
Madame LeBeau stood back to eye the finished product and beamed in delight. “Trés magnifique!”
Before Aloise had the breath to offer comment, the privacy screen had been pulled away, and she found herself face-to-face with her host.
How he had managed to cross the room so quietly, she did not know. She became instantly aware of his heated regard as he surveyed her new costume from the tips of her satin slippers, to the rich embroidered hems of her skirts, the artful arrangement of her panniers, the tightly cinched circumference of her waist, and the pearly mounds of her breasts pushing against the low, square neckline. When at long last, his gaze settled on the upsweep of her hair, the delicate lace cap, the tilted straw hat, her eyes, her lips, Aloise was beginning to feel decidedly breathless—a condition that had nothing to do with the pressure of her stays.
“To look at you thus, one could honestly believe you to be a lady, Aloise.”
Aloise opened her mouth to offer a pithy remark, but the clear admiration he displayed forestalled her and she found herself offering a meek, “I’m pleased that it meets with your approval.”
Once again, he took her hand, lacing their fingers together, then turned his attention to the seamstress. “Merci, Madame LeBeau. I trust the rest of her things will be ready as soon as possible.”
“But of course.”
Without another word, he drew Aloise into the corridor. She scarcely noted where they were going. Instead, she became bewitched by the sensation of being clothed in luxury: the whispering of her hems, the caress of lace, the rustle of petticoats.
Slater cast a glance in her direction, one which delved into her soul for every thought. Could he see how much she’d been affected by this gesture? Could he guess that this was the first time that she could remember being allowed to use anything half so lovely, so rich?
“Thank you, Slater.” The words spilled from her lips without volition, taking him by surprise and he stopped in midstride.
“You are more than welcome.”
The two of them grew still.
“The gown is beautiful.”
“As are you.”
His reply caused a warmth to blossom deep in the pit of her stomach. When he reached out to cup her cheek in his palm, she could not prevent the way she nudged a little closer to the heat to be found there.
“Whatever happens, Aloise, the dress is yours.”
She blinked at the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes. Foolish womanly tears that she damned but could not prevent. Needing to assert a little of her own will to dampen the rush of softer emotions, she stated, “The gift is far from necessary. I do have clothing of my own. Clothing which is far less inviting, but serviceable nonetheless.”
He laid a finger against her lips. “Some things are done—not because they are necessary—but because they feed a portion of the soul. Your soul, Aloise, was meant to be housed in beauty.”
His statement caught her unaware, piercing her very heart and filling it with a yearning such as she had never encountered. A longing. A need. A need for more sweet words such as these. For validation of the worth of her dreams.
“Slater!”
Any comment she might have made was cut short as Curry skidded to a stop at the end of the corridor and motioned for Slater to approach.
Immediately, her host’s face grew masked.
“Excuse me, Aloise. I won’t be but a minute.”
He conferred briefly with the blue-eyed gentleman and Aloise was able to grasp only a few words. Evidently the coach she had ridden in from Tippington had been seen and someone had given chase.
She saw the way Slater took immediate control, firing a set of muted orders. Then he strode toward her, taking her elbow, and pulling her forcibly to one of the outer doors.
“What—”
“I thought we’d take a ride.”
Holding her hat to keep it from flying off her head, Aloise had no choice but to follow.
The air outside was invigorating, fresh, smelling faintly of
rain and cut grass. But Aloise was not given the opportunity to enjoy her unexpected release. Slater hustled her to the mews where a pair of horses were being drawn from the stables.
“I trust you can keep your seat, mistress,” Slater warned as he clasped her about the waist and lifted her on the sidesaddle.
She grappled with the unfamiliar position, not about to tell this man that she had never really ridden. She knew that a lady of station was taught to ride as soon as she was taught to walk, but such things had been deemed “inappropriate” by the tight-kneed headmistress at Sacre Coeur. Therefore, Aloise had never been given the opportunity to learn the intricacies of the equestrian arts. This was one test she was destined to fail.
However, she feared that Slater would not have paused for such an explanation anyhow. Swinging on his own mount, he took her reins and his in a masterful grip, and urged both animals into action.
Nearly jarred free from her perch, Aloise gripped the pommel and clenched her teeth, praying that she would not die in her attempts to prove her better birth. But once out of the clearing surrounding the house, Slater slowed the animals and turned.
Attempting to right herself, Aloise damned the trembling of her body and looked about her, hoping to find some sort of landmark to help her gain her bearings. By insisting on this outing, her host had presented her with the perfect opportunity to escape. She was away from his house and his guards. If only she could find a way to dodge his clutches. She may not be a practiced horsewoman, but she thought she could maintain her seat long enough to ride a few miles and give herself a bit of a head start.
Slater who had been watching the road below, glanced behind him, then grinned.
“You look as if you’ve seen a spirit, mistress.”
“Judging by the precipitous nature of our ride, one could say the same about you.”
“Merely avoiding unwanted guests.”
He studied the avenue below again, and Aloise had the briefest glimpse of a pair of coaches barreling toward Ashenleigh before he clucked to his stallion and urged the horses deeper into the trees.
“I am capable of handling my own reins, thank you.”
“I doubt it.” He looked at her then with obvious amusement. “One would assume by your stance that you have not had much acquaintance with the back of a mare. An interesting fact since a lady of breeding is usually taught to ride at an early age.”
She tilted her chin in upmost dignity, but it did not have the desired effect of wiping the humor from his eyes. Especially when Aloise made the mistake of trying to reposition her hat. The horse, startled by the shift in balance, sidestepped. Gasping, Aloise scrambled to readjust her precarious position, lunged too far, and tumbled to the ground.
A low rumbling chuckle caused her to look up from her less than dignified position. “You did that on purpose!”
He held his hands out in a gesture of innocence. “I had nothing to do with your mishap, I assure you.”
She glared at him, wondering what he would do if she scrambled to her feet and ran into the trees.
Probably follow her with his horse and snatch her up midstride, she realized in disgust. But there had to be a way to rid herself of this man. She was out of his house—nearly free! She couldn’t let such an opportunity pass.
Untangling herself from her hems, she struggled somewhat ignominiously to stand.
“Are you hurt?”
Slater’s show of concern caused Aloise to pause, then brighten. Of course. Of course! If she feigned an injury, he would have to dismount and she could surely frighten his own horse away.
Staggering slightly, she braced herself against a tree. Gasping, she muttered between clenched teeth, “I do believe I’ve twisted an ankle.”
Slater frowned, apparently not quite believing her show of vulnerability. Nevertheless, he swung to the ground, leaving the reins of both horses to trail unfettered upon the ground. She need only grasp her own reins and shoo the other horse away. “Let me see what you’ve done. Hold still.”
She did as she was told, waiting as carefully as a swallow while he knelt and grasped her hems.
“Here, take these.”
She barely had the wherewithal to take the gloves he offered her. At the moment, her mind had been diverted by those hands, strong, fine-boned, naked hands, as they lifted her skirts free and tenderly stroked her calf, her shin, her ankle.
Sweet stars above! Who would have thought such a rash of tingling could undermine a person’s soul at such a simple touch? Never had she dreamed that the caress of a man’s fingers could leave her dazed and unable to think.
“I don’t believe you’ve wrenched it too badly. Perhaps just a slight pull of the muscle.”
He rose then and her skirts settled back into place, but Aloise could not calm her heart so easily. It had taken upon itself an odd sort of rhythm, a quickened beat. She needed to move now. She needed to frighten his horse.
“Aloise?”
“Yes?” She could barely form the word. He stood so near to her. So big. So dark.
“You look pale.”
“I do?”
He rested one of his hands on the rough bark of the tree behind her.
“Yet, a little flushed as well.”
“Oh.” The sound slipped from her lips, half wonder, half plea. The foliage around her melted away, leaving the soft splendor of shadows and might-have-beens. She tried to straighten, tried to summon a bit of independence. “I told you once. I don’t like to be touched.”
He merely grinned. “Liar.” His knuckle skimmed the curve of her lower lip. “You are a woman of untapped passion. Touching will become merely the least of your pleasures.”
A rash of gooseflesh followed his words and Aloise sternly reminded herself that she could not allow him to spin her a pretty cage. She didn’t belong here. She needed to go, but she couldn’t prevent a twinge of regret. Mayhap if she had met this man in another time, another place, she would have been tempted to stay. Mayhap, she would have employed all of her fledgling charms to garner his attention. To have danced in his arms. Kissed.
But they had kissed. Once.
Her eyes settled on the firm curves of his lips. Lips that she had so briefly tasted.
She tried to shake herself free from the rush of wildness that spilled into her veins. The fall she’d taken must not have been as harmless as she had first supposed. Aloise felt quite certain that she had momentarily taken leave of her senses. She should be rushing toward the horses, she should be felling this man with her knee. Instead, she stood still, breathless, as Slater looked at her, his eyes becoming dark and slumberous.
His head dipped. His lips brushed against hers. Warmly, insistently, they tasted her, molded her. His arms moved around her back, pulling her tightly to him. She moaned low in her throat, needing his warmth.
Dear heaven, was this what passion felt like? The mouth that moved against hers knew its purpose, its goal. The tongue that swept into her mouth knew how to pleasure her and cause her to tremble.
When he drew back, Aloise visibly shook. She gripped at his coat for balance, sure that if she released him, she would sink to the ground.
“Tell me, Aloise, how many times have you been kissed?”
Her chin adopted a proud angle. “Hundreds of times. Thousands.”
“Aloise …” he warned.
She remained stubbornly silent.
Slater tucked a finger beneath her chin. “Tell me.” His voice was low, insistent.
She tried to avoid his gaze, tried to prevent the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Tried and failed. “Obviously not often enough to become very good at it.”
Her answer surprised him. Pleased him. A warm smile teased his features and he pressed his mouth to her forehead, her cheek, her jaw.
“
Ah, my dear, Aloise. You are very good at it. Very good indeed.”
“Then why have you stopped?”
The moment the words slipped free, Aloise could have withered and died of embarrassment. How telling. How infantile. How wanton.
Slater merely smiled. “Because, my dear, that kiss is merely a prelude of things to come.”
Slater saw the quick frown chase across her features and he knew that his comment had startled her. Tamping down a smile, he took her hand and drew her irretrievably toward her horse, lifting her on the saddle. After her fall, she clung even more tightly to the pommel, casting regretful glances at his own mount. Just as he’d suspected, she hadn’t limped, hadn’t suffered so much as a twinge of pain. Therefore, she must have been intent on escape. Little had she known that each thought she’d made had been written on her face as plain as day.
It was time to see if he could read her musings so easily in other matters.
Taking the reins to both horses, he retraced the path they had taken earlier, then turned south along the sea bluff until he saw the cottage where he’d been born. Hesitating, he endured the pangs of regret, of nostalgia, the overwhelming waves of bitterness and guilt.
Feeling Aloise’s gaze, he quickly schooled his features and urged the horses on. “We’ll rest here for a minute.”
She eyed him curiously since they had only just resumed their ride, but he paid her little mind. He was intent upon the house and all of the changes that had occurred during his absence.
Part of the roof had collapsed in a none-too-distant storm. The walkway was thick with weeds and moss, but the surrounding foliage was dark and thick and lush with wild roses.
