When she finally turned back to her chamber, Henri stopped short in amazement. The sparse attic room had been transformed during her absence at dinner. A plush rug now covered the rough wooden planks, and a comfortable upholstered chair had been positioned near the window. Two gowns hung from pegs beside the casement, their fabric fine enough to suggest they had been carefully selected rather than hastily procured.
Novels were stacked invitingly on the small table, and cheerful curtains now covered the window, blocking the view of the harbor but making the space feel more like a proper bedchamber than a prison cell. A tray on the table held a crystal jug, glasses, and a plate of biscuits that smelled of butter and sugar.
Henri moved slowly through the transformed space, touching each new addition with wondering fingers. Someone had taken considerable care to make her comfortable, to provide not just the necessities but small luxuries that might ease the tedium of captivity. Gabriel’s doing, undoubtedly.
Blast it! It is Lord Trenwith, not Gabriel!
She sank into the new chair, her mind still reeling from the kiss they had shared. Henri raised her hand to her lips again, remembering the taste of him, the way his mouth had moved against hers with such confident expertise. She had been kissed before, of course. Several gentlemen had attempted to court her over the years, and she was not so naïve as to be completely inexperienced in such matters.
But nothing had prepared her for the intensity of her response to his lordship’s touch. The way her entire body had come alive under his hands, the heat that had pooled low in her belly, the shocking desire for him to continue his exploration. It was as if some dormant part of herself had suddenly awakened, demanding things she had never allowed herself to want.
Henri shook her head firmly, trying to dispel such dangerous thoughts. She was being manipulated, clearly. Gabriel had recognized her physical response and was attempting to use it against her, to weaken her resolve through seduction rather than force. It was a clever strategy, she had to admit. Far more pleasant than the restraints and gags he had employed during their journey.
But she would not be swayed by a few stolen kisses and some comfortable furnishings. Marriage to Gabri—no—Lord Trenwith would mean the end of her independence, the surrender of everything she had worked to build for herself. She had seen too many intelligent women lose themselves in matrimony, their own ambitions and capabilities subsumed into their husband’s world.
Henri had always been determined to remain her own woman, to answer to no one but herself. The scandals awaiting her in England might make that more difficult, but they did not make it impossible. There were options available to a woman of her education and connections. Perhaps Uncle Reggie could arrange a position with one of his political allies. Or perhaps she could escape the scandal by leaving Britain altogether.
The prospect held little appeal compared to her former life, but it was preferable to surrendering her autonomy entirely.
Henri rose from the chair and moved to examine the gowns that had been provided. They were beautiful garments, well-made and fashionable, though she wondered how Gabriel had managed to procure them so quickly. The thought that he might have had women’s clothing readily available for such purposes was distinctly unsettling.
She selected one of the novels from the table and settled back into the comfortable chair, determined to distract herself from troubling thoughts about his motives and methods. But as she tried to focus on the printed words, her mind kept drifting backto the kiss, to the unexpected passion that had flared between them.
What was his game? Was this elaborate courtship genuine, or merely another form of coercion designed to secure her compliance? And more troubling still, why did part of her hope it might be real?
Henri closed the book with a frustrated sigh and prepared for bed, changing into the clean nightgown that had been laid out for her. As she settled beneath the soft blankets that had replaced the rough coverings that had warmed her earlier, she found herself wondering what Gabriel had done with Signor di Bianchi’s sketch.
Her neighbor’s quest seemed like something from another lifetime now, a simple mystery that had inadvertently drawn her into this complex web of politics and passion. She hoped Signor di Bianchi was not too worried about the sketch’s disappearance, though she suspected he would be frantic with concern by now. She dared not think of her family’s state of mind lest she burst into tears.
As sleep began to claim her, Henri’s last conscious thought was of Gabriel’s hands on her waist, the gentle brush of his fingers against her breasts, and the way he had whispered her name like a caress. Tomorrow, she would need to steel herself against such persuasions, to remember that her freedom was worth more than any temporary pleasure he might offer.
But tonight, in the comfortable darkness of her transformed prison, Henri allowed herself to remember the taste of his kiss and wonder what it might be like to surrender to the passion he had awakened within her.
CHAPTER 10
“For needs must I go with thee, or else I am shamed.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
JANUARY 28, 1822
Henri stirred from sleep to the sound of church bells echoing across the rooftops, their bronze voices announcing that Monday morning had arrived. In the pale light filtering through her new curtains, the events of the previous evening seemed almost dreamlike—the kiss, the transformed room, the unexpected comfort of Gabriel’s arms around her. She touched her lips reflexively, still able to taste the memory of his mouth against hers.
The sound of quiet movement in the room drew her attention to the maid, who was arranging fresh linens on the washstand with her characteristic efficiency. The maid’s dark hair wasneatly braided beneath her cap, and she moved about her duties with the sort of invisibility that marked an experienced servant.
“Bonjour,” Henri said, sitting up in the comfortable bed and pushing her hair back from her face. Her body ached from the travel, and she supposed she mayhap should try to escape, but she did not feel under immediate threat and needed to recover.
The maid glanced up briefly, offering a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her work. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Henri had been attempting to engage the woman in conversation since her arrival, with limited success. But this morning, perhaps emboldened by the previous evening’s revelations about Gabriel’s work, she decided to try a different approach.
“You know,” Henri said conversationally as she swung her legs out of bed, “it would be much easier for both of us if I knew how to address you properly. When I need your attention, I mean. It seems rather inefficient to simply call out ‘excusez-moi’ every time I require assistance.”
To her surprise, the maid paused in her work, considering this practical argument. The woman clearly understood English. “Je m’appelle Lisette, mademoiselle.”
“Lisette,” Henri repeated with a wide smile. “What a lovely name. And please, you may call me Miss Bigsby, or Henri if you prefer. There’s no need for such formality when we are sharing such close quarters.”
The maid’s expression softened slightly at Henri’s friendly tone, though she remained reserved. “Oui, mademoiselle … Miss Bigsby.”
