This was Richmond on the winding Thames northwest of London, and the garden was small by French standards—but it offered escape, and she picked up her skirts above her knees to rush down the path. Midway she stopped and slid off her slippers. Taking a sip of her terrible wine, she toed the shoes aside. She’d leave them here and get them later. Going barefoot, she’d ruin her stockings, but she didn’t care. Stockings were replaceable. Her attitude more dearly needed replacement.
And so she took the smooth stone path toward the far gazebo. Again, a small structure compared to those she’d enjoyed at home, but she wanted one of the wrought-iron chairs near the fountain. The tinkling of the water in the bowl would soothe her.
The chair appeared and she let escape her lips a little shriek of joy. How lovely. English gardens possessed that chaos that left one constantly seeking amid the brush and vines and branches that order which, in a Frenchparterre, was readily apparent. The sturdy chair gleamed ivory against the verdant greens and gray-black patterns of night. She sank into it with a sigh, the sound of her release a surprise to her.
She put her glass to the near table. Then, her skirts still hiked above her knees, she bent to roll down her stockings and threw them and her red ribbon garters into the flower bed. She nestled into the chair. The comfortable thing even provided a cushion.
She hummed her relief.
But her sound was cut short.
Before her arose a tall, dark creature who unfolded his body like Zeus claiming Mount Olympus. She could not see his features well from the distance, but from his long fingers hung one of her red garter ribbons.
Well,merde.She’d be civil. She had been introduced. She did remember he was a lord.Weren’t they all?But of what or when or how noble he might be, she had no idea. As well, his name escaped her. So the finest she could do here was save her dignity with, “Bonsoir, monsieur.”
He smiled, his teeth bright white and straight. A winning combination. His gaze—intense and unflinching—roamed over her bare legs. He cocked a dark brow.Charming rogue.She had seen him inside and been introduced, but then she was—as they said here in England—a puddle with names.
“Mademoiselle Bechard. Bonsoir.”
He had one on her. He recalled her name.
Quelle damage.She did not like to be bested, especially by so striking a man. Nor could she pretend to be a prude and object when he dropped her ribbon into his inside coat pocket. She did not need it back. Instead, she reached inside herself to maintain her calm—and find her wily cat.
“Je suis desole.” She’d met him last week at the Ashleys’ London home, doors away from Giselle’s and her new husband Carlisle’s. He’d shown a rogue’s subtle interest. She’d shown him her cool disinterest in anything more than casual acquaintance. All to the better now, because she could not recall his name orrank. She’d been introduced to so many, her mind was awash in Lord Thises and Lady Thats. Here, a duke was different. She could not recall exactly how. So was a baron, but then, those fellows were to be called Something or Other. A puzzle.
She must go, find solitude somewhere else. She got to her feet, her many skirts falling around her, trapping her body heat on this hot autumn evening. “I apologize for interrupting your reverie, sir. I did not see you there.”
He put up both hands as he headed up toward her, his gait halting as if he were wounded. “Please, mademoiselle, do not leave. I welcome your presence.”
Presumptuous man, to think I’d want to stay.Was that not considered scandalous to these English with their innumerable rules about men and women together? “I came to reflect, monsieur.Not to carry on…and on.”
He limped one step closer, and in the rays of the garden brazier, she took note in astonishment at his large violet eyes. She had not been enchanted by their color before this. Nor by his magnificent musculature.
He smiled, a friendly offering for a man so graced with the drama of a fine physique. “I will sit. I promise. We can drink”—he dug in his frockcoat to produce a silver flask, then nodded toward her flute ofvin blanc—”and ruminate.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I know not this word, ruminate.”
“Think. Consider,” he politely said, as if he tested his social skills, as his gaze—so like the bold purple petunias in her mother’s garden—assessed her and fired her senses.
A frisson ran through her. She blinked, putting the novel awareness to the sudden wind rustling through the trees, lifting the wisps of hair at her cheeks and nape, making her hot…and cool. She welcomed the breeze, the chill. He’d had nothing to do with her body heat…or did he?
Upset at that last possibility, she pulled her silken shawl closer up her bare arms. His marvelous eyes followed her every move.
Her fingers paused.
His gaze went from her fingertips to her collarbone, up her throat, to her jaw, her lips. The man missed nothing. By such a look of hot desire, this fellow was a real danger to all womankind.
But not to me.
“I can be silent, mademoiselle. I prefer it, actually. Do sit as you planned.”
Intrigued, she waved a hand. “A bargain, then. I agree.” She pointed to indicate he should resume his seat upon the grass at her feet. “I will sit and drink this hideous white.”
“I have a solution to that.” He grimaced, his handsome mouth spreading wide in a grin that most women would find dashing as sin.
Yet here she was. Five feet away. Entertained by the sweet, wicked fires in his purple gaze. Responding with a knowing smile, she plunked down in her chair. “What might that be?” she asked, and had barely gotten the words out when he extended his long arm and made to pour from his silver flask into her glass.
“Cognac,” he declared with smooth satisfaction. “From Bordeaux. Shall I come closer and give you a taste?”
