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Will seated himself beside her, took her hands and tilted her chin up to face him, his gaze intent. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘I want to take care of you, Elodie. I love you. I want you with me.’
‘My sweet Will,’ she whispered, freeing a hand to stroke his cheek. ‘I want you, too. For as long as you’ll have me, I am yours.’
‘I want you in my life always, Elodie. I want to marry you.’
‘Marry me?’ Never in her wildest imaginings had the possibility of marriage occurred to her. ‘But that is not at all sensible!’ she exclaimed, her practical French mind recoiling from a union of two persons of such dissimilar resources. ‘I bring you nothing, no dowry, no family, no influence. You don’t have to marry me, Will. I will stay with you as long as you wish.’
‘But you can’t be sure of that with a mistress. One night, she shows you the moon and the stars, gives you bliss beyond imagining. And the next morning, poof, she is gone, without a word of farewell.’
Feeling a pang of guilt, Elodie looked at him reprovingly. ‘That was under very different circumstances, as you well know.’
‘What I know is that all my life, I’ve been missing something, here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But in your arms that night outside Paris, I found what I didn’t even know I’d been searching for. I felt … complete. I don’t want to ever lose that again.’
He stared at her intently, as if waiting for her to reply in kind. She felt a strong bond, something deeper than just the physical, but within her broken and battered heart all was confusion. Better to say nothing than to profess a love she wasn’t sure she felt, or wound him by admitting how uncertain she was.
Instead, she shook her head. ‘You can have that. It is not necessary, this marriage.’
He drew back a bit, and she knew she’d hurt him, much as she’d wanted to avoid it. ‘I know I’m only the illegitimate son of a rogue, while you are the daughter of French aristocracy—’
‘Oh, no!’ she interrupted him. ‘How can you believe I think myself above you? I am the daughter of French aristocrats, yes, but one who has no home, no title, no influential family, no wealth. It is you who are above me, a man linked to a rich and prominent family that still wields great power.’
That seemed to reassure him, for the pain in his eyes receded and he kissed her hands. ‘I want to marry you, Elodie de Montaigu-Clisson, whether you can ever love me or not. But don’t give me a final answer now. So much has changed since Vienna. You’ve lost the hope that sustained you for so long and must grieve for that. You need time to reflect, to heal and find consolation, before you can move forwards. I want you to take that time. Will you come with me, let me take care of you? I pledge to keep you safe, so safe that one day you’ll stop looking over your shoulder, worried about being followed or threatened. Come with no obligation but friendship. And when you feel ready to begin your life again … if I must, I’ll let you go. No force, no bargains.’
Elodie felt tears prick her eyes. She couldn’t let him commit the idiocy of tying himself legally to a woman who brought him nothing in worldly advantage, but she would stay with him as long as he’d have her.
‘No force, no bargains,’ she agreed. ‘I go with you willingly and will stay as long as you want me.’
‘That would be for ever, then,’ Will said and bent to kiss her.
Chapter Twenty-One
On a sunny morning a month later, Elodie strolled through the vast garden at Salmford House. Taking a seat on one of the conveniently located benches with a view of the rose parterre, where the potent, drifting scent of the Autumn Damask ‘Quatre Saisons’ never failed to soothe her, she smiled.
Her enjoyment of it this morning was just as intense as it had been the afternoon Will first brought her to the property he’d purchased near Firle on the South Downs of Sussex, a lovely land of rolling hills and meadows. After touring her through the snug stone manor and introducing her to the staff, he’d led her out the French doors from the library into the first section of walled garden.
Her reactions of surprise and delight had been repeated many times over as he strolled her through each garden ‘room’, from the topiary terrace adjoining the library with its precisely clipped boxwood and yew, to the white garden of iris, daisies, sweet alyssum, campanula and snapdragons, the multi-hued perennial border backed by red-leaved berberis, to the artfully arranged herb-and-vegetable knot garden adjoining the kitchen and finally to the central rose parterre, where the ‘Old Blush’ and damask roses were still blooming after the albas and gallicas had ended their early summer show.
As he’d coaxed her reluctantly to return to the house for an early dinner, saying he, for one, was famished, she’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him soundly. ‘What a magnificent garden!’ she exclaimed.
‘When I was considering where to bring you, I remembered the agent showing me this property. Is it as lovely as the garden of Lord Somerville?’
‘Oh, yes, and larger, too! Did you truly choose this house for me?’
‘You have had enough of sadness in your life, Elodie. I want you to be happy.’ He tapped her nose. ‘Clara made me promise.’
‘Oh, thank you, my sweet Will! Only one thing under heaven could make me happier.’
But when she took his arm going back to the house and murmured in his ear that she could show him just how grateful she was, pressing herself against him suggestively, he eased her away from him and primly repeated what he’d told her on the drive to Salmford House; that here, they would be friends only, not lovers.
She hadn’t believed him, of course, for the idea of refraining from enjoying the powerful passion they shared made no more sense to her than an English aristocrat from a prominent family marrying a penniless exile.
She was not at all happy to discover he’d not been teasing. ‘Why, Will? I give myself freely, for your pleasure and mine. Why do you not want such a gift?’
‘Oh, I want you—with every breath. But when I make love to you again, I want it to be with you as my wife.’
She sighed in exasperation. ‘Is it not the woman who is supposed to withhold her favours until the man succumbs to marriage?’
‘Usually, yes. But you see, I’m enamoured of a very stubborn, peculiar female—the French are often stubborn and peculiar, I find—and persuading her to marry me calls for desperate measures. Passion can be very persuasive, so why should I not dangle before her one of my most potent weapons in securing her consent?’ He sighed, too. ‘Though, in truth, this remedy is so desperate, it may kill me. But were we not true friends and companions on the road, without being lovers?’
‘Yes, but only at first, when our disguises prevented it. And we are not on the road now, but in a hôtel of the most fine, with, I am sure, beds of quite amazing comfort.’
‘You are distressed. I can always tell; your speech becomes more French.’
‘Of course I am distressed. This … this show of chastity is ridiculous!’
‘Well, as long as there’s a chance this “ridiculousness” might help convince you to become my wife, I am content to wait.’
‘It may convince me you are an imbécile. And I am not content to wait!’ she declared, stamping her foot, frustrated and furious with him, the surge of emotion seizing her the strongest she’d experienced since the loss of Philippe had paralysed all feeling.
‘Calm down, chérie!’ he soothed. ‘You need diversion.’
‘Yes, and I know just what sort,’ she flashed back.
‘So do I. A hand of cards after we’ve dined should do the trick.’
She’d whacked his arm and stomped away, leaving him to follow her to the dining parlour, chuckling. But she couldn’t stay angry, as he coaxed her with fine ham, an assortment of fresh vegetables from the garden, aged cheese, rich wine, followed by strawberries and cream, which he fed her with his own hands, rubbing the ripe berries against her lips and then kissing the flavour from them, until she was certain he was going to relent.
Instead of leading her to a bedchamber—by then she would have been quite content with a sofa or even a soft carpet—he handed her into the parlour and produced a deck of cards.
At first, angry with him again, she’d refused to play. But he’d teased and dared, finally winning her grudging agreement by accusing her of avoiding a hand because she was afraid she’d lose.
Within a few minutes, tantalising her with his skill, he’d drawn her into the game. She’d watched him play enough to know he was not trying to let her win, but challenging her to exercise all her skill, which made her redouble her concentration. Interspersed with the hands, he set her to laughing with outrageous observations about the people and events they’d encountered on their travels. When the clock struck midnight and he gathered up the cards, she was surprised to find the hour so late.
It was the most carefree evening she’d spent in years. And she hadn’t thought once of her loss.
The yearning returned as he walked her to a bedchamber. She clung to him, trying to entice him to remain with her.
