Page 15 of Miss Desirable
A conundrum, in other words. “The fellow I’d like you to meet is at the gate,” Fournier said. “Waiting in the alley.”
Miss Fairchild slanted him a look. “You would not try to kidnap me, would you?”
“Is that hope I hear in your voice, mademoiselle?”
“Somebody did try, during the Congress of Vienna. Holding the wives and daughters of diplomats for ransom became a sort of cottage industry in certain quarters. I believe all were returned unharmed, but rumors abounded regarding the perpetrators’ motives.”
“Miss Fairchild, I must compliment you on your highly original version of small talk. How were your kidnappers foiled?”
She paused to consider a statue of some heroically muscled Greek fellow preparing to hurl a discus.
“How did they stay on?” she murmured, gaze upon the statue’s crotch.
Fournier took a moment to realize that the lady referred not to granite testicles, but to the cluster of fig leaves obscuring the same from view.
“They didn’t. The Greeks competed naked, as I understand it. Those fig leaves are held fast by the glue of British prudery. Tell me of your kidnappers.”
She patted the statue’shipand resumed walking. “My kidnappers were amateurs. I kicked one in his… fig leaves and brandished my peashooter at the other. Vienna is quite brisk in wintertime, so I carried a muff, an ideal place to conceal weapons. My footman did not do the expected thing and disappear at the first sign of trouble, though the kidnappers did.”
She offered this recitation as if she were remarking the progress of the hyacinths blooming along the south-facing wall.
Hyacinths one shade paler than her eyes. “Those amateurs have probably been thankingle bon Dieufor their narrow escape ever since. I am not in the business of kidnapping fair demoiselles, fortunately for me and my fig leaves. If you would please wait here?”
Fournier was also not in the habit of becoming infatuated, not with young ladies. He’d allowed himself to fall for an exquisite Beaujolais nouveau two years ago. A superlative Merlot could still turn his figurative head, but he hoped a woman would never again have that honor.
The feelings that presaged such folly were all too obvious. A lightness of spirit when in the lady’s presence. A tendency to consider her situation when absent from her. A curiosity about her that bore much of eagerness and not enough of caution. Attentiveness above and beyond the natural vigilance of any alert mind.
Joy limned with anxiety. Speculations about the future that had no basis in reality.
Catherine Fairchild could inspire much foolishness if Xavier were not careful.
She waited for him on the walkway as he’d asked her to, her black weeds a stark contrast to a garden bathed in spring sunshine. As much as mourning attire set her apart, her experience as a diplomat’s daughter apparently did as well.
As did her eyes, so watchful and lovely.
Fournier opened the gate. “Caesar, come.”
A stately mastiff trotted into the garden. He sniffed delicately at Miss Fairchild’s hand, then sat on his haunches by her side.
“He’ll lean upon you if you allow it,” Fournier said. “The beast exudes such dignity as his species claims, then shows himself to be a shameless flirt.”
Miss Fairchild stroked the dog’s head. “He’s majestic. His name is Caesar?”
Soulful dark eyes turned on Miss Fairchild as she spoke the dog’s name.
“He’s a wretched beggar, not an emperor,” Fournier replied, closing the gate. “Caesar belongs to a friend, so please don’t think I’m responsible for giving the beast airs above his station. My friend is preparing to travel with her spouse now that the weather is moderating. I thought you could use some company, and Caesar will mope for having been left behind.”
He’d mope for about fifteen minutes, before his pathetic-puppy routine earned him a juicy bone from the cook, a nibble of ham from the footmen, a game of fetch-the-stick with the grooms, and a protracted brushing out from the gardener.
“Being left behind is awful,” Miss Fairchild said. “How long can he stay?”
She pulled gently on the dog’s silky ear, and Fournier had to look away. “Their Graces will be traveling until summer, though you could also send to Willow Dorning for your own dog.”
The disgraceful cur was leaning now, his great bulk comfortably wedged against Miss Fairchild’s leg as he doubtless got dog hair all over her skirts.
“This is aducalpet?” She switched to the other ear.
“Right now, he is a lonely beast, abandoned to the indifferent attentions of a staff who were relieved to see the back of him.”
