Page 21 of Miss Desirable
“She said I wasn’t to be cowed by polite society, or by the Dornings. An heiress must begin as she intends to go on, and anybody who’d begrudge me some fresh air and congenial company was of no moment.”
“Half French. The pragmatism and independence of spirit shine through, despite the English preoccupation with protocol.”
Mrs. Dorning had also said that Xavier Fournier was an old-fashioned gentleman, to be trusted in every particular. He was much respected by her husband and brother and by Jeanette herself.
Catherine respected Fournier, too, else she would not have let him hand her into his traveling coach, a sizable conveyance noteworthy for its outward plainness and inward luxury. He took the place beside her.
“I do not deal comfortably sitting with my back to the horses on these execrable English roads, if you will forgive my presumption.”
Catherine was not about to admit that she liked having Monsieur sit beside her. “Compared to the French equivalents, English roads are awful.”
Fournier deposited her parasol and bonnet on the opposite bench, along with his hat and walking stick. The coach rolled forward, and Catherine was seized by the impulse to leap to the cobbles and run back into the garden.
Fournier drew down the shades. “Nap if you like. We will be forever getting through the London tolls, but once we cross the river, the scenery will improve. We have food and drink, and should you take a chill, the lap robes are under the bench.”
“I’m fine,” Catherine said, though she wasn’t.
“Of course you are.” Fournier looped an arm around her shoulders. “I make a good pillow. Close your eyes, mademoiselle. You are safe, and you need your rest.”
He followed up that shocking presumption with a little half hug, and some of Catherine’s nervousness eased. Fournier did this—presumed, fussed, slighted the rules. She liked that about him, and his warmth was a profound comfort.
Catherine closed her eyes, turned her cheek against the fine wool of Fournier’s coat, and felt slumber beckon. Caution railed at her from the tired depths of her mind. She was in a closed coach with a man she barely knew, et cetera and so forth, and all but snuggled into his embrace. Had Fortescue Armbruster taught her nothing?
He had taught her much, unfortunately, but she was no longer an infatuated girl, and Xavier Fournier was not a lying schemer. He was honest, blunt to a fault, and a very comfortable pillow.
When Catherine woke, she was wrapped in the circle of Fournier’s arms, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm beneath her cheek. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing even halfway to Richmond, because she was that loath to part with his embrace.
* * *
“The ladies seem to be getting on at a great rate,” Colonel Orion Goddard observed, as his boots crunched the crushed white shells of the walkway. “Miss Fairchild apparently has some menus from her time at the Congress of Vienna. My Ann will not rest until she gets her hands on copies.”
Fournier should have known that Mrs. Dorning would have included Goddard and his wife in her plans for the day.
“Your wife is the only English cook I know who can prepare French cuisine so it tastes French,” Fournier said. “How long can three women spend over a teapot?”
“Eternities,” Sycamore Dorning replied, turning down a shorter path that led to an enormous glass house. “Jeanette claims if we want to bring London to a screeching halt, we need not close down the gin palaces. Simply cut off the supply of tea.” He opened the door and led his guests into the glass house, where tables of potted greenery stretched from wall to wall.
The air was warm, humid, and redolent of dirt—a good smell to a man longing for his vineyards.
“You don’t think brandy figures in London’s smooth functioning?” Goddard retorted. “Fine wine, beer, ale?”
“He does not,” Fournier said, counting six gardeners, all busy at their work. “Dorning’s universe is defined by his wife’s wellbeing. All the brandy in the world would not put him to rights if his darling lady grew fretful.”
Dorning slanted him a look. “Did somebody best you at foils, Fournier?”
“Angelo might,” Fournier replied, “if I’m having a slow day, though his age is showing too. What all do you grow here, Dorning?”
The gentlemen had left the ladies to their scandal broth, ostensibly so their host could provide a tour of his crop garden facilities. Watching beans grow had to be the least interesting excuse for allowing women some privacy, but Fournier had craved movement—and some distance from Miss Fairchild.
“We’re still sorting out what we should grow,” Dorning said. “My family has a thriving business selling scents and botanicals, but our holdings in Dorset lack proximity to London and have only one modest conservatory to serve as our propagation house. I’m inclined toward flowers, Jeanette argues for medicinals, and Ann Goddard demands culinary herbs, spices, and vegetables.”
“Vintners face a similar dilemma,” Fournier said, brushing his fingers over a potted bush of rosemary. “Which grapes to plant on which terrace, how much of each variety, when to harvest each kind… One guesses and God laughs, but some good wine is made every year.”
“You must miss your home, Fournier,” Dorning said, while Goddard characteristically remained silent.
A gardener approached, an older fellow wearing the leather apron of his trade.
“What is it, Morton?” Dorning asked.
