Page 27 of Miss Desirable
He bowed, she curtseyed, and he courteously waited until she’d slipped through the garden gate. Catherine tarried on the other side of the high wall long enough to hear Fournier instruct his coachman to go on without him, because he needed to stretch his legs.
She lingered in the garden, knowing exactly why Fournier had eschewed the coach. He wanted the memory of the journey to linger, as Catherine did. Though he’d been speaking French, she had heard the smile in his voice as he’d dismissed his coach.
No harm in a smile, no harm in a simple kiss or a cuddle. Absolutely no harm at all.
Though it must never happen again.
* * *
To kiss Catherine Fairchild again… Nearly a week after parting from the lady, Fournier allowed the joy and frustration of that thought to fuel his attack, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent Sycamore Dorning’s foil spinning through the air.
“How the hell do youdothat?” Dorning panted. “I all but had you, and then… How in flaming hell…?”
He accepted a towel from former Major Alasdhair MacKay, a substantial Scot and one of Jeanette Dorning’s cousins.
“Fournier focuses,” MacKay said. “You have half a mind on what your lady said over breakfast and the other half on whether you can grow grapes in Richmond.”
Dorning scrubbed at his face and grinned. “It’s not what the lady said at breakfast…”
Fournier had once had a grin like that. Love-drunk, befuddled at any hour of the day.
MacKay ambled across the room, retrieved the foil, and shoved Dorning aside. “Watch, English bumbler. Even Fournier can lose his weapon.”
Dorning stepped away. “Not a fair match. You’ve had a chance to observe Fournier on the piste for hours, while he’s never seen you take up a sword. I flatter myself that I’ve tired him, and you are fresh.”
“The match will be fair,” Fournier said, amused and touched at Dorning’s fussing. “Though perhaps not even.” As he took his place opposite MacKay, he calculated the optimal result of the contest.
Dorning had been preoccupied. MacKay was absolutely correct about that. Unless he had a knife in his hand, Dorning was usually preoccupied. That scattered focus limited his fencing.
MacKay’s family sold whisky—good whisky—making him a useful connection.
MacKay was a member of The Aurora Club, heir to some sort of minor Scottish title, and much given to aiding streetwalkers.
And Fournier liked him. MacKay’s humor was pithy without being mean, he was devoted to his wife and family, and he could pull Goddard or Dorning into line with a raised eyebrow. Beyond all of that, MacKay had the eyes of a man who’d seen into hell, as many of Wellington’s surviving soldiers did.
Fournier cataloged that list in the time it took him to salute.
“Very well,” Dorning said as MacKay saluted as well. “En garde! Prêts? Allez!”
Fournier played a bit at first, and MacKay did too. Bow and curtsey, a flutter of the fan, a veiled glance. MacKay was good, he was focused, and he was keeping his strength in reserve. A worthy opponent, then. A little of Fournier’s restraint fell away, and the real fencing began.
He made MacKay work for it, left only the smallest openings, and parried quickly, but not as quickly as he might have. MacKay’s expression never wavered. Absolute concentration, utter fixation on his task.
Until, yes… There. He’d made the decision to try to disarm his opponent. He danced back a few steps, advanced, retreated… He was good. Somebody had taught him carefully, and when he sprang his trap, Fournier obliged by allowing his foil to go flying.
“I’m rusty,” MacKay said, laughing. “I would never have got away with that if you hadn’t been spanking Dorning all over the salon for the past hour.”
“You are kind,” Fournier said, extending a hand. “Though let it be said that Dorning occasionally spanks back. You are impressive, MacKay. Perhaps Dorning should be fencing with you.”
MacKay’s genial expression subtly shuttered. He was dark-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, and not precisely refined in appearance. He dressed as a gentleman, and his manners at table were those of a gentleman, though his asides over cards could be earthy. Fournier had liked him at once, if for no other reason than he was as skeptical of England’s self-declared perfection as Fournier was.
Liking did not, alas, confer trust.
“I’m for lunch at the Aurora,” MacKay said, signaling an attendant to collect the weapons. “I am in thrall to my belly, Fournier. If I go for too long without eating, I lose all my charm.”
“He falls on his face,” Dorning said. “Keels over like a drunken sailor. I cannot join you for lunch, though you must bear up manfully under that disappointment. The tyranny of business calls. Ask Fournier about clarets, MacKay, and he will talk you into a swoon before the soup course is removed.”
“I am enthusiastic about my art,” Fournier said. “Ask Dorning about growing basil, and you will see the same result from him.”
