Page 35 of Miss Desirable
“To long for some affection and closeness in the midst of grief isn’t unusual, Catherine.”
She peered over at him, then positioned her bonnet atop her head and tied the ribbons. “I know. I accord myself some latitude because of it.”
Catherine used grief to excuse her behavior with him, in other words. A pity, that. She passed him his hat and pulled on her gloves. Fournier rapped once on the roof and donned his gloves as well.
“How do we do this?” she asked.
“The coach pulls up. I get out first. I hand you down—”
She smacked his arm. “Be serious.”
“No, Catherine,” he said gently. “I shall not be serious. You have been too serious for too long. I will be earnest and passionate, but also warmhearted and affectionate. I will be as pleased to ride out with you as I would be to lick honey from your bare breasts. If all you want is a bedmate, then I will envy some other man that joy. You and I shall remain friends as we explore other forms of closeness, or we part friends.”
He had surprised her, and himself. With Gabriella, he’d yielded all such discussions entirely. There had been no terms on his part, only his attempts to keep her happy.
And look how that had ended.
The coach rocked to a halt, and Fournier got out, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his hand. Hoping he hadn’t underplayed it either. Catherine alighted from the coach, and Fournier bowed politely.
She curtseyed with equal decorum. “Thank you for seeing me home.”
“Mon plaisir.”
Catherine looked away. She studied his cravat pin. Fournier had no intention of making the moment easy for her. A man who had been warned to expect eventual dismissal was entitled to some dignity.
“If the weather is fair on Friday morning,” she said, “shall we hack out? My mare is nothing fancy, but she does need the exercise.”
Unseemly joy coursed through him. Ebullient, sparkling, wordless joy. “I’m sure your mare is elegance on four hooves, and yes, we shall hack out. I will call for you at seven. Your groom will accompany us.”
“I will look forward to it.”
Fournier leaned closer, treating himself to a whiff of roses and hope. “Into the house with you. The next time you put honey in your tea, think of me.”
Her smile was demure, her eyes lit with mischief. “I will look forward to our ride.”
She made a stately progress up the steps, and Fournier waited as any gentleman would until she was safely in the house. Then he dismissed his coach and prepared to enjoy a good, long evening ramble while he sorted and labeled developments.
He had reached only the nearest street corner before a diminutive shape emerged from the shadows beneath an extinguished porch light.
“Mee-shure. Good evening.”
“Bonsoir, young Victor,” Fournier replied, touching a finger to his hat brim. “You almost have it.Monsieur.You must think the r but not strive to pronounce it, and the first vowel is closer to theiin ‘miss you.’ Try again.Monsieur.”
“Miss-sue.”
“Better. Now what have you to report?”
Victor hitched up the trousers sagging around his skinny hips. “Some toff called on Miss Fairchild this afternoon. Fancy gent, crested cabriolet, didn’t stay long.”
“Coach wheels?”
“Red, gold trim, fancy gray in the traces. Coachy wore black livery with red and gold trim.”
“Fancy indeed.” And not the Dorning family livery either. “Did you notice any details of the crest?”
“The usual nonsense,” Victor said, with the exquisite dismissiveness hungry boys aimed at the trappings of luxury. “Birds, arrows, rosebuds, and the like. Something else you should know.”
“Yes?”
