Page 38 of Miss Desirable
“Not when I’m entirely undressed?”
“You are irresistible then, so please be about it.”
He had his waistcoat and shirt off in less than a minute. “I assume the Dorning women have a strategy in place for dealing with a lot of old gossip?”
Ann slipped off her earbobs, necklace, and bracelet. “They do not. Casriel and his countess will soon be in London, and Jeanette will confer with her ladyship personally. Without knowing particulars, it’s hard to form a plan. I’m more concerned that Miss Fairchild thinks her past will keep Fournier from offering for her.”
“If Miss Fairchild is, in fact, married to some Albanian adventurer, then it damn well should give Fournier pause.”
Ann’s perusal in the mirror turned thoughtful. “You are protective of Monsieur.”
“He was protective of me, Ann, not in any obnoxious way, but he defended my interests when few others would. He’s been helpful to MacKay as well, and Powell likes him.”
“Sir Dylan is discerning.”
“Powell is pernickety.” Also very happily married, thank the ministering angels. Sir Dylan had finally gone home to Wales and taken his bride with him. “What’s to be done about Miss Fairchild?”
“I don’t know, but somebody ought to acquaint Fournier with what we know of Miss Fairchild’s past.”
“All we know is that she went to Italy, and at some point before returning to London, she left Italy for a time. If there’s more to the situation, then Miss Fairchild ought to be the one conveying particulars to Fournier. He doubtless has a few regrets of his own to share as well.”
Ann turned on the vanity stool to regard her husband directly. “I love you, Orion, but you are being too gentlemanly. The logical explanation for the gap in Miss Fairchild’s travels is that she was indiscreet and bore a child. If that’s the case, it complicates everything.”
He moved behind the privacy screen. “How I hate proper society. Are you sure we can’t move to France?”
“The Coventry would close in a week if we truly abandoned our posts, and then Sycamore would pout.”
“A dire result indeed.” Goddard considered shaving and discarded the notion. Ann liked him a little bristly at bedtime. “What’s to be done?” For that was the point of this discussion.
Ann and Jeanette, along with Dorcas MacKay and the Dorning ladies, would naturally be concerned for a young woman cast on her own devices before the wolves of polite society. That the young lady in question had family connections made the matter pressing, and thus the menfolk—like so much horse artillery—must be maneuvered into position.
“You will drop a hint or two in Fournier’s handsome ear that Miss Fairchild might face more than the usual gossip when she puts off mourning. You will send notice to Lord Tavistock that Miss Fairchild might be a guest on one of your French properties. You and I will make a condolence call on her next week and take her some of your excellent champagne.”
Goddard brushed his teeth, washed, and traded his knee breeches for a banyan.
“You do realize,” he said, standing at Ann’s back, “that my hints won’t put Fournier off? If he thinks Miss Fairchild faces judgment for a youthful indiscretion, his loyalty will become unwavering.” Though if the look in Fournier’s eye was any indication, he was already a man sorely smitten.
“I do believe the ladies and I are counting on his gentlemanly instincts, Orion. Might you lend a hand with my hair?”
“Of course.” Goddard began the delicate process of extracting pins from Ann’s coiffure, undoing bits of silk ribbon, and unbraiding plaits. The result was a riot of curling, waving tresses cascading down her back. He took up the brush and restored order in the form of a single thick braid, a task that soothed him probably more than it did Ann.
And yet, as he wrapped himself around her beneath the covers a contented hour later, a thought niggled at his peace.
Fournier would defend Miss Fairchild’s interests like the gentleman he was, but he was also an émigré with a dubious past of his own. If Miss Fairchild told him to quit the field, Fournier would bow politely and disappear from her life.
And that would be a shame for all concerned.
CHAPTERNINE
Catherine rose on Friday morning after a night of fitful rest. She half hoped for rain, and she desperately wished for fair weather. She hadn’t worn her habit in so long that she’d tried it on the day before to ensure it still fit.
It did, loosely.
She had forbidden herself to fuss over her hair, over the angle of her veiled toque, over the color of her stock. With a dark blue riding habit, she usually wore a black stock, but she’d reached the limit of her tolerance for black.
Fournier was waiting for her in the mews, looking quietly splendid in his riding attire. “Miss Fairchild.” He possessed himself of her hand. “A pleasure to see you, as always. May I introduce you to Bertold? Bertold, make your bow.”
An equally splendid bay gelding tottered into an equine bow. When Fournier touched the beast’s shoulder, he straightened and nuzzled his owner’s pockets. Fournier slipped him a bite of carrot.
