Page 43 of Miss Desirable
You have me.Fournier did not entirely understand why that was so, why Catherine Fairchild of all women should rouse him to once again enter the lists of doting swains, but enter them he had.
“The issue at hand is whetheryouagree with me,” Fournier said. “Have you cast off mourning for social acceptance from a lot of gossips and buffoons?’
“Have you?”
She’d pinked him, again. “Friendship with you is most invigorating, Miss Fairchild. One delights to anticipate becoming lovers as well as friends. In my case, I do not seek the acceptance of London Society. I seek Mayfair’s custom. An émigré in trade must know his place.”
Catherine grinned at him, an open, gloating, merry smile that made those extraordinary eyes of hers sparkle. “Acomtein trade, one who owns vast vineyards and whose winery blends the finest clarets ever to grace discerning palates.”
“I should never have told you about the title. Titles work differently in France. They can result from a family holding public office over a period of generations, or from…”
He trailed off, following the direction of Catherine’s gaze. Her smile had disappeared, and in its place was the cool, gracious mask.
A gentleman on a prancing gray came down the path.
Catherine nodded. “Lord Fortescue, good morning.”
“Miss Fairchild, and… Fournier, is it?”
Hard to ignore the creditor to whom one owed a sizable sum. “My lord, good day. A fine morning to take the air, is it not?”
Armbruster’s gaze went from Catherine to Fournier and back. “It is that. Good day, Miss Fairchild, a pleasure to have seen you.”
Fournier merited no parting courtesy from his lordship, and when Armbruster had trotted off, Catherine was no longer smiling.
“Come, Fournier. Franny has had her outing, and I have condolence replies to write.”
Fournier did not question the lady’s change of mood. He escorted her home and bowed politely over her hand in the mews. Friends did not pry, after all.
Though they did keep a careful watch on one another.
* * *
The outing to the park with Fournier changed something fundamental for Catherine. She wasn’t ready to turn her back on propriety entirely, but neither was she terrified of quoting the wrong philosopher, wearing the wrong bonnet, or holding her parasol at the wrong angle—all sins she’d committed during her very first month back in London.
Fortescue Armbruster’s veiled curiosity hadn’t put her into a panic, in part because Fournier had told her that Armbruster didn’t pay the trades. Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel, apparently, and even Fournier hadn’t seen Armbruster’s untrustworthiness at first glance.
Who else numbered among those whose trust Fort Armbruster had abused?
A tap on the parlor door had Catherine putting down her pen. The condolence cards had slowed, such that now the mail was mostly from Mama’s more far-flung acquaintances.
“Come in,” Catherine called.
“A caller, miss,” Harry said, holding out the silver card tray. “A lady.”
Lady Della Dorning. “Gracious. Has the fire been lit in the guest parlor, Harry?”
“’Fraid not, miss. Mrs. Trask isn’t one to waste coal.”
“Then here will have to do. A tray with all the trimmings and the silver teapot.”
“Very good, miss.”
Harry was trying to step into Deems’s shoes, but Harry was young, and at the moment, he was blushing.
“Was there something else, Harry?”
He drew himself up and stared over the mantel at the portrait of the third Baroness Fairchild. “We haven’t a butler, miss, but somebody should see to the cellars.”
