Page 60 of Miss Desirable
“Tu me dégoutes,” Nan said, her voice low and mean. “You prey on women, some fine gentleman you are.”
“You disgust her,” the boy translated. “Not the good-mannersyou. You, like you rank pile of filthy, steaming—”
“Victor,ça suffit.”
“Insult me all you like,” Armbruster said, rising and tapping his hat onto his head. “But my prospects are about to improve enormously. In another few days, you will give me that direction and wish you’d offered me much more.”
A fine line upon which to exit the stage, except that Nevin Thurlow stood in the inn’s doorway, Armbruster’s favorite hat on his head. The hat had come down in the world, acquiring a stain on the underside of the curled brim and sporting a wilted red tulip tucked into the band.
“Is the toff bothering you, Nan?” Nevin asked.
“He’s leaving,” Nan said. “Victor, you may finish his lordship’s ale rather than let it go to waste.”
Victor snatched the tankard from the bar as Thurlow sidled into the common. The boy held the door open and swept a bow. The look in his eyes was unnervingly cold, considering the lad had just been given a free drink—another free drink.
Armbruster left at a dignified pace, which was a mistake. Once he had gained the walkway, the boy dashed the ale at him and managed to spatter his best pair of Hoby boots.
“Next time, I’ll ruin your prissy damned waistcoat,milord.”
“Vile puppy.” Though the little beast had an eye for style. The waistcoat was exquisitely embroidered. Armbruster sauntered off, exuding his best not-a-care-in-the-world attitude, but in his head, he was buying The Boar’s Bride and burning it to the ground. He’d have Victor arrested for theft and, for good measure, accuse Nevin Thurlow of assault.
When a man married money, he married power, and Armbruster was very much looking forward to having both money and the power once he’d made Catherine Fairchild his wife.
CHAPTERTWELVE
“My fencing has become sublime,” Fournier said, taking a spoonful of his ice. “This is all your fault, mademoiselle. I have always been quick, but now my accuracy is faultless as well. I know what the other fellow is thinking before he thinks it. My arm is tireless and my energy without limit. The younger fellows are quite dispirited.”
“You sound more astonished than boastful,” Catherine replied. She was certainly astonished. The past two weeks had been an exercise in admitting that Mama had been right. A man had finally come along who’d captured Catherine’s heart. Fournier brought her pleasure, laughter, comfortable silences, andsuchpassion.
Oh, to have met him earlier. To have met himfirst. Mama had also said the fellow might be quite unexpected, out of the common way, and she’d been right about that too. Had Catherine met Fournier years ago, she might have dismissed him as another charming Frenchman.
“I am alsoétonné,” he said, “you are correct. Never before have I made love in a wine cellar, and me one of the foremost wine merchants in Europe.”
He’d been touring the vast stores beneath The Coventry Club as a favor to Colonel Goddard, and Catherine had tagged along out of curiosity. She was familiar with Continental vintages, but her curiosity about Xavier Fournier would never be satisfied.
He could make love against a wall.
Also in a moving coach, and the things he could do with his mouth were beyond shocking and well past delightful.
He spoke Russian quite well and sold wine to the imperial court. He had his shirts and small clothes made in France and patronized Bond Street only for his outer finery. When he shaved, he hummed French folk tunes.
And his favorite flavor of ice was vanilla.
“The last bite is for you,” he said, passing Catherine the spoon and bowl. She traded, giving him her chocolate ice. They did nothing so fatuous as feed each other in public, but for Catherine to sit beneath the greening maples across the square from Gunter’s was boldness enough.
“We are being watched,” she said, savoring the treat as a pair of young ladies trundled by with their chaperone. “Judged.”
“Assessed,” Fournier replied with his signature calm. “I have won the notice of a lovely woman, and the male half of London is jealous of me.”
“You have won more than my notice, Fournier.”
He collected their dishes and set them aside on the bench.
“What have I won, Catherine?” he asked, rising. “One must not be precipitous or presumptuous, but with me, I hope you are honest.”
He offered his hand, and Catherine got to her feet, slipping her arm through his. This outing for an ice was a pleasant social commonplace for most of London’s decent society.
For Catherine, it had been a revelation. “The only man to bring me here previously was my father, and always, my mother accompanied us. I dreamed of ices at Gunter’s when I was exiled in Rome, of the carriage parade, of dry cake and witty conversation at Almack’s. What I wanted was not the ices or the fashionable diversions. I wanted acceptance.”
