Page 65 of Miss Desirable
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“Such gracious people,” Fournier said as the coachman gave the horses leave to walk on, “though French spoken with a Scottish accent will always sound alarmingly fierce to my ears.”
“Dorcas likes her husband’s fierceness,” Catherine replied, “and I gather Alasdhair MacKay adores everything about his wife.”
“A wise man, to choose a wife he can adore. MacKay is also formidable with a sword.”
As had become their habit when sharing a coach, Catherine’s bonnet sat next to Fournier’s top hat on the opposite bench. She sat beside him and was even holding his hand, but in some regard, she was as distant as if she’d taken a diplomatic posting in Cathay.
Perhaps Catherine was having second thoughts about a shared future.
Perhaps her menses troubled her.
Perhaps the servants were squabbling now that the household had no butler.
Fournier had spent most of his marriage trying to fathom the moods of a woman who had enjoyed a fine command of several languages. Much of the time, he’d been ignoring the obvious. His wife had loved another—probably a string of other fellows—and the time she’d spent with her husband had been a needful penance.
Twenty minutes of gloomy thoughts later, Fournier faced a choice as the coach turned into the alley that led to Catherine’s mews. He could bow over her hand and offer to meet her in the park on the next fine morning—the equivalent of rolling over and feigning sleep, at which he and his late wife had both excelled—or he could remind himself that his late wife and Catherine were very different women.
He handed her down and bade the coachman to proceed home without him. “I will walk. The night is mild enough and the hour still early.”
The coachman saluted, and Fournier held the garden gate for Catherine.
“Let’s sit a moment,” he said, “and enjoy the peace of the evening.”
She led him to a bench in heavy shadows, there being only a quarter moon and the usual complement of London’s smoky night air. They again sat side by side, as proper as a bishop and his maiden auntie.
“I am poor company tonight,” she said. “The socializing is not as effortless as it once was. For Mama and Papa, it was an enjoyable art. For me…”
“Drudgery?”
“Work, at least. I know Mrs. MacKay mostly from her charitable endeavors. I wanted to ask if she’d ever heard me referred to as Miss Dubious or the Diplomat’s Dubious Daughter.”
Fournier shed his gloves and eased off Catherine’s so that he might feel the warmth of her hand. “You have had many occasions to put that question to her, and she strikes me as a woman who would answer honestly.”
“Maybe I don’t want her to be honest.”
Fournier rested an arm along the back of the bench. “The more upset you are, the more reserved you appear, and you have been very composed since I poured you a glass of exquisite rosé nearly four hours ago. Is something amiss, Catherine?”
He’d put similarly ambiguous questions and nonquestions to Gabriella time and again.Is everything well? How have you been? I’ve missed you. The château appears to be thriving. Would you like to someday see London? What news is there of our neighbors?
And she had provided him cheerful, meaningless answers.
Catherine rested her head on his shoulder. “I would like to be very unreserved with you, Fournier. I’d like to take you up to my bedroom and keep you prisoner there until dawn.”
“Can one be a willing prisoner, or does that ruin all the fun?”
She said nothing in response to his attempt at gest.
“You are serious?” he asked quietly. “You wish me to spend the night?”
“I wish you to come inside and directly upstairs with me. The staff are all long since abed, it’s my house, and I desire you madly.”
She kissed his cheek and cuddled closer. She was being honest about the desire, but was she being dishonest about other matters?
“Catherine, I trust you. If you are searching for a way to tell me that we shall not suit, that you have decided to move to France without me to live quietly with your daughter, then please be honest. You need not offer me a farewell romp as if I were a callow youth whose ardor has grown tiresome. I will be sad if we are parting, I will be devasted, but I will not stand in your way.”
“We would suit,” Catherine said, rising. “I know that in the marrow of my soul, Fournier. Please take me to bed.”
