Page 46 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
Ashley rested hisbeautiful, iridescent eyes on hers. He was relaxed, almost ebullient.
But Gus would not give herself all the credit. He was here for his own self-interest. He wanted contracts, more than anything.
“When I was a boy,” he said, pressing her hand to his cheek, “I was sent by my parents to visit my aunt and uncle in the Loire. They own a vast estate and grow grapes near Amboise.”
She watched him caressing her like a lover. Short of breath, with pounding heart, she found some logic. “Will you have them send wine to your buyers in Britain?”
“I will, yes.”
“The grape yield has been good this year. Despite the floods and drought.”
“You know much about growing grapes.” He put his arm around her, and she relaxed into the circle of his embrace.
“A woman should always know facts about her surroundings. As much as she should also make something of her own.”
“A mark of preservation as well as helping others respect her.”
“Do you wish to make something of your own?”
I have done. Every day.“I am a fairly good artist.”
“Is that so?” He nodded, impressed. “What is your subject matter?”
“Portraits.”
“Excellent. Have you done many?”
“I have.” She grinned up at him. “I will bring my sketchbook with me on our holiday and attempt a likeness of you.” She would not tell him she already had attempted that. He would not need to be emboldened by her interest. “I think your jutting jaw would be so easy to draw.”
He pursed his lips. “You draw me as the man from the Malmaison road, eh?”
“No. That man…” She lifted her hand to caress his cheek. “That man is not here. I do believe you left him at home in England.”
He dipped his jaw into the palm of her hand, his pale eyes glittering in the sun. “You are right. He has gone.”
“Will you tell me why?”
He stared at her, but it was not her he saw. “He observed what was to have been a dastardly deed that day. He saw instead an even worse event. The death of his friend.”
Her heart turned for him. “The one you spoke of before.”
“Yes. The one so heinously murdered.”
“Tell me.” She reached across and put her gloved hand in his.
“It is not fit for a lady to hear.”
“Tell me. I will not demand you cover the worst for me. Who am I? A woman sheltered from the horrors of what men do to other men and other women? I may not have lived the Terror, or seen it, but I hear of it. Your event is part of the mayhem the French have loosed on the world. Tell me, Kane. I may call you, Kane, may I not?” She smiled at him. “You said last night we are friends. Please, let us be. Tell me.”
He sat, far away in his grief. “He knew he might die that day. We all did—of course, you do not do acts like that and not count the possible toll. That day, the event turned on us. But on my friend Brussard, it turned brutally.” He blinked and turned to her, horror of the past lighting his face with a determination that had him drawing her up to him and her nails digging into his arm.
“I work for peace now. Only that. I want what you want. A life lived with possibilities, not death or subterfuge. Only light and air and freedom.”
He was a man who changed and grew. And in that luminous landscape he created, she rose to his lips and kissed them. He was heaven to savor, all masculine power and hungry lover.Eager and insistent. One who took her to him, caressed her throat, and held her there to murmur his praise and kiss her back.
She did not count them. He did not stop. She would not make him.
When their breath was gone and a few in the streets clapped and shouted their approval, she fell back to the squabs and stared at him.
