Page 26 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
They said the most ridiculous things to her. Not “You’re lovely” or “Would you care to take a stroll in the garden?” but overt, licentious bits that, when she was young, frightened her. When she grew older and Aunt Cecily had taught her ways to put down a rabid fellow, Amber became more circumspect. She could smile and, wordlessly, tell the man to give over. She knew how, also courtesy of Aunt Cecily, to subdue a more insistent man by calmly insulting his pride and leaving the scene, public as it most likely had been.
Maurice had exhibited none of those characteristics. At an age double hers, he assumed a paternal attitude toward her when first they met. He had come to Paris to meet other vintners to discuss expanding their markets, and her aunt had invited him to a soiree. She introduced him to Amber that afternoon. On the next one, Maurice saved her from one man who pawed her in Aunt Cecily’s garden. Maurice’s actions were bold, grabbing the fellow by the scruff and throwing him toward the door. His words to her were paternal…until days later, she had kissed him for his kindness, and his lips returned an emotion priceless in its tenderness.
She had been his wife for a little over a year, suffered the miscarriage of their baby, cried in his arms—and, in time, withhim she learned to laugh again. Only last Christmas had he turned ill, taken to his bed, and quietly, relentlessly slipped away from her. Alone she had cried, mourning him until she could not stand or eat, until she did not know her name. Augustine and her aunt had urged her back to health, only for her to return to Society and be accosted by Rene Vaillancourt her first night back. Then, with no respect for the dead, he had pulled her into an empty room and threatened to have her.
“Eventually,” he had said, his sly elegance a hellish offense to her grief, “you and all you know will be mine.”
She had been warned of the deputy’s power. Her aunt saw it and had foretold his interest. For years, Amber had seen his desire for her across many a crowded salon, his long-lashed mercenary eyes riveted to her like a lizard, bold and unwavering even when Maurice was alive. Such arrogance she had never met. Shaken to her core each time, she had avoided his every approach. Then when he had the audacity to stride up to her, a woman still in mourning, she had heard his vehement words—and fled.
Without notice to anyone.
Without regret.
With only self-preservation in mind.
After belonging to a man she adored, her flesh froze at the touch of that man. She’d gone to ice at the probability that he could take her to his bed and afterward, himself replete, take her to a cold, dark room and beat from her the system that had fed Scarlett Hawthorne’s British government with the information that could save millions from disaster.
And now, when she had relished the safety given by a paragon of a man, she was foolish to consider—even for a moment—that she was strong enough, stupid enough, to return and withstand the storm that Vaillancourt would bring upon her.
No. She would not go.
Could not.
Here with Godfrey DuClare, Lord Ramsey, twelfth of his line, she would remain.
But how was she to go on with him? Honorable and honest, polite, he was now more distant and such a gentleman. Very much like Maurice, but then not at all.
Ram was quite extraordinary. One day, if she ever had the opportunity, she must thank Scarlett Hawthorne for her assignment of this man to her survival.
If indeed that did occur.
It won’t. I might die at this espionage business.
And, for protecting me, Ram too.
But Ram must live. I will see to it. Somehow…
Meanwhile, I will learn to live with my own guilt for having left the service I was so proud of.
Live for each day,Maurice had whispered to her as he lay dying.
And today was for living. This moment. With this man.
She took the path to the river. It wended this way and that, the rustle of the leaves in the lush forest like a symphony of tiny violins urging her onward. As those sounds blended with the tinkle of the river as it gushed upon the shore, she felt delightful shivers enliven her. The banks of the Meuse spread gently down. She stopped feet away from the sparkling, curling waters.
She sat, removing her slippers and her stockings. The gown she wore today was one of those from Buzancy, and she did not want to ruin it. Nothing for it, then—she would have to hike up her gown.
She bit her lip, knowing she would display her bare calves, a thing not done by true ladies. But then, she was a woman—a widow, too—who had not upheld propriety in her actions, wasn’t she? She was a spy, an agent for the British Crown. She couldshow a little leg. Her poor partner—agent for the Crown that he was—would have to bear it.
She would push the boundaries of their relationship.
“You are fortunate you can lift up your skirts.” He stood beside her, assessing the river rushing past.
“You could remove your breeches,” she said with a toss of her hair.
He crossed his arms and peered down his perfect, straight nose at her.
She giggled. “Come in. Remove your boots. Roll up your breeches. You need the refreshment!” She beckoned him with her fingers and gave him a wink.Oh, I am bad.
