Page 22 of Under the Champagne Moon
A long moment passed, and he realized Sherington was watching him.
The older man smiled. “In short, you’ve not decided.”
Gareth laughed. “That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Chigwell wants to retire. While you’re considering the army or the somewhere else, think about staying at Sherington Manor and working for me, as my steward. I’m offering it to you first.”
He sat straighter. Sherington was a much larger property with a much larger income than the Ardleigh family estate. The land was good, the tenants stable, the park filled with small game, and the stream that cut through brimming with fish.
“When I say staying at Sherington Manor, I mean living in the manor house until Chigwell vacates his cottage, which he plans to do soon and move closer to one of his children. It’s a good-sized dwelling. You can find a wife and fill your nursery.”
A blush needled its way up from under his neckcloth. He cleared his throat again. “Very generous, sir.” And very managing. Sherington had a matchmaker’s glint in his eyes. It was the sort of thing Gareth had encountered from regimental wives with marriageable daughters, but from his old friend’s father?
Gareth swallowed a chuckle. “And who did you have in mind, sir?” Not cousin, Esther, please.
Sherington raised an eyebrow. “Are you being coy with me, lad?”
“Never, sir.”
Sherington laughed. “You were always a rascal. Well, then. Fetch a bottle of thatHardouinchampagne and your saber. I’ll see this sabrage Laurence was crowing about, and we’ll have a chat.”
CHAPTERSEVEN
Jealousy gnawed at Gareth as he watched Fleur at dinner.
She’d donned a yellow gown that skimmed just over the top of where her nipples must be in a delectable revelation of breasts he’d only speculated about.
She’d done something with her hair as well, with curls and braids twining here and there among pearly beads.
And it was all for Farnham, who to his credit was trying to avoid staring at Fleur’s bosom.
Damnation.
While opening the champagne that afternoon, Gareth seized the opportunity to tell Sherington how he’d obtained so many cases. It was a story he’d only hinted at before, deflecting Laurence’s questions.
Today he’d told him the tale: his capture, his escape, his rescue by the Veuve, the upcoming visit by Etienne Marceau, and Fleur’s kinship with the family.
He hadn’t quite told him the full truth of the arrangements for marriage, but Sherington must have intuited it. When Gareth spoke of his plans to ride over to Bicton Grange that afternoon and speak with Fleur, Sherington said he had a better idea. Fleur was coming to dinner, and they’d be allowed a private conversation. He added that he could see Gareth cared for her, but before he could say more, Farnham appeared.
Some plan this was that Sherington had concocted, with Fleur attired like a society lady and batting her eyelashes at Farnham.
He glanced up the table and saw Sherington’s sly grin. Gareth picked up his fork, addressed the fine piece of trout on his plate, and took up his conversational duty with his dinner partner, Cousin Esther.
“Whist,”Sherington proclaimed. “Shall we play ladies against gentlemen? Farnham, you’re with me. Dulcy and Esther will oppose us. We shall have our work cut out for us, Farnham, for I know both ladies to be wicked good card sharps.”
Sherington didn’t look his way, but he knew this was his chance. He took Fleur’s hand and tucked it over his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the gallery?”
“Why not fetch us a bottle of champagne, lad?” Sherington said. “Gareth has not returned from France empty handed, Farnham. Go along, Miss Hardouin, and see my cellars. The captain is on good terms with my butler. He’ll serve as chaperon.”
Gareth snatched up a candle and hurried her out, ignoring her sputtering objection. When the door of the drawing room closed, he paused in the chilly hall.
The twilight filtering in through the floor length windows illuminated her breasts, the twin globes rising and falling, sending his heart racing.
He looked around. No servants lingering—they were alone.
They could go to the cellar with Sherington’s ancient butler tottering behind them.
Or they could go to the place where his most exceptional wine was stored. There they’d have privacy.
