Page 24 of Under the Champagne Moon
She’d spoken the words aloud.
Fleur held her breath while he tucked her breast away and straightened her bodice with his long deft fingers. Gareth was right, of course, but why should he be right? Why shouldn’t they… why shouldn’t she…
She swallowed. Of course, she had others to think of, not just her own desires.
He picked up her shawl and draped it over her. “How beautiful you are tonight, Petal. I confess, I couldn’t help myself.”
Petal—the cheeky pet name brought her further back to reality.
“Come.” She heard the shakiness in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I have something I must show you.”
“In your bedchamber, Gareth?”
“Actually,” he said tugging her along to a door near the fireplace, “in my dressing room.” At the door, he stopped and pulled her shawl higher around her shoulders, casting a dazed glance at her breasts. “There’s no heat in there.”
A closed trunk and a chest of drawers sat against one wall, wooden crates against another, and against a third, a cot with a thin mattress and a folded blanket.
“Your valet is very tidy.”
“I have no valet.”
He set the candles upon a wooden crate and lifted the lid on the one next to it. Fleur pushed up next to him to look. Rows of bottles lined up neatly in a grouping of twelve.
“The champagne,” she said.
“Not just any champagne, Fleur.” He lifted a bottle and dusted the neck with those long bare fingers, sending another frisson of longing through her.
She shook herself.
“This is thevin de comêteof 1811.”
Wine of the comet.
“This wine, it’s fantastic.” He blew a kiss to the case. “It’s said that the comet affected the grapes that year.”
“I know of the comet.” In fact, she’d seen the great comet of 1811 herself when it was visible over England around harvest time. Dulcinea’s dilettante cousin had been in his astronomy phase, all abuzz about the event. He’d allowed her a look through his telescope.
“But there’s more to tell you.” He moved the candles closer and lifted the paper label tied by a string to the bottle.
His hands trembled. Her gaze met his, and she caught a troubled look.
“The label. Look closely.”
Squiggly, ornate cursive circled around a central name in large, bold letters:Veuve Hardouin.
Below that in small letters the label proclaimedHardouin and Marceau.
“And so?” They were no relation to her. She had no relatives.
Gareth cradled the bottle so tenderly, irritation stabbed at her. “The Veuve—the Widow Hardouin, Fleur, she’s your grandmother. It’s true. It was she who rescued me when I was all but done for. When I told her I’d once met a little girl named Fleur Hardouin, she showed me a miniature of your mother, and I thought... As a little girl you resembled her. And now, you look just like her. The Veuve asked me to find you. She wants to meet you.”
Stunned speechless, Fleur stared at his simply tied neck cloth, unadorned with the sort of bejeweled stickpins other men affected. He’d remembered her surname, after so many years. She blinked back a surge of moisture.
He gentled the bottle into its case and took her hand. “I thought it would be difficult to find you but… She wants to meet you.”
“The Veuve Hardouin.”
“Yes.”
