Page 28 of Under the Champagne Moon
Gareth cleared his throat and Fleur whipped around. A work smock covered her plain lavender gown, but lovely golden tendrils had escaped her bonnet, kissing her forehead and cheeks. Her gaze shifted ever so slightly to the man appearing next to him, and the color that had pinkened her cheeks drained away.
Her stillness, her stoic mask, tore at his guts. But they must go on.
Gareth nodded to the Lord of the Harvest and the woman. “Haskell,” he said, “a moment with Miss Hardouin if you please?”
Fleur nodded.
“I’ll be right outside.” Haskell’s proprietary glance raised Gareth’s hackles. Lord of the Harvest or not, the upstart had no claim on Fleur.
“You remember my sister, Sadie?” Haskell said.
He’d had a moment’s thought that this was Haskell’s woman and child, but his cringing sister? Gareth inclined his head as they passed, exchanging parting glares with Haskell.
When he turned back to Fleur, she’d frozen, a pair of scissors poised like a weapon.
“Shall I take those?” She surrendered them without resistance, and the chill of her hands made him want to grasp them and warm them. Instead, he set his hand to the small of her stiff back. “Miss Hardouin,” he said. “May I introduce to you Etienne Marceau?”
As he watched, her lips sealed together in a tight line. Still, he must soldier on.
“Etienne Marceau,” Gareth said, “Miss Fleur Hardouin.”
To his credit, Marceau gave a courtly bow. Fleur inclined her head a fraction like a duchess meeting the lowliest of courtiers.
Her color was coming back, and his heart lifted. Whether she married Marceau or not, the Frenchman was part of her family. At least Gareth had managed to give her that.
“My dear cousin.” Marceau moved closer, and Fleur’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “We have found you after so many years. Captain Ardleigh didn’t tell me how beautiful you are.”
Marceau did look stunned. If he was feigning interest, he was doing an admirable job of it.
“I must speak to you about a delicate matter. Perhaps in private?”
She raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know you. Captain Ardleigh will stay.”
Irritation flashed across the younger man’s face. “But of course. We don’t know each other. But I have traveled all the way from France to bring you this news that your family wishes you to return. It is your grandmother’s most fervent, er, desire that you and I, we join our families more closely together.”
He paused for a breath. Fleur blinked.
“I am of the family Marceau and you of the Hardouins, and together, Hardouin-Marceau, we are makers of the finest sparkling wine in all of Champagne. I am to bring you to France to meet the Veuve Hardouin, and there, my dear, we will be married.”
After his pause for breath, Marceau had switched to French.
“Marceau,” Gareth said, gently, in English, “Miss Hardouin, doesn’t speak French.”
Marceau’s eyes widened. “A Frenchwoman who does not speak French?”
“I am not French,” Fleur said. “I am English. It is my most fervent desire to stay in England.”
“I like England,” Marceau said, nodding. “London, to be precise. And it is my hope to spend much time here about the business. I shall arrange a house for us there.”
“Arrange a house for yourself then. I will not marry you, sir.”
* * *
Fleur held her breath,watching the play of emotions across young Etienne Marceau’s handsome face. He was indeed young, and though his coat was a sober blue, and his buckskin trousers were fashionably tight, his waistcoat sported bright red flowers with curling vines on a primrose field, and his starched white neckcloth had been tied up to his ears in an intricate knot and pierced with a red-jeweled stickpin. His dark good looks would turn heads among the ladies of Reabridge.
Not her head though. The younger man paled next to Gareth Ardleigh who was a picture of virile masculinity. Selfish, scheming, virile masculinity, perhaps, but the arrogance had been tempered by something special in him.
Had always been.
