Page 29 of Under the Champagne Moon
“But you must marry me,” the young Frenchman said. He turned to Gareth. “Tell her she must. It is all arranged,” he said in French. “Why did you not write me? Are you sure this is the right woman? Why, her mother’s grandfather was a chevalier, and look at her, a colorless drab; why, even the modistes of London dress better.”
Fleur’s hands curled into fists and her pulse pounded in her ears as the words rolled over and through her and overwhelmed her.
She didn’t, couldn’tspeakFrench, but she’d understood all of that.
“That’s enough,” Gareth growled.
Still, the Frenchman’s tantrum raged on. “No polite greeting, no smiles, no femininity.” He paced and pounded a table sending the needles, spools, and scissors jumping. His eyes bulged and a vein throbbed in his forehead. “Mon Dieu.” His fingers launched his carefully arranged curls in all directions. He was much like the youngest Bicton-Morledge girl when she was in a nursery room snit.
Fleur smothered a chuckle with her hand and backed away.
“You,” the Frenchman said, poking his finger in Gareth’s chest. “You deceived me, me, who saved your life. You present me with this, this drab, this milkmaid, this?—”
Gareth’s fist flew with a powerful crack and the Frenchman lurched backward knocking over a chair. “You will cease insulting Fleur, here and now,” he shouted.
The Frenchman bounced up, and punches flew back and forth, some landing with sickening thuds. Blood trickled from the Frenchman’s nose and the corner of Gareth’s mouth.
Haskell appeared at the tent’s entrance, a Morris man poking in next to him. Fleur skirted the fight, edging toward the exit.
“Fleur is beautiful.” Gareth punched. “Kind.” He struck again. “And wise.”
The younger man blocked the next punch and landed a blow that struck Gareth’s shoulder, sending him staggering back, gasping.
His shoulder. Was that where he’d been wounded? If so, it was a low blow by a man who would have known of the wound. Fleur took a step closer and stopped.
Eyes wide, the Frenchman advanced. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said. “But—stop hitting me, Ardleigh.”
Fleur touched Gareth’s elbow. “Your shoulder?”
He glanced at her, dazed.
“Will you want the constable?” the Morris man asked.
“Don’t be daft. It’s a gentlemen’s dispute.” Haskell nudged the other man out of the tent.
Gareth nodded, and something passed between Haskell and Gareth.
“All settled?” Gareth quirked a bleeding eyebrow at the Frenchman. “Yes?”
“Oui.” He nodded. “Yes. A thousand pardons, Miss Hardouin. It is a relief that you didn’t understand.”
Gareth turned and looked down at her. “Oh, but you did understand, didn’t you, Fleur?”
Heart pounding, insides shaking, she struggled for a breath to speak. No one else but Dulcinea knew her so well.
“You’re bleeding,” she finally managed to say. She lifted a corner of her shawl, but he covered her hand with his.
“Wait.” He reached into a pocket and dug out a large square of cloth. “Use this.”
It was no more than a rag, sporting stains and holes here and there. And a border of yellow flowers, some of them partially unraveled.
“My lady’s colors,” he said. “My lucky talisman.”
That summer’s day flashed in her memory, and she saw the young Gareth, laughing at her pathetic attempt at needlework. Since then she’d improved, imagining she was just as skilled as her mother had been.
Thoughts of her mother brought more memories: a doll with stitched gray eyes, flaxen silk hair, and a gown embroidered with flowers and bees. Lost, somewhere, in a dark place.
The stitching blurred. The beautiful man before her blurred. She crumpled the cloth in her hand, and her breath came in short, panicked gasps and she backed to the door.
