Page 3 of Under the Champagne Moon
She glanced at the small smile turning up her employer’s rouged lips. “I would have liked one more day of rest after our journey, but I suppose we must strike while the iron is hot. Today Sherington Manor and tomorrow?—”
“Yes, yes.” Interrupting was rude, but Fleur’s nerves were on edge. She’d never pursued matrimony before. “Since this visit to Reabridge was your idea in the first place, madame.”
Dulcinea snorted, something she only did in private with Fleur. “Rife with prosperous older men, it is. A better hunting ground for you, gel than any other place we might have chosen.”
Or been able to afford.
It would at least be a new one. Ten years before, she’d left Reabridge, naught but a scrawny girl of twelve, cast off by her frustrated guardian to serve as the companion of an aging relation who lived with a scholarly cousin in Staffordshire.
She’d grown to be a woman there, one not allowed to indulge in sulking. From the very first day, Dulcinea had poked, prodded, and even laughed at her silent stubbornness. Until the damn broke and Fleur talked, shouted, screamed back.
Dulcinea had allowed it. She’d listened. She’d drawn out the hurts, the resentments, the sadness. She’d made Fleur talk. She’d paid attention, pushed her to learn from books and intelligent conversations, taught her to manage a household.
As Fleur reached womanhood, Dulcinea shared more—naughty stories from her youth, lessons about men, about how to deflect the unsavory suitors an attractive young woman with no dowry or male relative might expect.
Dulcinea had saved her.
They’d reached Bicton Grange the previous evening, avisitarranged by Dulcinea, fortuitously since the two of them had just been put out of their prior home by the death of Basil Quidenham, Dulcinea’s cousin. Such were the vicissitudes of fate for widows and orphans.
It had, however, been clear upon their arrival that Mrs. Helena Bicton-Morledge positively needed them. She’d aged considerably in the years since Fleur last saw her, and was now immensely with child—twins, Mrs. Knollwood suspected. Plus, the Bicton-Morledge girls, three misses ranging from sixteen to four years of age, were running amuck, and the remaining servants were stretched thin.
Fleur would take the young chits and the household in hand this very day, as soon as she’d begun this campaign to see to her own future.
Twenty minutes later,she excused herself from the stiff settee and the overly warm drawing room of Sherington Manor where their hostess, Mrs. Smythe, poured tea and made excuses for the Sherington men. Neither of the Sheringtons was at home for the ladies, but the cousin was more than happy to have the likes of Lady Ixworth, the granddaughter of a duke, visiting.
While Dulcinea probed Mrs. Smythe about Sherington’s health, Fleur decided to act. She waved off the offer of a guiding hand to the retiring room. She’d visited Sherington Manor on one or two occasions as a child and knew where to find the water closet.
Her quest, however, was the location of the male voices echoing from another part of the house. Laurence would be there, maybe with his steward discussing the harvest, and perhaps even his father would be present. The men must be in high spirits for their voices to carry all the way to the drawing room, and wasn’t that interesting? They were probably happy to pawn their guests off on their middle-aged cousin.
She arrived at a paneled door that fairly quivered with masculine vibrations. As her hand touched the knob, a man’s laugh made her pause. She pressed her ear to the painted wood.
CHAPTERTWO
“Iwillshow you the art of sabrage, Laurence. Only but watch my technique.”
A shiver passed through her, followed by heat that turned her hands and cheeks clammy. The voice, the cocky intonation… She paused, gathered her composure, and then turned the knob.
The door opened on silent hinges, cigar smoke wafting to meet her. Silver flashed. An object shot out and bounced against the fireplace shovel with a loud bang, and the air bubbled with the scent of fermented grapes.
A well-dressed gentleman sat behind a heavy desk, cigar in hand. The other, his curly dark locks in disarray, coatless, and with very fine legs encased in tight buckskins, stood before the desk, his back to the door.
“Dans la victoire,’’ the man in buckskins proclaimed, “tu mérites du champagne, et dans la défaite tu en as besoin.’’
In victory you deserve champagne, and in defeat you need it?
Her stomach twisted, thoughts stirring in her muddled mind. It had sounded likehim, but it couldn’t be, could it? Nor was it Thaddeus—he’d fallen at Waterloo.
Hadhelived?
If it wasn’thim…would Sherington be hosting a blastedFrenchman?
Laurence—surely the weak-chinned blond fellow behind the deskwasLaurence—noticed her. Thaddeus had been the handsomer of the two boys. Poor Thaddeus.
Laurence’s smile fell away as he stood and set aside his cigar. The man with him, the man clutching a foaming bottle in one hand and a saber in the other, turned his head. His lips widened and softened, and his eyes darkened with what she recognized as a man’s carnal interest.
And then they widened with shock. A smile dawned, flooding his face with something that looked like relief.
Her own heart thundered.Gareth. ThiswasGareth, grown into a man, with thighs that would send Dulcinea into embarrassing public ecstasies.
