Page 4 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Petal,” he cried. “It’syou.”
“Flora?” Laurence stepped closer, his gaze traveling over her like an annoying insect buzzing around. “I haven’t seen you in years. Is itreallyyou? All grown up?”
The tone was lascivious and didn’t deserve a reply.
Laurence rounded the desk and scoffed. “Don’t tell me you still don’t speak, Flora.”
That again. The fool.
“My name,” she said, “is Fleur. Not Flora. Nor is it Petal.”
Gareth’s eyes twinkled, flecks of gold sparking among the brown, and his whole face lit from within as if he was holding in one of his hearty laughs, like the one that exploded out of him the last time she saw him.
Did he still have the handkerchief she’d labored over? He’d probably thrown it into the fire the same day he’d received it.
And that was fine. Gareth had no place in her plans.
“Welcome back from the wars, Ardleigh.” Broad shouldered and narrow waisted, his only visible scar traced one jawline. Were there others?She’dnever know. “I see you’re in blessedly good health. But Mr. Sherington, may I offer my condolences to you on your brother’s death? I’m sorry for your loss.”
Laurence dipped his head, and a cloud passed over Gareth’s face, ever so briefly.
He hadn’t changed. Nothing could shake him out of his native good humor for long. “You may both address me as Miss Hardouin,” she said. “Do please come along to the drawing room, Mr. Sherington and be introduced to Lady Dulcinea Ixworth. She is most anxious to meet you, and to renew her acquaintance with your father. Might you persuade him to join us?”
* * *
Gareth allowedhimself a smile at her boldness, Laurence’s gaping mouth, and the fact that she hadn’t included Gareth in the commanding invitation. Fleur was as much a pert little baggage as ever, more so now that she was a gabby one, and she’d grown in all the best ways, from the golden curls peeking from under her bonnet to the trim ankles under her too-short skirts. And all the curves in between.
Especially those.
If Thad were here to see how the skinny little chit had grown…
But he wasn’t, dammit. Gareth had been the lucky one, in battle, in his rescue, even in his case of the precious Vin de Comête.
And now this: Fleur Hardouin was right here. His search was over. He could send a letter to Etienne Marceau telling the Frenchman he’d found him his bride, and then be free to be on his own way.
“Beg pardon, Miss, er Hardouin,” Laurence said, interrupting his thoughts, “but Ardleigh and I are?—”
“Oh, why don’t we join the ladies, Laurence?” Gad, she was lovely, and he wanted to know more about her. He had to make sure she was the right Mademoiselle Hardouin, didn’t he? Not that there was any doubt—she looked astonishingly like the miniature of her mother. “That is, if I’m included in the invitation.”
Fleur waved a regal hand. “Do bring the champagne,” she said. “It is a particular favorite of my lady when she can get it.”
He chuckled. “Is it indeed? Then I shall look forward to hearing her opinion on the vintage.” This particular bottle was not the Vin de Comête. He’d smuggled in a case of the coveted 1811 vintage champagne, a hedge against poverty in the unknowable future. Putting aside his saber, he grasped the bottle in one hand and set his other lightly to her elbow, inhaling the delicate scent of floral perfume. Not lavender—his old nurse had reeked of the stuff. Not roses either.
He dipped his head her way and sniffed. “Mmm. Lilac?”
Her eyes turned a steely gray, and the slight wash of color creeping up her pale neck cheered him beyond reason. Fleur was a flower, but not a fragile one, and not one to blush easily at an importuning man’s flattery.
Or… he suspected that the cynical young girl had not grown into that sort of woman. What did he really know of her in the years since he’d last seen her?
She was still a Miss Hardouin, so she hadn’t married.
“Come along.” True to form, she quick-marched out of the library with him tagging along attached to her arm.
“Who is this Lady Dulcinea Ixworth?” he asked.
She sent him a side-wise condescending look, the sort you’d bestow on a child who’d asked a stupid question.
Another grin tugged at his lips, and he swallowed a laugh. He’d always enjoyed young Petal’s silent testiness, but in Fleur the woman? The challenge was as intoxicating as champagne.
