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  Yes, his body was exulting, yes, this was what he wanted. This was what he needed. His hands explored her body and he thrilled to feel her hands on him. He pulled her closer, crushing the silly wire cage she wore under her dress. It could not impede him. He could feel the roundness of her buttocks and he pressed her to him. That gasp she gave surely meant that she could feel him too.

  Her body fit so perfectly against his. They were made for each other. This was what he had been seeking all his life, this closeness, this woman. Time and space vanished. They were alone in the universe.

  A raucous cry followed by a metallic clamor and the yowl of an angry cat shattered the quiet, shocking him into consciousness.

  It took a moment to recall where he was. With something like horror, he realized that he had pulled up Marguerite’s skirt until his hand was on her thigh and he was pressed against her. Good God! He had her pushed against a wall in an alley.

  Trembling, he removed his hand to let her skirt fall back into place but wrapped the arm around her waist to keep her close. His forehead rested against hers. Minutes went by while he tried to get his breathing under control. She was trembling as well, and her breathing was no steadier than his. Whether he should take comfort from that was not clear. He could feel her shiver within the circle of his arms. Unless that was his own trembling.

  “Well,” he finally managed, “that was a surprise.” Oh brilliant, Ned. Could you manage to sound like any more of a fool? “I hadn’t realized…” Better and better. How romantic. That’s the way to woo a lady.

  Perhaps Marguerite was feeling no more articulate than he was, because her response was a little sort of huff, barely a sound, and certainly not a word. When he managed to lift his head enough to look at her, her eyes were dazed, just coming into focus, and aimed at his shoulder, not his face.

  “No, I…” She licked her lips and tried again. “I wasn’t expecting… I had no idea.”

  It was good to know that he had not been alone in his failure to realize. But there were certain practicalities that required immediate attention. They were, after all, still in a lane of the village. Quiet, but hardly private.

  She untied the ribbons of her cap to replace it on her head, but before she could, he reached out and fingered a lock of her hair that had come loose.

  “Pretty. So soft.”

  Her flush deepened. “You also need to…” She gestured at his disordered neck cloth and waistcoat.

  He ought to feel a certain embarrassment, he supposed, but he couldn’t manage it. Instead a grin kept tugging at the corners of his mouth. A sense of the rightness of what had just happened buoyed him up. It was unlikely that she would appreciate the pleasure he felt in the realization that she had been an active participant in this, this tempest that had swept over them.

  She was looking down the alley with some concern. “Oh dear. Your hat…”

  He followed her glance. Oh dear indeed. His hat had landed in a puddle. Since it had not rained today and the road was dry, he did not care to think what it might be a puddle of. “I think I shall leave it. Should anyone ask, a determined breeze captured it.”

  Strange, that he should be able to speak so calmly, and even make a small joke. One that even won him a small smile, though she would still not look him in the face. In fact, she stepped back from him—not far, only a step or so, but still it was a step in the wrong direction.

  He reached out to touch her shoulder. “We need to talk, you know.”

  She nodded, a brief nod, barely acknowledging his words. “Delphine…”

  Delphine? Surely she did not think he was interested in her cousin—or perhaps she did. “Delphine is a pretty child,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but she is a child.”

  Marguerite nodded. “And she must be taken care of.”

  He was not sure just what she meant.

  “She must be taken care of by me,” she said, clarifying her position.

  “If you wish.” They could certainly take care of her cousin, if that was what Marguerite wanted.

  “It is not a matter of what I wish. It is the promise I made to my mother as she was dying. Delphine is my responsibility.”

  Now she looked directly at him, but it was almost a challenge.

  “I would be perfectly willing to share that responsibility,” he said. “We can take care of her, and of your aunt and Horace as well.”

  Shaking her head, she turned away. “No. You do not understand.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  His voice seemed to come from far away. He was saying something, but she was not paying attention. She was trying to make sense of what had just happened. And trying to keep on her feet.

  It was not possible. It was as if the world had shifted on its axis.

  She was Marguerite Benda. She was a musician. She had responsibilities. There were people who depended on her, people she had to protect. She could not…she simply could not.

  She did not recognize herself.

  How could she have behaved so? Not even like a courtesan. Like a trollop. Like one of the whores who offer themselves on street corners for a few sous. And with this man. This English lord, she reminded herself. An aristocrat, for God’s sake. Hadn’t aristocrats caused her enough trouble? Had she lost all sense?

  What had she been thinking? Obviously, she had not been thinking. She must have lost her mind. She could very easily have lost her virtue—that was certain. Lost it? She would have thrown it away gladly. What she had done was simply horrifying.

  Oh, but it had been wonderful.

  She couldn’t deny it. Never had she experienced anything like that embrace. She had found herself—no, she had lost herself in a maelstrom of sensations. When he stopped and drew back from her, she had wanted to weep from frustration. She had felt bereft.

  When he had dragged her off to feed her tea and cakes, and their hands had touched, when he had admired her brooch, and his fingers had brushed her cheek—she should have known where she was heading.

  The heat rose in her face as she remembered. She should be ashamed of herself, and she was. But that was not all. It was not shame she felt, or not only shame. It was also delight, a heady joy that was all-powerful and at the same time terrifying.

  Madness. That’s what it was. She had lost her mind. There was no doubt about it. Nothing else could explain it. She could not have such feelings—it could not be permitted. She had responsibilities.

  Could she possibly be more confused?

  A stumble sent her not quite into his arms, but it was only because his arm caught her that she did not end up sprawled in the street. That would have been all she needed to complete her humiliation.

  He was holding her arm. It felt like a possessive gesture, and now that she thought about it, he had been holding her arm for quite a while. She had actually been leaning on him. This was not good. They had left the lane and were already out of the village, and she hadn’t even noticed. This was definitely not good. It was as if she had put her trust in him, and she must not do that. She dared not trust anyone, and above all it would be lunacy to trust an aristocrat—and an aristocrat who threw her into such turmoil.

  Ah, how she longed to be able to trust him!

  Suddenly panicked, she pulled her arm away. “Where are you taking me?”

  He seemed taken aback by her question, but answered calmly enough. “I thought we might find some privacy down by the shore.”

  “Privacy?” Her panic increased. “Why do we need privacy?”

  He looked at her with amusement. “To talk. Just to talk. And we must talk, Marguerite. You do see that, don’t you?”

  He was speaking to her in a soothing tone, as if she were a child. Irritation vanquished the panic. Of course they needed to talk. She looked around. He was not, perhaps, a complete fool. Of course he was not. Pretending that he was foolish would do nothing to ameliorate the situation. It would not even salvage her pride.

  This was a good place for a private di
scussion. The road led along the shore, and only some dunes and outcroppings of rock separated them from the water’s edge. If they moved off the road, closer to the rocks, they would still be visible, but the noise of the waves would make it impossible for anyone to hear them.

  “Very well. We will talk.” She set out toward the nearest rocks that looked likely to provide a place to sit. She hoped he was following her, but she didn’t look back. He might still be smiling that amused smile, and she didn’t want to see it.

  Ideally, she would be striding proudly across the sand, but the sand wasn’t cooperating. To her annoyance, it kept shifting under her feet, and the narrow heels on her boots kept slipping and turning. A helping hand from the gentleman behind her would actually be helpful, but she would be damned before she asked for it. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on getting over the dunes to the rocks without actually falling on her face.

  As soon as she crested the dunes, the breeze blowing off the sea caught at her cloak, making it flap around her. It wasn’t a fierce wind, but it came in sudden unexpected gusts. Cold gusts that made her shiver. Good. That would help her to keep her mind on reality.

  When she finally reached the rocks, she was relieved to see several flat spots and sat down on one. It had not looked damp, but it was cold, with a chill that penetrated right through all the layers of her clothing. She pulled her cloak closed against the wind and fingered her mother’s brooch, drawing strength from it.

  Lord Edward was right behind her, but instead of seating himself on the rock across from her, he remained on his feet, positioning himself to block the wind from her. Why did he have to be so considerate? Why did he have to look at her with those kind, smiling eyes? Why couldn’t he behave like an arrogant, privileged aristocrat? He was just making everything more difficult.

  “Is it too cold here? I had not realized how windy it would be on this side of the dunes.”

  “Not at all,” she said, turning slightly to avoid looking at his eyes. “I am not, after all, some delicate flower.” Like Delphine.

  “No,” he agreed, though it sounded more like a question than agreement.

  “What happened before—it will not happen again.” She kept her tone firm.

  “No?” There was no doubt about the amusement this time.

  She flashed an angry look at him before turning away again. “No. That was an aberration, a mistake. It must not be allowed to happen again.”

  “An aberration, was it? A mistake? I don’t…”

  “Yes, an aberration. You may find this amusing, but I do not do things like that. I cannot. And I cannot permit it to happen again.” She pushed herself to her feet and glared at him. He was too close, but at least while she was standing she felt at less of a disadvantage.

  “My dear, I fear you are mistaken.” He took hold of her hands, lifted them to his mouth and kissed them. “It was not an aberration but a revelation, and I think I can promise you that it will happen frequently in the future.”

  “No!” She tried to pull her hands away, but he held them firmly in his. “No. That is impossible. I am not that sort of woman. Nothing like that has ever happened before.” She had to make him understand that this had been some sort of insanity that had overcome her. “I do not behave that way.”

  “No more do I,” he replied. “I know you seem to think that this sort of behavior is something aristocrats indulge in all the time, but I assure you that I do not. And I also assure you that what happened between us back there is something I have never experienced before.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. Now that she looked, he also seemed shaken. Far less sure of himself than she had thought at first.

  “Never before,” he repeated. “It seems we have both been caught up in something outside of our usual experience.”

  Outside of her experience, certainly. She turned away to look at the sea. It was not truly stormy, but rough enough so that white crests topped the waves. She shook her head. “This must not happen again.”

  His had cupped her cheek and he turned her to face him. “There is no way we can assure that. I don’t think we even want that. I know I don’t.” His face was serious as he looked at her. “I think the most sensible thing for us to do is marry as soon as possible.”

  She was unable to move for a moment. Then her legs collapsed under her and she sat back down abruptly. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, I think it quite possible that I have just found it.” A bemused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “You are a madman,” she said, trying to sound calm. “You are an English aristocrat. Such as you do not marry women like me.”

  “Only if they are extremely fortunate.”

  Would he never stop smiling? “Do you not understand? I am a musician, not one of your aristocratic ladies. I perform before the public. I do not simper and giggle and hide behind a fan. I go out on a stage and play before an audience.”

  He nodded. “And judging by what I have heard of your playing, you do it brilliantly. As for me, I am a scholar, and I spend my days in dusty rooms surrounded by dusty volumes, much as I have been doing here at Morvan. Do you mind? It’s not terribly exciting, I know, and many find it dull and boring, but it’s what I do.”

  She stared at him in bemusement. Did he understand nothing? “My lord…”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that. Only strangers do, you know. My name is Edward, and my friends all call me Ned.”

  “My lord,” she repeated firmly, ignoring his sigh, “you do not seem to understand the difference in our stations. You are an aristocrat…” She held up a hand when he wanted to interrupt. “I know you possess only a courtesy title, but your father is a marquis, and an important nobleman in England. Young men of such families may enjoy brief associations with actresses and such, but they do not marry these women.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” he burst out, “you talk as if all artists are no different from courtesans.”

  “In the eyes of the world, that is precisely true. Your family would be horrified by such an alliance.”

  He grinned at her. “On the contrary, my mother and sisters would be ecstatic at such an alliance. They haven’t said anything, but they have been terrified that I would bring home a pretty but brainless ninny.” He paused and ducked his head sheepishly. “Like Delphine.”

  She ignored that last comment. “And your father?”

  “He would be ready to burst with pride at your accomplishments.” Ned paused briefly and cocked his head thoughtfully. “Now, my oldest brother, Pip, he tends to get a bit stuffy, but the rest of the family will soon set him straight.”

  “How have you survived so long, to the ripe old age of what, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-eight,” he said stiffly.

  “Forgive me, twenty-eight, with no notion of how the world works?” She shook her head.

  “No, forgive me, but you are talking nonsense. ‘Such as you, such as I’—where do you get such antiquated notions? Unless…” He stopped abruptly. “You must forgive me. I had not considered that there might be someone else.”

  Now she was confused. “Someone else?”

  “That letter—the one so secret that you had to retrieve it from the village rather than have it delivered to the chateau.”

  The letter? She reached into her pocket and felt it there, a bit crumpled but still there. She had forgotten all about it. How could she have forgotten? She began to laugh. He thought it a letter from a lover? As if there had ever been room in her life for love affairs. Especially now, when everyone depended on her.

  She pulled it out of her pocket and stared at it, her laughter fading. So much depended on what it said. If it was bad news, what could she do? How could she take care of them—not just Delphine, but Tante Héloise and Horace?

  And this arrogant lord thought she had nothing more to worry about than a clandestine love affair. She thrust the letter at him. “Here. Read it yourself.”

  Chapt
er Seventeen

  He took the letter. Really, he had no choice, though he would much rather not. He handled it gingerly, as if it were a serpent.

  Was this a test of some sort? What he would like to do was burn the damn thing. He was chagrined to realize how much it bothered him that this letter should matter so much to her. After that kiss he knew that nothing mattered to him as much as she did, and he wanted her to feel the same way. He could hardly say that, but he needed some explanation of his reluctance. He dredged up a schoolboy sense of honor and said, “It is addressed to you. I should not read your private letter.”

  “You should if I give you permission to do so. If I insist that you do so. It will be much easier for me to explain things to you once you have read it.”

  The letter seemed to grow heavier in his hand. He stared down at it. Did he really want to know what was in it? The writing was French—hardly unexpected, since they were in France—and a man’s handwriting. Not, he thought, a young man. Was that better or worse?

  “Are you sure? I have no right to pry into your private affairs…” His voice trailed off as she gave him a mocking look. No right, perhaps, but they both knew that he wanted very much to pry. What else had he been doing when he followed her here to the village in the first place? For days now, weeks even, he had been trying to discover her secrets. If that wasn’t prying, what was?

  He set his face and tore open the envelope.

  Ma chère Marguerite…

  His jaw tightened. It was in French as he had expected. His accent might leave much to be desired, but he could read the language with no difficulty. Still, My dear Marguerite? That was a more familiar salutation than he would have liked to see.

  He glanced over at her, but she was looking off into the distance, tensed, as if fearing to hear what the writer had to say.

  He returned to the letter with a scowl, but that soon tempered into confusion. “He says that Paris is still difficult. Louvois has apparently made his views known, and his influence is enough to frighten people.” When he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she simply nodded, as if she had expected nothing else.