Adele Ashworth (28 page)

“You don’t know that,” he argued soberly.

“The point is not whether I know this to be true, Jonathan, but simply that I won’t take the risk,” she replied with conviction anew. “I won’t marry a man who doesn’t love me like my father loves my mother. He knows her favorite color, her favorite wine, her favorite flower. He can order dinner for her down to the specifics because he knows exactly what she likes. He knows her moods, her joys and fears, and adores her because of the good things and in spite of the bad.”

Leaning toward him, she clutched her pillow with a brilliant excitement she could no longer contain. “I want love to be fun and exciting and new; something shared—a romantic . . . secret between just the two of us. I want my husband to know that I loathe embroidery and riding horses and gossip between ladies; that I adore chocolate and dark, rainy days and Shakespearean comedies, and the thrill and sparkle of the city at night; that my favorite color is rich, midnight blue; that I’ve always wanted to attend the opera in Milan and dream of one day traveling to China.”

In a rush, the enthusiasm fled her face as she shook her head in small movements of contempt. “Geoffrey Blythe doesn’t know these things about me. He knows I’m from a good family and that I have a decent dowry, which would likely pay off any future debts of his if he doesn’t lose it first. Even worse, he’d never care to learn my interests and desires. All that matters to him, and all the other gentlemen who call on me, is that I was born of quality and will bear hearty sons. Yet my mother would marry me to any of them tomorrow. If they don’t love me for who I am, what’s to keep any one of them from growing bored with me and the marriage bed and moving on to another? My mother doesn’t know that my father loves autumn in the country, adores long walks through the forest, and reads poetry when he’s worried. She doesn’t
love
him, and I won’t marry for anything less.”

Her passion entranced him; her sweetness rocked him. He couldn’t find his voice after such an intimate disclosure of hurts and longings, and even anger at the indignities of life. He stared into large, beautiful eyes, felt the heat of her beside him, aching anew to take her into his arms and comfort her completely. He understood the reasons behind her conclusions, and yet he wanted to shake her into believing in him, in the truths of his past, the nature of his desires, and the longings in his own heart. But right now, more than he’d ever wanted anything else, he wanted Natalie to trust him.

From instinct more than calculation, he boldly began to caress her neck in soft, wispy movements. She didn’t react outwardly to the touch, just continued to stare at him through the measured stillness. He knew she was thinking about what she’d just said to him, attempting to gauge his reaction, waiting for his response.

“Do you know,” he whispered very slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, “just how badly I want to make love to you? Not to your body, Natalie, but to you? Do you know how hard it is to wait for something wonderful?”

Her determination faltered at those words, or perhaps just his confidence, her eyes betraying the first real flicker of doubt, of charged emotions and confusion of purpose.

And from that small hesitation on her part, which he considered to be a positive response, and from his own surge of raw need, he took the ties by his fingers and gently pulled until they gave way, opening the very top of her gown.

Her breathing became shallow, but she was captivated—by his daring, by cravings within her that she was, with each passing day, finding increasingly difficult to resist.

With cautious reverence coupled with a nervousness he’d never felt before, Jonathan placed his palm directly on her skin between her breasts, taking only seconds to savor the heated silkiness beneath his hand and fingers. Then, before she could protest or move, he slid it to the side and covered her bare breast completely.

She sucked in a clear, sharp breath from the contact, but beyond that she remained still, focused, eyes fusing with his—not from fear but with a growing sense of wonder.

His throat tightened; his body ached with an incredible urgency. Gently he stroked her flesh, back and forth and in soft circles, as he brushed her nipple to a hard, round point against his thumb and fingers.

At last she swallowed with difficulty, eyes gleaming with tears before she finally closed them, serenely, grasping his wrist and pulling his hand out from beneath her nightgown. But most perfect of all was that she didn’t let it go. She clung to it, cradling his arm tightly against her chest, between her breasts, as if it were a priceless thing she feared losing.

Jonathan remained still beside her, watching her for a long time as she succumbed to sleep, feeling the steady beating of her heart against his hand.

Chapter 13

J
onathan stepped through the main doors of the Sorbonne and out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Slowly he descended the steps past students in their nearly uniform dress of dark-blue trousers and black jackets, toward the streets filled with low-income workers, aspiring artists and writers, and elegant gentlemen in plaid trousers and beautifully embroidered waistcoats as they sauntered along the boulevards with carefree distinction.

The political climate throughout Europe was becoming increasingly unsettled. There were grave economic problems in his own country as well as on the Continent. Paris itself was a mass of unrest—talk of revolution and reform during both private and public meetings between the Legitimists, Radicals, Republicans; between peasants and artisans; and of course among those of the middle class. Tensions continued to mount in the city, which was the sole reason Jonathan had found them lodgings outside of it, much to Natalie’s irritation, a woman who adored the excitement of it at any time.

His first stop had been to the office of the French National Guard, which had turned up little information regarding Paul Simard and his family. The Guard had its own degree of problems, having been neglected by Louis Philippe for seven full years now. Louis Philippe was king of the French—the Citizen King—not king of France, and as a man he loathed conflict to the point of ignoring those who would protect his throne should unrest grow to actual rebellion. Jonathan didn’t know if this was good or bad. Indeed, he really had no opinion on the matter, except to understand how such insistence on peace at any cost could undermine the man’s power in a country that reveled in demonstrations and reform. Louis Philippe had allies in England, of course, as their own Queen Victoria approved of him in general, if one could ignore the scandal only last year when he insisted on the marriage of his son to the sister of the queen of Spain, and she had once welcomed him to Windsor, bestowing on him the Order of the Garter. Now there were scandals anew of a domestic nature, regarding France’s electoral mismanagement and the bribery of Louis Philippe’s minister of war.

Things were progressing toward a negative end. It could be felt in the air. The French people of nearly all classes were restless, and the opposition was beginning to organize, each group espousing its individual cause through angry speeches given during banquets devoted to that purpose, arranged by various political groups. Sir Guy had been correct. The current king was losing the battle, and in Jonathan’s opinion it would only be a matter of time before civil unrest turned to violence and Louis Philippe stepped down to certain exile or was assassinated by those with influence like Henri Lemire.

Jonathan stood on the crowded street corner, dressed in the same business attire he wore the day he’d met with Madeleine, only mildly uncomfortable in the mid-July heat. Luck had been with them on their rather uneventful journey to the capital city, as the last week had remained overcast and unusually cool for the middle of summer, the sun making its first appearance in days just two hours ago.

He watched the movement on the city street for several minutes, only vaguely aware of the congestion of people, the shouting and traffic noise, of the smell of unwashed bodies and horse manure commingling with those from street vendor carts overflowing with roasted chicken and lamb, baked breads, and freshly picked flowers.

Jonathan had to admit he was now deeply troubled—not so much by what he’d learned during his thirty minutes in the university, which was disturbing enough, but by his conscience. Three days of investigation in Paris had brought him little word on Robert Simard. He had started at the National Guard, hoping to gain information about the man’s father as a former officer, only to learn almost nothing except that his son, Robert, had once been a professor of letters at the Sorbonne. And so he had journeyed there with high hopes this afternoon, the soonest he was able to secure an appointment with the chair, but his hopes had consequently been cut to pieces when he learned Robert Simard had been living quite happily as a well-respected teacher, devoted husband, and loving father of six in Switzerland for the last five years. This, then, could only mean one of two things: Natalie was mistaken about the love letters—where or who they were coming from—or she had lied to him.

Jonathan thrust his hands in his pockets, turned, and slowly began to walk the street—south, he thought, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He would need to hire transportation back to the inn where they were staying now, and that was several miles out of the city, but first he wanted to think.

The last few days with Natalie had been difficult for him. His feelings for her were confusing, and, if he considered them honestly, starting to run very deep. Yet he was unsure of the reason for this, or what exactly it would mean for his future. Their attraction to each other only seemed to intensify by the hour, and Jonathan was fairly certain this would not be quenched by a simple bedding. He’d all but concluded they would be lovers, and he also knew that deep inside of her she realized this as well, regardless of whether she chose to acknowledge it.

Yet what tore at his gut was knowing just how adamantly opposed she was to even the
thought
of being married to him. Her convictions were involved, and to Jonathan’s growing concern, he was starting to think that even if he seduced her, which he was nearly convinced he could do, she would still not consent to becoming his wife. He could force the issue, but that would likely only produce an irreparable rift between them, and from that she would never learn to trust him, nor to love him as a man. She liked him, enjoyed him, desired him passionately, but that was as far as she allowed her feelings to go. He now had to admit it would please him tremendously if Natalie actually fell in love with him, and he assumed he felt that way because she was the first woman he’d ever known who was so thoroughly opposed to it. If she loved him, and admitted it to herself, she would probably give in and marry him, which was the outcome he desired. But he didn’t know how to argue her stubbornness, and her firm assumption that he would ultimately hurt her. She didn’t trust him with her feelings, and he had no idea what to do about that.

Jonathan groaned uncomfortably, stopping in mid-stride, which almost caused a rotund woman with a child in each hand to collide with him, though he hardly noticed this as he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, deep in thought.

It all would have been so simple if Robert Simard still lived in Paris and had been blackmailing her mother as Natalie had concluded. The letters themselves would have been easy to steal. What bothered him most about this, however, was the idea that she might have fabricated the entire story. But for what purpose? To get him to take her to Paris? Even if she had political ties and a desire to see the fall of the current king, why would she need to be here amid the unrest to witness it directly? Why would she resort to prevarication and bribery when he would so soon discover the story of her mother’s adulterous affair to be untrue? She wasn’t dim-witted, and just the idea of her going to such trouble seemed far-fetched, even ridiculous to him.

No, Jonathan was certain, after careful consideration, that she had told him the truth as she believed it. And she hadn’t invented the tender display of emotion that had so sharply affected him their last night in Marseilles. She was pained by the entire matter, of that he was sure, and even without her own attempt at deception and blackmail he would have helped her. The necklace she now kept hidden in the bottom of a trunk was meaningless to him. It was her innocence, her respect and admiration, her soul that he prized.

So, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk in the center of Paris, the late sun gradually falling behind tall buildings, the sounds and smells of clopping horses and bustling pedestrians filling the air, Jonathan found himself despondent, feeling helplessly alone, and unsure what to do next. Mostly, he realized, he was consumed with the discomfiting notion that he would soon have to inform Natalie that he had failed her. That’s where the weight of his conscience kicked in.

He had no idea what to tell her. Robert Simard was a married teacher living in Switzerland, making a decent living and raising a family. The chance that he was the blackmailer was remote. The man would have very little to gain and much to lose if he were discovered or arrested. That meant someone else had the letters, or said he did, and was using Robert Simard’s name precisely because he knew the Frenchman was living quietly in another country. This scenario made far more sense. But who? He would likely never discover this. The only way he could possibly gain more information would be to talk to Natalie’s mother himself, and he absolutely dreaded that idea. It was also possible this was all contained in England, that someone unknown to Natalie’s mother had learned of the affair—and the subsequent correspondence—and was blackmailing her from the comfort of his or her quaint English parlor. But again, there were too many questions, not enough leads, and nothing he could do in Paris without more details.

Jonathan vacantly stared down the street, stalling. Natalie awaited him, hopeful that his day in the city would prove to be productive, and she would be crushed to learn he didn’t have the letters in his possession. What unsettled him most, though, was the concern that when she learned he had nothing to give her, she would become angered at his incompetence, consider him a liar, or worse a fool, pack her bags, and return to England without him. He had enough of an ego to realize he wouldn’t take that chance. In France he was essentially in charge of her; she was dependent upon him. In England, if she wasn’t his wife, she could refuse to see him altogether, and that would be the end of everything.