Conor's Way (54 page)

She grasped a fold of muslin in her hand and
wondered what woman had worn this dress. She thought of Monsieur
Dumond's unkept garden, crumbling castle, and torn clothes. She
wondered why he seemed to have no servants. She thought of the
rumors surrounding him and wondered what secrets hid behind those
enigmatic dark eyes.

Suddenly, she had an idea.

***

Alexandre leaned his back against the stone
wall of the courtyard and stared at the weeds flourishing between
the paving stones. In his mind's eye was a picture of violet eyes
and a blue muslin dress and lavender in bloom. He closed his eyes
and fought back, struggling until the image disappeared.

It was the dress. He should have given all
her clothes away. But he had not been able to give away any of
Anne-Marie's things. Her dresses still hung in the armoire of her
bedchamber, her undergarments still lay in her chest of drawers,
her jewel case still sat on the bedside table covered with dust. It
had been three years since Alexandre had been in her bedchamber,
three years since she had died there. After the funeral, he had
stepped out of that room and locked the door, never opening it
again. Until today.

“Monsieur Dumond?”

Alexandre opened his eyes. There was the
dress again, on the wrong woman. He straightened away from the
wall, coming out of his reverie with difficulty, trying not to look
at her. “You should be resting, mademoiselle,” he said, fixing his
eyes on the lavender blooming in the courtyard.

“Tess.”

“
Pardon
?” He looked at her then. The
dress hung on her thin frame, except around the gentle swell of her
abdomen, and the hem swept the ground. There was a bit of color in
her cheeks, though, and her eyes, dark green and huge, were clear
as they met his.

“My name is Tess.” She gave him no last name.
Instead, she turned away and looked about her. “Your gardener
should be dismissed.”

Over her shoulder, she cast him an inquiring
glance, probing for information that he had no intention of
providing. “I will make a note of it.”

She straightened her shoulders and turned
toward him. “Monsieur, thank you for your help. I am grateful.
Truly, I don't know what I would have done if you had not found
me.”

He shrugged, but he did not answer.

“I realize you know nothing about me, but as
you can see, I am…” She paused as if searching for the right words.
“I am in trouble.”

If she hoped for chivalry, she’d be
disappointed.

“I'm concerned about my child,” she went on
in the wake of his silence. “I don't know what to do.”

“I would think the solution to your problem
would be obvious, mademoiselle. Go home.”

Her face went pale, and he caught a fleeting
glimpse of the fear that had been so evident during her illness.
She shook her head. “I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have no home,” she answered in a low
voice, turning her face away as if to hide her expression.

So that was the way of it? He had guessed as
much. A harsh father who had thrown her out of the house, a
dishonorable lover who had refused to marry her, and a family
scandal. “What will you do, then?”

She met his gaze and took a deep breath.
Instead of answering, she asked, “You live alone here, monsieur? No
family? No servants?”

He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He said
nothing.

Tess continued, “I would be very grateful if
you would allow me to stay. I could keep house and—”

“No.” The word was flat, unemotional, and
final.

“I know how to run a household,
monsieur.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged with a slight nod,
“but I need no one to run my household.” The last word was said
with deliberate mockery as he gestured to the overgrown courtyard.
“I prefer it as it is.”

“I could cook for you.”

“I cook for myself.”

“Perhaps I could tend your garden?”

He glanced down pointedly at her swollen
abdomen. “Not for long.”

Heat stained her cheeks, but she still didn't
give up. “Well, I could mend your clothes, then.” She gestured
toward his torn shirt. “That's something you obviously can't do for
yourself. And I can clean and keep house for you. I beg your pardon
if this sounds rude, but you seem to need a housekeeper. And I need
a place to stay.”

He folded his arms across his chest and met
her eyes. “You do not seem to understand, mademoiselle. I don't
want you here.”

“I won't cause you any trouble. Please,
monsieur, please let me stay.”

He stared at her long and hard, giving
nothing away. When he spoke, his voice was harsh even to his own
ears. “Why should I?”

“Because,” she said simply, “I have nowhere
else to go.”

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The Seduction

Chapter Two

Margaret hummed under her breath as she
studied the couples waltzing across the parquet floor. She watched
them from her hiding place behind the tall potted palms and ferns
that screened a quiet alcove. From here, she hoped to watch the
dancing and enjoy the music while avoiding all the men Cornelia
insisted on introducing to her.

She took a sip from her fourth glass of
champagne. A figure in black suddenly caught sight of her peeking
between the palms. Margaret groaned in dismay and stepped back
deeper into the alcove, but not before she saw Roger begin walking
toward her. She gulped down two hasty swallows of champagne as he
came around the palms.

"I thought I saw you hiding back here," he
said. "Have I told you how lovely you look this evening?"

"Yes. At least twice."

She watched him struggle for something else
to say. He finally managed it. "I'm sorry if I keep repeating
myself. But it's true. You look quite beautiful."

"You give me many compliments, Lord Hymes."
She took another swallow from her glass. Lovely stuff, champagne.
She decided to find out how far Roger was prepared to carry on this
courtship charade. "Answer a question for me. Just what exactly is
it that you find so beautiful about me?"

He stared at her, taken aback by the
bluntness of her question. "Well..." He paused, studying her. Then
he rallied and said, "You have a lovely face."

"Really? What about my hair? Does it look as
dark and rich as mahogany?"

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his
mouth. He was beginning to perceive her point. "I'd say that's an
apt description."

"And do my eyes sparkle like fabulous
jewels?"

His smile widened. "No. Your eyes are
brown."

She laughed, and so did he. She looked up
into his face and realized that when his smile was genuine, when he
wasn't saying the things he thought she wanted to hear, he wasn't
irritating at all. If only he weren't so perfectly proper.

Still, she studied him for a moment. He did
have a nice mouth. She wondered how it would be to kiss a man. Not
the tentative pecks on the cheek she had received from the boldest
of her suitors, but a real kiss.

A wild, reckless feeling swept over her,
along with an overwhelming curiosity. Marrying Roger was something
she had no intention of doing, but kissing him, well, that was
something else entirely. She drained her glass, then tossed it
carelessly into a nearby fern. "The gardens of the villa are lovely
by moonlight. Perhaps you would care to see them?"

He stared at her in astonishment. "Now?"

Margaret saw the eager hope in his face and
felt a glimmer of doubt, but she pushed it aside. "Meet me in the
center of the maze at midnight," she whispered, then left the
alcove to rejoin the ball, leaving Roger gaping after her.

***

The sounds of the party floated toward Trevor
as a door opened behind him. Several men wandered out onto the
portico to smoke cigars, and he did not want company. He wanted
quiet and time to think. He rose and went down the steps toward a
maze of high boxwood hedges, finding his way by moonlight. He
entered the maze and took the first path, racking his brain for a
way, any way, to raise two hundred thousand pounds.

Damn Geoffrey for putting the family in this
situation. But then, his brother had always been a fool. Geoffrey,
who couldn't be bothered to care about the estates he had inherited
or do the work required to maintain them. Geoffrey, whose main
concerns had been the most fashionable knot for his cravat and
whether or not the Prince of Wales would invite them to the Royal
Enclosure at Ascot again this year. Geoffrey, who wouldn't have
known a sensible investment if it bit him, who had always had the
arrogant assumption that money just came to peers of the realm by
divine right. And now that the family coffers were empty, Geoffrey
lay in the family plot with a bullet through his brain.

Trevor wondered if Elizabeth would wear black
for the full year and pretend to grieve for her dear departed
husband. Probably not, he concluded with cynical detachment. She
hated black.

He took a turn in the maze and found himself
staring at a solid wall of boxwood hedge. A dead end. He turned
around and retraced his steps for a bit, then took another
path.

Elizabeth. The vain and frivolous wife of a
vain and stupid man, who cared even less about the estate than her
husband did.

In her letter to him, Trevor's mother had
bemoaned the dreadful condition of Ashton Park. The roof over the
west wing leaked, the carpets were threadbare, and the drains had
ceased to work properly more than three years before. Jewels handed
down through generations had been sold, family portraits pawned
for their gilt frames, and the gold-plated dining service for two
hundred, a gift from Queen Elizabeth to the first Earl of Ashton,
had long since gone on the auction block.

None of that mattered to Trevor. Jewels and
portraits and tradition be hanged. Ashton Park mattered for only
one reason: it was his. Leaky roof, worn carpets, bad drains, and
all, it now belonged to him.

Trevor took another turn and found himself in
a plaza. A fountain, its water gleaming silver in the moonlight,
stood in the center. In the shadowy corners were stone benches
partially screened by rose arbors and clearly designed for lovers'
meetings. He took a seat on the nearest bench and stared between
the rose canes at the fountain beyond, turning his thoughts from
the past to the future. For the first time in his life, he had
something that was truly his own, and, by God, he was not going to
lose it because his brother had been an idiot.

The sound of rustling skirts broke into his
thoughts, and Trevor leaned forward, watching as a girl strolled
into the plaza. Dressed in a ball gown, she was clearly a guest at
the party and had come out here for a stroll. She paused quite
close to where he sat.

"Why don't you kiss me?"

Her whispered suggestion startled him. He
thought for a moment she was speaking to him, but he was deep in
the shadows of the arbor and doubted she could see him. Besides,
he'd never met her before, and she would hardly make such a
charming invitation to a perfect stranger.

Puzzled, he watched as she again whispered to
thin air. "Roger, I want you to kiss me."

Tilting her head to one side, she considered
that for a moment, then shook her head as if dissatisfied. "No. Too
forward. That will never work."

She began to pace back and forth in
agitation, preoccupied with her own thoughts and completely
unaware of the man less than ten feet away. She stopped and lifted
her head to look up at an imaginary partner. "Don't you want to
kiss me?"

She sighed. "No, that's not right
either."

Trevor realized what she was on about and
smiled in amusement. The girl was planning a midnight
tryst—obviously her first—and this was a rehearsal of some sort. He
studied her with an appreciative eye. He could have told her there
was no need to worry. With a woman like this, a man would have to
be both blind and stupid to need encouragement.

The moonlight revealed a deliciously generous
figure in a velvet gown of midnight blue. He noted the neckline of
the dress and tempting expanse of creamy skin that made an inviting
path to her cleavage. His gaze moved further down. Fiddle-waisted,
her body was beautifully molded, every curve perfectly
proportioned. When she turned her head slightly, he saw her wide,
dark eyes, dumpling cheeks, and a mouth definitely worth kissing.
He was intrigued, and silently applauded Roger's taste.

The sound of a discreet cough diverted his
attention, and he glanced toward the plaza entrance, where a man
stood, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
This must be Roger.

"Lord Hymes." The girl beckoned him forward.
"I see you found your way through the maze."

The man walked to her side. "Took me a few
minutes," he said. "A rather tedious journey."

It seemed the romantic rendezvous was about
to begin. Trevor glanced at the entrance again, and realized it
was the only one. There was no way for him to escape without being
seen. He could simply stand up, rustle the bushes to announce his
presence, and make a quick retreat, but he really didn't want to
spoil the girl's romantic moment. Besides, he was curious to see if
she succeeded in her intention. He would leave if the situation
became too intimate, of course. If that happened, they wouldn't
notice his departure anyway.

The girl took a step closer to Roger. "I hope
it was worth the trouble," she said softly.

Trevor grinned at the girl's hint for a
compliment, recognizing it to be the first move in the game.

Roger, however, took no notice of the
opportunity she'd given him. He glanced up at the sky. "Lovely
night, what? A bit chilly for a stroll perhaps, but warm enough for
February."