His Silken Seduction (2 page)

Heaven help her. She was lost!

There was a soft tap on the door. “Yes? Who is there?” Her voice sounded hoarse and strained.

“It is I, mistress,” said the voice of Guillaume, their elderly manservant. He had been with the Grolier family since before Suzanne was born. He knew all their secrets, but he betrayed none of them. “I have something you should see.”

Suzanne wiped her dry eyes and smoothed her skirts. A quick glance in the mirror showed her an unusually pale face, but no signs of distress. She took a sip of water from the glass on the night table and moved softly to unlock the door.

Guillaume’s hands were empty. He looked rather furtive. He glanced sideways towards Marguerite’s bedchamber, divided from Suzanne’s by the locked store of precious silks and velvets. He appeared to be listening for something.

“What do you want, Guillaume?” Suzanne asked impatiently.

He put a finger to his lips and pushed past her into the room, motioning to her to close the door.

Mystified, she obeyed, but she was beginning to be annoyed by his behaviour. “What is it? Yo…”

“Hush. Not so loud, mistress. He…” Guillaume jerked a thumb in the direction of the connecting door to the silk store “…he must not hear.”

Suzanne ignored the implications of that, but she did lower her voice. “What is it that I should see, Guillaume?”

He slid his fingers inside his leather jerkin and pulled out a small packet.

Suzanne’s breath caught. It looked like a letter. From her sister? Eagerly, she snatched it from the servant’s fingers.

“Slowly, mistress. Look carefully at what you have there.”

“What?” Then she saw. It was indeed a letter. The handwriting was Marguerite’s. And the seal had already been broken.

Ben frowned, considering. This morning, something was wrong with Suzanne. She was far from her usual positive self. What could be wowing her? There was a multitude of possibilities. It might be the weaving business, which she had been left to run all on her own since her sister’s departure; it might be the antics of the so-called Emperor Napoleon on his triumphal progress towards Paris; or it might be something else altogether. What worried Ben was the fact that Suzanne was refusing to share her concerns. When she returned with his shaving water, he would ask her outright.

Ben shifted on his pillows and winced when pain lanced through his shoulder. His confounded wound was taking far too long to heal. He should have been back on his feet by now and on his way home to England.

That thought gave him pause. There had been no news from Jack and Marguerite. Bonaparte himself must surely be in Paris by now. That could mean real danger for Jack. Oh, if only this cursed wound would heal! If only…

The door opened. Ben looked up eagerly, smiling automatically at the prospect of seeing Suzanne again, even though it was less than half an hour since she had left him. Her presence had come to mean more to him that he dared to admit, even to himself.

But this time it was not Suzanne. It was Guillaume, the old manservant. He was carrying a jug of steaming water and, as usual, his face was inscrutable.

He began to lay out Ben’s shaving tackle. “Shall I do it for you, sir?”

Ben shook his head. “Thank you, Guillaume, but as I am left-handed, I can manage pretty well now. Perhaps you would hold the mirror?”

Guillaume nodded.

Ben began to lather his face. Did the household assume that Suzanne had shaved Ben until now, that she was happy to provide him with such intimate services? Perhaps. There was always gossip, even in a tiny household such as this one, though it now consisted only of Suzanne, her mother and the female servant who nursed her, and Guillaume.

He was doing Suzanne an injustice. She might be only a bourgeoisie but she would not allow her servants to comment on her conduct. Only her mother had the right to do that, but Madame Grolier was an invalid who seemed to live in a fantasy world of her own making. She probably did not even know Ben was in the house.

“A little higher,” Ben said, picking up his razor.

The servant would not volunteer any information, but now that he was captive, holding the mirror, he might be pressed a little about Suzanne’s troubles.

Ben completed a few strokes and made a great play of cleaning the soap from his razor, leaving himself free to speak. “Have you any more news of Bonaparte?” That was a relatively safe question in this royalist household.

“Not yet, sir. He left Lyons the day after you moved in here. There have been rumours aplenty, but we’ve heard nothing definite.”

Ben muttered something incomprehensible and continued to ply the sharp blade. When he first arrived in Lyons, he had been given a bed in a tiny side-room, opposite Suzanne’s bedchamber, so that she could easily tend to his wounds. But after Jack and Marguerite had left for Paris, nearly two weeks ago now, he had been moved into Marguerite’s larger bedchamber. Suzanne had made him extremely comfortable and had ensured he wanted for nothing.

Except, of course, to hold her in his arms, which was becoming almost an obsession with every hour he spent in her company.

“I’d say Bonaparte must have reached Paris by now.” Guillaume paused and grimaced. “Unless he met with some opposition on the way which, I have to tell you, sir, I very much doubt. A turncoat army. Every last man of them.”

Ben wiped the razor once more. “Mademoiselle Suzanne must be worrying about her sister. Having no news must…” Ben caught a flicker of something in the servant’s face, quickly masked. So that was the way of it. “Having no news,” he repeated, “is bound to be unsettling. But pray assure Mademoiselle Suzanne, and Madame Grolier, too, that Jacques is a most resourceful man. He will never allow any harm to come to Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

Guillaume frowned over the top of the mirror but said nothing.

Ben carefully scraped the last bristles from his chin. Soon Guillaume was making ready to leave.

“Guillaume, be so good as to ask Mademoiselle Suzanne to step up to see me when she has a moment to spare.”

Guillaume turned back from the door and glared at Ben. He clearly thought such a request was inappropriate. Ben’s conscience agreed, but that would not stop him. “Tell her, if you will,” he added quietly, “that I have remembered some information she will wish to be aware of.”

Guillaume looked surprised, but after a moment, he nodded and left.

Ben lay back on his pillows and stroked his newly shaven jaw with his free hand. He hadn’t made a very good job of it, but at least he looked less of a fright than he had when his head had been swathed in bandages and his hair had been matted with blood.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about Suzanne, but he failed. His body was definitely recovering now, for the very thought of her delectable person was having a marked effect. He swore.

The door opened before he was fully back in control of his body. It was Suzanne. He quickly raised his knees and rearranged the bedclothes. Then he swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on his need for information.

“Guillaume thinks that Bonaparte must be in Paris by now. He clearly holds out no hope that the king’s army will have remained loyal.”

She was standing by the open door. Her eyes were cast down.

“I know that you are troubled. You are bound to be worrying about your sister, but I can assure you that Jacques will defend her. With his life, if needs be.” He paused before continuing in a gentler voice, “Has the news from her given you cause for concern?”

Suzanne started back, shocked. “Guillaume should not have spoken of that. He had no right.” Spots of high colour flared on her cheeks. She looked as though she were about to rush out of the room, probably to berate Guillaume.

Ben stretched out his left hand to stay her and draw her nearer. “Pray do not blame Guillaume, Suzanne. He did not say anything about a message from your sister. I read the truth in his face. Come, sit down. Tell me. I may be useless as far as physical defences are concerned…” he nodded down at his bandages “…but there is nothing wrong with my brain. If there is a problem, and if there is anything that can be done from here in Lyons, we will find a way to do it, I promise you.”

Suzanne took a deep breath and stepped fully into the room, pushing the door behind her. How could she resist that outstretched hand? She longed to take it, to clasp it to her heart, but she did not dare. She might love Benn…and her heart would surely break when he left her…but she would not indulge in a missish gesture that Benn would scorn. Or, worse, that he would pity.

At least he had not blamed her troubled mood on that tiny, betraying touch of their hands. Let him continue to think she was simply worrying about her sister.

She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “Guillaume said you had some information for me?” Benn dropped his gaze for a second. Suzanne fancied that his colour had heightened a fraction, too.

What was going on?

“I have to admit, Suzanne, that I, er, misled you a little. I have no new information. How could I have, lying here?” He tried to shrug his shoulders. A mistake. A shadow of pain crossed his face.

Suzanne’s heart contracted. She had taken an involuntary step towards him before she managed to stop. She clasped her hands firmly together. She would not allow herself to touch him, even if he was in pain.

“Suzanne, we need to talk. You cannot continue to bear your burdens alone. Now that your sister has gone to Paris, you have no one to confide in. I know you would not stoop to share your concerns with mere servants. “

Suzanne drew herself up a little more and looked down her nose at him. She doubted that Benn had ever faced the sort of hardships that the Grolier family had endured. Benn might be too haughty to trust a “mere servant,” but Suzanne and her sister were not.

Guillaume had been a rock for their family when more exalted people had deserted them. The Groliers had remained true to their king, at the cost of their family’s fortune and status. Benn, as an Englishman, could never understand what the French had suffered through the Reign of Terror and the years of Bonaparte’ s despotism.

Benn stretched out his hand once more. Then he smiled up at her in a way that touched her heart. She felt a sudden urge to throw herself on his chest and pour out all her troubles. That beguiling smile. Was he really offering to share her burdens?

“You smile, sir. I fancy you do not understand the threats we face. This is France, not England. Traitors, and the innocent as well, are sent to the guillotine in this country. We have had years to learn that trust is not a matter of rank or status. I have trusted my servants with my life. And with your life, too.”

This time, his blush was unmistakable. It made him look very young and vulnerable. The white bandages contrasted starkly with his high colour. “I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Suzanne,” he said formally, bowing his head a little. “I meant no insult, I promise you. But my words were worse than thoughtless.” He gazed up at her, his blue eyes wide and apologetic. “Can you forgive me, my dear?”

Suzanne’s heart lurched. How was she to resist when he used such words?

She tried to clear her throat. “Let us forget it,” she said a little gruffly, fixing her gaze on the wall above his head. Benn was, without doubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen. His spare masculine beauty made her pulses race and her thoughts tumble whenever she looked at him. How was she supposed to keep her wits about her when she was near him? No woman could do it.

Wrong. Marguerite did it.

That rebellious little voice was back inside Suzanne’s head, reminding her of her strong-minded sister, who was now far away and in great danger. Suzanne swallowed the fear that clutched at her throat.

With an obvious effort, Benn forced himself up from his pillows and thrust himself forward to grab Suzanne’s hand. He fell back again at once, his weight pulling her with him.

“Out?” She landed on the edge of the bed in a rather undignified heap. She opened her mouth to rail at him.

He was too quick for her. He gave her fingers a tiny squeeze, which silenced her completely. She felt as if a torrent of steaming water was enveloping her body, starting with the fingers he held in his.

Oh, Benn. Do you have to inflict this torture on me? She wished she had the courage to speak her thoughts aloud. It was impossible, of course. She clamped her lips tight together to prevent any rebellious sounds from escaping.

“You are angry with me,” he said softly. “And I admit I have given you cause. But my motives are of the best. I beg you to believe that.” He squeezed her hand again. When she did not object…for she still could not speak…Benn’s smile returned, then widened. “You may think me only a dunderheaded Englishman who understands nothing of French hardships. And you would be right, at least in part. But what I do understand, Suzanne, is you. You have nursed me for long enough now that I know your ways, your gentleness, your healing touch. I see the hardness in your face when you come to tend me. I see other emotions, too.”

Suzanne closed her eyes against his words. What had he seen?

“This morning,” he continued, almost without a pause, “I could see how troubled you were. Why, you almost fled from this room. What happened to our companionable conversations over morning coffee?” He grinned teasingly at her. “Why, you did not even remember to take away the empty cups. Guillaume had to do it later. As if he did not already have enough chores,” he added, in a voice of mock reproof. “Shame on you, mademoiselle.”