Lessons in French (26 page)

dress fell from her shoulder. She tilted her head aside as he kissed the curve of her throat

and pulled her hips up against him.

With a light direction, he urged her toward a chaise lounge and drew her down with

him. He didn't look at her; he kissed her shoulder while he unfastened the dress and

pulled at all the pins that the modiste had so lovingly inserted to set her hat.

The headpiece swept to the floor, along with the gauzy veil and shawl. He pressed her

back down on the sofa, both of them breathing quickly. Callie held on to his lapels. As

she laid her head back, she moved her hands inside his coat, feeling the solid shape of his

chest under a satin waistcoat.

He made a fervent sound and sat back a little, yanking his waistcoat open and his shirt

free, so that she could spread her palms against his bare skin. He closed his eyes as she

stroked her hands up and down. His chest rose and fell under her touch. He swore

roughly under his breath. When she ran her fingers along the edge of his trousers,

slipping them between the fabric and his skin, he opened his eyes, putting his hand over

hers, stilling her.

Callie gave him a naughty look. She knew—she remembered what he liked, what he

had taught her, though she had hidden it away in the darkest corners of her recollections

until now. It was something she had only allowed herself to remember in the deepest

black of night, alone in her bed, dreaming.

He growled and leaned over her, brushing her chemise down off her shoulder, pulling it

down until she felt her breasts exposed, pressed upward as they were by the corset. He

bent his head, kissing and licking at the edge of the stiff garment until he teased her

nipple free.

Callie gasped and clutched at him as the sensation shot through her. His tongue on her

was hot and sweet, tugging gently, then harder as she arched up to him. She heard small

sounds of delight working in her own throat, impossible to smother.

She lost herself in it, this stolen moment. It was bliss. Everything around her was him:

his weight on her and his hair brushing her chin, his skin warm beneath her hands. All

modesty deserted her, discarded as freely as her hat had been tossed to the f loor. She

spread her legs and pressed her body up to his. The air seemed to leave her lungs. Waves

of sensation made her breasts seem to swell and rise to the delicious pull.

When he broke away, she could hardly gather her wits and recall who and where she

was. He turned from her, sitting up and leaning back against the wall, staring at the tea

table. He released a deep exhalation and closed his eyes. "I think—we had best stop

there," he said.

"Oh," she said, vastly disappointed. "Gooseberries."

He laughed, turning to lean down to her again, his face close to hers. "I want you far

too much," he said. "Miss Gooseberry."

Her eyes widened. "You do?"

"Oh no, I'm just about to have an apoplexy, that's all."

"An apoplexy!" She stuck out the tip of her tongue at him. "I suppose we don't want

that."

"No indeed. Where would Hubert be if I fell dead on the floor?"

"I expect I should have to call in Major Sturgeon," she said airily.

He nipped her shoulder hard enough to make her yelp. Then he nuzzled her throat.

"That pompous flatfish? What would you want with him?"

Callie giggled. "If you must know, he said he would do anything for me," she informed

him in an arch voice.

Trev drew back a little. "He did, did he? And just when did he make this satisfying

offer?"

"He has called
several
times," she said. "He was
most
obliging."

She expected that Trev would laugh, but his face changed subtly, grew cooler. "Several

times!" he said. "I suppose one can guess what his object is." He pushed away from her,

leaning on one elbow, his back propped against the wall. "Has he proposed to you yet?"

Callie began to be sorry she had mentioned Major Sturgeon, even to tease. It was hardly

the moment to bring up the most persistent admirer of her fortune. She bit her lip.

"Has he?" Trev sat up. He began to tuck in his shirt and rebutton his waistcoat.

When Callie didn't reply, he stood, leaving her amid the disarray of her skirts and

chemise. She pulled the fabric over herself and sat up also.

"Of course he has," Trev said. His mouth formed a hard line. "Did you fob him off?"

Callie held the dress to her breast. "I suppose I should have," she said faintly.

"You didn't?" His voice held a slight crack. "You're engaged to him?"

"No," Callie said. "Of course not."

He blew out a harsh breath. Callie watched him uncertainly. A notion occurred to her,

one that she wished for so much that she didn't even dare entertain it for more than an

instant. He took a few paces across the room. She thought he might speak. He stopped

before the window and stood with his hand gripped on the drape, staring out.

"So you refused him?" he asked without turning.

She would have liked to say that she had. It seemed worse than a disgrace now, it

seemed a betrayal to be here with Trev, to want him beyond anything else, and yet be

entertaining a proposal from another man. But it was not as if Trev had asked for her

hand. Indeed, he said he was going away back to France. And he had said nothing to

suggest that he desired to wed her and take her home to his estates. She might indulge in

a great number of fantastical daydreams, but that was one fantasy that she ruthlessly

denied to herself.

She straightened and lifted her chin, pushing back a lock of her hair that had fallen

loose. "I told him that I would consider it."

He gave a brief, cold nod, as if he had expected it.

"I don't think I'll be happy living with Hermey." She felt compelled to explain. "And

so…" Her voice trailed off. "Well, I said to him I would think it over."

He tilted his head back and gave a short laugh. "Sturgeon!" he said bitterly. He turned

to her. "I don't trust him, Callie. It's your money he wants."

"Yes," she said stiffly. "Of course."

He frowned at her, his jaw working.

She kept her chin lifted. "It would be foolish to expect at this juncture that I would

marry out of affection or anything of that nature. If I married at all."

He stood looking at her, and then he shook his head. He put his hands up and ran them

through his hair, as if he were quarreling with some recalcitrant and impossible child. He

laughed again, a little wildly. "Accept him, then!" he exclaimed. "Why not? What's love

to do with it, after all?"

She rose to her feet, gathering the white shawl from the floor. "I only told him I would

think about it. But Hermey's fiancé doesn't want me. And I can't remain at Shelford. I

won't. Trev, I don't know what I'm to do! If you—if I thought for a moment, if I thought

that you—" She stopped, unable to complete the sentence, angry that she had said so

much. She turned her back, clutching the dress and shawl against herself.

A heavy silence filled the chamber. Callie could hear her own breathing, rough with

gathering tears. She stared at the mahogany leg of a chair, waiting for what she knew

would not come, feeling her heart break with foolish hopes, fruitless wishes. The words

that he didn't say hung between them.

"Of course I have no right to question you," he said in a low voice. "I beg your pardon."

She could think of no reply. She squeezed her eyes shut as she heard him come behind

her. He put his hands on her bare shoulders, a light, warm touch that was like a sweet

ache all down through her body.

"I want you to be happy," he whispered. "I don't want him to hurt you again."

She shook her head wordlessly. All she could think was that he would go away, and not

take her, and it hardly mattered what she did then. He put his face down in the curve of

her neck.

"I know," he said softly, as if she had spoken her misery aloud. "I know." He sighed,

his breath a warmth against her skin. "We have a few days."

"Three," she said in a small voice.

He ran his hands down her arms and back up again, then held her against him, his lips

at her throat. "Callie, I do love you. You know that."

She shook her head again, very quickly. "Don't," she implored. "Do not suppose you

have to say that. I know you're my friend, my very best friend, and—that is quite

enough."

"Friend," he said with a slight, derisive laugh. "Your friend." With a fierce move he

clasped her hard and kissed her, burying his face in her shoulder. "Give me these three

days, Callie."

She made a whimper of assent, nodding.

"It'll be our finest adventure," he whispered. "I promise you." He lifted his head and

drew a deep breath against her hair. Then he slipped the chemise up over her shoulders

and pulled the dress into place. With a few authoritative tugs, he buttoned the fabric over

the tight corset while Callie held in her breath and smoothed down the front.

For a moment he stood behind her, resting his cheek on her head and holding her

gently. Then he reached down and retrieved her hat.

"Now we must set you to rights and embark upon our first mission," he said briskly.

"Procuring a steady source of Bath buns."

Thirteen

HAVING TAKEN DOWN AN ORDER, IN SPITE OF THE heavy accent of his

customer, for twelve dozen Bath buns to be delivered daily to the exhibition pen of

Monsieur Malempré, an elated baker escorted Monsieur and Madame into the street. He

took leave of them with a surfeit of bowing and repeated pledges that his buns would

most assuredly contain a generous measure of white currants. Having bespoke the buns,

at a price so outrageous that it would have embarrassed His Majesty's pastry chef, Trev

took Callie's arm and turned her toward the High Town.

He kept his hat brim low and gave the veiled lady on his arm the benefit of his full

attention and gallantry. He was not overly concerned that Hubert would be recognized in

the city of Hereford, but he was not so sanguine about himself. Here in the marches of the

West Country, close by to Bristol—that first-rate source of burly butchers' boys anxious

to enter the prize ring—the very soil seemed to produce prime pugilists. Trev had always

limited his own scouting to the south and east, deliberately avoiding Hereford and

Shelford and Callie, but he would be a fool to count himself perfectly safe here. He was

too well-known among the Fancy.

Jock and Barton had been busy chasing up old acquaintance for the past several days,

calling in all favors on Trev's behalf. And he had a wealth of credit to call upon, he

found, for the thing he'd done for Jem Fowler's wife and baby boy. The hefty green-

coated footman who now walked behind the Malemprés had only recently been

pummeling a challenger in some set-to in a Bristol training yard. Across the way lounged

a pair of regular brutes in the science, who owed their success and early opportunities

largely to Trev's patronage. The men assigned to handle Hubert were experienced both in

cattle yards and prizefights. There was a marvelous influx of boxing men to Hereford at

the moment.

For his own part, Trev had discarded his Belcher necktie and adopted a sword cane and

several other sartorial details to camouflage himself as a continental beau rather than a

sporting buck. Walking beside Callie now, he regretted having chosen the name

Malempré for their masquerade—he'd been in a hurry, arranging for the van and

commanding the painting of the canvas to swathe Hubert's pen, and the first name he'd

summoned to mind was a town in Belgium where he'd spent a few weeks of his

imprisonment just after Napoleon's first abdication.

It had been an easy enough situation there. On his gentleman's honor to attempt no

escape, he'd had the freedom of the pretty village and even waltzed at the
assemblée.
The

sole inconvenience had been the wife of the local chevalier, who had conceived a most

ardent fondness for Lieutenant LeBlanc on the basis of a single trifling kiss, which no

amount of diplomacy—or indeed, discourtesy—had seemed to cool. She had been so

relentless in her pursuit that he'd become the butt of the captive officers' mess until he

was moved to Brussels to await a prisoner exchange that had never materialized—the

defeated French apparently having no pressing need for one more LeBlanc littering their

countryside.

He'd forgot about her until this morning, and that her name was also Malempré—a silly

oversight that annoyed him. It seemed almost an insult to Callie. But it was too late to

change now. He carried in his inner pocket several copies of a broadside imprinted with

the handsome image of a dark bull and the breathless details of the Malempré Challenge:

é

He had made sure that Colonel Davenport would be absent for the formal

announcement by the simple expedient of putting a man to spy on him and discovering

his schedule. The good colonel was engaged this morning to determine which farm

laborer had the honor of Supporting the Largest Number of Legitimate Offspring without

Recourse to the Parish, for a prize of two pounds, and thereafter to judge turnips.

Presumably he would be fully occupied in the counting of children and adjudicating of