The Bride Price (18 page)

Sometimes the heart works without the express permission of the mind, as surely a gadabout young miss is wont to tell. Such is the trouble with skirting out from under the strictures of our elders.

“T
hat was an excellent resolution. Such a taciturn and stern man, Mr. Wallace is. I think he has the event well in hand,” Mrs. Francis said.

Caroline nodded, wondering how they thought Mr. Wallace was in charge of anything, beyond ordering things done that were already in progress.

“The bonfire placement is of some consternation. If Mr. Wallace thinks that it should be under review again, of course it must.”

Caroline nodded a little more sharply. “I am off to do so.”

“Do bear in mind what Mr. Wallace said. He is such a good influence on your decisions.”

Caroline held her breath, nodding again, her head bobbing on a continual axis of strained patience.

“I think he might have a care in your direction.”

“As honored as I would be—”

“Yes, I think it a lovely match. I will send whispers to the right ears.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, Mrs. Francis. I am quite able to handle my own affairs.” In every sense of the word. And she was feeling decidedly stubborn today.

Mrs. Francis’s chin raised a notch. “Too proud for some good advice; for shame, Mrs. Martin.”

Caroline swallowed, the rebellious thought that she didn’t need this woman’s goodwill springing forth. She quashed it. Deville’s negative effect was worse than she’d thought. “Not too proud, Mrs. Francis, simply not ready. It is not good to rush into things, isn’t that what you always say?”

The matron did not look pleased to have her own words used against her, but Caroline wasn’t going to be a dormouse. “Indeed. But if you don’t choose the good when it is in front of you, you may miss out completely. Good day, Mrs. Martin.”

Caroline watched her stalk away, then pivoted and strode down the path.

She stopped in her tracks as the path split, seeing
him
leaning against a tree, smoking, that lazy disregard that he excelled at practically stripping the bark from the trunk of the tree. “Are you ever anywhere other than near me?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said, dragging the cheroot from his lips, a smile curving his mouth.

“I’m not pleased with you at the moment. You are a bad influence.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“You shouldn’t be. I quite possibly will be avoiding you indefinitely.”

He lifted an indolent brow and tapped his thigh. “I don’t think I shall allow that. Who will relieve the tedium?”

“I don’t much care. I told you to leave during the break. That you’d be irreparably bored—ye of so little entertainment. Unfortunately, Mr. Deville, I have no time at present to be your entertainment. I’m in a hurry.”

“Am I still Mr. Deville? How unfortunate indeed,” he drawled.

She stalked past him, assured in her new resolution to keep him firmly in check and to reassert herself as the capable, stern woman that she knew she could be.

He pushed off the tree and strode next to her, his strides eating up the distance in no time. “Where are we off to?”

“The council can’t decide where they want the booths and staging.
I
am off to sketch multiple options so that they can decide.”

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.” She ground her teeth against the disbelief in his voice. That she had to do this again for Mr. Wallace was almost more irritating than Deville.

“You seem delighted.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, then I must help you. Far be it from me to leave a lady in the lurch.”

She turned from the path, marching across the open expanse of the valley. “No, thank you.”

She reached the spot, visualizing the placements. Why Mr. Wallace couldn’t just accept her assurance…

Deville stepped next to her. “This looks familiar.”

She pursed her lips and tried to shift things around in her mind. If the table went there, and the first set of chairs there, just like her design…

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

If the bonfire were placed just so, and the—

“About what?”

She glared at him. “If you are going to pester me, you may as well help.”

The next fifteen minutes consisted of her issuing commands and an increasingly fidgety rake following them.

She tapped her lips. “Put that one over there.” She pointed toward a pillar, and Deville moved the rock she was using as a tool to visualize the result. “And the next one there.”

He dutifully moved the other into place, though it was more like he languidly hefted it; everything he did had some sensual movement, a glance or wicked smile.

“Perfect.” She nodded sharply and examined the placement. “Much easier to visualize this way.”

“What are you attempting to do? I’ve been a good boy this whole time as your brood stallion, not asking questions.”

“Brood stallion?” She snorted. “More my hearty donkey.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Caroline, what are you trying to do?”

“I need a good place for a bonfire. Somewhere not in the way, but in the midst all the same. The problem is that the rocks will make it more difficult to dance.”

“A bonfire?” he asked evenly.

“Well, it’s hardly a problem of epic proportions, but we need one,” she defended.

He looked around the space for a maximum of two seconds and then pointed. “There.”

“There? How can you say that? You’ve hardly looked.”

He gave her a look. “Put your fire there.”

She chewed her lip. “I’m not sure.”

He dropped the rock he was holding with a thump, and drew out a crumpled piece of paper from somewhere and a chunk of black chalk. A few quick swipes with the chalk, then his finger, the paper bending over his palm as he sketched, and he shoved the paper in her direction.

She gripped the piece, the lines uneven and flowing, movement already on the page as the lined figures danced around the flames, the tables and chairs where she had wanted them, everything in a place that
worked
. He had solved her problem in two minutes.

“How did…”

He folded his arms. “Can we leave now?”

She continued to examine the paper, the emotion that she didn’t think he knew he revealed—that he would most likely be aghast if he ever discovered. The unrelenting glimpses of a man
behind the masks. She carefully folded the page and stuck it into her bag. “Would you care to enjoy a repast with me?”

Horror overtook her as soon as the blurted question left her mouth. If anyone stopped by her cottage while he was there…but something else ran through her as she saw his narrowed eyes, then the pleased expression cross his face.

“Lead the way.”

She was slightly surprised when he helped her arrange a tray of cheese, fruit, and sausage, cutting or peeling as needed. Mary was visiting a neighboring town to help her sick mother, so she was on her own for at least a week.

“Why did you stay?” She nibbled an apple slice as they put the tray on the table and sat down, wondering why he had participated in helping her with the layout.

“Isn’t it obvious why I stayed?” He drew a finger along the table, then tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth.

“You want another boon?”

“What if simply being by your side is my boon?”

She stared at him, then picked up another slice, nibbling.

“Are you always so careful about how you eat?” he asked.

“What, instead of popping them down my gullet like you do?”

“You eat that like a squirrel. Not with any intent to savor the flavor, but merely as a way to stay on top of the nut.”

“I enjoy them slowly, carefully, in order to savor the essence.”

“Do you?”

She picked up a strawberry, her favorite fruit, and bit the end, the burst of sweet flavor encasing her tongue. “It’s lovely this way. Makes the experience last.”

“You can simply take another.” He popped an entire berry.

She looked at him from under her lashes as she took another. “That is the difference between us. You see endless supplies of berries. One as good as the next. While I try to hold on to and enjoy the ones I have.”

His eyes narrowed. “I assure you, I enjoy them to the utmost.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you enjoy them for the few seconds they take to consume. But then you are on to the next fruit.” She pointed at a pear. “Or the next platter.”

“Do I sense a thread of jealousy?”

“Simply observation and good sense.”

“And I think that is where you go wrong, Caroline.”

“Is it,
Sebastien
?”

His eyes darkened in pleasure at her use of his name. “You rely too much on your good sense, instead of simply accepting the pleasure in front of you.”

“That is because I know where the pleasure goes. And how it ends.”

He tipped a pear slice back and forth along its
curved back. “I’ve heard that your husband wasn’t much of a man.”

She stiffened. “Oh, he was plenty much of a
man
. He just wasn’t much of a husband.” Not much of one at all.

“And you judge all men by his standard.”

“Only the ones that shift in his footprints.”

He raised a brow. “You are attracted to rogues. Don’t you think that says something about your spirit?”

“That I am fond of painful relationships?”

“That you are a rogue yourself.”

She laughed; she couldn’t stop herself. “You are certainly creative. I suppose that comes with your artistic abilities.”

“Some kind of abilities.” His hand brushed hers as he selected another slice. “Your husband didn’t even maintain a steady income, is that correct? Had no position of power?”

“Little does it matter what position a man has. It is what is inside that counts.”

“You don’t truly believe that fairy wash, do you?”

“I do,” she said quietly. Patrick was a terrible example, but her papa had been a wonderful one. The earl had a plethora of power and a kingdom of coin, but Papa had trumped him in every other way. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“No one believes that it is what is inside that counts. Ask any of the women at the house.”

“I have no need to ask anyone else. I know what I believe, Mr. Deville.”

“You only
think
you believe that. It is a noble sentiment, but foolish. A man is what he has in this world. What he represents.”

“Then it shows poorly on the commoners, does it not?”

“Absolutely. You don’t see them triumphing over the nobility, do you? They who have nothing…truly have nothing.”

“That is ridiculous. And what an unhappy thought to live with.”

“Better to know the truth than to delude oneself.”

“So you are saying that only someone below your station would be willing to marry you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know some poor characters.”

“Ask any of the women at the house.”

“I repeat that I do not need to.” She crossed her arms. “I ran off with a man who had nothing because I thought he had something inside.”

“And you were wrong.”

“In that instance, I was,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “But it does not negate the fact that he had less than I did and I ran with him anyway.”

“And you were miserable.”

“I was miserable because of the circumstances, not because that was a faulty judgment to have. But to judge all men by that—”

“You can’t tell me you do
not
judge all men by your husband.” She tensed. “You hold all men to his standard, or nonstandard as it were.”

Sebastien watched the way she tensed up. The way she tried to defend herself. He smiled thinly, suspicions confirmed.

“I loved Patrick, Mr. Deville. There was once a time when I thought the world rose on his smile,” she said softly.

Sebastien’s smile dropped, his eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And…” She rolled her mug between her hands. “He decided that wasn’t quite enough.”

“He took a mistress?”

“There were a string of women, not just one. And he steadily drank more, gambled more. Ran away. It turned rather unpleasant.”

“So your test did not quite pan out.”

“My
test
? My
life
. Why am I even telling you this?” She stood and abruptly jerked the dishes from the table, taking them to the sink.

Something unidentifiable tweaked within him. “You seem to be doing well now.”

She vigorously scrubbed one dish, her back to him.

He rose and removed the dish from her hands, setting it on the counter. He nudged her to the side with his thigh, turning her just enough toward him that he could smooth the hair wisps at her temple that were always coming loose, straining to be free. “Why don’t you just let go, Caroline?”

“And do what? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to put that bad decision behind me?”

“It was one bad decision. That doesn’t mean you will make the same mistake again.”

“Won’t I?” She gave him an ironic look, to which he smiled winningly.

“Never.” He brushed a kiss to her temple, replacing his fingertips in smoothing the hair there. He felt her shudder against him, and for a second the thought that maybe he shouldn’t continue this course of action—perhaps he should leave her alone and mostly whole—unnerved him. But when she pressed into him, accepting the comfort, her lovely body molding to his—the promise of fully connecting with her, of completing two pieces of a puzzle—he crushed the uncertainty.

Besides, he was doing her a favor by unlocking the side of her she had restrained for so long. She would thank him eventually.

The strange, uncomfortable feeling returned, and he ruthlessly pushed it aside, rubbing a hand down her back and pulling her closer, nearly meshing them together in a perfect fit. Almost. His body strained to complete the fit. But years of practice reading women told him not yet.
Not yet
.

His fingertips pulled along the back of her dress, smoothing the material beneath, edging down her spine. He jerked his hand back up and into her nape, his fingers wanting to curl around her backside and bring her closer, his body completely ignoring his brain’s commands.

She pulled away. Slowly. As if she’d rather stay pressed against him.

Perfect. It wouldn’t take until nightfall for her to fall into his arms in perfect surrender.