CONVERSATION OUTDOORS
Genevieve slipped into the parlor, hoping that her face was unmarked by her tears. She crossed the room and took a seat opposite Arabella, as Richard and the other gentlemen stood to greet her.
“Good evening,” she said softly.
“Cousin! So glad you joined us. Here...have some of my new cordial. I made it myself, you know – Mrs. Webster just did the bottling,” Arabella said, lifting a glass flask and drawing out the stopper. The damask liquid glugged into the glass.
“It tastes lovely,” she said, lifting it to her lips. Rich and dark, it had the flavor of damson plums.
“You used the plum cordial recipe?” Francine asked.
“I did indeed,” Arabella nodded. “Sorry, Richard, what was that?” she asked, turning to her husband, who smiled.
“It's fine cordial. Best use of our plums anyone ever made.”
“Thank you,” Arabella dimpled. “Though I trust that's not a poor reflection on my plum jam?”
He grinned. “I will revise that – the second-best use.”
They all laughed. Genevieve felt as if the lump of ice in her core was melting slowly. There was something very comforting about Arabella, and she wasn't at all surprised that her household gathered silent, taciturn sorts like Adair: here, he was under no obligation to perform or converse. Everyone seemed perfectly happy just to let him be.
She caught sight of him – he was sitting on the edge of the group, silent and still. He had changed out of the brown suit from earlier, she noticed, donning something slightly more elaborate, suited for dinner, with gold braid at the cuffs.
As the sound of conversation rose and fell around her, she watched him from the corner of her eye. He seemed tense and brooding. She told herself she was watching for signs of having been unmasked.
He looks jumpy. And preoccupied.
She studied his posture. He was sitting with a wine glass in one hand, the stem gripped in his fingers. He wasn't really listening to the conversation around him either, but staring off into the fireplace.
What is bothering him so?
She had spent the afternoon writing in her journal, noting the things that she had discovered thus far. A man is here who seems an intruder, she had written. He stays on the edge of things, watching. I haven't seen him actively gathering information, but there is something altogether suspicious in his matter – he is hiding something.
A prickle down her spine made her realize he was watching her. She swallowed, seeing something in his eyes she couldn't read. It was softness, and it melted her heart a little. She tensed, biting her lip.
Francine's words had touched her almost as intensely as her own reaction to them. She hadn't realized how much she'd learned to harden and mistrust her heart. Her trip to the gallery had made it all the more obvious to her, as she stood before the only portrait of her own ancestors here.
With a long, oval face and big dark eyes, the woman in the portrait had looked, so much, like her mother, Lady Claudine. In that moment, all her bitterness and sorrow had welled up inside her and she'd shouted at the likeness, and then simply wept. Now she felt hollow inside, strangely empty.
“Lady Genevieve?”
“Yes?” She turned to find herself looking at MacCleary, one of the household guests she'd barely noticed. A smooth-faced man, with big-lidded, lazy eyes, he smiled.
“Milady, I have been meaning to ask you for a long while...how fares our sister-country, France?”
“I cannot speak for the country as a whole,” Genevieve murmured, sipping at her cordial. What a strange question! “All I can say is that Malpons, our town, is faring very well.”
“You're far from the capital?” he asked.
“Not far,” Genevieve said automatically. “Two days in the coach, or a day's full ride.”
“Oh,” he said. “You must hear much news from there.”
“We hear a little,” Genevieve said. He was leaning toward her, flushed a little, those eyes gleaming with an unwholesome interest she didn't like. She felt his fingers on the arm of her chair, brushing her upper arm. She drew back.
“I would love to travel there,” he said, leaning back a little, as if he'd noticed her distaste. “It seems a country where things of rare beauty can be found.”
Again, that unwholesome gleam. Genevieve shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She supposed MacCleary was a handsome fellow, in a smooth, unctuous sort of way. She just didn't like him much.
She leaned back in the chair, turning to face Francine, who sat at her left. Her cousin was engaged in some involved conversation with Henry, and didn't notice her. She looked up.
Eyes – black and piercing – locked with hers. She was floored by the depth of feeling there. Like two coals, they burned with some intense feeling she had never thought to see. She saw the gaze was not directed at her, but at MacCleary.
“...and you would agree, milady?”
His unctuous voice cut through to her where she sat beside him. She turned, aware that he'd been asking her something or other.
“Excuse me, milord,” she said, feeling shaken. “I wish to go outside to take the air before dinner.”
“Of course.”
Nodding to Arabella, she stood and briskly headed through the back door of the room.
The parlor was on the second floor, two rooms down from the library, which opened out onto a lovely terrace. She had discovered the place earlier when looking for the gallery. She went through, opening the door onto blissful quiet. She leaned against the railings, breathing in a lungful of fresh, cold night air.
“I don't like that fellow. Not at all.”
Adair was taciturn, aloof and confusing. MacCleary was downright disquieting. She shuddered, recalling his fingers reaching for her upper arm. He would have said it was an accidental meeting, but she knew he'd intended to touch her.
“I wish Papa knew how hard this is.”
She leaned on the rail, looking down into the garden below. A knot garden had been made there, she noticed, hedges – black in the darkness – laid out in squares and circles, making an intricate maze. She felt wistful, looking at it: It was slightly more unkempt and simpler than the one at her home in Malpons, but it was close enough. If she squinted at it, she could almost believe it was the one at home.
She sniffed, thinking of her papa, alone in the chateau. She'd written one letter to him – concealing information between lines of everyday talk – but had no idea if it would reach him within the month.
“Milady?”
She turned, jumping with fright. A man had sneaked up to almost within an inch of her. She tensed, thinking it MacCleary, but she knew the voice. “Oh. You,” she said.
She shifted in her place on the wall, letting Lord Adair rest his elbows on it beside her. He too stared out into the night. If her rude greeting upset him, he gave no sign.
“You spend a lot of time alone with your thoughts,” he said, his voice low and musical in the cold night air.
Genevieve drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, shivering, though the good wool kept out the cold. “You have watched me carefully, to notice that,” she said guardedly.
He chuckled softly. “I didn't need to watch all that carefully, milady,” he said. “You are a thinker. Which is good. And...I will go, if I am bothering you. I know sometimes how one needs to be alone. With some thoughts.”
“Yes,” Genevieve whispered. In that moment, she felt as if he'd touched her heart. She leaned on the railing, a hand's width away from him, and regarded him steadily.
Light and shadow played on his face, making the angles of his cheekbones and chin sharper, gaunter. She could see into his eyes, and read no malice there, only a friendly interest, and care.
She felt her stomach twist with a mix of anticipation and irritation. All these questions! Why could she not, finally, know their answers? Was this man a spy, or wasn't he? Had he arranged for her to be attacked and followed, or had he not? Was he interrogating her?
Listen, Francine said in her memory. Listen to your heart.
She took a slow breath and looked at him, and listened to the guidance she had for so long ignored.
Compassion was there, a tender ache, as she looked at him. He shifted on the rail, and turned to face her. His smile, wry and crooked, lit sweet warmth in her heart. She cleared her throat.
“I want to trust you,” she said.
He stared at her. His eyes were round and dark, as if she'd suddenly spoken French, using words he didn't understand. He was silent for so long that she truly thought he hadn't understood, and was about to turn away when his hand moved, as if involuntarily, and rested beside her own.
“I want to trust you, too.”
She looked into his eyes. They shone, and if she had a mind to, she could imagine tears stood there. She drew a shaky breath as her own throat tightened, in sympathy to his. “I am glad,” she said.
She looked down at the rail. Her fingers were thin and pale beside his, which were knotted, the veins cording their backs, the joints prominent, as of a man who rode, or fought, or climbed. She moved her hands closer to his, and her breath caught as the side of her hand pressed against his. He didn't move.
They stood there, their hands touching, and looked out into the night.
“I know...I know you don't like me,” Adair said softly. “Or at least, you distrust me still. But – and please forgive me, milady – I would like to do aught to change that. If I can.”
She stared at him. “Who said I didn't like you?”
She blushed. What was she thinking? The words as well as shouted that she did like him. She looked down at their hands. His own moved, pressing closer. She didn't move her own.
When she looked up, he was staring at her again. Again, her face was tender with a smile.
“I'm not sure what to think of that,” he said. His voice was warm. “But the answer is, I assumed you didn't. Which was, perhaps, wrong?”
She squinted at him. “Don't push it,” she said gruffly. “I might have been forced to an admission, but I'll not be repeating it.”
He laughed. “Fair enough, milady.”
They leaned there on the rail, hands pressed together, not talking.
Genevieve felt something in her chest move and shift and settle into place, as if some part of her had been dislocated all these years, and now was finally aligned. She felt peaceful. And happy.
Beside her, Adair leaned against the rail, looking down into the garden below. She glanced sideways at him, studying his profile. The wind ruffled his hair and she felt again that sweet tingle that he had inspired in her since the beginning; a strange longing for something indefinable, which her body nonetheless seemed to seek.
She cleared her throat. “It's cold out here,” she said.
“Mm,” he acknowledged. He leaned closer toward her, his shoulder pressing hers. She drew in a shaky breath. She should, she knew, have moved away. However, it felt wonderful. She twisted and looked up into his gaunt, wary face.
His gaze held hers. He leaned a little closer. Suddenly, it seemed as if her body's longing had words, and she knew precisely what they said. She leaned up, just as he leaned down.
Their lips met. Softness, warmth, and sweetness – these enveloped her senses as his mouth parted, ever so slightly, and his lip nipped at her own. She sighed as she leaned against him and his arms, so naturally, opened for her, holding her against his chest. His lips moved on hers, exploring and tasting. She leaned back and let them, her whole body igniting with a rush of sensation as his tongue gently pushed between her lips.
She closed her eyes, feeling her own tongue brush his as he tasted her. His lips pressed to hers, and he lapped at her gently, his mouth warm and tender, moving slowly on hers.
She pressed her body to his, feeling a throbbing ache inside her as his tongue explored her, and she knew she wanted more...did not know what it was she craved, but her body was crying out for it, filled with longing.
He leaned back, gasping raggedly. “Milady,” he whispered shyly. “That was...I...forgive me,” he stammered, leaning against the rail. He looked out into the night. The wind ruffled a lock of black hair to fall, softly, over one eye.
Genevieve fought the urge to brush it back. He looked more vulnerable even than usual, like that. Boyish, as if the years had stripped away and she saw a younger, more tender self of his. Her body was cooling down now, slowly, though she still felt that sweet intensity of hunger.
“You have nothing for which to be forgiven,” she whispered softly. At the same moment, she reached out to brush away the forelock from his eye. He stared up at her.
She had no idea what it was that she had said, but he blinked, his eyes damp. She looked down, not wanting him to feel embarrassed as he swallowed hard, looking down into the garden.
At length he spoke. “Th...Thank you, milady,” he whispered.
Genevieve frowned. She had no idea what it was he thanked her for, but she was touched – intensely – at his words. “Thank you, too.”
He looked at her, a mix of surprise and passion. He reached out and gently, so gently, stroked her hair, tucking a curl behind her ear.
“We should go in,” she whispered. Her voice caught in her throat, the last part of it a croak. He nodded.
“We should.”
Neither of them moved. Around them, the wind moved, ruffling her skirt, touching cool fingers to her brow. She didn't feel it.
They stood there for what could have been eternity, or perhaps only a few seconds: Genevieve had no idea. All she knew was that she could have stared into those black eyes for an eternity. She shivered. “We really should go in,” she said.
“Yes.”
This time, he shifted on the wall, turning to face her. She had stepped back a little, so they looked at each other directly. She swallowed and looked away, unsure what to do or say.
“It's getting cold,” she said. She turned and walked, slowly, to the doors. He followed.
In the silent dark of the library, she waited while he shut the door behind them and bolted it, drawing the curtain over the darkness beyond the windows. Then she headed to the door, lit up with soft light from the hallway.
She heard his steps following her, but didn't dare look around again, knowing that, if she did, the flush in her cheeks would betray her secret the moment she entered the dining room. As it was, she glanced briefly at her reflection, checking her hair was not disheveled. Then she went quickly into the golden candlelight of the dining room.
“Ah, cousin! There you are!” Arabella smiled as she slipped into her place, beside Francine. “I was just considering whether or not to hold back the soup. McNowell, you can bring it out now.”
“Yes, milady.”
The head serving-man led the rest around the table, placing bowls of fragrant soup before them all. As Genevieve took a sample, she felt her heart flutter, and looked up. Adair was there, drawing out his chair to sit opposite her. His face glowed. He was smiling.