Chapter Twenty-Four
In the days following Claire’s return and Julian’s rapprochement with his family, Reynard spent time fencing with Henri and joined Julian in showing Frankie and Claire the sights of Paris. Claire was enthralled to think such a beautiful and vibrant city would be her new home, while Frankie was thrilled to think she would soon have a sister in Paris to visit the way Reynard did the Burbonnes.
“This is marvelous!” Frankie gasped as the door closed on the lift that would take them up to the first-floor esplanade of the Eiffel Tower. She grinned at Reynard, who took it as a sign to begin recounting facts about the design and construction of the tower. She was completely engrossed by the time they reached the esplanade and the lift doors opened. She pressed her hand to her heart as they stepped out onto the first floor. People were pressed against the railings, and she had to squeeze her way through the crowd to reach the view. Amazement was a pale description for reaction to the view.
“What they say is true,” she told Reynard when he managed to join her. “It is
the eighth wonder of the world.”
He pointed out the Arc de Triomphe, the Tuileries, and in the distance the Bois de Boulogne. She was flushed with the pleasure of discovery.
“Let’s go higher!” she said, grabbing his arm and leading him to the lift that would take them to the second level. Once on the upper level, she stood for some time looking up into the latticework of iron soaring above them.
“This is remarkable—unbelievable,” she said, then hurried from one side of the viewing platform to another. There were fewer people here to impede the view, and this time she could point out the landmarks herself. She didn’t see a lift, so she looked for an attendant to ask where they could find the stairs to climb to the top.
Reynard was horrified. “It would take at least three or four hundred steps to get to the third level,” he protested.
“A thousand, give or take a few,” the uniformed attendant supplied. “But you cannot go to the top, madame. Is not for le grand publique
.”
Disappointed, Frankie headed for another side of the second level to see what lay north and east of the tower. When Reynard joined her to look out over the city, she turned to him with a frown.
“Do I look like a ‘madame’ to you?” She crossed her arms. “He called me ‘madame.’”
“I heard that,” he said. “He mistook you for a married woman.”
“Really.” She crossed her arms with an irritable expression. “Does that mean he mistook you for my husband?”
“Good God.” He looked distressed, straightened his coat, and ran a hand back through his hair. “Do I look that haggard?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. When he grinned at her reaction, his face seemed so boyish and adorable that she couldn’t stay angry at him.
“You really are enjoying that too much,” she said, strolling farther around the railing. After a few moments she declared, “I’ll have you know, I would not be a terrifying harridan of a wife.”
“I know that,” he said, hardly repentant.
“Or a free-spending harpy that would beggar a man,” she continued.
“You were the soul of thriftiness on our trip to Paris,” he responded.
“And I don’t mind a nip of whiskey or a good cigar,” she protested.
“Open-minded and remarkably tolerant,” he conceded.
“I put up with you for days on end.”
“So you did.” He was starting to sound patronizing.
“And I’m not averse to a bit of friskiness now and then.”
“Friskiness?” He raised one eyebrow.
“Figure it out, Reynard.” She stared flatly at him.
“Oh, that
bit of friskiness.” He nodded. “I’m with you now.”
“I’d make a reasonably good wife. Am I safe in assuming that?”
“You are.”
“I’ve been thinking. I may have to reconsider this whole ‘marriage’ business. Watching Claire with Julian . . . they’re up to their eyeballs in love and romance . . . can’t keep eyes or hands off each other.”
“A bit overboard, actually,” he opined.
“But they do make it seem . . . kind of . . . wonderful.”
“Like eating a whole bowl of icing, I imagine,” he said with a wince. “Not so wonderful once you’ve done it.”
“Tell you what,” she said with a show of sudden inspiration. “I’ll get married when you do. How’s that for a plan?”
“Dismal, I should think. Since I won’t be getting married anytime in the next decade or so. By which time you’ll be a prune-ish spinster and I’ll be entering serious ‘codger’ territory.”
She stepped closer to him, studying his soft gray eyes and parted lips.
“Then, there’s no time to waste.” She grabbed his lapels, pulled him closer, and kissed him like he was air and she was drowning. Dearest Heaven. Her whole body caught fire, and every whisper, innuendo, and salacious secret she’d ever heard regarding human mating suddenly made brilliant sense. Her parts and his would fit together like . . . girders and rivets . . . paintings and frames . . . corks and wine bottles . . . hands and gloves. The list, like that kiss, could go on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
But the people staring at them openmouthed and covering their children’s eyes suggested that they shouldn’t allow it to go on and on here
.
She pulled back and looked up. He seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes. When she could see straight, herself, she grabbed him by the hand and braved glares and whispers to drag him to the stairs down to the first floor.
Three hundred and forty-one steps later, they wobbled from the steps with burning legs and went straight to the lift that would carry them to the ground level. In the crush of visitors, they were pressed against each other in the lift and she felt his hand moving on her waist. She looked up to find him looking away with a faint smile, and she bit her lip with a smile that matched his.
In the enclosed cab on the way home, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her like he meant to leave an impression that would last a lifetime. His hands drifted over her form and her hands invaded his coat. Soon they were working buttons and lifting petticoats.
Her very skin felt hungry for his touch—and not through layers of quilting, cloth, and boning. She wanted to rip open her jacket and feel him against her naked breasts, have him kiss and nibble her bare throat like he had aboard ship the night of their crossing. His lips were so gentle that the occasional nips of his teeth were a delicious contrast up the side of her neck and beneath her open collar. She shivered and seconds later her whole body sizzled as if struck by a bolt of electricity. More, she wanted more.
But the cab was slowing and the street sounds were falling away. Reynard froze and listened intently. She watched him, admiring the subtle bronzing of his face under the influence of desire, and telling herself it was probably a good thing the ride to Villa de Burbonne was so short.
* * *
By the time the cab stopped fully, their clothes were restored, and he helped her down with perfect manners. They met Red and the countess in the grand hall and exchanged a few distracted pleasantries about the Eiffel Tower and its spectacular views. Frankie excused herself to her room to wash her face and collect herself, and Reynard headed straight for the billiards room.
Red looked thoughtful, then turned to Evie. “There’s somethin’ going on between them two. I’d stake my best saddle on it.”
Evie smiled. “I agree.”
* * *
Frankie sat on the bench at the foot of her bed, trying to make sense of Reynard’s behavior and her own. Her responses weren’t much of a mystery. She was crazy about him and was aching to be with him and experience the possibilities of loving that she glimpsed whenever they kissed. The way he looked at her and held her, the tenderness in his touch—he wanted those same things. But every time things got personal between them, he turned clever and sardonic, and put distance between them again.
He felt the way she did, she was sure of it. She had seen his gaze soften, felt his body harden, and listened to his heart beating double time in their embraces. He had even offered to come to Paris in her place to keep her from putting herself in harm’s way . . . which no amount of gallantry or nobility could truly account for. Then on the trip, he had sheltered and protected her, even against her own poor judgment, and brought her to his Paris family.
She had begun to think that marriage might have some value for women, after all . . . with the right man . . . the one
man. In her case: Reynard Boulton. She couldn’t imagine him ordering her about like a servant or ignoring her counsel or refusing her the opportunity to vote—should that ever come about. Neither of them was exactly perfect, but it was becoming clearer by the day that they were perfect for each other.
Unfortunately, whenever the subject of matrimony came up, he was quick to declare he would not marry until he had inherited fully. The ugly rumors the duke had shared—or started—about his birth gave some legitimacy to his concern over his future. Did he really believe his uncle would try to deny him the title after he had spent virtually his entire life as the old man’s successor? Given her admittedly limited knowledge of English laws and tradition, that didn’t seem likely. But if it were not possible, why was he so fixed on it?
Men had their pride, she knew. Annoying prats. She would just have to convince him that his inheritance didn’t matter. She was an heiress and had money enough for both of them. What did
matter was that he was up to his neck in love with her. That whole “I’ll not marry until I’m the viscount” nonsense was just one more obstacle she would have to overcome to make him see they were meant to be together.
* * *
That night at Villa de Burbonne, there was a wonderful celebration: a feast of Dionysian proportions and more champagne than was probably prudent. It was no surprise, later, that bare feet padded along the darkened upper hallway and doors creaked indiscreetly as they opened and closed.
One of those pairs of feet belonged to Frankie as she sought out Reynard, intent on something she had never imagined she would do . . . seducing a man. Outside the door, she paused to take a deep breath and calm her pounding heart, then slowly turned the knob.
* * *
Reynard sat before the fire, his coat and vest shed, his stockinged feet crossed on the warm hearth, and his head leaning on the upholstered wing of the chair. He didn’t respond to the creak of the door, so she cleared her throat. He turned with a start.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, rising to face her.
“I’ve come to say thank you for all you’ve done,” she said tentatively.
“I was merely repaying a debt,” he said, looking around for his shoes.
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” She stepped closer, and he took a step back. “I saw your face as we searched for Claire and again when we found her and she and Julian came together. It meant something to you.”
He studied her for a moment, then looked down and began shoving his feet into his shoes.
“All right. I was pleased to help two good people overcome some obstacles and find a way to be happy. Happy?”
“Yes,” she said, watching him prop one foot after the other on the chair to tie his shoelaces. “It’s taken me a while to admit it, but you’re a very good man, Reynard, despite the effort you put forth to make it seem otherwise.”
“You mustn’t give too much credence to my behavior of late,” he said, straightening, looking more comfortable now that he was properly shod. “It’s Paris. The place has an impact on me that defies reason. I get mushy and sentimental and behave in ways contrary to my custom.”
“I understand that.” She strolled toward the draped tester bed and ran her hand up and down a bedpost. “It’s happened to me as well. I don’t know if it’s the light or the wine or the clothes or the food—everything seems softer, sweeter, easier here. Even sin seems more tempting and less . . . sinful.”
She saw him swallow hard as she continued her stroll and trailed her fingers along the edge of the bed.
“Precisely why one should always be wary of decisions made in Paris. The minute you set foot on a ferry back across the channel, regret and remorse set in. And once you’re home . . .” He folded his arms. “Indiscretions in sunny Paris seem even more sinful when viewed under London’s cold, sobering rain.”
“That sounds like experience speaking.”
“It is.”
“So, you’re saying once we leave Paris you’ll lose all desire to kiss me?” she said, settling her bottom on the edge of the bed. He looked a bit rattled—whether by her location or her statement, she couldn’t tell.
“I am saying, I suspect neither of us will feel quite as free to indulge in such behavior once we’re back in our homes and among our usual influences.”
“So, you’ll still want to kiss me,” she concluded. “You just won’t do it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know. And I don’t think you’re being honest with either of us.” She pulled her bare feet up and curled her legs to the side. She could have sworn his eyes darkened. “I, on the other hand, freely admit that when we were in England I wanted to kiss you. I certainly wanted to kiss you here in Paris. And when we’re back in England, I’ll probably want to kiss you again.”
* * *
Reynard found himself mesmerized by her bare feet as she tucked them beside her. God help him, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman’s bare feet outside of a house of . . . hell, even there, shoes and stockings were mandatory attire! His whole body was suddenly charged with heat. Her outrageous talk was making him remember the satin of her lips and wet velvet of her tongue, the way she trembled as he slid his hand up her silky stockings and nibbled his way down her half-open blouse.
“‘Ohhh, Reyyyynnnard . . . I’m yours,’” she said in an uncanny imitation of Marcella Tutty’s attempt at seduction. There was devilment in her eyes, those big blue, decadently fringed eyes. “‘Everyone knows what a wicked boy you are.’” Her voice dropped half an octave, vibrating every nerve in his body. “ ‘Come and turn me into a wicked girl.’”
His mouth was suddenly dry and his limbs seemed to move him forward of their own accord. She was there, on his bed, a fevered dream come true. He knew as sure as he knew the sun would rise, that he was going to kiss her witless and pull those flimsy nightclothes from her and devour her naked body inch by voluptuous inch. He whipped off his shirt and toed off the shoes he had just carefully donned. He caught her gaze in his and gave her a glimpse of just what she was asking for.
“Ohhh, Reynard,” she said in her own voice as he pressed her back on the bed with his bare chest until he braced over her on his arms. He paused to memorize the way she looked, hair tousled and shoulders mostly bare, lying in a sensuous swirl of silk chiffon and lace.
“I will always want to kiss you,” he said, struggling against a rush of emotion and a deluge of words he could not allow himself to say. “Paris . . . London . . . geography be damned.”
Then he did kiss her, twelve ways from Sunday, nestling against her body and between her parted thighs. He caressed her breasts and explored her body until she was quivering with arousal. Then he pressed his sex against hers and thrust slowly, firmly, seeking just the right pressure. Her legs wrapped around his waist and it wasn’t long before she groaned and then gasped as she seized and arched beneath him.
* * *
There was more, she realized as her senses cleared. This was only the beginning, a lush and tantalizing hint of what could be between them. She reached for him, and he caught her hand and held it motionless away from the bulge in his trousers.
“No,” he said softly.
“But we’ve come this far . . .”
“And no further,” he said, his jaw clenched and his eyes molten with unquenched fire. “I will not cross that threshold with you, sweetheart. I will not give you something to regret.”
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?” she said, searching his face.
“It should be our
decision. But only if we can be sure there will be no lasting consequences. And I don’t think, just now, that we could be sure of that.” He gave her a wry smile. “You do know this is how babies are made?”
She smacked him on the shoulder. “Prat.”
He laughed wickedly and shifted to lie beside her. The cool air that replaced him against her skin made her shiver. He lay on his side and pulled her back against him, sheltering her as he had before on the ship. He stroked her face and hair, even as she touched his face and studied the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders.
“This is lovely,” she said, sinking into a warm haze of comfort in his arms. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt as good as I feel right now.”
He gave a soft laugh and nuzzled her ear. “Remember this the next time you want to strangle me.”
After a while his voice called her back from the drowsiness she enjoyed.
“I want to tell you about it . . . the marriage business. I want you to understand.”
She turned in his arms and faced as serious an expression as she’d ever seen on him. He cupped the side of her face and kissed her nose. He was deciding what and how much to say.
“My uncle, Ormond Boulton, is a hard man. He never was close to anyone that I know of, including his wife, who died just a few years into the marriage. They had no children and he never remarried. My father was the younger son, but at least he managed to beget me. Both of my parents died young and, being the presumptive heir, I was left in Ormond’s hands.
“When I was twelve, I was caught sneaking liquor from his study and he was furious—called me a thieving little bastard and knocked me halfway to County Cork. Since then, that has been his word for me—bastard. He swears that my mother never married my father and has held it over me, to bully and belittle me. Whenever I have challenged him on it, he has said he has proof and that on the day I am supposed to inherit, I will be discredited . . . because of my birth.”
“If it is true, why would he not bring the proof forward and have done with it?” she asked, glimpsing the pain and rejection he had lived with for most of his life. “Why let you be presumed his heir and let you live in his house?”
“Not exactly in
his house,” Reynard said, with a tinge of bitterness. “When I came of age, he banished me to the carriage house, which is where I live to this day.”
“That’s despicable. It’s as if he wants you around to torture . . . using your own hopes against you.” She thought for a moment. “But couldn’t you have searched for proof of the marriage here, in Paris?”
“I did. When I reached university and came to stay with the Burbonnes, I went in search of the place they were married. Henri was quite young himself when it took place, and from what I understand, the old marquis refused to attend. When I asked about it, Henri found a few documents regarding a modest marriage settlement, but nothing else. When I searched for the record, I found the parish register had been lost in a fire . . . along with many other records of that parish. There was no legal registration of the marriage.”
“But Henri was there—surely he could have helped you find witnesses.”
“I never told him what was happening. He did not react well when he found out I was continually short of funds. He thought my mother’s legacy should have been kept intact for me and threatened to go to London to confront Uncle Ormond. The old marquis, my grandfather, was in perilous health and had never been happy with Lillianne’s marriage to my father. I couldn’t bear to raise Ormond’s foul charges against his beloved daughter. And over time, it seemed best to let it lie.” He expelled a heavy breath. “Shortsighted . . . looking back on it now.”
“It couldn’t have been more convenient for your uncle if he had planned it.”
“Precisely,” he said with a pained smile. “Now I will not know if I am trueborn or a bastard until I inherit and whatever he has planned for me occurs.” He lifted her chin on his knuckle. “How could I possibly ask the woman I love to chance being disgraced so and tossed out on the street? How could I ever subject you to such humiliation and loss?”
She heard that word—love
—and stored it away in her heart. Was that truly meant for her? This was not the time or place to demand clarification.
“I don’t care about your title or your money, Reynard,” she said, pouring all the love in her heart into her gaze. “I have all I could need or want. In fact, I have enough for both of us.” She stroked his face, wishing she could take some of that burden from him. His eyes seemed so sad, and he pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as if he would never let her go.
“I’ve thought of walking away a thousand times,” he said, murmuring into her hair. “But I have to know who I am, Frankie. I need to know my mother was the good and loving woman I remember. I need to put to rest the secret that has haunted me for seventeen years.”
She put her forehead against his cheek. There were so many questions, so much left unsaid. But right now, there was only one thing she wanted him to know.
“Do what you must, Reynard.” Her throat tightened. “I’ll be here for you when you’re done.”
* * *
It was hard saying good-bye to the Burbonnes, and Paris. When the time came for departure, Henri and Isolde promised to come to London for the wedding, and Frankie, Reynard, Red, and Evie promised to return for visits with them.
But who knew what the future held, Frankie thought. Who would have guessed the circumstances and events that brought them all to Paris would bring a happy solution to Claire’s and Julian’s problems? Who would have imagined that those same events would lead her to a love that was as challenging as it was pleasurable and intoxicating?
As they boarded a train for Lille, she found herself dreading the return to England and all the questions and demands she would face. Their plan was to go straight to Lady Evelyn’s house in Suffolk and send Elizabeth an invitation to join them in a week or so. There, they would introduce the idea that they had gone to Paris, where Claire had met her violin teacher, Julian, and had gotten to know his family. When Elizabeth had recovered from that shock, they would spring the bigger news of a wedding to plan and of a French marquis and a wealthy industrialist to invite. Only when all of that was settled would Julian arrive, fresh from Paris, and announce his new position with the SNM and that the newlyweds would make their home in the City of Light.
It would be a lot for Elizabeth to take in. They should probably have plenty of smelling salts on hand.
If it weren’t for the countess’s steadiness and confidence, they probably wouldn’t stand a chance of pulling it off.
Strangely, though Lady Evelyn had always been the epitome of rectitude, she seemed quite happy with her role as mastermind and coconspirator. Some of that, Frankie realized as she watched Lady Evelyn and Red sitting with their heads together, probably could be laid at her wily uncle’s feet. She had been so caught up in her own situation that she hadn’t noticed how personal and affectionate things had become between the pair. It made her feel warm inside, seeing that Red had renewed his connection with Lady Evelyn—they looked pleased as punch to be together. Another bit of Paris magic, she realized.
On the train, the five of them filled a first-class compartment, paid for by Red and Lady Evelyn. Frankie sat with Claire and pretended to read a book, while stealing looks at Reynard and trading smiles with him. She didn’t see Red watching her and had no idea the play of glances between her and Reynard was validating a suspicion her uncle had been harboring for a while now.
Still, Red waited until they were on the small passenger ship crossing the channel to mention it. The sun pierced thin clouds to warm the cold autumn day as she stepped out onto the upper deck to take in some fresh air. Red appeared beside her and offered her his arm for a stroll.
“So, you and th’ Fox, you’re pretty cozy lately,” he said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye and reading fluently the hitch in her step.
“He’s not quite what I thought he was.” She continued to walk. “He’s a good man . . . considerate and thoughtful, and he puts others’ welfare above his own.”
Red halted with a dubious expression. “We talkin’ about the same fella? Tall, fair-haired, always got his nose in the air an’ a story on everybody?”
“Uncle Red”—she felt herself blushing—“he’s not like that.”
“Yeah, he is,” Red said with a chuckle. “Just not with you.” She saw the knowing glint in his eye. “Ye’ve gone soft on ’im, Frank. Admit it.”
She took a deep breath and did just that. “I have, Uncle Red. But I’m afraid I’m way past ‘soft.’ I’m downright melted.”
Red gave a soft whistle. “That bad, eh?”
She nodded ruefully. “I’m crazy about him. He’s strong and gentlemanly and honorable and unselfish. He is loyal to a fault and goes out of his way to help a friend. Without him, I’d still be floundering around some railway station, trying to figure out how to get to Paris.” She paused by a wooden bench and pulled him to a seat with her. “I hope you’re not upset. I know you have your own opinion of him, but—”
“Frank, Frank, Frank . . .” He took her hands between his. “I’ve come to know the Fox a bit myself. He’s a good man an’ a better friend. Honorable. Knows how to keep a secret. Loyal to his friends and civil to his enemies. I think of ’im like family, and I could think of no finer fella to trust with you.” He patted her hands. “Still, if he breaks yer heart, I’ll have to break his legs.”
Frankie laughed and gave him a hug, only realizing later that he might not have been kidding.