“A Frenchman’s talents must be twice that of an Englishman’s to compensate for the significant increase in arrogance and unpleasantness.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Reedham upon said lady’s complaints about her French cook.
The main kitchen at Blackmore Hall was so enormous, three long work tables—not one—stretched down the middle. The room swarmed with scullery maids, all rushing about, chopping this and that, and being shouted at in French-accented English by the man at the center of it all: Monsieur Renaud. He was surprisingly young, even handsome, with swarthy skin, black hair, and a long nose, which often wrinkled in disgust at the results of his maids’ efforts. His arms bulged as he transferred a large haunch of meat from one table to another. He spat onto the first table’s surface, cursing the poor girl who had previously used it to scale fish.
Jane, having gone unnoticed upon entering, cleared her throat. No one looked her way. She tried again, louder this time. Still nothing. “Monsieur Renaud?” she called out, her voice a bit more wavering than she would like. Half the maids stopped to stare, then whispered and elbowed one another. Before long, they were all curtsying. But Renaud did not stop what he was doing. Instead, he wielded a knife on what appeared to be mutton, muttering to himself in French, most of which was terribly vulgar.
“Monsieur Renaud, I would like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”
He waved at her without glancing away from his work, the knife flashing in the afternoon light from the high windows. “Speak away.”
She moved farther into the room, coming to stand on the opposite side of his work table. “I would like to request a picnic be prepared.”
Finally, he stopped, his knife hand dropping, his other arm coming up to swipe his forehead, which glistened with sweat. “A picnic.” The way he said it, with such disdain along the two syllables—“peek-neek”—implied he did not approve. But perhaps it was simply a language barrier.
“Yes. That is, I would like to have a meal prepared which can be enjoyed out-of-doors. In a basket, if you please.”
He snorted then resumed carving his meat.
For a moment, she wasn’t certain whether he understood that she intended the picnic to be packed straight away, for he did not exhibit much urgency. Or any urgency, really. “M-monsieur, I shall need the basket soon.”
Another snort.
“Within the hour.”
He stopped. Slammed his knife on the table. Threw his hands up in a wild gesticulation as a string of French expletives exploded from his mouth.
Her eyes widened. Never had she heard such colorful language spoken in her presence. It was most enlightening. She’d had no idea such things were possible—much less desirable—between Englishmen and sheep.
“Monsieur Renaud,” she interrupted calmly, holding up a finger. “Certainly, I do not wish to cause disruption. But this is quite important, or I would not have requested it.”
Another spate of vitriolic epithets. Really, she thought. This is bordering on absurdity. Perhaps he was unaware that she spoke fluent French.
Again, she inserted herself in the midst of the tirade, her words serene and deliberate. “Peut-être vous préférez quitter l'Angleterre et retourner à votre pays d’origine. Je peux certainement arranger ça.”
He froze mid-insult, his mouth pinching and sputtering, his face reddening. She had simply offered him the opportunity to leave England, as he appeared to be rather vexed with its inhabitants, and to assist him in returning to his home. His reaction seemed overly dramatic to her. But then, she recognized the tempestuous flair of someone longing to be the center of attention. Genie was her sister, after all.
His heavy brows collided in a fierce glower. “You speak French?” he muttered.
“Oui,” she replied, giving him a placid smile and touching the corner of her spectacles. “Now then, if a simple picnic is too much for you, perhaps one of the kitchen maids can assist me. It need not be elaborate. Some bread, perhaps. A few berries.”
His eyes narrowed, and he folded his muscular arms across his chest. “Non.”
“No?”
“This is not acceptable. Bread. Berries. Food for peasants!”
“Then, what would you suggest?” she inquired innocently.
His hand smacked the work table, and he tossed orders at the maids, who scrambled to do his bidding. When he was finished, he looked back at Jane. “You are a clever one,” he said resentfully.
She smiled, careful not to reveal her triumph. “I must say, Monsieur Renaud, I am positively obsessed with your mince pies. Might you have some to place in the basket?”
He scoffed, shouting, “Add two mince pies!” at his harangued assistants.
Two hours later, she found herself climbing the hill toward the ruins of Blackmore Castle, lugging the weighty basket, and cursing herself for choosing this particular location. On one hand, it presented the privacy required for her quest. On the other hand, it was located on a forested hillside thick with blackthorn and hazel underbrush, making the trek slow going. Previously, when her husband had brought her to the castle, he had cleared the path ahead of her, using his large frame and long arms to ensure she encountered no difficulty.
Today, she was forced to wade through the brambles on her own, the occasional thorn catching at her skirt and the sleeves of her dark-blue spencer. Fortunately, she wore gloves, which protected her hands. Unfortunately, the day was warm with only the lightest breeze rustling the trees. Perspiration trickled down her spine, causing her skin to itch. Her spectacles continuously fell lower on her nose, necessitating constant adjustments from her free hand. The frustration added to her exertion. She hoped he did not reach the castle first, for she would like a few moments to refresh herself after her strenuous climb.
At last, she spied the gray, mossy remains of Blackmore Castle between the branches of a looming beech. A trio of ravens launched themselves from one of its ramparts. In truth, it was quite a small castle, not nearly so grand as she had once imagined. Gray stone with a handful of miserly slits for light, only half the thing still stood at its original height. The rest lay on the ground, squared boulders covered in moss and brambles.
Her legs and lungs burning, she panted and huffed, heaving the basket ahead of her to clear the path. Then, she heard the whinny of a horse.
Drat. He was there already.
Having inquired with the stable master where her husband had gone riding, she’d been gratified to realize he’d gone to meet with the vicar regarding a new roof for a poor cottager in the village. Knowing he was only a quarter-hour ride away, she had immediately sent a message with one of the grooms to ask Blackmore to meet her at the castle for a very important purpose. At the time, she’d been deliberately vague, as she had reasoned urgency without detail would be her best strategy. Apparently, she’d been correct. He must have ridden quite fast in order to arrive ahead of her.
“The man is too bloody efficient,” she muttered, brushing a leafy branch away from her face. Stomping up the rest of the overgrown trail, she entered the space that would have once been the great hall.
“What the blazes were you thinking?”
She spun to her left, where her tall, blond, angry husband bore down on her like a bird of prey. He stepped over rotted timbers and stones with no more effort than she would navigate a gravel path, coming within inches of her before she had a moment to catch her breath. Relieving her of the heavy basket, he set it on the ground with one hand then stooped to reach for her skirt, deftly removing a thorny branch snagged in the sky-blue muslin.
His sunlight scent wafted up to her nose, filling her starving senses. Oh, mercy, he was so close—
“Perhaps I was unclear, but as I recall, I specifically told you not to go wandering about the estate without me.” He did not shout, but his voice cut like a razor.
She sighed as he rose to his full, broad-shouldered height. A melting sensation in her lower body—particularly between her thighs and belly—signaled that her troublesome heat flush was becoming rather indiscriminate. In truth, she now found even his disapproval arousing. Something must be wrong with her.
“Jane,” he snapped. “What is the matter?”
She tore her gaze away from his shoulders, currently encased in a handsome brown riding coat, to answer his question. “Not a thing, your grace. I thought we might enjoy a nice picnic together.”
He stared at her, his jaw tight. “A picnic.”
“Yes, a picnic. Why do all the men around here keep saying it like that?”
Eyes sharpening to diamond hardness, he bit out softly, “What men?”
A shiver slid over her skin as his big body inched closer, looming over her and bombarding her with intensity she had not felt in four days. Her stomach swooped. “I—I only meant Monsieur Renaud. The cook. He prepared the basket.” She gestured to where it lay on the ground.
His eyes followed her hand then came immediately back to her face. “I do not have time for a picnic. I thought you were in distress. Your note said so.”
“I am in great distress,” she said, nudging her spectacles back into place and removing her bonnet. She moved a few feet away to set the simple straw hat on one of the larger stones—and to catch her breath. “My husband has been neglecting me.”
He went still and silent, his face inscrutable.
“Additionally, I am too warm. I believe I shall dispense with some unnecessary layers.”
Staring directly into his eyes, she unfastened the braided frog closures along the front of her spencer. Though her hands trembled, there were only five, so it did not take long. Shrugging out of the blue kerseymere, she peeled the long sleeves away from her bare arms. Beneath, she wore a thin, short-sleeved muslin gown originally designed to wear with a chemisette, as the neckline was quite low. If one wished for modesty, it was an important addition, particularly with a figure such as hers. However, she had not chosen to wear a chemisette. She had even debated leaving off her stays, but decided they helped enhance the visible part of her bosoms, which was, of course, slightly more than the upper third.
“Jane,” her husband ground out.
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing?”
She blinked at him innocently. “I don’t know what you mean. I am simply cooling myself.” She stroked her collarbone with her still-gloved fingers. “It is dreadfully warm today.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“I think perhaps it is the gloves,” she continued. “Do you suppose that could be it?” Ever so slowly, she stripped the soft, supple leather from her hands, folding it gently away from each wrist, loosening individual fingertips, then slipping the whole of it off, letting the leather gently drag against her skin. “There now,” she said. “Much better.”
“Put them back on.”
She had to steel herself against the urge to obey his harsh command. He was quite intimidating in this thunderous mood. Instead, she ignored him and moved toward the basket, leaving her gloves, spencer, and bonnet lying on the stone. She bent forward to dig through the items for their outdoor luncheon, deliberately presenting him with her backside. It was not a certainty he had any interest in that part of her, but she reckoned it was worth the attempt.
A hiss of air sounded from his vicinity. Excellent. She smiled to herself. Another valuable piece of information. “We have a veritable feast on offer. But first …” She turned toward him, holding a thick, woolen blanket. Her heart stuttered and the air left her body. He was right there, less than six inches from her, his body as rigid as the stones surrounding them.
“We must leave,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes dilated. She noticed he clasped his hands behind his back, as though afraid of what he might do were they loose.
The look on his face sent springles running to every part of her body—her nipples, her thighs, between her thighs. Even her lower back experienced the little peculiar sensations of shivery heat. “Why must we?” she asked, her voice husky.
His mouth tightened. “You know why.”
“Tell me.” She tossed the blanket.
The barest flash of agony shifted through his eyes, tugged at his brow, before it was controlled. “What happened before …”
“In the library.”
His chest heaved and his jaw hardened. “Yes. It was unforgivable.”
She crossed her arms beneath her bosom, unintentionally lifting the rounded flesh to swell further above her neckline. “According to whom?”
He blinked, his eyes darting between her bosoms and her face, seemingly unable to decide where to land. “To me. It is my duty to protect you.”
“You are my husband.”
Sighing, he dragged his gaze fully to hers. “Precisely.”
“And I am your wife.”
Now, wariness crept into his expression. “Yes.”
She smiled. “Would you not say it is also your duty to provide for my every need?”
Sensing a trap, he tried reasoning first. “As long as you are not harmed in doing so, yes.”
“Then we are in agreement.” She held her arms out to her sides, inviting him to look his fill. “Do I appear harmed to you?”
A crease formed between his brows. “You appear underdressed.”
She sniffed. “Entirely suitable for the weather. And my purpose. Which is to ensure my husband provides for my needs as I provide for his.”
“Jane—”
“First, we shall eat Monsieur Renaud’s marvelous feast.”
He ground his teeth together.
“And then we shall discuss all the other needs we might satisfy together.”
“Jane,” he gritted. “I will not be moved in this. You cannot tempt me into ravishing you.”
A slow grin curved her mouth. She inched closer, letting her bosoms barely brush his abdomen, enjoying his sharply indrawn breath. With a mischievous glance from beneath her lashes, she asked, “Would you care to wager on that, your grace?”
*~*~*