Jean-Marc propped his elbows on the mantel in what had once been his retreat—his library and study—and massaged his temples. He welcomed heat from the fire on his chilled legs.
Retreat? Hah. Not since Meg, Meg Smiles then, had first entered this room for an interview. Almost four years ago he’d retained her to guide Desirée through her Season (her first Season, that was) and from then on nothing had been the same in his life. Whenever possible she was with him. Into this masculine sanctuary appropriate but softer furnishings had gradually been added and he’d grown accustomed to working at his desk while his wife and daughter played on his favorite Aubusson carpet.
Praise be.
Now his happiest moments were spent with Meg in his arms, or just sleeping beside him, or when the two of them were with two-year-old Serena.
Well, he couldn’t hide in comforting thoughts for long on this miserable afternoon. Behind him a giant flap raged and soon, after the chaotic comings and goings, the crying, pleading and ordering had subsided or at least lulled a little, then he must take charge as his position demanded and let all of them know how things would be handled.
A chaise covered with gold damask flanked the fireplace on one side and from the corner of his eye, Jean-Marc could see his wife’s slippered feet there. If there was a choice, she invariably chose to be close to him. He doubted any of the rest of them sat. In fact he could hear and feel them moving about as they talked—or wept as was the case with Desirée. Damn their selfish father, the one parent they shared, for refusing to be interested in a female offspring, and damn the girl’s pleasure-seeking mother who had all but abandoned her since birth.
He had been made Desirée’s sole guardian and he was too young, or perhaps too impatient, to guide a woman of twenty who would not be guided. Not so far, but that would change.
“Jean-Marc,” that lady said. “You are not listening to me. I am in my most desperate time of need and you ignore me. You don’t love me, nobody does.”
He raised his face to the ceiling and prayed for patience.
“Everyone loves you, Desirée,” Meg said. “Do try not to sound like a petulant crone, you are annoying.”
At a knock on the door Jean-Marc turned around. An under-butler entered with a large porcelain vase overflowing with cream roses. He went to Desirée who sniffed into a handkerchief and shook her head.
“Put them on the desk, please,” Meg said and Jean-Marc hadn’t the heart to point out that he didn’t like his desk cluttered.
Latimer approached the flowers with comical haste and bent to examine the vase. He said, “Hmm,” and “Hmm,” again, then announced, “It’s Ming, by jove. I know you don’t want the gift, Desirée, but would you at least see who sent the vase?”
Jean-Marc smiled. Latimer was an importer of oddities and rarities and very successful. He’d become the man to see for authentication because his knowledge was impeccable.
“Look yourself,” Desirée said. “No one I care for would send me roses.”
Hunter leaned against a bookcase, one foot crossed over the other, lost in thought. Adam, damn his handsome hide, stood with his imposing legs braced apart and his hands linked behind his back. He stared at the roses.
A man ought to be grateful that at least Verbeux had gone about other business, that Miss Williams had taken to her bed, and Lucas Chillworth and his friend had been sensitive enough to excuse themselves on leaving that wretched hovel to which Desirée had been abducted. Not that Jean-Marc knew much more about that now than he had an hour ago.
Professional curiosity had overcome caution and Latimer held a small card in his hand.
“Well?” Desirée said, showing little sign of the collected young woman she’d become. “Go on, Latimer. You’ve taken out my card. You might as well read it to the whole room. Who knows, perhaps the flowers are from that unspeakable creature who handled me so…Read it, please.”
“I say.” Hunter roused himself and straightened away from the bookcase. “You did tell him to open the card, y’know, Your Highness.”
“Desirée has had a shock,” Adam said promptly. “Aye, a terrible shock and she’s fragile. She’s not to be held accountable for a small ill humor.”
Jean-Marc considered the painter who had hidden his family and everything else about his personal life, and saw a formidable foe in the making. Whenever Adam looked at Desirée he guarded his expression—probably to hide the passion he knew he must not show—but tenderness, and at this moment protectiveness, were never far away.
“Thank you, Adam,” Desirée said and continued to look at him with gentle eyes.
“You do know Meg’s right, don’t you,” he said. “We love you and will always keep you safe.”
“I know you will,” Desirée said. “I love you, too.”
Jean-Marc glanced at Meg. She gave the slightest of shrugs to let him know she’d had the same reaction as he to Desirée’s response. In this instance Meg’s support didn’t make him feel better, not that they couldn’t both be wrong and reading too much into a few chance words.
“Read the card then, More,” Adam said to Latimer with a heartiness that sounded forced. “Let’s find out who our Princess’s extravagant admirer is.”
“Princess Desirée,” Latimer read in deliberately sonorous tones. “I hope the little notes I have left in recent days are not annoying. It was and is my fervent hope that we might renew our acquaintance of several years ago. I shall never forget you at the costume ball when you wore pink sequins and net and pretended to me you were supposed to be a concubine! You were the sweetest girl even then.”
“You’ve been getting notes?” Adam said with not even a shadow of a smile. Then he remembered himself and turned up the corners of his mouth. “I imagine there are so many notes of admiration delivered that you grow weary of them.”
“I don’t read them,” Desirée said promptly. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Latimer. Tell us who this admirer is.”
Latimer turned the card over. “I beg to call on you again as I did on several occasions at Riverside in Windsor.” He looked up. “I didn’t know you had a beau following you around in the country.”
“Continue,” Desirée said.
“Of course.” Latimer cleared his throat and read on, “Please consider allowing me to take you around the Park in my carriage. And perhaps when it grows a little warmer, we might ride there together. With deepest respect, Anthony FitzDuram.”
“Who the hell is Anthony FitzDuram?” Adam and Hunter asked in unison.
“He’s the son of Burris FitzDuram,” Jean-Marc said, “The—”
“Judge,” Hunter finished for him. “I’m dashed. They are also the FitzDuram single malt family and their pockets are so deep they drag on the ground. Burris is a good judge and a good man and I hear nothing but admiration for the entire family. Anthony’s the brain of the group, so I recall being told. Oxford man. He’s into politics now. They say he’s got a brilliant career ahead of him.”
“A nice boy,” Meg said. She smiled at Desirée. “I also remember how naughty you were at the ball. You informed him that your gown was supposed to be bands of transparent stuff to show off your skin and flesh, only it was wasted on one with so little flesh—or something similar.”
Desirée smiled at that. “I don’t know why he continued to be interested in me after that. I’d have expected him to be married by now.”
Adam laughed and said, “How could any man not be entranced by you. You take the breath away.”
“Yes, I understand. Take me away now?” she said. “My dear, Adam, how impetuous you are.” She paused, coughed, tried to pat her own back.
“Oh, we must make you happy again,” Adam said. He went to her and smoothed her hunched and quaking shoulders. “If you agree, Jean-Marc and Meg, I will accompany the Princess to Number 7 where it is quiet and I can talk her through the unpleasant events of the day. Perhaps you agree that it will be more comfortable for her to talk to just one person?”
Perish Adam Chillworth’s audacity. Jean-Marc seethed. The man openly comforted Desirée and talked about accompanying her to Number 7 where it is quiet! “I do agree that she should talk to one person rather than a crowd, sir, and that person shall be me,” he said, more forcefully than he would have liked. He pretended not to see Meg’s reproachful glances.
Again there was a tap on the door and the same underbutler—Thompson—put in another appearance. He threw wide the door and announced, “Lady Hester Bingham and Sir Robert Brodie to see you, m’lord.”
Jean-Marc muttered under his breath. This was a plot, an evil attempt to get rid of him through driving him mad.
“Hello children,” Lady Hester said, gliding into the room. Resplendent in a chic carriage outfit, silver shot with blue and trimmed with silver mink, she went directly to the center of the room where she pulled off her gloves and gave the impression of one in perpetual motion.
Jean-Marc was certain he had already met Sir Robert but couldn’t recall where or when. Broad shoulders, powerful build, hair prematurely white but with eyebrows, mustache and beard that were all still red: He was a commanding figure.
“This is my very good friend, Sir Robert Brodie,” Lady Hester said. “He’s a surgeon here in London and a very sought after one, too. He was kind enough to accompany me this afternoon since I think he’s convinced I’m overwrought.”
“Are you?” Jean-Marc asked.
Lady Hester turned her blue eyes on him. “News travels, Jean-Marc. I’ve learned about Desirée’s terrible experience.” She went directly to Desirée and threw her arms around her neck. Her Ladyship’s mouth brushed the side of Desirée’s head and Jean-Marc could have sworn a message passed between them. Women. They were so devious. Give him a straightforward man any day—depending on the situation, of course.
“Good afternoon,” Sir Robert—a Scotsman—said, offering his hand and shaking Jean-Marc’s firmly. “In fact we’ve a’ready met. I was invited to a costume ball in this house about three years ago. I met your charmin’ wife—you weren’t married then, o’course, and she stole my heart, only to dash it within half an hour when I saw she only had eyes for you.” He smiled, showing strong, square teeth. “But I’m a forgivin’ man and a good loser. You’re a lucky bounder, m’lord. And I’m a lucky man to have met Hester again. Isn’t she extraordinary?”
Jean-Marc looked at Lady Hester, who continued to whisper with Desirée, and had to admit, “Yes, extraordinary. A pity she was widowed so young but I have felt that she would still like to experience the complete possibilities of life—you know—between a man and a woman and I don’t think she mourns the loss of her husband nearly as much anymore.”
“She’s shared some o’ that wi’ me since I became her physician. Apparently she’s been reprimanded by some of the influential hostesses for laughin’ and havin’ a pleasant time when—” he dropped his voice here “—her husband isn’t cold in his grave t’hear them tell it. They don’t acknowledge that she’s been alone for years.”
“And what does she say to that?” Jean-Marc asked.
Sir Robert’s eyes crinkled at the corners. An appealing devil to the ladies, Jean-Marc decided. The surgeon’s eyes twinkled. “I think ye can imagine the answer t’that.”
Jean-Marc considered before saying, “I thought you were a surgeon, not a family physician.”
The good doctor laughed at that. “A surgeon must first be a physician, no? And if he chooses to take on a personal patient, he’s free to do so.”
“As you say.” Jean-Marc knew when he was beaten.
“Take a look at the Ming piece, Lady H.,” Latimer said. Clearly his concentration had not left the beautiful vase. “It’s a gift to Desirée from an admirer. So are the roses. What do you think of it?”
“Very nice,” Lady Hester said but didn’t sound interested.
The under-butler still hovered in the doorway and Jean-Marc frowned at him. “Was there something else, Thompson?”
“Ahem. Mr. FitzDuram, the gentleman who brought the roses, asked me to inquire whether Her Royal Highness might leave a response to his note, which he could pick up later.”
“Oh, really,” Desirée said and sighed. “I am tired yet I cannot have any rest until I have confronted what has happened to me, quietly, with Adam who is never judgmental and who doesn’t interrupt every word I say.”
A burning sensation attacked Jean-Marc’s belly. This minx would not manipulate him into abandoning his responsibilities.
“Desirée.” He hoped the way he looked at his sister warned her that he would have no nonsense. “FitzDuram is a polite young man with excellent prospects. And I think you like him, hmm?”
Desirée waggled her head. “Well enough.”
“Good. It’s important for you to be seen out and about. I shall have Meg write a note on your behalf inviting him to call around eleven on Wednesday morning. If you have no objection, I’ll tell him we approve of your taking a drive with him.”
“I don’t want to go, but I will. And I’ll make sure he doesn’t ask again.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Jean-Marc informed her. “You will be the polite girl you know how to be. Give the man a chance, you may come to like him.”
“I remember him and I already like him. That’s all I feel about him. Now, I am so tired. Please be kind to me, brother.”
Jean-Marc steeled himself for his sister’s melodramatic arguments and said, “Of course I’ll be kind to you, my dear. Why don’t we go upstairs to my small study. I’ll make sure there’s a fire there and we can be comfortable—and quiet.”
Desirée flopped into one of a pair of French fauteuils, grasped the gilt arms so tightly her knuckles shone and, at the same time, closed her eyes and wagged her head from side to side. “It is all too embarrassing. I don’t want to talk to you about it.”
“I am the one, the only one, you should wish to discuss this with.”
“I love you, Jean-Marc,” Desirée said, “but there are some things I’m not comfortable discussing with you. Please don’t press me.”
“Yet you are comfortable talking to Adam about them?”
“Yes.” Emphatic.
Jean-Marc noted that Adam looked pained and almost sympathized with the man’s difficult position.
“Very well.” Lady Hester chose to sit on a green silk covered couch facing the fire. She leaned back and made sounds that suggested she was making decisions. “Listen to me and remember that I have more experience in these matters than any of you. You in particular, Jean-Marc. Pay attention.”
At any other time he would have laughed at this lady’s audacity. “I’m listening, My Lady.”
“Good, see that you continue to do so. There is a point at which dutiful concern spills over into possessiveness. I hope this is not the case here and now with your attitude toward your sister. What do you think, Meg.”
He looked at his wife and she turned pink enough to worry him. She said, “I can only give my support to my husband’s wishes. That is my responsibility and I happily perform it since Jean-Marc is the most reasonable of men.”
The idea of Meg’s unwavering loyalty was a rush in his veins. But she loved him and he wasn’t sure she actually agreed with him. He looked at her and desire overtook him. How, he wondered, could he get the two of them out of here and into the bedchamber they unfashionably shared at all times?
“I also trust Adam, of course,” Meg continued. “And I consider him to have a gift shared by few, the gift of being able to listen and know the right, the most helpful thing to say afterward. We have long been friends and I could not bear to think of life without that friendship.”
Jean-Marc flexed his fingers. Other than demanding Meg’s silence—which he would not do—he had no choice but to allow her to extol Chillworth’s virtues.
“You are,” Meg said, looking at Adam with a sincere smile shining forth from her lovely face, “supportive and honorable—brave. You are a man who always puts himself last.”
The room had grown quiet.
Murmurs of agreement followed and Jean-Marc’s temper churned. He had been betrayed by his own wife’s golden tongue. And he still wanted to bear her away and kiss every inch of her.
“Well said!” Lady Hester, her face flushed with emotion, clapped her hands and looked at Adam. “I think it would be most suitable for you to help Desirée in any way you can. Like Meg, I trust you implicitly. Jean-Marc, with your agreement, and since I know Anne Williams needs rest, I will chaperon the two young people myself. What do you say?”
What could he say? “Since Adam is hardly a young person I shall charge him with responsibility for my sister, as well, Lady Hester. Naturally, I cannot turn down your generous offer.”
“Very wise,” Lady Hester said, slipping a hand beneath Sir Robert’s arm. “We will be in the foyer in case there are remarks that need to be made without our presence. Kindly don’t keep me waiting long.”
Latimer and Hunter drifted away at the same time.
“Run along,” Jean-Marc told Desirée and to Adam he added, “My sister is headstrong, but you know this. Beware of any unsuitable demands she may make on you and encourage her to settle down and start preparing for the Season. You could be a helpful influence, Chillworth.”
Adam’s discomfort was palpable, even though he retained his formidable air. “Desirée will be in good hands,” he said. “I hope to help with sorting out today’s events.”
Once Jean-Marc was alone with Meg, she got up from the chaise and stood before him. She rubbed his arms, and his resolve to remain aloof crumbled. He took her by the shoulders and drew her close. Her face was upturned and she ran her tongue over her lips, probably out of nervousness but for him the move was erotic.
“You, my darling,” he said, “want the best for Desirée. And I do know I’m being manipulated by the one woman in the world who almost always has her way with me.”
“That sounds exciting.”
He pulled her against him. “Your fearlessness will get you into trouble—the best kind of trouble and quite shortly. But you worry me. I warn you that the match you have in mind cannot work—and I like the man you ladies have chosen for Desirée as much as you do. But he would not make her happy in the end. Forbidden love can be intoxicating, but when the wild passion of it wears off, a man such as Adam cannot keep a woman like Desirée happy. She would come to resent him.
“Still, it will do no harm for him to counsel her—particularly with Lady H. on guard.”
Meg flattened her breasts to his chest and draped her arms around his neck. “Does that mean you are about to tire of me? After all, ours is not an equal match.”
“My dearest witch, you are my equal in every way.”
Meg ducked from his arms and ran to lock the library door. By the time she returned with her bodice already unbuttoned, her full breasts were all but naked in a flimsy chemise.
She came to him, pulling her arms from her sleeves, and by the time she stood in front of him again she had only to wriggle the chemise to her waist in order to be enchantingly half-dressed.
Meg’s mouth trembled. She sought his hands and filled them with her breasts. Jean-Marc looked down as he fondled her, then stopped and tilted his head to one side. “You feel wonderful…but you feel different.”
“I am different,” she told him, “It’s still early, but we are finally to have another child.”
He swept her from her feet, knelt and stretched her on the carpet before the fire. Lying on his side, his head propped, he studied her before leaning slowly over her. “You are everything to me,” he told her. “You make me alive and you make me more happy than I will ever be able to explain. Thank you, dearest wife.”
Jean-Marc kissed her.