Читать книгу Lady of Shame - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 12

‘No eggs?’ André growled.

Becca shrugged.

‘Sacrebleu. How am I supposed to provide dinner without eggs?’

The girl looked at him with a considering gaze. André half expected her to tell him. The girl was as nervous as a cat most of the time, but when they were alone in the kitchen, she sometimes displayed a hidden courage. He tried to encourage it.

‘What flea’s biting you this morning, monsieur?’ she asked instead.

‘I beg your pardon? I do not have fleas.’

‘You’ve been as bad tempered as a dog with fleas since you got in here this morning. Which one bit you?’

Ah, the English vernacular. It always caught him out.

Yes, he had been out of temper. Not screaming and yelling as some chefs did when angry, but edgy and perhaps a little too sharp. It was his unexpected response to the Englishwoman that had unsettled him. His urge to help, when she had been quite clear she needed nothing from him. Such concern for a highborn woman wasn’t like him. And it certainly wasn’t Becca’s fault that there were no eggs in the pantry. ‘I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.’

She stifled a giggle behind a red work-roughened hand. She always did that when he called her mademoiselle. It made him smile back.

‘The boy didn’t bring no eggs yesterday afternoon,’ she said, bending to grab another potato. ‘I wondered why you didn’t ask him.’

She could have said something. He was lucky they’d had enough for breakfast. Merde, he’d been so incensed about Mrs Holte eating none of his sandwiches, so keen on making something to tempt her at dinner, he hadn’t noticed.

She’d made him forget what he was about, with her pale face and the crescents of lavender beneath sad grey eyes. And led him to go where he was not welcome. Her dismissal still irked.

He let go a sigh. There was no one to blame but himself and therefore he must solve the problem. He would go to the Dower House and see if the cook there had any eggs to spare. If not he would be walking to the village. In either case a walk would do him good. Clear his head of visions of the mousy Englishwoman who intruded upon his thoughts when he least expected.

He didn’t like skinny women. He liked them plump and curvaceous, with hearty appetites at the table and in bed. Women who did not cling or need cosseting. Women who enjoyed and moved on as he did. It was better that way.

Mrs Holte looked as if she needed a strong arm at her waist, or she would blow away in one of the infernal winds that swept down from the foothills they called Peaks. No, Mrs Holte was not his style at all.

So why could he not get her out of his mind?

He tossed his hat on the desk in his tiny office where he kept his papers and accounts and hung up his apron. He grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door. ‘I will not be more than an hour or two. Finish the potatoes and the root vegetables. They should keep you employed until I return. Agnes can help you when Madame Stratton has finished with them. Tell Charlie to bring in more wood, and coal too.’

Tonight there would be no untried dishes.

He stepped out into a grey day. Clouds obscured the hills he scorned and had left a fresh layer of white over the ground. Barely enough to cover the toes of his boots. He turned up his coat collar and headed for the path that wandered across the grounds to the small house set aside for the widow of the heir.

As he left the courtyard the wind hit him full force, tugging at his coat and making him grab for his hat. But it wasn’t the wind that took his breath away; it was the sight of the woman and the child in the middle of the lawn scooping snow into a pile.

Building un bonhomme de neige. How many years was it since he had entered into such a childish game? A long time. If ever. He shook his head. Once, he recalled, the soldiers in his company had flung snowballs around. Then they’d created a man of snow and topped it with a shako, calling it their captain’s name and telling him what they thought of him. They’d all been very drunk, but they had laughed until they fell down. They were lucky not to have been flogged for such foolishness.

He’d been fifteen.

He stood watching them, mother and daughter. He heard their laughter carried on the wind. It made him want to smile. He liked children. He liked their innocence. Their lack of guile. He especially liked that Madame Claire would spend time with her child, instead of leaving her to a nursemaid. She was a woman to be admired.

He narrowed his eyes. They were making a very poor job of the man of snow.

He found himself walking closer. The child saw him first. ‘Have you come to help?’ she asked in a high piping voice. Her cheeks were rosy from the wind, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming.

‘Good morning, madame, mademoiselle.’ André looked at her mother, who regarded him warily. Her grey eyes reminded him of clouds full of rain. Her smiles for her child hid fear and sadness. He had a terrible urge to offer his help, not with the snowman, but with the deeper troubles reflected in her gaze. It wasn’t his place to offer anything.

He glanced down at the heap of snow at his feet and back at the child. ‘I do not wish to intrude, but if you take a handful of snow like this—’ he bent, picked up a handful of snow and formed a ball in his gloved palms, squeezing it until it was round ‘—and then you roll it like so …’ He rolled the ball and it gathered all the snow in its path until it grew three times its size. He looked up at the child. ‘Then you will soon have his body.’

He stood up.

‘Mama, look, isn’t he clever?’

‘Very,’ the woman said, but she did not smile. She no doubt found him impertinent. And he was. It was in his nature. Dictated by his heritage, he presumed. It had got him into all sorts of trouble in his youth. But he did not need trouble now, not when he was so close to achieving his dream.

He bowed. ‘I wish you both a good day.’ He headed for the path.

‘Don’t go,’ the child called. ‘Stay and help.’

He hesitated, then turned back.

‘I am sure Monsieur André has better things to do than play at making snowmen with us,’ her mother said. She had a nice voice. Light yet musical. She spoke his name beautifully, like a Frenchwoman.

‘I have time to build un bonhomme.’ The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them and the little girl was looking at her mother for agreement.

The woman raised her hands from her sides in defeat. ‘Then I am sure Jane and I will appreciate the help.’

In short order the three of them were pushing a very large and very heavy ball of snow around the lawn. Twice his hand touched that of the English madame. He felt the shock of it all the way from his fingers to his chest. And then lower down. Deep in the pit of his belly. The rise of desire.

She moved her hand away so quickly he had the sense she had felt the tingles too. After the second time it happened, she was careful to keep the child between them.

Finally they could barely push the uneven-shaped ball it was so heavy.

‘I think it is quite big enough,’ Mrs Holte said, laughing and panting.

‘I want him to be the biggest snowman ever,’ Jane said.

‘He is,’ André said. ‘Now we need a head. Make a ball the way I did and we will start again.’

Jane pressed snow together in her hands, then raced around in larger and larger circles gathering snow on her ball, the green grass being revealed in an increasingly wide track behind her.

Breathing hard, Madame Holte watched her daughter with a smile on her lips. She was really pretty when she smiled. Not pretty. Striking. Because it was so unexpected, and so full of joy.

A joy he’d made possible.

Insanity. He’d simply stopped to help the child. He’d wanted to see the little girl happy, that was all. Children deserved to be happy.

Did they not? His childhood, the parts he allowed himself to remember, must have had some happy moments. He tried to recapture the feeling he saw in Jane’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. The delight and the innocence ringing in her laughter. He couldn’t do it. Yet he had the sense of memories buried deep inside.

What would it be like, having his own child? A family. During the war, he had always avoided thoughts of family, children, ties. Life was too dangerous. And since then he had been working too hard to establish himself.

Watching this child at play today had created a longing that had nothing to do with lust for the mother. It was far too much like a need of the soul. It cut the ground from under his feet in a way he did not like, yet could not seem to resist.

For some reason he felt as if he stood at the brink of an abyss.

He turned away from the sight, turned to speak to the mother. ‘She is having a good time, non?’ He was shocked at how husky his voice sounded. How unsure.

Her face tipped up to meet his gaze. The love in her smile held him entranced. ‘She is. Thank you for your help.’

The smile was not for him. It was for the child. And still it burned a path through his chest. Not all smiles were honest. Bitter experience had taught him not to believe them. He waved a dismissive hand. ‘De rien. We will build the head and then I must go.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’ She gazed at him, at his face, as if seeing the man, him, André, not the servant. His breath caught as warmth changed her eyes to silver, sparkling with female interest, disguised, but there nonetheless. It fired his blood and stirred his body to life.

Breaking contact with that considering gaze and the promise it held cost him a good deal of effort.

Bad idea, André, mon ami. Très mal.

He strode to the child, helped her finish the head and carried it back to the body all the while refusing to think about the watching woman. Refusing to think about his body’s urges.

He was a man, not a beast, after all. He’d become used to denying those urges when the only women available were those who wanted more than he had to offer, more than mere dalliance with no strings attached.

Because he’d learned early, there were no guarantees. Women were as frail in their promises as men. It was far better to trust only in oneself.

So why did this woman stir his blood to the point he could not keep these important lessons at the forefront of his mind? Was it her vulnerability feeding an urge to protect those weaker than himself? After all, he’d been fed a diet of chivalry as a very small child. Until he’d learned better. Had learned if he didn’t take care of himself, no one else would. Bitter experience had made it second nature.

And yet here he was playing in the snow with a child, to please this woman.

Whatever it was that drew him to her, it was not something he could or would do anything about.

Tomorrow was his day off. He would go to town and be rid of his excess energy in the boxing ring. And afterwards, if he still felt the need, he would find a willing woman. Then this little brown mouse would have no more effect on him after that. None at all. He wished he believed it.

‘There,’ he said to Jane, forming the shoulders. ‘Scoop some grooves to make his arms and then go to the kitchen and tell Mademoiselle Becca you are to have some coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose.’ He glanced at her mother, who was smiling admiringly. ‘Perhaps one of the other servants has an old hat he would be willing to donate.’

Mrs Holte nodded. ‘I expect we can find something.’

‘Then I bid you good day, madame, mademoiselle.’ His bow was jerky, as if his body wanted to refuse the instruction from his mind.

He strode away, angry at himself for wanting more than life permitted.

A man’s prick could land him in all sorts of trouble. He’d seen it time and again. He had no intention of losing everything he’d worked for in the hope of making a quiet woman smile.

He groaned out loud as he felt a surge of warmth in his veins at the memory of her smile. A soft tender warmth that made no sense. The woman was of the nobility. Not for him, a servant, even if he could ever be interested. Which he could not. He knew that kind of woman and did not like them at all.

He smiled ruefully. He had his life. His passion. He didn’t need a woman to complete him. He didn’t need anyone.

What he needed was eggs.

Buxton was the same thriving market town Claire remembered from her youth. It had not taken her long, after descending from the duke’s carriage, to remember her way around. Now Joe had an armful of parcels and she had depleted most of the money Mr Everett, the Castonbury steward, had given her from the duke’s strongbox.

She’d done well with her money. A couple of ready-made gowns for her and Jane to be going on with until the seamstress came by to measure her for gowns in the lovely material she’d picked up from Ripley and Hall in Castonbury village. She’d bargained well for her items as she’d learned to do over the past years and now she was exhausted. And cold. Her toes were numb in her worn boots where the slush on the pavement had seeped in, dampening her stockings.

Opposite her was the Bricklayer’s Arms. A coaching house boasting a coffee room, a taproom and private parlours for gentry, but it would not do for her to be seen there. Hard up against the inn was a gymnasium through whose portals men were to be seen coming and going singly and in groups.

But there was one place she could go to warm up without embarrassment. She turned back to Joe. ‘Take those to the carriage and wait for me there. I am going into the lending library.’

She pointed to the building opposite the market cross. She couldn’t remember the last time she had borrowed a book. Goodness, she couldn’t remember the last time she had read one.

A bell jingled as she walked through the library door and a clerk at the counter looked up with a smile. She nodded as only the daughter of a duke could do.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ the clerk asked.

‘What do you have that is new?’

The clerk handed her a sheet. She could have asked for every one of the titles listed. ‘Waverly, please. Oh, and these two, if you have them.’ She pointed to a couple of names she thought she knew.

‘Yes, madam. Right away. If you would care to wait in the reading room, there are newspapers and magazines. The girl will bring you a pot of tea while we find your items.’

Claire had left Jane with one of the parlour maids, who Mrs Stratton had said was to be trusted. The girl had younger siblings and the family was known to the housekeeper. While Claire didn’t like leaving Jane for too long, a hot cup of tea would warm her inside and out before the cold journey home.

Claire sat down and picked up a copy of La Belle Assemblée on the side table.

‘Tea or coffee, madam?’ a young woman asked.

‘Tea please.’

‘And a cream cake?’

Claire raised her eyebrows.

‘Many of our customers come from far afield,’ the girl explained. ‘So we provide refreshments.’

What a good idea. ‘Yes,’ she said in a rush. ‘I will have one of your cream cakes, if you please.’

The clerk nodded and moved away.

It must be the Castonbury chef’s cooking making her feel hungry all the time. There had been an excuse for her devouring her dinner last night; first it was delicious and secondly she’d spent a good deal of the day outside with Jane. And the exercise seemed to have helped with her appetite at breakfast this morning too. Along with the pleasurable thought of shopping, no doubt. But cream cakes? Wasn’t she being just a little greedy?

She looked around to call the girl back, but she was nowhere to be seen and a gentleman sitting on a sofa on the other side of the room caught her eye.

Blushing, she quickly turned away, staring out of the window to collect her composure, barely noticing the people passing by. Perhaps coming in here hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. She certainly didn’t want to cause any kind of a scandal, not now when there was every chance that she was to be accepted back into the family.

Perhaps she should leave.

A man walking along the street outside glanced in. He stopped and raised his hat.

Monsieur André. Oh, bother, what was he doing in Buxton, and looking positively elegant in his dark overcoat and beaver hat?

She nodded slightly and he moved on, but the bell tinkling above the doorway and a quick glance confirmed her worst fears. The chef had entered and was making straight for her table.

She gripped her hands together. It would be stupid to flee without her tea. And terribly rude. But surely the man understood they could not be friends. He had been charming with Jane yesterday out in the snow. The child had obviously adored the attention, but it just couldn’t be something they allowed beyond that very casual meeting.

Oh. He wasn’t trying to join her. He had taken a table near the window and had opened a newspaper he must have picked up on his way in. He didn’t even try to catch her eye.

Disappointment made her feel hollow. She ought to be disappointed. In herself. Apparently she still had the impulsive streak that had sent her galloping off into the night with George. She must quell it or everything she’d sought by coming here would be ruined.

She stared blindly out into the street, trying to pretend she hadn’t even noticed he was there, despite her racing heart and dry mouth. What was it about the man that made her so nervous?

She knew. Of course she did. It was the little thrills that raced through her body when his hand accidentally touched her skin. Like in the kitchen, and again making the snowman. Just thinking about it made her insides flutter and clench. Could she be more wanton?

It was the loneliness these past few years, the lack of any warmth in her marriage, making her want things she had once glimpsed with her husband, until he discovered she was not the path to gold and fortune.

The waitress arrived with a tray of tea and a cake on a small plate. It was a flaky confection decorated with white icing. It looked delicious, but there was no way Claire could eat a bit of it, not now.

She poured the tea and took a sip. It was hot. Too hot. She risked scalding her tongue if she tried drinking it too quickly. Oh, how she wished they’d hurry with her books so she could go. She opened La Belle Assemblée to a fashion plate and carefully read the description. It seemed heavy swags of fabric around hems were all the fashion. And skirts were fuller. She must remember that when the seamstress came.

It wasn’t very many minutes before the clerk arrived with the books she’d requested neatly tied with string. ‘There you go, madam. I will have your bill waiting at the desk.’

‘Thank you.’ She put the magazine down and riffled in her reticule for a sixpence for the waitress. As she did so, she glanced at the table window and Monsieur André. He had his back to her and seemed engrossed in his reading. She should not have looked at all. What if he had seen? Flustered, she stood up, followed the young man to the counter and paid her bill, leaving so quickly that when she got out into the street she became disoriented, turning north instead of walking south to where they had left the carriage. The moment she realised her mistake, she turned around and marched the other way, back past the library window with her head held high and her cheeks burning.

She hadn’t gone but a few steps when a large figure came up beside her and matched his steps to hers.

‘May I escort you back to your carriage, Madame Holte?’

‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Monsieur André. You startled me.’

‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Did you find some books to your liking in the library?’

She winced. ‘I did.’

They walked in silence for a moment or two. Then finally she stopped and turned to face him. Shoppers passed around them like a swiftly flowing river around an island. ‘Why did you follow me?’

Then she gasped in shock as she saw his face full on. There was a cut on his lip and a red mark on his cheek that would surely be a bruise in the not too distant future.

‘Did someone attack you?’

He touched a gloved finger to his cheek and smiled. ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I came from the gymnasium.’

‘Pugilism,’ she said.

‘You sound as if you don’t approve. I get very little in the way of exercise in the kitchen, so I come here once a week on my day off.’

‘The result seems more like torture than exercise,’ she said. ‘You could be badly hurt.’

An eyebrow went up. His dark eyes reflected surprise, but his voice was calm and practical when he answered. ‘Not really. Not when sparring. Not if one pays attention.’

‘Then you need to pay better attention,’ she said, starting to walk again.

He chuckled, a deep sound that seemed to curl low in her belly. When she glanced up he looked grave, but his eyes twinkled.

‘You are right,’ he said seriously. ‘I had something else on my mind, I must admit. I promise I will take more care in future.’ There was a seductive note in his voice. A shiver shook her frame. A shudder of pleasure. Horrified, she quickened her pace.

‘It is of no concern to me what you do,’ she said sharply and far too defensively. She drew in a quick steadying breath and stopped, for they had reached the livery where John Coachman had drawn up the carriage and was now chatting with Joe. ‘I thank you for your escort, Monsieur André. Did you need a ride back to Castonbury?’

His face was inscrutable as he gazed down at her and she was reminded of how impossibly tall he was and broad shouldered. And she fleetingly wondered if he showed well in the boxing ring. Canting talk she’d learned from her husband. She repressed the thought instantly.

‘I thank you, madame, but no. I have another engagement.’ He bowed and left.

There had been something significant in the way he had said the word engagement. She didn’t want to think why that was because he was a servant and she was a duke’s sister. It was nothing to her what he did. It must not be. Even if he was the most attractive man she had ever met in her life.

Her course was set. She was to marry a man of Crispin’s choosing this time. Her stomach dipped.

‘Same flea or a different one?’ Becca asked André the next day.

He frowned, then laughed. At himself. ‘No fleas.’

Just frustration. After meeting Madame Holte, he had been unable to so much as look at the saucy barmaid in the Bricklayer’s Arms, let alone give her a tumble.

For some reason, no other woman held the attraction he felt towards Madame Holte. And, he thought, she wasn’t as oblivious to him as she tried to make out which wasn’t helping matters.

But what was it about her in particular, when usually any woman would do? Her delicacy? Or the inner strength he sensed. Whatever it was she was out of bounds to him. The kind of woman he’d spent a lifetime avoiding.

He didn’t believe in titles. Not his own or anyone else’s. What he accomplished, he achieved by his own efforts. And he had every reason to be proud of the result.

At the end of the month he would be on his way back to London, and Madame Holte would no longer trouble his mind. Or any other part.

He brought the cleaver down on the joint and separated the thigh from the drumstick.

The door to the kitchen creaked.

André looked up. The door inched open a fraction more.

He narrowed his eyes. If it was the cursed cat from the barn looking to steal …

A small head poked through the opening, grey eyes darting around the room. The child. Mademoiselle Jane, with her eyes too large for her small face. She had the same hungry look about her that haunted her mother.

Which scarcely made sense for people in their position. ‘Come in, mademoiselle,’ André said.

The child jumped, then stared at the knife in his hand.

He put it down. ‘How can we be of service?’

Becca looked at him and back to the child. ‘You shouldn’t be in here, miss.’

The child backed away.

André put up a staying hand and smiled. ‘It is all right, ma petite, tell us why you came.’

‘I wanted to help you cook. I used to help Mama after my lessons were done.’

Becca made a sound of shock. He should let it go, but the child had roused his curiosity. ‘What sort of things did you help your mother cook?’

‘Everything. She makes jam tarts on Sunday, when she didn’t have any mending to return to the customers in the afternoon.’

Becca’s jaw dropped. ‘Your mother took in mending?’

Damn. That was not the sort of thing Madame Holte would want bandied about by the servants. Noblewomen did not work for money. At least not openly. If they were poor, they simply faded into genteel obscurity. But the fact that she had done something to support her and her child was admirable.

Mrs Holte was clearly different from his own mother. A bitter taste flooded his mouth as a glittering image of a dark-haired beauty filled his vision. Bitterness followed by anger. Only anger kept the pain at bay.

He looked at the hopeful expression on the little girl’s face, a reflection of his own face in the glass of a window a long time ago, and knew he could not turn her away.

With a sigh at his own foolishness, he put the chicken parts in a bowl, covered them with a cloth and washed his hands in the sink. He glanced over at Becca, who was swiping the table aimlessly with her rag. ‘Onions next, Mademoiselle Becca. In the scullery, please, or we will all have sore eyes.’

She muttered something under her breath, but retreated to the small room.

‘Mama hates peeling onions,’ the child announced. ‘They make her cry.’

So she really did cook. ‘They make everyone cry.’

The child nodded gravely. ‘But they make the food taste good, so it is worth a few tears. What are you making today, monsieur?’

Such impeccable manners and her accent was almost perfect.

‘Does your mama know you are here, little one?’

She drew herself up straight. ‘I’m seven and I am tall for my age.’

André kept his face straight. ‘So you are. I thought you were much older than seven. Still, your mother might not like to find you here.’

‘She’s busy with the seamstress and doesn’t have time for lessons. I was fitted already.’ She sounded disconsolate. Lonely.

‘Surely you are happy to have pretty new dresses.’

She made a face. ‘I’d sooner have a hat like that.’ She pointed to his head.

‘A chef’s toque? Would you indeed?’ He reached into the drawer where he kept several clean and freshly starched hats. He pulled one out and opened it with a snap. He popped it on her head.

It immediately fell down over her eyes and nose.

‘It’s too big,’ she said sadly, taking it off and offering it back to him, her face full of disappointment.

‘So it is.’ It was a small disappointment in the grand scheme of things, yet the sad face pulled at a cord in his chest. Painfully. He stilled in shock. What was happening here? Why did he care? The child wasn’t his. She was well fed, beloved by her mother, yet still he hated to see her unhappy. He lifted the hat high and gazed at it from all angles. ‘You know, the same thing happened to me once.’

‘What did you do?’

He went to another drawer and pulled out one of the large needles he used for stitching fowl. ‘I used a hat pin.’

‘That’s not a hat pin,’ the child said disdainfully. ‘My mother has a hat pin. It has a pearl on top.’

‘I suppose we could go and ask to borrow it,’ he said with a smile, and raised a brow.

‘Oh, no. She’s busy.’

And besides, she would probably tell the child to go back to the school room, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. André wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘Or we can see if this will work.’

The little girl nodded.

André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.

‘Better, non?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’

She nodded. ‘What can I do?’

‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’

It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.

Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’

André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’

The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.

The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.

‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’

Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.