Bride for a Night by Rosemary Rogers

coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.
    Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.
    Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.
    This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from herbath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.
    With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.
    The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.
    A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.
    The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.
    He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.
    A man of mystery.
    Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his gaze stroked with warm appreciation over her slender form.
    “Bonsoir, ma petite,” he murmured, his attention lingering on the scooped neckline trimmed with a pretty Brussels lace that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the modiste did not disappoint.You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”
    She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.
    Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.
    Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.
    Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.
    “You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”
    He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”
    “Hardly a rag.”
    He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked