daresay you will stay as slim as anything, but I
am sure to be the kind that gets as big as an elephant. Or I might die like
poor Mama.’
Cousin Franklyn’s chances seemed to be receding by
the minute. Minette wisely did not pursue the matter but changed the subject.
Later that afternoon, she lay alone in her
bedchamber, stretched upon the coverlet in an attempt to compose herself before
dinner. Her thoughts turned, as they so often did, to the moment when she and
Rochford would be reunited. It was foolish and impossible to think that she
could still feel the touch of his lips upon hers, still hear the note in his
voice when he warned her he would claim more than her dutiful compliance. She
acknowledged to herself that she burned to give him all that he demanded and
more. The mere thought brought back those sensations he had aroused in her as
strongly as before. She was flushed, heated, and yet shivering as though with a
fever. She wanted—she knew not what.
Surprisingly, the conventional immorality of their possible
union hardly intruded upon her consciousness. She had been inculcated with the
strictest notions of honour; the idea of lying with a man who was not her
husband would have been abhorrent to her only a few short weeks ago. That the
man should be her sister’s husband would have been inconceivable. Yet now her
only concern was the pain he would suffer when his erring wife returned to him,
as indifferent and unwilling as before. She pressed her cool palms to her hot
cheeks. If he came to her, when he
came to her, she must feign reluctance and accept him coldly as Eugénie would
have done, begrudging and ungenerous.
She heard a carriage draw up to the massive front
door. She ran lightly over to the window and stared down into the lighted
courtyard. The ducal carriage, drawn by a steaming team of chestnuts, was
directly beneath her and, as she watched, the footman let down the steps.
Rochford sprang down and reached up a hand to assist a second passenger to
descend.
She was a very old lady, swathed in furs, her white
hair as elaborately coiffed as though she had been on her way to a ball. She
leaned heavily on Rochford’s arm and allowed herself to be ushered into the
shelter of the hallway.
‘Grandmère!’ Minette felt as though her knees had turned to water. She dropped
weakly upon the padded window seat across which she had been leaning. Her grandmother, here at Camer? It must have been Rochford’s
doing. He thought, no doubt, to bring her solace and support during this, her
first house party; but, instead, he had brought her cold comfort. How was she
to endure the charade with Grandmère’s frosty gaze following her every movement?
She wished with all her heart she might hide away in her bedchamber and burrow
under the covers as she used to as a child when summoned to her grandmother’s
presence. But duty and habit prevailed. With trembling fingers, she tidied her
hair, smoothed her dress, and went down to greet the Marquise de Montauban.
Twelve
She found Rochford and her grandmother in the charming salon known to
the household as the Ruby Drawing Room. The chamber was lit by a chandelier fashioned
of crimson Bohemian glass, from which hung crystal droplets that reflected the
rosy shimmer in a thousand glancing beams of light. Gilded urns were placed at
either end of the chaste marble mantelpiece, and various glass pieces of exquisite
colour and workmanship were placed about the room. More rare and costly pieces
adorned an inlaid Italian occasional table, two glass-fronted bookcases, and a
magnificent pair of mahogany stands rising from delicate cabriole legs adorned
with gilt mouldings.
Grandmère, with her fine, high-bred face and snowy
hair, ensconced in a high-backed gilt chair, had been born to inhabit such
rooms. She was seated by the fire, and although she was nearly seventy years
old and had just made a tiring journey, it was noticeable that her back did not
touch the
am sure to be the kind that gets as big as an elephant. Or I might die like
poor Mama.’
Cousin Franklyn’s chances seemed to be receding by
the minute. Minette wisely did not pursue the matter but changed the subject.
Later that afternoon, she lay alone in her
bedchamber, stretched upon the coverlet in an attempt to compose herself before
dinner. Her thoughts turned, as they so often did, to the moment when she and
Rochford would be reunited. It was foolish and impossible to think that she
could still feel the touch of his lips upon hers, still hear the note in his
voice when he warned her he would claim more than her dutiful compliance. She
acknowledged to herself that she burned to give him all that he demanded and
more. The mere thought brought back those sensations he had aroused in her as
strongly as before. She was flushed, heated, and yet shivering as though with a
fever. She wanted—she knew not what.
Surprisingly, the conventional immorality of their possible
union hardly intruded upon her consciousness. She had been inculcated with the
strictest notions of honour; the idea of lying with a man who was not her
husband would have been abhorrent to her only a few short weeks ago. That the
man should be her sister’s husband would have been inconceivable. Yet now her
only concern was the pain he would suffer when his erring wife returned to him,
as indifferent and unwilling as before. She pressed her cool palms to her hot
cheeks. If he came to her, when he
came to her, she must feign reluctance and accept him coldly as Eugénie would
have done, begrudging and ungenerous.
She heard a carriage draw up to the massive front
door. She ran lightly over to the window and stared down into the lighted
courtyard. The ducal carriage, drawn by a steaming team of chestnuts, was
directly beneath her and, as she watched, the footman let down the steps.
Rochford sprang down and reached up a hand to assist a second passenger to
descend.
She was a very old lady, swathed in furs, her white
hair as elaborately coiffed as though she had been on her way to a ball. She
leaned heavily on Rochford’s arm and allowed herself to be ushered into the
shelter of the hallway.
‘Grandmère!’ Minette felt as though her knees had turned to water. She dropped
weakly upon the padded window seat across which she had been leaning. Her grandmother, here at Camer? It must have been Rochford’s
doing. He thought, no doubt, to bring her solace and support during this, her
first house party; but, instead, he had brought her cold comfort. How was she
to endure the charade with Grandmère’s frosty gaze following her every movement?
She wished with all her heart she might hide away in her bedchamber and burrow
under the covers as she used to as a child when summoned to her grandmother’s
presence. But duty and habit prevailed. With trembling fingers, she tidied her
hair, smoothed her dress, and went down to greet the Marquise de Montauban.
Twelve
She found Rochford and her grandmother in the charming salon known to
the household as the Ruby Drawing Room. The chamber was lit by a chandelier fashioned
of crimson Bohemian glass, from which hung crystal droplets that reflected the
rosy shimmer in a thousand glancing beams of light. Gilded urns were placed at
either end of the chaste marble mantelpiece, and various glass pieces of exquisite
colour and workmanship were placed about the room. More rare and costly pieces
adorned an inlaid Italian occasional table, two glass-fronted bookcases, and a
magnificent pair of mahogany stands rising from delicate cabriole legs adorned
with gilt mouldings.
Grandmère, with her fine, high-bred face and snowy
hair, ensconced in a high-backed gilt chair, had been born to inhabit such
rooms. She was seated by the fire, and although she was nearly seventy years
old and had just made a tiring journey, it was noticeable that her back did not
touch the
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