done if anything had happened
to Randolph. Would he have allowed Nicholas to take the throne? Or would he have revealed
the truth to the world? Would Rose have been crowned queen instead?
Nicholas felt a hand on his shoulder just then, and was startled by it. Turning, he
looked into those deep green eyes that never failed to quicken his blood.
“Are you all right?” Véronique asked.
Nicholas took note of Monsieur Bellefontaine climbing back into the carriage, a short
distance away on the lane.
“I told him to leave us alone for a moment,” she explained.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Nicholas tersely replied.
“I disagree,” she argued, “for you failed to answer him when he asked if you were
ready to see the flour mill. He asked you twice, Nicholas, but you ignored him.”
Nicholas glanced back at the carvings in the tree. “Did I indeed? I suppose I was
recalling the past.”
“I suspected as much.” She touched his arm and stood quietly beside him, then lowered
her hand to her side and cleared her throat. “I just realized that you are as much
of a victim of d’Entremont’s greed as I am.”
He frowned. “I am not his victim.” He turned toward her. “And our situations are not
the same.”
Too late he realized he had spoken rather harshly.
“No, of course not,” Véronique replied while regarding him with a furrowed brow, as
if she were disappointed by his response. “For you are about to inherit all of this.
It is your choice to make, whether you accept it, or leave it all behind.”
Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts. To think rationally. He was not the
only person here with something to lose. “I apologize,” he said. “You are correct.
I do have choices, while you are waiting for others to choose their fates and determine your future, as if it were merely incidental
to theirs.”
Véronique looked down at the grass. He found himself staring at the top of her bonnet,
realizing that she was indeed at everyone’s mercy here. Today she was powerless, waiting
for someone to be charitable enough to hand over her father’s property, which was
allegedly worth a great deal of money.
Nevertheless, only one thing was occupying his mind at present—and it was not the
value of her father’s property.
“I did not take advantage of you last night,” he assured her. “I slept in the chair.
You must have seen that when you woke, whenever that was.”
She lifted her head. “I did see you there, but I do not remember what happened between
us. It was the laudanum. We drank it by mistake. I do not even remember falling asleep.
All I know is that when I woke—” There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. “—I was
not wearing my shoes.”
Nicholas could have laughed at that, for he was the sort of man who woke naked in
bed in the most unlikely places, and he couldn’t tell you half the names of his naked
bed partners, or their boorish husbands. When he remembered Véronique’s brilliant
performance as a seductress at the masked ball, and her tempting sensual allure in
the perfume-scented coach, her charming innocence today touched something unfamiliar
in him— again.
What was it? What did he feel ? He didn’t even know. He was confused, for he was standing under an ancient oak tree
in France, where his mother had declared her eternal love for a man—a man she would
be forced to give up and never see again. Not even after she gave birth to his child.
Nicholas found himself arrested on the spot. He felt disconnected from everything
he knew. Everything except for Véronique. He could not take his eyes off her. She
was impossibly beautiful, a golden silken flower in the dappled shade of the oak tree.
At least his physical desires were familiar.
“I did remove your shoes,” he confessed at last. “But nothing more than that, my dear,
and only so that you could sleep comfortably.”
“We kissed,” she
to Randolph. Would he have allowed Nicholas to take the throne? Or would he have revealed
the truth to the world? Would Rose have been crowned queen instead?
Nicholas felt a hand on his shoulder just then, and was startled by it. Turning, he
looked into those deep green eyes that never failed to quicken his blood.
“Are you all right?” Véronique asked.
Nicholas took note of Monsieur Bellefontaine climbing back into the carriage, a short
distance away on the lane.
“I told him to leave us alone for a moment,” she explained.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Nicholas tersely replied.
“I disagree,” she argued, “for you failed to answer him when he asked if you were
ready to see the flour mill. He asked you twice, Nicholas, but you ignored him.”
Nicholas glanced back at the carvings in the tree. “Did I indeed? I suppose I was
recalling the past.”
“I suspected as much.” She touched his arm and stood quietly beside him, then lowered
her hand to her side and cleared her throat. “I just realized that you are as much
of a victim of d’Entremont’s greed as I am.”
He frowned. “I am not his victim.” He turned toward her. “And our situations are not
the same.”
Too late he realized he had spoken rather harshly.
“No, of course not,” Véronique replied while regarding him with a furrowed brow, as
if she were disappointed by his response. “For you are about to inherit all of this.
It is your choice to make, whether you accept it, or leave it all behind.”
Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts. To think rationally. He was not the
only person here with something to lose. “I apologize,” he said. “You are correct.
I do have choices, while you are waiting for others to choose their fates and determine your future, as if it were merely incidental
to theirs.”
Véronique looked down at the grass. He found himself staring at the top of her bonnet,
realizing that she was indeed at everyone’s mercy here. Today she was powerless, waiting
for someone to be charitable enough to hand over her father’s property, which was
allegedly worth a great deal of money.
Nevertheless, only one thing was occupying his mind at present—and it was not the
value of her father’s property.
“I did not take advantage of you last night,” he assured her. “I slept in the chair.
You must have seen that when you woke, whenever that was.”
She lifted her head. “I did see you there, but I do not remember what happened between
us. It was the laudanum. We drank it by mistake. I do not even remember falling asleep.
All I know is that when I woke—” There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. “—I was
not wearing my shoes.”
Nicholas could have laughed at that, for he was the sort of man who woke naked in
bed in the most unlikely places, and he couldn’t tell you half the names of his naked
bed partners, or their boorish husbands. When he remembered Véronique’s brilliant
performance as a seductress at the masked ball, and her tempting sensual allure in
the perfume-scented coach, her charming innocence today touched something unfamiliar
in him— again.
What was it? What did he feel ? He didn’t even know. He was confused, for he was standing under an ancient oak tree
in France, where his mother had declared her eternal love for a man—a man she would
be forced to give up and never see again. Not even after she gave birth to his child.
Nicholas found himself arrested on the spot. He felt disconnected from everything
he knew. Everything except for Véronique. He could not take his eyes off her. She
was impossibly beautiful, a golden silken flower in the dappled shade of the oak tree.
At least his physical desires were familiar.
“I did remove your shoes,” he confessed at last. “But nothing more than that, my dear,
and only so that you could sleep comfortably.”
“We kissed,” she
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