Lenard.
Anna nodded, acknowledged the few people she knew and sat in the chair Marcus held out for her. "For a moment, I thought they were going to chain us to pillory and leave us for the crows to feast."
He sat forward, brushed his fingers across the soft apple of her cheek, aware of her sudden intake of breath. "Shush," he said. "You must get used to a certain level of familiarity if others are to believe our deception."
She gave a derisive snort. "In London, a gentleman does not openly court a lady. Not even his mistress."
Marcus glanced around, noting a butcher, farm labourer, the blacksmith's apprentice. "But we're not in London, Anna, we're in France. This is not high society. The people here are far more accepting. Now, would you like something to drink?"
Her cheeks flushed. "I'll have wine or ale or whatever you think is safe for consumption."
Marcus laughed as he pushed out of the chair. "I'll go up to the counter. It will give me a chance to gauge Lenard's mood without him being distracted by your beauty."
He did not give her a chance to respond and was soon back with two small pewter mugs and a copper jug half-full of wine.
"Wine is easier on the stomach," Marcus said, sitting down at the table and pouring them both a drink.
Anna took a sip from the mug, shivering visibly as the potent liquid slid down her throat. "Easier on the stomach but not so on the head, I fear."
"Lenard always serves me his best."
He watched with keen interest as she took a few more sips. Was it nerves that drove her to drink more quickly? It occurred to him that they should use this time together productively. A man should delve a little deeper into a lady's mind and heart if he stood any chance of winning her favour.
"So, what will you do when you leave here?" Marcus said, relaxing back in the chair. "Will you go back to London?"
There was no chance of him doing so. Marcus vowed never to set foot on English soil again. Not while his father was alive.
Anna shrugged. "I'll never go back to London. I'm afraid I will always be regarded as Madame Labelle, proprietor of a bawdy house." She stared at the candle on the table, at the drop of wax trickling down its length. She tapped her finger to the hot liquid, rubbing it against her thumb until it solidified. "I like the country air, the lush fields and rolling hills. It brings back happy memories of my childhood."
A vision of a pretty girl with honey-gold hair flashed into his mind. He imagined her smiling, carefree, running against the wind. "How will you provide for yourself?"
In the countryside, she'd hardly find the type of work she was used to. There were no houses of ill repute desperately searching for a new madam. And there were not many men willing to take a wife with her chequered history. However, he believed her bewitching beauty was as valuable as the best debutante's dowry.
"I have a cottage nestled in a quiet country village. I have enough money put aside to give me a comfortable life."
The inquisitive, manipulative part of his brain jumped to attention. The cottage she mentioned must surely be the same place where Miss Beaufort was hiding. It made perfect sense. Anna had fled to France while Dane's lady had fled to some quaint village to look after her cottage.
Interesting.
He was about to pry further when she said, "What of you, Marcus? Will you continue in the same vein without Tristan? I imagine you'll find working on your own far more difficult."
For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tristan might not come back. A hollow void opened up in his chest, and he feigned arrogance in a bid to banish it. "I work better on my own. Tristan is too cautious, too sensible to be of any use."
Despite trying to infuse a hint of contempt into his words, he knew she did not believe his pathetic protestations. She stared into his eyes as though they were open doors to his soul. "And you're far too rash, far too reckless, which is why the two of you work so well
Anna nodded, acknowledged the few people she knew and sat in the chair Marcus held out for her. "For a moment, I thought they were going to chain us to pillory and leave us for the crows to feast."
He sat forward, brushed his fingers across the soft apple of her cheek, aware of her sudden intake of breath. "Shush," he said. "You must get used to a certain level of familiarity if others are to believe our deception."
She gave a derisive snort. "In London, a gentleman does not openly court a lady. Not even his mistress."
Marcus glanced around, noting a butcher, farm labourer, the blacksmith's apprentice. "But we're not in London, Anna, we're in France. This is not high society. The people here are far more accepting. Now, would you like something to drink?"
Her cheeks flushed. "I'll have wine or ale or whatever you think is safe for consumption."
Marcus laughed as he pushed out of the chair. "I'll go up to the counter. It will give me a chance to gauge Lenard's mood without him being distracted by your beauty."
He did not give her a chance to respond and was soon back with two small pewter mugs and a copper jug half-full of wine.
"Wine is easier on the stomach," Marcus said, sitting down at the table and pouring them both a drink.
Anna took a sip from the mug, shivering visibly as the potent liquid slid down her throat. "Easier on the stomach but not so on the head, I fear."
"Lenard always serves me his best."
He watched with keen interest as she took a few more sips. Was it nerves that drove her to drink more quickly? It occurred to him that they should use this time together productively. A man should delve a little deeper into a lady's mind and heart if he stood any chance of winning her favour.
"So, what will you do when you leave here?" Marcus said, relaxing back in the chair. "Will you go back to London?"
There was no chance of him doing so. Marcus vowed never to set foot on English soil again. Not while his father was alive.
Anna shrugged. "I'll never go back to London. I'm afraid I will always be regarded as Madame Labelle, proprietor of a bawdy house." She stared at the candle on the table, at the drop of wax trickling down its length. She tapped her finger to the hot liquid, rubbing it against her thumb until it solidified. "I like the country air, the lush fields and rolling hills. It brings back happy memories of my childhood."
A vision of a pretty girl with honey-gold hair flashed into his mind. He imagined her smiling, carefree, running against the wind. "How will you provide for yourself?"
In the countryside, she'd hardly find the type of work she was used to. There were no houses of ill repute desperately searching for a new madam. And there were not many men willing to take a wife with her chequered history. However, he believed her bewitching beauty was as valuable as the best debutante's dowry.
"I have a cottage nestled in a quiet country village. I have enough money put aside to give me a comfortable life."
The inquisitive, manipulative part of his brain jumped to attention. The cottage she mentioned must surely be the same place where Miss Beaufort was hiding. It made perfect sense. Anna had fled to France while Dane's lady had fled to some quaint village to look after her cottage.
Interesting.
He was about to pry further when she said, "What of you, Marcus? Will you continue in the same vein without Tristan? I imagine you'll find working on your own far more difficult."
For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tristan might not come back. A hollow void opened up in his chest, and he feigned arrogance in a bid to banish it. "I work better on my own. Tristan is too cautious, too sensible to be of any use."
Despite trying to infuse a hint of contempt into his words, he knew she did not believe his pathetic protestations. She stared into his eyes as though they were open doors to his soul. "And you're far too rash, far too reckless, which is why the two of you work so well
Similar Books
