Page 15 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
‘It’s not in a cask. It’s bottled, over here.’ Julien pushed off the table. ‘I’ll show you.’ That was just the metaphoric bucket of cold water he needed to come to his senses. He was fantasising over a woman who’d recently lost a man she’d loved, a woman who was emotionally and professionally off-limits to him. He’d told hisoncleas much. So, what the hell was wrong with him? That was a rhetorical question. He didn’t need to answer it to know. Oncle Etienne would be disappointed in him. He’d set out to overwhelm her and he’d ended up being the one overwhelmed.
Marry her and claim it all in one fell swoop.
Oncle Etienne’s words tempted. What a temptation it was—to marry her and share this life with her, to have the partnership he’d once hoped to find with Clarisse, to experience the partnership Garrett Luce had claimed with her. Perhaps she need never know the motivation, the deception...
Julien stopped his thoughts right there. That was how hisonclethought, not him. Shortcuts and easy solutions were dangerous. Such thoughts did his own principles no service and they did Emma even less. She was a smart woman. She would find out. And it would hurt her. He’d heard the undertones of vulnerability on the picnic blanket and in the kitchen when she’d spoken of her past, of how she’d been treated by Society. It had made her tough, but at a cost. He would not be the reason she opened those wounds again. Nor would he be the maker of his own woes, the opener of his own old wounds. She wouldn’t be the only one who was hurt. He would not knowingly set himself up for such disappointment.
He joined her at the wooden rack showing her the casks, all neatly lined on the racks that ran the length of the wall each vertical rack twenty bottles high, stretching to the ceiling. ‘There are—’
‘Two thousand bottles,’ she breathed, finishing his sentence, impressing him with the speed of her calculations and their accuracy. ‘I’m surprised they’re already in bottles.’
‘Already? There’s no “already” about it. Champagne takes time. It must “rest” at least fifteen months at this point,’ he explained patiently. ‘This batch started its journey seven years ago. It came from the harvest that fall. It went through fermentation and spent three years in a barrel, it was blended carefully with grapes only from that same year.’ He’d insisted on it. Sir Garrett hadn’t known better, but Julien did. If this was going to be a special bottling to commemorate an important event, it was going to be done right. ‘It’s been through second fermentation, through riddling, and now it is finishing its ageing process right on time.’
She trailed her fingers over the bottles. ‘Gin is much less complicated. It takes two weeks to make a decent batch of gin. Gin lasts whether it’s in an open bottle or not. An open bottle of gin might last a year or more without losing its flavour or potency. Champagne is decidedly more...delicate, more fragile.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Which makes it a double shame that all these bottles have been bottled for naught.’
Julien cleared his throat and took the plunge. What better way to get his thoughts back on track than to discuss a little business. ‘The champagne was meant to be served to guests on the occasion of your seven-year anniversary this year. I believe your husband intended to have most of this shipped back to England after your visit this summer.’
She nodded, her face solemn, and he felt like a cad for bringing up such delicate reminders of her loss. ‘Yes, we were going to have a big party at Oakwood. Garrett had been looking forward to serving this and making party gifts of it for guests.’
‘We can still celebrate, if you felt up to it,’ Julien began tentatively. He wouldn’t push her into doing anything she wasn’t ready to do, neither would he allow Oncle Etienne to push her. But he would make the offer and see what happened. There was no harm in that, and in fact there might be a lot of good, he justified. ‘We could host an event here at the chateau in June and unveil it as a tribute to him, as a way to celebrate his life.’
It would also be the perfect opportunity for unveiling other vintages, like the one he and hisonclewere counting on, his new champagne blend. ‘If we did it quietly, discreetly, no one would complain. It would be a commemorative beverage put out by the chateau on your behalf.’ He paused to let her think before adding, ‘You needn’t even be at the unveiling if you felt it was too public and too soon.’ He was counting on that reasoning having some sway with her. He needed her to keep a low profile at least until after the harvest, solidifying this year’s sales with the buyers, which, if received well, would go a long way in smoothing concerns about what was happening at the chateau in regard to any potential change in leadership and the debut of the new vintages. There was no time like the present to have her start thinking about how a widow behaved. Circumspection on her part, would definitely help things on his.
‘I love the idea, but I’d want to be there,’ she said, her quicksilver eyes coming alive. ‘It would be a chance for me to meet the growers’ consortium and other important figures in the local industry.’ She brightened at the prospect of an event. ‘Planning an event would be a good project for me.’
They could agree on that at least. If she was busy planning an event, she’d have less time and less interest in wanting to see the ledgers, where certain truths would quickly become self-evident to her. Once they did, she might be less interested in...him. Unless she was already on his side. If she thought this event was her idea, which she would if she was in charge of it, she might be less likely to feel undermined.Ifthey were on the same side by the time everything was revealed. It wasn’t entirely honest of him, but it was honest enough. For now.
Once everything is settled, once the land is safe, I’ll tell her everything, he vowed.
Until then, it had to be this way. This was perhaps the best reason of them all he had to curb his fantasies about the Widow Luce.
He did not see her again until after supper that night, and that was by accident. He’d not intended to see her again. He had, in fact, intended to give himself some distance from her and the potency of their day spent together. He’d fabricated an excuse to skip dinner and took a tray in his offices, sending word that he had correspondence to catch up on after a day in the field. He’d been careful not to imply that falling behind was somehow her fault for having put demands on his time, though, while re-establishing an appropriate businesslike distance between them. It would be a good reminder for both of them. Friendly was good; he did need her on his side. Buttoofriendly was not and that was what they’d been today, conversing over their families and building empathy.
Despite his best intentions, the fates were against him the moment he walked into the library and saw her sitting before the fire, a glass of brandy at her elbow, a book in her lap, her dark head bent in avid interest as her elegant fingers—fingers he’d spent too much time watching today—turned the pages. She was reading fast and intently.
The soft closing of the door gave him away and she looked up in his direction. ‘I am educating myself,’ she announced rather happily, holding up the book. ‘Chaptal’sTreatise on the Culture of the Vine and the Art of Making Wine,’ she read the rather elaborate title. ‘He’s got it down, quite literally, to a science. There’s even an equation about the relationship between sugar, alcohol, and fermentation.’ She smiled, obviously pleased with herself. ‘Pretty soon, I’ll know as much as you.’
‘Science.’ He frowned, finding the word displeasing, and strode to the shelves. ‘That’s the problem with Chaptal. He thinks anyone can make wine if they know the recipe. It takes more than just mixing ingredients. There’s a certainje ne sais quoito winemaking that he overlooks.’ Julien pulled several tomes from the shelf. ‘If you want to read about wines and grapes, read Godinot’sManner of Cultivating the Vine, Bidet’sTreatise on the Nature and Culture of the Vine, perhaps a little of Diderot’s encyclopaedia, or the work of your pioneering countryman Christopher Merret.’ He piled the teetering pile of books on the side table next to her brandy. That brandy was a subtle reminder that Emma Luce was not a traditional woman.
‘I’ve never met a woman who likes her brandy.’
She grinned and took a swallow. ‘That’s because you’d never met me.’ Her gaze rested on him and softened from her teasing. ‘Did you get your letters written?’
His letters? Oh, yes. His little lie to avoid dining together. ‘I did, thank you.’ He needed to remove himself from the room before he found he was sitting down with his own glass of brandy and engaging in a conversation that might go any direction, all of them dangerous. ‘It’s been a long day and I want to be up early, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course.’ Did he detect some disappointment in that? Had she wanted him to stay? All the more reason to get out while he had his wits intact. She gestured to the book pile. ‘I will read the books. Thank you for the recommendations.’
He left her with a short bow but at the door her voice called him back. ‘Julien, thank you for today.’ It was softly said, seriously said. He did not doubt she meant it and he wasn’t sure he could let such sentiment stand in its entirety for fear it might irrevocably change the balance of their association.
He gave a nonchalant wave to the stack of books and a wry grin. ‘You might want to delay your thanks until you’re through the reading pile. You might not thank me then.’
Chapter Ten
Emma was thankful for the days that followed. She’d never known days like these. Days that were entirely her own to do with as she liked, to spend as she pleased. And it pleased her to spend them with the books Julien had suggested. The weather cooperated, turning March into a damp, rain-soaked month that was best passed indoors in a comfortable chair pulled near the fire.
Her days took on a rhythm of their own; mornings she would take tea and breakfast in the library, her nose buried in the texts as she busily filled notebooks with information, writing questions lining the margins to ask Julien at dinner. For every one thing she learned, it sparked something new to ask. In the afternoons, she went walking. She visited the cellars, studying the inventory, learning the names and amounts of the wines that made up the chateau’s catalogue. She planned the June event, making lists of supplies and jotting down ideas for decorations. Her days were full, but her industriousness was self-assigned. She did what she wanted when it pleased her.
It was one luxury she could not lay claim to during her marriage to Garrett. They were always on the move, always going somewhere to meet someone, to make a deal or close a deal. To inspect a factory or to meet with a banker. She’d liked being included in his projects. Inclusion had led to consultation, and she’d been flattered to be asked for advice, which was often taken. That was flattering, too, to know that she had her husband’s respect and his trust.
