Page 17 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
Early on, she’d told herself he was merely objectively handsome, that she needed to get to know him if she wanted to navigate him, manage him, solve him like a puzzle, and claim the prize of full access to her vineyards.
After weeks of dinners and debates, that was less true now than it once might have been. Now her curiosity was piqued for itself, not for any extrinsic gain. Since the picnic, his appeal had started to shift to something more personal, and today she’d rather spontaneously acted on that shift. She’d like to say it was much to her regret, but that would be a lie. She didnotregret it even if it left her with complicated emotions. The thrill of being in his arms had been tempered by a sense of guilt, that being in Julien’s arms was somehow disloyal to Garrett.
‘It’s not that I don’t like Chaptal,’ Julien began after the food had been set downà la françaiseso that they could serve themselves from a tureen containing a creamy vichyssoise soup, and a platter of pork loin drizzled in apoivradesauce. The footmen retreated and Julien continued as he served her a plate. ‘Chaptal’s chemical calculations are a wonder. There’s no debating that his formula takes the guess work out of winemaking. A winemaker can reduce his margin of error in the addition of sugar needed to increase the alcohol content to the right levels. It’s the consequence of that information being widely disseminated that bothers me.’ He shook his head and Emma laughed.
‘You don’t mind Chaptal’s findings, you only mind who gets to be privy to them. What might thosedevastatingconsequences be? That wine be democratised?’ The gentleman in him was showing through tonight.
‘What Imindis being rendered redundant because everyone has a recipe and no one needs my expertise.’
‘But that’s not true, though. It would take more than a recipe to make your knowledge obsolete,’ she began, but he interrupted.
‘Certainly, there’s more to winemaking than adding sugar, but people willthinkit’s true.’ He tapped his temple with a forefinger, his voice taking on an edge of intensity. ‘People willthinkthey can make their own wine, thatanyonecan make wine.Alors, they can, but not everyone can makegoodwine. Too many people making bad wine is not a help for the reputation of the industry.’ He stopped to taste a sip of his wine, a chilled chardonnay with oaky notes. ‘This was a good choice tonight.’ He nodded his approval.
‘I chose it myself, although I had Richet approve it,’ Emma said calmly, aware that inside her, a warm flame of appreciation had flickered to life at his praise.
Julien held the glass up to the candlelight. ‘This is what I’m talking about. A month ago, you had the same access to the wine that you have today,non? But you chose a wine that was too heavy, too rich. Despite proper wines being at your disposal, you still chose incorrectly.’
She studied him for a long moment. His usual stoicism was firmly back in place. But perhaps it had been wrestled there with great effort. And she knew better now. The stoicism was a mask for something more, something he tried very hard to hide from the world, from her, from himself. Here was a man who was passionate about his grapes, his wine, but made great efforts to keep that passion under lock and key. Still, it leaked out when he talked of his vines, as it had today when he’d discovered the sap. Why did he try so very hard to be something he was not?
‘So, winemaking should be for an elite few?’ She gave him a questioning look over the rim of her glass. ‘Where is the famed Frenchégalitéin that?’
Julien turned serious. ‘I am no lover of the mob.’ Instinctively, she recognised she’d crossed yet another dangerous line. She ought to retreat, ought to seek the safety of Chaptal’s fermentation process instead of plunging headlong into French politics. The first rule of good business was never to discuss politics, but it seemed today was a day for breaking rules.
‘Why is that? I would think, as a man of your background, that democracy would suit you.’
‘My background? What do you know of “my background”?’ His slate-blue eyes had become hard flints; his hand had stilled on the stem of his wine glass. Every muscle in his body tensed beneath the fabric of his evening jacket. She had him on the run from something, but what? She’d not meant to corner him any more than she’d meant to kiss him in the vineyard. It was a pattern with them. All sorts of things not meant to happen occurred when they were together: fights when they meant to be friendly, discoveries when they meant to be wary. For two people who prided themselves on control, they didn’t seem to have a lot of it when they were together.
If he wanted her to apologise for her statement, he’d be disappointed. ‘I meant that as a man who has an obvious love for the land and a talent for it, you must aspire to having your own land as opposed to working another’s. Surely, there are better opportunities for a man to be self-made now that the land is not tied up in noble holdings.’
‘Opportunities at what price?’ The look he gave her was almost a glare. ‘I might caution you to not speak about that which you do not fully understand.’ He rose, the gesture declaring dinner was over, but she was not ready to let him go, to simply walk away.
‘Perhaps we might adjourn to the library, there are other things I want to discuss like the vintage reveal party.’ She offered the topic as a peace offering, a promise of détente, a promise that she would take care not to venture into politics again for the moment.
In the library, the conversation did go well for a while. She managed to talk about the event; what they might serve, where they might hold it—perhaps in the gardens. She asked for his input on the guest list and it seemed as if they might end the evening on an amicable note.Falselyamicable, if she was being honest.
Emma sipped her brandy, acutely aware of the man who sat in the chair opposite her by the fire. They’d fallen into silence after having exhausted the topic of the wine gala, each of them apparently content to simply be still for a moment. What was going on in his head? Surely, his mind was not as still as his body if her own mind was any measuring stick. Her thoughts were busy debating whether or not she dared bring up the subject of her taking next steps with the vineyard, of asking for an introduction to the growers’ consortium. On the one hand, talking about the gala was the perfect conversational entrée for the topic, but on the other, the events earlier today and this evening had fraught their discussion with a sharp edge. When she asked, she didn’t want to be turned down. If she was, she’d have to ask again and again until he gave way; the issue would become a battleground. The last thing she needed was more contention between them.
Emma knew how to read a room and she wasn’t convinced circumstances were quite right tonight to get a yes from him. And yet, if her entrée to the growers’ consortium must go unaddressed, perhaps there were other issues that could not. Not all the tension that simmered beneath their quiet sips of brandy and fireside silence could be attributed to a dinner conversation gone sideways. They might have made their peace with her political remarks but not with the issue of the vineyard. The forced normalcy had still been there when they’d talked of the gala. Julien had been overly polite as he’d poured their drinks, careful to not let his fingers brush hers when he handed her the snifter, and that she noted those nuances was proof that the effects still lingered hours afterwards for both of them.
‘Are we not going to talk about it?’ she ventured in light tones. ‘The kiss in the vineyard?’ she offered for clarification.
‘It was hardly a kiss.’ Julien set aside his brandy and rose, going to the long windows and looking out into the dark, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Then why does it bother you so much?’ she challenged, turning in her chair to keep him in sight.
‘It doesn’t.’
‘Yes, it does,’ she argued. ‘You’ve not been quite yourself tonight, not that you’re ever “quite yourself”,’ she added as a goad. He had himself on a tight leash at the moment and she wanted to snap his control, make him admit to what he was feeling.
That earned her a growl and a sharp look tossed at her from over his shoulder. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, since you asked, it means that you work so hard to ignore that youfeelanything, and yet I think you feeleverything. Deeply. But you believe you must hide it. Why is that?’
The growl became a harsh chuckle. She recognised the sound. He was going on the offensive. He was the king of the dry chuckle. It was his strategy, his way of dismissing people and topics he didn’t want to discuss. She braced. Would his response be denial? Deflection?
‘You seem to have spent a lot of time thinking about me while you’ve been here. Perhaps overthinking. I would not encourage that, although I certainly understand it. We are isolated out here and you are...lonely.’ Ah, so it was to be deflection then.
‘And you’re not?’ she challenged. ‘You, sir, are loneliness personified.’ She would not sit there and let him patronise her.
