Page 11 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
‘Yes, mygrandpère.’ He smiled, part of him pleased she was so attentive, part of him worried about what other connections she might make and questions she might ask as a result. ‘He knew we needed to find a way to support ourselves in England and he saw a need for shipping, particularly between France and Britain.’
Her eyes narrowed at this. ‘While the two countries were at war?’ He could see the realisation dawn. She was sharp, he’d give her that. ‘By chance, was this “shipping” legal?’
‘Well, not at first,’ he admitted with a wry grin.
‘Yourgrandpère...’ she emphasised the French word ‘...came to England and became a smuggler. Do I have it right?’
He laughed because she was laughing. ‘In Grandpère’s defence, it was a mutually satisfying community service for all parties. The English had an insatiable desire for French wine despite their politics, and my great-grandpèreknew several people with wine to sell lying idle in France. With the large legitimate British market gone, wine was languishing in cellars and warehouses thanks to the war. This arrangement satiated British need and kept food on the tables of many Frenchmen.’
‘To say nothing of lining your grandfather’s pockets.’
‘Bien sur, it was lucrative enough to turn the Archambeaux legal once the Treaty of Amiens was signed. Now we are a small, respectable, legitimate shipping line, specialising in bringing French wines to British connoisseurs. Most of our shipping these days is done through privately arranged contracts with rich men.’ The shipping line had been lucrative enough to eventually allow the Archambeaux,sansOncle Etienne’s family, to return to France and start buying back land slowly but surely, when that land became available. ‘When it was safe to come back to France, mygrandpèrereturned with my father, my mother, and baby me in tow, leaving myonclein Britain to handle the English end of things.’
That was all true as far as it went. There were pieces he was leaving out; that the title of Comte du Rocroi had been restored to the family—something that didn’t mean much given the title had been revoked again by law four years ago. He’d left out, too, that his great-grandpèrehad died, losing the chateau and all the lands years before hisgrandpèrehad been allowed to safely return with other nobles. Hisgrandpèrehad never seen his father again.
‘Grandpère taught me about wine. He figured if I was going to help with the shipping business, I ought to know about the product we were exporting.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Not unlike your father’s rationale in teaching his sons and his daughter financial and household management.’ Still, not entirely false. Although Grandpère had imagined his grandson would be avigneronof his own grapes by the time he came of age.
The carriage halted at their next destination, forestalling any more of her questions. He came around and helped her down. ‘Let me dazzle you some more,madame, with these chardonnay grapes. They’re used to make ablanc de blanc. It’s a somewhat new blending and a somewhat new grape for us, but I think the result is divine, it’s light and it sparkles. There’s a feminineelanto it that I think would appeal to women. Rich women, obviously. This could be a wealthy woman’s equivalent to her husband’s brandy.’
She slanted him a look, her silvery gaze interested. ‘Why, Monsieur Archambeau, now youhaveimpressed me.’ This was followed by a genuine smile that stopped him in his tracks. ‘This is the first time I’ve heard you talk like a businessman and not only a farmer. You have depth,monsieur.’
‘Does that surprise you?’ He slid her a brief, wry smile, feeling quite satisfied with himself because he had pleased her. It was a dangerous feeling.
‘It does, most pleasingly,’ she answered with a smile of her own, and Julien thought how pleasant it was to be with her like this, without sparring, without competing, without each of them trying to prove themselves. Of course, the sparring and competitionwerenecessary. It was how he remembered they were indeed at odds with one another, their wants mutually exclusive. She wanted to run a vineyard he could absolutely not let her get her hands on.
And yet taking a break from beingen gardewas refreshing, enjoyable. It led to interesting thoughts—all purely hypothetical—like, what if they didn’t have to be set against one another? What if they didn’t have to compete? An idea began to root in his mind. What if there was a way to bring her alongside, to make her feel that she was taking control without really allowing her to do so in a way that undermined his own position? What if they could be a team? It would be a chance to show her how much she needed him, how indispensable he was to her.
‘Are you hungry? I’m famished. I’ve taken the liberty of packing a picnic breakfast for us.’ Perhaps there was a better strategy than any of those posited by hisoncle. If he and Madame Luce were allies instead of enemies, co-operators instead of competitors, perhaps she would relinquish the lands easily and with the understanding that it was in the land’s best interest, because it madesense. Because he was born to this life and she wasn’t.
Wasn’t she?His conscience was an unwelcome intrusion on this sunny morning.She’s been a willing pupil while you prosed on trying to purposely bore her. She is trying to learn.
And what was he trying to do? For all of his thoughts about bringing her alongside, guilt poked hard at him as he led her back to the carriage. Was he doing this for her benefit or his? What was his motive? Was he trying to steal her inheritance or secure his?
Chapter Eight
Emma stole a look at Archambeau setting out the plates of raspberry jam–filled tartines, her mouth starting to water at the sight of food. Breakfast picnics were something she could get used to, as were the feelings they engendered in her. This morning had turned out to be quite enjoyable. The realisation took her by not entirely pleasant surprise.
Guilt tugged at her. Shewasa having a good time. But should she be? Her husband had been dead a month and here she was laughing, enjoying an outing in the company of another man and thinking she could get used to breakfast picnics. It felt like a betrayal.
Emma settled on the old quilt spread on the ground and cupped her hands around a mug of hot coffee, willing the warmth to ward off the guilt as effectively as it warded off the chill of the morning, but the guilt stayed. What did it mean about her love for Garrett if she found enjoyment so easily, so quickly in the company of another? And yet, to not enjoy the company of another meant to remain alone. Surely Garrett would not want that for her.
‘It’s not very elegant.’ Archambeau gave a self-deprecating shrug as he set out a tray of tartines. ‘A farmer’s quick meal, nothing more.’
‘It’s perfect,’ she assured him, aware that this fragile peace between them must be handled delicately, explored carefully, encouraged cautiously. He was different out here in the vineyard, not a dour workman doing his chores, but a man who loved the land, whose passion shone through in the transformation of his face when he spoke; it transformed his tone, and it lowered his guard. Once he’d started talking about the grapes she’d had the impression that she was seeing the real man, that the workman and the gentleman at the dinner table were lesser representations of the man who sat across from her on the blanket.
It was that man who offered her the tray of tartines as he gave her a brief overview of the land’s history. ‘The Romans were growing grapes here long before we were and, the climate willing, grapes will be growing here long after I’m gone.’ This, she thought, was the man she’d envisioned behind the thorough reports sent across the Channel. He merely looked different than the image in her mind. He lookedbetter. How had she ever thought he ought to be a slender, bookish sort?
He flashed her an uncustomary smile and for an instant her thoughts were arrested by that look. In that moment, he might have been one of his Gallic ancestors walking his land centuries ago. The morning sun slanted through the sky illumining his features, the strong bones of his jaw, the curve of his cheek which softened him when he smiled, as he was now, and lit the slate blue of his gaze so that it matched the newly emergent sky. But it was the sentiment of his words that truly touched her, this idea of a legacy, of building something larger than himself.
Like Garrett.
Everything Garrett did had been motivated by thoughts for his family and what it might become.
‘Is something on your mind? You’re staring.’ Archambeau shifted his position on the blanket, stretching out to his full length, the movement unintentionally making her aware of his maleness.
Guilt pricked again, scolding her:How dare you be so aware of a man so soon after Garrett’s death.
She pushed the reprimand away. He was barely a foot away from her. Of course she noticed him. How could she not? It was entirely natural. It meant nothing and yet the warm heat in her blood didn’t seem to agree.
