Page 6 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
It was a masterful snub, so implicitly done as a piece of self-deprecating apology, one might miss it. But not Emma. She’d weathered the implicit disdain of Society long enough to understand the messages wrapped within messages.We.Guest. These were divisive words that indicated who belonged and who was outside the inner circle. She matched his solicitude with a smile. ‘The soup is delicious. I will send menus to Cook tomorrow.’ Best to establish her authority immediately, starting with the running of the household. ‘I’ll meet with Mrs Dormand as well and renew our acquaintance.’
The last request seemed to perplex him. A small furrow formed in the space between his dark brows, as if she’d confused him at best, insulted him at worst. ‘I assure you that is not necessary. We can certainly see to the care of one guest without her needing to oversee the housework.’ He brought to bear all of his French solicitude. ‘You should enjoy yourself while you’re here; rest, recover. You have had a difficult month, Madame. You have much to think about.’
Truly, he was a splendid actor. If they hadn’t got off to such a frigid start, she might have bought into it. A woman must constantly be on guard against such charm when wielded so expertly by a well-dressed and well-mannered man, she thought. Not that she and her broken heart needed such a warning. She was not in the market for such charm or winsomeness. She took a sip of the wine and let herself enjoy the performance before she destroyed it with another smile. ‘This is myhome, Monsieur Archambeau. I do not intend to be a burden, or a guest in my own house. I mean to see to the running of my household.’ She did not addand its landsagain as she had earlier in the drawing room. That would come in time. She hoped it would come by implicit coup instead of explicit, that he would get the message that his time here was coming to an end now that there was a landowner in residence daily. As such, his services were no longer needed. If she needed a steward, she could hire someone who was more amicable.
Another frown deepened the lines between his brows as he feigned perplexity. ‘How long do you mean to stay?’
‘Permanently,monsieur.’ He did not like the wordpermanently. If the furrow between his brows deepened any further it would become a chasm. ‘This is the property left to me by my husband. His eldest now holds the English estate, as is his right under British entailment law.’ She did not begrudge Robert that, only the gloating way by which Robert had grabbed possession. She gave a soft smile designed to communicate graciousness and understanding on her part. ‘The new baronet will not want his father’s second wife underfoot as he establishes his household.’ That was an understated way of putting it, but she’d not make herself vulnerable by tellingmonsieurshe had nowhere else to go, that her husband’s family had essentially turned her out the moment the will had been read and had been more than happy to see her ‘exiled’ to France. If they couldn’t get their hands on the chateau, they could at least get rid of her.
‘Of course,madame.’ It was noncommittally said as they both smiled at each other over the rims of wine glasses and Emma was not fool enough to believe anything was settled, only tabled. Footmen came forward to take the soup bowls and replace them with steaming bowls of beef bourguignon. A loaf of bread was set between them, and fresh wine glasses were filled with a rich red, the table laid for the second round as much as for the second course. Round one had been about laying out her situation. It stood to reason that round two ought to be about laying out his. After all, she’d been the one to give out crucial information over soup. They now both knew her plans and expectations. It would be quid pro quo for him to reciprocate, and reciprocation was the foundation of good negotiation.
She speared a piece of the tender meat and waited. That was a tactical mistake. She ought to have guided the conversation more specifically even if it had required a blunt question. He took the opening she offered but he did not play by the rules, his voice gentle in the candlelit darkness. ‘Sir Garrett and I exchanged letters at the end of January regarding the spring growing season. He’d not mentioned being in poor health.’ Slate-blue eyes rested on her with empathy. ‘I assume his death was unexpected. If it is too indelicate to ask or too difficult to discuss, you must tell me and I shall cease, but I would like to know what happened.’
He was not play-acting now and his request took the edge off the otherwise sharp evening. They were no longer two potential foes circling one another, but two people who shared a common loss, something she’d not taken time to consider in her haste to protect her position. But now, here in the intimacy of the dining room, the belated realisation occurred that Garrett was common ground between them, as was his loss. She’d lost a husband. This man, thisstranger, had lost someone he’d counted as a friend. Where she’d had weeks to reconcile herself to the loss, he’d had a mere handful of hours and no details to help his understanding. Richet would have told him only that Sir Garrett Luce was dead, and his widow was here. Then they’d been sprung on one another by mutual surprise, and both had gone on the defensive.
‘I am sorry,’ she apologised hastily, ‘of course, you’d want to know.’ Perhaps she should have offered the information sooner. Perhaps she should have not gone immediately on the defence. Instead, she should have approached this stranger from a position of softness, not strength. But in her experience, gentleness was seldom rewarded and quite often taken advantage of.
‘You guess right, it was unexpected.’ She took a sip of wine to steady herself. Even after a month, even after recounting the horrible events at Holmfirth for Garrett’s sons and for her father, it was still difficult to speak of. ‘We were in Holmfirth,’ which probably meant nothing to Monsieur Archambeau. ‘It was business. Garrett was looking at a mill he was interested in investing in. But he’d heard rumours about the dam upriver being unstable. He wasn’t going to buy a mill that was likely to be washed away.’ She cleared her throat to dislodge the lump forming. ‘But it was. There was considerable rain while we were there, and the dam burst. It swept through the street where our lodgings were.’ She gave him a meaningful look, pleading with him to understand the implications without her having to say the words.
‘Mon Dieu,’Archambeau breathed, automatically reaching for her hand where it lay on the table. ‘I am sorry. But you were not there? At the lodgings?’
‘No, my friends and I were playing whist.’ It still pained her to say that. Perhaps she should have been there, perhaps she should have died with him or she could have saved him. Both were illogical thoughts as Fleur liked to point out, but Emma couldn’t get over the feeling of having somehow abandoned Garrett to his fate in exchange for her own selfish survival.
‘You were lucky, then.’ Archambeau said gently. He gave her a sad smile, releasing her hand. ‘We must toast his memory.’ He reached for his wine glass and raised it. ‘To Sir Garrett Luce, a true and generous friend who will be greatly missed.’ The wine glasses chimed against one another, and they drank, the toast leaving her with a surprising sense of rightness. In all the mourning that had taken place, the initial loss in Holmfirth, the funeral in Surrey, there’d been tears and wailing but no toasting and wine. Garrett would have liked more toasts than tears, she thought.
Theplateau de fromage, the end-of-meal cheese platter, was brought in, featuring a rich Roquefort, a complement of dried fruits and cranberries, and a small pot of honey to drizzle over it. Small glasses were filled with port. ‘We farm the honey here on site in our own apiaries.’ Archambeau raised the honey dipper over her selection of fruits and drizzled for her. There was no hidden message this time in the use of ‘we’ as he spoke of the home farm and it seemed to her that the moment to discuss business had long passed. But there was a quietly stunning unintended revelation in this ‘we’.
He lives here. The chateau is his home.
It was why he’d been on hand when she’d arrived so late in the day, why there’d been lights in the windows despite no one knowing of her coming, why he’d had evening clothes to change into and a razor for his toilette, why he had such a close relationship with the staff. Perhaps even why he’d felt threatened by her arrival. Should she choose to do so, she would displace him from more than a job.
Should she choose?
Her mind stuttered on the idea. That was a very different thought than the one she’d entered the dining room with. She’d come downstairs determined to establish her position and to disabuse him of any belief that he had a toehold here. Now, one meal later, she was already recanting that position. She shot him a considering look beneath her lashes as she reached for her port. Well, damn him for being a master. For all of her confidence that she was immune to his persuasion, it seemed he’d got exactly what he wanted from supper, and he’d done it by using the oldest trick in the book: making her believe she’d been the one in charge.
She finished her port and rose. ‘Please excuse me, Monsieur Archambeau. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. I thank you for the meal. Even on short notice, it was the best I’ve eaten in a while. I will give Cook my compliments tomorrow when I submit the menus. Thank you also for your company. I hope it did not take you away from any plans.’
He set aside his napkin and rose with her. ‘It was my pleasure, Madame Luce. I will show you up.’
‘It is not necessary,’ she began but he interrupted with a soft smile.
‘I know, but I will do it anyway. My manners would never forgive me.’ She recognised it was a détente of sorts as she took his arm. He accepted her presence, no longer acting as if she were a guest temporarily passing through his life. Perhaps in the sharing of Garrett’s loss some of his barriers had come down, too. Or perhaps he could simply be magnanimous in victory because they both knew he’d won the night.
Chapter Five
He had won the night. Now he needed to make good on that reprieve. Garrett Luce was dead. His widow washerein Cumières,inthe chateau, and intending to stay. Julien paced the faded Aubusson carpet that covered most of the floor of hisoncle’s study at the farmhouse that bordered the chateau’s property, his body as unable to still as his mind. After a sleepless night, he’d ridden over as soon as he’d completed his early morning walk of the vineyards.
Even his morning walk, usually a calm, meditative activity, had been disrupted with thoughts of last night. He was still reeling with the news. There was the veil of grief over the loss of Sir Garrett. The loss so sudden and unbelievable, given that he had a letter from Garrett dated just days before his death. He was also reeling from the practical impact of what Garrett’s death meant to his plans and position regarding the chateau.
He stopped by a bookcase to finger a globe set on a gold-plated axis. He gave it a gentle spin with his finger. He tinkered with the decorative scales on another shelf, moving the little weights to redistribute the balance. Such fine shelf ornaments for a farmhouse. Oncle Etienne had still been abed when he arrived and was a stickler for his morning routine. He would not deign to receive anyone without being completely dressed and shaved for the day, not even his nephew. Julien would have preferred not to be kept waiting. He’d have been happy to have hisonclereceive him in his boudoir while he shaved or even if hisonclehad simply thrown on a dressing robe and come downstairs indishabille. But that was not how Etienne Archambeau conducted himself. He might not live in the family chateau, but he never forgot he was the son of acomte, that centuries of nobility ran in his veins. Julien chuckled. As for himself, he was quite the opposite. He didn’t stand on ceremony unless he had to. There was no one at the chateau to care how he dressed or when he dressed or evenifhe dressed. He could run around indishabilleall day if it suited him. And, honestly, sometimes it did. At least that had been true up until last night. That would have to change now with Madame Luce in residence.
Emma Luce had been something of a revelation; a beautiful woman with sable hair and a cynic’s sea-grey eyes that said a man aspired to her at his own peril. It was the type of challenge that would have appealed to Luce, but the cynicism in her eyes surprised him. What did a woman married to Garrett Luce have to be cynical about? The marriage had been a love match. Luce had family from a previous marriage, sons, a fortune. Self-sufficient as he’d been, he had not been required to marry. He’d lavished every extravagance on his young bride. In return, his bride had lovedhim, not his money or the things he could provide. That had been evident last night when she’d talked of her husband. She’d taken the loss hard.
Proof of that had moved him. Moved him right off topic at dinner, in fact. He’d intended dinner to be a chance to stake his claim, to make it clear that he was in charge of the vineyards. He’d not nurtured these vines for years to have a newcomer interrupt and undo his hard work just when results were within his grasp. But instead of business, they’d ended up talking about Garrett and of her plans to stay, which had served his purposes nonetheless in the end. He’d emerged victorious on a technicality. Last night, he’d allowed her to establish that she was not a guest inhishome but a resident inhers. He checked the mantel clock and wondered if she was up already, giving her menus to Petit and meeting with the housekeeper. By extension, if she wastheresident, what did that make him? The outsider? His response last night had been alarming. He’d been too empathetic by far. From empathy grew attachment. The less he knew about her the more objective he could be. Had he in his empathy allowed her to usurp him, or was there room for two residents?
‘Julien, you’re up early.’ Hisoncleentered the study, pressed and polished in perfectly creased dark blue trousers and jacket, paisley-blue waistcoat and white linen pristine beneath. His cravat was tied with sartorial excellence and his cheek was smooth. His abundant head of sleek silver hair was brushed back from his face, his Archambeau-blue eyes sharp, alert, and yet kind. Hisonclecarried with him an aura of confidence that immediately put one at ease and filled one with the sense that all would be well. It was what he’d come to admire about hisonclein the years he’d lived with him in England while he’d gone to school, and what he relied on now that hisgrandpèreand papa were gone. Even this morning, the sight and sound of hisoncleeased the night rumblings of his mind. He’d been right to come.
‘I have news, Oncle, and I felt it could not wait.’ Rather,hecould not wait. He wanted his mind to still, he wanted to lay this latest development at hisoncle’s feet so he could get back to his grapes and his solitude.
