Page 5 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
She extended her hand to him, trying to be friendly, a part of her mind clinging to her earlier hopes of an amicable business relationship with her husband’s steward. But this man did not look amicable. He looked stubborn. ‘I do not believe you were here when I first visited.’ Every fibre of her being screamed a silent warning: If she’d been wrong about this, what else might she be wrong about when it came to Monsieur Archambeau and the chateau? ‘You must be my husband’s steward. I feel as if I know you from all the correspondence over the years,’ which was fast becoming a polite lie. She clearlydidn’tknow this man. Her images of him couldn’t be further from the reality standing before her, a realisation that both intrigued the natural curiosity in her and unnerved her. What sort of man had her husband left in charge of the chateau?
He took her hand and bent over it, slate eyes holding hers with all the élan of a skilled courtier, at drastic odds with his appearance, a little joke flickering behind his gaze, a joke she suspected was on her. ‘I am Monsieur Luce’s man of business here,madame.’ The correction was subtle and it contributed to a growing sense of unease, of being off balance.
Some of her newly acquired sense of peace evaporated. Her usually accurate perception of people had deserted her, leaving her feeling exposed, but she’d gathered her wits enough to be aware of his correction and what it might portend. Not steward, but the man of business. Had he corrected her out of manly pride, wanting to be seen as someone of importance? If so, she would take care to manage his pride in future interactions. It was easy enough to smooth feathers when one was aware they were ruffled. Or had he corrected her because his responsibilities extended beyond sending quarterly reports and overseeing harvests?
If so, had he been appointed to that responsibility by Garrett or had he assumed it for himself, something that was simple enough to do with an absentee landlord? She hoped for the former. Appointed power was easier to amend. The latter was not. It would be more difficult to...dislodge...if necessary. Power was a hard thing to give up and she was deeply curious to discover just how much power Monsieur Archambeau had been given or how much he’d assumed over the years here at the chateau. The potential of the latter was something she’d warned Garrett about when he’d first set up the arrangement. Instinct told her she might have a fight on her hands.
The same lead that had settled in her stomach at the reading of the will settled in her stomach once more. Monsieur Archambeau was an unlooked-for development. She told herself his position didn’t matter, it changed nothing, and whatever the arrangement in the past may or may not have been, she would establish new ground rules. ‘It seems we’ll have much to discuss since I am here now and have every intention of overseeing the vineyards myself.’ In other words, she did not need someone to act on her behalf when she was here to do it in person. She’d never been one for subtlety, neither had her father. This place was hers. She would defend it from those who would challenge that both inside its walls and out.
‘Perhaps we might exchange news over supper, if you’d care to join me?’ Archambeau was all cool smoothness, a veritable wolf in sheep’s clothing, or was that worker’s clothing? He was undaunted by her sudden appearance or the veiled warning of terminated employment. Did he not believe she would let him go? Did he think she was bluffing or merely meant to put him in his place? Whatever his beliefs, he obviously felt he had the upper hand. She would disabuse him of that soon enough. This was her home. Her vineyards. Her business.
‘Are you inviting me to dinner in my own home?’ She matched his coolness, his calm.
‘Yes, I am.’ He did not back down from the challenge. ‘We dine at seven. I believe Mrs Dormand has your rooms ready. Shall I show you up?’ He was treating her as a guest. She would not cede that ground to him.
‘That will be unnecessary. I know the way.’ It was the one thing she was certain of in a world that was suddenly filled with the unfamiliar. She smiled to match his politeness. ‘I will see you at seven.’ That would give her time to realign her thinking. Things were not as she’d anticipated at Les Deux Coeurs. By dinner, she’d be prepared to expect the unexpected.
Seven hells! Emma Luce wasexactlywhat he’d expected, only he’d never expected to actually have to meet her. That she was here was a problem, a very large problem he’d have to deal with quickly and decisively. He’d start at dinner, which didn’t give him much time. He called for Richet and ordered a bath for his quarters.A smug smile curled on his mouth as he took the stairs. What would Madame Luce think ofthat? Of himlivingin the house? If she were to contest it, he would relish informing her that it was something he and Monsieur Luce had agreed upon so there was always someone on hand. He had as much right as she to live here at present. That would, perhaps, surprise her. And if she thought the rustic farmer from the drawing room would show up at the dinner table, she’d be in for another surprise. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own shock at Richet’s news, which had been two surprises dropped on him at once—Luce’s deathandhis widow’s arrival—he might have found some humour in the confusion that had lit her quicksilver eyes. While she’d been what he’d expected,hehad not been whatshe’dexpected, dressed as he was in his working clothes.
Upstairs, Julien divested himself of his dirty garments and slid into the hot water, letting it relax his body and his mind, his thoughts wandering through what he knew about Emma Luce and how best to deal with her. Sir Garrett Luce had once described his wife in glowing terms as a whirlwind, a woman of fortitude and presence. Those were all attributes Julien could appreciate when they belonged to a woman who was on the other side of the Channel, hundreds of miles from here. He appreciated them far less when they were in his drawing room—not that she would think it washisdrawing room; that much was clear from their conversation.
Presencewas a businessman’s word for beauty and Emma Luce was certainly that: dark-haired, sharp silver eyes, a lithe figure shown to perfection even in an unadorned black travelling costume. On a woman like her, even mourning attire appeared fashionable. But all of that was a decoy, Julien suspected, for the intelligence housed within. Luce had mentioned his Emma had a ‘rare head for business,’ a woman full of ideas about how to get goods to the people who wanted them, and how to convince people that they wanted everything.
‘Should have been born a man. She’d have made a fortune,’Luce had said once over brandies during one of his visits. Then, the man had winked at him.‘But fortunately for me she was not. I’m quite satisfied that she’s a woman.’He’d mentioned, too, that she came from a business background herself.‘We understand each other,’Luce had said in the tones of a man well pleased with his marriage.
Julien sank lower in the hot water. He’d envied Luce that, a wife who was his partnerandhis love. Had the man understood such a combination was worth more than any holding in his business empire? It was what he himself had hoped to have with Clarisse. Together, they were going to turn the Archambeau lands into a great wine house known for itsvin mousseux, its champagne. A house that would aspire to and rival the House of Clicquot, perhaps in time surpass it. The old widow of Clicquot wouldn’t live for ever. She was already seventy-five, and everyone knew she was the genius and the mind behind the house. Her family hadn’t the same fortitude for the business as they had for spending the profits.
He’d thought Clarisse had wanted those things, too. As the daughter of a self-made man who’d acquired his fortune in the post-Napoleonic world of the Bourbon Restoration, he’d assumed Clarisse would want what he wanted, valued what he valued, that nothing was more important than family and land. All else could be taken away in a moment.
A man had to make himself in this new world. Titles were fickle things. They meant little to Julien. The Archambeaux had lost their title in the Revolution. They’d regained it in 1815 only to lose it again in 1848. There were rumours the title would be restored again but that changed nothing for Julien. Things that could be taken away so easily were not worthy of his pursuit. Land was the only thing that lasted. Not even love could lay claim to that, as Clarisse had proven.
Now Emma Luce’s unanticipated arrival threatened the plans he and Oncle Etienne had in place. She couldn’t possibly know what she was walking into, nor could she find out, not yet. It was imperative that the running of the vineyards and control of the vineyard finances remained firmly in his hands for the time being. Not only for his plans but for the long-term viability of the vineyards. People trusted him; he had built a reputation for being both an excellentvigneronand winemaker. If anyone thought for a moment that he was not at the helm of Les Deux Coeurs or that the place was being run by an Englishwoman, all confidence—which manifested itself in wine orders and financial investment—would be undermined. What did an Englishwoman know of French vineyards? It was a question that must not be asked. And yet, it was a question he was forced to ask himself.
‘I am here now and have every intention of overseeing the vineyards myself,’she’d announced, and he’d been glad no one else, not even the servants, had been around to hear her say that. He needed to be sure she never said such a thing to anyone.
Julien held his breath and slid beneath the water for a final dunking. Garrett Luce had picked a hell of a time to die. After seven years of an amicable arrangement that had allowed Julien to quietly assume a liberal free hand, all that was about to change. Whoever thought seven was a lucky number had never met Emma Luce.
Chapter Four
Emma entered the drawing room at the stroke of seven and not a moment earlier. To be early would require extra conversation with Monsieur Archambeau; polite small talk with the understanding that business talk would come later, perhaps at the table, or after. The French did not countenance the mixing of business with pleasure, and nothing was more pleasurable to the French than their food.
‘Ah, Madame Luce, there you are, right on time.’ Monsieur Archambeau came forward with a smile on his cleanly shaven face. Gone was the dark stubble of earlier, the dusty worker’s clothes replaced with dark trousers, jacket, and a blue waistcoat that brought out the slate of his eyes. The dour worker had been replaced with a gallant gentleman. Perhaps he’d decided he’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Perhapssheought to be wary of that. He offered her his arm. ‘Richet has informed me Petit, our cook, is ready to serve the meal. Shall we go in? I’ve learned, to my hazard, not to keep Cook’s meals waiting.’
So, he was notallhoney yet. There was stillsomevinegar there. Beneath his smile and low chuckle, she detected a rebuke for having come down with no time to spare for the niceties of small talk. If there was one thing the French valued as much as their food and wine, it was conversation. Her late arrival had cheated him of the latter. He was taking care it did not cheat him of the former. Or perhaps he was reminding her that he’d been here first, been here longer, that he had a relationship with the staff she hadn’t seen in seven years. Good Lord, was she going to spend the whole meal analysing everything he said? Turning his words and actions this way and that like a puzzle box? Probably. She’d not lie to herself. Her brain was excited by the possibility of doingsomething, of having new fodder to energise itself with.
‘I packed so carefully that unpacking was something of a challenge,’ Emma offered by way of polite apology. In truth, she’d lingered purposefully in her chambers, fussing over the unpacking of her trunks to wait out the clock. It had not taken long to change. When one was in mourning there were no decisions to dawdle over and debate: The black gown or the black gown? Mourning took away the feminine joy of selecting the right dress, the right cut and colour, a tool just as much as conversation and charm. In the past, she’d taken great care with her clothes, dressed with purpose. Now that Garrett was gone, she didn’t mind the black. She had no one to dress for. The black suited her. It reflected the darkness, the emptiness she still felt. After nearly a month, perhaps those things would be a part of her for ever, going forward. Shedidfeel fire; shedidfeel life. The haze of grief had lifted but in its wake the satisfaction, the completion she’d once felt, was missing. Her soul was empty, an intangible hunger gnawing at her, begging to be filled, to be fed. But with what? She hoped the vineyards could help, that being here in France would satisfy the hunger.
She smoothed her skirts, the gesture drawing Monsieur Archambeau’s eye and, unexpectedly, his sympathy. ‘I am truly sorry about your husband,madame. I considered Sir Garrett a friend as well as a business partner,’ he offered solemnly, his hard eyes softening. ‘You have my sincere condolences. I should have said so earlier.’ An apology? That had all her senses on alert. Perhaps he was trying to reposition himself after a less than friendly start. Monsieur Archambeau wasdefinitelyon his mettle. A man never apologised for anything unless he felt himself entirely in the wrong. Or, unless there was something he wanted—badly. She’d wager the latter was the case if he was willing to apologiseandput on quite the show in his dark evening clothes and excellently tied cravat.
The stern man she’d met upon arrival had been replaced by the most gallant of gentlemen, a transition that Emma thought had been rather seamless, quite natural for him, one that fit him as well as his clothes. That too was cause for caution. A worker with a gentleman’s manners was an intriguing and unusual combination. Such a man had angles and facets, depths and agendas. He would not allow himself to be dismissed easily. Indeed, everything about him suggested he did not see himself as an employee to be commanded but as something more. That’s what worried her. He saw himself not as a steward but as a partner, perhaps even as the superior business partner. She’d have to help him understand his role otherwise.
He ushered her into the dining room, playing the part of the gentleman to perfection. At the sight of the dining room, her breath caught loud enough to be noticed. She’d not been prepared for this. ‘Madame?Is everything all right?’ Monsieur Archambeau solicited with a look of concern.
‘I’m fine, it’s just that my memories did not do this room justice.’ Her memories had dimmed its magnificence and now, seen in person, the room laid overwhelming siege to those memories. It looked exactly as it had when she’d honeymooned as a bride; the beautiful turquoise damask on the walls, the creamy wainscoting that ran from floor to chair railing, the brass sconces set at intervals to illuminate the exquisite artwork, and the massive fireplace with its mantel of carved French oak from the chateau’s own forests. The long table, capable of seating twenty, was set for two. A white cloth draped the far end closest to the fire. A heavy multiarmed silver candelabra stood in the centre of the cloth, its flame light glancing off the crystal goblets and elegant white china.
She was vaguely aware of Monsieur Archambeau’s hand dropping to the small of her back as he guided her towards the table, of the effortless way he held out her chair and waited for her to arrange her skirts. In the back of her mind, it registered that these were routines he’d performed countless times, routines that came to him as naturally as breathing. They were not routines that came naturally to farmers.
Monsieur Archambeau took his own seat and Richet came forward to pour the wine, a pale gold white that sparked diamond-like in the crystal, while footmen served potato and leek soup in wide, shallow bowls. ‘I hope the food is to your liking,’ Monsieur Archambeau solicited. ‘We’ll just have three courses tonight. We were not expecting guests.’
