Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore
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“I know enough to be certain that a Frenchwoman cannot be trusted, either in bed or out of it.”
The arrogant English pig! “So now you will insult a whole country?”
“Why so indignant, Miss Bergerine? I merely gave you the information you claimed to seek.”
She must be calm and control her anger. “Your friends who had the party… The woman’s name is Fanny, I think? Is she your lover?”
He started as if somebody had fired a gun at his head. “Where did you get that outrageous idea?”
He was not so smug and arrogant now! “When you were hurt, you called her name, or else it was Annie. Perhaps you’ve had lovers with both names?”
In spite of his obvious shock, Sir Douglas recovered with astonishing speed. “I was unconscious, was I not?”
“Not all the time. Not when you whispered that name and kissed me.”
He couldn’t look more stunned if she’d told him they’d been secretly married. “I did what?”
“You put your arm around me and you whispered ‘ma chérie’ and then you kissed me,” she bluntly informed him. “Or as I suppose an English lover kisses,” she added, as if his performance had been woefully inadequate.
Sir Douglas Drury blushed. Blushed like a schoolboy. Blushed like a child.
She wouldn’t have considered that possible without seeing it for herself.
“I don’t believe it,” he snapped.
“I am not lying. Why would I?”
His hands still behind his back, he strode to the white marble hearth, then whirled around to face her. “How should I know what motives you may possess for wishing to say such a ridiculous thing? Or why you would pick Fanny, whom I most certainly do not desire. She is a friend, and so is her husband. I would never, ever think of coming between them even if I could—which I most certainly could not. They are very much in love. I realize that would be considered extremely gauche in Paris, but it’s true.”
“I am not telling lies.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his eyes, read it in his face.
“What’s the real reason for these questions, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded as he walked toward her like some large black-and-white cat. “Has somebody been telling you about my other reputation? Do you want to know if what they say about me outside the courtroom is true?”
She stood her ground, not retreating no matter how close he came. “I know all that I care to know about you, Sir Douglas.”
“Oh?” His lips curved up in that dangerous, devilish smile. “Perhaps you really want to find out what it’s like to be kissed by Sir Douglas Drury when he’s wide-awake.”
That made her move.
“You pig! Dog! Merde!” she cried, backing away from him.
Not far enough. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she could stop him—for of course she must—he took her in his arms and kissed her.
This was no tender kiss, like the one they’d shared before. This was hot and fierce, passionate and forceful. Seeking. Seducing. Tempting beyond anything.
His arms went around her and he held her tight against him, his starched shirt against her breasts. Her heart beat like a regiment’s drum, sending the blood coursing through her body, heating her skin, her face, her lips. Arousing her, asking her to surrender to the desire and need surging through her.
A memory came, of the old farmer in the barn, stinking and sweaty, grabbing her and trying to kiss her, his movements fumbling.
This was not the same.
Or was it?
She was just a seamstress and there was only one way it could end if she gave in to the desire Sir Douglas Drury was arousing, the excitement she was feeling, the need.
She put her hands on his broad chest and shoved him away, prepared to tell him she was no loose woman, no harlot, no whore. Until she saw the look on his face…
He was as upset as she. Because he couldn’t believe a woman like her would spurn his advances?
He was wrong. Very wrong! “You pig! Cochon! To take advantage of a poor woman who came to you for help!”
The door suddenly flew open and Lord Bromwell entered the room as if he’d heard her fierce epithets, except that he was smiling with his usual genial friendliness.
“Millstone said I’d find you both in here,” he said. His smile died as he looked from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”
Sir Douglas turned to her, his dark eyes cold and angry as he raised a single brow.
She was not upset with Lord Bromwell. He was truly kind. But if she complained about his friend to him, what would he do?
She could not trust him completely, for she was French and he was English. She could not be certain he would not send her back to her lodgings.
She quickly came up with an excuse to explain why they had been arguing. “I spent too much on clothes. Nearly a hundred pounds.”
Lord Bromwell gave Sir Douglas a puzzled look. “Why, that’s nothing. I should think you could afford ten times that.”
“I wasn’t quarreling about the amount, which is trivial,” Sir Douglas smoothly lied. “I was trying to make her see that she should have spent more. Madame de Malanche will be telling people I’m a miser.”
Lord Bromwell sighed with relief, and he smiled at Juliette. “That may seem a large sum to you, Miss Bergerine, but truly, Drury would hardly have noticed if you’d spent twice that.”
“One benefit of having a father with a head for business,” the barrister noted.
“Oh, and I’ve brought company for dinner!” Lord Bromwell said, as if he’d just remembered.
Company? She was to have to act a well-to-do lady in company? How could he do such a thing?
A swift glance at Sir Douglas told her he was no more pleased than she, especially when a young couple came into the room.
The woman was no great beauty, but her clothes were fine and fashionable, in the very latest style, and her smile warm and pleasant. The gentleman was likewise well and fashionably attired. His hair, however, looked as if he’d just run his fingers through it to stand it on end, or else he’d been astride a galloping horse without his hat.
“Lady Francesca, may I present Miss Juliette Bergerine,” Lord Bromwell said as Sir Douglas moved toward the window, his hands once more behind his back. “Miss Bergerine, this is Lady Francesca and her husband, the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.”
“Please, you must call me Fanny,” the young woman said.
It took a mighty effort, but Juliette managed not to glance at Sir Douglas before she made a little curtsy.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she lied.
Although the food was excellent and plentiful—including such delicacies as salmon, which she had never tasted before, and something called a tart syllabub, which was very rich and very good—the dinner was a nerve-racking experience for Juliette. Fortunately, she managed to get through it without making many mistakes by carefully watching and imitating the others, not touching a piece of cutlery or crystal glass until they did.
She also took care not to wolf down the excellent food as if she hadn’t eaten in days, but was used to such cuisine.
And the wine! Mon Dieu, how the wine flowed! Yet she made sure she only sipped, and never finished a glass. She had to keep her