Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve. Janice Maynard
Читать онлайн книгу.
afternoon, and the fact that she’d abandoned herself so completely had shaken her. Still shook her! She’d witnessed firsthand the misery her cousin endured, for God’s sake. Had helped Anne run, hide, struggle painfully to regain her confidence and self-respect. Grace couldn’t just throw off the brutal burden of those months and years. Nor could she dump it on Blake’s broad, willing shoulders—much as she ached to.
No, she was right to pull back. Revert to cool and polite, to use his phrase. They both needed time to adjust to this awkward marriage before they took the next step. Whatever the heck that was.
It took a severe exercise of will, but she managed to block the mental image of Blake pinning her to the tiles and drop into sleep.
* * *
She remained firm in her resolve to back things up a step when she went down for breakfast the next morning.
The villa’s staff had obviously reported for duty. The heavenly scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from the direction of the kitchen, and a maid in a pale blue uniform wielded a feather duster like a baton at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes lit with curiosity and a friendly welcome when she spotted Grace.
“Bonjour, Madame Dalton.”
“Bonjour.”
That much Grace could manage. The quick spate that followed had her offering an apology.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, excusez-moi. I am Marie. The downstairs maid, yes? I am most happy to meet you.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
She hesitated, not exactly embarrassed but not real eager to admit she didn’t have a clue where her husband of two days might be. Luckily, Blake had primed the staff with the necessary information.
“Monsieur Dalton said to tell you that he takes coffee on the east terrace,” Marie informed her cheerfully. “He waits for you to join him for breakfast.”
“And the east terrace is…?”
“Just there, madame.” She aimed the feather duster. “Through the petite salon.”
“Thanks.”
She crossed the salon’s exquisitely thick carpet and made for a set of open French doors that gave onto a flagstone terrace enclosed by ivy-drenched stone walls. A white wrought-iron table held a silver coffee service and a basket of brioche. Blake held his Blackberry and was working the keyboard one-handed while he sipped from a gold-rimmed china cup with the other.
Grace stopped just inside the French doors to drag in several deep breaths. She needed them. The sight of her husband in the clear, shimmering light of a Provencal morning was something to behold. A stray sunbeam snuck through the elms shading the patio to gild his hair. His crisp blue shirt was open at the neck and rolled at the cuffs. He looked calm and collected and too gorgeous for words, dammit!
She sucked in another breath and stepped out onto the patio. “Good morning.”
He set down both his coffee cup and the Blackberry and rose.
“Good morning.” The greeting was as courteous and impersonal as his smile. “Did you sleep well?”
Right. Okay. This was how she wanted it. What she’d insisted on.
“Very well,” she lied. “You?”
“As well as could be expected after yesterday afternoon.”
When she flashed a warning look, he shed his polite mask and hooked a brow.
“I zoned out for a good four hours on that lounge chair,” he reminded her. “As a consequence, I didn’t need much sleep last night.”
And if she bought that one, Blake thought sardonically, he had several more he could sell her.
He didn’t have to sell them. The swift way she broke eye contact told him she suspected he was stretching the truth until it damned near screamed.
She had to know she’d kept him awake most of the night. She, and her absurd insistence they ignore the wildfire they’d sparked yesterday. As if they could. The heat of it still singed Blake’s mind and burned in his gut.
In the small hours of the night he’d called himself every kind of an idiot for agreeing to this farcical facade. It made even less sense in the bright light of morning. They couldn’t shove yesterday in a box, stick it on the closet shelf and pretend it never happened. Yet he had agreed, and now he was stuck with it.
It didn’t improve his mood to discover she’d dabbed on some of the perfumed oil he’d bought her yesterday. The provocative scent tugged at his senses as he pulled out one of the heavy wrought-iron chairs for her.
“Why don’t you pour yourself some coffee and I’ll tell Auguste we’re ready for… Ah, here he is.”
At first glance few people would tag the individual who appeared in the open French doors as a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu and two-time winner of the Coupe du Monde de la Patisserie—the World Cup of pastry. He sported stooped shoulders, sparse gray hair and a hound-dog face with dewlaps that hung in mournful folds. If he’d cracked a smile anytime in the past two years, Blake sure hadn’t seen it.
The great Auguste had been retired for a decade and, according to Delilah, going out of his gourd with boredom when she’d hunted him down. After subjecting the poor man to the full force of her personality, she’d convinced him to take over the kitchen of Hôtel des Elmes.
Blake had made his way to the kitchen earlier to say hello. He now introduced the chef to Grace. Auguste bowed over her hand and greeted her in tones of infinite sadness.
“I welcome you to Saint-Rémy.”
Gulping, she threw Blake a what-in-the-world-did-I-do look? He stepped in smoothly.
“I’ve told Grace about your scallops au gratin, Auguste. Perhaps you’ll prepare them for us one evening.”
“But of course.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh and turned his doleful gaze back to Grace. “Tonight, if you wish it, madame.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“And now I shall prepare the eggs Benedict for you and monsieur, yes?”
“Er, yes. Please.”
He bowed again and retreated, shoulders drooping. Grace followed his exit with awed eyes.
“Did someone close to him just die?” she whispered to Blake.
The question broke the ice that had crusted between them. Laughing, Blake went back to his own seat.
“Not that I know of. In fact, you’re seeing him in one of his more cheerful moods.”
“Riiight.”
With a doubtful glance at the French doors, she spread her napkin across her lap. He waited until she’d filled a cup with rich, dark brew to offer the basket of fresh-baked brioche.
“We’ve got dinner taken care of,” he said as she slathered on butter and thick strawberry jam. “What would you like to do until then?”
She sent him a quick look, saw he hadn’t packed some hidden meaning into the suggestion, and relaxed into her first genuine smile of the morning.
“You mentioned a Van Gogh trail. I’d love to explore that, if you’re up for it.”
Resolutely, Blake suppressed the memory of his mother ruthlessly dragging Alex and him along every step of the route commemorating Saint-Rémy’s most famous artist.
“I’m up for it.”
Grace couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to explore.