To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(12)

But he only nodded thoughtfully. “Your husband is dead.”

“Yes. Daniel—my son is named for his father—passed away five years ago.”

“Yet, you have not married again.”

He leaned closer, and she recognized the scent she smelled on his breath. Parsley. Strange that such a domestic scent would seem so exotic on him.

He spoke softly. “I don’t understand why a lady of your attraction would be left to languish for so many years alone.”

Her brow creased. “Actually—”

“Here is a tea shop,” Tante Cristelle called from behind them. “My bones ache most terrible from this exercise. Shall we rest here?”

Mr. Hartley turned. “I am sorry, ma’am. Yes, indeed we’ll stop here.”

“Bon,” Tante said. “Let us compose ourselves for a time, then.”

Mr. Hartley held open the pretty wood and glass door, and they entered the little shop. Small, circular tables were placed here and there, and the ladies settled themselves while Mr. Hartley went to purchase the tea.

Tante Cristelle leaned forward to tap Rebecca’s knee. “Your brother is very solicitous of you. Be grateful; not all men are so. And those who are do not often stay in this world overlong.”

The girl knit her brows at Tante’s last remark, but she chose to reply to the first. “Oh, but I am very grateful. Samuel has always been kind to me when I saw him.”

Emeline smoothed a lace ruffle on her skirt. “Mr. Hartley said that you were raised by your uncle.”

Rebecca’s eyes dropped. “Yes. I only saw Samuel once or twice a year, when he came to visit. He always seemed so big, even though he must’ve been younger than I am now. Later, of course, he enlisted and wore a magnificent soldier’s uniform. I was quite in awe of him. He walks like no other man I know. He strides so easily, as if he could keep up his pace for days on end.” The girl looked up and smiled self-consciously. “I describe it badly.”

But oddly Emeline knew exactly what Rebecca meant. Mr. Hartley moved with a graceful confidence that made her think he knew his own body and how it worked better than other men did theirs. She turned to watch Mr. Hartley now. He waited for his turn to buy the tea. In front of him, an older gentleman frowned and impatiently tapped his toe. There were other customers as well, some tapping their feet, some shifting their weight restlessly. Only Mr. Hartley was perfectly still. He looked neither impatient nor bored, as if he could stand thus, one leg bent, his arms crossed at his chest, for hours. He caught her eye, and his eyebrows slowly rose, either in question or in challenge, she couldn’t tell. Her face heated and she looked away.

“You and your brother seem very close,” she said to Rebecca. “Despite your childhood apart.”

The girl smiled, but her eyes seemed uncertain. “I hope we’re close. I think that we are close. I admire my brother greatly.”

Emeline watched the girl thoughtfully. The sentiment was correct, to be sure, but Rebecca phrased the words almost as a question.

“My lady,” Mr. Hartley said, suddenly at her side.

Emeline started and glanced at the man in exasperation. Had he crept up beside her on purpose?

He smiled that maddeningly cryptic smile of his and held out a plate of pink sugared sweets. Behind him, a girl brought the tray of tea things. Mr. Hartley’s coffee-brown eyes seemed to chide Emeline for her pettiness.

She took a breath. “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.”

He inclined his head. “My pleasure, Lady Emeline.”

Humph. She tasted a candy and found that it was tart and sweet at once. Just right, in fact. She glanced at her aunt. The older lady had her head close to Rebecca’s, talking intently.

“I hope my aunt is not lecturing your sister,” she commented as she poured the tea.

Mr. Hartley glanced at Rebecca. “She is made of sterner stuff than she looks. I think she will survive whatever travails your aunt may throw at her.”

He was leaning casually against the wall not two feet away from her, all the chairs having been already taken. Emeline sipped at her tea as her gaze fell to his strange footwear.

Without thinking, she voiced her thoughts. “Wherever did you come by those slippers?”

Mr. Hartley extended one leg, his arms still crossed at his chest. “They’re moccasins, made from American deerskin by the women of the Mohican Indian tribe.”

The ladies at the next table got up to leave, but he made no move to sit down. The bell rang over the shop door as more people came in.

She frowned at Mr. Hartley’s moccasins and the leggings above them. He’d gartered the soft leather just below his knees with an embroidered sash and let the ends hang down. “Do all white men wear this attire in the Colonies?”

“No, not all.” He crossed his legs again. “Most wear the same shoes or boots as gentlemen wear here.”

“Then why do you choose to sport such strange footwear?” She was aware that her voice was sharp, but somehow his insistence on unconventional clothing was unbearably irritating to her. Why did he do it? If he wore buckle shoes and stockings like every other gentleman in London, no one would notice him. With his wealth, he could perhaps become an English gentleman and be accepted into the ton. He’d be respectable.

Mr. Hartley shrugged, patently unaware of her inner turmoil. “Hunters wear them in the woods of America. They’re very comfortable and much more useful than English shoes. The leggings protect against thorns and branches. I’m accustomed to them.”