To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(4)

“And you?”

He turned to look at her. “What about me?”

She frowned up at him impatiently. “What happened to you when both your parents died?”

“I was sent to a boys’ academy,” he said prosaically, the words in no way conveying the shock of leaving a cabin in the woods and entering a world of books and strict discipline.

They had reached a brick garden wall, which marked the end of the path. She halted and faced him. “I must meet your sister before I can come to any decision.”

“Of course,” he murmured, knowing he had her.

She shook out her skirts briskly, her black eyes narrowed, her red mouth pursed as she thought. An image of her dead brother suddenly rose up in his mind: Reynaud’s black eyes narrowed in exactly the same manner as he dressed down a soldier. For a moment, the masculine face superimposed itself over the smaller, feminine face of the sister. Reynaud’s heavy black brows drew together, his midnight eyes staring as if with condemnation. Sam shuddered and pushed the phantom away, concentrating on what the living woman was saying.

“You and your sister may visit me tomorrow. I’ll let you know my decision after that. Tea, I think? You do drink tea, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Will two o’clock suit you?”

He was tempted to smile at her order. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

She looked at him suspiciously a moment, then whirled to march back up the garden path, which left him to follow. He did, slowly, watching that elegant back and those twitching skirts. And as he followed her, he patted his pocket, hearing the familiar crinkle of paper and wondering, how best could he use Lady Emeline?

“I DO NOT comprehend,” Tante Cristelle pronounced that night at dinner. “If the gentleman did indeed wish the honor of your patronage, why did he not pursue you through the channels usual? He should compel a friend to make the introduction.”

Tante Cristelle was Emeline’s mother’s younger sister, a tall, white-haired lady with a terribly straight back and sky-blue eyes that should’ve been benign but weren’t. The old lady had never married, and privately Emeline sometimes thought it was because the males of her aunt’s age must’ve been terrified of her. Tante Cristelle had lived with Emeline and her son, Daniel, for the last five years, ever since the death of Daniel’s father.

“Perhaps he wasn’t aware of how it’s properly done,” Emeline said as she perused the selection of meats on the tray. “Or perhaps he didn’t want to take the time to go through the customary maneuvers. He said they were to be in London only a short while, after all.” She indicated a slice of beef and smiled her thanks as the footman forked it onto her plate.

“Mon Dieu, if he is such a gauche rustic, then he has no business attempting the labyrinths of le ton.” Her aunt took a sip of wine and then pursed her lips as if the red liquid were sour.

Emeline made a noncommittal sound. Tante Cristelle’s analysis of Mr. Hartley was accurate on the surface—he had indeed given the appearance of a rustic. The problem was, his eyes had told another story. He’d almost seemed to be laughing at her, as if she were the naïf.

“And what will you do, I ask you, if the girl is anything like the brother you describe?” Tante Cristelle arched her eyebrows in exaggerated horror. “What if she wears her hair in braids down her back? What if she laughs too loudly? What if she wears no shoes and her feet, they are so dirty?”

This distasteful thought was apparently too much for the old lady. She beckoned urgently to the footman for more wine while Emeline bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“He is very wealthy. I discreetly inquired about his position from the other ladies at the salon. They all confirmed that Mr. Hartley is indeed one of the richest men in Boston. Presumably, he moves in the best circles there.”

“Tcha.” Tante dismissed all of Boston society.

Emeline cut into her beef serenely. “And even if they were rustics, Tante, surely we should not hold lack of proper training against the chit?”

“Non!” Tante Cristelle exclaimed, making the footman at her elbow start and nearly drop the decanter of wine. “And again I say, non! This prejudice, it is the foundation of society. How are we to discern the well-born from the common rabble if not by the manners they keep?”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Yes, of course I am right,” her aunt retorted.

“Mmm.” Emeline poked at the beef on her plate. For some reason, she no longer wanted it. “Tante, do you remember that little book my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me as children?”

“Book? What book? Whatever are you talking about?”

Emeline plucked at the bit of gathered ribbon on her sleeve. “It was a book of fairy tales, and we were very fond of it. I thought of it today for some reason.”

She stared thoughtfully at her plate, remembering. Nanny would often read to them outside after an afternoon picnic. Reynaud and she would sit on the picnic blanket as Nanny turned the pages of the fairy-tale book. But as the story progressed, Reynaud would creep unconsciously forward, drawn by the excitement of the tale, until he was nearly in Nanny’s lap, hanging on every word, his black eyes sparkling.

He’d been so alive, so vital, even as a boy. Emeline swallowed, carefully smoothing the raveled ribbon at her waist. “I only wondered where the book could be. Do you think it’s packed away in the attics?”