A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection (24 page)

This was Gina’s third early morning foray that week into the Bordeaux garden, and she’d become quite expert at scaling the now-familiar wall. She’d found, after a bit of slipping on her first attempt, that going barefoot gave her the needed grip, and the only tricky part was keeping her book from falling out of her bodice.

It was no ordinary book, but one by a female author who published under a nom de plume. Full of intrigue, dark English moors, a mysterious hero, and intricacies of kissing, which Gina had never before experienced, this was a book to be read in the wilds of the garden— a French garden, to be exact. The pristine order of her rented room would not do for this story. The words on the page had to be savored and mulled over in an atmosphere worthy of both the characters and the setting.

Gina took her literature seriously, and if truth be told, she’d have rather read a delicious novel than do much else… with the exclusion of eating; Gina didn’t wont for much in life. Except for the fact that her parents, namely her father, had scared off any eligible suitor for the past three years. She’d experienced no romance, no courting, and hardly even a conversation with an eligible gentleman since she’d had become of age.

Because of this, Gina had been driven to desperate measures, such as hiding in gardens, and reading forbidden books. As the only child of the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Graydon of New York City, she was expected to act properly at all times, marry a wealthy man who’d add his fortune to her father’s, and produce at least two grandchildren— preferably a boy and a girl— to be considered of value to the family name.

She let out a long, heavy sigh as her feet touched the ground. She made her way to the garden, entering through the arched gateway topped with thick vines. How could she ever secure a proposal with her father’s intimidation toward other men? As a powerful and wealthy shipping tycoon, he believed no one was good enough for his little girl.

As Gina followed the twisting path outlined by tall rose bushes, she wondered if she’d ever have the chance to fall madly in love— a rare occasion even under the best of circumstances and without a tyrant for a father. But falling in love was entirely possible if she knew anything about her best friend, Eliza Robinson. The week before they’d left for France, Gina had attended Eliza’s wedding in the coastal town of Maybrook, Massachusetts. Eliza had gone against great odds to marry the man she loved.

Gina stopped at a bush in full bloom with exquisite white roses. In the growing light, the white looked ethereal, reminding her of the flowers at her friend’s wedding. Eliza’s ceremony had been terribly romantic— so quaint and simple, with only the closest family and friends present. Far from society’s prying eyes and ears, the wedding had been almost secretive, daring, one step from an elopement.

She bent down to smell the roses, letting the divine scent wash over her. Eloping sounded like the most fantastic thing in the world, but of course, she’d never admit that to anyone. They’d all think she was batty, and the only men who’d be interested would be the ones with sordid pasts to hide. Who, of course, her father would never approve of.

Gina straightened and continued on the garden path until a bench appeared before her. She sank onto the cool wood and brushed her hand across the cover of the delightful novel, pushing all thoughts of her hopeless circumstances out of her mind. She waited a moment before opening the pages. From her position, she had a good view of the hotel she and her parents were staying at. Their window was dark, as was hers, but the window on the other side was lit.

Odd. She remembered it being dark during her climb, which meant the man who occupied those rooms had just awakened. Had he heard her? Her pulse quickened. She hadn’t actually seen the man, had only heard his deep voice a time or two.

The sky grew lighter behind the hotel, the early dawn softening to a golden hue. Gina’s heart rate sped up as she opened the book at her marker and flipped back several pages to reread the intimate kiss described before her stopping point. Kisses were always a good place to begin.

Something drew her gaze back to the hotel windows next to her own. Gina froze as a man walked out onto the balcony. His dark form told her he was tall and well built. The fact that she could determine that from this distance meant that perhaps she had read one too many romance novels. Although she would never admit to it. She couldn’t see him clearly, but surely he wasn’t French. She’d towered over every French man she’d met. In New York, she was considered tall for a woman, but here she was practically a Viking.

The man stood still in the subtle morning glow, and she couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Hopefully she was too far and too concealed for him to see her upon the bench, even if her wrapper was pale yellow.

I hope I’m not a beacon of light.
The realization that he might be able to see her made her heart thump into her throat. What if he saw her and told another person? She wasn’t doing anything scandalous, but she was in a foreign hotel garden by herself, wearing a wrapper, and reading something her mother would be irate about if discovered.

Gina slowly stood, watching the man’s reaction. His head turned slightly, as if he was looking out over the garden, and not directly at one spot. He probably didn’t see her. She could slip into a group of trees until he left. But before she could take a step, his head turned toward her, and his eyes met hers.

Even with the distance, she felt his gaze. She didn’t dare move and bring attention to herself. Minutes passed, or perhaps only seconds, but finally, he turned away and disappeared inside his room. Gina let out the breath she’d been holding.

Would the man discover who she was? Who her father was? The gossip columns in France were not as formidable as New York’s, and besides, they were in French, and what American paid attention to them anyway? Certainly not her parents.

Then Gina froze. Her grandmother read the French paper each afternoon while taking her thick hot-chocolate drink in front of a cheery fire. Grandmother Graydon had almost stayed home from this trip, but at the last moment had decided to visit Europe “one more time.” The woman wasn’t all that elderly, though her knees had been giving her a bit of trouble. Thus sleeping all morning and not reading the morning paper until afternoon.

Everyone else in the hotel seemed to sleep through the morning as well after attending late-night functions. Her parents enjoyed their wine, and being in Bordeaux, they took advantage of testing every vintage. This gave Gina uninterrupted hours each morning to enjoy her novels. But those hours would come to an end if any of her ventures made it to the French columns for her grandmother to read.

Gina kept a wary gaze on the deserted balcony for some time, and when her heart rate finally slowed she sat down again and turned to the novel.

Her lips curled into a smile as she read about a mysterious stranger grasping the heroine by the shoulders and leaning down to kiss her. Apparently the man couldn’t help himself. The heroine’s presence alone had tortured him far too long, although they’d barely spoken. They didn’t even know each other’s names. Words weren’t needed for this couple.

Gina’s skin tingled as she imagined herself as the heroine. Of course, she would add thunder in the distance and give the man a Spanish accent. He could say something very romantic… in Spanish. His hair would be dark, of course, and a bit wavy. Were Spanish men tall? She thought hard. Surely it wouldn’t do for
her
to stoop down when kissing
him
.

She had to imagine someone taller… a British man. An infantryman, perhaps? No, too base. A commander? One with the favor of Queen Victoria and a large estate on the coast, with plenty of moors and blowing wind? Might the commander be crippled from battle? Would he be able to hold her tight in his arms, or would he be too exhausted and call for a quilt to put on his lap while he sat before a fire and recalled his famous victories? No, a British Commander would be tiresome.

She turned the next page, realizing she could not imagine anything more romantic than being kissed during a storm beneath a gazebo with the sound of thunder rumbling across the hills and rain gently tapping on the roof above.

Perhaps her first kiss could be from an Italian— they were known for romancing their women…

No, Italians were not known for being faithful. Would he kiss her then be off to his other woman? Gina probably wouldn’t even guess about his unfaithfulness, because she couldn’t understand the language anyway. He could murmur another woman’s name while kissing her, and Gina would be none the wiser. She sighed, dismissing the Italian hero.

Better for the man to remain completely and utterly mysterious; thinking about the ways of a real man was just too… well,
real
.

Chapter Two

Mr. Edmund H. Donaldson chuckled as he parted the heavy drape separating his room from the crisp morning outside. The girl with the sunset-red hair still sat outside in the garden reading some infernal book. Granted, she was no mere girl— at least nineteen in his estimation— but it was easier to think of her as a young girl.

He needed to keep his thoughts where they should be— on the mess his late wife’s estate had become upon her premature death and how to sort it all out. If matters weren’t sorry enough, right before leaving America, he’d been notified of a lawsuit brought against his import/export company by an established shipping company. If there was one thing old-time New Yorkers were suspicious of, it was new blood. He had to return home as soon as possible to set things right.

The problem was, his wife’s estate was in France and he had little knowledge of French law, and every turn he made, he was seen as a braggart American seeking his dead wife’s fortune. Which was far from reality. But Jacqueline— God preserve her soul— was not there to testify to his good name.

Edmund admitted his marriage to Jacqueline had been one of convenience. He hadn’t exactly loved Jacqueline, but he’d found her to be companionable, at least when she was in the mood to be. She’d had her pet friends and intimate parties, which Edmund rarely attended. It seemed they’d both been happy living their lives apart.

The marriage had been beneficial to them both. Jacqueline had wanted children, and Edmund had wanted a respectable wife to raise him above the blasted bachelor status he so despised. He’d long ago tired of dinners and balls, in which a half-dozen mothers threw their simpering daughters at him.

He’d been fed up with being treated like a prized bull, constantly prodded and gossiped about. So he married Jacqueline— exotic, foreign, French— everything the typical American woman was not. But then she’d died.

Damn carriage accident.

Jacqueline had suited him perfectly. Edmund had spent his days with his ledgers, inspecting cargo for his shipping company, doing what gave him the most satisfaction. And Jacqueline never complained about his long work hours. She had surrounded herself with luxuries and eclectic friends.

He’d never seen Jacqueline read a book or do anything remotely solitary. Perhaps that was why the young girl, who was apparently housed in the apartment next to his, had captured his attention. The morning before, the noise of the girl climbing down had brought him to the balcony, but he didn’t dare step out for fear of startling her. But this morning, after she’d safely landed on the ground, Edmund had stolen onto the balcony to see if he could learn anything about her.

Leave her be,
his mind told him. Just because she was unlike any woman he’d ever observed meant nothing. Edmund drew the drapes wide, letting in a stream of sunlight. He wondered what book she read— what could be so fascinating as to make one scale down a wall in the early hours of dawn to hide and read it?

And in her wrapper at that. Yes, he’d noticed her clothing— unusual for him. It had been hard not to notice it, or that her hair tumbled about her shoulders as if were some sort of fire-haired faerie in a Shakespeare production.

The smile playing on Edmund’s lips stayed put as he gazed out the balcony door. He had not planned on going to the hotel ball tonight, but perhaps he would. If nothing else, he’d be interested to learn where the girl was from. She wasn’t French— she was too tall for that. Maybe she was Russian or Norwegian— one of those Viking women.

He stepped back from the door to prepare for a busy day of certain frustration and running into complications with settling his wife’s estate. Surely when he returned to the hotel, he would be exhausted and have forgotten all about the tall redhead next door.

He dressed quickly, wanting to be the first to arrive at the solicitor’s office so they would have no excuse of turning him away— and before he knew it, he was at the front of the hotel, waiting for a carriage to be brought around. His gaze moved to the north, by one of the garden entrances. Was the girl still reading on that bench? Or had she climbed back up to her room?

The thought made him smile, and without considering his actions, he found himself striding toward the garden’s main gate. Once inside, he found the morning shadows were pleasantly cooling. It was too early for the bees or other insects to be about, and the dew brought out the fragrance of the roses in force. The girl’s preference for the garden made sense now.

“Oh,” a woman said.

Edmund stopped short, almost running into her. When he shifted his gaze, he looked into a pair of amber eyes. Up close, Edmund could no longer fool himself. The girl was no child, but a beautiful woman. Her eyes were wide as they stared at him, framed with thick dark lashes. And her lips were full and pink as they formed an O. He had the strangest urge to reach out and touch her hair, perhaps brush it back from her shoulder or slide his fingers through its soft waves. Her skin was slightly freckled, adding to her charm.

“Excuse me.” The woman spoke again, because apparently, Edmund had been rendered mute. She hid her book behind her back.

“Sorry, miss, I wasn’t…” he started. Her skin pinked. Was she blushing?