Adele Ashworth (29 page)

His only other option, and of course the delicious, gratifying one, would be purposely to deceive her, then take her virginity as she’d offered him in Marseilles. But Jonathan, even reflecting on his sometimes unscrupulous past, had never been so devious as to take a woman’s innocence with an outright lie. He now faced a huge moral decision—a test of his character as a man. Yes, he would marry her. Her reputation would remain intact. That was not the issue. But could he mislead her so blatantly that she willingly gave herself to him in exchange for a falsehood? He didn’t know, but he didn’t think he could. And yet the alternative was to lose her.

Jonathan turned around and started retracing his steps. A gust of wind picked up to blow old newspaper and leaves from the street against his legs. It was getting late. She would be waiting for him, and he would need to make his decision on the ride to the inn.

Chapter 14

N
atalie hated waiting for anything. It made her feel nervous and agitated, and when she had to wait for something as important as the love letters that would keep her father from ever having to succumb to a lifetime of shame and social pity, she could hardly sit still. Jonathan had told her flatly that he wouldn’t pursue this delicate issue if she insisted on going to the city with him, and she’d relented because, when put like that, she had no choice. But now, as she sat on a cushioned wrought-iron bench in the plush rose garden behind the Auberge de la Cascade, she felt growing aggravation. It was already dusk, and he had yet to return with news. He was the most exasperating man she’d ever known, and when she didn’t impulsively want to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him desperately, she wanted to strangle him. Like right now.

Leaning back completely against the soft yellow cushion, Natalie closed her eyes, placed her hands in her lap, tapped her fingers together, and tried to think of something else.

She had no idea why the owners called this the Inn of the Waterfall. There wasn’t one anywhere near it. It was, though, a perfectly enchanting place to stay, being fairly isolated in a country meadow, surrounded by lush, well-tended gardens containing mostly roses but also other seemingly exotic vegetation—flowers and plants she’d never seen before. They weren’t all that far from the city, but one would never know it to wake up to the sound of birdsong and the scent of moist roses drifting in through open windows.

The two-story inn had only six sleeping rooms besides the kitchen, dining room, and a centralized salon, which was decorated in burgundy and various shades of green. Their own room, overlooking the rose garden in back, was delicately feminine in design, trimmed in plum, teal, and soft yellows, and contained only a small, comfortable bed, two reading chairs, a bedside table, and a fireplace. They’d been staying there for days now, and although she found it peaceful and lovely to look at, Natalie was becoming quite bored. Jonathan had deduced this readily enough, and had this morning mentioned that he’d attempt to confiscate the letters today if Robert Simard could be found. Then they could at last move on. But to what?

The thought of returning home depressed her. For the last few weeks she’d been living a sort of fairytale existence. She adored France, its people and relaxed culture. And being there with such an enjoyable escort made it all the more delightful. That was the sad part, really. The adventure had been thrilling, but it wouldn’t have been nearly so if she’d come with anyone other than Jonathan. Returning home, mission completed, with the knowledge that she would no longer be spending her days in his presence, filled her with an unusual sense of regret and an agitation of its own kind.

She was growing to care too deeply for him. She realized this now but hadn’t the vaguest notion of what to do about it—other than get away from him, which was impractical while they remained on the Continent. If she acted on her feelings, they would only cause her pain in the end. Jonathan was a social charmer, a man who flirted unconditionally and took mistresses at his leisure. He could never be faithful to one woman, and that would be the only way she’d have him. She’d tried to make that clear in Marseilles, stating her convictions reasonably and without pretense. She refused to be his lover and had certainly said as much, but naturally, abiding by his reputation and character, he’d promptly touched her on an intimate part of her body, bringing all the hunger she felt within up front for exposure to his ego. He wanted her physically, and even now, shivering inside at the thought of unknown pleasures, she realized she wanted him, too, and that’s what she had to fight. She was losing her heart to him already—which made her terribly mad at herself—and that was enough. She’d get over the romantic dreams eventually. But if she gave him her body she would lose a part of herself forever.

Natalie slipped off her shoes and pulled her bare feet up and under her gown, hugging her knees against her chest, trying to push the indecent thoughts from her mind. She’d taken a long bath that afternoon—for lack of something better to do, really. She decided that because they were still in the country, she would dress casually, donning a simple, white silk blouse and a rose-colored muslin skirt without stays. She’d also decided to forgo plaits and ribbons, instead wearing her hair down to dry in the warm, light evening breeze. Her mother would faint dead if she had even the slightest idea of where she was right now, what she wore—or didn’t wear as in the case of a corset and stockings—that her unruly curls were hanging loosely down her back, in the open air where
anyone
could see. Fashionable English ladies wore binding layers to cover them nearly head to foot, even for a casual stroll through the park on the hottest of summer days. This was stupid and unnecessary, in her opinion, but then her opinions never had the least effect on her mother. She would call it loose; Natalie called it freedom.

Smiling in satisfaction, she turned her face to the last of the setting sun. She could do what she wanted here, and was utterly contented to know Jonathan didn’t care as many gentlemen would. He was refined though not at all stuffy, proper yet playful, concerned for her safety yet he allowed her the relative freedom to do as she liked. He was engaging and exciting and smart, and one of the closest friends she’d ever had, accepting her exactly as she was, applying no conditions. With any hope at all, he’d want to remain her friend for years to come.

It would, of course, be sad to leave the comfort of his daily presence, and she had to concede she had unusually mixed feelings about how their relationship would continue once he married, which, oddly enough, he seemed desirous of doing suddenly. She also had a little trouble envisioning him kissing another woman with the same intensity with which he kissed her, although she tried not to think about that. She adored his kisses herself, and in truth would miss those intimate moments most of all.

Natalie sighed and gradually opened her eyes to a vivid floral array of all colors, and striking gray-blue eyes as they gazed down at her from only three feet away.

She blinked, somewhat startled to see his handsome form towering over her, hands on hips, features unreadable. Immediately she succumbed to embarrassment, as if he were intruding on her very private thoughts. Knowing he witnessed the blush in her cheeks but attempting to ignore it herself, she smiled into his eyes. “I didn’t hear you.”

His brows rose. “Obviously.”

When he added nothing, she carefully asked, “How long have you been standing there?”

“What exactly were you thinking?”

The blunt question intimidated her a little, but she refused to let him see it. And because she didn’t want him to know she thought about almost nothing but him, which was precisely what
he
was thinking, she turned it around to her advantage.

“I was thinking about you, Jonathan,” she admitted, eyes large, expression shining with exaggerated innocence. “I was thinking how enjoyable our time has been together in France, how romantic you are, especially when choosing lodgings, how I shall miss the tender kisses between us once we return to England.” She paused, then smiled again mischievously. “And other things.”

That answer thoroughly confused him. He had no idea whether to believe her, which was naturally what she wanted. For seconds he just looked at her, considering the truth behind her words.

“Other things? What more could there be?”

She lifted her shoulders negligibly. “Trivialities.”

“Ahh . . .” He strode to the bench with that evasion, turned and sat heavily beside her, blocking what remained of the sun with his large body as he leaned forward, feet spread apart, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Were you really thinking of kissing me?”

It was a boastful question tinged with a real desire to know, and she couldn’t help but brighten inside. “Of course, Jonathan,” she answered pleasantly. “You’re a marvelous kisser. But then one does get better at almost anything with practice, and I know you’ve had plenty of it.”

He gazed out to the roses, shaking his head in a small measure of defeat as his lips turned up. She could see amusement etched on the side of his face, although he tried to hide it.

“I suppose you’ve broken the rule, then, darling Natalie. You were marvelous at it the very first time.”

He had to say that and throw a spark to the brush. She’d had the upper hand with her comments, keeping him guessing as to her thoughts and intentions, and like always he knew exactly what to say to return the advantage to him.

She straightened a little and changed the subject. “Let’s see . . . What did I do today? Oh, yes, I took a long bath, listened to the innkeeper loudly scolding local children for picking strawberries from the garden vine, watched bees pollinate flowers, and other equally exciting things. Did you do anything quite as thrilling while you played in the big city without me?”

He tossed her a quick glance, possibly to see if she were really annoyed, then looked down at the graveled pathway as he began tapping his fingers together in a triangle in front of his face. “I’m sure your day was far more relaxing than mine.”

“I’ve been relaxed for a week now.”

“It’s also safer here—”

“What are you keeping me safe from, Jonathan? Pickpockets?” She gasped sarcastically and clutched her throat with her palm. “Goodness gracious, what if I caught one in the act? I wouldn’t know what to do with a thief if I had one in my hands.”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, or perhaps just to stop himself from delivering a crass rebuttal. Before he could attempt one, however, she jumped to the most important issue.

“And while we’re on the subject of thieves, were you able to steal my mother’s indecent love letters?”

His tensed a little, breathing deeply, hesitating just long enough for her to gather the worst.

“You didn’t find Robert Simard, did you?” she asked in a tone nearly pleading for reassurance that he had.

He continued to stare at the ground. “I know where he is.”

She had no idea what that meant, uncertain if she should feel relieved or worried. He wasn’t acting at all like a professional thief who’d completed a successful day of work.

“But you don’t have the letters,” she affirmed slowly.

After several silent seconds, he started shuffling his right foot back and forth along the gravel.

“Robert Simard lives in Switzerland,” he revealed quietly, “with his wife and family, and has done so for five years. It’s highly unlikely he’s involved.”

It took a long time for his words to penetrate her mind, for her to grasp the information and compile it into coherent thought. She scrutinized the thick, shiny hair falling over his brow, the dark stubble on his chin and jaw as evening growth began to shadow his face. She could feel the heat from his shoulder and leg so close to her, and in a moment of absurdity, she wondered why she noticed these things when her life suddenly seemed to be whirling out of her control.

“He’s a well-respected professor of letters, Natalie,” he carried on, subdued. “With students, a wife, and six children, I don’t see how he’d have the time to blackmail your mother even if he wanted to. I also learned he’s held in high moral regard by his peers and makes a good living. He doesn’t need the money, and I can’t imagine him going to this much trouble for revenge. If he were caught and arrested he’d lose everything he values.”

Natalie’s mouth went dry. Her heartbeat quickened. Never had she imagined it could be anyone else. “I don’t understand,” she mumbled. “My mother is positive it’s him.”

Jonathan turned and looked at her directly, brows creasing. “What makes her think so?”

She shook her head faintly. “I-I’m not sure. I know he detested her and felt she was the one to start the affair, seducing his father who was also married.”

“Was that likely?”

“Probably.” She closed her eyes and wiped a palm across her brow, feeling hot color creeping into her cheeks again, finding it now difficult to look at him as she revealed private family secrets. “She’s received three anonymous, threatening letters demanding money, by courier, and that’s how she’s been paying. By courier. She refuses to tell the authorities, obviously because of the social implication, but I also suspect because she may have been unfaithful before—with someone in England—and doesn’t want that to become known.”

After a second or two of silence, she opened her eyes to his once more. He regarded her attentively, thinking.

“And your father knows of the relationship she had with the Frenchman, but is ignorant of someone blackmailing her with the threat of exposing the explicit love letters she wrote to him?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

He waited. “Is he aware of the letters she wrote Paul Simard?”

“Yes,” she said very softly. “Their existence came out during an exchange.”

“An exchange?”

That made her uncomfortable again, and she sank a little lower on the bench. “Between them. A—heated argument.”

“I see. . . .” After another short pause, he asked guardedly, “Was your father ever in residence when the courier arrived?”