Bride for a Night (8 page)

Among the surrounding gardens many of the statues and marble fountains had been destroyed by rioters, but inside, the endless procession of public chambers, salons and elegant galleries remained remarkably intact. And despite the fact she was being held captive, Talia could not prevent herself from appreciating the exquisite beauty that surrounded her.

Who could remain impervious to the priceless artwork that lined the walls, the massive tapestries, the inlaid wood floors and the breathtaking frescoes that graced the high ceilings?

Standing in one of the long galleries, Talia leaned against a fluted column that bracketed the high, arched window and gazed across the gardens to the distant road beyond.

Not for the first time since arriving at the palace three days ago she considered the possibility of simply walking out the front door and making her escape. She was alone, after all, and she did not doubt that she could travel a considerable distance before she was missed.

Unfortunately, she was not so stupid as to believe that she could actually make her way back to England.

Not only did she not speak French, but she had no money, no legal papers necessary to travel in France and no means to flee the estate beyond her own feet. At best she would be arrested before she reached the nearest village. At worst she would be taken captive by the numerous French soldiers who passed by the palace with unfortunate regularity.

She did not doubt they would be far less gentle toward her than Jack Gerard.

No…not Jack, but
Jacques,
she silently corrected with a deep sigh.

As furious as she was to have been kidnapped from her home, she could not deny that Jacques had done his best to keep her in comfort.

He had taken her from the church to a small boat kept among the local fishing vessels and had demanded his rough companions row them to a sleek yacht that had been hidden along a remote section of the coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.

Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.

Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.

This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from her
bath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.

With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.

The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.

A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.

The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.

He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.

A man of mystery.

Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his gaze stroked with warm appreciation over her slender form.

“Bonsoir, ma petite,”
he murmured, his attention lingering on the scooped neckline trimmed with a pretty Brussels lace that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the
modiste
did not disappoint.
You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”

She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.

Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.

Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.

Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.

“You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”

He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”

“Hardly a rag.”

He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked amusement that could tempt a saint.

“Besides, you are my guest. It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to ensure you are provided with all the comforts you might desire.”

“I am your prisoner, not your guest.”

“Prisoner?” He lifted his brows in a pretense of innocence. “There are no bars on the windows and no shackles holding you against your will.”

“It is beneath you to pretend that I am here of my own free will,” she chastised.

“Come,
ma petite,
” he coaxed, skimming a finger down her cheek. “It has not been such a terrible adventure, has it?”

She jerked from his touch, her eyes narrowing at his patronizing tone.

“I have been bullied and coerced and manipulated by others my entire life,
Monsieur Gerard,
” she said between clenched teeth. “I had foolishly hoped I might have found a place where I could control my own destiny, as well as friends who appreciated my independence, when I arrived at Carrick Park.”

A brief flash of regret shot through his eyes before he cupped her chin in his hand and regarded her with a resolute expression.

“
Oui,
it was a foolish hope. You were never destined to enjoy your independence for long.”

She frowned. “There is no need to mock me.”

“Talia, use that considerable intelligence of yours,” he commanded.

“What do you mean?”

“You could not have remained alone at Carrick Park.”

“I do not comprehend why not,” she protested. “It seemed a satisfactory arrangement.”

His lips twisted. “For you perhaps, but I can assure you that your husband would soon have been joining you in Devonshire. Or demanding that you return to London.”

She stiffened at the mention of Gabriel. She had done her best not to think of her husband since those first hours
after her kidnapping when she had ridiculously held on to a hope that he would come charging to her rescue. As if he would bother himself to chase after his unwanted wife even if he had known she was taken hostage. She was such a fool.

“Nonsense.” Her voice held a bitter edge she could not entirely disguise. “He was quite happy to be rid of me.”

Jacques regarded her as if she were impossibly naïve. “No, he wished to punish your father for having dared to threaten him,” he said. “Once he is assured that he has established his dominance over you, and, more important, Silas Dobson, he will be anxious to claim his wife.”

A treacherous memory of how Gabriel had already claimed her in the rumpled sheets of her bed briefly seared through her mind. Then, with a gasp, she hastily thrust aside the unwelcome image. What the devil was the matter with her?

“You know nothing of the situation.” She took an awkward step away from her companion, thankful he could not read her thoughts. “Gabriel is eager to forget we were ever wed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Even if such a ridiculous notion were true, he cannot forget you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the Countess of Ashcombe, not some commoner’s wife.”

“I am aware of my title,” she said tartly. Her wedding might have been a bleak affair, but she had no doubt that it had been perfectly legal. Had Gabriel not returned for the wedding night just to ensure…

No.

Not again.

“Then you should also be aware that, whatever Lord Ashcombe’s personal opinion of you as his wife, his pride
will not allow you to be a source of mockery among his peers.” Jacques thankfully distracted her dangerous thoughts. “When he judges it to be the appropriate moment, he will use his considerable power to launch you into society.”

Talia shuddered at the mere suggestion. She would as soon be left to rot in a French prison as be launched back into society.

“He cannot force them to accept me.”

“Of course he can.” Jacques’s hand shifted to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “They will not dare to do anything but bow at your pretty feet.”

Her humorless laugh floated eerily through the gallery. “Absurd.”

He shrugged aside her disbelief. “Not that taking your place among society is your most important function as the new Countess of Ashcombe.”

“I suppose you intend to tell me what it is?”

He stepped close enough to surround her in his male heat, his hands framing her face.

“I should not have to, no matter how innocent you might be.”

Her heart skipped a beat.
“Mons…”

“Jacques,” he huskily insisted.

“Jacques,” she impatiently muttered. “Just say what is upon your mind.”

“Very well.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “The first and foremost duty of the Countess of Ashcombe is to produce the essential heir,
ma petite.
”

She sucked in a sharp breath, more disturbed by the brutal pang of need that clenched her stomach than by Jacques’s audacity.

She wasn’t stupid. In the days leading up to the wedding, there had lurked the knowledge that Gabriel would
need an heir, but she had endured too many disappointments to willingly invite more. How could she have allowed herself to hope for a child when her husband might very well have decided he could not bear to bring himself to share her bed?

Even after their wedding night, she had refused to consider the possibility when it became evident she was not yet pregnant. Gabriel was obviously satisfied with his mistresses in town, leaving her alone in the country. The desperate desire to hold a baby in her arms might very well drive her mad if she allowed it to settle in her heart.

“I…”

Mistaking her unease for embarrassment, Jacques stroked his thumb over her heated cheek.

“You truly are an innocent.”

“Not so innocent as you imagine,” she said dryly.

“I find it charming.” A dangerous emotion flared through his dark eyes. “I find
you
charming.”

A stab of panic had Talia jerking away from his lingering touch. “I will not discuss this with you.”

Jacques folded his arms over his chest, watching her nervous retreat with a narrowed gaze.

“What will you not discuss?” he asked. “The realization that your husband is not some mythical creature who you can pretend lives in some distant land and that eventually you will have to do your duty as his wife?”

“My relationship with Lord Ashcombe is none of your concern.”

“I am merely attempting to reveal that your idyll would not have lasted beyond a few weeks,” he persisted. “You should thank me for rescuing you from an existence that would never have made you happy.”

“Rescuing me? I was kidnapped,” she sharply re
minded him. “And you know nothing of how to make me happy.”

A smile of pure male confidence curled his lips. “I know you intimately,
ma petite.
”

Heat flared beneath her cheeks at his suggestive words. “Nonsense.”

“I know you prefer to devote your days to helping others and that you would be miserable being forced back to the stifling ballrooms of London.” His dark gaze skimmed over the exposed skin of her bosom. “I also suspect you are not eager to become a broodmare for a husband who has shown you nothing but contempt.”

She abruptly whirled away, unwilling to reveal the awful truth that she would give anything to have a baby. A tiny child to whom she could offer all her love that had been rejected by others.

“Please, do not,” she choked out.

Jacques bent his head to whisper in her ear, his gentle hands resting on her shoulders.

“Your talents would be respected here,
ma petite.
There is much need and few hands to offer assistance.”

She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”

“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”

Talia could not deny a tug of regret.

Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.