The French Maid (3 page)

What demands would she make upon his time, his energies?

How could he possibly satisfy them?

Damn her! It had been so much easier to move in the comfortable flow of marriage, without thinking, without worrying about her feelings. It had differed little from being a bachelor, except that a wife had proved to be pleasant company whenever he required such a thing.

But now …

Now he’d tasted what it was like to have more. It was anything but comfortable or easy. And he wasn’t at all sure he liked it.

A knock sounded at the door, and despite his misgivings, he hurried to unlock it, sure that it was Eleanor, wanting inexplicably to see her.

To his surprise, it was not Eleanor standing there when he opened the door, but the French Maid he’d hired for her. And she looked decidedly grim.

He stiffened in disappointment. “Good morning, Babette. I know that you are new to our household, but someone should have informed you that I do not like being disturbed when I am in my study.”

Her eyes flashed at him. “I have come with a message from my mistress. She left an hour ago to visit her parents in the country. That is all.”

Something very like panic filled his chest before he quelled it. “She left? Without informing me? I don’t understand.”

She sniffed. “That does not surprise me.” Cocking her head, she examined him with cold gaze. “Tell me, my lord, do you know what today is?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“No, no, the
date
. Do you even realize the significance of the date?”

This conversation made no sense to him at all. He thought a moment. “The 26th of April. Why?”

“It is your first wedding anniversary, my lord. Perhaps such a date is of no significance to a man, but to a woman—”

“Enough,” he murmured as shame swept over him. “I can’t believe I forgot it.” Then he realized that he was explaining himself to a lady’s maid, and he drew himself up haughtily. “Thank you for the reminder, Babette. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“If you had remembered, would you have troubled yourself to buy your wife a gift? Do you even know what colors she likes, what scents are her favorites, what jewelry she prefers? For that matter, do you know her dreams and hopes, what she wishes from you? Do you know anything about her at all?”

He thought of last night’s intimacies and his regret deepened. When he caught the maid’s hard gaze on him, he scowled. “What I know about my wife is none of your concern.”

“Which means you know nothing, and have never bothered to find out.” She snorted. “I was right—you are the laziest man I ever saw.”

“I beg your pardon,” he protested, his dander rising. “Did she tell you that? If I forget such things occasionally, it’s because of the important work I do. I’m very industrious, I’ll have you know. Besides, if not for me, she’d still be living with her bloody parents. She’d have no household to preside over, no place of importance in society …” He drew back to glare at her. “And no expensive French lady’s maid, either. Perhaps you should remind her of that the next time she calls me lazy.”

“She did not call you lazy, my lord. I did. Because you are willing to stand by and let the one truly important thing in your life slip from your fingers without making an effort to hold on to it.”

His panic returned. “She is not … leaving me for good, is she?”

She tipped up her chin in the perfect expression of contempt. “Never fear. Good English women do not leave their husbands. Your wife has merely gone to her parents to purge all caring from her soul. When she returns, you may ignore her as much as you wish.” With a toss of her head, she turned away. “She will be the perfect English wife again—obedient, cordial, civil. She will grace your arm at parties and satisfy your needs, but she will never again be so foolish as to bare her heart for you to trample on. You may relax, my lord. You are safe now.”

And with those impudent words, she swept off down the hall.

He stood staring after her for several moments.
Safe
. Never had a word sounded so innocuous and hollow.

But the chit had the audacity to call him lazy! If she wasn’t careful, Mademoiselle Babette would find herself in the street, blast it! It was absurd to think him lazy when he was so preoccupied with matters of state. What did the Frenchwoman think—that he could spend precious time flitting about London in search of the perfect anniversary gift for his wife? That he could give so much of his energy to such nonsense?

Eleanor does it for you every day.

The thought sliced through him from out of nowhere, followed by guilt that rose hot and acid in his throat. It was true. He could not spare time for her, yet she not only to ran his household, but accompanied him to
his
meetings, shared
his
passions, took the crumbs of affection
he
offered. Until now, he’d accepted that as his due. Yet what a sacrifice it must have been for her, of time and energy and devotion.

In exchange, he offered her one night a week in bed and his companionship for the occasional meal. She waited for him, attended him, did what she could to be part of his life, everything except make demands or intrude upon his privacy. Like the “perfect English wife.”

An involuntary shudder shook him. He’d once thought that was precisely what he wanted. Now he knew it was not. He wanted the bewitching creature who’d shared his bed last night, the warm woman who’d regaled him with tales of her first dance lessons, the angel who’d listened to his hurts and soothed them with tender words.

Yet to his shame, he realized Babette was right—he didn’t have the faintest idea what Eleanor liked or what he could give her. He’d never bothered to find out.

He didn’t know how to keep her. But he would learn. Because he now realized he couldn’t be happy without the Eleanor he’d come to know.

He only prayed he hadn’t left the learning until too late.

* * *

Eleanor had reached the halfway point to her parent’s estate just outside London when it dawned on her that she was being foolish. She bade the coachman turn around, but he had to change the horses, so they stopped at an inn.

Now she sat inside, drinking a cup of steaming tea and toying with a slice of cake as she waited for the coachman to make arrangements.

Running off to Mama would not solve anything. She couldn’t go back to the way things were, no matter how long she stayed with her parents. Her feelings for Henry couldn’t be turned on and off like a spigot—now that she’d unleashed them, she’d never be able to force them back into the pipe.

All she could hope for was to find a way through the swirling whirlpool of emotion. Trying to make Henry care was too painful, but perhaps if she threw herself into reform work or social affairs, spent as little time at home as he did …

A noise in the inn yard arrested her attention. Someone else had stopped at the inn, and she edged closer to the fire, hoping not to be bothered in her misery.

Then she heard the familiar deep tones of her husband echo in the empty common room. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our anniversary, Eleanor.”

Her first reaction was joy that he’d bothered to come after her, that he’d even taken the time to check at all the inns along the route. Then his words sank in, and she rose to face him, all her frustrations twisting into anger. “Don’t tell me you have remembered it.”

To her shock, he flushed a dark red. She’d never seen Henry embarrassed, and it took her quite by surprise.

“I admit that I required some help,” he murmured.

That didn’t exactly assuage her anger. “I suppose Babette told you. I swear, that Frenchwoman has gone too far—”

“No, I’m glad she did.” He stepped closer, reminding her that they were alone in the room, as private as two people could be in a public inn. “Though I plan to remember our anniversary without prodding next time.”

Eleanor swallowed, trying not to take hope from that promise. “Do you?”

“In fact, I plan to do a number of things without prodding in the future.” He searched her face. “But here’s the rub. I don’t know precisely
what
to do. I’m not used to satisfying a woman’s needs. Would it be asking too much to have you point me in the right direction on occasion, tell me what you want and what you need?”

“You’ve never cared about that,” she said warily.

He winced. “I know. But I care now. And I’ve brought something to prove my sincerity.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. Did she imagine it or did his hand shake as he held it out for her? “Here. This is for you. An anniversary present.”

She took it, wondering how he could have had time to find her a gift. She’d scarcely been gone two hours. Fingers trembling, she opened the box, but what lay inside merely perplexed her. There were two ordinary-looking keys.

“One unlocks the study. The other unlocks my connecting door.” He dragged in a harsh breath. “I’ve kept the doors locked between us for too long, my darling. I don’t want to lock you out any more.”

When she said nothing, her throat too clogged with happy tears for speech, he went on hastily, “I do plan to purchase you a more conventional present, mind you, but you left so quickly, and I did not wish to wait—”

“No, Henry, it’s perfect. They’re perfect.” She lifted a face filled with joy to him. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

Only then did she realize how difficult it must have been for him to swallow his pride and come after her. His relief was palpable, swamping his features, making him reach for her.

She went eagerly into his arms, her heart leaping in her chest.

“I have been such a fool, my darling wife.” He brushed a kiss against her hair. “All this time I’ve had a treasure under my very nose and I was too absorbed in my own affairs to see it.”

She snuggled against him with a sigh of contentment. “What changed?”

“You. Me. Everything. Last night I discovered how wonderful our marriage could be, and it frightened me. That’s what I was doing in the study this morning, trying to hide—from you, from myself. And then Babette, of all people, said the oddest thing. She claimed that I was—”

“Lazy?”

He drew back to stare at her. “How did you know?”

“She told me I was lazy, too.”

“You! That’s just absurd. You work harder than any woman in London.”

“Not where it counts. Otherwise, I would never have let you ignore me for so long. But I too was afraid.”

He cupped her cheek with a gentle hand. “You’re not afraid any more, are you?”

“Are
you
?” He smiled. “Hardly. I love you, my darling, and I want you with me always. I realized it this morning. When I thought you might leave me, it frightened me more than any demands you could ever place on my time or energies.”

She stretched up to kiss his lips. “And I love you, too, you silly man. As you can see, I did not make it very far.”

“Good. That means we can be home that much quicker,” he said softly.

The ride back to London flew by, and between kisses and talk, she scarcely noticed when they drew up in front of their house. They entered, and she half-expected him to leave her then, since Parliament was about to go into session. Parliament sessions had always been sacred in the Langston abode.

Instead, Henry pulled her into the privacy of the drawing room for a long, hot kiss. “Let’s go upstairs to your room … or mine. It doesn’t matter which.” His blazing gaze left no question what he was offering.

She blushed. “I thought you had to be at Parliament this afternoon.”

“Parliament can wait.”

He couldn’t have spoken any sweeter words, yet she couldn’t resist teasing him. “But Henry, it’s the middle of the afternoon!”

He eyed her rakishly. “I know.” He drew her out into the hallway.

Lowering her voice so the servants wouldn’t hear, she added in mock disapproval, “And you’ve got your days mixed up—this is Thursday, not Wednesday.”

He flashed her an impudent grin as he dragged her up the stairs. “I think we can make an exception for our anniversary, don’t you?”

“Only for our anniversary?”

“I didn’t say that. There’s always birthdays and holidays. Did you know tomorrow is New Year’s Day in Siam? And the day after that is a holiday in Russia I believe …”

Her laughter filled the house.

Downstairs in the servant’s quarters, the French Maid cocked her head to listen, then smiled and began to pack her bags. Like all the others, Lord and Lady Langston would provide her with excellent references, and she’d heard of a married couple in Mayfair who currently required her services ….

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TO WED A WILD LORD

coming in mass market and e-book from Pocket Books December 2011

Surprised that he’d even noticed that about her, she said. “I just think two people should be in love when they marry, that’s all.”

“What a disgusting thought,” he muttered.

That was why they could never wed. Pierce had a distinct aversion to marriage. Besides, he preferred women with big bosoms and blond hair, neither of which she had. And he liked them wild, too. Pierce’s reputation was less than stellar—though she suspected that half of it was whipped up into a froth of scandal, outrage, and intrigue by the gossip of worried mamas whose daughters were enamored of his dark good looks and devil-may-care manner.

Then there was the fact that he was practically her brother. He spent as much time at Waverly Farm as he did at his estate in Hertfordshire. She could no more picture him as her husband than his coachman.

The carriage stopped and Pierce climbed out, then helped her down. She stared open-mouthed at the famous Marsbury House—three long expanses of flint dressed with stone and anchored by four copper-domed stone towers.

The inside was even grander—marble columns and statues everywhere. As servants escorted them to the ballroom, she glimpsed rich tapestries, huge paintings in gilded frames, and silk draperies.