The Bride Price, page 19
“I love children.”
Naggy little bastards. Snot-nosed and demanding.
“Right. Well”—she wiped her hands—“I’m due for some comedy. And you know how to dance. We’ll see how long you last.”
It was a standoff. Caroline hid a smile. Sebastien stood, one eyebrow cocked as the children stood in a line, staring at him with various expressions on their faces. Some mirrored his slightly nauseated look, others were curious, and some of the little girls already looked enamored. Caroline decided not to do a thing as she cleared the area for practice.
“What’s he doing here?” Phillip, one of the oldest boys present, and a bit of a bully, thumbed toward Sebastien.
“He’s going to help us learn the dance.”
The boy crossed his arm. “We don’t need him.”
Sebastien leaned against a tree; blasted man always seemed to have one at hand. “Let’s see you dance then.”
“I don’t know the steps yet.”
“Then seems as if you need a teacher, loggerhead.”
Phillip’s color went red. “Loggerhead? A cit dandy calling someone a loggerhead?”
“Seems that way. Don’t you know a good cut of cloth when you see one?” He flicked his collar.
Phillip flicked his own collar. “Mrs. Martin says it is the man beneath the clothing. Don’t see why she is keeping with the likes of you.” The statement was somewhat ironic, as Phillip was always dressed well. As the son of one of the wealthier villagers, he lorded it over the others. She had uttered the statement for his benefit as much as for sweet Noah’s.
“That’s enough, Phillip,” she said.
Phillip’s eyes narrowed further on Sebastien, and she decided to watch him in case he took it upon himself to bully the younger ones as a way of relieving his pique.
One of the smallest girls, Polly, tugged on the bottom edge of Sebastien’s coat. “I like you,” she said, in a manner that only a six year old could.
He dropped to his knees. “And what good taste you have.”
Caroline rolled her eyes and clapped her hands. “Let’s pair up.”
The younger boys reluctantly paired with the younger girls, while the older ones were much quicker to grab the girl of their choice.
“Let’s start with the boys. Girls, you will be doing the opposite. Right foot front. Yes. Left side step. Correct.”
She kept calling directions, the children stumbling or gliding as they alternately found or lost their footing. They made it through one round of the eight-minute dance.
“Let’s try it ag—”
Arms swept her around. The first step would have been a stumble if her feet had even touched the ground. He set her down in the right position, easily pushing her into the next form, leading her around, twirling her, being gentle when he needed to be, firm when required.
The children’s eyes were wide when they were finished. New respect shone in the boys’ eyes, though Noah looked irritated. The girls were all moon-eyed.
Caroline smoothed her hair and tried to calm her racing heart. “Let’s switch partners. The person in the couple to your right should be fine.”
They continued to switch, Sebastien surprising her by dancing with the smaller girls intermittently. She would have expected him to dance with the older ones, the ones near Sarah’s age who were perfect for a flirtation. But he left them to the older boys, which seemed to gain him an ounce more respect with that group.
They took a break, and a tentative salvo by one of the older boys had the rest clamoring around Sebastien asking questions. Even Noah clung to the edge of the group. More surprising was the way that Sebastien seemed to consider each question seriously before answering it. She neared the cluster.
“…you don’t want to be seen in that light,” Sebastien said. One of the boys saw her and nudged the boy next to him; the nudge rippled through the crowd. “It will not help your hunt if—” A boy at the front did some complicated hand motion.
“—if you do not have your hunting equipment and dogs.” He turned to her. “Mrs. Martin, is there something I can help you with?”
She was sure that “hunting equipment and dogs” was not what he had been about to say. “I was curious about what you were discussing.”
“Merely hunting tactics.”
“You should be discussing dancing.”
“And how hunting relates to dancing, of course. You would be surprised how well they relate.”
“Do enlighten me.”
He raised that infernal brow. “I think not. You have your areas of expertise, and I have mine.” He waved a hand toward the girls, who were practicing with each other. “We will rejoin you in a minute.”
She narrowed her eyes, but the pleading expressions on the boys’ faces, even Noah’s, made her sigh and turn back.
“Mr. Deville, how do you attract the prey away from the herd though?”
She closed her eyes and decided that she had not just heard that.
Ten minutes later the groups were back together and the older children were practicing the steps with each other, the boys considerably better than they had been. He hadn’t shown them a single step, but their movements were more purposeful, even when wrong, their leading and motions making the girls’ eyes go wide.
Sebastien moved among the younger ones while she helped the individual dancers. She neared him sometime later surrounded by a group of girls of all ages.
“Now, if one of the boys pulls you too close, you step on his foot just like this.” He stomped on a stubby branch. His eyes caught Caroline’s. “Mrs. Martin can tell you its usefulness as a way to keep the boys in line. You try.”
Each girl did a little stomp; Polly actually jumped up and down on the twig, shouting, “You stay away, boy!”
“Good going, Polly, but temper your stomping to the offense. If it’s only a little close, you should just press lightly.”
She stomped again with two feet, then looked up at him hopefully. He paused a moment and shrugged. “Well, you’ll make an impact at the very least.”
Caroline clapped her hands. “It’s nearing time for you all to be getting back to your regular tasks. One last go. Everyone,” she said over the crowd.
A number of groans were heard, and wasn’t that the odd thing. Some of the boys actually looked disappointed.
“Yes, everyone. Line up. Boys, right foot,” Sebastien said.
He swept her into the dance again, but this time she was ready. Every once in a while he would call out a cue, the other boys calling cues as well. The world whirled around, colors shifting and becoming brighter as she moved against him, and he against her.
Everything felt so right.
He pulled her close, leaning over her, putting a dip in her back in the last move.
“Mrs. Martin! Stomp on his foot!”
Polly’s shout sent the children into giggles and loosened the tension that had taken hold of the space.
They walked along the path, a companionable silence enveloping them, unlike what Sebastien was used to in the presence of previous women. They usually needed to talk or be complimented. Not that they were all that way, but most of the women of his acquaintance, the women of the ton, were.
“You were good with the children.”
“Is that surprise I hear in your voice?”
“I have to admit that it is. I didn’t think you would even tolerate them, no less help as much as you did. What did you say to the boys?”
“I merely reminded them what dancing is for.”
“Dancing is for merriment.”
He looked at her, unsure if her matter-of-fact tone was sarcastic or truly meant. She looked earnestly back.
“You do not honestly believe that, do you?”
“I do. Dancing is lovely. Moving to the music. The body fairly sings along with the instruments.”
Another glimpse of that passion in her face, humming beneath her skin. His body thrummed. “Dancing is a mating ritual.”
She snorted. “Why am I not surprised that you think so?”
He abruptly twirled her, dipping her back, his face inches from hers, his gaze switching from her eyes to her mouth and back again in a slow perusal. “Don’t you?”
“No.” But her voice was too husky.
He reluctantly let her up. “Do not make light of the power of a dance. The ability to touch and lead, to learn about your partner.”
“You make it sound like a conversation.”
“Isn’t it? It is the body’s way to communicate without the interference of the mouth.” He smiled slowly. “Not that I would want to limit the communications between mouths.”
“You are a terrible wretch.”
But there was no irritated heat in her statement. It seemed almost…fond. She was in a surprisingly mellow mood. The interaction with the children had softened her up, which had been his intention. The little jackanapes had turned out to be entertaining in their own right. He had not needed to interact with children after leaving childhood behind, and therefore had expected a bunch of screaming hoydens.
Not that they hadn’t been screaming hoydens. But entertaining screaming hoydens all the same.
“Dancing is a mating ritual,” he reaffirmed.
“I will grudgingly concede that dancing allows men and women to further matches.”
“In order to make one’s ideal match.”
She shook her head. “Many a couple do not dance well together who are perfectly happy.”
“Did you dance well with Patrick?”
“He was a charming dancer. He danced well with everyone.” A note of sarcasm worked its way into her voice. “So, if that is true, I suppose that if a man dances well with all women, then he is the perfect mate to all of them?”
He smiled in a way designed to make her steam, but there wasn’t any true ire in her expression as they continued to argue and talk—as he fell into the most comfortable chat with a woman that he’d ever had. He still wanted to do unspeakable things to her, but there was something very satisfying about watching her cook, trading glances with her over dinner, keeping her entertained with stories of London while she worked on the tournament banners in front of the hearth.
Sebastien watched her eyes close. Her breathing evened. He knew the seduction was going well. But that she was comfortable enough with him to fall asleep in his presence, while he was inside her cottage, surprised him. As did the feeling of peace that encompassed him sitting in the ratty, comfortable chair, in front of the red, waning fire, watching her sleep a few paces away.
He considered leaving and going back to the manor house. A log popped, the warm coziness keeping him firmly in his chair. He withdrew a piece of parchment and the chalk he kept in his sewn pouch. He had irreparably damaged a string of trousers with the black substance long ago before sewing himself the answer.
Starting with her face, he made quick lines of her features, her form, the gentle curve of her chin, the planes of her cheeks. He wiped a thumb along her neck, blending the lines into the hitched curve of a bodice. Pulled a finger along her hairline, wisping the hair there out in a cloudy halo around her face, the rest of her wavy blonde hair spread out on the pillow, clinging to the back of the sofa.
She was beautiful; there was no denying that. But it was the hand under her chin, the way one foot tucked under her shin that captivated him. The peaceful look on her face, lashes gently brushing cheeks he itched to feel beneath the pads of his bare fingers. Yet at the same time he wished to stain the fabric of her dress with charcoal black, to push away and run back to the stately manor with its pristine, glossy surface and promise of treasures beyond belief.
The picture took form, the details added and arranged, smoothed and indented. She sighed, and his eyes drew back to her sleeping form, then to the paper.
Finally, a finished sketch. It was a good likeness, a true reflection of some feeling, like peace or comfort. There was something he hadn’t been able to capture about her fully awake. Hadn’t been able to duplicate in her eyes yet in the half-finished sketches of her he had made. Something that was uniquely Caroline that he hadn’t been able to wrangle onto the page.
He pulled out his cloth and wiped his fingers, staining the fabric.
He uncurled and slipped his arms beneath her knees. Her arms sleepily curved around his neck, and he felt a twinge. That feeling he was trying to capture slid past him once more.
He carried her into her bedroom and stopped to look around, keeping her close as he did so.
The bedroom was decorated in cream and gold, speckles of colors in the objects and paintings in the space. He pulled back the bedcovers and set her gently on the bed. The top laces of her dress easily came free beneath his fingertips, the worn muslin soft and downy, provoking feelings of comfort and need. He slipped it off one arm, then the other, lightly moving her to accomplish the task.
The need to wake her and show her all the things a boon could be was strong, but the softened contours of her face, the wispy wings of hair, made him continue to undress her in the same manner he had started.
The dress shimmied down her legs, rolling off perfect limbs. A locket, heavy and gold, hung to the side, straining, pulling. He had long wondered what it contained. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. His fingers clenched around the edges, the clasp taunting him to flick it open. The tantalizing pull of the gold vying with his abject resentment of the color and all it represented. He tucked it closer to her, resisting the urge to remove it along with everything else.
The press of the gold in the room pushed in on him. Her hair, golden and fine; the glow of the gilt in the lamplight; the linens threaded and shimmering. It made him want to push back. To ravish the pristine environment, to make her beg and scream, her head thrashing from pleasure, the gold wild, streaming through his hands, under his complete control.
The bedspread, instead of her chemise, bunched in his fists. The hard-won control that had turned his rage into resentment, his loss into bitter strength, forced him not to touch her. Not to give up the control, to fall to someone else’s spell. She stirred, one hand tucked against his thigh. So easy to take what would be so willingly offered once he started. They all fell before him if he desired it.
He had never been so tempted before. Or so sure of his own demise.
He pulled the covers up to her chin, tucking them around her shoulders, brushing the gold strands away from her face, spreading them over the pillow. A fairy who cared for others first. Who felt something for other people that wasn’t just desire or hate. Who didn’t judge everyone based on his usefulness. Who possibly could distinguish love from desire.
Her cheek moved into his fingers, and he stroked the smooth skin.
No, love was just a softer form of desire. A desire for companionship, or parental feelings, or understanding. Love stopped when a person turned less useful—became less of a companion, less of an achiever, less of a prize. When those feelings faded, what was left of love?
He stood and looked around the room in the diminishing candlelight, at the softening of the edges, of the gold. He blew out the candle and strode from the room. He would continue his quest, because at the moment he couldn’t consider doing anything else.
Chapter 15
London is alight with the contestants who have chosen to return to her bower for the fortnight. One wonders why all the guests haven’t traveled to her hearth for the break in the games.
A beautiful, dusky pink rose blinked at her from the pillow next to hers. She smiled, turned, closed her eyes, then froze.
Every sense went on alert. A leftover thread of spice and warmth stated that Sebastien had been in the room, but not for many hours. Her chemise and stays were still on, tangled about her. There was no indentation anywhere else on the bed. No soreness of her limbs. The sounds of birds chirping and squirrels nattering were the only noises that met her ears.
She turned back to the delicate flower. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She doubly didn’t remember being tucked in. And the bloom? He had to have returned to lay it there.
She picked it up, bringing it closer to her nose. The sweet fragrance claimed it as one from her own garden. She unwillingly smiled again.
The man was a menace as intoxicating as the rose, as dangerous as the thorns he had shaved from the stem. Alternately thoughtful and rude. Something like a disreputable pet—the one who wets on the floor when everyone is looking and lifts an eyebrow as if to say, Yes?
She smiled at the image and pulled the rose against her chest. She had to be cautious, yes, but life was more than the sum of her fears, founded or not.
Images of Patrick unfolded. Of daring eyes and hands, of promises that were always broken. Of a troth that had led to mussed sheets and heartbreak, wandering eyes and dissatisfaction. Of a marriage that would not have taken place without the earl’s interference—her name changed with the exchange of a few pounds of coin and pride.
She looked at the rose. The earl wouldn’t clean up two mistakes like that, but for once she didn’t feel the dread of the earl’s wrath. It was her choice to make. And Sebastien wasn’t making promises. She knew where he stood.
It was the broken promises and betrayal that hurt the most. As long as she kept her heart strong, she could wave farewell when the tournament came to an end.
She had to believe that.
The festivities were in full swing by the time Sebastien sauntered to the edges of the ruins. His eyes immediately sought Caroline, finding her in the midst, nodding and pointing to the others, the general at the head of her troops.
Her soft crown of gold glittered against the lanterns and firelight. Three men surrounded her on the side facing him, dressed in their backcountry finery; even the gentry males hardly held a candle to the lowest of the ton’s ware. He didn’t like the looks in their eyes—the appreciative and considering stares. Even from here he could see the rusted wheels working in their heads as they surveyed her or asked a question, watching her throat move as she talked, the tilt of her head.
