“Of course, mademoiselle.” Mr. Renham hurried to the doorand paused, as if listening for more shouting before he opened it. But Lord Heathbrook had apparently regained control over his temper, for the only thing they could hear was the murmur of voices. Thank heaven.
Mr. Renham flashed her a relieved smile. “I shall see that tea is brought.”
As soon as he had left, her mother used her cane to lower herself onto a settee of red toile de Jouy. Someone in the household must once have had a fondness for French décor, because in addition to the classically French toile, the other pieces of furniture were of ornately carved and heavily gilded mahogany and rosewood. The Parisian style made Giselle homesick.
Not that she wasn’t glad she had come to England. Getting to know her British half sister, who had completely embraced her despite her illegitimacy, had been lovely, but sometimes she desperately missed the quality of light in Paris, the lazy drift of the Seine, the taste of French coffee and baguettes. She missed having a garden. Their London lodgings had none.
“Why was the earl shouting?” her mother asked in French.
Surprisingly, Giselle knew the answer. “From what Jon has told me, Lord Heathbrook has been fighting for guardianship of his young brothers ever since he returned home in April.”
Her mother gave an exasperated shake of her head. “You should not call the duke ‘Jon.’ You should call him by his proper title.”
As usual, Giselle bristled at her mother’s admonitions. “I refuse to call my brother-in-law ‘Your Grace.’ I knew him as Lord Jonathan in France because that is what Monsieur Morris called him, but apparently I can’t call him that now that he is duke.” She drew herself up proudly. “Besides, he bade me call him ‘Jon,’ so that is what I do.”
She and Maman had this battle often. Giselle had grown up during the Revolution and thus possessed the lack of reverence for—or fear of—nobility that most of her French peers did. Her mother, however, despite marrying a member of the bourgeoisie, was the daughter of a count, though few knew it. Maman had never banished the images of the guillotine from her mind. She was stillterrified of being sent back to France, which was why she placated the English whenever possible.
And pushed Giselle to save them both from such a fate.
“Why does Lord Heathbrook not have guardianship already?” her mother asked.
“I have no idea.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It has something to do with English law. I do not understand what. Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. But if this man has such a temper …”
The fierce set to her mother’s chin made Giselle force softness into her voice. “It will be fine, Maman. He is not generally that sort of fellow.” But just to be sure, she went to the door and cracked it open to see if she could hear anything.
Lord Heathbrook now stood in the foyer with his back to her, speaking in low tones with a gangly fellow. That man wore the white powdered wig of an English barrister and a simple suit of black wool with a white shirt and a black stock about his neck.
Nothing so dull for the earl, oh, no. He wore pantaloons—no, the English called those “trousers”—of an almond color. They were tight enough to show every line of his muscular thighs and calves. His tailcoat was of so deep a shade of green forest that it would surely match his dark green eyes.
His beautiful, teasing eyes. The man did have the loveliest eyes.
She shook off the thought, reminding herself she was only one of many women who had admired those eyes. And Lord Heathbrook had probably pursued half of them, too.
From what she could see of the back of him, she could almost guess the rest of what he wore. A spotless and starched white shirt. A waistcoat of patterned white on white silk or some other popular design. A snowy cravat tied in an elaborate knot about his neck. And all that white accentuating the midnight-black of his straight, thick hair. Indeed, even seen from the back, his whole ensemble was very stylish, very fashionable, as always.
Very delicious.
Her cheeks heated. No, she must not indulge her ridiculous attraction to the sinfully handsome earl or she would never last through this visit without making a fool of herself. He had once,years ago, stolen a kiss from her, the most perfect kiss of her life. The earl did have a way of setting the very bones of a woman aflame with just a look or a touch. It was most thrilling.
Until he had refrained from kissing her again. Rumor had it he had kissed plenty of other unattached women in the camp, but apparently she had not warranted a second kiss.
She sighed. Obviously, she had not attracted him in the least.
Fortunately, it had taught her not to allowanyman such freedoms. A dangerous enough game in France, it was positively disastrous in England, where men of rank used women, then tossed them aside.
Besides, she had seen Lord Heathbrook engage in flirtations with many a woman at Verdun in their early days there. He had even had affairs with a widow and two married women, and those were only the ones she knew about. For all she knew, he had ruined a dozen others. She did not wish to find herself discarded by him here.
Nonetheless, she must convince him to help her and Maman. To that end, she had worn her best gown of violet taffeta, the one that showed her slender figure at its best. She wished she had more ample breasts, since men seemed to prefer them, but such was life. And since his lordshiphadkissed her once, he must have found something in her figure to attract him, even if it had not gone anywhere. She only hoped she could be forgiven for using any small attraction he had to her to get whatsheneeded without becoming too enamored of the fellow.
If he still had such an attraction after all these years. And if she could keep her wits about her.
She scowled. She must. There was Maman and their future to think about.
Calling herself animbecilefor her unwise response to the earl, she strained to hear what the men were saying. Fortunately, their voices had risen just enough for her to do so.
“It’s beenmonths,Pitney,” Lord Heathbrook was saying. “How much longer must I wait? You’re already my third attorney in this matter.”