4

Lucien stared out the long French windows at the snow covered lawn and frozen pond. The winter clouds were cold and gray as steel, the ground as hard as iron.

In his mind he saw her eyes, blue as the October sky, heard her voice, warm and fierce as sunlight. You tear me away from everything I know. You will rip me apart.

His hands clenched behind his back. He knew who she was now. Amy Blanchard. Lady Aimée, daughter of the Comte de Brissac.

What he didn’t know was what the devil he should do about her.

His head pounded. Maybe nothing.

He was no angel, after all. His responsibility for her had ended eight years ago when he delivered her from prison and the guillotine. Damn it all, he’d saved her life.

You are killing me.

His jaw set. Bollocks.

A burst of laughter recalled his attention to the room behind him, where pretty Julia Basing was holding court by the fire.

He felt no desire to join them. For the past several days, he had been confined to the house and his role as Julia’s suitor. The hard frost, followed by an inch or two of snow, had discouraged even the most avid sportsmen from going out. There had been one foray to the local taproom to take tea, where the very young ladies in his party had declared the private dining room dirty, the cakes dry, and the whole trip scarcely worth the trouble. In desperation yesterday, Lucien had proposed an expedition to the tiny Norman church in the village to admire the twelfth-century frieze. A shivering Julia Basing had refused even to descend from the carriage, demanding to be taken home.

Aimée Blanchard had not joined either outing.

“Is Miss Blanchard indisposed?” Lucien had asked Julia that morning.

Julia had blinked at him, obviously bewildered by his interest in her cousin. “Amy? No, why?”

“I did not see her at breakfast.”

Nor had she been at dinner the past two nights nor in the drawing room to play cards or charades.

Julia’s pretty face had pleated. “I think Amy is taking her meals in the nursery. She is a great favorite with the children, you know.”

He could imagine.

He could also guess that Aimée’s popularity with the children made life a great deal easier for the other adults in the household.

Irritation rose in him.

It was none of his business if Aimée was taken advantage of by her English relatives, he reminded himself. She was not his charge. But he found himself watching for her all the same, driven by emotions he did not understand and could not name.

Attraction? Guilt? Concern?

Behind him, the conversation had turned to the Christmas ball and whether the guests would come in costume or wear dominos.

“Costumes, definitely,” Howard Basing said. “At least for the young ladies. Why cover their charms? I quite fancy myself a satyr disporting with nymphs and goddesses.”

Several of the young ladies in question tittered.

Lucian clenched his hand on the windowsill. He did not like Howard Basing. The only satisfaction he had was that Basing had spent the past few days with the rest of the house party. Whatever Aimée was doing, at least she wasn’t with him.

Movement disturbed the gray and white landscape outside. Figures lugging a basket down the gentle slope that led to the frozen lily pond. A woman, he guessed by her clothes and her size, and two—no, three—children. She carried the smallest in her arms.

Lucien’s pulse quickened. Aimée.

He watched from the window as she set the child down and grinned at the boy with the basket. Lucien had imagined her confined to the nursery, pressed into reluctant service while the house party went on without her. But there was nothing false in the smile she flashed the boy, nothing forced in the way she took the little girl’s hand, nothing grudging in her manner or apparent affection.

“Mrs. Pockley is making my costume. She says I have the prettiest figure she has ever measured,” Julia confided. “Of course, she is only the village seamstress, but she has some very interesting ideas for matching costumes.”

One of the girls clapped her hands together in excitement. “Romeo and Juliet.”

“Mars and Venus.” A giggle.

“Anthony and Cleopatra.”

“Punch and Judy,” muttered Tom Whitmore.

Lucien ignored them all, his attention on the scene outside.

Aimée Blanchard was . . . By thunder, she was actually lying down with the children on the snowy bank, all of them waving their arms and swooshing their legs as if they had been struck by illness or madness. He could not hear them, but the two little girls were clearly giggling. Aimée’s face was bright with laughter, her bonnet knocked sideways in the snow, her dark hair and pink cheeks glowing against the stark white backdrop.

He did not think her existence as an unpaid servant in her cousin’s house could bring her much joy. And yet frolicking with the children, she looked genuinely happy, young, exuberant, and vividly alive.

Perhaps she made her own happiness.

She slid on her bottom and rose carefully to her feet, leaving a crude outline behind her on the snowy ground.

An angel.

Inside him, something stirred and yearned like a hawk stretching its wings, straining to be free.

“Mr. Hartfell,” Julia called. “What is your opinion of matching costumes?”

He forced his attention from the window to focus on her pretty, expectant face. “My opinion must depend on the preferences of my partner.”

“And on her identity?” Julia suggested, with a sideways look at poor Whitmore.

Lucien was already tired of her game, but he had come to Moulton to play. Because he needed a rich wife. “Certainly on her identity.”

Julia dimpled, satisfied. “Then perhaps you should apply to Mrs. Pockley for suggestions on your own costume.”

The chit was telling him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to dress to match her own disguise.

He bowed. “I will be guided by Mrs. Pockley’s expert knowledge.”

The conversation around the fire turned to what feathers and trimmings the dressmaker might have in stock, what ribbons and laces might be purchased locally, what treasures might be found in the guests’ own wardrobes or in the attics. A reconnaissance trip to the village was proposed.

Outside, Aimée and the children had abandoned snow angels to troop to the open summerhouse. She lined them on the bench while she dug through the basket. Lucien caught the glint of metal, a tangle of straps. Skates.

A smile tugged at his mouth. His first winter at Fair Hill, Tripp had taught him to skate on the mill pond.

“And I must have silver ribbons,” Julia declared. “Perhaps we will go this afternoon to look for silver ribbons at the shop. What do you think, Mr. Hartfell?”

Aimée kneeled before the smaller girl to strap on her skates. They were not her children. But she cared for them as if they were.

Did she have so much love to give, then, that she would lavish it on anyone?

He watched her hold the little girls’ hands as she coaxed them to stand.

“I think,” Lucien said slowly, “I would rather go skating.”

“Stay near the shore!” Aimée called as ten-year-old Peter Netherby struck out for the center of the pond.

After three days confined to the house, she understood the boy’s restlessness. Fortunately, the harsh weather that had kept them all in the nursery had also frozen the pond across. Aimée was almost as happy as the children to be outside again. But she was not taking any chances with their safety.

Near the bank, Harriet, two years younger than Peter, waved her arms and fought for balance.

Five-year-old Lottie Netherby clung to both Aimée’s hands, her short, double-bladed skates scratching back and forth on the ice. “Look at me! I’m skating!”

Aimée smiled down at her, towing her gently along. “You certainly are.”

Lottie’s cheeks were red with exertion and excitement, her lips almost blue with cold. Despite their thick stockings, pantalettes, and petticoats, the girls’ pelisses and play dresses simply did not provide the protection of Peter’s breeches and overcoat.

It had been a mistake to make snow angels before skating, Aimée admitted. The back of her hair and her skirts were damp, and ice had melted under her collar. She would have to herd the children back inside soon before they all caught cold.

A burst of women’s laughter floated like snow on the air, followed by the rumble of men’s voices. Aimée glanced toward the house. A line of bonnets and top hats bobbed along the balustrade—the house party, coming to invade her snowy sanctuary.

Howard. A chill trickled down her spine.

And Mr. Hartfell.

Her heart beat faster. She knew him at once, his powerful body and chiseled profile making him stand out from the other gentlemen.

But it was more than his golden good looks that drew her. Something about him teased at her memory or imagination like the refrain of a familiar song, like a scent from childhood, beloved and familiar. As if her body recognized him, as if her soul responded to his.

Lucien Hartfell.

Julia’s suitor.

Who believed she was encouraging Howard’s attentions.

She gave herself a mental shake.

“Peter! Harriet! It’s time to go in.”

Predictably, the children protested and delayed. Aimée managed to cajole them toward shore as the adults ambled toward the frozen pond. Hoisting Lottie onto the bank, Aimée turned to give a hand to Peter.

“There’s Mama,” Lottie observed, keeping hold of Aimée’s skirts.

“And Papa.” Peter dropped Aimée’s hand and lurched unaided up the slope.

“Mama! Look at me!” Harriet called, wobbling on her skates.

But the adults milling in the open summerhouse either could not or chose not to hear.

Harriet’s face drooped. “Why don’t they come see us?”

Aimée’s heart squeezed. She understood—too well—the little girl’s disappointment. After her own arrival at Moulton, Aimée had quickly learned that Lady Basing had little time or attention for her own children, let alone the demands of a penniless orphaned relation. Lady Basing’s daughter Susan was obviously cut from the same maternal cloth.

“Come,” Aimée said quietly. “I will ask your maman to visit the nursery before dinner.”

Peter sneered with an older brother’s superiority. “She won’t come see us.”

Aimée feared he was right. The one time Susan had sent for the children, she had returned them to the nursery a half hour later, complaining their noise made her head ache.

Harriet scowled. “Why not?”

“Because you’re ugly,” Peter said cheerfully. “Your nose is all red.”

“It is not!”

“Peter . . .” Aimée warned.

He was old enough to have accepted his parents’ neglect. Lottie, perhaps, was too young to have noticed. But Harriet . . .

“Look at me, Mama!” she cried. “I’m skating!”