have not been back to Ireland since?” he asked.
Jasmine shook her head. “Nay. The former lord’s son, Rory Maguire, is my agent. There is both a Roman and Anglican church on my lands, and the people seem to manage to coexist peacefully. I raise horses there, or rather Rory does for me. I shall probably give the estate to Fortune one day, as she was born there. It would make a fine dower for her, don’t you think?”
“Possibly,” he agreed, then said, “We must talk, madame.”
“Not before the children, I beg you, my lord,” Jasmine replied. Her voice was soft, her glance pleading. “We seem to end up shouting at one another, and I do not want to do so before my little ones.”
“Of course, madame,” he answered her. “You are correct that the children should not be involved in our difficulties. I understand, but nonetheless we must talk, and at least for your children’s sake resolve our differences.” His green-gold eyes regarded her dispassionately.
She met his gaze directly. “Would it not be better if we renewed our acquaintanceship again, my lord, before we spoke on serious matters? And I would seek my grandmother’s advice as well.”
James Leslie swallowed a mouthful of egg poached in cream sauce and marsala wine and seasoned with peppercorns. It was a particularly tasty dish, and he wondered if the cook was Jasmine’s, or belonged to the château. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he said, “The last time you consulted with your grandmother regarding our future relationship, madame, you fled England. I am not certain her counsel is a wise one.”
“The idea to go was not hers, but mine,” Jasmine said quietly, “and she only allowed it because she thought I would return by summer’s end. Please don’t blame my grandmother for my actions. Besides, do you think me some mindless ninny that I cannot reason the consequences of my own actions? Please, sir, do not insult me.”
“Your thought has merit,” he told her. “Just how, madame, do you suggest we renew our familiarity with one another?” Although his voice was neutral, Jasmine thought the look he gave her both mocking and challenging. And was that a twinkle in his eye?
She struggled to maintain her equilibrium, determined not to show anger before her son and daughters, although she secretly longed to smack him. “I thought when you were finished eating,” she began, “we might go and see Prince Henry’s son, my lord.” She would ignore his childish innuendo. It was not deserving of a reply.
The earl of Glenkirk swallowed back a chuckle. So, he could not get her to rise to his bait, eh? He realized how very little he really knew her. The idea of remaining in France and truly getting to know Jasmine was actually beginning to appeal to him. He swallowed a piece of ham, washing it down with a goblet of excellent cider, and said to her, “Is my youngest ward in good health, madame?”
“As all my children are, my lord,” Jasmine answered. “I have kept my grandmother fully informed, and she in turn has kept the queen fully informed. I did not want Hal’s parents fretting over his son, particularly given the distress the scandal involving Robert Carr and his wife is causing them now.”
James Leslie was about to make a retort when his eye was caught by young Henry Lindley, already halfway down the hall. “My lord of Westleigh,” he called to the boy. “Where are you going?”
Henry turned. “I have finished my meal, sir,” he said.
“You have left the table without asking your mother’s permission to be excused, sir,” the earl said sternly. “Come back at once, and do so. In future I will expect that you remember this courtesy.”
Henry Lindley returned to stand before the highboard. He bowed politely, saying to his mother, “Madame, may I now be excused from your board? The meal was most delicious.”
“You are excused, Henry,” Jasmine replied formally, nodding to her son. “Where are you going?”
“To the stables, madame. My pony needs attention.”
“Take him an apple,” Jasmine told her son with a smile.
“Thank you,” Henry Lindley said, bowing again to his mother and then to Lord Leslie before running off.
India and Fortune were before the highboard now. “May we be excused too, Mama?” India spoke for them both.
Jasmine nodded. “Go and tell your great-grandmother that I will join her shortly.”
“Yes, Mama,” India said primly, and she and Fortune curtsied to the two adults.
“India,” Jasmine said to her daughter, “you do not need my instruction in the art of curtsying. You and your sister do it quite perfectly.” Then she smiled at her two little daughters, who, with delighted faces, tripped out of the hall.
“Your children love you,” he noted.
Jasmine looked surprised. “Why would they not?” she wondered.
“Many mothers among our class are not maternal,” he said. “They prefer spending their time at court and entertaining their own pursuits to mothering their bairns. That difficult task they leave to their servants, I fear,” he replied.
“My mother did not,” Jasmine said. “The mother who raised me was a Mughal princess, and while we had servants to serve us, never did Rugaiya Begum neglect me. I but follow her example and that of my other mother, Lady Gordon. One cannot expect one’s children to grow into responsible men and women if one does not see to their education personally, my lord. While I have allowed my sons and daughters the freedom to run while here at Belle Fleurs, I will see that they are brought up properly so that they will not embarrass themselves when we return home to England. They are still, after all, quite small. I want them to enjoy their childhood years and not be overburdened with adult matters before their time.” She arose from the highboard. “Shall we go and see little Charles Frederick, sir?”
He was impressed by her reasoning and her strong sense of responsibility toward her family. His memories of her were bound up in a single passionate night of love; of a stolen moment he had spied between her and Prince Henry Stuart at Whitehall several years back; of walks in her grandparents’ snowy London garden when it was believed he might wed her stepsister, Sybilla. So much time had passed, and he really didn’t know her at all, but he thought now that he wanted to know her. She was, after all, the woman he was to marry. James Leslie followed Jasmine to the nursery, where the king’s grandson, Charles Frederick Stuart, was in residence.
The child was his father’s image, all red-gold curls and wide blue eyes. He was garbed in a blue velvet dress trimmed in lace, and his face lit up at the sight of his mother. “Maaaaa!” he crowed, holding out fat, dimpled baby arms, and leaning from his nursemaid’s careful embrace.
“Charlie-boy,” Jasmine greeted her youngest son, and took him into her arms, kissing his fat cheek.
“Who he?” the wee boy demanded, pointing a finger at Lord Leslie, his eyes suddenly suspicious. “Who he, Ma?”
“Who is he,” Jasmine corrected the child. “This, my not so royal little Stuart, is Lord Leslie. Your grandfather, the king, has sent him to be my husband and your new papa. Please greet him as I have taught you, my son. Henry and your sisters have already shown Lord Leslie what fine manners they have. It is your turn.”
The princely bastard looked
