elegant in his dark overcoat and beaver hat?
She nodded slightly and he moved on, but the bell tinkling above the doorway and a quick glance confirmed her worst fears. The chef had entered and was making straight for her table.
She gripped her hands together. It would be stupid to flee without her tea. And terribly rude. But surely the man understood they could not be friends. He had been charming with Jane yesterday out in the snow. The child had obviously adored the attention, but it just couldn’t be something they allowed beyond that very casual meeting.
Oh. He wasn’t trying to join her. He had taken a table near the window and had opened a newspaper he must have picked up on his way in. He didn’t even try to catch her eye.
Disappointment made her feel hollow. She ought to be disappointed. In herself. Apparently she still had the impulsive streak that had sent her galloping off into the night with George. She must quell it or everything she’d sought by coming here would be ruined.
She stared blindly out into the street, trying to pretend she hadn’t even noticed he was there, despite her racing heart and dry mouth. What was it about the man that made her so nervous?
She knew. Of course she did. It was the little thrills that raced through her body when his hand accidentally touched her skin. Like in the kitchen, and again making the snowman. Just thinking about it made her insides flutter and clench. Could she be more wanton?
It was the loneliness these past few years, the lack of any warmth in her marriage, making her want things she had once glimpsed with her husband, until he discovered she was not the path to gold and fortune.
The waitress arrived with a tray of tea and a cake on a small plate. It was a flaky confection decorated with white icing. It looked delicious, but there was no way Claire could eat a bit of it, not now.
She poured the tea and took a sip. It was hot. Too hot. She risked scalding her tongue if she tried drinking it too quickly. Oh, how she wished they’d hurry with her books so she could go. She opened La Belle Assemblée to a fashion plate and carefully read the description. It seemed heavy swags of fabric around hems were all the fashion. And skirts were fuller. She must remember that when the seamstress came.
It wasn’t very many minutes before the clerk arrived with the books she’d requested neatly tied with string. ‘There you go, madam. I will have your bill waiting at the desk.’
‘Thank you.’ She put the magazine down and riffled in her reticule for a sixpence for the waitress. As she did so, she glanced at the table window and Monsieur André. He had his back to her and seemed engrossed in his reading. She should not have looked at all. What if he had seen? Flustered, she stood up, followed the young man to the counter and paid her bill, leaving so quickly that when she got out into the street she became disoriented, turning north instead of walking south to where they had left the carriage. The moment she realised her mistake, she turned around and marched the other way, back past the library window with her head held high and her cheeks burning.
She hadn’t gone but a few steps when a large figure came up beside her and matched his steps to hers.
‘May I escort you back to your carriage, Madame Holte?’
‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Monsieur André. You startled me.’
‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Did you find some books to your liking in the library?’
She winced. ‘I did.’
They walked in silence for a moment or two. Then finally she stopped and turned to face him. Shoppers passed around them like a swiftly flowing river around an island. ‘Why did you follow me?’
Then she gasped in shock as she saw his face full on. There was a cut on his lip and a red mark on his cheek that would surely be a bruise in the not too distant future.
‘Did someone attack you?’
He touched a gloved finger to his cheek and smiled. ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I came from the gymnasium.’
‘Pugilism,’ she said.
‘You sound as if you don’t approve. I get very little in the way of exercise in the kitchen, so I come here once a week on my day off.’
‘The result seems more like torture than exercise,’ she said. ‘You could be badly hurt.’
An eyebrow went up. His dark eyes reflected surprise, but his voice was calm and practical when he answered. ‘Not really. Not when sparring. Not if one pays attention.’
‘Then you need to pay better attention,’ she said, starting to walk again.
He chuckled, a deep sound that seemed to curl low in her belly. When she glanced up he looked grave, but his eyes twinkled.
‘You are right,’ he said seriously. ‘I had something else on my mind, I must admit. I promise I will take more care in future.’ There was a seductive note in his voice. A shiver shook her frame. A shudder of pleasure. Horrified, she quickened her pace.
‘It is of no concern to me what you do,’ she said sharply and far too defensively. She drew in a quick steadying breath and stopped, for they had reached the livery where John Coachman had drawn up the carriage and was now chatting with Joe. ‘I thank you for your escort, Monsieur André. Did you need a ride back to Castonbury?’
His face was inscrutable as he gazed down at her and she was reminded of how impossibly tall he was and broad shouldered. And she fleetingly wondered if he showed well in the boxing ring. Canting talk she’d learned from her husband. She repressed the thought instantly.
‘I thank you, madame, but no. I have another engagement.’ He bowed and left.
There had been something significant in the way he had said the word engagement. She didn’t want to think why that was because he was a servant and she was a duke’s sister. It was nothing to her what he did. It must not be. Even if he was the most attractive man she had ever met in her life.
Her course was set. She was to marry a man of Crispin’s choosing this time. Her stomach dipped.
‘Same flea or a different one?’ Becca asked André the next day.
He frowned, then laughed. At himself. ‘No fleas.’
Just frustration. After meeting Madame Holte, he had been unable to so much as look at the saucy barmaid in the Bricklayer’s Arms, let alone give her a tumble.
For some reason, no other woman held the attraction he felt towards Madame Holte. And, he thought, she wasn’t as oblivious to him as she tried to make out which wasn’t helping matters.
But what was it about her in particular, when usually any woman would do? Her delicacy? Or the inner strength he sensed. Whatever it was she was out of bounds to him. The kind of woman he’d spent a lifetime avoiding.
He didn’t believe in titles. Not his own or anyone else’s. What he accomplished, he achieved by his own efforts. And he had every reason to be proud of the result.
At the end of the month he would be on his way back to London, and Madame Holte would no longer trouble his mind. Or any other part.
He
