Louisa Rawlings by Stolen Spring

swept her form, lingering on the patch of soft skin she had revealed. “No more than a woman with her stays. Do you not also practice deception? I can only guess where your whalebones end and your soft bosom begins.”  
    She frowned. “You seem to have forgotten your promise again. Your eyes are brazen, monsieur!”  
    He laughed and dropped down to the cloak beside her. “You must forgive my eyes. They’re far less restrained than my manners. Brazen they are. They feast on your beauty at every opportunity, whether I will it or not.”  
    She stirred uneasily. Best to change the subject. “My face may sustain you ,” she said, laughing in a lighthearted manner. “But I, alas! need the sustenance of real food! Have you brought nothing to this picnic save sweet compliments?”  
    He shook his head. “You’ve a prodigious appetite, Marie-Rouge!”  
    “I know it’s unseemly in a woman, but…” She shrugged. “Tintin taught me to enjoy the earth’s bounty.”  
    “Good.” At his signal, the servant brought them plates of food and silver goblets filled with wine. They ate and chatted until, unable to manage another mouthful, Rouge put down her cup, sighed, and closed her eyes.  
    “You set a fine table, monsieur le comte!”  
    “Arsène.”  
    She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Arsène.”  
    He moved closer and put his hand across her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace, and leaning her back against his arm. His kiss was gentle on her mouth, and when he abandoned her lips to trail soft kisses down her neck and onto her bosom, she didn’t resist. It was pleasant to lie here, to be held and kissed by a man who so obviously adored her. He buried his face in her neck. “You smell of lavender,” he murmured. He lifted his head and smiled. “But you wear no necklace, I’ve noted. Not even with your court dress. No jewels at all. Only that ring.” He held her hand in his, examining the small circlet about her middle finger. “’Tis very old and worn. A lion couchant. The Tournières crest?”  
    “No. Desportes. My mother’s family. As to jewels…I left them all at Sans-Souci,” she lied. “It seemed too dangerous to travel with them.”  
    “Of course.” He released her from his embrace and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Then perhaps you will allow me…”  
    She gasped. In his hand was a choker of large, lustrous pearls—the very latest fashion, and quite the most exquisite necklace she’d ever seen. “Oh, but it’s beautiful.”  
    “Take it. It’s yours.”  
    “Don’t be foolish, Arsène. I can’t take such a gift.”  
    “Why not? It would be my pleasure to see you wearing my pearls.”  
    It really was kind of him, and she scarcely wanted to hurt his feelings. But it was out of the question. “The gift is too expensive, Arsène. A man would give a gift like that to his mistress …” She stopped, seeing the look on his face.  
    “And would that be so abhorrent to you?”  
    She looked about the isolated grove. “I think it best we return to the palace,” she said coldly.  
    “Wait.” He put his hand on her arm, preventing her from rising. “You’re angry again. I’ve overstepped the bounds.” His eyes searched her face, peering deep into her almond-shaped eyes. “ Mon Dieu ,” he muttered. “Am I so jaded, so corrupted by this place, that I can no longer see the truth? I’ve never known a woman here who didn’t throw herself at a man at the first opportunity, for all her protestations of innocence. Can it be that you are truly as virtuous as you seem?”  
    “Is that so difficult to accept?”  
    He brushed his fingers through his hair, clearly agitated by his thoughts. “Oh, I know you’ve told me so. On more than one occasion. But—forgive me—I thought you played a game, denying me only to strengthen your hold on my heart. It’s a game the ladies play so well here.”  
    “But why should you have doubted me?”