Never Resist Temptation by Miranda Neville Page A

shepherdess, my lord. That was a canard invented by the queen’s enemies.”
    â€œAs a daughter of the Revolution,” he said, “I would expect you to be eager to believe anything ill of the French royal family.”
    Jacobin shook her head. “I hope my opinions wouldnever blind me to the truth. And in this case you are quite mistaken. I have nothing against the poor queen. And my mother admired her greatly.”
    â€œMine too,” the earl said, sounding surprised. “In fact I was named after her.”
    â€œIs your name Marie-Antoine, then?”
    â€œCertainly not,” Storrington replied. “I am English, and Englishmen are not named Mary. My father would have had a palpitation at the very notion. My Christian name is Anthony.”
    â€œThe house here is very like la maison de la reine at the queen’s hamlet, yet somewhat smaller, I believe.”
    The earl looked at her curiously. “Did you ever visit it? The original I mean, at Versailles.”
    â€œI grew up hearing about it from my mother. It was she who told me the queen enjoyed visiting the farm and using its produce at her table, but she never did the work herself. I went there just once, as a child, when it was turned into a restaurant after the Revolution. It was rather sad, I think.”
    â€œWas your mother in service to the queen? Is that how she came to visit the hamlet? I understand that only the privileged few were invited there.”
    â€œMy mother was with another lady who was visiting the queen,” Jacobin replied, regretting she’d said so much. It was a joy to speak of France, to recall happier days. And it didn’t hurt that a very attractive man was listening to her with rapt concentration and regarding her with a fascinated gaze. Her attention-starved soul blossomed in the sun of Lord Storrington’s interest. Shefought an urge to confide in him, to share her troubles with a sympathetic ear.
    Sympathetic! There must be windmills in her head to forget, even for a minute, his own role in her plight. It was vital she not give away her identity and reveal her connection to Candover. She shouldn’t have let herself be carried away and speak so much of her mother.
    â€œHow do you come to have the Queen of France’s village in this English park?” she asked.
    A flicker of sadness passed over Storrington’s face. For a moment he appeared vulnerable and very human.
    â€œMy mother loved France.” His voice was smooth, and Jacobin wondered if she’d imagined his distress. “As I said before, she admired the queen. The mill was already here and my father built the Queen’s House to please her. To try and make her happy.”
    â€œAnd did it?” she inquired, not daring to ask why the late Lady Storrington should have been unhappy.
    â€œNo. She died not very long afterward.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but the expression on his face was forlorn.
    â€œYou miss your mother, don’t you? Tell me about her,” she said gently.
    Once again his willingness to confide in her surprised Anthony. She was still dressed in the drabbest of gray gowns, but she had a face that couldn’t look gray under any circumstances and possessed an exotic cast that spoke of her French blood: wide, brandy-brown eyes with thick dark lashes; flawless skin two shades darker than the typical English complexion; a perfectly straight and symmetrical nose; plump, curving lips; the small but determined chin decorated with that intriguing cleft. Chestnut brown curls that fluttered in the wind topped it all off.
    He was attracted to her, of course, which was why he had, against his better judgment, pursued her through the park. And there was something more. Something about his newest employee elicited his trust.
    â€œMy mother was the most delightful person in the world. When I was very young she’d fetch me from the nursery and we’d go on picnics. She took