clarity, it was there before her, and her eyes grew wide in comprehension and amazement.
The gesture heâd innocently made in raising her hood was more than simple gentlemanly behavior. It was as calculated as the look sheâd witnessed from Richard Sharon, an overt move of direct intention. It meant possession, in a silent communication from one man to another. It meant possession. Thomas had acted, and the baron had seen it.
âAre you ready to go inside?â he asked gently.
She blinked then wavered and turned back to the lake. Baron Rothebury had disappeared into the low trees.
âI suppose so,â she mumbled, feeling the dull ache in her head again, flustered by her own concerns.
He stood, offering his arm which she took without thought. She reached down for her empty tea mug then walked silently behind him through the tunnel of foliage, wondering at her confusion, wondering if he was as inexplicably attracted to her as she was to him, wondering if his show of possession was actually something he felt or was only just performance.
Chapter 3
M adeleineâs impatience made her uncommonly fitful. For the good part of forty-five minutes sheâd been a guest at Mrs. Sarah Rodneyâs lavish country home, nibbling dry pudding cakes that certainly lacked pudding, and sipping weak tea, listening to her hostess and four other ladies gossip outrageously while they fairly ignored her presence except for an occasional remark and glance at her person as if she were an unwanted but highly intriguing and colorful insect. Granted, they had little in common with her beyond the social graces one needs to commune in genteel fashion. Madeleine herself had learned her grace not from growing up with discipline and training like these ladies, but by observance, practice, polishing, and then becoming. She was essentially one of them and they didnât like it, not that they could find anything wrong with her precisely. But she was French, and they simplyfound that affronting, irrationally unforgivable, feelings they tried only superficially to hide. This made her burn inside. She was half English as well, but that was a secret she couldnât reveal without also revealing, to some degree, her scandalous birth. Doing so would draw questions she wasnât prepared to answer, and foster a pity she couldnât bear. This was primarily why she chose to live her life in France instead of England, despising her French heritage and all that the culture stood for while using her assumed station in life to help the country she loved, and its people who would always consider her an outsider because they didnât know.
Madeleine sat on a small, white, wrought-iron chair, straight-backed with a hard, rounded seat, into which her body fit snugly though the others were undoubtedly squeezed painfully. That gave her a fair amount of satisfaction. She helped herself to her second pudding cakeânot because she wanted another but because it gave her something to do with her restless hands.
Together, the six of them had taken their places around the matching wrought-iron table, now covered with a white lace tablecloth, fine pink china, and wedged into the southwest corner of Mrs. Rodneyâs sweet smelling, flower-filled conservatory. It was the first sunny day since the afternoon of her arrival in Winter Garden nearly one week ago, and although it was cold outside, the large conservatory windows absorbed the sunlight and warmed the air as if it were summer.
She sat with her back to the sun, in her day gown of pale plum silk that, although rich in fabric and modest in cut, had a medium full skirt accentuated by two large, flowing bows in creamy yellow near the hem, and a square neckline and tapered waist fringed with lace ofthe same color. The bodice fit snugly but conservatively, the wide cuffed sleeves were at three-quarter length, and with her plaited hair coiled becomingly at the back of her head, she looked
The gesture heâd innocently made in raising her hood was more than simple gentlemanly behavior. It was as calculated as the look sheâd witnessed from Richard Sharon, an overt move of direct intention. It meant possession, in a silent communication from one man to another. It meant possession. Thomas had acted, and the baron had seen it.
âAre you ready to go inside?â he asked gently.
She blinked then wavered and turned back to the lake. Baron Rothebury had disappeared into the low trees.
âI suppose so,â she mumbled, feeling the dull ache in her head again, flustered by her own concerns.
He stood, offering his arm which she took without thought. She reached down for her empty tea mug then walked silently behind him through the tunnel of foliage, wondering at her confusion, wondering if he was as inexplicably attracted to her as she was to him, wondering if his show of possession was actually something he felt or was only just performance.
Chapter 3
M adeleineâs impatience made her uncommonly fitful. For the good part of forty-five minutes sheâd been a guest at Mrs. Sarah Rodneyâs lavish country home, nibbling dry pudding cakes that certainly lacked pudding, and sipping weak tea, listening to her hostess and four other ladies gossip outrageously while they fairly ignored her presence except for an occasional remark and glance at her person as if she were an unwanted but highly intriguing and colorful insect. Granted, they had little in common with her beyond the social graces one needs to commune in genteel fashion. Madeleine herself had learned her grace not from growing up with discipline and training like these ladies, but by observance, practice, polishing, and then becoming. She was essentially one of them and they didnât like it, not that they could find anything wrong with her precisely. But she was French, and they simplyfound that affronting, irrationally unforgivable, feelings they tried only superficially to hide. This made her burn inside. She was half English as well, but that was a secret she couldnât reveal without also revealing, to some degree, her scandalous birth. Doing so would draw questions she wasnât prepared to answer, and foster a pity she couldnât bear. This was primarily why she chose to live her life in France instead of England, despising her French heritage and all that the culture stood for while using her assumed station in life to help the country she loved, and its people who would always consider her an outsider because they didnât know.
Madeleine sat on a small, white, wrought-iron chair, straight-backed with a hard, rounded seat, into which her body fit snugly though the others were undoubtedly squeezed painfully. That gave her a fair amount of satisfaction. She helped herself to her second pudding cakeânot because she wanted another but because it gave her something to do with her restless hands.
Together, the six of them had taken their places around the matching wrought-iron table, now covered with a white lace tablecloth, fine pink china, and wedged into the southwest corner of Mrs. Rodneyâs sweet smelling, flower-filled conservatory. It was the first sunny day since the afternoon of her arrival in Winter Garden nearly one week ago, and although it was cold outside, the large conservatory windows absorbed the sunlight and warmed the air as if it were summer.
She sat with her back to the sun, in her day gown of pale plum silk that, although rich in fabric and modest in cut, had a medium full skirt accentuated by two large, flowing bows in creamy yellow near the hem, and a square neckline and tapered waist fringed with lace ofthe same color. The bodice fit snugly but conservatively, the wide cuffed sleeves were at three-quarter length, and with her plaited hair coiled becomingly at the back of her head, she looked
Similar Books
