To Taste Temptation (2 page)

Which made it even more important that she be the one to help him gain entry into London society.

“No, my sister and I have no surviving female relatives,” he answered her question now. “Our mother died at Rebecca’s birth and Pa only months later. Fortunately, my father’s brother was a businessman in Boston. He and his wife took in Rebecca and raised her. They’ve both passed on since.”

“And you?”

He turned to look at her. “What about me?”

She frowned up at him impatiently. “What happened to you when both your parents died?”

“I was sent to a boys’ academy,” he said prosaically, the words in no way conveying the shock of leaving a cabin in the woods and entering a world of books and strict discipline.

They had reached a brick garden wall, which marked the end of the path. She halted and faced him. “I must meet your sister before I can come to any decision.”

“Of course,” he murmured, knowing he had her.

She shook out her skirts briskly, her black eyes narrowed, her red mouth pursed as she thought. An image of her dead brother suddenly rose up in his mind: Reynaud’s black eyes narrowed in exactly the same manner as he dressed down a soldier. For a moment, the masculine face superimposed itself over the smaller, feminine face of the sister. Reynaud’s heavy black brows drew together, his midnight eyes staring as if with condemnation. Sam shuddered and pushed the phantom away, concentrating on what the living woman was saying.

“You and your sister may visit me tomorrow. I’ll let you know my decision after that. Tea, I think? You do drink tea, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Will two o’clock suit you?”

He was tempted to smile at her order. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

She looked at him suspiciously a moment, then whirled to march back up the garden path, which left him to follow. He did, slowly, watching that elegant back and those twitching skirts. And as he followed her, he patted his pocket, hearing the familiar crinkle of paper and wondering, how best could he use Lady Emeline?

“I
DO NOT
comprehend,” Tante Cristelle pronounced that night at dinner. “If the gentleman did indeed wish the honor of your patronage, why did he not pursue you through the channels usual? He should compel a friend to make the introduction.”

Tante Cristelle was Emeline’s mother’s younger sister, a tall, white-haired lady with a terribly straight back and sky-blue eyes that should’ve been benign but weren’t. The old lady had never married, and privately Emeline sometimes thought it was because the males of her aunt’s age must’ve been terrified of her. Tante Cristelle had lived with Emeline and her son, Daniel, for the last five years, ever since the death of Daniel’s father.

“Perhaps he wasn’t aware of how it’s properly done,” Emeline said as she perused the selection of meats on the tray. “Or perhaps he didn’t want to take the time to go through the customary maneuvers. He said they were to be in London only a short while, after all.” She indicated a slice of beef and smiled her thanks as the footman forked it onto her plate.

“
Mon Dieu,
if he is such a gauche rustic, then he has no business attempting the labyrinths of
le ton.
” Her aunt took a sip of wine and then pursed her lips as if the red liquid were sour.

Emeline made a noncommittal sound. Tante Cristelle’s analysis of Mr. Hartley was accurate on the surface—he had indeed given the appearance of a rustic. The problem was, his eyes had told another story. He’d almost seemed to be laughing at her, as if
she
were the naïf.

“And what will you do, I ask you, if the girl is anything like the brother you describe?” Tante Cristelle arched her eyebrows in exaggerated horror. “What if she wears her hair in braids down her back? What if she laughs too loudly? What if she wears no shoes and her feet, they are so dirty?”

This distasteful thought was apparently too much for the old lady. She beckoned urgently to the footman for more wine while Emeline bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“He is very wealthy. I discreetly inquired about his position from the other ladies at the salon. They all confirmed that Mr. Hartley is indeed one of the richest men in Boston. Presumably, he moves in the best circles there.”

“Tcha.” Tante dismissed all of Boston society.

Emeline cut into her beef serenely. “And even if they were rustics, Tante, surely we should not hold lack of proper training against the chit?”

“Non!”
Tante Cristelle exclaimed, making the footman at her elbow start and nearly drop the decanter of wine. “And again I say,
non!
This prejudice, it is the foundation of society. How are we to discern the well-born from the common rabble if not by the manners they keep?”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Yes, of course I am right,” her aunt retorted.

“Mmm.” Emeline poked at the beef on her plate. For some reason, she no longer wanted it. “Tante, do you remember that little book my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me as children?”

“Book? What book? Whatever are you talking about?”

Emeline plucked at the bit of gathered ribbon on her sleeve. “It was a book of fairy tales, and we were very fond of it. I thought of it today for some reason.”

She stared thoughtfully at her plate, remembering. Nanny would often read to them outside after an afternoon picnic. Reynaud and she would sit on the picnic blanket as Nanny turned the pages of the fairy-tale book. But as the story progressed, Reynaud would creep unconsciously forward, drawn by the excitement of the tale, until he was nearly in Nanny’s lap, hanging on every word, his black eyes sparkling.

He’d been so alive, so vital, even as a boy. Emeline swallowed, carefully smoothing the raveled ribbon at her waist. “I only wondered where the book could be. Do you think it’s packed away in the attics?”

“Who can say?” Her aunt gave an eloquent and very Gallic shrug, dismissing the old book of fairy tales and Emeline’s memories of Reynaud. She leaned forward to exclaim, “But again I ask, why? Why do you even think to agree to take on this man and his sister who wears no shoes?”

Emeline forbore to point out that as of yet, they had no intelligence concerning Miss Hartley’s shoes or the lack thereof. In fact, the only Hartley she knew about was the brother. For a moment, she remembered the man’s tanned face and coffee-brown eyes. She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know exactly, except that he obviously needed my help.”

“Ah, but if you took all who need your help, we would be buried beneath petitioners.”

“He said...” Emeline hesitated, watching the light sparkle on her wineglass. “He said he knew Reynaud.”

Tante Cristelle set down her wineglass carefully. “But why do you believe this?”

“I don’t know. I just do.” She looked helplessly at her aunt. “You must think me a fool.”

Tante Cristelle sighed, her lips drooping at the corners, emphasizing the lines of age there. “No,
ma petite.
I simply think you a sister who loved her brother most dearly.”

Emeline nodded, watching her fingers twist the wineglass in her hand. She didn’t meet her aunt’s eyes. She had loved Reynaud. She still did. Love didn’t stop simply because the recipient had died. But there was another reason she was contemplating taking on the Hartley girl. She felt somehow that Samuel Hartley hadn’t been telling her the whole truth of why he needed her help. He wanted something. Something that involved Reynaud.

And that meant he bore watching.

Iron Heart walked for many days in the dark forest, and during that time, he met neither human nor animal. On the seventh day, the wall of trees opened up, and he emerged from the forest. Directly ahead of him lay a shining city. He stared. Never in all his travels had he seen such a magnificent city. But soon his belly rumbled, waking him from his awe. He needed to buy food, and in order to buy food, he must find work. So off he tramped into the city.

But though he inquired high and low, there was no decent work to be found for a soldier returning from war. And this is often the case, I think. For though all are happy enough to see a soldier when there is a war to be fought, after the danger is past, they look upon the same man with suspicion and contempt.

Thus it came about that Iron Heart was forced to take the job of a street sweeper. And this he did most gratefully....

—from
Iron Heart

“I thought I heard you come in late last night,” Rebecca said as she placed some coddled eggs on her plate the next morning. “After midnight?”

“Was it?” Samuel replied vaguely. He was sitting at the breakfast table behind her. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Oh! Oh, no. You didn’t disturb me at all. That wasn’t what I meant.” Rebecca sighed inwardly and took the seat opposite her brother. She wanted rather badly to ask him where he’d been last night—and the night before that—but shyness and a certain hesitation held her tongue. She poured herself some tea and strove to open a topic of conversation, always a bit hard in the morning. “What are your plans for today? Are you conducting business with Mr. Kitcher? I...I thought if not, that we might go for a drive about London. I hear St. Paul’s Cathedral—”

“Damn!” Samuel set his knife down with a clatter. “I forgot to tell you.”

Rebecca felt a sinking in the pit of her belly. It’d been a long shot—her brother was so often busy—but she’d hoped nevertheless that he’d have time to spend with her that afternoon. “Tell me what?”

“We’ve been invited to tea by our next-door neighbor, Lady Emeline Gordon.”

“What?” Rebecca glanced involuntarily in the direction of the grand town house that adjoined their house to the right. She’d glimpsed her ladyship once or twice and had been awed by their neighbor’s sophistication. “But...but when did this happen? I didn’t see an invitation in today’s post.”

“I met her at the salon I attended yesterday.”

“Goodness,” Rebecca marveled. “She must be a very pleasant lady to invite us on such little acquaintance.” Whatever would she wear to meet a titled lady?

Samuel fingered his knife, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve said her older brother was uncomfortable. “Actually, I asked her to chaperone you to some gatherings.”

“Really? I thought you didn’t like balls and social gatherings.” She was pleased, of course, that he’d thought of her, but his sudden interest in her schedule seemed rather odd.

“Yes, but now that we’re in London...” Samuel let his sentence trail as he drank some coffee. “I thought you might like to go out. See the city, meet some people. You’re only nineteen. You must be bored to death, rattling around this place with just me to keep you company.”

Well, that wasn’t quite true, Rebecca reflected as she tried to think of a reply. Actually, she was surrounded by many other people—servants. There seemed to be scores of servants in this London town house Samuel had rented. Just when she thought she’d met them all, an odd maid or bootblack boy who she’d never seen before would suddenly pop up. Indeed, right now there were two footmen standing by the wall ready to wait on them. One she thought was named Travers, and the other...fiddlesticks! She’d quite forgotten the other’s name, although she knew for certain that she’d seen him before. He had jetty hair and amazing green eyes. Not, of course, that she should be noticing the color of a footman’s eyes.

Rebecca poked at her cold eggs. She was only used to Cook and Elsie at home in Boston where she lived with Samuel. Growing up, she’d eaten most of her suppers with Cook and the elderly maid, until she was deemed a lady and made to sit in the dining room with Uncle Thomas. Her uncle had been a dear, and Rebecca loved him, but dining with him had been rather a trial. His dinner conversation had been so flat when compared to the lively nightly gossip she’d had with Cook and Elsie. The conversation at meals had improved a little when Samuel had come to live with her on the death of Uncle Thomas, but not by much. Samuel could be terribly witty when he wanted to, but so often he seemed distracted by business affairs.

“Do you mind?” Samuel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

Her brother was frowning at her now, and Rebecca had the sinking sensation that somehow she’d disappointed him. “Do you mind that I’ve asked Lady Emeline to help?”

“No, not at all.” She smiled brightly. Of course, she’d rather that he’d spent the time with her, but he was in London on business, after all. “I’m flattered that you thought of me.”

But this answer made him set down his coffee cup. “You say that as if I consider you a burden.”

Rebecca dropped her gaze. Actually, that was exactly how she reckoned he thought of her. A burden. How could he not? She was much younger than he and brought up in the city. Samuel, in contrast, had been raised in the wilds of the frontier until the age of fourteen. Sometimes she thought the gulf that separated them was wider than the ocean. “I know you didn’t wish me to come on this trip.”

“We’ve been over this before. I was happy to include you once I knew that you wanted to travel with me.”

“Yes, and I’m very grateful.” Rebecca carefully straightened the silverware at her place, aware that her answer wasn’t quite right. She peeked at him under her brows.

He was frowning again. “Rebecca, I—”

The entrance of the butler interrupted him. “Mr. Kitcher has arrived, sir.”

Mr. Kitcher was her brother’s man of business.

“Thank you,” Samuel muttered. He stood and bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Kitcher and I are to see a man about arranging to visit Wedgwood’s showroom. I’ll be back after luncheon. We are expected at her ladyship’s house at two o’clock.”

“Very well,” Rebecca replied, but Samuel was already at the door. He exited without another word, and Rebecca was left to contemplate her eggs all alone. Except, of course, for the footmen.

T
HE COLONIAL GENTLEMAN
was even more imposing standing in her little sitting room. That was Emeline’s first thought that afternoon when she turned to greet her guests. The contrast was stark between her pretty sitting room—elegant, sophisticated, and very civilized—and the man who stood so motionless at its center. He should’ve been overwhelmed by the gilt and satin, should’ve seemed naïve and a little crude in his plain woolen clothes.

Instead he dominated the room.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hartley.” Emeline held out her hand, belatedly remembering their handshake of the day before. She held her breath to see if he’d repeat that unorthodox gesture. But Mr. Hartley merely took her hand and quite properly brushed his lips in the air an inch above her knuckles. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate there, his nostrils flaring, and then he straightened. She caught the amused gleam in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed. The scoundrel! He’d known all along yesterday that he was supposed to kiss her hand.

“May I present my sister, Rebecca Hartley,” he said now, and Emeline was forced to marshal her attention.

The young girl who stepped forward was pleasingly attractive. She had her brother’s dark hair, but where his eyes were a warm brown, hers held sparks of green and even yellow. A most unusual color but very pretty nonetheless. She wore a simple dimity frock with a square neckline and a bit of lace at the sleeves and bodice. Emeline noted that the wardrobe could certainly be improved.

“How do you do?” she said as the girl made a passable curtsy.

“Oh, ma’am—I mean, my lady—I’m so pleased to meet you,” Miss Hartley gasped. She had a pretty, if unpolished manner.

Emeline nodded. “My aunt, Mademoiselle Molyneux.”

Tante Cristelle was sitting at her left, perched at the very edge of her chair so that several inches of air was between her ramrod-straight back and the chair’s back. The older woman inclined her head. Her lips were pinched, but her eyes were staring at the hem of Miss Hartley’s dress.

Mr. Hartley smiled, his mouth twisting rather raffishly at the corners as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. “How do you do, ma’am?”

“Very well, I thank you, monsieur,” Tante said crisply.

Mr. Hartley and his sister sat, the girl on the yellow and white damask settee, her brother on the orange wing chair. Emeline settled in an armchair and nodded at Crabs, the butler, who immediately disappeared to order the tea.

“You said yesterday that you were in London on business, Mr. Hartley. What kind?” she asked her guest.

Mr. Hartley flicked the skirt of his brown coat aside to set one ankle across the knee of the opposite leg. “I deal in the import and export of goods to Boston.”

“Indeed?” Emeline murmured faintly. Mr. Hartley seemed not at all self-conscious to admit engaging in trade. But then what else could one expect from a colonial who wore leather leggings? Her gaze dropped to his crossed leg. The soft leather fit closely to his calf, outlining a lovely masculine form. She averted her eyes.

“I hope to meet Mr. Josiah Wedgwood,” Mr. Hartley said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He has a marvelous new crockery factory.”

“Crockery.” Tante Cristelle employed her lorgnette—an affectation that she used mainly when she wished to cow others. She peered first at Mr. Hartley and then returned to her fascination with Miss Hartley’s lower skirts.

Mr. Hartley remained uncowed. He smiled at Emeline’s aunt and then at Emeline. “Crockery. Amazing how much crockery we use in the Colonies. My business already imports earthenware and such, but I believe that there is a market for finer stuff. Things that a fashionable lady might have at her table. Mr. Wedgwood has perfected a process to make creamware more delicate than anyone has ever seen. I hope to persuade him that Hartley Importers is the company to best bring his goods to the Colonies.”

Emeline raised her eyebrows, intrigued despite herself. “You will market the china for him there?”

“No. It will be the usual exchange. I will buy his goods and then resell them across the Atlantic. What’s different is that I hope to have the exclusive right to trade his goods in the Colonies.”

“You are ambitious, Mr. Hartley,” Tante Cristelle said. She did not sound approving.

Mr. Hartley inclined his head to her aunt. He didn’t seem perturbed by the old woman’s disapproval. Emeline found herself reluctantly admiring his self-possession. He was foreign in a way that had nothing to do with being American. The gentlemen of her acquaintance didn’t deal in commerce, let alone discuss it so bluntly with a lady. It was rather interesting to have a man regard her as an intellectual equal. At the same time, she was aware that he would never belong in her world.

Miss Hartley cleared her throat. “My brother has informed me that you have kindly agreed to chaperone me, ma’am.”

The entrance of three maids bearing laden tea trays prevented Emeline from making a suitable retort—one that would wing the brother and not the girl. He’d taken her assent for granted, had he? She noticed, as the maids bustled about, that Mr. Hartley was watching her quite openly. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, but he only quirked his own back at her. Was he flirting with her? Didn’t he know that she was far, far out of his reach?

When the tea things had been settled, Emeline began to pour, her back so straight that she put even Tante to shame. “I am considering championing you, Miss Hartley.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you have—?”

She was interrupted by a whirlwind. The sitting room door slammed against the wall, bouncing off the woodwork and putting yet another chip in the paint. A tangle of arms and long legs lunged at her.

Emeline jerked the hot teapot away with the ease of long practice.

“M’man! M’man!” panted the demon child. His blond curls were quite deceptively angelic. “Cook says she has made currant buns. May I have one?”

Emeline set down the teapot and drew in a breath to castigate him, only to find Tante talking instead. “
Mais oui, mon chou!
Here, take a plate and Tante Cristelle will pick out the buns most plump for you.”

Emeline cleared her throat, and both boy and elderly aunt looked at her guiltily. She smiled meaningfully at her offspring. “Daniel, would you be so kind as to put down that bun clutched in your fist and make your bows to our guests?”

Daniel relinquished his rather squashed prize, and then regrettably wiped his palm on his breeches. Emeline took a breath but refrained from commenting. One skirmish at a time. She turned to the Hartleys. “May I present my son, Daniel Gordon, Baron Eddings.”

The imp made a very correct bow—beautiful enough to cause her bosom to swell with maternal pride. Not, of course, that Emeline let her satisfaction show; no need to make the boy vain. Mr. Hartley held out his hand in the exact same gesture that he’d given her yesterday. Her son beamed. Grown men didn’t usually offer their hands to eight-year-olds, no matter their rank. Gravely, Daniel took the much larger hand and shook it.