The French Maid (2 page)

Her smile faltered. “Yes. I’m sorry I’m late.”

She stood there expectantly, as if waiting for something from him, but he couldn’t imagine what. “Well, then, I suppose we’d best be going.” Her nod of response was less than enthusiastic. It was only much later, after they’d both sat for an hour through the Ladies Association meeting, that he realized he hadn’t mentioned to her how fine she looked. He really ought to have done so.

As soon as the meeting was over, he headed toward Eleanor. She was surrounded by other ladies, who were exclaiming over the very thing he’d forgotten to say. He squelched a tiny stab of guilt. He had a lot on his mind, after all, and Eleanor surely understood that.

One of the ladies mentioned that they planned to stop at a nearby hotel for tea and cakes and asked Eleanor to join them. She glanced at him. She usually accompanied him home from these affairs and joined him for some nuncheon before he left for Parliament. But if she went with her companions, he could skip that and head off to the sessions that much sooner.

“Go on then and enjoy yourself,” he told her, ignoring the niggling sense that something would be missing in his day if he did not take her home with him as usual. After all, there was always tonight.

He turned away too quickly to see the look of disappointment that clouded her features.

* * *

It was long past ten o’clock and Eleanor stood motionless in her bedchamber as Babette fitted a nightdress of impossibly thin silk to her form and stitched it into place. Lord knows how she’d managed to transform one of Eleanor’s old gowns into this confection in one day, but the girl did work magic, to be sure. Still …

“The stitches will not hold,” Eleanor murmured.

“I should hope not,” Babette retorted with her musical laugh. She stood back to survey Eleanor and smiled knowingly. “His lordship will be very pleased.”

“If he even notices.”

Eleanor had told Babette all about Henry’s reaction—his non- reaction—to her appearance earlier. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to confess her deepest disappointments to the French Maid, but it somehow seemed right, even wise. She’d never confided in a servant, not even ones who’d been with her family for years, yet the moment she’d met Babette, she’d wanted to do so. It was very odd, yet she couldn’t regret it.

“His lordship will notice, rest assured,” Babette said. “And if he is too lazy to say anything—”

“Lazy! That’s the trouble—he’s not lazy at all. I sometimes wish he were. At least then I could have time with him. Why, he didn’t even come home for dinner this evening. Not that it’s unusual, but I had hoped …”

Babette gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “A man can be industrious in one area of life and lazy in another. Your husband is like many men—he sees no reason to exert effort on behalf of his marriage. But a good marriage requires hard work. From the wife and from the husband. So we must tempt him to make the effort,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Good luck,” Eleanor muttered.

The maid’s eyes narrowed on her. “And you, too—you have a bit of laziness. You give up too easily.”

“I do not!” “Did you ask him to come home for supper? Did you tell him you would rather forego tea and cakes with the ladies for time spent with him?”

“He wouldn’t have listened,” she murmured, though she knew Babette had a point. “Besides, if I had asked and he’d ignored the request …” She trailed off, her stomach clenching.

Compassion shone in Babette’s face as she touched Eleanor’s arm. “Ah, my lady, do you not see? If you venture nothing, you gain nothing. Fear saps the energy, it prevents us from acting, it keeps us standing still when we should move forward. You must be willing to risk pain before you can find love.”

A noise in the adjoining room made Babette straighten. “He comes, and so I must go. But be bold. He is your husband, no? The worst he can do is wound your pride.” She pointed to Eleanor’s chest. “He cannot hurt your heart unless you let him.”

The lock turned in the connecting door and Eleanor faced it quickly, scarcely aware of Babette vanishing through the other door. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded. She’d never dressed so daringly before. She’d never awaited Henry anywhere but in the bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin, afraid that he might think her a loose woman if she did otherwise. Babette had tried to convince her she was wrong in that, but years of Mama’s admonitions still made her anxious.

And when the door swung open and he stepped inside, she feared for a moment that Babette had been horribly mistaken. Henry stood stock-still, his hand clutching the knob. His black eyes skimmed her thinly clad body, making her blush.

Then he closed the door. “You look wonderful,” he whispered in a ragged voice, as if the words were torn from him. “Remind me to thank Babette tomorrow.”

A shaft of pain shot through her before she could prevent it. Then she set her shoulders.
If you venture nothing
… She walked toward him. “Babette created the gown, Henry, but I am the one wearing it.”

He blinked at her admonition, then joined her in the middle of the room. “And wearing it very well,” he murmured as he drew her into his arms.

Triumph swept her. That was a decided improvement on his first comment.

Then he was kissing her, and all she knew was Henry … hard and lean, pressing into her, stroking her body, touching her in ways he’d never touched her before. His whiskers rasped against her cheek as he kissed along her jawbone. He drew back abruptly to murmur, “I’m sorry … I should have shaved.”

An apology—would wonders never cease? “I don’t mind,” she said delightedly and found his mouth once more. His kisses were intimate, warm, more fervent than usual. He soon drew her to the bed, and she knelt on it to watch as he stripped off his clothes with frantic haste.

Usually she averted her eyes when he undressed, though she sometimes peeked when he wasn’t looking. But tonight, she feasted on the sight of him—his surprisingly muscular chest, his wiry arms, the flat belly leading downward …

She sucked in a breath. He was always aroused when he came to her, but tonight seemed different somehow. He seemed more eager, more impatient, and she exulted over that.

Without thinking, she reached to touch him there, something she’d always been too timid to attempt. He groaned, but when she jerked back, he grabbed her hand, then pressed it to his flesh. “Yes, darling, touch me. Please.”

Darling? Please?
The uncharacteristic words moistened her parched heart, and she swayed toward him. He clasped her close as he lowered her to the bed, showering her with kisses, covering her with caresses.

They made love quickly, both of them overeager and fired by need. Emboldened by his earlier response, she tried things she’d never attempted, caressed him in places she’d previously assumed were unacceptable—arching her body into him as she sought to learn every part of this man she scarcely knew.

And as he took her, it felt as if he struck to her very soul. She opened to receive him as she never really had before. “Ah, my darling wife,” he growled into her ear as he drove harder, deeper, faster. “You are exquisite, my angel …”

That was all it took to make her explode and cry out her release in his arms.

After they were done, he dragged her into his arms, and whispered, “You’re a seductress, Eleanor, a bloody seductress. Why did you never show it before?”

She smiled with immense satisfaction. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention.”

He nuzzled her hair. “Well, I’m damn well paying attention now.”

Clasping her close, he settled her against his chest. She waited for the easy breathing that generally signaled the end to their intimacies, but instead he talked. And talked. And talked some more.

He asked her questions and told her of his childhood. He coaxed her into doing the same. She was stunned by the secrets he kept inside, as stunned as she was by the secrets that poured from her own mouth.

When he made love to her again later, she knew something had changed between them, for he’d never made love to her more than once in a night. And this time it was a slow burning sparked with tenderness, followed by a sweet pleasure that drowned her in contentment.

As at last they drifted off to sleep, she hugged him close. Tomorrow everything would be different. Babette had been right. All it took was boldness. Why hadn’t she tried it before?

* * *

When she awakened, she felt a faint unease to find she was alone. Surely Henry had stayed the night as usual. She glanced at the clock and jerked upright.

Oh, dear, it was already 9 a.m. No wonder he was gone— Henry always rose quite early. If he wasn’t in his room, Henry would be fretting at the breakfast table. She hurried from the bed and tried the connecting door, but it was locked as always. That bothered her a bit, but she tried not to read too much into it. Henry liked his privacy, after all.

Changing out of her new nightdress buoyed her spirits once more, however, for she couldn’t help remembering how Henry had slowly stripped it from her last night, turning every brush of silk into an enticing seduction.

She was still blushing when she strolled into the dressing room to find Babette waiting for her. “You look … contented,” the maid said smugly.

Eleanor’s blush deepened. “I
am
contented, thanks to you.”

“I only gave a little push. You did the rest.”

“Was Henry here when you came in earlier?” Eleanor asked.

“No. Perhaps he returned to his own room?”

Tamping down her disappointment, Eleanor said, “I don’t think so. He’s probably already at breakfast.”

“You must not expect everything to change overnight, my lady.”

“I know.” Still, today
was
their wedding anniversary, and she had hoped …

But surely he would not have forgotten, not now, not after last night. She brightened. He might be awaiting her downstairs this very moment with a gift. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t stayed.

As soon as she finished dressing, she hastened to the dining room, but instead of Henry, she found a note lying on the plate set at her place. She opened the folded paper, her heart sinking as she read the terse words:

Sorry I couldn’t join you for breakfast, but I have an important Parliament session to prepare for. I’ll be in my study. Do have a tray sent in to me before time for the session this afternoon. If I’m late tonight, don’t wait up.

She read the words twice, a cold despair snaking about her heart as she crumpled the note in her hand. Nothing had changed. Only this time, it was so much worse. Her disappointment was so intense it destroyed her dreams for the future and shattered her pleasure in last night’s intimacies.

Numbly, she climbed the stairs to her room. Until now, she’d always considered the image of a heart breaking to be silly. A heart was made of flesh and muscle—how could such a thing break?

But now she could swear she heard her heart crack, split right down the center. She certainly felt the pain radiate through her limbs.

When she entered her room, Babette was there, but Eleanor paid the maid’s surprised look no heed. Instead, she walked to the clothespress and began dragging out gowns and tossing them onto her bed, the one she’d shared so joyously with Henry only last night.

“Babette, please have John bring my trunk from the attic,” she said in her coolest, most mistress-like voice, to discourage the French Maid from further conversation.

She should have known better. “What are you doing, my lady?” Babette asked.

Eleanor whirled around. “Do you know what today is? It’s the first anniversary of my wedding to Henry. I expected… I hoped…” She broke off, emotion choking her throat. “It doesn’t matter.
This
is what Henry has planned for our special day.” She dropped the note at Babette’s feet, then continued folding clothes into neat little piles.

Babette scanned the note swiftly, then cursed in French under her breath. Eleanor couldn’t make out the words, but thought that she’d called Henry an ass. Eleanor quite agreed.

Babette lifted her head. “So you are running away.”

“Yes. Go on, say whatever you like.” Eleanor’s lower lip trembled, though she struggled for calm. “I’m going to visit my mother for a few days. With any luck, things will have returned to normal when I come back.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No!” Clutching a half-folded petticoat against her belly, Eleanor bent her head to hide her tears. “I want Henry to love me as I love him. But trying to make him love me is not working.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s too hard, and it hurts too much when he doesn’t. Perhaps you’re right—I am lazy and afraid to risk my heart. But I’ll go mad if this keeps happening. I’d rather go back to the way it was before, when I didn’t know …”

She choked back tears. “When I didn’t realize how wonderful he can be when he chooses and what I’m missing when he locks himself away.” Her eyes met Babette’s sympathetic ones, and she swallowed. “There are too many locked doors between us, Babette. And I lack the beauty or the strength or … something to break them down.”

She’d expected an argument from Babette, who’d been such a fountain of advice yesterday. But apparently the fountain had dried up, for the French Maid merely said, “I understand” and began to help her pack.

* * *

Henry sat in his study and stared blindly at the pages in front of him. That was all he’d done for the past two hours, all he’d been able to manage.

He couldn’t stop thinking of last night. No matter how much he tried to concentrate on his work, he kept remembering the surprises … the warmth … the sweet caresses. He could still hear Eleanor’s hushed voice washing over him, commiserating with all the nonsensical pains of his childhood, all the minor disappointments of his life. Last night Eleanor had crept inside where no one ever had, and the truth was, it terrified him.

He hadn’t meant to let her in. Deep down he’d probably always known that if he did, she’d turn his world upside down. And now she had. One night of bliss, and she already invaded sacrosanct territory—his work, his thoughts, his control. What would she expect of him after this?