Then his meaning hit and a gasp slipped out before she could restrain it. Never had her father been anything but a specter in their family, a once-man who was rarely spoken of and then without affection. But never had she considered that he might not be her father.
Her mother squared her shoulders. “We really must be going.” Her words were again in French, and at a normal volume. “But my daughter and I were planning a ride through the country in the morning, just after breakfast. Perhaps you would be so good as to escort us, monsieur?”
He tilted his head. “I would be honored.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Mère let go of her daughter’s arm and spun around again.
Julienne remained rooted to her spot, her gaze fixed on the handsome face only a step away. Questions wanted to riot, but they settled when his eyes locked on hers. Nearly every night she had dreamed of those eyes, as warm a brown as a cup of café. They were trustworthy eyes. No matter the questions, no matter the unexplained, that much she knew. Whoever this man really was, she could trust him. Did trust him.
Somehow her fingers laced with his. She didn’t realize she had lifted her hand, but there it was, halfway between them. She shifted so that if Mère turned around, Julienne’s body would block her view.
His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb stroked over her knuckles.
“Come, ma cherie.” Impatience colored her mother’s voice.
Both squeezed, both let go. Julienne sighed even as he grinned at her and said, “A demain, Julienne.”
She nodded and memorized his face so that her dreams could recall it without flaw that night. “Until tomorrow.”
Her mother linked their arms together, no doubt to propel her more quickly away. All too soon they had left the grotto behind them, though Julienne couldn’t resist turning her head as they were about to round a corner. Yes, he was still there, watching them go.
“Foolish girl.” Mère pulled her onward, worry now making her voice heavy and low. “Please remove that look of longing from your face. You cannot know…if the duc realizes…”
Julienne lifted a brow, though even as argument sprang to her tongue she took note of the lines around Mère’s mouth and eyes, deepened just in the last minute. “If he realizes what, Maman? That I find another man handsome, or that I am apparently not the daughter of the comte de Rouen?”
Though she had spoken at a bare murmur, for a moment she thought her mother would clap a hand over her mouth, so frantic were the eyes she turned on her. “Hush, child! Well you know that the hedges at Versailles have ears, just as surely as the walls and rooms.”
“We are safer out here than anywhere. Tell me, please. What did he mean? Who is the Earl of Poole?”
Mère shook her head and pressed her lips together, urging Julienne to a faster pace. “Nothing. He is no one.”
“Maman—”
“I will not speak of this here, not now. Tomorrow, ma fille, I will explain, but today…” She offered a smile, but it looked…frightened. Which was strange. Never in her life could Julienne remember seeing her mother frightened. “Today you must concentrate on the duc. He is expecting us.”
Dread churned into nausea. And left her wondering if it was this Englishman her mother feared…or the duc de Remi.
Three
Fairchild settled on a bench within view of the stables and tilted up his face to receive the warm morning sunshine. The air was still cool and damp, and it reminded him of home. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he sat in the gardens at his father’s Hampshire estate. He could pretend he was still a boy, with no cares beyond avoiding his tutor as long as he could manage it and devising a new trick to play on his older brothers.
Sometimes he could scarcely believe that he had wandered so far from what had once been home. That he had seen the Americas, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean. That he had fought in wars, had commanded troops, had watched so many friends fall beneath the sword.
And that when he had returned to Fairmonte, it had still all seemed the same. Untouched.
He stretched out his fingers, yearning for the familiar pages of his Bible. He hadn’t dared bring it with him—’twas an English translation, and he hadn’t a French one. And though he would by necessity confess to Lady Poole and Lady Julienne that he was British, he could not risk anyone else discovering it. They would certainly remain silent because it was their secrets he carried. But the rest of the court…
Father in heaven, open their hearts to hear Lord Poole’s plea. Help me to convince them quickly of the need for them to return to England. Clear the path homeward, please.
He opened his eyes, but still Julienne’s face filled his mind. And insulate my heart.