Royally Seduced

chapter 11


LILY PADDED DOWNSTAIRS in her chocolate-brown shorts and white tank top after waking up alone in the pleasantly mussed big bed. After a couple peeks into a formal dining room, family room and study, she found him in the kitchen. “There you are, Jack.” He sat at the big island in the middle of the room reading a newspaper.

“Have a good nap, Lily?” He set down the paper and swiveled to face her.

She nodded and yawned, her muscles pleasantly loose and relaxed from their romp upstairs and the nap that had followed it. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled his cheek. He was clean-shaven and smelled sunny, like lemons and green herbs. He must have showered while she was sleeping. “I’ve been asleep for a couple hours—you should have woken me up.”

“You needed the rest.” He kissed her neck and she halfheartedly pushed at him.

“Stop, Jack, I need to shower.”

“Mmm, you smell great.” He slipped his hand up her tank top, his long fingers unerringly finding her breast. “No bra, either.”

Lily relaxed into his embrace and was beginning to wonder if the granite countertop would feel terribly cold and hard on her back when her stomach growled. Not once, but three times.

Jack laughed and withdrew his hand, kissing her on the tip of her nose. “I am a poor host. We have been here for hours and the only thing we’ve had is some champagne.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “We’ve had a bit more than that.”

He laughed and stood up. “Food for now. The pantry is usually well-stocked, and we can drive to town later for fresh bread, fruits and vegetables.”

“And cheese, Jack. Ever since we had that wonderful late-night snack at the bed-and-breakfast, I’ve had a taste for goat cheese.”

“Layered with fresh tomato and basil, drizzled with fine olive oil and cracked black pepper,” Jack teased, making her mouth water.

“All right, you better get cooking.” She shook her finger at him and he laughed.

“This is a beautiful kitchen, Jack.” The big kitchen was bright and sunny, like everything in Provence. The walls were plastered in a creamy yellow, and the exposed ceiling beams were dark and weathered, as if they had been exposed to centuries of cooking smoke.

“I am glad you like it.” He dug through the large fridge. “Hmm. Not a lot of fresh ingredients, but I can make some pasta. How does that sound?”

“Lovely.” Lily hopped up onto the stool he’d vacated. The island’s base was cream weathered oak cabinetry to match the rest of the kitchen.

“Good.” Jack pulled out a large stockpot and filled it with water, setting it to boil. He went to the pantry and pulled out some cans and jars.

Lily was glad to have him cook but reminded herself to take some pictures for her blog. She scanned the room—a big brick fireplace and a seating area with a leather couch made the area cozy. “But why the fireplace? It doesn’t get terribly cold, does it?”

He nodded. “The fierce mistral wind can drop the temperature within minutes, and winter can be very damp and cold. We are thin-blooded here and not used to the low temperatures.”

She had a flash of her and Jack sitting on the leather couch in front of a lit fire. He would hand her a glass of rich red wine (that always seemed more like a winter beverage) and they would toast each other before snuggling together.

She shook her head. Winter was months away. She was returning to New York, and Jack was returning to the next dangerous disaster area that came along—not exactly good for a relationship.

Lily hopped up and paced toward the wide picture windows overlooking the back garden. She opened the French doors and stepped onto the flagstone patio. Big terra-cotta pots of herbs dotted the edges. Basil, thyme and tarragon. The warm, dry weather here was perfect for growing herbs. There was even a row of rosemary bushes near a bench. “Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,” she sang to herself.

“You have a lovely voice.” Jack was leaning against the door frame, a small stainless-steel colander in one hand.

“No, I don’t.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The choir director at my school told me I’d never improve unless I had private lessons.”

“And you didn’t get to have lessons?” he guessed, coming onto the patio.

She shrugged. “It was only my mom and me growing up, so it was hard for her to come up with the money for lessons.”

“The two of you? And your mother never remarried?”

Lily had to smile. “She finally did after I was grown. At least Stan is good around the house.” She burst out laughing.

“What?” Jack looked puzzled.

“Hmm.” She stopped laughing and gave him a steady look. He’d been nothing but open and honest with her, and she’d been holding back from him. “Let’s pick some herbs for the pasta.”

He nodded, and they quickly selected some thyme, tarragon and a touch of savory. Lily rinsed the herbs off in the sink while Jack broke spaghetti noodles into the pasta pot and heated a sauté pan on the stove with a splash of olive oil and chopped garlic.

With his back to her, it was easier to tell her story. “I grew up in a house like that big manor house we passed on the way in.”

He whipped around to look at her, a puzzled look on his face. Obviously she was not some rich girl out for a lark in Europe.

“My mother was the housekeeper,” she clarified.

“Oh.” He nodded. “Hence your taste for truffles and foie gras. You have a very sophisticated palate.”

“Oui.” She wrinkled her nose in amusement. “As the American phrase goes, I have champagne tastes with a beer budget.”

“Another fascinating colloquialism. I am improving my English thanks to you every day.”

She rolled her eyes in bemusement. He spoke better English than many native speakers.

“And you know I am more than happy to supply you champagne whenever you desire.” The smoky look he shot her sent shivers down her spine. “But did the family you worked for treat you well?”

“Mrs. Wyndham isn’t the warm and cuddly type, but she’s always been fair with my mother and me,” she allowed. “My father was killed in a car accident when I was a baby and my mother started working as an assistant to the housekeeper. When she retired, Mom took her job and we moved into the carriage house over the garage. It was bigger than the tiny Philly apartment we’d been living in and the countrylike atmosphere of the upscale Main Line suburb seemed like paradise.”

Jack nodded as he sliced a narrow, pepperoni-like sausage into slices. “Rip up those herbs and tell me more.”

Lily busied herself with pulling the fresh leaves from their stems, the spicy green scent a kind of aromatherapy. “You know, I never like talking about this.”

He paused slicing and raised his head. “Why not? Are you ashamed of the work your mother did? That she was a servant?”

“Don’t call her that!” Lily snapped without thinking.

He gazed at her steadily. “To serve is not a shameful thing. A widow with a small child would have had limited choices in careers—that is, if she wanted to keep you with her instead of giving you up to relatives or foster care.”

Lily bit her lip.

“I am a servant, too,” he continued. “I serve the poor and the needy instead of the rich. Does that make my work of even less value?”

“No.” She struggled with a particularly tough stem but her hands were shaking with emotion. “That’s different. That’s charity—altruism for the less fortunate.”

He set down the knife. “Charity begins at home. I know that American saying. But your mother did her work out of love for you, an even more powerful motivation.”

Lily stared down at the green mess in her bowl. Jack dumped the cooked pasta into a colander in the sink and shut off the burner under the sauté pan.

He came around the island and gathered her into his arms. “I am sorry. This is a tender subject for you and you are hungry and tired.”

She shook her head. “You’re right. I guess I resent it sometimes. Being the poorest kid in a school full of rich ones wasn’t the best situation.”

“Oh, Lily.” He started to say something and then stopped, kissing the top of her head.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and settled into his embrace. Had she ever really discussed her childhood with anyone but Sarah? She doubted it. “You make me think about things I don’t usually think about.”

“Then don’t. Madame Finch would whack me with a ruler for treating you so poorly. We are here to relax and get to know each other, that’s all.”

How could she let him get to know her when she didn’t know herself? For a writer, she was singularly not interested in self-reflection. Maybe that was why she wrote how-to and travel articles instead of weepy book-club memoirs. And really, what did she have to complain about? She sighed. Maybe it was time to look at her unusually overprivileged underprivileged childhood.

Jack pulled back so he could see her face. “Still want to eat?”

“Still want to feed me?” she parroted back.

“Of course.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips and then rinsed the mass of pasta before tossing the sausage into the sauté pan. He pulled a jar of sun-dried tomatoes from the fridge and chopped them before adding them and the herbs to the pan. Once everything was heated through, he shook out the excess pasta water and dumped the noodles into the olive oil mix, stirring to coat them.

Lily found a couple plates and he served them heaping helpings with a generous grating of Parmesan cheese on top. While it cooled for a minute, he poured a ruby-red wine into what had to be Irish lead crystal—the real, handcut kind. “Bon appétit.”

It was beautiful, had taken ten minutes and was straight from jars and boxes. A perfect recipe for her blog. “Wait a second.” She sprinted upstairs and brought back her camera, taking several shots of the food and wine.

“All right, all right, enough with the photos,” he finally said after a few minutes. “The pasta is getting cold and you need to eat.”

She grumbled a bit but was secretly pleased at his concern for her well-being.

He raised his glass in a toast. “To Lily. I am so lucky we met.”

“To Jack.” She raised hers, as well. “For showing me the real France—and a lot of a certain real Frenchman.”

He laughed and sipped his wine. “Eat, eat.”

The food was exquisite, as good as any restaurant meal she’d had. “You’re almost as good in the kitchen as my mother’s new husband, Stan.”

“Ah, you did mention he was skilled around the house—he can cook, as well?”

Lily couldn’t help giggling. “I should hope so. He’s the Wyndham family chef.”

“Lovely!” Jack started to laugh. “The housekeeper finds happiness with the family chef.”

“Their new house is spotless and they eat like kings. What more could you ask for?”

“Love.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she knew he meant it. “If they have love, then nothing else matters.”

“Nothing? Not money or age or different backgrounds?”

He was already shaking his head. “Nothing. Everything else can be dealt with, but love is the one thing that should never be compromised.”

“They do love each other,” Lily whispered. Sometimes it made her feel left out since it had been just Mom and her for so many years. But she was a woman now, and it was time to let her mother be a woman in her own right, as well. “Have you ever loved like that?” she blurted and then immediately blushed. If she were going to drink wine like a Frenchwoman, she needed to get better control of her tongue.

He stared steadily at her and she raised her glass to block the mortified expression on her face. He waited to answer her until she had set down her glass. She couldn’t spend the entire meal hiding behind it, despite her cheeks that felt as red as the wine. “I thought I did once, but I was wrong. And you?”

Turnabout was fair play and she answered him as bluntly. “No, never. Not even close.”

He nodded. “I know we are not in love, Lily, but I am glad we are lovers.”

“Lovers.” She tested the word on her lips, remembering the first time she had used it with the Frenchwoman on the train. Then, it had been awkward and embarrassing. But now that she and Jack truly were lovers, it was natural and freeing to say the word, at least with him. “Yes, I am glad, too.”

Not that she would go around introducing him like that, as in, Have you met my lover, Jack? Really, a woman had to draw the line somewhere in maintaining some mystery.

“However long you want me—you want us, Lily,” he promised solemnly.

That was what she wanted, too—but what if she wanted him forever? The thought stunned her, and she used her jaw dropping as an excuse to shovel in a mouthful of pasta. Lovers did not equal forever; it was a live-in-the-moment kind of thing.

He watched her eat for a minute, satisfied that she was replenishing her body, and then settled down to his meal. They chatted as they ate, finding common interests in music, art and movies. They of course had different perspectives, but that made it more interesting to debate the fine points. He was witty and well-read, intelligent and amusing.

Lily paused for a second and looked at Jack and looked at their amazing meal. Their relationship was like the pasta—hot and fresh, but after a certain point would get cold and lumpy, not ever quite living up to its original flavor. But for now, oh, was it delicious.



THE NEXT DAY, Jack left Lily chatting with her cousin via webcam and headed out to meet Jean-Claude to talk about estate business. This was the first summer in many years that Jack had been in Provence for the lavender harvest, and Jean-Claude was eager to involve him. Probably so Jack wouldn’t stay away so long again. Halfway up the hill to the field, his own phone rang.

He smiled at the display and answered it. “Bonjour, chérie.”

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad to talk to you. I was worried to death when George told me you were sick.” It was Stevie, his little sister in all but DNA. Even though Princess Stefania was a beautiful grown-up lady, he couldn’t help remembering her as the inconsolable twelve-year-old who had come to live with them after the death of her parents. George had been a sophomore at the university living off-campus with Jack and Frank, but had quickly hired a housekeeper to care for Stefania and make sure their flat wasn’t condemned by the New York Board of Health.

“George tells me you are in Provence now. Good for you. I never liked Paris that much anyway.”

He grinned. Translation: Stevie never liked his mother that much anyway, and had absolutely detested Nadine. “How else can I make sure your lavender will be ready for the parfumerie?”

“I know, and I’m absolutely thrilled you’re doing this. I want to sell the perfume and give all the proceeds to my charity—you know, the obnoxiously named Princess Stefania of Vinciguerra Foundation for Women and Children?”

“Why is that obnoxious?”

“Because, dummy, my grandmother set it up when I was too young to know any better and named it after me, as if I wanted to blow my own horn. On the other hand, that self-servingly-named foundation is going to pay for several new schools in poor countries and is rescuing girls from sex slavery in Western Europe as we speak. But don’t tell anyone about that last part, because I fund them under the table. Dangerous work, prying girls away from their pimps.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Am I to assume you’ve gone on these missions yourself?”

“Assume whatever you like,” she said airily. “I will categorically deny we’ve ever had this conversation if necessary.”

He shook his head. “Stevie, are you working for the CIA now?”

She laughed. “And if I did, would I tell you? Besides, I am a loyal subject of my brother and our principality.”

Which wasn’t much of an answer, but she had always been maddening in her own lovable way.

“Don’t work too hard on the lavender harvest. Jean-Claude can handle it,” she informed him.

“Stevie, I am not some ancient invalid. I have been quite active the past several days and have no ill effects.” He smiled at the memory of several of his activities.

“What have you been up to?” Her tone was suspicious.

“What?” She caught him off guard. Maybe she did work for the CIA.

“What kind of activities?” she repeated and then paused. “You have a woman there with you, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied with some dignity.

“Mmm-hmm. What’s her name?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” And he wasn’t going to talk about his sex life with Stevie.

“So you do have someone!” She sounded delighted. “Have Jean-Claude and Marthe-Louise met her yet?”

A reluctant laugh was dragged from him. “Stefania…”

“Uh-oh, you only call me that when you are trying to be stern and paternal. Tell me her name.”

“Lily.” It slipped out. But once he did, he couldn’t stop grinning. He’d been hugging the secret of his new relationship to his chest like a teenager with a photo of a movie star, and Stefania was the first of his friends to learn about Lily. Next thing he knew, he’d be skipping through the lavender fields, sniffing a sprig and mooning over Lily. At least the field workers would get a hearty laugh.

“Really? I was just guessing, you know. Is she French?”

“American. But we met in Paris.”

“An American in Paris.” Stevie hummed a few bars of the Gershwin ballet. “Did you dance around the fountain with her?”

“I am no Gene Kelly.” Jack smirked. Thanks to ten years of dance class, Stevie was extremely knowledgeable about ballet. Good thing she couldn’t see him tap dancing around her inquisitive nature. “But we went to the Parc Buttes-Chaumont.”

“How dreamy,” she sighed. “You met, swept her off her feet and then whisked her off to your ancestral home in Provence. Jack, sweetie pie, you are becoming quite the romantic. You sound like those novels I love to read.”

“Enough, enough.” His cheeks were heating.

“Well, whoever Lily is, she can’t be any worse than Nadine. Ugh.”

“Stefania…” he said in warning.

She grinned. “Again with the stern authoritarian tone. But I also wanted to let you know Dieter and I have set our wedding date. We met with the bishop and chose a date next June because I want all the roses blooming for me. That’s only eleven months away! And I want to give you enough time to make my perfume, right?”

“Of course. We will press the oil right after harvest and then you and the perfumer can create a blend and choose a bottle and packaging.”

“Great, Jack.” She blew kisses into the phone. “Take care of yourself,” she reminded him. “No more parasitic infections for you. You and Frank are ushers at my wedding, so I want you to look good in your tux.”

“It would be an honor.”

“Maybe you can come see me in New York when you feel better?”

“Of course.” They said their goodbyes and Jack hung up, staring thoughtfully across the purple valley of his farm.

Traveling to New York in a few weeks? Lily lived in New Jersey, a quick train ride from Manhattan. But did she want him to come visit her? He blew out a sigh of frustration. He hated uncertainty. As the old American saying went, failure to plan meant planning to fail.

What was his plan with Lily? He knew one thing, though—he didn’t want her to leave. Was that a plan? To keep her with him indefinitely. Or forever?