Royally Seduced

chapter 12


LILY LOOKED UP from her computer screen and rolled her neck to loosen the kinks. She would much rather be smooching with Jack in the big bed upstairs, but she’d already neglected her blog for the past couple days to do just that.

Traffic was increasing. Sarah, although pretty much confined to her recliner at home, was doing a champion job of cross-posting her blog to various travel sites, sites aimed at young single women and foodie websites. Lily hadn’t intended to be so food-oriented, but her photos of the Provence markets and descriptions of Madame Roussel’s late-night hors d’oeuvres proved popular, according to her blog traffic stats.

Lily had mentioned “Pierre” a few times in her blog posts. Not the sex parts, obviously, because it wasn’t that kind of a blog. Sarah was already anxious about Lily traveling with Jack. She didn’t need to get all the lurid details. Lily might tell her at some later date, but only when Lily was safely back home.

At this point, Lily would take all the traffic she could get. She got up and walked around the desk. Jack had set her up in the guesthouse study, which was a far cry from her makeshift “office” at her breakfast bar at home.

A wall of books stood behind the desk, which was a rustic-looking wooden plank several inches thick varnished and fastened to four heavy square legs. It matched the exposed beams in the ceiling and was big enough to spread out several reference books on Provence—cook-books with mouth-watering recipes, coffee-table photo books of breath-taking photography and of course an assortment of memoirs and travelogues describing falling-down farmhouses, weed-choked olive groves and robust peasant neighbors.

But all Lily had to do was look out the floor-to-ceiling picture windows to see Provence for herself. The study was tucked into the corner of the house where she could see the lavender fields and upright, skinny evergreens, and nary a weed or crumbling building in sight. Jack’s friends certainly had pride in their property.

Pride and lots of money. She’d grown up around it and could smell it, like a new dollar bill fresh from the mint.

Lily’s email program dinged and she found a new message. Ooh, from Margo, an editor at Fashionista Magazine. But why would she want to email her? She wasn’t writing about clothes, and her own fashion style on this trip had consisted of either hiking outfits or being buck naked.

She clicked on the icon and read the screen, stunned. The editor was interested in her blog and wanted her to write an online column on traveling in France from the point of view of a hip, single woman. Lily rolled her eyes. She didn’t know how hip she was, but, hey, she could fake it.

She read on. Oh. They wanted her to write about Frenchmen in general, “Pierre” in particular. She’d never shown Jack’s face in any photos she’d posted, but perhaps the element of mystery had intrigued the editor, who had left her number with an invitation to call her for more details.

Ten minutes later after calling New York, Lily had agreed to posts every other day, which would be linked on the magazine site’s home page. And Margo had hinted there would be more work for her, maybe even feature articles in the print version of the magazine. Lily didn’t know exactly what her topics might be, since she wasn’t going to travel around Europe dating more men just so she could write about them. Professional dating was not to her liking.

She and Margo had agreed on some boundaries for her blogs. The editor, of course, was interested in as much juicy detail as Lily would offer, but Jack had a vested interest in not becoming the latest internet heartthrob.

She’d have to double-check with him about being a semifictional character in her blog—names and details changed to protect the innocent, as they said on TV.

Jack came into the study. “Bonjour, chérie.” He leaned over the desk and kissed her.

“Guess what, Jack?” She told him about her new writing job.

“I am not surprised at your success, Lily. Your sincere interest in my country comes through in your work.”

She took a deep breath. “The editor wants me to write about you, as well.”

“Me?” His eyebrows shot up. “But you have hardly mentioned me and you aren’t even using my real name.”

“She says American women are fascinated by Frenchmen and wants more detail about dating and romance in France. But I don’t want to put any of our own personal situation online,” she added hastily.

He rubbed his chin. “Dating and romance in France is much the same as anywhere else, but I’m sure you and I can think of something that editor might like. But again, I have to ask you not to post any photos that show my face.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

“What would you like to do this afternoon? Research French romance?”

Lily pressed her lips together and thought. The view out the window caught her eye again. “Get a tour of the manor house.”

He blinked in surprise.

“That is, if your friends don’t mind,” she amended, not wanting to be a bad guest.

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Marthe-Louise would be delighted to show us around.”

“Great.” Lily shut down her computer and grabbed her camera. “Let’s go.”



DELIGHTED WAS AN understatement—the plump woman in her fifties was ecstatic to see Jack. If she’d been any younger, Lily would have been jealous. “Jacques, oh, mon petit Jacques!” She spotted them at the kitchen door and wiped her hands on her apron before dragging Jack inside.

“Marthe-Louise is the housekeeper here,” he called, as the older woman plastered his cheeks in teary kisses.

“She certainly remembers you fondly.”

He grinned ruefully and said something soothing to Marthe-Louise, patting her shoulder. “Okay, Marthe-Louise, this is Lily. Lily, this is Marthe-Louise.”

“Lee-Lee!” Marthe-Louise released Jack and seized Lily, kissing her vigorously twice on each cheek. She unleashed a torrent of excited French. “Ah, belle, belle, si belle!”

“She says you are very beautiful.”

Lily blushed and Marthe-Louise cooed and pinched her reddening cheek before asking Jack a question.

He nodded and replied at length. The housekeeper gave him an exasperated look but finally nodded her head.

“Merci.” Jack blew the older woman a kiss and she giggled. “She will give us a tour of the house but needs to straighten up a bit first.”

“Oh, okay.” The house looked immaculate, but there was probably a pile of mail here and a newspaper there that would take away from the manorial splendor.

The housekeeper darted out and returned in a couple minutes.

The house was impressive, with a huge salon and dining area for hosting large soirées, several sitting rooms, a giant library filled with books that Lily itched to read and a glass-enclosed conservatory, or orangerie, where they grew potted orange and lemon trees for fresh fruit during the winter.

It was a massive building, but with few personal touches and no family portraits. Probably those were upstairs in the living quarters, which weren’t part of the tour.

They returned to the kitchen, easily twice the size of the kitchen at the guesthouse. “Ongree?” Marthe-Louise asked.

“What?” Lily asked politely.

“You ongree?” she asked her.

“Oh, hungry.” Her stomach growled and they all laughed. “Yes, I am hungry.”

The housekeeper flew into action and quickly had a platter of crusty sliced bread with a variety of spreads in little ceramic pots.

Jack pointed to one pot and then the next. “Olive and dried figs for a sweet-and-salty mix, fresh tuna and olive, and chickpeas with cumin—a variation on hummus.”

“And pasta,” Marthe-Louise added. “Jack, he no tell moi he come. Bad, bad boy.” She retaliated by smacking his arm. “I cook now.”

Jack opened a cabinet and got out three wineglasses. He opened the under-counter wine refrigerator and pulled out a couple different bottles before settling on a white wine. He certainly was making himself at home in the manor house kitchen, and Lily glanced nervously at Marthe-Louise to make sure she didn’t think it was presumptuous.

Jack set the full glass next to the housekeeper’s elbow, and she thanked him, so it wasn’t a problem for her. Lily relaxed a bit, especially when he lifted his glass in a toast. “A votre santé. To your health.”

“And to yours.” He had lost the gaunt, pale look in his cheeks and this giant lunch would help fill out the rest of him. “Bon appétit.” He and Marthe-Louise smiled approvingly at her French.

Lily didn’t know if gorged was quite the right word to describe what she and Jack did to the little slices of breads and savory toppings, but once she took artsy, foodie photos of the Provence-made yellow ceramic dish with its black fig spread and the red ceramic dish with the creamy tan chickpea spread, gorged came close. Good thing tuna spread wiped off her phone, which she used to make notes for her next blog.

Marthe-Louise was pouring a green sauce into her top-of-the-line food processor to blend with several cloves of garlic and a couple egg yolks while a pasta pot bubbled on the stove. She stopped to shake a spoon at Jack and scold him.

“Okay, okay.” He laughed. “We should save some room for her spaghetti.”

Lily obediently put down her last crust of bread. She really needed to get some physical exercise in or else she would need to buy a second seat for her plane ride back to New York. Her plane ride scheduled four days from now. Well.

Marthe-Louise drained the spaghetti and poured in the rich green sauce, letting it sit.

Lily elbowed Jack. “Those are raw egg yolks. Haven’t you had enough digestive problems?”

He whispered back, “Those are from her very own chickens and the heat of the pasta cooks them. No bad eggs allowed. Except for me, of course.”

She giggled. Jack was about as far from a bad egg as you could find in a man. “You’re a good egg.” She rested her hand on his knee and aimed a kiss for his cheek.

He turned his head and her kiss landed on his mouth. He deepened the kiss and Lily opened her lips under him. He tasted spicy and warm, and she promptly forgot they weren’t alone until he broke the kiss and smiled at her.

“Ah, l’amour, c’est grand!” Marthe-Louise was smiling too, and Lily blushed at the housekeeper’s mention of love. The older woman gave Jack a doting glance as she dished green pasta. “Eat, eat. Then go sleep.”

“How about it? Do you feel like an afternoon nap?” Jack murmured.

“Do we have to sleep?” she replied, and he laughed again, a hearty, baritone sound.

“Not unless you want to.” He twirled a forkful of noodles and popped it into her mouth.

“Oh, yum.” The garlic and basil mixed with the creamy egg yolks slid perfectly over the firm spaghetti.

Jack took a bite and hummed in pleasure, calling compliments to Marthe-Louise, who modestly waved a spoon at him.

They nibbled away at the pasta until Lily really did feel tired. “Jack, about that nap…”

He pushed away his bowl as well and glanced at the old ceramic clock on the countertop. “It is siesta time, and I have had enough carbohydrates to knock me unconscious.”

“Let’s be unconscious together.” Lily hopped off the stool and wavered slightly. Jack steadied her.

“Au revoir, Marthe-Louise.” He kissed her three times and pinched her cheek. She put one arm around him and scolded him affectionately, waggling her finger in his face. He protested tolerantly, gesturing nearly as much as she did. “She says to stop by anytime and she will cook us anything we want. She won’t be happy until I am round and portly like her husband, Jean-Claude. He has never been sick a day in his life thanks to her cooking.”

The housekeeper nodded emphatically, pushing a platter of pastries and a second bottle of wine into their hands.

“An afternoon snack?” Lily asked.

“For later. I may burst at any minute.” He blew Marthe-Louise a kiss, leading Lily out of the kitchen to the gravel driveway leading to their guesthouse.

“She certainly takes good care of you. She knew you were sick?”

“Yes, but really, she’s usually like that anyway. Eat, eat, eat. It’s a good thing the men around here have physical jobs to burn off all the good cooking. And me, who practically has a doctor’s prescription to do nothing but gain weight? A dream come true.”

He was, but not necessarily in the culinary arena. Marthe-Louise obviously loved Jack like a son. She’d seen her own mother make sure Mrs. Wyndham was well-fed and living in clean surroundings, but her mother had never evinced this degree of maternal affection toward a guest of the family—she’d saved all that for Lily. She blurted, “I should call my mother.”

“Of course,” he said easily. “Feel free to use the phone at the guesthouse.” He shifted the wine bottle under his opposite arm and offered her his elbow. The gravel crunched under their feet as they strolled uphill. The air was hot and still, the buzz of the cicadas crescendoing with the rising afternoon temperature.

“I have an international plan on my cellphone.” It would be almost cheaper to fly home to talk with her mother in person if they spent much time on the phone.

“Unnecessary,” he said promptly. “Marthe-Louise would have my head if I let you do that.”

“Hmmph.” She’d leave some money on the counter to pay for her bill.

Jack showed her how to dial internationally and kissed her forehead. She stared dreamily after him and then snapped to attention as her mother’s voice came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Mother? It’s Lily.”

“Lily. Are you well?” Her mother sounded pleased to hear from her.

“Yes, I’m fine. How are you?” For someone who attempted to make a living with her words, she was certainly falling short.

“Very good. I read your blog about how you’re in Provence now.”

Lily winced. She should have called her mother about her change in plans, but she’d sent her an email and was too used to doing things on her own. “Yes, and it’s beautiful here. I’m in the middle of the lavender harvest and got some great photos that I’ll post later as soon as I get the blog post written.”

“Sarah told me how to subscribe to your blog, so I’ve been reading all your posts. You met a man named Pierre in Paris?”

“Yes, well, that’s not his real name. I don’t mind the publicity, but he works for a government agency and doesn’t want his name splashed around the internet.”

“Oh, my.” Mother sounded amused. “Is he a French secret agent?”

Lily laughed. “No, he does relief work overseas and they go into dangerous regions sometimes. Publicity would put them at risk.”

“Well, as long as you know his real name. I assume he is with you in Provence?”

Lily squirmed. Her mother didn’t need to know all the details of her traveling—and sleeping—arrangements, so she settled for a bare-bones outline. “He comes from here, so we’re staying at a guesthouse that belongs to his friends. The housekeeper fixed us several kinds of spreads and crackers and then we had this Provençal version of pesto sauce and spaghetti.”

“Be sure to write down the recipes,” Mother reminded her. “Although the ingredients somehow taste different when they are grown somewhere else. Much like the homemade foie gras—I enjoyed your post about that.”

“Holy cow, was that good.”

“I think you mean ‘holy goose,’” her mother teased.

Lily was taken aback for a second but then joined in the laughter. Mother had never laughed or shown much of a sense of humor in years past. Stan the Chef (Stan her Stepdad, she reminded herself) was a jolly guy, and maybe he was helping her mother lighten up. “And how is Stan?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you for asking.” Her mother sounded pleased at her interest. “He’s at the market right now shopping for a dinner party tonight. Mrs. Wyndham is hosting one of the U.S. senators—he’s up for reelection next year and is working on his fundraising.”

Lily made a terrible grimace. “Good grief, Mother, those dinners are even more deadly than her usual parties.”

“That’s right, dear, you never did like that part of the job.”

“But, Mother, how can you stand doing that stuff after all these years?” Lily burst out. “Don’t you want to do something else before—?” she broke off her sentence.

“Before I get too old and feeble to work?” her mother replied. Fortunately she seemed more amused than offended. “Unfortunately I’m not even fifty yet, so retirement is a bit away.”

Lily winced. She always forgot how young her mother was, only twenty when Lily was born.

“Besides, I’m not like you, Lily. I don’t get bored easily and I enjoy routines and organization. For me, life is better when I know what’s happening next.”

“Gee, you sound like Jack. He’s very organized and a real homebody, too.”

“So your mystery Frenchman is named Jack?”

“Jacques, actually.”

“I assume he’s treating you well?” Mother’s voice took on a steely tone she reserved for rich, drunken letches and lazy housemaids.

“Very well, Mother. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Good.” Her tone softened. “I wish I had seen things differently when you were younger. I didn’t understand your situation at school.”

“Well, rich guys are pigs.”

“Lily!” her mother scolded her. “Those particular young men were pigs, but don’t be a reverse snob.”

She shifted on the desk chair, remembering how she had accused Jack of snobbery, and that had proven so untrue as to be laughable. “Sorry.” But he was just a regular guy anyway.

Mother was never one to harp on an admonishment. “When do you come back, dear?”

“My ticket is up in four days.” Unless she extended her stay. Maybe there would be a general strike and they’d close the airports. That grim thought cheered her up.

“Please call when you get back. And come see us here in Philly. We’ve finished remodeling the carriage house kitchen and it’s Stan’s pride and joy.”

“He cooks at home?” Why would he want to, after a long day in the kitchen at the main house?

Mother giggled like a teenager. Lily’s jaw fell open—she’d never heard that sound before. “Sure, he does. He takes good care of me.” That simple statement, filled with pride and love, made Lily’s heart flip and her eyes tear.

“He’d better,” she blustered, sniffing discreetly. “Or else I’ll hide his favorite knives and sharpening stone.” She’d grown up in a kitchen and knew how to punish a chef.

“Oh, my, how fierce.” Her mother laughed again but cleared her throat. “And Lily, be careful with this man. I would hate to see you hurt.”

“Mother, he’s very nice.”

“A nice man can break your heart as easily as a bad man. Sometimes worse, because you’re not expecting it.” Her tone had the ring of past experience.

Lily hesitated, but didn’t know how to reply. “I understand,” she finally said.

“I hope you won’t have to,” she said simply. “But keep up the good work and get those recipes for Stan and me,” she emphasized with a chuckle.

Lily agreed and blew a kiss into her phone before hanging up.

Mother had found happiness after heartbreak and many long, hard years alone. Lily knew she wasn’t ready to settle down herself, but couldn’t help wondering what the future would bring.

Hopefully not heartbreak, but like Mother had said, it was unexpected. Lily just hoped Jack wouldn’t be the one to bring it.