Royally Seduced

chapter 7


“OH.” Their impossible-to-find, last-one-available-in-the-whole-village room did not have twin beds, like every other European hotel room she’d ever heard of.

It had one single-and-a-half bed, because for sure that mattress was not a standard American double. Even that shrimp Napoleon and his wife would have barely fit in that sucker.

The rest of the room was pleasant enough with white walls and a small balcony overlooking the lavender fields.

Jack was chatting with the wizened madame who owned the house, who melted under his charms like a hot stick of butter. He turned back to Lily. “This is it, Lily. Can you make do?”

“Of course,” she said brightly. “It looks…cozy.”

He gave her a look that said he knew what she was thinking but made arrangements with the lady of the house.

Glad to be off the street for the night, Lily set her backpack on the floor and rolled her neck.

Lily couldn’t help glancing at the bed. There was hardly anything else in the room. She suspected this had been either a poor relation’s room or the maid’s quarters once upon a time.

Jack cleared his throat and went to his backpack. “I’m going to take a shower. The bathroom is down the hall.” He selected clean clothes and a towel and slipped into a pair of rubber flip-flops.

“Okay.” Once he left Lily set up her laptop at the small desk and plugged in the round-pronged French electric adaptor. She selected several photos to upload from her camera to her blog and wrote several paragraphs about their arrival in Provence.

She stopped and realized that Jack featured prominently in her entry—what he’d eaten for lunch, what he’d liked best, how they’d found the last room in town…that had the smallest bed in France.

She dragged her eyes away from the bed and ruthlessly edited her rough draft. Readers didn’t need to know everything. Jack was still “Pierre,” a friendly Provençal local who had offered to show her around the perfume festival. She did add several of his insights on how the climate and weather was perfect for growing so many fragrant ingredients for the local perfumeries.

Her photos of the cut lavender in buckets looked great, and the elaborate glass perfume bottles from the antique store sparkled in the sun. If only the internet had smell-o-vision. But no shots of Jack’s face online due to his request for safety reasons. She’d never asked his permission to post his photo and name.

She hit Post, and Jack was still safely anonymous.

And by the way, where was he? Surely done with his shower. A shower sounded like a good idea after hiking around the dry, dusty town, so Lily gathered her supplies and set off down the hall.

He wasn’t in the bathroom, which was shoehorned into a former broom closet by the looks of it. She’d take a picture later for her blog. No need for a wide-angle lens, that was for sure.

She took a quick shower to get the dust and sweat off and returned to their room. Still no Jack. Was he hiding until she was safely asleep? It was well past ten, but she wasn’t tired at all.

Lily hadn’t come to Provence to sit alone in her room. She went down the stairs and heard laughter coming from the patio. She poked her head outside and Jack was sitting in a comfortable looking wicker love seat, chatting with the plump lady of the household and her mustachioed, equally round husband.

Jack looked relaxed and cheerful, his hair slicked back from his shower and his towel and clothing folded neatly on the side table.

The older couple spotted her and beckoned her to join them. “Ah, mademoiselle!” the man exclaimed expansively, his mood no doubt helped by his big glass of wine. He struggled to his feet and eagerly shook her hand, planting a juicy smooch on each cheek. She was discovering that the people of Provence were avid hand-shakers in addition to cheek-kissers. One man in the flower market, his arms full of blooms, had offered his friend an elbow to shake.

Jack stood as well and greeted her a bit more coolly, still feeling the awkward vibe of too much bodyspace and not enough bedspace. He introduced Monsieur Roussel, the husband of the lady who was charging them an arm and a leg for the night.

Their hostess stood, as well. “Sit, sit.” She pointed to the seat next to Jack and Lily sat. “Our wine.” She poured Lily a big glass and went to a large stone table behind them, reappearing with two plates full of goodies.

“Oh, wow.” Lily didn’t normally eat so late at night, but when in France…

Madame Roussel spoke in an emphatic manner, waggling her finger at Jack several times.

“Is she chewing you out?”

“Yeah, Madame was horrified that we had granola bars for dinner and she thinks I am much too thin to be a proper Provençal—that’s a man from Provence. The common physique is that of Monsieur Roussel.”

“Ah.” Lily nodded. Round, to be sure, but a more packed, prosperous fat, rather than flabby.

“Eat.” Madame glared down at them.

Actually, Lily was hungry. The heat of the day had lowered her appetite, but now that the sun had set, she was getting it back.

She picked up a baby carrot pickled in vinegar and spices. The flavor was sour and fresh, crispy but mellowed around the edges by the vinegar. “Delicious.”

Madame understood and beamed. “Mangez, mangez.” She made a flapping gesture at the rest of the food.

“Eat up, Lily, we don’t want to offend our good hosts.”

“Of course not.”

Madame pointed at Lily and said, “Tart.”

Lily flinched. Was Madame some Provençal version of a gypsy mind reader?

Jack muffled a laugh. “It’s a tomato tart. She’s not making a comment on us sharing a bedroom. It would seem odd if we weren’t.”

“Oh.” Now that she wasn’t being scolded for wayward thoughts, Lily picked up a slice of tomato tart. It resembled a thin pizza with overlapping tomato slices. She bit into it and moaned in satisfaction. The pastry was crispy, almost like a puff pastry, and there was a hidden layer of soft, white cheese spread under the tomatoes. But the tomatoes were the star of the dish, thinly sliced and baked until chewy and almost caramelized around the edges.

Pure summer burst on her tongue, sweet and savory. “Oh my gosh, Jack, you have to try this. It is sooo good.”

She shoved the tart between his lips and he opened his mouth in pure instinct. “Mmmph.” He chewed and nodded in approval. Madame watched them both in satisfaction.

“Where does she get the tomatoes?”

Jack translated and their hostess laughed and gestured beyond the patio wall. “Her own garden, of course. The weather is perfect for vegetables of all kinds.”

Lily cut another slice and handed it to Jack. “Eat.” She sounded suspiciously like Madame.

“Bossy.” But he took the tart and nibbled at it.

She finished hers quickly and moved onto a soft goat cheese spread onto a thin toasted slice of French bread. “Is this their own goat’s milk, too?”

He asked and smiled. “No, the goats belong to Madame’s brother.”

“What a talented family.”

Madame passed her a dish of what looked like olive spread. Lily spread it on another slice of bread and passed it to Jack.

“Trying to fatten me up?”

“Like a goose for foie gras,” she teased him.

Madame perked up. “Ah, foie gras! You like?”

Lily’s mouth watered. “Oh, I love it, but I haven’t had it in years.” Mrs. Wyndham had served it at her parties, and Lily and the other staff snuck crackers full of it when they ducked back into the kitchen.

He looked at her in surprise. “You like foie gras, eh?”

“We have it in America, too.” Especially if you’d grown up in the richest neighborhood in Philadelphia.

Madame disappeared into the house and emerged a couple minutes later, triumphantly bearing a glass jar. She set it on the low table in front of them and unscrewed the lid with a flourish.

Lily leaned forward and gasped. Surely that huge jar wasn’t what she thought.

“Pâté de foie gras!” their hostess announced.

“Holy cow, Jack, do you know how much a small jar of that stuff costs?”

He shook his head. “Homemade, probably from the geese of Madame’s brother, along with the goat cheese.” He listened to the older lady’s explanation. “Ah. The geese belonged to her sister, and they were the plumpest, fattest geese in Provence.”

“Mais oui. Très bon.” That was the best French compliment she could manage, but it earned a wide smile.

And of course, after she had brought out the foie gras with as much pride as an American cook bringing out the Thanksgiving turkey, Lily couldn’t refuse a hefty sample, along with another glass of rosé wine. Jack accepted a much smaller portion, and murmured, “That stuff packs a kick, Lily.”

“What, the wine?”

“All of it.”

She nodded, realizing her bare-bones, rolls-and-coffee Parisian diet was light years away from the food bonanza exploding in front of her. He was wise to eat in moderation, but her, she was perfectly healthy.

If the tomato tart was pure summer sunshine, the foie gras was pure autumn, earthy and dark. She’d never eaten it on a toasted baguette before, but it was the perfect combination.

Jack chatted with Monsieur and Madame Roussel as she sipped her wine and nibbled at the foie gras. Such a delicacy couldn’t be gobbled.

He was careful to include her in their conversation, translating their recommendations for the tourist sites in the area and explaining the frequent bursts of laughter. Apparently the Provençaux were very fond of jokes.

She yawned. What a busy day. Closing her eyes, she leaned onto Jack’s shoulder. He hesitated for a second but put his arm around her.

Did he smell good, his cologne a woodsy blend that fit this country setting perfectly. She snuggled into him, content to doze to the murmur of French voices and the drone of the cicadas in the trees.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so relaxed—replete with good food, good company and a good man. Jack was the best part, even better than homemade foie gras.



JACK RELAXED FOR the first time in a long time. He was finally home. He’d never met their hosts before, but they were still familiar to him, warm and hospitable and generous to a fault with the food.

That late-night snack had been more than enough to put anybody to sleep, but combined with heavy pâté and young wine that always had a higher alcohol content, it was a wonder Lily was still conscious.

And unless he wanted to carry her upstairs, he’d better get her to bed immédiatement.

Lily in his bed, warm and willing instead of stuffed and sleepy. The image was instant and powerful. He knew she would approach lovemaking with the same enthusiasm she approached life.

Ah, well, he’d given his word to be a gentleman, and gentlemen did not pour girls into bed and then crawl in after them for some nighttime sport.

He made his excuses and gave his thanks to the friendly couple. “Up we go, Lily.”

She blinked at him with her big green eyes and extended a hand for him to pull her off the sofa. “Bedtime, Jack.”

“Indeed.” She wasn’t intoxicated, just well-fed and slightly tipsy. He helped her up the stairs to their room and flipped on the light. The room was cozy and golden, the cream-colored embroidered quilt especially inviting.

He needed to decline that invitation. “Lily, you can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be silly. We can share the bed. I trust you.”

He sighed. He didn’t trust himself. “No, no, there are extra quilts and a pillow for me to use.”

But Lily wouldn’t take no for an answer. “You’ve had the same long day as I had, and you have even less padding for the floor. Don’t be silly.” She grabbed her toothbrush and left for the bathroom.

He stood in the middle of the room, at a loss. He’d thought he’d fallen into hell at his mother’s party, but that was nothing compared to the hell of platonically sleeping with the sexiest woman he’d ever met.

Lily returned and crawled into bed, taking the side closest to the wall. “Don’t be silly, Jack.” She yawned. “Come to bed.”

“I, uh, need to brush my teeth,” he stammered.

“Hurry up. I’m beat.”

He knew he was beaten too and shuffled to the bathroom. Staring grimly into the small mirror, he brushed the wine and pâté off his teeth.

God must be laughing at Dr. Jacques Montford, Comte de Brissard. He’d been arrogant enough to think he knew what was going to happen in his life, and boom! Illness hit.

He knew that happened, of course, but not to him. He was invincible. He fought illness for other people, not himself.

He sighed and spit into the sink. Ah, well. Like Lily had said, he was alive and it must be fate.

Walking down the hall, he considered the vagaries of fate. It was fate that he had literally bumped into her. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad trying to keep his hands off her.

He entered their room and stopped short. Lily lay sleeping on her back, the small bedside lamp gilding her hair and skin.

She was a golden angel, her plump lips slightly parted as her breasts rose and fell, the nipples poking against her thin cotton shirt.

With an effort, Jack dragged his gaze away and turned off the light. Crawling into bed, he perched himself on the far edge of the mattress and determinedly turned his back to Lily.

He’d promised to behave himself, even if it meant a long night for him. A long, hard night.