“And yours.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Mine, too.”
Ruel watched Anne as she laid the new gown across the trunk again. He was pleased at her happiness over his gift. At the same time, this woman he had bargained into a sham marriage confused him to no end.
When confronted by his brother about Anne’s nerve and stamina, Ruel had defended her with utmost confidence. The closer they came to the moment of adventure, he had predicted to Alexander, the more alive and fiery she would become. Anne would plunge into her role with relish and would be a key to the success of their lace manufacturing venture.
Instead, she had grown almost fragile. With candlelight now silvering her face, Anne had transformed again into an angel. Her brown hair, caught up in rosebuds and ringlets, tumbled down her back. Her gown, a wisp of pale violet crepe over a satin slip, draped softly to her ankles.
Ruel tried to convince himself that he was impervious to regarding this woman with anything but courtesy and respect. But as he observed her, he again took note of the feminine form that had mesmerized him all evening at the ball. She was soft and gently curved, and the constant urge to hold her tormented him.
If he came too near, he would hear her words, smell the scent of lavender on her skin, and want to touch her. Want it too much. Did she want him?
“I believed that you had put the loom into my trunks,” she was saying.
“Why did you suppose such a thing?” he asked, stepping toward her despite the warnings in his head.
“I believed that if the trunks were opened and the machinery discovered, I should be forced to take the blame. I believed you would betray me into the hands of the authori- ties with little compunction. Now I feel as if I have betrayed you.”
Without thinking, he drew two fingers down the length of her arm. “Anne, I must ask you to trust me without question in the days to come.” He took her hand and wove his fingers through hers. “When the moment comes for us to leave Brussels, things may happen very swiftly, and not at all as you expect. I cannot predict each event and its consequence. If I tell you everything I plan, you may fall into danger yourself. There are those who . . .”
“Who what?” she asked softly.
“You are no fool, Anne. You are aware I have enemies who would rejoice in my downfall and would think nothing of using you to bring it about. It is for your own protection that I must keep you innocent of certain things. And protect you I shall, no matter the cost. But I must have your trust.”
Anne looked into his eyes. “You have kept your vows,” she replied. “That is certainly a start.”
“I have not kept them all, and you well know it.” He fingered a ringlet that curled down to her shoulder. “Resisting the temptation to touch you is quite impossible. I find your eyes alluring and your lips far too sweet. Can you release me from that promise, Anne?”
She held her breath as he trailed the tips of his fingers up the side of her neck. “To what end?”
“I should like to kiss you again. This time away from the eyes of family and friends.” He took another step, bringing her lightly against him. “Anne, may I?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I mean
no
. It is . . .”
Her protest faded as he slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. His hands tilted back her head, her eyes drifted shut, and he kissed her. Pure bliss.
She slipped her hands over the rigid muscles in his arms. “Yes,” she murmured. “Oh, yes.”
“Dearest Anne, you are magnificent!” Ruel found he could no longer speak in riddles or tease her with meaningless tripe. The fortifications in their civil war—the ritual, the formal talk, the polite nothings—had been breached.
“Anne . . .” He spoke against her cheek. “Anne, this pretense between us is maddening. Touching you, holding you . . . I am the one who has lived imprisoned.”
“No more than I.”
“You are my wife . . . my desire . . . and I cannot heed the consequences of it.”
As he kissed her again, he tried to remember what those consequences were. He could see his brother’s angry face . . . the shocked expression of Prudence Watson . . . his mother’s dismay. . . . He knew it must be a mistake to care so deeply for this woman.
But the only real consequence of his kiss was utter wonder at this beautiful creature trembling in his arms. A delightful consequence. A magical consequence.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he felt her sigh against his neck. Would she allow him to take her as his wife? He hardly dared to hope.
“Anne,” Ruel said, “I have never . . . never in my life . . . desired a woman as I desire you.”
He could hardly believe he had said such words, and yet they were true. The way she melted into him had torn every scrap of logic from his mind. Reluctantly he drew his mouth from Anne’s and traced the horizon of her shoulder with his lips. Her skin felt like pure silk.
“Ruel.” She gasped, clutching his hand. “I cannot bear it. I can hardly breathe.”
“Do not try.” He tilted her chin with the curve of his index finger. “Stay with me, Anne. You are my wife. That I desire you cannot be wrong. That I touch your flesh can only be right. . . .”
“I am a maiden,” she whispered.
He looked into her honeyed brown eyes and understood for the first time what those words meant to such a woman as she. A maiden. Untouched. She had never cast herself lightly into any man’s bed. That she would even consider giving that gift to him tore at his heart.
“Anne,” he ground out, “I will never take what you cannot freely give.”
“I find it impossible to reason,” she managed. “My mind has completely ceased to function.”
“Dearest, most beautiful wife.” He smiled as he kissed her. “Anne, look at me. Look into my eyes. Know what you possess and who dares ask for such a gift.”
“I know.” She smoothed her hands over his shoulders. “I know you, Ruel Chouteau, and I cannot think beyond the heaven of your kisses and the silver in your eyes. Yet, how dare I pay more heed to my own desires than to reason? Until our wedding was sealed, I had failed to seek God’s will. But now I have prayed mightily about you . . . about us. I dread to think that anything we do might bring harm.”
“You speak of a child. Could an heir to my family line be regarded as anything but precious?”
“I fear for the future of such a child. Yet, my father taught me that all things work together for the good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. I have been heedless and headstrong in the past, but the Lord has not forsaken me. Indeed, He has forgiven me and will do so again and again. No matter how many times I fail Him, He will never fail me. How can I believe that anything less than good will come of our union?”
Ruel shook his head as he gazed at her. “You paralyze me, woman. One moment you dizzy me with desire . . . in the next breath you quote Scripture. You are some sort of inexplicable, unexpected miracle. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps there is a God after all. And perhaps He has planned something good even for such a man as I.”
“Of course He has,” Anne said softly.
“Come, then.”
He took her in his arms. As her head fell backward and her arms tightened around him, he realized she had given him her answer. Yes, she wanted him, would have him at any cost.
Sweeping her into his arms, he let out a sigh of joy. “Anne, my Anne.”
A sudden sharp rapping on the door interrupted their embrace. Ruel flung it open to reveal a footman. “Begging your pardon, Lord Blackthorne. Your brother bade me summon you at once.”
Perhaps what had happened the preceding night had been but a dream. Anne rose from her bed, lifted the gown she had worn at the ball, and breathed in the scent of the man who had held her. Until Ruel was called away abruptly, it had been wonderful. His words of passion had led her to believe he truly cared for her. She had expected him to return to her room. But he had not.
Had Ruel changed his mind about her? In his brother’s company, had he been forced to see Anne as Sir Alexander did—a conniving bedbug? Had the possibility of a baby suddenly become real to him? a child with all the consequences an heir might bring? Or had something happened to his plans for the lace machine?
Hearing in her mind the echoed refrain of his words of commitment and desire, Anne moved numbly through her day. She bathed. Dressed. Ate. Made three calls. Changed clothes again. Received two calls. And then it was time to dress for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. In all that time, she neither saw her husband nor was told what had become of him.
Anne put on the blue lace-trimmed gown and sat while her lady’s maid arranged her hair in curls and ringlets. During the day she had turned over in her mind what she might say to Ruel when she saw him that evening. “Let us pretend we never spoke last night.” “Do not worry. We shall not be alone again.” Nothing sounded right.
And then word came that the carriages had arrived, and Anne was awaited. As she carried her skirts down the long staircase to the foyer below, she could see Ruel engaged in conversation with his brother. His face intense, almost angry, the marquess hammered his palm with a fist. Anne’s stomach twisted in unhappy anticipation of the moment she must face him again.
In the midst of Sir Alexander’s equally agitated response, Ruel suddenly lifted his head, and his eyes focused on Anne. His grim mouth went slack, the gray in his eyes deepening to charcoal. He pushed past his brother and strode to the bottom of the staircase as he regarded the approaching woman.
Palms damp inside her gloves, Anne managed the last few steps without tottering. “Good evening, Lord Blackthorne.” It was all she could say in spite of her hours of rehearsal. He looked unbearably handsome. Single-breasted black coat with gold buttons, white waistcoat, starched cravat, black breeches, black stockings, and black gold-buckled shoes—he might have been a king, for all Anne knew. With his black hair and searching gray eyes, he cut a figure like that of Sir Lancelot who had entranced fair Guinevere.
But Blackthorne was no knight in shining armor. He was an angry marquess who doubtless regretted his lowborn wife. She must not forget it.
“My lady,” he said, removing his tall hat and taking her hand. Before she could descend the final step, he bent and kissed her fingers. “I have never seen you more radiant.” He lowered his voice and spoke against her ear as he escorted her across the hotel foyer. “Only once have I seen you so beautiful. Last night.”
“Ruel, I—”
“Where is that redskin?” Sir Alexander growled. “The ball began more than an hour ago. Ruel, have you seen the fellow?”
“Lady Blackthorne,” Ruel said, handing Anne to his brother, “Alex will escort you to the carriage. I must see what delays our reluctant Mr. Walker.”
Before Anne could respond, Sir Alexander was escorting her out into the cool evening, where a line of carriages stood to receive ball guests. It would be a night like all the others, she knew, yet somehow everything felt different. Ruel had been much too polite. The normally bustling streets were silent, as if everyone had paused in anticipation of something. Hotel guests moved in purposeful solemnity toward their carriages. The air seemed to crackle around Anne’s ears.
“You have bewitched him,” Sir Alexander spat as he hustled her down the walk. “Do not lie to me. Everyone says it is true. My brother has bedded you, has he not?”
Flushing, Anne tried to pull her arm free. “If your brother wishes you to know his business, sir, he will tell you himself.”
“You cannot deny it, can you? Then it is true! Blast it all!” He pushed her up the carriage step and through the door.
Shoving her against the seat, he uttered a string of vile curses. “You seduced him, you little wench!”
Anne recoiled. “I have never seduced anyone.”
“Bah! That is utter rubbish!” he hissed into her face as he sat down beside her, crushing the blue gown. “You intend for your own son to inherit the duchy. Are you with child? Tell me!”
He grabbed her shoulder and wrenched it until she cried aloud. “I shall thank you to ask Lord Blackthorne what it is you wish to know! I am nothing in this but a pawn, as you well know, and I shall not—”
“Lady Blackthorne?” The blacksmith stepped up into the carriage. Seeing Anne’s face, he paused. “Are you well?”
“Mr. Walker.” Anne flicked open her fan. Stirring the air around her face, she tried to catch her breath. “Do take a seat, sir. How fine you look this evening.”
Regarding her curiously as he folded his tall body into the carriage, the older man ran a finger around the inside of his stiff cravat. “I prefer my collarless shirt and leather breeches.” He leaned toward her. “Are you feeling all right? The injury to your leg . . . does it trouble you?”
“No, I am . . . I am well enough.”
“Walker, a fine evening for a ride, eh?” Ruel entered the carriage. “Anne and Alex, you must be especially good to our American friend tonight. He has come only at my sternest insistence, and I am afraid he is feeling rather more foreign among us than usual.”
Sir Alexander moved to the seat opposite Anne, but his eyes never left her face. As the horses drew the visiting aristocracy down the streets of Brussels, Ruel took Anne’s hand. She stared at their twined fingers, well aware that such action meant her husband was returning them to their charade. He would feign adoration all evening. She must smile and laugh and swoon against his shoulder. All the while, she would know how deeply he must regret the turn his life had taken.