That she wasnotEnglish was confirmed on the very first day, when ten straight hours of the language had given her a thunderous megrim. The second day, withtwelvestraight hours of English, had not fared much better. On the third day, however, she had caught herself thinking in English several times, even when no one was speaking it to her.
And now, day four—le quatrième jour, s'il te plait—her head no longer ached, and entire hours passed without her consciously noticing that they had done so in another language.
The feat was both thrilling and terrifying.
Do not get used to this,she reminded herself in French.None of it.
Not the language, not the home, not the servants, not the children.
She and the twins did everything together. They practiced penmanship, chased frogs, identified prime numbers, devised “remèdes”, made crowns of flowers, memorized countries and kings and capitals. They were as rapacious and rambunctious as her own siblings, and just as easy to love.
Désirée could not allow such a disaster to occur.
She was temporary. They were Skeffingtons and she was le Duc. She had to keep her emotional distance for their sake as much as hers. She was not their mother. She was not even their real governess.
All of them had already known far too much loss to wish for another painful farewell.
“There.” Hester set down the curling tongs in satisfaction. “You are an angel.”
Désirée was far from an angel. She was looking forward far too much to finding out what surprises the rest of the evening might hold.
Softly flickering sconces lined the staircase leading down into the cellar. Despite the presence of a small fireplace, it was much cooler belowstairs, likely to mind the temperature of the wine.
Shelf after shelf of endless glass bottles seemed to stretch into infinity. It had been years since Désirée had last stood in a vineyard, but she’d wager the quantity seen here rivaled the quantity she’d seen there—and likely rivaled the quality, as well.
So taken was she with the astonishing array of wines, she did not at first notice the decorated table near the small fire… or the handsome man rising to greet her.
Even in the dim light, Jack’s eyes sparkled. “What do you think?”
“I think you could drink a bottle with every meal and two before bed and still never finish them all,” she replied in awe.
He grinned at her. “Let’s try it. You pick first.”
“I cannot.” She turned in a slow circle. “I would not know where to start.”
“Are you of a humor for Italianchianti, Spanishrioja, or—”
“French,” she said decisively. “Something French.”
He strode deeper into the cellar. “White? Red?”
“Perhaps a varietal from a young merlot berry with subtle oak undercurrent and a rich aroma reminiscent of plum and cherry.”
Jack stopped and spun to look at her, nonplused. “You know wine?”
“I know Bordeaux,” she said with a grin. “My family’s land included vineyards along the Garonne.”
“You grew up on a vineyard?”
“I spent every autumn in achateauwhose land included vineyards.” She’d toured every day at her father’s side, dreaming of the day she would have a vineyard of her own.
He practically licked his lips. “I could not be more envious. Idreamof living on a vineyard.”
“Unless you also dream of having it stripped from you the day your parents are hauled off and executed in front of the entire town, perhaps I am not the one to envy,” she said. “I have not been on that vineyard in many, many years. But if you have something like that, it might taste like home.”
Silence surrounded them for a tense moment, and then Jack pointed off toward the fire.
“Sit,” he commanded. “Allow me to bring you a glass of your childhood. The finest in my collection.”
