She set down her glass. “You asked?”
“I asked.” He gave her a crooked smile. “They were singularly unimpressed with my ‘what about grapes’ argument.”
She grinned back. “They do seem hard to impress.”
“Not so.” He leaned back. “They tell me you perform some sort of scientific magic tricks they’ve christenedle ducs.”
“Neither science nor magic, I’m afraid. Just tricks my brothers refer to as ‘remèdes.’ I made my first when I was the twins’ age. I wanted to be able to toast more bread without rising from the dining table, so I created a system of levers and pulleys… that very nearly burned down our dining room.”
“Oh, good.” He clapped his hands. “You’re teaching them practical skills.”
She laughed. “I got better. And wilier. Your children think we create our afternoon ‘remèdes’ for fun, but secretly they are learning about physical properties and mechanics.”
“Positively Machiavellian.” He topped off their glasses. “I approve.”
“At least someone appreciates myremèdes.” She lifted a shoulder good-naturedly. “I am fairly certain Lucien and Bastien are simply resigned to them.”
“Talk about hard to impress… People all over England flock here to Cressmouth and your family can’t wait to leave.”
“What we truly want,” she corrected softly, “is to turn back the clock. It is too late, but we still must try to retrieve anything we can.”
He met her gaze, his expression serious. “I cannot imagine how hard it must have been. How hard it still is.”
“Many little things,” she agreed. “I was born in the south of France and grown in the north of England. I feel replanted. Neither fully French, nor fully English. I am one of your grapes, frozen in the wrong region.”
“It would be terrible not to be able to go home.” He set his glass aside and leaned forward. “But is there nothing here you like?”
She bit her lip, then whispered, “English pies.Do not tell Lucien.”
He chuckled, his laughing eyes less than a foot away from hers. “You’ll set your dining room on fire, cross the English Channel, race neck-or-nothing through treacherous woods… but you won’t tell your brother you like English pies?”
“That isn’t all I like.” She licked her lips.
He noticed.
She did it again.
His voice was scratchy. “Désirée…”
She set her wine aside. It tasted like home; but she did not long for home right now. She wanted something much, much closer.
“I…” He jerked away, flinging himself back into the recesses of his chair. “Should definitely not do what I’ve spent far too much time thinking about doing. Forgive me.”
She would forgive him, but only because his words lit a forbidden flame.
He wanted her, too.
