I turn in his arms, press a hand to his jaw. “Yes.”
His answering smile is unguarded. It steals my breath.
He kisses me once, deeply, then leads me inside.
Back to bed. Back to him.
* Perfect (French)
* Right of the Lord (French)
* The first night’s right (French)
* Sweet dreams, my love (French)
* My heart (Spanish)
CHAPTER 14
Gustave
Spring unfurls slowly across France, tender green creeping into the fields, the roadsides lined with the blush of blooming cherry and the cheerful yellow of rapeseed flowers.
The drive south from Paris is one I’ve done a hundred times, but with Tara beside me, her hand curled loosely in mine, it feels different…exhilarating.
The highway unspools, then narrows into winding roads through villages with stone houses, red roofs, and shutters painted in fading blues and greens. Church spires rise above the fields; vineyards luxuriate in endless rows, tidy and expectant, waiting for the summer sun to ripen the grapes.
“Picturesque overload.” Tara rests her head against the passenger-side window of my Cayenne as we pass a village square where children ride bicycles in circles. “It looks like a postcard.”
I smile. “Bourgogne does not need to impress—it simply is.”
“You sound as pompous as I was warned the French are.”
I laugh at that.
I haven’t laughed as much as I do with her—not in a long time, not in this unguarded manner. Ican simply be myself with Tara. Gustave. Notle Comte. Not the heir to the de Valois name and fortune. Just a man who likes to hold the hand of his woman. It’s uncomplicated, simple, and sweet.
When we reach Pommard in the heart of the Côte de Beaune, the air is infused with the scent of tilled earth and young vines.
“This looks like something out ofChocolat,” she tells me, gushing about the winecaveaux?*, theboucherie?*, and theboulangerie?*. “Do you know they filmed the movie in Flavigny-sur-Ozerain in Bourgogne?”
“Will I lose points with you if I tell you I have no idea what you’re talking about?”
She gave me a look of mock horror. “You have not seenChocolat?”
I shake my head, amused. “But I doknow that Flavigny is an hour north of here, and maybe on our way back, we can stop by. Does that help?”
She laughs, and says, “Thatmayredeem you.” And then she tells me the whole story ofChocolat. Apparently, Johnny Depp is all that.
By the time she’s done, we’ve reached my house, which is outside the village. A stone manor with pale walls and weathered shutters, my haven is surrounded by vines and a long gravel drive that crunches beneath the tires.
The property is quiet.
No paparazzi.
No society dinners.
Space. Silence.
