Alex stroked her back and said tenderly, “Are you trying to burrow your way through me,ma chérie?”
The French endearment almost overset her composure before pride came to her rescue. If Christa told him of her feelings, he would be kind, but also embarrassed, perhaps even secretly amused at her presumption. If she said her birth was equal to his own, that would be even worse—he might doubt her or he might pity her, but neither of those unpalatable alternatives would be the love she craved from him.
Christa raised her head and rolled away from his embrace, lifting herself on one elbow. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice when she said, “I think I was trying to hold onto a moment that should never have happened, my lord.”
He brushed the silky curls from her cheek, his fingers lingering, then trailing down her smooth neck. “I wish that once you would call me Alex.”
“For this moment only, Alex.” Christa leaned over and placed a light kiss on his forehead, then stood before he could embrace her again, an embrace that could easily destroy her pride and sense of self preservation. She was grateful that he was a gentleman; if he seriously attempted to seduce her, she doubted her ability to withstand him. But then, if he were not honorable, she would not love him.
Alex stood also, then placed both hands on her shoulders and looked down, his eyes searching as he spoke with unconscious poetry. “You are such a blend of contradictions. You can enjoy life with the simplicity of a child, yet have a wisdom rare at any age. The logical mind of a lawyer with a body to drive a man wild. Child and woman, ice and fire.”
Her gray eyes were quartz-clear in the moonlight as he continued. “What kinds of plans and dreams do you have, Christa?”
She gazed back, sadness in her voice. “Plans? I think the gods mock those mortals who think they control their own lives. I try to sail where the wind sends me.” She shrugged. “For now, I’ll continue with Miss Annabelle. If I have a dream, it is to have my own business, perhaps be amodistewith my cousin, Suzanne de Savary, who makes your sister’s gowns. To be independent, to have a little comfort and a little freedom.”
Alex chided himself for his sharp surge of disappointment. After all, was it likely she would answer that she sought a rich man to keep her? “And what of marriage and children?”
There was a slight catch in Christa’s voice as she answered, “That least of all can be planned for. But I think I am too particular in my tastes and may never marry.” Uncomfortable under his intent stare, she asked, “What will you do when we return to London, my . . . Alex? Do you aspire to become a man of leisure rather than a man of action?”
He shook his head. “As much as I have enjoyed this summer, I will be ready for more employment in London. It was suggested that I might be of value at the Admiralty, so I intend to volunteer my services there. The Royal Navy is growing rapidly to fight the French and my experience may be useful.” Alex glanced at the moon, calculating the hour, then said, “It’s time to go back to the house if we are to make an early start tomorrow. I will walk you back.”
Christa glanced up at him as he slid his arm around her waist, and they walked along the pier toward the beach. “You think I would not be safe on your land, Alex?” She liked saying his name, rolling it on her tongue in a distinctively French manner.
“I must admit that you are in more danger from me than from bandits or wild beasts.”
“Do you truly expect me to believe that?” Christa asked softly.
“You should,” Alex said wryly. The moonlight burnished his bright hair.
The rest of the walk was made in companionable silence, at as slow a pace as two healthy adults could manage. Once again, it was the sight of the house, a black-and-white mosaic in the moonlight, that brought them back to awareness.
Christa stopped, the breath caught in her throat at Alex’s expression before he wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. “It is so hard to let you go . . .”
“But you must, my lord. It is time for the princess to become once more a scullery maid.”
Alex laughed ruefully as he released her. “You have a talent for bringing things down to earth.” Once more he asked, “What should I do about you, Christa?”
“Nothing, my lord,” she said firmly. “I am not yours to dispose of.”
He sighed. “I know. You belong to yourself . . .”
“And I intend to keep it that way.” Christa’s voice was low, but the message was unmistakable.
Alex was unprepared for the wave of desolation that swept over him as he watched her graceful passage down the gentle slope to the house. It took every ounce of his willpower not to follow her and beg that she become his mistress. The desire that Christa had always aroused in him was now an inferno, and he doubted that any other woman would be able to extinguish it.
But he was afraid to make the offer. Alex wanted to believe that her steely integrity and independent spirit could not be corrupted. It was a romantic fancy on his part, since part of her charm was the irresistible combination of cool logic and sensuality. The same practicality that led Christa to avoid a casual entanglement might make her willing to sell her body in return for the money to finance her future. If so, he didn’t want to know it—if she would not give herself freely, he would not buy her with gold. As he watched her enter the rear door of the house, Alex damned himself for an idealistic fool.
Chapter 11
The cavalcade to London might have left on time had it not been for complications from an unexpected source. Monsieur Sabine had been more than usually moody the last few days, and on this morning he crossed his arms on his chest and flatly refused to leave. When the butler, Morrison, attempted to determine why, the Monsieur managed only to convey that he could not leave the Orchard before his speech deteriorated into a babble of French imprecations and sweeping gestures.
Grateful that the Monsieur did not have his carving knife in hand, Morrison sent for Lord Kingsley. While it was unusual for the master to concern himself with the details of belowstairs life, cooks were personages of great importance. After a moment’s thought, Morrison also sent for Christa to translate, suspecting that his lordship’s French might not be up to the torrent of invective pouring from the Monsieur.
Christa arrived in the kitchen to find Alex attempting to make sense out of Monsieur Sabine. The cook was waving his arms and periodically grasping at his plump chest. Alex greeted her entrance with relief.
“Thank heaven you’re here! Can you understand what he is saying? I’m afraid he may be having some kind of heart attack.”
There followed several minutes of Christa asking patient questions, then listening to voluble replies. Struggling to keep a straight face, she turned to Alex and said, “Itisan attack of the heart, in a manner of speaking. Monsieur Sabine refuses to leave because of Mrs. Ives. The cook, you know,” she said helpfully.
