He felt her press her legs together more firmly beneath him.Was she ashamed?It would be ridiculous for her to feel shame with a rake who’d enjoyed too many ill-spent hours spending himselfinsideorbesidetoo many ill-chosen women.
“It doesn’t matter to me what you’ve done in the past,” he promised. “I am not judging you for being experienced.”
Her expression shuttered, and he feared he’d said the wrong thing in an effort to reassure her.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s only I wanted you to know despite how practiced you might be—”
She started to struggle before he could even begin to say something flowery and charming. He ought to have started with the words, “I shall marry you anyway,” but now it was too late.
When she beat her fist on his shoulder, he sighed and rolled off of her. And directly onto the hard floor.
“Ouch!”His shoulder throbbed. The first time in all his years, he found himself having fallen out of bed while a lovely woman remained in it, angry as a summer wasp despite how he’d not yet done a damn thing.
In the next moment, he looked under the bed as her feet touched the planks on the other side.
“I will see you early tomorrow, Monsieur Branley.Bonsoir.”
Childishly, he made a face at her retreating ankles. Then he lay his head down and looked at the ceiling, willing his body to calm down. A viscount’s son lying on the floor amidst the dust balls, yearning for a female who ought to consider herself lucky he wanted her.
“Ha! You idiot!” he scolded himself aloud. He didn’t believe it for a second. She was a coppery, shining star, and he would be lucky if the green-eyed goddess let him kiss her ever again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Early, with the sunjust cresting the east vineyard, they bid Michel and Madame Lucie goodbye. Riding side-by-side on the seat of a sturdy, uncovered wagon used for transporting grapes or barrels, Serena wished Malcolm didn’t take up so much room. Their shoulders were touching, as were their thighs, and it would be a long way to the coast.
With her trunks in the back, Malcolm’s horse pulled them along at a good pace. Monsieur Bowes had already left, heading northeast to Paris with messages from Michel to his wife and from Serena to her grand-père relating how Guillaume and Jean-Paul had shown up. She couldn’t explain what the two had hoped to accomplish, but she told Henri Renault the deadly results.
“We will have to find a place to stay tonight,” Malcolm said into the silence they’d shared since setting out.
A very long trip indeed,Serena repeated silently, if she couldn’t overcome her peevish annoyance over his bold assumptions about her virtue. He seemed to think she’d been dancing the hornpipe jig with every male she met. While she had herself to blame for his low opinion of her, he was the only one who’d truly compromised her innocence.
Taking a long moment in which she tempered her tone to one of cool neutrality, Serena spoke.
“If we make it to Saint-Rémy-du-Plain, Pépère says there is a winery where we can spend the night.”
“Most of the vintners are for Napoleon,” Malcolm said, looking at her, but she continued to stare straight ahead.
