did not!’ she retorted hotly. ‘I was as much a victim as you. Well, almost.’
His lips tightened.
‘Let us agree to blame Max for this sorry mess, shall we? He knew that someone with French blood would be the worst possible match for me.’
‘Of course.’ She recalled his reaction when Max had explained her parentage. ‘Will you tell me why that should be?’
‘Because—’ He broke off as they were interrupted again, saying impatiently, ‘Yes, Chiswick, what is it now?’
‘Dinner is ready now, sir, if you is amenable.’
‘Very well, we will be over directly.’ As the butler withdrew he turned back to Dominique, ‘We will continue this discussion later.’
He spoke harshly, but she detected a note of relief in his tone. Silently she rose and took his proffered arm as they crossed the hall to the dining room. Beneath her fingers she could feel his strength through the sleeve. He was tense, his anger barely contained. This courtesy was a veneer, a sham, and she felt as if she were walking beside a wild animal—one wrong word and he would pounce on her.
* * *
Chiswick served them, passing on his wife’s apologies for the lack of dishes upon the table. Dominique was quick to reassure him that there was more than sufficient. Indeed, by the time she had tried the white soup, followed by the neck of mutton with turnips and carrots, a little of the carp and the macaroni pie she had no room for the fricassee of chicken or any of the small sweet tarts and the plum pudding that followed. Mrs Chiswick proved to be a good cook and the wines her husband provided to accompany the dishes were excellent. Dominique drank several glasses, partly to calm her nerves. She had never before dined alone with any man and she was all too conscious of the taciturn gentleman sitting at the far end of the table. She shivered, regretting that she had left her lace fichu in the dressing room. Not that she was really cold, just...nervous.
* * *
Conversation had been necessarily stilted and she was relieved when the meal was over and she could return to the parlour. She hesitated when Gideon followed her out of the room.
‘Are you not remaining to drink your port, sir?’
‘Chiswick shall bring me some brandy in the parlour. I do not like to drink alone.’
‘I admit I have always thought it an odd custom, to remain in solitary state when there are no guests in the house. My cousin insists upon it at the Abbey, although he is rarely there without company.’
Dominique babbled on as Gideon escorted her back across the dark and echoing hall, but she could not help herself. It was nerves, she knew, but there was something else, an undercurrent of excitement at being alone with Gideon. It was a situation she had thought about—dreamed of—for weeks, only in her dreams he had been in her company out of choice, not necessity. She continued to chatter until they were both seated in the parlour. Chiswick deposited a little dish of sweetmeats at her elbow and placed a tray bearing decanters and glasses on the sideboard.
‘Shall I send in the tea tray in an hour, madam?’
‘No, let Mrs Chiswick bring it in now,’ Gideon answered for her. He added, once they were alone, ‘You can tell her when she comes in that you will require another bed to be made up.’
‘Will not you—?’
He shook his head
‘The running of a household is a woman’s business, madam. ’Tis for you to order the staff.’
He got up to pour himself a glass of brandy while Dominique stared miserably into the fire. No matter how embarrassing, she must do this. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.
Gideon was still standing by the sideboard moments later when Mrs Chiswick bustled in.
‘The tea tray, madam, as you requested. You must be very tired from your journey, ma’am, and you won’t be wanting to prolong your evening.’
‘Actually, Mrs Chiswick, I—’
‘Alice and I are going upstairs to make the bed now. I’ve taken the liberty of heating a couple of bricks for the bed, too, seeing as how it hasn’t been used for a while, but I don’t suppose you will be wanting me or Chiswick to remove them, now will you?’ The housekeeper gave a conspiratorial smile that made Dominique’s face burn, which only made Mrs Chiswick smile more broadly. ‘Bless you, my dear, no need to colour up so. You are on your honeymoon, after all! Now, the bedchamber should be all ready for you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Chiswick will leave your bedroom candles in the hall for you and we’ll say goodnight now, so we don’t bother you again. And we won’t disturb you in the morning, either, ’til you ring for us. I doubt you’ll be wanting to be up with the lark.’
With another knowing smile and a broad wink the housekeeper departed, leaving Dominique to stare at the closed door.
A strained silence enveloped them.
‘By heaven, what a gabster,’ remarked Gideon at last. ‘Difficult to get a word in, I admit.’ He sat down beside her on the sofa. ‘I suppose I can always sleep here.’ She turned to look at him, surprised. His lips twitched. ‘We were neither of us brave enough to stem the flow, were we?’
Dominique’s hands flew to her mouth, but could not stifle a nervous giggle. Gideon began to laugh, too, and soon they were both convulsed in mirth. It was several minutes before either of them could speak again.
‘It is very like a farce one would see in Drury Lane,’ Dominique hiccupped, searching for a handkerchief to mop her streaming eyes.
Gideon pulled out his own and, cupping her chin in one hand, turned her face towards him and gently wiped her cheeks.
‘But if such a story was presented, one would say it was too far-fetched and could never happen.’
He was still grinning, but Dominique’s urge to laugh died away. Carefully she disengaged herself.
‘But it has happened.’ His touch on her face had been as gentle as a kiss and yet the skin still tingled. He was leaning back now against the sofa, relaxed and smiling. She thought again how handsome he was, with those finely chiselled features, the thick, auburn hair gleaming in the candlelight. If they had met in other circumstances... She stopped the thought immediately. He hated the French and there could be no denying her parentage, nor did she want to do so. She was proud of her father.
Gideon was on his feet, going back to the sideboard.
‘You shouldn’t be maudling your insides with tea. Let me get you some port.’
She looked towards the tea tray. He was right, she did not feel up to the careful ritual of making tea this evening. She was so nervous she feared she would drop one of the beautiful porcelain cups. When he held out a glass of dark, ruby-red liquid she accepted it with a murmur of thanks, holding it carefully between her hands. Perhaps it would put some spirit into her. She took a large gulp, swallowing half the contents in one go but thankfully Gideon did not see it, for he was busy pouring himself more brandy.
‘We are in a pickle, my dear.’ He sat down beside her again. ‘I lost my temper and I apologise for it. If we had remained at Martlesham everything would have been so much simpler.’
‘You were very angry, I understand that, and I beg your pardon for my part in it.’
The corners of his mouth lifted a little. He said ruefully, ‘It is the red hair. When the angry mist descends I am not responsible for my actions.’
A smile of understanding tugged at her own mouth.
‘My hair is not red, but I have a temper, too, at times.’
‘Your Latin temperament, perhaps.’
‘Yes.’
* * *
There was a shy smile in her green