Under the Champagne Moon
Orphaned by the French Revolution and rescued by a British family, Fleur Hardouin didn’t—or wouldn’t—speak, until the jolly young Gareth Ardleigh crossed her path one summer and saved her from bullies.
Fifteen years later, Fleur and the beloved lady she serves return to Cheshire. Determined to rescue them both through an advantageous marriage, Fleur tries to brush off the attention she receives from Captain Gareth Ardleigh, who’s home from the wars and as handsome as ever. Her heart longs for him, but her head knows he can’t provide the security she needs.
Gareth’s excuse for visiting Cheshire is to deliver the personal effects of his best friend who perished at Quatre Bras. But his real purpose is finding the little French girl he met years ago, for marriage—not to him, but to the Frenchman who helped save his life.
Astonished to find that Fleur has grown into a beautiful—and still intriguing—young woman, it soon becomes clear, he must choose between honoring a promise or trying to win the hand of the woman he loves.
Originally published in Under the Harvest Moon, a Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends
“I will show you the art of sabrage, Laurence. Only but watch my technique.”
A shiver passed through Fleur, followed by heat that turned her hands and cheeks clammy. The voice, the cocky intonation… She paused, gathered her composure, and then turned the knob.
The door opened on silent hinges, cigar smoke wafting to meet her. Silver flashed. An object shot out and bounced against the fireplace shovel with a loud bang, and the air bubbled with the scent of fermented grapes.
A well-dressed gentleman sat behind a heavy desk, cigar in hand. The other, his curly dark locks in disarray, coatless, and with very fine legs encased in tight buckskins, stood before the desk, his back to the door.
“Dans la victoire,’’ the man in buckskins proclaimed, “tu mérites du champagne, et dans la défaite tu en as besoin.’’
In victory you deserve champagne, and in defeat you need it?
READ MOREHer stomach twisted, thoughts stirring in her muddled mind. It had sounded like him, but it couldn’t be, could it? Nor was it Thaddeus—he’d fallen at Waterloo.
Had he lived?
If it wasn’t him…would Sherington be hosting a blasted Frenchman?
Laurence—surely the weak-chinned blond fellow behind the desk was Laurence—noticed her. Thaddeus had been the handsomer of the two boys. Poor Thaddeus.
Laurence’s smile fell away as he stood and set aside his cigar. The man with him, the man clutching a foaming bottle in one hand and a saber in the other, turned his head. His lips stretched and softened, and his eyes darkened with what she recognized as a man’s carnal interest.
And then they widened with shock. A smile dawned, flooding his face with something that looked like relief.
Her own heart thundered. Gareth. This was Gareth, grown into a man, with thighs that would send Dulcinea into embarrassing public ecstasies.
“Petal,” he cried. “It’s you.”
“Flora?” Laurence stepped closer, his gaze traveling over her like an annoying insect buzzing around. “I haven’t seen you in years. Is it really you? All grown up?”
The tone was lascivious and didn’t deserve a reply.
Laurence rounded the desk and scoffed. “Don’t tell me you still don’t speak, Flora.”
That again. The fool.
“My name,” she said, “is Fleur. Not Flora. Nor is it Petal.”
Gareth’s eyes twinkled, flecks of gold sparking among the brown, and his whole face lit from within as if he was holding in one of his hearty laughs, like the one that exploded out of him the last time she saw him.
Did he still have the handkerchief she’d labored over? He’d probably thrown it into the fire the same day he’d received it.
And that was fine. Gareth had no place in her plans.
COLLAPSE