Bride For A Night

“Nonsense.” Her voice held a bitter edge she could not entirely disguise. “He was quite happy to be rid of me.”

Jacques regarded her as if she were impossibly naïve. “No, he wished to punish your father for having dared to threaten him,” he said. “Once he is assured that he has established his dominance over you, and, more important, Silas Dobson, he will be anxious to claim his wife.”

A treacherous memory of how Gabriel had already claimed her in the rumpled sheets of her bed briefly seared through her mind. Then, with a gasp, she hastily thrust aside the unwelcome image. What the devil was the matter with her?

“You know nothing of the situation.” She took an awkward step away from her companion, thankful he could not read her thoughts. “Gabriel is eager to forget we were ever wed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Even if such a ridiculous notion were true, he cannot forget you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the Countess of Ashcombe, not some commoner’s wife.”

“I am aware of my title,” she said tartly. Her wedding might have been a bleak affair, but she had no doubt that it had been perfectly legal. Had Gabriel not returned for the wedding night just to ensure…

No.

Not again.

“Then you should also be aware that, whatever Lord Ashcombe’s personal opinion of you as his wife, his pride will not allow you to be a source of mockery among his peers.” Jacques thankfully distracted her dangerous thoughts. “When he judges it to be the appropriate moment, he will use his considerable power to launch you into society.”

Talia shuddered at the mere suggestion. She would as soon be left to rot in a French prison as be launched back into society.

“He cannot force them to accept me.”

“Of course he can.” Jacques’s hand shifted to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “They will not dare to do anything but bow at your pretty feet.”

Her humorless laugh floated eerily through the gallery. “Absurd.”

He shrugged aside her disbelief. “Not that taking your place among society is your most important function as the new Countess of Ashcombe.”

“I suppose you intend to tell me what it is?”

He stepped close enough to surround her in his male heat, his hands framing her face.

“I should not have to, no matter how innocent you might be.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Mons…”

“Jacques,” he huskily insisted.

“Jacques,” she impatiently muttered. “Just say what is upon your mind.”

“Very well.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “The first and foremost duty of the Countess of Ashcombe is to produce the essential heir, ma petite.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, more disturbed by the brutal pang of need that clenched her stomach than by Jacques’s audacity.

She wasn’t stupid. In the days leading up to the wedding, there had lurked the knowledge that Gabriel would need an heir, but she had endured too many disappointments to willingly invite more. How could she have allowed herself to hope for a child when her husband might very well have decided he could not bear to bring himself to share her bed?

Even after their wedding night, she had refused to consider the possibility when it became evident she was not yet pregnant. Gabriel was obviously satisfied with his mistresses in town, leaving her alone in the country. The desperate desire to hold a baby in her arms might very well drive her mad if she allowed it to settle in her heart.

“I…”

Mistaking her unease for embarrassment, Jacques stroked his thumb over her heated cheek.

“You truly are an innocent.”

“Not so innocent as you imagine,” she said dryly.

“I find it charming.” A dangerous emotion flared through his dark eyes. “I find you charming.”

A stab of panic had Talia jerking away from his lingering touch. “I will not discuss this with you.”

Jacques folded his arms over his chest, watching her nervous retreat with a narrowed gaze.

“What will you not discuss?” he asked. “The realization that your husband is not some mythical creature who you can pretend lives in some distant land and that eventually you will have to do your duty as his wife?”

“My relationship with Lord Ashcombe is none of your concern.”

“I am merely attempting to reveal that your idyll would not have lasted beyond a few weeks,” he persisted. “You should thank me for rescuing you from an existence that would never have made you happy.”

“Rescuing me? I was kidnapped,” she sharply reminded him. “And you know nothing of how to make me happy.”

A smile of pure male confidence curled his lips. “I know you intimately, ma petite.”

Heat flared beneath her cheeks at his suggestive words. “Nonsense.”

“I know you prefer to devote your days to helping others and that you would be miserable being forced back to the stifling ballrooms of London.” His dark gaze skimmed over the exposed skin of her bosom. “I also suspect you are not eager to become a broodmare for a husband who has shown you nothing but contempt.”

She abruptly whirled away, unwilling to reveal the awful truth that she would give anything to have a baby. A tiny child to whom she could offer all her love that had been rejected by others.

“Please, do not,” she choked out.

Jacques bent his head to whisper in her ear, his gentle hands resting on her shoulders.

“Your talents would be respected here, ma petite. There is much need and few hands to offer assistance.”

She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”

“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”

Talia could not deny a tug of regret.

Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.

How much could she accomplish for those poor orphans?

She heaved a sigh. “You do not fight fair.”