Bride For A Night. Rosemary Rogers

that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the modiste did not disappoint. You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”

      She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.

      Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.

      Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.

      Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.

      “You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”

      He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”

      “Hardly a rag.”

      He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked amusement that could tempt a saint.

      “Besides, you are my guest. It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to ensure you are provided with all the comforts you might desire.”

      “I am your prisoner, not your guest.”

      “Prisoner?” He lifted his brows in a pretense of innocence. “There are no bars on the windows and no shackles holding you against your will.”

      “It is beneath you to pretend that I am here of my own free will,” she chastised.

      “Come, ma petite,” he coaxed, skimming a finger down her cheek. “It has not been such a terrible adventure, has it?”

      She jerked from his touch, her eyes narrowing at his patronizing tone.

      “I have been bullied and coerced and manipulated by others my entire life, Monsieur Gerard,” she said between clenched teeth. “I had foolishly hoped I might have found a place where I could control my own destiny, as well as friends who appreciated my independence, when I arrived at Carrick Park.”

      A brief flash of regret shot through his eyes before he cupped her chin in his hand and regarded her with a resolute expression.

      “Oui, it was a foolish hope. You were never destined to enjoy your independence for long.”

      She frowned. “There is no need to mock me.”

      “Talia, use that considerable intelligence of yours,” he commanded.

      “What do you mean?”

      “You could not have remained alone at Carrick Park.”

      “I do not comprehend why not,” she protested. “It seemed a satisfactory arrangement.”

      His lips twisted. “For you perhaps, but I can assure you that your husband would soon have been joining you in Devonshire. Or demanding that you return to London.”

      She stiffened at the mention of Gabriel. She had done her best not to think of her husband since those first hours after her kidnapping when she had ridiculously held on to a hope that he would come charging to her rescue. As if he would bother himself to chase after his unwanted wife even if he had known she was taken hostage. She was such a fool.

      “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