Bride For A Night. Rosemary Rogers

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.”

      “I fight to win.”

      She thrust away his unexpectedly tempting offer and turned to meet his watchful gaze.

      “Am I to be held here forever?”

      He deliberately lifted his brow, glancing toward the beautiful Rubens’s paintings displayed in gilt frames and the dangling chandeliers made from priceless Venetian glass.

      “You disapprove of your lodgings?”

      She thinned her lips, battling against his considerable charm.

      “I simply wish to know what you intend for my future.”

      He reached to straighten the lace at her bosom. “Be at ease, Talia. Once the information I acquired has been used to defeat Wellesley, I will personally escort you back to Devonshire.” He paused. “Although I have hopes that I will have convinced you to remain with me by that time.”

      She was far from comforted by his promise. “How can you speak so casually of what you have done? Do you not realize that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British soldiers might die because of your treachery?”

      “And hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French soldiers will be saved,” he readily countered. “It is war, ma petite.”

      “A war started by your crazed emperor who will not be satisfied until he has conquered the world.” Her scowl shifted toward the marble bust of Napoleon that had been placed on a teak-wood pedestal. “How can you give your loyalty to such a man?”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “I COULD ASK the same of you,” Jacques countered, his jaw clenched. “How can you give your loyalty to a mad king and his imbecile son who devotes more attention to the gloss on his boots than to his people starving in the gutters?”

      She lowered her eyes, unable to deny his condemnation. Not that she was prepared to admit the truth. Not to the man who was willing to betray those who had come to trust him, including herself.

      “We shall never agree.”

      “You think not?” He waited until she lifted her head to meet his somber gaze. “We are not so different, you know.”

      She stilled. “What do you mean?”

      He paused, as if not entirely certain he wished to explain himself. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned his gaze toward the children still darting about the courtyard.