A Regency Gentleman's Passion. Diane Gaston

in Badajoz. That you are a good man. But you are English, you see.” She gave a very Gallic shrug.

      He placed the basket on the counter and felt the impression of the velvet box in his pocket. “Would you prefer me to leave?”

      “Non, non.” She clasped his arm. “I want you to stay.”

      Her aunt huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. How was Gabe to stay when he knew his presence was so resented?

      He made an attempt to engage the woman. “Madame arrived today?”

      Emmaline translated.

      The aunt flashed a dismissive hand. “Pfft. Oui.”

      “You must dine with us.” He looked at Emmaline. “Do you agree? She will likely have nothing in her house for a meal.”

      Emmaline nodded and translated what he said.

      Madame Laval gave an expression of displeasure. She responded in French.

      Emmaline explained, “She says she is too tired for company.”

      He lifted the basket again. “Then she must select some food to eat. I purchased plenty.” He showed her the contents. “Pour vous, madame.”

      Her eyes kindled with interest, even though her lips were pursed.

      “Take what you like,” he said.

      “I will close the shop.” Emmaline walked to the door.

      Madame Laval found a smaller basket in the back of the store. Into it she placed a bottle of wine, the cream, some eggs, bread, cheese, four mussels and all of the frites.

      “C’est assez,” she muttered. She called to Emmaline. “Bonne nuit, Emmaline. Demain, nous parlerons plus.”

      Gabe understood that. Emmaline’s aunt would have more to say to her tomorrow.

      “Bonne nuit, madame.” Gabe took the bouquet of flowers and handed them to her, bowing again.

      “Hmmph!” She snatched the flowers from his hand and marched away with half their food and all his frites.

      Emmaline walked over to him and leaned against him.

      He put his arms around her. “I am sorry to cause you this trouble.”

      She sighed. “I wish her visit in the country had lasted longer.”

      He felt the velvet box press against his chest. “It is safer for her to be in the city.”

      She pulled away. “Why? Have you heard news?”

      He kept an arm around her. “No, nothing more. There is to be a ball tomorrow night. There would not be a ball if Wellington was ready to march.”

      They walked out of the shop and across the courtyard to her little house. Once inside, Gabe removed his coat; as he did so he felt the ring box in its pocket and knew this was not the time to show it to her. Her aunt, unwittingly, had cast a pall on Gabe’s excitement, his dreams for the future.

      She busied herself in readying their meal. Their conversation was confined to the placement of dishes and who would carry what to the table.

      When they sat at the table, she remarked, “It is a lovely meal, Gabriel. I like the mussels.”

      He smiled at her. “I know.”

      As they began to eat, she talked about her aunt. “Tante Voletta came to Brussels a long time ago. After her husband went to the guillotine—”

      Gabe put down his fork. “Good God. He went to the guillotine?”

      She waved a hand. “That was when they sent everyone to the guillotine. He was a tailor to some of the royals, you see. Voilà! That was enough. Tante Voletta came here, to be safe. She opened the shop.”

      “Why does she dislike me?” he asked. “The English were opposed to the Terror.”

      She smiled wanly. “Ah, but the English are an enemy of Napoleon. My aunt reveres Napoleon. He made France great again, you see.” Her smile fled. “Of course, he killed many by making them soldiers.”

      What she feared for her son, he remembered.

      He turned the subject back to her aunt. “I dislike causing you distress with your aunt. What can I do?”

      She shrugged. “You can do nothing.”

      He gave her a direct look. “Would you prefer I not spend the night tonight?”

      Her lips pressed together. “Stay with me. She will know we are lovers soon enough. Everyone around us knows it by now and will delight in telling her of all your coming and going.”

      He frowned. “Do I cause trouble for you with your neighbours, as well?”

      She smiled again. “Non, Gabriel. Here a widow is allowed lovers. They might think I am wise to bed you. Most of my neighbours like the money the English bring. My aunt likes English money, too, but she would never say so.”

      They talked of inconsequentials through the rest of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. The sky was not quite dark.

      Emmaline wiped her hands on the towel. “I am tired tonight. Do you mind if we sleep early?”

      “Whatever you wish, Emmaline.” Gabe was not about to make anything more uncomfortable for her.

      Their lovemaking that night was bittersweet, slow and filled with emotion, as if both of them realised how fragile it could be to love each other.

      The words ‘With my body I thee worship’ repeated in Gabe’s mind as his eyes drank in her beauty and his fingers memorised the feel of her. He wanted to erase the tension between them that her aunt’s arrival had caused. He wanted to convince her with his body that he needed her in his life.

      They reached the pinnacle of pleasure in a slow climb this night, but finally writhed together in its acute glory. No night-time sharing of confidences this time. They merely held each other in silence.

      Perhaps in the morning, with the hope of dawn, he could make love to her again and bare his soul to her as they lay next to each other in tangled linens.

      Gabe drifted off into disturbed dreams. He was a child again, cast out of doors, alone in a storm, no one near to hear his calls, no one to shelter him. Lightning flashed in his dream and its clap of thunder jarred him awake, his heart pounding.

      The sound came again.

      Emmaline sat up. The sound repeated. It was not thunder, but something hitting the window, which was open only a crack.

      “Someone is out there.” She scrambled out of the bed, a sheet wrapped around her.

      She lifted the sash and looked out the window.

      “Maman!” a voice called in a loud whisper. “Maman!”

      “Mon Dieu,” she cried. “It is Claude.” She grabbed her nightdress and put it on. “My son is here.”

Chapter Four

      Emmaline dashed out, not even bothering to put on a robe. She ran down the stairs, threw open the front door and hugged her only child, who now stood a head taller than she.

      He lifted her off her feet and crossed the threshold. “Maman!” He spoke in French. “I am here.”

      Her feet touched the floor again and she stepped back to look at him. In the unlit room she could see little more than a shadow, a shadow that looked so much like her late husband that it made her gasp.

      “Let me light a candle so I can see you.” She pulled him further into the room. “Why are you here? Have you come home to me?”