Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

him and hold him so tightly he would never let her go. The truth then, she thought, at least about Arabella. About her own feelings, they had to wait. She had no idea what he felt about her. Oh yes, he was fond of her, that much was obvious, but for anything more—

She said, “I promise that isn’t the problem. I believe Arabella was born being grown up. A married lady? I neither had nor have any difficulty accepting that.” She drew a deep breath. “There is something wrong between them. Something very wrong.”

Dr. Branyon frowned into her clouded blue eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to make light of her concern, but he had found over the years that her perceptions about people were usually appallingly accurate. He said,

“Since I haven’t seen them today, I can’t say anything to the point. This evening, well, I will watch them. I hope you are wrong, Ann. I really do.”

“So do I. But I’m not.” She wondered if she should tell him about Arabella’s ripped nightgown. No, that was going too far. It was far too intimate.

God, how he hated to see her upset. Without thought he lifted her hand.

As his mouth brushed her palm, he felt a slight tremor in her hand. Her fingers closed over his. He forgot everything except his need for her. He looked hungrily at her mouth, then into her eyes. He didn’t at first believe what he saw there even though it was so clear a blind man couldn’t be mistaken.

“Ann, my dearest love.” There was such longing, such complete commitment in his voice that Lady Ann didn’t notice the groom approaching with his horse.

But he did. He tried to smile, difficult when all he wanted to do was kiss her until neither of them could breathe. He wanted badly to touch her, just lightly touch her, it was all he asked, but it wasn’t to be. He drew a deep breath and swallowed a lurid curse. “We have no privacy here.

I would speak with you further, Ann.”

She stared up at him, at his mouth, and said without hesitation, “When?” He chuckled and released her hand. “I want nothing more than to have you all to myself right at this moment. Damnation. I have patients.”

“Tomorrow then,” she said.

He took the plunge. “You know, Ann, the fishpond is lovely this time of year. Do you think you would enjoy a stroll around its perimeter tomorrow afternoon, say at one o’clock?” Actually he was seeing her on her back, her beautiful hair spread out about her face, lying in the midst of daffodils. He swallowed. He was losing his mind.

Again, she said without hesitation, “I think I should like it above all things.”

Dr. Branyon forgot the years he had spent without her, thinking now to the future. Actually, he was thinking about tomorrow at the fishpond.

“Just maybe life is perfect.” He rested his hand lightly against her cheek and smiled at her tenderly.

“Tonight for dinner and I swear I will observe. Then, tomorrow at one o’clock, dearest Ann.” He turned and strode down the front steps to his waiting horse, his step light and confident. He waved to her before he wheeled his horse about and cantered down the graveled drive.

“Yes, Paul, just maybe life will be perfect.” She felt so full of happiness that, absurdly, she wanted to run after the retreating stable lad and fling her arms around him. She hugged herself instead.

By the time she returned to the drawing room, she had dimmed the outrageous sparkle in her eyes. She thought that only Justin would notice a change in her. But then, in all likelihood, Justin would not be there.

She was surprised to find only the comte in the drawing room. She smiled at him, a blond brow arched upward.

“Ma petite cousine wished to retire to her room to compose herself for dinner. I believe she is fatigued.” He gave her a charming shrug, all French and meaningless.

“I see,” she said. How she wished now he had gone away to compose himself as well, or that she had gone directly to her room, or perhaps to the parterre. She wanted to be alone, to turn over each of Paul’s words in her mind, to savor the implications, just to picture him in her mind and smile with what might come, what might happen.

“Lady Ann, I am delighted that at last I can speak with you alone,” the comte said suddenly, sitting forward in his chair, his voice intense.

“You see, chère madame, only you can tell me about my aunt Magdalaine.”

“Magdalaine? But, Gervaise, I hardly know anything about her. She died before I met the former earl. Surely Magdalaine’s brother, your father, would know far more than I and—”

He shook his head. “It is of the most unfortunate, but he could only tell me of her girlhood in France. Even on that, his brain was muddled. He knew nothing of her life in England. Please, tell me what you know of her. Surely you must know something.”

“Very well, but let me think a moment.” Goodness, she knew so little, she wasn’t lying about that. She jostled her memory, piecing together bits of information about her husband’s first wife. “I believe the earl met your aunt while on a visit to the French court in 1788. I do not know the sequence of events, only that they were wed quite soon at the Trécassis château and returned to England shortly thereafter. Elsbeth, as you know, was born in 1789, but a year after their marriage.” She paused and smiled at the very beautiful young man. “Of course, Gervaise, you cannot be much older than Elsbeth yourself. I imagine that you were born near to the same time.”

The comte shrugged in vague agreement and waved his elegant hands for her to continue.

“Now I come to the point where I am not certain of my facts. I believe Magdalaine returned to France shortly after the revolution