Indiscreet (11 page)

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Authors: Carolyn Jewel

Tags: #Historical

BOOK: Indiscreet
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Seabirds circled overhead, calling out for someone to provide them a ration of fish. Alas, he had none to give them. A native ship sailed slowly toward Constantinople. As he walked the ledge, he caught a glimpse of someone sitting near the first tower that was his destination. Some Turk, perhaps, mulling over his country's history and contemplating what had been a glorious past Foye was not one of those men who thought the Porte could protect its territorial reach much longer. Buyukdere Castle would not be in such a state of disrepair otherwise.
He continued walking, and before long it was plain that his Turkish contemplator was, in fact, a woman. And since no Turkish woman would be permitted here by herself, she must be European. Another few steps and he recognized the golden hair visible from beneath her hat
Sabine Godard.
Chapter Ten
Buyukdere Castle,
May 23,1811
About half past six in the morning. The site of a very great coincidence. Or perhaps just fate.
"Miss Godard?"
Sabine started when she heard her name. She turned away from her sketch, shading her eyes to see who it was.
Lord Foye was instantly recognizable. She didn't know anyone else that tall. Her pulse sped up as he continued toward her. Sabine kept her place at one of the crenellated portions of the castle wall. Until Lord Foye had called out, she'd been bent over a sketch pad set atop the stone, pencil in band. As she straightened, the toe of her shoe hit the leather case at her feet It was open to show more paper and her collection of pencils, charcoals, chalks, and gum rubbers.
Lord Foye stopped about a yard distant from her and snatched off his hat. He shook his head to resettle his curls. Her heart sped up even though she knew they would not kiss again. He'd told her nothing would come of it, and so far he'd been true to his word. He smiled. "It is you, Miss Godard. I wasn't certain at first"
She knew she ought to reply,
Yes
, my lord. It is I.
Or perhaps,
Good morning, my lord.
But she didn't because this was the third time her awareness of him had surged out of proportion to what was proper. The truth was she found him attractive, from the jumbled line of his cheeks to the hook of his nose. Even though nothing could ever come of her feelings for him, as he had so appropriately warned her.
She put a hand on her paper to keep the breeze from blowing away her work while she was distracted. This morning Lord Foye wore a burgundy waistcoat striped with a gray satin that matched his dove breeches. His charcoal coat fit his narrow waist and fell straight over a flat belly. Sabine wasn't used to noticing a man with such detail, or rather, she wasn't used to having the details affect her this way. Still, they could be friends. That would be enough.
Foye bowed to her and then said, "Good morning."
She had to lift her chin in order to look into his face, and as she did, she remembered in torturous detail the sensation of his arms around her, holding her. His mouth on her, so soft and gentle. Her first and only kiss. The moment their eyes met, her stomach took flight, and she had to press her hand down hard on her sketchbook to maintain a sense that she remained connected to the ground. One heard and read of such feelings, of women who claimed to be transported at the sight of one certain man, but she'd thought the reaction was exaggeration, a mere fancy of an overactive imagination, and that even if it were true, such a thing would never happen to her. And here she stood, staring at Lord Foye, wondering if her legs would hold her.
For her life she could not decide if he seemed glad to have come across her or if he was annoyed. She tucked her pencil behind her ear and summoned her self-control. Nothing would come of this, they were both determined, and she was dashed if she made a fool of herself.
"Good morning, my lord," she said. This meeting was no different than any other she might have with a gentleman of her acquaintance. She made an awkward curtsey in his direction since she was keeping her hand on her sketch. After all, he was Lord Foye. The Marquess of Foye. A man so far above her in society, she shouldn't be feeling anything about him at all. She put away her memory of their kiss in a faraway place to be brought out and remembered at some other time. "What brings you here so early in the day?"
He kept the distance between them, and Sabine was certain that any moment he would nod and take his leave. "Mr. Lucey recommended that I tour Buyukdere Castle. So here I am. Sightseeing." He pointed to the water with a grin she felt from bead to toe. "Calculating what it would take to fire a cannon across the water into Asiatic Turkey."
They were alone here. Completely alone, and she wasn't afraid or worried he might make an improper advance. Her nerves were for an entirely different reason.
"Rumeli Hisari,"
she said.
He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
'The natives call this
Rumeli Hisari,
the Roman Fortress." She spoke too quickly. But, my God, she was actually trembling. Such a foolish woman she was. Her voice didn't sound like her own. She'd never been nervous around any of the other gentlemen she'd met in her life. "I don't know why they call it that." She scraped a strand of hair away from her face. She was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop. And Foye was too polite to interrupt her. "It was built by Faith Mahomet the Conqueror, beginning in 1451. Not very Roman I should say. By then even Caesar Augustus was long buried. Have you seen the cannons?" She pointed to the far side of the castle to a tower away from the water. "Over there is the gunpowder tower."
He didn't look in the direction she pointed. He just cleared his throat and pressed the rim of his hat between his long fingers. "You are a veritable font of information, Miss Godard. As ever."
She gazed at him, speechless with the horror of realizing she wasn't just feeling a fool but was indeed making a fool of herself. Another strand of hair came free of her confining hat and blew across her cheek. She ignored it. "I can't help it, you know."
"Can't help what?"
"I was raised by Godard." She shrugged and kept her ground when he came nearer. As near as any two people might stand when they are acquainted. He meant nothing by this, and yet she stared at his mouth and wondered what it would be like if he were to kiss her again. "Facts stay with me. I did not know when I was growing up that it was unusual for a girl to be educated as I was. But so I was, and now I am unable to forget a fact I have heard." Silly, ridiculous words tripped from her mouth. "I was eighteen before I learned we women are expected to hide what knowledge we have." She raised her hand and waved it just above her head. "All these facts I have here. They are trapped now. Languages and chronologies of history, calculus, and geometry. Sometimes I forget I ought to dissemble, and something unfortunate spills out." She smiled at him. "Have you not noticed that about me?"
He blinked. "Calculus?"
Well, then. She'd done enough damage already that more could hardly make a difference. Her intellectual oddities were hardly a secret from him. "Godard and I made a thorough study of Newton's
Principia"
"And?"
He was never going to kiss her again. They were safe. She was safe. The knowledge calmed her. While her feelings were real enough, her hopes were not, and in that she could take a measure of relief. Lord Foye was far too polite to let on he thought her silly. He would preserve her dignity.
"We muddled along, Godard and I," she said. Her nerves settled, and that made it easier to marshal her thoughts. "I am afraid I disappointed him. He had hopes for me as I excelled at arithmetic."
"Did you?"
She nodded. "It happens I am not very good at mathematics."
Foye smiled, and her heart gave a twist Madness! This was madness to find him so attractive. "Your uncle has given you a better education than most boys of your station in life."
"Oh, yes, my lord."
He gave her a look. "You may call me Foye, if you like." He gestured. "I was going to walk the perimeter of the castle." For a moment, he stared down at his hat "Would you care to put your mountain of facts to use and be my guide?"
She set a hand to the back of her head and looked into his face as if there she would see the motive for the request She saw nothing there but his blue, blue eyes, the uneven features of his face, and the curls around his forehead. At last at a loss to think why he'd asked, other than that he really did want the benefit of her knowledge, she said, "If you like."
"I would," he said.
She bent to her art case and put away her gum rubber, keeping one hand on her sketch pad against the breeze coming off the water. Her pencil must have rolled off the surface because she didn't see it on her sketch pad.
"Allow me," Foye said. She didn't know he'd come close until he placed his much larger hand on her sketch. She knew him well enough now that his being so near didn't bother her in the least, aside from the butterflies in her stomach, that is.
"Thank you," she said from her half-crouch over her case. The location of her pencil continued to elude her.
"Is something amiss?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, without looking up. "I've lost my pencil."
"Miss Godard."
She looked up in time to see him smiling as he reached for her. Her breath caught in her throat She forced herself not to react, but her expression must have given her away, because his smile vanished.
"No," he said. "Not that"
She shook her head, meaning to deny that she'd been thinking he intended to embrace her. No words came. And perhaps that was for the best
Foye plucked her pencil from the side of her ear. "Your pencil," he said softly. He held it out to her, and she took it from him. Her bare fingers brushed his.
'Thank you," she said. She dropped the pencil in the case and closed it Without rising from her crouch, she stretched out a hand for her sketch pad. Foye handed it to her without remark. "Thank you, again."
"You are a talented artist."
She was engaged with closing up her case and didn't look at him. "That's kind of you to say so, my lord. I'm told my father had the same knack."
"How old were you when he died?"
"Both my parents died when I was two."
He touched her shoulder. He meant nothing by it, she told herself. "I'm sorry."
"I don't remember them. But I miss them all the same. Isn't that queer?"
"Not at all, Miss Godard." He pointed to her art case. "Are you self-taught? Or did your uncle see that you were instructed in art as well?"
"Art was never a subject Godard set me to. He does not encourage that particular talent of mine. I suppose because he never got along with my father. At any rate, I soon discovered that if I am to practice I must do so in secret" She rose, tucking her case under one arm, all very efficient She had to tilt her chin up to look at him, and when she had, she felt as if all the air between them had disappeared.
"I cannot fathom why," Foye said. One side of his mouth quirked, and Sabine could not stop a smile in return. "A proper young lady is not accomplished unless she can sketch and paint a watercolor."
Sabine laughed. "I don't think Godard ever thought about that"
"No," he said slowly. "I doubt that he did." He rubbed the side of his face. "I've often wondered since we met whether you were born like Athena, fully grown from the head of Zeus. Fully educated."
"Perhaps I was." She tipped her head to one side, and he stayed quite still. Sabine studied him.
"I shudder to think what thoughts are running through your head just now, Miss Godard."
"You have such an interesting face. I would love to sketch you one day." Foye's eyebrows rose. "Ah," she said. "That was out of order. Forgive me." She adjusted her cap with one hand. "Shall we walk?"
He continued to look at her. "That would be delightful."
The skin along her arms prickled as she switched her art case to her other hand so that Foye could take her arm. They set out. For the most part the wall was in good shape, and they walked comfortably side by side.
"How is it you were able to leave your uncle behind in Buyukdere?" he asked after a few moments of silence.
"Asif is taking him to the baths today. Godard finds the heat soothes his joints provided they are gentle with him." She glanced at him, and her stomach dipped again. He did not think of her that way. He had once, for five minutes, but that was in the past. Irrevocably in the past. "Since ladies are not permitted when the gentlemen bathe, I find myself with a free morning when he goes to the
hamam."
"How fortunate for you."
"Yes." She was dreadfully aware of him walking at her side, of the warmth of his body, the scent of sandalwood. She was even more aware that she liked the sound of his voice. He had a marvelous voice.
"You should not have walked out alone."
She didn't answer right away, and when she did, her reply was more evasion than anything else. The fact was, she had not expected to meet anyone. "This is not England, my lord."

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