Royally Seduced (6 page)

“Of course not. I researched online and talked to moms and a preschool teacher.” She frowned at him. “And what would I be doing here all summer on my own? I’m not one of those upper-class mothers who leaves her children with the nanny and jaunts off to Europe. No, thanks.” She made a sour face.

Jacques nodded. His own mother had often left him with not only his nanny but with Madame Finch and Bellamy when she wanted to travel. It was a typical situation for children of his class, as Lily had so succinctly explained.

He wondered where she had learned so much about the moneyed class, like black truffles and absentee mothering. Maybe from American movies and television. They were notable for their celebrity interest.

She tipped her head to the side. “You know, you bribed me with telling me about French scouting but never did get around to that. Time to pay up. I may sell a freelance article on this.” She clicked on her laptop. “Okay, here’s a new file for my notes. Now tell me the French version of the scouting pledge.” She looked expectantly at him.

Jack couldn’t decide whether to grin or groan. He was thinking the least noble thoughts possible at how her breasts curved under her peach-colored T-shirt and how her enthusiasm was a bright sunburst compared to all the cool, collected women he’d known. “Well, there are many scout organizations in France depending on religion and politics.”

“Fascinating,” she murmured, her lips parting and eyes widening. His breath sped up, as well. “Tell me more, Jack.”

“On my honor,” he muttered, remembering his promise to Madame Finch, the governess with the evil streak. He could practically hear her laughing all the way from London.

6

L
ILY RESTED HER
head against the seat in the rental car. They had arrived in the amazing steel-and-glass Avignon train station in less than four hours as promised. It left Jack enough time to show her the famous bridge of Avignon that only extended halfway into the Rhône River due to strong currents as well as the beautiful stone Papal Palace that was the home of several popes during the 1300s.

While they were grabbing a couple sandwiches for a late lunch, Jack had noticed a sign on a public bulletin board that a nearby town was hosting a lavender harvest festival. “Do you want to go?”

“Sure.”

He had consulted the board again. “There are several hotels and a hostel. It’s not a huge festival, so we should be able to find a couple beds at the hostel.”

“Sounds good.” A quiver ran through her stomach at the word
beds.
She’d been imagining Jack in a bed since last night. He’d given her nothing more than a couple sidelong glances but she could tell he was interested in her, too.

It had been so long since her last relationship, and the mild spark she’d had with her ex-boyfriend was nothing compared to the fiery sizzle she felt with Jack. She hadn’t come to France to jump in the sack with a Frenchman, and it probably would even be counterproductive to her writing efforts.

On the other hand, France was full of examples of artsy types who managed to combine sexual passion and their creations. Look at Van Gogh—no, not him. Creepy. Or the sculptor Rodin and his protégée Camille Claudel—but she wound up in a mental institute. There was a huge Rodin gallery in Philly and Lily remembered that poor woman’s story well.

Um, there had to be a happy ending there. Unfortunately, all she could think of were the artists who would have benefited from modern pharmaceutical therapy and the writers and poets who drank too much absinthe, the notoriously strong liquor that was banned in France about a hundred years ago.

Was that a blog post? See, she could combine her writing work and thoughts of him. A veritable romantic multitasker. “Jack, have you ever drunk absinthe?”

“Ah, they call that the green fairy for its color and supposed effects on the mind.” He went on to discuss the active herbal ingredients in absinthe while Lily scribbled rapidly. He finished, “But there is little evidence that it can cause hallucinations, and it’s now for sale in France again.”

She shook her head. “Geez, you know a lot about the medical side of it.”

He grinned. “And yes, I have tried it, but I don’t care for it. Licorice-flavored, you see.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Not a fan of that?”

“No, I prefer sweet things.” Was it her imagination or did his gaze flick down to her bare legs and then up to her breasts? He was subtle, though. If she hadn’t been so tuned in to him, she never would have noticed.

“If only they made lavender liqueur…” she teased him, wondering if he had meant her when he’d talked about sweet things.

“They do.”

“Okay, another blog post for me.” She started making notes again.

“You’ll have time for writing later.” He touched her knee to get her attention and quickly drew his hand back. “I want you to look around now so you can truly see what you’re writing about.”

She wanted his hand back on her knee, but it was firmly gripping the steering wheel. Instead, she looked out the window at the scenery. They’d just climbed a hill and the world was spread out before them.

Provence was beautiful—as if using that word was even a smidgen bit adequate to describe the land and the air, a crisp quality fragrant with floral perfume. Even better than perfume, because the flowers were alive and growing, putting out their scent with every touch of the breeze.

“It looks just like the paintings,” she told him. “I thought those flat orange-and-purple landscapes were stylistically flat. But that’s the way it actually looks.”

He smiled. “The orange fields are
épautre,
or spelt in English. An old, old grain from the wheat family. It’s been grown together with lavender for hundreds of years.”

“No wonder you wanted to get out of Paris. This is heaven compared to the city.”

“I agree. I’m glad you like it. This area is kind of a purple triangle of lavender growing. It’s bordered by the towns of Sault, Banon and Sederon. Different varieties are used for different products, but the best and most exclusive varieties have a special designation, like wine. We take our lavender very seriously here—it’s even called
l’or bleu
—blue gold.”

“I can see why.”

There was a small gravel pull-off area and Jack stopped the car there without asking. She hopped out to take pictures of the panoramic valley below.

He stood next to the front tire and stared out at the fields. Mindful of his privacy, she took a picture of him from the back, only the back of his head visible.

But even that was interesting. She lowered the camera. “Do you have a birthmark there, Jack?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck. “I suppose you can see that now that my hair is shorter. Yes, it’s what they call a stork bite. Babies often have them, but they often fade quickly—mine never did.”

“And what shape is that?” She came closer to see, her breath ruffling the tender skin.

A shiver seemed to run through him, and she fought the crazy urge to kiss the small red spot.

When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and he had to clear his throat. “I’ve only seen it in a mirror, but it looks like a heart.”

“How cute.” She rubbed her thumb over it and he turned, grabbing her hand.

“Sensitive spot.” He held her hand for a second and then let go.

Sensitive or arousing? Lily was getting aroused herself, imagining her mouth, her hands on his smooth skin, his strong fingers touching her in all sorts of sensitive spots.

“Enough photos?” He stood next to the driver’s door, obviously ready to get moving.

“For now, but I have plenty of camera memory and the will to use it.” She hopped in and he pulled out onto the road again.

“Provence is a photographer’s dream. In the summer, you can’t drive down a village street without seeing someone with a camera. Out in the country, not as much, but you still trip over backpackers and campers.”

“Did you grow up near here?”

“Not too far. My father unfortunately passed away when I was young and my mother now lives in Paris.”

She wrinkled her face in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you stay with her when you were in Paris? Is her apartment too small for the both of you?”

“No, she has a large enough place for me to stay, but she had many guests and I wanted to get away from the noise.”

“I can see that about you, Jack. You have a touch of the hermit about you.”

He gave a startled laugh. “Hermit? But I am hardly ever alone in my line of work.”

Lily smiled. “And that wears you down, doesn’t it?”

Jack slowly nodded. “
Oui,
I suppose it does. Sometimes I would bribe my tentmates to go to the mess hall for an extra hour so I could be alone.”

“And you came down here for some vine-ripened aromatherapy. All you have to do is open your window and you get a snootful of soothing lavender scent.”

He laughed. “But Lily, this is not true lavender here. This is lavandin, a hybrid that is more suited to homemade candles and laundry soap. In fact, the word
lavender
comes from the Latin word ‘to wash.’ I will show you the true lavender, like I am showing you the true France.”

“And I appreciate you doing this for me, Jack.”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, no appreciation necessary for me. If you see the real country, your articles will be strong and authentic, better for your career.”

“How nice.” He was thinking of her writing career? That was even more touching. On one hand, she was an open book, but Jack was still a bit of a mystery. “What did your father do before he passed away?”

“Many things, but his favorite was working in the lavender fields. Everyone works all day, every day, until the harvest comes in and the lavender goes to the distillery.”

“A lavender farmer?” Lily gasped in delight. “No wonder you know so much about it.”

He gave her a rueful look. “I was not spared due to my tender age. As soon as I was useful, I was in the fields with the men. And before the age of cell phones, I was the messenger boy, running from the fields back to the house to get supplies, check the weather report and most importantly, learn when lunch would be ready. Harvesters eat
a lot.
Probably over four or five thousand calories a day because the lavender is picked by hand.”

“Your mother must have been busy cooking for them.”

He choked back a laugh and gave her an incredulous look. “My mother wasn’t much of a cook. One of the other local women was in charge of meals. Even now,
Maman
prefers parties to farming.”

“But this is lavender. It’s not exactly pig farming. I’ve been out in the Pennsylvania Amish country and, believe me, there are much smellier farms there.”

“And that was her favorite part of the lavender. Being
from
the farm, not on the farm. She could give gifts of lavender perfume or sachets and pretend she pressed the blossoms with her own hands.”

Lily laughed. “Your mother sounds like…” She didn’t want to mention growing up in the servants’ quarters. It sounded so archaic, and she didn’t know if Jack was as egalitarian as he seemed. Some of the French were firmly steeped in the class system and regarded upwardly mobile women as peasant upstarts. “She sounds like a woman my mother knew. She would hire the best party planners, caterers, florists, musicians for her party and then act as if she’d done all the cooking and decorating herself.”

Lily herself had served at dozens of Mrs. Wyndham’s high-powered functions where local celebrities and politicians were frequent guests. Her mother had often roped her into waitressing if the caterers needed an extra pair of hands. Talk about humiliating—serving hors d’oeuvres to your classmates’ parents and cleaning up broken glass and spilled booze when they’d had too much to drink. Worst of all was when her classmates were invited and she had to serve them. She wished more than once that she could wear a wig and sunglasses to those parties.

“Parties here in Provence are more casual. As long as you have plenty of good food and wine, everyone is happy.” He turned a corner leading down into the town and they quickly came to a standstill in traffic.

Lily looked around. “I thought you said this wasn’t a huge festival. When was the last time you were here for it?”

He grimaced. “Ten years ago.”

“Looks like the world has discovered your sleepy little village.”

“I suppose they welcome the increased tourist money.” But he didn’t look thrilled about it.

“Of course. Everyone has to make a living.”

Jack nodded. “And times can be hard when you depend solely on the land. Many people here live mostly on what they grow in the garden and hunt in the forests.”

“That’s the trendy thing to do now—eat locally. And you can’t get much more local than your backyard.”

“We French are well-known trendsetters.” He laughed. “And wild rabbits and wild boar are delicious if cooked for several hours in red wine.” He deftly negotiated the narrow cobblestone streets, avoiding pedestrians with a death wish and other cars intent on fulfilling their desires.

“That sounds wonderful. Maybe I could try that this week.”

He shook his head. “Eating locally means eating in season, and those are traditional fall dishes. You would have to be here in October or November when the weather cools.”

“I’ll be long gone by then.”

“Ah, yes.” They both sat in silence as the cars in front of them inched along. “But since you are here now, you get to see the lavender.” He spotted a parking slot and shoehorned the rental car into it. Lily wouldn’t have had the nerve to even try.

“That’s true, but I bet every season has something wonderful to see.”

“I think so, but of course I am a native son.” He turned to smile at her. It was such a sweet smile that impulsively, she grabbed his right hand where it sat on his knee.

His smile faded but he immediately tightened his fingers around hers. “Lily, I am supposed to be a gentleman around you.” His voice was low and gritty. “I would not break a promise to you or Madame Finch.”

“You are a gentleman, but maybe I’m not much of a lady.”

His breath hissed out in anger. “Don’t say that about yourself. You are more of a lady than those born to the title.”

“And how would you know about titled ladies?” she teased, leaning into him.

His amber brown eyes searched her face, his face taut as if he were in the middle of a great conflict. He seemed to come to a decision and sighed.

She was going to ask him if he were all right, but then he closed his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers.

Her breath caught in her throat as their lips touched. Her eyes fluttered shut and she practically swooned at the soft, gentle pressure of his mouth. He lightly pressed a kiss to her and then, realizing her eager response, deepened it so her mouth was open and moist under his.

Jack groaned in satisfaction, murmuring her name. She grew brave enough to flick the tender inner margins of his mouth with her tongue, and his fingers tightened almost painfully on hers.

He caught her tongue and sucked on it, and she cupped the back of his neck to keep him close. Her other hand slid up from where it rested on his knee to massage his thigh, the crisp hair tickling her fingers.

Jack dragged himself backward, his chest heaving. His glance fell to her breasts. Her diamond-hard nipples pressed against her thin bra and T-shirt. He raised his hand to cup her breast and then dropped it to his side as if he’d lost all his strength. “Ah,
mon dieu.
Lily…”

She muffled his mouth with her palm. “If you are about to apologize…well…” His hot breath against her tender skin made her almost forget what she was going to tell him and she panted a couple times before remembering. “Oh, yeah. Don’t apologize, okay?”