Tied With a Bow

hair, and her vision blurred suddenly.
    She took a deep breath. She would not indulge in regret or self-pity.
    It was stupid, stupid , to sigh and dream over a man simply because he had sought an introduction and shown her a little courtesy. Women like her—dependent females at the mercy of their relations—had little chance of attracting a suitor or changing their situations.
    Besides . . . Her gaze skittered to Howard, taking his seat at the card table. Hartfell’s politeness, innocent as it was, had had the unwelcome result of provoking Howard. Her cousin was like a dog snarling over a bone, anxious lest it be snatched away.
    She sighed. She had no desire to be slavered over. Or mauled. Better for her, safer for her, to avoid them both.

Chapter Four
     
    Lucien stared out the long French windows at the snow covered lawn and frozen pond. The winter clouds were cold and gray as steel, the ground as hard as iron.
    In his mind he saw her eyes, blue as the October sky, heard her voice, warm and fierce as sunlight. You tear me away from everything I know. You will rip me apart.
    His hands clenched behind his back. He knew who she was now. Amy Blanchard. Lady Aimée, daughter of the Comte de Brissac.
    What he didn’t know was what the devil he should do about her.
    His head pounded. Maybe nothing.
    He was no angel, after all. His responsibility for her had ended eight years ago when he delivered her from prison and the guillotine. Damn it all, he’d saved her life.
    You are killing me.
    His jaw set. Bollocks.
    A burst of laughter recalled his attention to the room behind him, where pretty Julia Basing was holding court by the fire.
    He felt no desire to join them. For the past several days, he had been confined to the house and his role as Julia’s suitor. The hard frost, followed by an inch or two of snow, had discouraged even the most avid sportsmen from going out. There had been one foray to the local taproom to take tea, where the very young ladies in his party had declared the private dining room dirty, the cakes dry, and the whole trip scarcely worth the trouble. In desperation yesterday, Lucien had proposed an expedition to the tiny Norman church in the village to admire the twelfth-century frieze. A shivering Julia Basing had refused even to descend from the carriage, demanding to be taken home.
    Aimée Blanchard had not joined either outing.
    “Is Miss Blanchard indisposed?” Lucien had asked Julia that morning.
    Julia had blinked at him, obviously bewildered by his interest in her cousin. “Amy? No, why?”
    “I did not see her at breakfast.”
    Nor had she been at dinner the past two nights nor in the drawing room to play cards or charades.
    Julia’s pretty face had pleated. “I think Amy is taking her meals in the nursery. She is a great favorite with the children, you know.”
    He could imagine.
    He could also guess that Aimée’s popularity with the children made life a great deal easier for the other adults in the household.
    Irritation rose in him.
    It was none of his business if Aimée was taken advantage of by her English relatives, he reminded himself. She was not his charge. But he found himself watching for her all the same, driven by emotions he did not understand and could not name.
    Attraction? Guilt? Concern?
    Behind him, the conversation had turned to the Christmas ball and whether the guests would come in costume or wear dominos.
    “Costumes, definitely,” Howard Basing said. “At least for the young ladies. Why cover their charms? I quite fancy myself a satyr disporting with nymphs and goddesses.”
    Several of the young ladies in question tittered.
    Lucian clenched his hand on the windowsill. He did not like Howard Basing. The only satisfaction he had was that Basing had spent the past few days with the rest of the house party. Whatever Aimée was doing, at least she wasn’t with him.
    Movement disturbed the gray and white landscape outside. Figures lugging a basket down the gentle slope that led to the frozen lily pond. A woman, he guessed by her clothes and her size, and two—no, three—children. She carried the smallest in her arms.
    Lucien’s pulse quickened. Aimée.
    He watched from the window as she set the child down and grinned at the boy with the basket. Lucien had imagined her confined to the nursery, pressed into reluctant service while the house party went on without her. But there was nothing false in the smile she flashed the boy, nothing forced in the way