Louise Allen - Those Scandalous Ravenhursts

‘Ah.’ Jack was watching her, sizing her up again in a way that made her raise her chin. ‘The Grand Duchess is back.’

‘She never goes away,’ Eva said coolly. ‘It would be as well to remember that, Mr Ryder.’

His half-bow from the waist was, if one wanted to take offence, mocking. Eva chose to keep the peace and acknowledged it with a gracious inclination of her head. Then she let her shoulder rest against the corner squabs and closed her eyes. One could never take refuge in sleep in public as a grand duchess, but she was coming to see it was a useful haven in everyday life.

‘Grenoble.’ Jack spoke close to her ear and Eva came fully awake as the sound of the carriage wheels changed and they hit the cobbles.

‘What time is it?’ She sat up and tried to stretch her neck from its cramped position.

‘Nearly eight. We made faster time than I feared we would.’

‘And where are we staying?’ Water glinted below as they passed over a bridge. The Drac or the Isère, she could not orientate herself.

‘Another eminently respectable bourgeois inn. And this time we have a private parlour adjoining our bedchamber, Madame Ridère.’

‘So that’s who I am, is it? I suppose it is easy to remember—Ryder or Ridère. And this was all booked in advance for tonight?’ He nodded. Eva could make out his expression with some clarity, for the streets were well lit. ‘You were very confident that we would get here, were you not?’ Jack smiled, looked as though he would reply, then closed his lips. She added sharply, ‘I suppose you were about to say that you are very confident because you are very good.’

‘It is my job.’ Infuriatingly he did not rise to her jibe. Eva was stiff, hungry and tense, for all kinds of reasons. A brisk exchange of views with Jack Ryder was just the tonic she needed. It seemed she was not going to get one. ‘We are here.’

‘Bonsoir, bonsoir, Monsieur Ridère. Madame! Entrez, s’il vous plaît.’ The innkeeper emerged, Eva forced herself to think in French again, and the ritual of disembarking, being shown their room, ordering supper, unwound.

‘That bed is smaller,’ she observed as they sat down in the parlour to await their food. ‘In fact, it is very small.’

‘Indeed.’ Jack was folding a rather crumpled news sheet into order in front of the fireplace. ‘No room for the bolster, then, which is a good thing—you nearly pushed both it and me out last night.’

‘I am not sleeping with you in a bed that size. There is a settle in here.’ She pointed to the elaborately carved example of Alpine woodwork on the far side of the room.

‘That is a good foot shorter than I am, as narrow as a window ledge and as hard as a board. And it appears to be covered in very knobbly artistic representations of chamois. I am not forgoing a comfortable bed.’ She bristled. Jack snapped the newspaper open and regarded her over the top of it. ‘Do I appear to you to be crazed with lust?’

‘I…You…What did you say?’

At this critical juncture the waiter appeared with a casserole dish, followed by various other persons bearing plates, bread, jugs and cutlery. Eva folded her lips tightly and went to take her seat at the table.

Jack put down his newspaper and joined her. ‘Du pain, ma chère?’

‘Don’t you my dear me,’ she hissed, only to subside as the waiter returned with a capon and a dish of greens. ‘Merci, c’est tout,’ she said firmly.

‘Non, non, un moment, la fromage.’ Jack wielded the bread knife and passed her a slice.

‘Coward! You cannot hide behind the servants for ever.’ She forced a smile as the waiter brought the cheese. The door closed. ‘How dare you?’

‘I thought the my dear added verisimilitude. Some wine?’

‘Yes, please.’ A stiff drink was what she really needed. Brandy at the very least. ‘That was not what I was referring to and you know it. How dare you refer to lust in my hearing?’

‘I apologise for my choice of words.’ Jack passed her a glass of white wine and took a thoughtful sip from his. ‘Amorous propensities? Uncontrollable desire? Satyr-like tendencies? Ardent longings? Any of those any better?’

All or any of them involving Jack would be sinfully wonderful, as would throwing the cheese board at him. Eva gritted her teeth and persisted. ‘It would be highly improper for us to share that bed. It is far too small.’

‘And you expect what, exactly, to occur as a result?’ Jack began to carve the legs off the capon. Something about his very precise knife work suggested repressed emotion at odds with his dispassionate tone.

‘We might touch. Inadvertently.’ Eva took a deep swallow of wine, nearly choked and took another. A capon leg was laid on her plate. ‘Thank you.’ Even when discussing lust one could maintain the courtesies, she thought hazily, reaching for the decanter and refilling her glass. ‘Some greens?’ She lifted the serving spoons competently.

‘Please.’ Jack passed her the butter and took the lid off the casserole with a flourish. ‘Pommes Dauphinoise?’

‘Allow me…’ To upend it over your head. Eva wielded a serving spoon with practised elegance.

‘Thank you. Has it occurred to you that we have been touching—inadvertently or otherwise—all day?’

‘Of course. It was unavoidable. Butter?’

‘Thank you, no. And?’

‘And nothing. Touching in bed is quite another matter.’

‘That, my dear, is indubitably true.’

Eva almost choked on a further incautious mouthful of wine and stared at Jack across the steaming dishes. ‘I do not need you to tell me that. I am a mur…married ludy. Lady.’

‘Widowed lady,’ he corrected gently. ‘More wine.’

‘Yes.’ She was obviously tired, despite that nap in the carriage. Otherwise why was her tongue tangling itself? ‘Please.’

‘So.’ Jack chewed thoughtfully. ‘How to avoid this undesirable inadvertent touching? Whilst allowing me a decent night’s sleep.’ He reached across the table and lifted the second bottle of wine and the corkscrew. ‘What forethought on my part to order two bottles.’

‘It is a tolerable vintage,’ Eva allowed, fanning herself with her napkin. It really was warm in here. ‘As to the bed, thatsh—I mean, that’s your problem, Mr Ryder. You arranged it.’

‘What if I sleep on top of the bedclothes and you under them? More capon?’

‘Thank you.’ She was obviously hungry or why was her head spinning so? ‘Wearing what?’

‘Me or you?’

‘You, of course.’ Her glass was empty again. It really was a most excellent vintage.

‘A nightshirt.’ He lifted his wineglass, then glared at her over it as she snorted. It wasn’t a very elegant reaction, Eva acknowledged vaguely. Grand duchesses never snort, but really!

‘What, exactly, is there in that to provoke a snort?’ Jack demanded.

‘Men look ridiculous in nightshirts. Hairy legs sticking out of the bottom.’ Did I just say that? She blinked at the wineglass. It appeared to be half-full now. How many had she drunk?

‘Well, in my case you won’t be looking, so if you can just steer your imagination away from the aesthetic horror of it, we will be all right.’

He isn’t pleased I commented on his hairy legs. I suppose he has got hairy legs, all men do, don’t they? He has a hairy chest. Not very hairy, though, just nicely hairy. Some remnant of restraint, surfacing through the effects of four glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach stopped her complimenting Jack on the niceness of his chest. A creeping feeling of unease that perhaps this conversation was not all it should be began to steal over her.

‘I think I am going to go to bed. Into bed. Under the covers.’

Jack stood up. ‘Can I be of any assistance? The door is over there.’