The Soldier's Dark Secret
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The rather desperate look Sir Charles cast his wife intrigued Celeste. The way in which Lady Eleanor commandeered the conversation, launching into a long and detailed description of the various changes which her landscaper planned, and the possible studies Celeste could make, spoke of considerable practice in changing the subject. Jack Trestain, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the plate of ham and eggs set before him, watched with a sardonic smile on his face, obviously perfectly aware of the diversionary tactics being deployed, equally aware that he was being excluded from the conversation lest he cause further offence.
Lady Eleanor, running out of steam on one subject, switched, with barely a moment to take breath, to another. ‘You are admiring our dining room, I see,’ she said to Celeste, who had actually been staring down at her plate. ‘It is quite a contrast to the rest of the house, you were no doubt thinking. Very true, but we did feel, Sir Charles and I, that it was important to preserve at least one of the original rooms when we carried out our refurbishment. The wall covering is Spanish Cordova leather, you know. I believe it dates from the late sixteenth century. When Sir Charles and I decided—’
‘You don’t look like an artist.’
Lady Eleanor bristled. ‘Jack, really, I was in the middle of...’
‘...delivering a history lesson,’ he finished for her. ‘You might at least wait until we’ve finished eating before you do so.’
Her ladyship looked pointedly at her brother-in-law’s full plate. ‘So you were, for once, planning on actually eating your breakfast, were you?’
‘Eleanor, my love, there is no need to— If Jack is not hungry he need not...’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charlie, there’s no need to be perpetually walking on eggshells around me.’
A long, uncomfortable silence greeted this remark, broken eventually by Jack Trestain himself. ‘I beg your pardon, Eleanor,’ he said stiffly, ‘I got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’
‘Happens to us all on occasion. No need for apologies, Brother—that is, I am sure that Eleanor...’
‘Apology accepted, Jack,’ Lady Eleanor said quickly, pressing her husband’s hand.
Celeste took another sip of coffee. Jack Trestain put a small piece of ham onto his fork, though he made no attempt to eat it.
‘I confess, Mademoiselle Marmion was not what I was expecting either,’ Sir Charles said with another of his placatory smiles. ‘Your reputation, you know, I expected someone older, more experienced.’
‘I am five-and-twenty, Sir Charles.’
‘Oh, please, I did not mean— One must never ask a lady her age.’
‘I am not embarrassed by my age, Monsieur. My first commission I received seven years ago from the Comte de St Verain. I am proud to say that I have been able to support myself with my painting ever since.’
‘And are your commissions all similar in nature to our own?’ Lady Eleanor enquired.
Celeste nodded. ‘Very similar. In France, many of the great houses were seized during the Revolution and the grounds badly neglected. The families who have managed to reclaim them employ me to paint the gardens once they are restored to their former glory.’
‘While you and I, my dear, are rather contrarily commissioning Mademoiselle Marmion to paint our estate before it is enhanced a deal beyond its current state.’ Sir Charles beamed, seemingly pleased by the thought of being a little unconventional.
‘And you, Monsieur Trestain,’ Celeste enquired, turning to his brother, ‘will you be remaining here to witness this transformation?’
‘I have no idea, Mademoiselle. Nor any notion why it should concern you.’
‘Until recently, our Jack was in the military, a career soldier at that,’ Sir Charles intervened hastily.
Celeste’s jaw dropped unbecomingly. ‘You are a soldier!’
‘A lieutenant-colonel, no less,’ Sir Charles said, with a hint of pride, sliding an anxious look at his silent brother.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Eleanor chimed in with a prim smile, ‘Jack was one of the Duke of Wellington’s most valued officers. He was mentioned several times in despatches.’
‘And Jack has mentioned more than several times that he is no longer a soldier,’ Jack Trestain said with a steely look in his eyes. ‘In any event, I expect Mademoiselle Marmion is more likely to admire Napoleon than Wellington, Eleanor.’
The scars. She should have realised they were battle scars. And that also explained his animosity towards her. How many years had Britain and France been at war? Celeste pushed her chair back, preparatory to leaving the table. ‘I am sorry. It did not occur to me that— I was so delighted to be here in England, so happy that hostilities between our countries had ended, that I did not consider the fact that I am—was until recently—no doubt still am in your eyes, Monsieur, the enemy.’
‘Mademoiselle, please do not distress yourself,’ Sir Charles said rather desperately. ‘My brother did not mean— You have it quite wrong, does she not, Jack?’
‘Entirely wrong. I have no objection to your being French,’ Jack Trestain said in a tone that left it clear that he still objected to her having spied on him. ‘I repeat, I am no longer a soldier, Mademoiselle.’
‘But you were until recently?’ Appalled, thinking back to the horrific reports she had read in the newspapers, Celeste forgot all about Jack Trestain’s rudeness. ‘You were at Waterloo? Mon Dieu, of course you were. Your arm,’ she exclaimed, wondering that she had been so foolish not to have guessed.
‘How did you know about Jack’s arm?’
Sir Charles was frowning at her. Celeste gaped. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in explanation.
‘Mademoiselle obviously noticed that I’m favouring my left arm at the moment,’ Jack Trestain said, stepping in unexpectedly to cover her gaffe. ‘Being an artist, I am sure she is rather more observant than most.’
She was surprised by his fleeting smile. The man’s mood seemed to change with the wind. When he smiled, he looked so very different. He did not look as if he smiled often. He was a battle-hardened soldier. Those terrible scars. Realising all three pairs of eyes were on her, Celeste rallied. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, nodding furiously, ‘Monsieur Trestain has hit the nail on the head.’
He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement and flashed her another smile, one that lit his dark-brown eyes this time, and she felt absurdly gratified.
‘Well now,’ Sir Charles said, after receiving an encouraging nod from his wife, ‘the day’s getting on. I have a meeting with my lawyer in town at noon, Mademoiselle Marmion, but I thought I could give you a quick run through of our plans for the new gardens, just to give you an idea of where the most extensive changes will be, for it is these areas we wish to have immortalised by you on canvas, so to speak. What do you say?’
‘If you are pressed for time, Charlie, then why not let me look after Mademoiselle Marmion.’
It was Sir Charles’s turn to gape. ‘You, Jack?’
Lady Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘I am not sure that would be such a good idea.’
Her husband, however, had recovered from his surprise. ‘Come now, my dear, are we not forever encouraging Jack to embark on some gainful enterprise to aid his recuperation?’
His wife looked unconvinced. ‘It will take up a deal of Jack’s time, and you cannot deny, with all due respect to him, he has not precisely been the most patient of men recently. Every time our little Robert asks him...’
‘We have told our son not to pester his uncle. When Jack is good and ready, he will tell his nephew all about Waterloo,’ Sir Charles said, rubbing his hands together and slanting his brother a nervous look. ‘Jack is still recuperating from some serious injuries, my love,’ he reproved gently. ‘He is bound to be a little short of—of patience.’
‘My point exactly,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion will have even more questions than Robert, no doubt, about the changes, the estate...’
‘Which I am better placed than most to answer,’ Jack Trestain interjected, ‘having been raised here.’
Sir Charles beamed. ‘An excellent point. And showing Mademoiselle around will give you the opportunity to see more of the countryside, for I wish Mademoiselle to make a few landscapes of the wider estate. You might even get a taste for country living, see somewhere close at hand that takes your fancy. I can heartily recommend it.’
This last was said with some hopeful enthusiasm, and greeted with some disdain. A bone of contention, obviously.
‘Perhaps, Charlie,’ Jack Trestain answered, ‘stranger things have happened.’
‘Excellent! That is settled then, provided Mademoiselle has no objection?’
Celeste couldn’t fathom Jack Trestain at all. One minute he was furious with her, the next he was covering up for her and the next he was offering to put himself out for her and spend time in her company. He was volatile, to put it mildly, but he also had a delightful smile, and a body which she found distracting, and she had not found the body of any man distracting for a long time. Not since— But she would not think of that.
Realising that they were awaiting an answer from her, Celeste shook her head. ‘No, I have no objection whatsoever.’
Chapter Two
‘Why did I volunteer?’ Jack had not been expecting this to be the first question the intriguing Mademoiselle Marmion asked him, though perhaps he should have. It was obvious she had a sharp intellect and an observant eye. Whether that was because she was an artist, as he had suggested in order to extricate her from her faux pas regarding his arm, he did not know. What was inescapable was that within minutes of meeting her she had already managed to throw his behaviour into sharp relief. He could not be entirely oblivious to the effect his erratic temper was having on Charlie and Eleanor, but his brother’s softly-softly approach had allowed them all to be complicit in ignoring it.
Until now. Jack shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I have been somewhat out of temper, on account of my injuries. It is the least I can do.’ It would suffice as an explanation. It would have to, since he didn’t have a better one to offer, being as confused by his recent behaviour as anyone. Which was something he was reluctant to concede, since it implied there was an underlying cause, which there was not. At least not one he cared to admit to Charlie. Or indeed anyone.
As an explanation, it also conveniently excluded the fact that Mademoiselle Marmion herself had influenced his impulsive decision. Had she been a small, balding Frenchman with a goatee beard, would he have been so keen to offer his services? Indeed he would not, but that was another thing to which he would rather not admit. Jack smiled at her maliciously. ‘If you would rather have Lady Eleanor’s services as a guide...’
‘No,’ she said hurriedly, just as he had known she would, ‘no, I certainly would not. Lady Eleanor cannot decide if I am to be treated as a superior servant or an inferior guest.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret about Eleanor,’ Jack said. ‘She is the youngest of four daughters of the vicar a few parishes over, and though no one gives a fig for that save herself, as a consequence she is inclined to over-play her role of lady of the manor. Don’t be too hard on her. She makes my brother happy, which is good enough for me. Or it should be.’
‘Have a care, Monsieur, or I might think you a sensitive soul beneath that prickly exterior.’ Mademoiselle Marmion frowned. ‘Which brings me back to my question. Unlike Lady Eleanor, you made your feelings about me perfectly plain at breakfast. I confess I am confused as to why you now voluntarily choose to spend time in my company.’
Unlike Charlie and Eleanor, Mademoiselle was not one to beat about the proverbial bush. ‘You are referring to the fact that I took umbrage at your spying on me this morning,’ Jack said.
She flinched, but held his gaze. ‘I did not spy. My intrusion was unwelcome, I can see that, but it was also unintended. I am, however, very sorry. Had the roles been reversed, I too would have been...’
She broke off, flushing, but it was too late. Jack was already imagining her naked, scything through the waters of the lake, and Mademoiselle Marmion was clearly perfectly aware of that fact. ‘Think nothing more of it,’ he said quickly, trying desperately to do just that. ‘Your apology is accepted, provided you do not repeat the transgression.’
‘Thank you. I promise you that in future I will avoid visiting the lake in the morning.’
She smiled at him, and he caught his breath. She really was very lovely, with her white-blonde hair, and those eyes the colour of brandy. Her skin was smooth, flawless, but not the creamy-white of an English rose; it was a pale biscuit, sun-kissed and warm. Then there was her mouth. Luscious pink. Too wide for fashion, but perfect for kissing. Kissing her would be like biting into the sweet, delicate flesh of a perfectly ripe peach. The kind which grew in the heat of Spain, not the hard, bitter little fruits which were espaliered on the wall of Charlie’s garden. Kissing her would be like bathing in the dry heat of the true south. Kissing her would be like a taste of another world.
Though he could not for the life of him imagine why he was thinking of kissing her. He’d had no urge to kiss anyone since—well, for quite some considerable time. ‘I think we should get out into the gardens while the light is good, Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait here while you fetch a hat.’
‘I was raised in the south of France. I don’t need a hat for the pale English sun, Monsieur Trestain.’
‘Then thank the Lord, that means I’m not required to wear one either. And since we’re dispensing with formalities, I would prefer it if you would call me Jack.’
‘Then you must call me Celeste.’
‘Celeste.’ Jack grinned. ‘How very appropriate. An angel sent from heaven to relieve my boredom.’
‘An artist sent from France to paint your brother’s estate,’ she retorted.
‘Touché. In that case we should get down to business.’
* * *
Celeste followed Jack Trestain down a narrow path through a colourful but uninteresting rose garden. His leather breeches fitted snugly around a taut derrière that was really very pleasant to admire from behind. His jet-black hair, dry now, curled over the collar of his shirt. She couldn’t help but remember the muscles, now decently covered in white cambric, which had rippled while he swam.
She cursed softly under her breath and tried to concentrate on the path. And the task in hand. Not the intriguing man ahead of her, with his powerful soldier’s body. A frisson of desire made her stomach flutter. Twice today, she had experienced this sudden yearning, for the very first time since—since. She had not missed it. She had not even noted its absence, until now. Perhaps, Celeste thought hopefully, it was a sign that she was starting come to terms with the loss of her mother. Not that she’d been struggling precisely, but she had not been quite herself, she could admit that much now.
‘The Topiary Garden.’ Jack Trestain opened the gate with a flourish.
Celeste had passed through it this morning, but had not taken the time to study it. Now she did so with delight. ‘This is fascinating. I have painted several such places before. I think it is unusual to have such a French garden attached to such a very English house, no?’
‘It was first laid out about two hundred years ago,’ Jack Trestain replied. ‘I think it was originally designed by one of your countrymen, now I come to think about it. To appreciate the symmetry and the scale of it, you’ll get a much better view from the top floor of the house, if you were thinking of making this one of your featured landscapes.’
‘Absolutely I am,’ Celeste said, ‘and I think a view from the lake too, through the topiary with the house in the background.’
‘When my mother was alive, the borders were a blaze of colour at this time of year. And the parterre too. You’ll recognise the lavender that borders it, there. I was once passing through Provence when they were gathering the lavender crop. The scent of it took me straight back to my childhood, escaping down here with Charlie, playing hide-and-seek in this garden. It’s well past its best now.’
‘Were you in the army for a very long time, Monsieur Jack?’
‘Thirteen years. My father bought me a commission when I was sixteen. Why do you ask?’
Celeste shrugged, feigning a casualness she was far from feeling. ‘Were you forced to leave because of your injury? Or because there are no more wars to fight?’
‘I was not forced to leave. I resigned my commission.’
His clipped tone made it very clear he considered the subject closed. The same tone he had used with Lady Eleanor at breakfast. Thirteen years was a large part of anyone’s life to exclude from discussion but then, there was an equally large part of her own life she didn’t ever discuss. Celeste smiled brightly. ‘Then let us concentrate on my own modest commission, which I have only just started.’
Jack disguised his relief well enough, but she noticed it all the same. As they walked down another path, Celeste prattled on about other gardens she had painted, other topiary she had drawn, aware he was studying her as covertly as she was studying him. Unsettled and distracted by her own interest, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by his, she decided that she would do better for now to concentrate on her work, and so took out her sketchbook.
The Topiary Garden was divided into two by the long gravelled path which led towards the lake. On either side, the yew hedges had been trained into the most extraordinary shapes. Despite the fact that it had not been pruned, it was still possible to distinguish peacocks, a lion, a crown, and what looked to be several chess pieces, as well as more traditional cones, boxes and cylinders. Holly bordered the low and overgrown beds which had been laid out in the shadow of the yews. No longer feigning interest, Celeste made several rapid sketches.
Looking up some time later, she smiled at Jack watching her now with unalloyed interest, tilting her last sketch to allow him to examine it better. ‘In France,’ she said, ‘this garden would be prized and restored, not cut down to make way for a— What was it Lady Eleanor called it?’
‘A little wilderness,’ Jack replied, ‘whatever conceit that is. Eleanor loathes it as it is, and I have to confess, it is much darker than I remember.’
‘With some remedial work, it could be very beautiful.’
‘Your sketch certainly makes it look so. Perhaps you should share your thoughts with Eleanor.’
‘Oh, no, that would be presumptuous. It is her garden, not mine.’
Jack ushered her towards the welcome of the shade, where a mossy stone bench was positioned under a yew which had been clipped into an arch. He had come out without a coat, and now rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The contrast between his pale right arm and tanned left was stark. It was not only the colour, but he had clearly lost muscle.
‘It must have been a very bad break to have kept your arm in a splint for so long.’ Without realising, Celeste had reached out to touch him. She snatched her hand away.
‘Why did you stay at the lakeside this morning?’ Jack asked. ‘You’ve as much as admitted you should have left the moment you saw me. What made you stay?’
The bench was small. His leather-clad thigh brushed hers, and his knee too, for he had angled himself to face her. ‘I am an artist,’ Celeste said, her voice sounding odd. ‘You made an interesting subject.’
‘Did you draw me, then?’
His hand covered hers, which were clasped on her lap. Her heart began to thump. ‘There was no time,’ she said.
‘Yet you insist you were watching me purely with the eye of an artist?’
His thumb was stroking her wrist, so lightly she wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. The tension between them became palpable. Beguiled as much by her own new-found desire as by Jack’s proximity, Celeste could think of nothing to say but the truth. ‘I watched you because I could not take my eyes off you. I was fascinated.’
His eyes darkened. His hands slid up to her shoulders. She leaned into him as he pulled her towards him. It started so gently. Soft. Delicate. Celeste leant closer. The kiss deepened. She could feel the damp of his shirt and the heat of his skin beneath it. A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts, and she felt a sharp twist of pure desire.
She curled her fingers into his hair. Their tongues touched. Jack moaned, a guttural sound that precisely echoed how she felt, filled with longing, and aching and heat. Their kiss became fierce. He bent her backwards on the bench, his body hovering over hers, blocking out the sunlight. He smelt of soap and sweet summer sweat. His legs were tangled in her skirts. Only his arms, planted either side of her, prevented her from falling.
She was also in danger of falling, metaphorically speaking, from a far greater height if she was not extremely careful. Celeste snapped to her senses. Jerking herself free, she sat up. Jack’s cheeks were flushed. His hair was in wild disarray. His shirt was falling open at the neck to reveal his tanned throat. The soft linen clung to his frame, revealing tantalising glimpses of the hard body underneath. She wanted more. It was good that she wanted more, but with this man! No, she must be out of her mind.
She edged a little way along the bench, shaking out her skirts. ‘I hope you are not expecting me to faint?’ she asked more sharply than she intended.
‘Despite our extremely brief acquaintance you do not strike me as someone much given to histrionics.’
‘You are perfectly correct, I am not. Even when kissing complete strangers.’
‘Not quite complete strangers, Mademoiselle. We have at least been formally introduced.’ Jack shook his head, as if trying to clear the dazed look from his eyes. ‘I apologise,’ he said tersely. ‘I have no idea what came over me. I’m not in the habit of mauling innocent women, especially not when they are my brother’s guests.’
‘Your brother’s landscape artist, not his guest, and I am neither innocent nor inclined to accept an apology for something that was as much my doing as yours,’ Celeste snapped, unduly irked by his assumption that it was all his responsibility. She was relieved to discover she could feel this way again, but she really wished it had not been this maddening man who had sparked her back to life. She picked up her sketch pad and charcoals, trying to regain her composure. ‘It was just a kiss, nothing more,’ she said, because that was all it was, after all.
‘Just a kiss?’ Jack repeated, still looking stunned. ‘Is that what you really think?’
She did not. She thought—not very clearly, admittedly—that it was the most extraordinary kiss she had ever experienced. She thought, looking at him now, that she would very much like to kiss him again, but she was not about to admit that. ‘Very well,’ Celeste conceded, ‘an excellent kiss, though I suspect that abstinence may have contributed to its intensity.’
He flushed dark red. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
Celeste took a step back. ‘Not that it is any of your business, but I have not been inclined to kiss anyone for—for some time.’
His expression softened a little. ‘Ah, you are referring to your own abstinence?’
‘What else would I have implied?’ Celeste said, thoroughly confused. He could not possibly have thought she referred to him? There could be no shortage of women eager and willing to kiss Jack Trestain. Then she remembered. ‘Oh, you mean you have been incapacitated by your recent poor health.’
A perfectly understandable explanation, and no reason whatsoever for him to flinch as if she had hit him. Yet that is exactly what he did, before abruptly turning on his heels and marching off. Utterly confounded now, she watched his long legs cover the ground quickly, back through the gate, along the grass walk to the rose garden. He did not look back.