Triumph in Arms by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

allowed a stepfather’s right of interference, or any right at all where she and her mother were concerned.
    “I like you,” the child said with abrupt decision.
    “You are very kind, mademoiselle,” he answered, his voice as grave as hers had been, “just as a lady should be.”
    “ Maman isn’t always, or Grand-mère.”
    “Marguerite!” Monsieur Cassard exclaimed in protest.
    “I’m sure they have their reasons.” To prevent irony from surfacing in his voice took more effort than Christien expected.
    “I am a trial, and so is Grand-père. Will you be a trial?”
    “My angel, please.”
    Christien shook his head, both for the child and to allow Cassard to know there was no need for his concern. “I shall endeavor not to be one.”
    “ Maman will like you, then.”
    “We must hope that’s the case.” Seldom had he meant anything more.
    They returned to the house, the child walking between Christien and her grandfather and the big hound trailing protectively at their heels. She was not a chattering sort, he discovered as they moved slowly toward the graceful white structure seen through the screen of oak branches. She was thinner than he remembered, as well, and seemed to have a pinched look to hersmall features that he did not recall. Her thoughts did not make her happy, apparently, for she frowned as she walked.
    Yet now and then she looked up at him with an expression in her small face that bordered on wonder. The expectation in it flicked Christien’s heart on the raw, troubling him more than he cared to admit.
    Guilt was never a comfortable companion.

Chapter Four
    D inner, served at the usual hour of three in the afternoon, was a sumptuous meal in several courses, beginning with creamed soup and continuing with two fish dishes, two of poultry, three baked or smoked meats, a medley of vegetable selections, syllabub in dainty cups and a final tray of cheese and nuts.
    A great, shield-shaped chasse-mouche of mahogany, pulled by a velvet rope in the hand of a small, yawning kitchen boy, swung back and forth over the polished board to discourage the circling flies and also to cool the diners. Regardless, beads of sweat ran down the water glasses filled with cool spring water and oozed in golden beads of oil from the cheese. Perspiration also shone on the faces of the servants, who moved quietly around the table, removing plates, offering dishes and replenishing water and wineglasses.
    Christien was impressed. His own meals were Spartan indeed in comparison, and that was on the rare occasion when he dined in his rooms instead of a restaurant. Familial boards were not a large part of his lifein spite of invitations from friends and former sword masters Gavin Blackford and Nicholas Pasquale, Caid O’Neill and the Conde de Lérida, and also the Kentuckian Kerr Wallace when he and his Sonia were in town for the winter. Christen was reasonably certain any leftover food would be enjoyed in the kitchen by the more privileged house servants, yet the array was a telling indication of the bounty produced at River’s Edge.
    They were six at the table. Monsieur Cassard had tried to relinquish the head of the board to him, but Christien had refused in favor of a place at the right hand of his hostess. Across from him was Reine, with Marguerite seated on a cushion beside her mother. By default, the remaining place was taken by Reine’s brother, Paul Cassard.
    The younger Monsieur Cassard was no longer a boy, but perhaps a year or two away from his majority. With a thatch of brown hair and hazel-green eyes, he seemed more suited to the outdoors than to the salon; certainly his frock coat and pantaloons were those of an unpretentious countryman rather than a town dandy. He had, so it appeared from a brief exchange with his father, been responsible for the fish that was a part of the meal, only returning from a foray upon the river in his skiff in time for his catch to be cooked.
    He had witnessed the boy’s return,