Forbidden French

Later that evening, I’m sitting in my dressing robe on the chaise lounge at the foot of my grandmother’s bed, watching her get ready.

She’s already in her dinner dress, a rich dark green caftan she’s paired with absolutely massive emeralds dangling from her ears. The stones tug on her earlobes, only emphasizing the carat weight. She’s studying her tubes of lipsticks, having arranged them just as neatly as she does at home.

“When you were engaged to my grandfather, were the two of you good friends?” I ask.

All afternoon I’ve been mulling over my walk—or sort-of walk—with Royce. It’s obvious that something feels off, but I’ve been trying to pinpoint what exactly is bothering me about it. I thought I’d accepted the betrothal for what it is, so what does it matter if he and I can hold a conversation or not? So what if I’m not overly comfortable in his presence? It makes no difference.

“Your grandfather was never a nice man, even less so when he’d had a bad day at the office.”

She lifts a gold tube of Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. It’s a dark berry shade I always love on her. She holds it up, and I nod my approval. She uncaps it and leans toward the mirror to swipe it on.

“So the two of you didn’t get along? Not even in the beginning?”

Her assessing eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It wasn’t a love match, if that’s what you’re hunting for.”

“So you married him for money?”

She pauses her lipstick application. “Elaine Evangeline Davenport.”

I look down at the floor, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“I married your grandfather because it was my duty. My mother made the match, and I went along with it because I knew it was my responsibility.”

“And did you ever lament not having a choice in the matter?”

I think of her relationship with Margaret, of how different her life might have been had she been allowed to follow her heart.

“Believe it or not, no. I hold no regrets. People view marriage through rose-colored glasses these days. Life is rarely as perfect as it seems in storybooks. Be glad I chose Royce for you and not Mr. Wentworth.”

My jaw drops.

“Mr. Wentworth is nearly seventy years old!”

She rolls her eyes. “Exactly. Now finish dressing. I want to ensure your hair lays nicely once we take it down from those rollers.”

By the time I’m finished applying my makeup and brushing out my curls, there’s still a half hour before we’re expected to be at dinner.

My grandmother, acutely aware of social etiquettes, refuses to let us go down to the dining room early.

I could stay up here and read, but I’ve already done so much reading this afternoon. After leaving Royce on the trail, I came back up and holed up in my room, careful not to wake my grandmother from her nap as I passed by.

“Could I go down to finish my walk? I didn’t make it far earlier.”

She looks toward the window and frowns. “The sun has set.”

“I know, but I’m curious to see what the grounds look like in the moonlight.”

I can tell she wants to say no, but she relents. “Fine. But don’t be late. There’s a five-minute window in which it’s appropriate to arrive for the meal.”

I’m mouthing the words as she continues, having heard her speak them so many times.

“Never arrive early. Aim to be precisely on time, though five minutes late will do as well. However, ten minutes late and you run the risk of offending your host.”

“I understand,” I assure her as I lean in to kiss her cheek.

She rests her hand on my hair, keeping me close to her for longer than necessary.

“You look lovely, my dear. That color suits you.”

We’re both wearing green for the evening, though my long dress is much lighter than hers, nearly the same shade as my eyes. It’s cinched at my chest and waist, and the structured skirt flares only slightly at my hips, creating an hourglass illusion. The neckline in front is demure, but it dips low in the back so that my soft curls tickle my skin as I walk down the staircase, toward the gardens that lead to the main road in the distance.

I’m taking this route on purpose. I’m assuming guests will stay clustered on the lake side of the property, enjoying a pre-dinner drink, gossiping and mingling. I’ll have to endure time with them all soon enough. For now, I walk slowly with my arms wrapped tightly across my chest, staving off the slight chill in the air. It’s darker out here than I expected. The glow of the villa, the lights of distant houses along the lakeshore, and the sliver of moonlight are all I have to guide my way.

I pass a twin set of fountains and a fork in the path where a small sign in Italian points the way toward the guest house where Royce and the others are staying. I stroll past it, continuing on the main trail, slipping deeper into the mazelike hedges.

It’s obvious someone has taken great care with the garden, both in design and upkeep. There are little hidden gems around every corner: a butterfly and hummingbird sanctuary with overgrown wildflowers, copper birdbaths, and patinaed statues tucked in secret nooks.

Every now and then, laughter from the villa filters out into the quiet night, but other than that, my walk is dead silent until the crunch of gravel up ahead draws my attention.

I pause and listen for it again, searching for the source.

The ominous crunching continues, the gait of the person approaching slow and steady. A strange trickle of fear skates down the back of my neck as I realize I might have gone too far, too near the main road. I do know how to get back to the villa, I think. I turned at a triangular-shaped hedge a few yards back. I search for it now over my shoulder, but it’s too dark to make out.

My heart starts to race as I whip back around. There’s nowhere to go. With tall neat hedges on both sides of the path, I can only go forward or back, and something tells me I shouldn’t run.

Slowly, through the overwhelming blackness, a tall figure walks forward as if born from the night.

The distance between us melts away, and I stay frozen in place as Emmett’s distinctly handsome features take shape in the moonlight. Cut cheekbones, a finely chiseled jaw, eerily dark eyes. He’s wearing a black suit and shirt, open at the neck. His hair is neatly combed back. There’s no softness to him.

His gaze is on me, and I have no idea how long ago he spotted me, but he doesn’t seem nearly as shocked as I feel. Even knowing it’s him, my heart hasn’t calmed.

He walks right to me, stopping within reach.

“Lainey.”

He breathes life into my name.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he says, lifting my chin, studying my features.

It’s impossible to keep from trembling at his touch. My fear is written all over my face. It’s the power of the dark, overriding common sense like this. Why did I feel like I was being hunted? Why did I almost run?

“You scared me,” I admit, my voice coming out so low it’s barely a whisper.

His gaze drops to my lips, and a fissure of awareness tightens my stomach. There’s a dreamlike quality to the moment, as if none of this is real, as if I summoned Emmett and he came for me.

To prove it to myself, I reach out and press my hand against his chest, just above his beating heart. His hard muscle flexes for a brief second, but then I feel the steady thump, thump, thump rhythm I was searching for.

Even now that I know he’s real, I don’t pull my hand away.

“Why are you out here?” I ask.

“I just arrived and wanted to stretch my legs instead of taking one of those carriages. Why are you out here?”

“I needed fresh air.”

His gaze flits briefly over my shoulder. “You’re pretty far from the villa.”

“I didn’t realize.”

Finally, he releases my chin and steps back, taking me in from head to toe. My hand falls back at my side, and I wonder what he can see in the darkness. I’d pay every dime to my name to know what he thinks of me.

“I had no idea you’d be here.”

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “My father and Victor are close. When my father couldn’t make it for the celebration, I cleared my schedule to attend in his place.”

“What a small world we live in. Tiny, it seems. I saw you at the ballet earlier this week.”

His brows hitch with interest. “You were there?”

“Perched high up in a box, hidden away. You wouldn’t have seen me.”

“But you saw me.”

My cheeks flush. “I was standing up to applaud the dancers and I noticed you down in the crowd with your date. The two of you were hard to miss.”

He nods coolly. “Miranda works at GHV. She’s a friend of sorts.”

I tilt my head to the side, wanting more. “A friend who accompanies you to the ballet is a good friend indeed,” I goad.

He fails to take the bait.

“And who were you with?”

I wish I could say someone handsome and dangerous and bad for me in every way.

“My grandmother,” I reply, trying not to feel self-conscious.

“You two are close,” he notes.

“Extremely.”

“Then I look forward to meeting her.”

“You two haven’t met?”

“Not officially, though I do think she’s an acquaintance of my father’s.”

I hum. “I’m sensing a pattern here.”

He nods, understanding. “We can’t escape each other, it seems. It’s getting late. Were you going to head up to dinner soon? I’ll escort you.”

I pivot on my heels, and he comes up beside me. I think he’s going to extend his elbow for me to take, but instead, he presses his hand to the small of my back in the same way he did for his date at the ballet. I wanted to trade places with her then, and it feels heady to be experiencing it now. His firm grip of possession on my back is enough to sear through the dress layer between us. His pinky rests barely an inch above my tailbone, and the placement feels intimate rather than friendly. We continue up the path, and his hand slides slowly around the outside of my hip so he can gather me closer to him. I realize why a moment later when I narrowly miss stepping on a short branch that must have fallen from one of the swaying Cyprus trees.

“Careful,” he says, tightening his hold on me.

There’s a heaviness to his hand. I’ll remember the size of it later when I’m in my room. I’ll place my hand where his is now and marvel at the fact that he could capture nearly half my waist in his palm.

He catches my shiver and asks if I’m cold.

I am. I shouldn’t have come out walking in a slip of a dress, but I refuse his jacket.

“Are you sure?”

I’m too worried about appearances. In fact, I step slightly out of his reach so that he’s forced to drop his hand. We’ll be approaching the villa at any moment. What a shame.

I turn to survey him, trying to soak in as much as I can while I have him so close. His profile is devastating, though it’s always been that way. I used to love to study him back at St. John’s.

“You know, you should have taken the carriages,” I tell him. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel. My grandmother was salivating at the historical accuracy.”

He smiles. “Charming though it sounds, it’s been a long day of travel, and I wasn’t eager to extend it. I would have walked straight from the airport in Milan if I’d had better shoes,” he teases.

“I felt the same. It’s why I was out for a walk. I got a little carried away though, and I should have headed back earlier. My grandmother warned me about being on time and now, look, I’ll be the last one to arrive.”

“You’ll be with me. You can use my arrival as a distraction and slip in unnoticed if you’d like.”

“True. I’m good at that,” I murmur.

“Going unnoticed?”

I don’t reply. I didn’t intend for him to hear the remark, and I definitely don’t want to dissect it. He of all people should understand the type of person I am, how good I am at sneaking under the radar, nothing more than a blip to most everyone.

I still for a moment as I hear something in the distance, the sound of someone shouting, I think.

There it is again.

Emmett frowns and turns to me. “Did you hear that?”

“It sounds like they’re calling—”

“LAINEY!”

“LAINEY!” Another voice joins in.

The blood drains from my face. Oh god. The chances of me going unnoticed are exactly zero now. My grandmother has organized a search party on my behalf. How mortifying.

I start to run toward the villa. “I’m here! Enough! There’s no need to keep shouting!”

I don’t miss Emmett’s chuckle as he hurries alongside me.

“I suppose it’s too late to create a diversion. I still could try if you want me to.”

I hate that he finds this amusing.

“LAIN—”

“I’m here! Stop acting as if I’ve been kidnapped! I’m right here!”

With a groan, I break free of the tall hedges and stumble out into the clearing in front of the villa only to be greeted by the sight of every single guest standing on the front path, their eyes on me. There’re even a few servants too, some of them with flashlights and flares.

I stare at them, and they stare at me.

And then Emmett walks out of the hedges behind me, perfectly, awfully timed.

“Well this is the kind of reception I’ll expect at every party now, Victor,” Emmett says wryly. “There was no need for you all to come out and greet me like this.”

There are a few muffled laughs from the crowd, but not many.

My grandmother is at the front of the pack, staring daggers at me. If it wouldn’t embarrass us both further, I have no doubt she’d love to reprimand me right here in front of everyone.

To her left, Royce stands with a flashlight in his hand, wearing an unreadable expression. Relief, perhaps, that I’m okay and the search can be called off, but there’s something else lurking below the surface as he shifts his gaze to Emmett.

I understand how this looks. I’m panting and flushed from hustling the last few yards. I’m sure my hair is a mess by now too. I’m obviously very late for dinner, and everyone will assume I’ve been out here with Emmett this whole time. To most of the guests, that won’t matter beyond the fact that I’ve slightly inconvenienced them and interrupted their evening, but to a select few, it will seem extremely odd.

“We found the damsel in distress! Now everyone to the dining room!” Victor shouts, starting to shoo everyone back inside. “The night is young!”

The search party disbands to follow him back inside the villa. I drop my gaze to the gravel, trying to keep my embarrassment from bringing tears to my eyes. Then, with heavy feet, I start to follow behind them.

My grandmother and Royce both wait for me.

Royce steps forward, gallantly taking my hand to help me up the few stairs.

“You told me you would let me take you down for dinner. I was waiting for you.”

I cringe with guilt. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. I didn’t—”

“If you wanted to go for a walk, as you told your grandmother you did, I could have gone with you. I know you were probably disappointed our walk got cut short earlier.”

I merely nod, unsure of what to say other than a profuse apology, which I issue not once, but twice. Then I withdraw my hand from his, overly aware of Emmett walking behind us. I’m glad he’s smart enough not to butt in. He won’t help this situation.

My grandmother stays silent as she walks beside me. I can’t even bear to look at her. I know she’s ashamed of me for creating a spectacle, and though it wasn’t my intention, that’s not what she wants to hear right now. She wants me to fix this, to return to the dutiful granddaughter she’s raised me to be.

I don’t say another thing as we walk on. Royce tells me all about how worried everyone was, how he was the one to gather the staff and the rest of the party guests when it started to get late and I still hadn’t returned from the gardens. The guilt only layers over itself as he continues, its combined weight threatening to crush me as I take my designated seat at the dining table, blessedly far away from Royce, my grandmother, and Emmett. Royce is down on the far side, and Emmett has been placed directly across from my grandmother, at a position of honor beside Victor himself. I’m beside strangers who seem perfectly content to pretend I’m not even there. They continue a conversation they must have started elsewhere, something about mineral rights in the Arabian Peninsula, and I keep my head down, my eyes on the folded napkin in my lap until the first course is served.

It’s a caviar and crème fraîche tartlet.

“I’ll be honest, I can never tell the difference. Is this a canapé or an hors d’oeuvre?” someone asks down the table.

“Is there a difference?” another replies.

I can hear my grandmother’s throat clear from a mile away.

“Appetizers eaten with the fingers are canapés,” she answers with an air of reproach. “Appetizers eaten at the table with a knife and fork are hors d’oeuvres.”

As if on cue, half the table grabs for their salad fork.

“However, this is a canapé,” she continues. “The tartlet acts as the utensil, and it’s best to leave your salad fork where it lies, to be used during a future course.”

The choreography continues as dinner guests immediately scramble to return their forks to their correct position on the table. The spectacle is almost enough to make me smile, but then my grandmother’s cold gaze pins me and I recenter my attention down onto my plate.

Everyone begins eating, and there’s a hush in the air until Emmett speaks up.

“As you must realize, hors d’oeuvres is French,” he tells my grandmother, though the whole table is listening in. “It translates literally to ‘outside the work’ or ‘outside of the masterpiece’.”

“That’s lovely,” a woman near him says.

I hadn’t noticed her until that moment, and I have to lean forward to get a better look at her. She’s a vivacious brunette with cropped hair and a wide, red-lipped smile. Her eyes are set flirtatiously on Emmett as he continues, “I’ve heard the practice originated in Russia, where small snacks of fish, caviar, and meats were common on long travels.”

Everyone at the table finds this interesting except for my grandmother, who seems insistent on holding on to her tight-lipped expression.

The conversation slowly grows, voices filtering in and out. I’m wholly apart from it all. A waiter comes around to fill our wine glasses, and I greedily accept, wishing it were possible to ask for the entire bottle. While the waiter pours, I let my gaze slip to Emmett. I’m not the only one paying attention to him. He draws us all in, eclipsing even the most illustrious guests. Crown prince who?

Though it’s a break from proper etiquette, I thank the waiter for the wine just as our second course is brought out, a classic French mushroom soup plated beautifully.

Down the way, across the table, Royce talks to the man at his side. He hasn’t looked up at me once.

It’s interesting to pick apart the seating arrangement. Victor’s done nothing by accident. He’s placed himself at the helm, acting as our dinner party’s fearless leader, and made sure to keep the most important guests close at hand. My grandmother and Emmett are at his side, and beside Emmett is the crown prince of Malaysia. He’s a diminutive man closer to my grandmother’s age than to mine.

I carefully tip my spoon away from me as I ladle small bites of soup and continue my assessment. My seat in the middle of the table seems slightly out of order. I’m truly no one, but my grandmother’s presence looms like an umbrella over me, and I suppose that’s why I’m deemed more worthy than I am.

“Did you enjoy your walk through the gardens, Elaine?”

Victor’s pointed question stretches across the room, and my spoon freezes in my soup.

I’m aware of everyone’s curious stares, the redness creeping up my neck.

“Yes. Thank you.”

My voice is so faint I’d be surprised if anyone heard it.

“You gave us all a real scare.”

The soft clinking of silverware against china is the only sound in the entire dining room.

The moment takes me back to my time at St. John’s, when I was all too often the butt of some joke or game, and rather than stand up for myself and deliver a stinging remark, I’d shy away from confrontation.

“She was—” Emmett begins, attempting to come to my aid.

“Victor, the soup is delicious,” my grandmother says, cutting him off and drawing the attention away from me. “Where was your chef able to source the mushrooms this time of year?”

Later that night, after the longest dinner of my life, I hold my breath as I follow my grandmother into our shared bedroom. I’ve worried about this moment all evening, the first chance for her to speak with me in private about all the ways in which I’ve disappointed her. I wring my hands as I watch her walk toward her closet. Usually, at home, Margaret would help her undress after a formal event, but I go to her now, helping her unzip her dress and hang it back up. She’s silent as she gets into her nightgown, and then I do the same. My stomach is in knots. Most of my food went untouched at dinner, and I know I’ll be starving in the morning.

I put on my pajamas and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. My grandmother does as well, at the sink alongside mine, and when she’s done, she walks over, kisses my hair, and tells me good night.