He had quarreled with Amherst about his lack of freedom and independence.
But Aimée had even fewer options.
“You could marry,” he said when they were both inside. The hallway was dark and cramped. A servants’ entrance, he thought with another stab.
Her look was pure French, pragmatic and a little amused between long dark lashes. It stirred his blood. “I have no dowry.”
He took a deep breath of stale air, imposing control on his unruly thoughts. “There must be some gentleman in the neighborhood who would value your other qualities.”
“But of course,” she responded promptly. “There is Mr. Willford, one of Sir Walter’s tenant farmers, who needs a wife to help raise his seven children. And old Mr. Cutherford, who requires a nurse. Perhaps one day I will choose to exchange one form of servitude for another. But not yet.”
“Not every marriage is based on convenience.”
She gave him another direct look from those blue, blue eyes. Despite the cold, her lips were pink and ripe. “Indeed. Why are you courting Julia, Mr. Hartfell?”
He was beginning to wonder that himself. But he said stiffly, “My situation is different. I need a wealthy wife.”
“Because the earl’s estate is entailed?”
“Because he’s bloody threatened to cut me off.”
“Ah.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Then you should understand my fear of being cast out.”
His mouth tightened. Aimée’s defense of her own wretched family made him realize that Amherst deserved, if not Lucien’s loyalty, then at least his honesty.
“Amherst would take me back if I asked,” Lucien admitted. The acknowledgment tasted bitter in his mouth. “If I dance to his tune.”
She tilted her head. “And you would rather dance attendance on Julia.”
They were almost the exact words he had used with Amherst. If I must woo for favors, I would rather court a woman. But coming from her, they made him sound like a sulky schoolboy.
He glared at her, annoyed. “I have responsibilities,” he said curtly. “People who depend on me.”
“We must both be grateful, then,” she said in a polite tone, “that I am not one of them. Good-bye, Mr. Hartfell.”
She slipped out of his coat. Her wet pelisse molded to her small br**sts.
“Keep it,” he rasped. “You are half soaked and shivering. I’ll send a maid up to your room to get it.”
“The servants will all be busy in the nursery.”
“I will send a maid,” he repeated stubbornly, fixing his gaze on her face. “You need one, anyway, to help you out of those wet things and into a bath.”
A short, charged pause while he thought she might argue with him. He was torn between amusement and exasperation. Damn the wench, must she question everything?
And then she smiled, a wide, genuine smile that curled warmly around his heart and dazzled his eyes. “Then . . . Thank you. For everything.”
Turning, she ran up the steps, the sodden hem of his coat dragging behind her.
He watched her slender figure retreat up the dim passageway and out of sight, feeling as if all the light and warmth of the day went with her.
Chapter Five
Only fools and children wasted time wishing for what they could not have.
Aimée regarded her bright eyes in the spotted tin mirror and sighed. It was entirely possible she was a fool.
Because despite all her practical words to Lucien Hartfell, when she was with him she could not help wishing that she were Lady Aimée again, with wealthy and indulgent parents and a dowry sufficient to secure the attentions of a tall, blond, and angelically handsome fortune hunter.