He crunched across the frozen ground under the dark, straggling cover of the trees, trying to ignore his pounding head and empty stomach. Small outbuildings huddled under a thin blanket of snow. The cart had dug shallow ruts in the ice. He thought he could hear the squeak and rumble of its wheels through the trees.
Lucien frowned. Of course Aimée would have servants with her to bring back decorations for the ballroom. He would have to find some way to speak with her alone. Last night she had refused to confide in him in front of Martin.
His jaw set. Or perhaps she had simply used his manservant’s presence as an excuse to run away.
Perhaps it is myself I do not trust.
He expelled his breath in a cloud of frustration.
Movement flashed through the trees, a bright spot in the barren landscape.
Aimée, standing on tiptoe against a backdrop of dark holly to cut a cluster of red berries from a bough.
He felt, absurdly, as if the sun had come out.
Every detail emerged, etched bright and clear on his senses. The scent of the wet wood, the rush of blood to his groin, the tingle of cold in his fingertips. Aimée’s glossy dark curls and deep blue eyes. Her skin, gleaming and smooth as the snow but warm and pink with life.
You, he thought, and shuddered with longing.
You that I wanted. You I’ve been searching for all of my life.
Aimée inhaled deeply, breathing in the peace of the snowy wood, holding it inside her. Away from the house, she could exist purely in the moment, absorb the naked beauty of the trees and the little mist hanging over the snow; the song of a blackbird hanging on the cool raw air; the prickly green leaves and glowing red berries clustered just beyond her grasp. Tempting. Taunting. Out of reach.
Like Lucien.
The holly leaves pressed against her breast, a hundred tiny pinpricks to counter the sting at her heart. The berries blurred.
She blinked fiercely. She would not mope like a child crying for the moon. Perhaps she would never have the things that she’d once accepted as her birthright, beaux and châteaux and freedom to follow her heart and inclinations. There would still be opportunities for satisfaction. There could still be moments of joy.
All she had to do was find the courage and determination to reach for them.
Gripping her little pruning knife, she stood on tiptoe to slice through the holly branch.
Snow crunched behind her. Someone walking over the ice.
She teetered. Turned. Her heart leaped in recognition and delight.
C’est toi.
“Oh,” she said softly, foolishly. “It’s you.”
You that I wanted. You I’ve been waiting for all of my life.
Lucien left the cover of the trees and strolled forward, his thick gold hair drawing all the brightness of the day. “Allow me.”
He reached over her head, his warmth pressing her back into the bushes, his chest brushing her br**sts. He smelled of wool and sweat and sandalwood, earthy and exotic. His arms were hard and long.
She shivered as he stretched above her, a subtle pressure, a shift of muscles. She heard the rustle of leaves, felt their tiny barbs against her back and him, solid and male against her front.
The branch cracked and broke off in his hand.
Lucien eased away. “For you.” His voice was husky.
He was still close, so close, his hair a disordered halo around his face, his emerald green eyes intent. Something quivered in her belly like a plucked harp string, vibrating like music all along her bones. Her throat ached with longing.
She swallowed.
So did he. She watched the movement of his throat against his starched white collar.