Among the surrounding gardens many of the statues and marble fountains had been destroyed by rioters, but inside, the endless procession of public chambers, salons and elegant galleries remained remarkably intact. And despite the fact she was being held captive, Talia could not prevent herself from appreciating the exquisite beauty that surrounded her.
Who could remain impervious to the priceless artwork that lined the walls, the massive tapestries, the inlaid wood floors and the breathtaking frescoes that graced the high ceilings?
Standing in one of the long galleries, Talia leaned against a fluted column that bracketed the high, arched window and gazed across the gardens to the distant road beyond.
Not for the first time since arriving at the palace three days ago she considered the possibility of simply walking out the front door and making her escape. She was alone, after all, and she did not doubt that she could travel a considerable distance before she was missed.
Unfortunately, she was not so stupid as to believe that she could actually make her way back to England.
Not only did she not speak French, but she had no money, no legal papers necessary to travel in France and no means to flee the estate beyond her own feet. At best she would be arrested before she reached the nearest village. At worst she would be taken captive by the numerous French soldiers who passed by the palace with unfortunate regularity.
She did not doubt they would be far less gentle toward her than Jack Gerard.
No…not Jack, but Jacques, she silently corrected with a deep sigh.
As furious as she was to have been kidnapped from her home, she could not deny that Jacques had done his best to keep her in comfort.
He had taken her from the church to a small boat kept among the local fishing vessels and had demanded his rough companions row them to a sleek yacht that had been hidden along a remote section of the coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.
Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.
Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.
This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from her bath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.
With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.
The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.
A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.
The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.
He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.
A man of mystery.
Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his gaze stroked with warm appreciation over her slender form.
“Bonsoir, ma petite,” he murmured, his attention lingering on the scooped neckline trimmed with a pretty Brussels lace that lay like a promise against the full curve of her breasts. “I see that the modiste did not disappoint. You look magnificent. Of course, you would appear even more magnificent if only I could coax a smile to those stubborn lips.”
She blushed during his heated scrutiny, unaccustomed to such blatant admiration. But oddly, she did not shrink as was her custom beneath a male’s attention, nor did she find herself plagued by the urge to stammer in embarrassment.
Perhaps it was being away from the constant badgering of her father that had stiffened her backbone. Or her growing confidence since becoming the Countess of Ashcombe.
Or perhaps it was Jacques who had never mocked her as a foolish wallflower but instead had treated her with a dignity and respect that she had never before experienced. At least until he had proven to be a traitor
and kidnapped her, she wryly acknowledged.
Whatever the cause, she squarely met his steady gaze with a tilt of her chin.
“You are a fine one to call me stubborn.” She brushed a hand down the exquisite material of her gown. “You know very well I would not have accepted your charity unless you had my own dress taken away.”
He gave her fingers a light squeeze before allowing them to drop. “The clothes are a gift, not charity, and as a Frenchman renowned for his exquisite sense of fashion I had no choice but to rid the world of your tattered rags.”
“Hardly a rag.”
He waved aside her protest, his dark eyes shimmering with a wicked amusement that could tempt a saint.