Counterfeit Lady (James River Trilogy 1)

“I don’t want to get grass stain on my dress,” she said.

“Hand me your plate,” Clay said as he set his on the ground beside him. When her plate was beside his, Clay grabbed her hand and pulled her into his lap.

“Clay!” she said as she started to move away. He held her where she was. “Clay, please. We’re in a public place.”

“They couldn’t care less,” he said as he nuzzled her ear. “They’re more interested in food than in what we’re doing.”

She pulled back from him. “Are you drunk?” she asked suspiciously.

He laughed. “You do sound like a wife, and, yes, I’m a little drunk. You know what’s wrong with you?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “You are completely sober. Do you know that you are absolutely delightful when you’re drunk?” He kissed the end of her nose, then grabbed the tankard of rum punch. “Here, drink this.”

“No! I don’t want to get drunk,” she said stubbornly.

“I am going to hold this to your mouth, and you either swallow it or you’ll ruin your dress.”

She considered refusing to obey him, but he looked so endearing, like a naughty little boy, and she was so very thirsty. The rum punch was delicious. It was made from three different rums and four fruit juices. It was cold, with bits of ice floating in it. It went to her head immediately, and she took a deep breath, feeling her tensions leave her.

“Feel better now?”

She looked at him from under her thick lashes, then ran her finger across his cheek bone. “You’re the most handsome man here,” she said dreamily.

“Better than Steven Shaw?”

“You mean the blond man with the hole in his chin?”

Clay grimaced. “You could have said you had no idea who I was talking about. Here,” he handed her plate to her. “Eat something. You’d think a Frenchwoman wouldn’t get drunk as easily as you do.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and pressed her lips next to his warm skin.

“Here, sit up,” he said sternly, and lifted a piece of cornbread to her mouth. “I thought you were hungry.” The look she gave him made him shift his legs uncomfortably. “Eat!” he commanded.

Nicole reluctantly turned her attention to the food, but she enjoyed sitting on his lap. “I like your friends,” she said through a mouthful of potato salad. “Are there more horse races this afternoon?”

“No,” Clay said. “We usually give the horses and jockeys a rest. Most of the people play cards or chess or backgammon. Some of the others find their rooms in that maze Ellen calls a house and take a nap.”

Nicole went on eating calmly for a while. Then she lifted her eyes to look at him. “What are we going to do?”

Clay smiled in such a way that only one side of his mouth moved. “I thought I’d give you some more rum and then ask you.”

Nicole stared at him, then reached for her mug of punch. After she’d taken a long drink, she set it on the ground. She suddenly gave a big yawn. “I do believe I need…a nap.”

Clay quietly removed his coat and put it on the ground beside him. Then he picked her up and set her on it. He kissed the corner of her surprised mouth lightly. “If I’m to walk you across the yard to the house, I need to be in a decent condition to do so.”

Nicole’s eyes went downward to the bulge in Clay’s buckskin trousers. Then she giggled.

“Eat, you little imp!” he commanded in a mock fierce tone.

A few minutes later, Clay took her half-finished plate from her and pulled her to stand beside him. He slung his coat over one shoulder. “Ellen,” he called when they were closer to the house. “Which room did you put us in?”

“Northeast wing, second floor, third bedroom,” she answered quickly.

“Tired, Clay?” someone laughed. “Funny how tired newlyweds get.”

“You jealous, Henry?” Clay called over his shoulder.

“Clay!” Nicole said when they were inside the house. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Clay grunted. “The looks you’re giving me are making me blush.” He pulled her along behind him as he wound his way through the corridors. Nicole had only an impression of an odd mix of furniture and paintings. The furnishings ranged from English Elizabethan to French court to American primitives. She saw paintings worthy of Versailles and some so crude they must have been done by children.