At night he lay in a sticky sweat, her angular features branded on his mind so that it fumed with frustration and love and hate and all the conflicting emotions she managed to stir up in his heart, leaving him confused and ashamed for caring for her like he did. He wanted to throw her up against a wall and make violent love to her so that she no longer smiled with conceit or looked at him through the narrowed eyes of a temptress sure of the power she wielded, quite able to turn him to stone with a flash of her lively blue eyes. Then he wanted to make love to her with tenderness, to melt her steely spirit and discover a compassionate and gentle human being beneath her hard outer coating. He longed to hear her sigh in wonder at her own capacity to love and share pleasure. He dreamed of discovering a vulnerable young woman with fears and hopes like any other. But Alicia wasn’t like anyone else. She appeared not to feel.
Alicia had no desire to help in the garden. Nature bored her and so did the gypsies. They were provincial and poor. She was going to marry a duke at the very least and live in an enormous mansion. Aunt Cicely bored her too and made her help in the kitchen, which she hated because she didn’t like getting her hands dirty with flour and chicken flesh. She saw that Marcel was sponging off her aunt, who was still so enraptured by him that she was unable to tell that he was using her. When Cicely wasn’t looking she flirted with him in the hope of proving her theory, but much to her humiliation Marcel, who was closer to her in age than to her aunt, just smiled ironically and dismissed her advances with a fluid wave of one of his paintbrushes. ‘Little girl, if you want to seduce someone, go and seduce a gypsy, they’ll be grateful, after all they only have turnips to talk to,’ he said in his heavily articulated French accent. Alicia vowed that she would have her revenge. How dare anyone speak to me like that? she thought angrily. But perhaps he was right; it would be fun to seduce a gypsy.
Alicia knew Leonora adored Florien and that made her plan all the more enticing. She watched them planting together, chatting away about the weather, the soil and the harvest, laughing with the ease of old friends and the thought of slipping in between them was just irresistible. She noticed Florien’s desire for her, he was a man after all, and most men were not like Marcel. She knew she could have anyone she wanted. She was confident of her appeal. She lay in the autumn sunshine, biting a bar of chocolate, watching her prey knowing that he knew he was being watched. That in itself was enough to send a tingle of excitement up her beautiful body.
She had not yet had sex. Virginity was a hideous word, reeking of inexperience and vulnerability. She wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible and Florien was very attractive. He was tall and strong with black shiny hair and dark suspicious eyes that smouldered beneath his fringe. He was sulky and taciturn, quite the moody hero of the Mills & Boon books that got passed around at school, but he was sadly lacking in the most important area. He was poor and unlikely to become rich, even less likely to become famous and simply unable to acquire a title or status of any worth. That made him good for only one thing.
‘It’s a magical evening, isn’t it?’ she said, sitting beside him on the grass, taking an apple out of the basket and biting into it. He didn’t reply, just looked at her blankly. ‘Where’s your little helper?’ she asked.
‘Leonora?’
‘Yes, the garden gnome, where’s she?’
‘Gone to the garden centre with Mrs Weatherby,’ he replied, wondering what she wanted, for her eyes glistened with intent.
‘Not more bulbs, surely?’ She laughed and noticed to her delight that his sullen expression softened a little. ‘You spend all day on your knees, digging away in the mud. Can’t she ask you to drive a combine or something a little less manual?’
‘I like working in the garden best. Driving a combine is very dull.’
‘It’s more manly though and you’re a man.’ He averted his eyes. He was used to her flirting with him and then squashing him like a summer fly. He was in no mood to be humiliated. ‘Give me your hand,’ she asked suddenly.
He chuckled and shook his head.
‘What do you want with it?’
‘I want to feel it.’ She laughed again. ‘Don’t be shy, I won’t bite it.’ He had no option. He gave her his palm. She took it and ran her fingers lightly over the rough surface. He felt himself grow hot as he couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have her fingers caressing the rest of his body like that. ‘There, you have the hand of a farmer. It’s deliciously coarse. Can you feel my soft skin with it, or is it too hardened to feel?’ His cheeks throbbed with embarrassment and he pulled his hand away, fighting the excitement that strained at his trousers. He took another apple in order to do something with his hands.