Free Secrets of Surrender by Madeline Hunter

exasperation. He stretched past Kyle to reach a dish holding some green grains of metal. Kyle shifted enough to interfere.
    “
Mon dieu,
you are the nuisance. Go away.”
    Kyle gestured to the wooden box. “The soil. Now.”
    “The soil, the soil—what do you care about soil? You do not till dirt. You move it to build.”
    “It is for a friend of mine. A lady.”
    “A
lady.
This is not a word you English use lightly. This is the soil of that woman who showed no discretion when we gamed last week, no? She drinks hard spirits,
mon ami,
and that is most unpleasant. And if she bores you with her worries about
soil
—” He shrugged.
    Kyle knew that shrug. Ever since he met Jean Pierre when they were students in Paris, that casual movement had meant this Frenchman had much more to say but assumed he would be wasting his breath.
    “It is not the bold, foxed, gambling lady, but another.”
    A merry gleam entered Jean Pierre’s eyes. He adjusted the flame below his distillation, then gave Kyle his attention.
    “Another?”
    “Another.”
    “I feared that you did not understand your good fortune these last weeks, but eh,
c’est bon,
you are not so blind. I am like an old uncle, thinking you are too bourgeois to appreciate the opportunities in these big scandals you English make over little things.” He smiled slyly and wagged his finger. “I should have known that you are too smart to miss the
bonne chance
and—”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “This soil lady. Other ladies, and many more who are less than ladies. So many women look for you now. They want to know about this man who paid a fortune to protect a whore. All my feminine friends ask what you are like.” He sighed. “Their questions are a burden, I will tell you.”
    “I have not dined on this scandal, but it sounds as if you have been well fed.”
    “They hear I know you, and like flies they stick to me. True, there are some who think you were a stupid fool or a self-righteous peasant, but many others have fallen in love, as you surely know.”
    Jean Pierre had assumed the role of the knight’s squire. No wonder he was so busy today. He probably had not been at this chemist’s table in days.
    Jean Pierre peered at him. “You appear so blank. So…English. Do not tell me that you have squandered this scandal. Do not say that you have refused the invitations that come your way. I will throw you out and never drink wine with you again.”
    Jean Pierre’s exhortations were often like this one, urging Kyle to cut a wide swath through available women while he was still young, rich, and free.
    Kyle ignored the lessons. He managed that part of his life his own way. He was not a monk, but to Jean Pierre’s dismay he was not a rake, either. There had indeed been many invitations to dine of late. He simply was not interested in any dinners that might come his way because of that night, whether they were offered at a table or in a bed.
    Unless Miss Longworth served the meal.
    “The soil,” he said, pointing. “If you have had your pleasure due to my fame, you can deal with it at once.”
    Jean Pierre rolled his eyes. He grabbed the box and slammed it down. He began collecting little vials of liquids. “Do not tell me that you are buying land now to work. Do not tell me that you have decided to become a good, dull English farmer.”
    “You have a long list of things that I cannot say and cannot tell you. So long that I am left without words. I will just sit here and watch.”
    “Do that.” Jean Pierre scooped little bits of soil into a series of long glass tubes. He began dripping liquids from the vials on top. “This is only a theory, you understand? A good one, though, and I think it is correct. We know what chemicals the soil must hold in order to grow plants. Now we try to see if it lacks those things.”
    The last of the liquid dribbled into its tube. Jean Pierre corked each one and shook it, then set it in a rack.
    “Now we