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Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel
Bronwyn Scott
Rebellious RakesOutrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!Rake Most Likely To RebelHaviland North, Viscount Amersham, has come to Paris to prove his skill with the blade. But feisty Alyssandra Leodegrance is not the opponent he was expecting! As expert swordplay leads to sizzling sensuality it’s difficult to say who will win…or what they will claim as their prize!Rake Most Likely To ThrillArcher Crawford is in Siena to compete in its notorious horse race – only daredevils need apply! But on his first night, he meets beautiful Elisabeta di Nofri. Elisabeta is determined to savour one last taste of freedom before an unwelcome marriage is forced upon her. Can Archer and Elisabeta risk everything to win what they truly want…?


BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com) She loves to hear from readers.
Rebellious Rakes
Rake Most Likely to Rebel
Rake Most Likely to Thrill
Bronwyn Scott


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08532-8
REBELLIOUS RAKES
Rake Most Likely to Rebel © 2015 Nikki Poppen Rake Most Likely to Thrill © 2015 Nikki Poppen
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Cover (#u1ddc1376-c406-51ad-bc07-d0e5ba528547)
About the Author (#u3b38703c-801f-5ff2-bc71-e064e29ebdca)
Title Page (#u340712aa-e72e-5926-a51c-593140f94b7b)
Copyright (#u8eaeb230-c98c-5143-aae3-603183e1d192)
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (#uf2808276-6e94-5bc9-bb36-9cd0679ba24a)
Dedication (#u556b94ca-472e-5486-86e7-063264988aaf)
Chapter One (#u91794248-0941-565e-873a-283841bd3477)
Chapter Two (#udf0d1ec0-b990-5fdd-b36d-0db7d5e43e97)
Chapter Three (#u01733eed-0469-5516-afcb-f4e638eeb4d0)
Chapter Four (#u3be64ffa-33c3-5820-a785-a05a2dbb9373)
Chapter Five (#ud8c25f63-34f4-50c5-9e0e-7ebd31b40224)
Chapter Six (#u7f947024-418d-5003-8497-1f8d7cafdd81)
Chapter Seven (#ue32168e5-a564-5cc7-8b13-7401424d34d7)
Chapter Eight (#u2ab82b6c-9149-5e8c-88cb-fa28819b80cb)
Chapter Nine (#u446d6cda-c6b4-5610-ae96-69117d3f9f6e)
Chapter Ten (#ua1b4fa55-1296-5b03-9e96-5b44df89ac83)
Chapter Eleven (#u7119187e-2b5a-5ac5-b256-f2b2ff066cdb)
Chapter Twelve (#u4bcf0219-6ab3-5b53-8ad2-82ac97da158b)
Chapter Thirteen (#u0a4a0240-626c-5e78-a2d9-bcc3dad0a23f)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Rake Most Likely to Thrill (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
Bronwyn Scott
For Monsieur Rouse, high school French
teacher extraordinaire: Votre ardeur pour la langue insuffle mon fil. Merci. (Je regrette, I have not conjugated ‘to inspire’ for some time. I hope the form is correct on insuffle!)
And for Ro and Brony—we will see the City of
Light (La Ville Lumière) together soon
Chapter One (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
Dover docks—March 1835
There were no pleasures left in London. One could only hope Paris would do better. Haviland North turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the damp of the early March morning and paced the Dover docks, anxious to be away with the tide.
All of his hopes were pinned on France now and its famed salle d’armes. If springtime in Paris should fail to stimulate his stagnant blood, the rest of Europe awaited to take its turn. He could spend summer among the mighty peaks of the Alps, testing his strength on their crags, autumn among the arts and graces of Florence, winter in Venice feasting on the sensuality of Carnevale and another spring, if he could manage it. This time in Naples, basking in the heat of southern Italy with its endless supply of the ancient. If those destinations did not succeed, there was always Greece and the alluring, mysterious Turkey.
The exotic litany of places rolled through his mind, a mantra of hopefulness and perhaps a mantra of fantasy. His father had promised him six months, not a year or two. It would all have to be managed very carefully. In truth, Haviland preferred it not come to that simply because of what the need for such lengths indicated about his current state—that at the age of twenty-eight and with everything to live for: the title, the vast fortune that went with it, the estates, the horses, the luxuries other men spent their lives acquiring—he was dead inside after all.
He’d had to fight hard for this Grand Tour, abbreviated as it might be. His well-meaning father had relented at last, perhaps understanding the need for his grown son to spread his wings beyond London and see something of the world before settling down. Haviland had won six months of freedom. But it had come at a great cost: afterwards, he would return home and marry, completing the plans that had been laid by two families three generations ago.
He could hear his father’s voice, see him behind his massive desk in the estate office as he delivered his verdict.
‘Six months is all we can spare. You’re different than your friends. They don’t have your expectations. Even Archer is a second son and when it comes down to it, his duties are different than yours. They can be gone for years. We can’t possibly spare you that long. The Everlys are eager to see the marriage done, and why delay? You’re twenty-eight and Christina is twenty-one. She’s been out for three Seasons, which is very respectable at this point, but to make her wait any longer will arouse unnecessary suspicions where there are none.’
His marriage, like everything else in his life to date, had been arranged for him. Everything had been accomplished for him. He simply had to show up. He often thought it was the very idea that there was nothing to turn his hand to, nothing that required his effort that had spawned this dark yawning gap in him. He’d struggled for nothing, been denied nothing, not even good looks. He’d managed to snare the lion’s share of the family’s handsome genetics along with the fortune. Perhaps that was why fencing appealed to him so intensely—it was something he could work at, something he could personally excel at on his own merits.
Excel he had. Haviland touched his booted toe to the long, slim case lying at his feet to assure himself it was still there, the one piece of luggage he hadn’t allowed to be stowed out of his sight: his rapiers, specially made for him from the fit of the grips to the weight of the thin blades. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who could touch him in the art of the foil and still it wasn’t enough. There was more to know and he hungered for the excellence that would come with new knowledge. He would go to Paris and study. With luck, he’d move on to the Italian masters in Florence. He knew six months wouldn’t see him to Italy. It wasn’t near enough time. He would need a miracle, but anything could happen if he could just be off.
Haviland took out his gold pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather upon completing Oxford several years ago, and flipped it open to check the time: quarter past five. His companions should have been here by now, which meant they’d show up any moment. None of them were extraordinarily concerned with punctuality but all of them were as eager as he for this journey, for reasons of their own. He closed the watch, his thumb running over his grandfather’s carefully chosen, although not highly original inscription: tempus fugit. He’d wasted enough time already. This journey was a chance for the clock to start again, however briefly, for his life to start again.
Haviland’s gaze strained in the lifting gloom, trying to make out the arrival of his companions. Who would come first? Perhaps Archer Crawford, his oldest friend. They’d suffered Eton together and then Oxford before moving on to the Season, exhausting the joys of London year after year after endless year until the pleasure had become de rigueur. Only loyalty to his mother had kept Archer in London this long. Now that anchor was gone and Archer was as anxious as he to be off.
Then again, the first to arrive might be Nolan Gray, depending on whether or not he’d had a good night at the rough tables of Dover. Nolan had ended more than one night with a tersely offered invitation to duel. His extraordinary skill at cards left many gentlemen lighter in the pockets. Over their years on the town, Nolan had developed the ability to defend his talent and his honour from the business end of a pistol at twenty paces.
Whoever arrived first, it wouldn’t be Brennan Carr. He would most definitely be last and he most definitely hadn’t spent his last night in England sleeping. If he knew Brennan, the night had been spent in the arms of a willing woman. Haviland chuckled to himself at the thought. Brennan could always make him laugh. Brennan had made London survivable long after it had lost its appeal.
Hooves and wheels clattered on the docks, a coach emerging from the lifting fog. Two men jumped out, coats swirling about them. One of them barked an order in a deep commanding baritone that carried in the morning air. Haviland smiled, recognising the voice. Nolan and Archer had come together and it looked as if Archer had brought a horse. Or the horse had followed Archer, which wouldn’t surprise Haviland at all. Archer was always collecting stray horses the way some people collected cats or dogs. In the gloom, Haviland could see Archer tying the beast to the back of the carriage. He heard Nolan’s voice carry across the pier.
‘I win!’ Nolan shouted as they approached. ‘Haviland is already here and he has his case.’ Nolan clasped him on the shoulder affectionately. ‘Good morning, Old Man. Is everything loaded? I told Archer you’d be here overseeing.’
Haviland laughed. ‘You know me too well. I saw the two coaches go on an hour ago and they loaded our trunks last night.’ They’d decided the best way to make haste to Paris and then to destinations beyond would be to supply their own private coaches for travel. They’d have to buy or rent horses in Calais, but Calais was prepared for such purchases. Travellers who could afford it crossed the Channel with their own carriages. Those who couldn’t afford to were reliant on public transport or whatever vehicles were for sale. Haviland had been more worried about finding two coaches for sale at prices that didn’t border on extortion when they arrived.
‘You trusted them with your trunks, which, may I emphasise, contain all your necessary belongings for the duration, but not with one small fencing case?’ Archer pointed to the case at his feet.
‘I told you that, too.’ Nolan crowed. ‘But, no, you insisted he’d have sent it ahead.’ Nolan tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘I know these things. I’m a student of human nature.’
‘Too bad you couldn’t study that at Oxford.’ Archer goaded him. ‘You might have got better marks.’
But Nolan merely laughed. He and Archer had been sparring for years. They had each other’s measure. ‘What can I say? It’s true. You two were the scholars, not me and Brennan.’ He looked around. ‘Is Brennan here yet?’
‘No.’ Haviland couldn’t resist the ribbing. ‘Did you expect him to be? Scholar of human nature that you are?’
Nolan gave Haviland a playful shove. ‘A scholar of human nature, yes, a psychic, no.’ He grinned. ‘So who is she? We’ve only been in Dover a night. It’s not the barmaid from the inn. She went off with another fellow.’
Haviland shrugged as the captain of their packet approached. ‘Milord, you’ll want to get on board. We’ll be leaving in twenty minutes or so.’
‘Thank you.’ Haviland gave the man a short nod. ‘We’re waiting for the last member of our travelling party.’
He didn’t expect the captain to be sympathetic and the man wasn’t. ‘The tide does not wait, milord. You’ve been lucky. We can leave at once. Some folks sit in the inns for weeks, waiting for the right wind and weather.’
‘Understood,’ Haviland answered, casting a final look at the docks as if he could make Brennan materialise. The captain spoke the truth. He’d heard all nature of accounts from others who’d made the Channel crossing about the risk of having to wait, their travel plans at the mercy of the elements.
‘I should have stayed with him.’ Haviland said as the captain moved off. He blamed himself. One of the things that made his friendship with Brennan work was balance. Brennan made him laugh and, in return, he kept Brennan focused and out of trouble. But last night he’d been worried about the luggage and the arrangements and he’d left Brennan to fend for himself. Admittedly, he thought there’d be very little damage Brennan could do knowing there was an early departure. Apparently, he’d been wrong.
The trio headed towards the gangplank to board. ‘I’ll wager five pounds Brennan misses the boat.’ Nolan announced. ‘Archer, are you in? If I’m wrong, you can win back your losses.’
Once on board, they leaned against the rail, all three of them scanning the docks for a last-minute sign of Brennan. Haviland checked his pocket watch, the minutes racing by. It wouldn’t be the same without Brennan. Perhaps Bren could catch a later boat and meet them in Paris? Brennan knew the route they’d planned. Did he have enough money? Probably not. Brennan never had enough funds.
Beside him, Nolan started at the sound of chains rolling up. ‘They’re pulling the anchor. He’s not going to make it.’ Nolan blew out a breath and leaned on his arms. ‘Dammit, I didn’t want to win that bet.’ The three of them exchanged glances, their disappointment silently evident. Their trip was off to an ominous start.
The boat began to nudge slowly away from its moorings as commotion broke out on the docks. A horse pulling a heavy dray full of crates reared in its traces, followed by a loud, vituperative spray of cursing. A barrel fell. More cursing. Something, someone, was on the move. Haviland squinted. There was something else running, too. Was that a horse? He hadn’t time to consider it, all of his concentration was fixed on the figure sprinting towards them, two more figures some paces behind giving serious chase. Bare headed, shirt-tails flying, and coatless, the figure came racing.
‘It’s him! It’s Brennan!’ Haviland shouted. He waved and called out, ‘Come on!’ He didn’t like the looks of the men behind. As they closed, Haviland could see a pistol flash in one of the pursuers’ hands. He definitely didn’t like the looks of them now. Haviland cast a glance at the gradually widening gap between the boat and the dock. It would be impossible, even dangerous from where they stood, to hazard a leap. The gap was too wide, but at the rear, where the boat was still near the dock, it might be possible. It would be a hell of a jump, but Brennan would have his speed to carry him.
Haviland gestured wildly to the rear of the boat, shouting instructions through cupped hands as he raced towards the stern. ‘The back, Brennan, head for the back!’
Nolan and Archer were behind him. Archer shouted something that sounded like, ‘The horse, Brennan, get on the horse!’ The horse Haviland had spied had now passed the men in pursuit and had pulled up alongside Brennan, matching his stride to Brennan’s as if to encourage him to get on. This was madness! But facing two men with guns didn’t seem like much of an alternative. Brennan’s pursuers were too close now, the boat moving too fast for Haviland’s tastes. The horse would stand a better chance of making the leap. Haviland added his voice to Archer’s. ‘Bren, the horse, now!’ he urged.
Haviland watched Brennan swing up on the fast-moving bay, and watched the pier end.
They leapt.
They landed.
The horse went down on his knees.
Brennan rocketed towards Haviland, taking him to the deck as a pistol report sounded from the docks, a bullet whistling overhead. ‘Dammit!’ In the excitement over the horse, he’d forgotten about the gun and nearly gotten himself shot. What a fine start to the trip that would have been. Instinctively, Haviland wanted to rise and see where it had come from. He grunted at Brennan’s weight on top of him, but Brennan wouldn’t let him up.
‘Stay down!’ Only when the boat had moved a safe way from the docks and Brennan deemed it safe to rise did he let him up.
‘Good lord, Bren, what have you got yourself into now?’ Haviland rose and dusted off his trousers. Beyond Brennan’s shoulder he could see the men on the docks shaking impotent fists their direction. Whatever it was, it had been worth shooting someone over.
Brennan stopped in the midst of tucking in his shirt tails and quirked an auburn eyebrow at him in mock chagrin. ‘Is that any way to greet the friend who just saved your life?’
Haviland answered with a raised dark brow of his own. ‘My life, is it? I rather thought it was yours.’ He stepped forward and pulled Brennan into an embrace, pounding him on the back affectionately. ‘I thought you were going to miss the boat, you stupid fool.’ Sometimes Brennan worried him. He took too many risks, treated his life too cavalierly as if he doubted his own worth.
Greetings exchanged, the horse being looked after in a makeshift stall by Archer who had some explaining of his own to do, the threesome took up their places at the rail. ‘So,’ Nolan drawled, tossing a sidelong glance Brennan’s direction. ‘The real question isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’
Brennan threw back his head and laughed up to the sky as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he hadn’t been dangling over the side of a boat minutes ago with an angry man shooting at him. ‘Always.’
Haviland smiled into the distance, a little spark starting to ignite deep inside of him. It was a good sign. He wasn’t dead yet, wasn’t entirely numb yet. England faded from sight. It would be a while before they’d see those shores again but in the meanwhile, it was going to be one hell of a trip.
Chapter Two (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
One month later—the viewing room of the Leodegrance salle d’armes
Mon Dieu! The Englishman was exquisite. Alyssandra Leodegrance’s breath caught behind her peepholes as he executed an aggressive flèche against his opponent in the main training salon. Every movement spoke of lethal grace, his foil a natural extension of his arm as he effortlessly deflected Monsieur Anjou’s sophisticated series of ripostes.
Alyssandra pressed her eyes more firmly to the peepholes of the salle d’armes’s private viewing chamber, hardly daring to believe what she saw: Monsieur Anjou, the salle’s most senior instructor, was labouring now with all his skill to launch a counter-offensive and yet still the Englishman would not be thwarted.
‘He has forced Monsieur Anjou into redoublement!’ She could hear the excitement in her own hushed voice as she tore her eyes away long enough to toss a smile at her brother, Antoine, seated beside her in his wheeled chair, his own gaze as raptly engaged as hers.
Antoine gave a wry grin at her smug tone. ‘You’re enjoying it too, aren’t you?’
Alyssandra shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference, although they both knew better. There was the courtesy of professional respect between her and the senior instructor, but not much else. She put her eyes back to the holes, not wanting to miss a moment more. Redoublement was probably the last position Julian Anjou had expected to take up.
It had been ages since she’d seen Julian beaten and it did her heart good to see the arrogant master humbled. He hadn’t been humbled since the time she’d beaten him. That had been two years ago and he would not admit to it. He preferred to call it a draw done at his expense to save her pride. Not that he wasn’t an excellent fencer. Julian Anjou’s arrogance was well deserved, but having earned it didn’t make him any more tolerable.
The Englishman initiated an elegant balestra followed by a lunge, a traditional but fearless combination, his efforts confident and deliberate. He knew precisely what he was doing and what he hoped to accomplish. The sparring match had become a chess game. ‘Checkmate,’ she whispered under her breath as they circled one another again—Julian pressed to the extreme to keep the tight frame he was known for, the Englishman athletic and unwinded even after the long bout. A crowd of students and junior instructors had gathered at the edges of the floor.
He must dance like a dream, all that grace contained in those broad shoulders and long legs. The errant thought caught her off guard. After years of assessing men from a purely athletic standpoint as fencers, she seldom spared a thought for the more sensual applications of the male physique. Apparently, she was sparing a thought for it now. A shiver, wicked and delicious, shot down her spine as the Englishman moved in a tight circle around Anjou just out of reach of the man’s foil. It was easy to imagine the confident press of his hand at a woman’s back, of that hand guiding her skilfully through the crowded floor of a waltz. What woman wouldn’t want to be led out on to the floor by such a partner, his body pressed ever so slightly to hers, their bodies attuned to the subtle pressures and nuances of the other?
She had to stop. Now she was being fanciful. It had been three years since she’d had a serious suitor or even been interested in one, nor was there any time for one at the moment with the tournament looming. She gave herself a mental scold. The salle and Antoine were her life now. Until that changed, there was no room for romantic games. A sharp movement from the floor refocused her attention. She’d been so engrossed in her little tangent of a fantasy she nearly missed it—the moment when the Englishman’s blade slipped past Julian’s guard and his buttoned tip pierced the master in the chest.
Julian swept him a bow, acknowledging the defeat, but his face was hard when he took off the mask and retreated to his corner to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Englishman did the same, pulling off the mask and tossing it aside, revealing a face a woman could study for hours and still not discover the whole of it; there was the strong, sharp length of his nose dominating the centre, the dark brows and long, defined cheekbones that likely did incredible things to his face when he smiled. Right now, he was not smiling and they lent him a slightly rugged air. And his mouth, with that thin aristocratic bow on top, and sensual, fuller lip on the bottom, was positively wicked. Suffice it to say, that mouth alone could keep a girl imagining all sorts of wicked things all night.
‘He was perfect today,’ Alyssandra remarked. She and Antoine moved back from the holes to talk, to plan. The Englishman would want to know if there was another master above Anjou with whom he could continue his studies.
Her brother’s eyes held hers in all seriousness for a moment. ‘Not intimidated, are we?’
She huffed at the idea, marking it as ridiculous with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Appreciating him is not the same as being intimidated by him.’ Intimidated? Hardly. Excited? Definitely. Her body fired at the knowledge of it.
No, she wasn’t intimidated. Men in general did not intimidate her. She’d faced men who’d believed they were the best, men like Julian. She revelled in the thrill of matching blades, of wearing them down and striking when their arm was weak and their pride too strong. She sensed, however, that the Englishman would be different. A true challenge, but one she would overcome, she was confident of that. She’d been watching and learning. She was ready and now so was he.
The Englishman had been coming to the salle d’armes for three weeks. At first, she’d watched him because he’d been new and new was always intriguing. He had started with informal matches against the gentlemen who came purely to exercise. Having dispatched them, he’d moved on to those who came to study the art more seriously until there was no one left to face, no one left to coach him except Julian. It had been a testament to his skill and to his wealth that Julian had consented to take him on. Julian took on only a few select pupils with the skills and finances worthy of instruction from a great master. Now, Julian had been beaten. The Englishman had earned the privilege to face her; she, who was even more exclusive than Julian, not because of the money, but because of the secret. None of her clients ever knew they faced a woman. The mask gave her anonymity, her skill preserved it. No one would ever believe a woman could possess such a talent.
Alyssandra reached for her mask, her sword arm already feeling the grip of her hilt in her hand. ‘Shall I go out now?’
Antoine shook his head. ‘No, sit and watch with me. Your Englishman is not quite perfect, no matter what you believe.’ He gave a crooked half smile and nodded towards the peepholes. ‘They’re about to start again.’
She and Antoine pressed their eyes to the holes once more. She watched and waited patiently for Antoine to make his point. They had done this countless times since his accident had rendered him incapable of fencing. She was his legs now and he was her mentor. One of the benefits of being a twin was being able to read her brother’s mind after a fashion. He could read fencers, but she could read him. She knew what he was thinking quite often before he spoke. Like now. They weren’t even looking at each other and yet she sensed he saw something in the Englishman’s parry.
‘There!’ Antoine exclaimed in hush tones although there was no threat of being overheard. The room was soundproofed. ‘Do you see it?’
She did see something, but what? ‘No,’ she had to admit. She was astute at assessing her opponents, but her brother was a master at detecting the subtle movements of a fencer. It was what had made him so good.
‘Right there, he drops his shoulder,’ Antoine said. ‘Watch closely, he’ll do it again.’
This time she did catch it, but only someone of Antoine’s skill would have noticed without instruction. Julian certainly hadn’t or he would have taken the opportunity to drive his button into the Englishman’s briefly unprotected shoulder.
‘When he recovers from a parry, he drops the shoulder. It’s when he’s most vulnerable.’ Antoine winked at her. ‘We’ll help him fix that, of course, but only after you’ve established yourself with him.’
‘Bien sûr.’ Alyssandra laughed with him. It was an effective strategy for gaining a student’s respect to beat him a couple times before showing him why he’d lost. It proved the instructor knew what he or she was doing in theory as well as practice. But she sobered at the solemn look on her brother’s face. ‘What?’
‘You can beat him, right?’ he asked, worry creasing his brow. ‘If you can’t...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew the reputation of the salon was at stake, as it was any time Alyssandra faced an opponent, masquerading as Antoine Leodegrance, the famed Parisian swordsman.
She smiled to alleviate his concern. ‘I will beat him. All will be well, as it always is. You have taught me perfectly,’ she assured him. She understood his concern. He wanted her to be safe, but he was also frustrated with his own impotence to provide for them without relying on the masquerade. It had been three years since Antoine’s accident, three years since they’d instigated this ruse in order to keep the successful salle d’armes running. No one would willingly study fencing under a woman’s guidance.
Their ‘petite déception’ had worked splendidly up until now. There was no reason to think it would not continue to work. Only one other knew of it and that was Julian, who had as much to lose as they if the secret was exposed. Of course, they had not thought to keep the ruse in place for so long. They’d hoped Antoine would recover the use of his limbs and return to his rightful place as the salle’s master at arms. It was only a matter of time, the physicians had said confidently at the beginning.
After three years, though, she had to wonder how much more time could be allowed to pass before they had to admit Antoine’s recovery was an improbability? And if he didn’t recover? What did that mean for the two of them? Antoine was all the family she had, but they could not sustain the masquerade for ever, for many reasons, not the least being her hopes for a family of her own. The longer she kept up the ruse, the longer she put off her chances to make a worthy match. It might be too late already. Etienne DeFarge had married another last spring, unwilling to wait any longer. Any hopes she’d entertained in that direction were gone now.
But those were thoughts for another time, for a far-off future if it ever came. They had no bearing on tomorrow or the next day. What did matter was the Englishman. Alyssandra turned back to the peephole, intent now on her quarry, all dark thoughts of the future thrust aside along with more seductive visions of a dancing Englishman complete with long legs, broad shoulders and a very kissable mouth. Tomorrow, she thought silently, you, sir,shall meet your match.
Chapter Three (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
‘En garde!’ Julian Anjou called out, stepping back from the two fencers in the private salle. Haviland assumed the position and faced his opponent, the masked and silent Antoine Leodegrance. Leodegrance had bowed to him respectfully, but other than that, all communication had taken place through Anjou acting as an intermediary. Masked and silent, Leodegrance had an almost surreal presence.
By pre-determined agreement, Leodegrance made the first ‘attaque’. Haviland understood this encounter was more an exercise than a bout. There would be no score kept. Leodegrance would want to see the variety and depth of his skills first-hand. And, frankly, Haviland wanted to see Leodegrance’s. It wasn’t everyone who had the privilege of viewing the selective Parisian’s skill up close.
Parry and thrust, balestra and lunge, battement and liement. Haviland met the drills with ease, his eyes making a study of the great Leodegrance. The man had slim, graceful movements, elegance personified in even the smallest of motions. His parry from the sixte position was flawlessly delivered, his blade up, his wrist supinated. It was the subtlety of these motions that gave the man his edge, the litheness of his movements. Haviland dodged, barely avoiding the tip of Leodegrance’s foil.
By Jove, the man was quick on his feet! With the slightest of efforts, the merest flick of his wrist, Leodegrance had nearly pricked him. There was a certain style to the flick of his wrist that was patently his own and Haviland made quick note of it. It seemed to give him an extra ounce of flexibility in wielding the foil—something easier to note without the Italian preference for a basket over the hilt. With the French blade, one’s grip was exposed on the handle. Leodegrance was using that to envious advantage.
Gradually, the nature of their exercise began to change. The space between them became charged with a competitive electricity. Something combative leapt and sparked between them, a lethal chemistry, more akin to sensual attraction. Leodegrance’s manoeuvres became a seductive dance, stealthy and mesmerising; his strikes came more quickly until Haviland was fully engaged.
The exercise had transformed into an assaut. Haviland grinned beneath his mask, enjoying the thrill of competition. They circled, each one stalking the other, arms and foils held out in full extension to define their space and to protect it. Leodegrance’s frame looked as fresh as when they’d begun, his arm appeared strong. Haviland wondered if it was a bluff. His own arm was starting to ache and yet he dared not waver. Surely, Leodegrance, as slenderly built as he was, was physically affected by the duration of this match.
Haviland wished he could see beneath the full-face mask. Was Leodegrance sweating? He could feel his own sweat trickling down his back, down his face. Leodegrance made a flèche at lightning speed, requiring him to put up a riposte and he did so, proud of the speed of his own reflexes. Haviland parried and moved to launch his own attack. That was when Leodegrance’s foil found his shoulder. He felt the hard press of the wooden button before he saw it, so fast did the strike come. He stared at it in full surprise for a moment before remembering his etiquette.
He bowed as Anjou had bowed before him yesterday in acknowledgement of a fair match and in acknowledgement of the other man’s superiority. It did not gall him to be beaten—this time—it did gall him, however, that he hadn’t seen it coming. The final attack had been most unorthodox, coming as it did on the heels of Leodegrance’s deflected offensive. Haviland had parried the attack. It had been his turn to initiate one of his own, only Leodegrance had not waited. Haviland saw in hindsight what Leodegrance had done—he’d turned the move into a feint, a move designed to distract his opponent both in body and mind, while the real blow was delivered—a most effective fausse attaque.
Leodegrance accepted his bow and offered a slight one in return. Haviland reached up to remove his mask, thinking Leodegrance would do the same. The man did not. Instead, he strode over to Anjou and conducted a conversation in low, hurried French, looked his direction one more time, raised his foil in salute and departed the room with a farewell as unorthodox as his final attack had been.
‘Bien, monsieur, bien. You’ve done well. Master Leodegrance is very pleased.’ Julian Anjou came to him, all smiles. It was the most pleasant Haviland had seen the instructor look. ‘He has asked you to come back Thursday for another lesson. Also, there is a small competition in a matter of weeks. Master Leodegrance would be honoured to have you entered.’
‘He could not tell me himself?’ Haviland interjected sharply. This was by far the oddest lesson he’d ever had. ‘Are we to never speak? Does he ever remove his mask?’
‘Of course not!’ Anjou sounded shocked, as if he’d uttered blasphemy. Anjou lowered his voice, tinged with a hint of French condescension. ‘It is because of the accident, monsieur. You are an outsider, so perhaps you do not know. The scars are too hideous, too distracting for opponents. He wears the mask out of deference for you, monsieur, for all of his pupils.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘We are French, perhaps we are vain, but we put much stock in our beauty. Beauty is life to a Frenchman. We would not willingly inflict ugliness on anyone.’ Anjou inclined his head in a dismissive gesture. ‘Jusqu’à demain, monsieur.’
Haviland watched him depart with a shake of his head. That was the trouble with Frenchmen. They never quite answered your questions even when they did.
* * *
‘We’re going to have trouble with that one.’
Alyssandra looked up in time to see Julian slip inside the private viewing room to join her and Antoine. ‘He’s no trouble. I can manage him. I proved it today.’ She pulled her hair free of the pins that kept it tucked up and in place when she was Antoine Leodegrance and let it fall free about her shoulders. That felt better. She stretched her arms, relieving the tension that had built up in them during the match. She had handled the Englishman, but it had taken much of her strength and skill to do so.
‘Not that kind of trouble.’ Julian fixed her with a stare before moving his gaze and his conversation to Antoine. ‘Our Monsieur North has been asking questions. “When can he meet you?” “Why don’t you take off the mask?” “Why won’t you speak to him?”’
‘But you handled it all beautifully.’ Antoine gestured towards the peepholes where he’d watched the entire lesson. ‘I saw it. He understood.’
‘But he does not accept it,’ Julian answered sharply. ‘He’s been asking questions around the clubroom when the men gather after their exercise and in the main salle. He talks to everyone and everyone talks to him.’
‘Let them talk, there’s nothing anyone can tell him.’ Antoine remained unconcerned.
Alyssandra walked up behind Antoine’s chair to stand with her brother. It was a gesture she knew aggravated Julian, a non-verbal reminder that she and her brother were united on all things. ‘We’ve seen his sort before. He’s just another Englishman on the first leg of his Grand Tour. He’s just passing through like so many of them.’
Julian gave her a shrug of concession. ‘In that regard, you’re right and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. Those Englishmen are all looking for the same thing on their tours; a little cultural experience and a lot of sex.’ Julian paused thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You should arrange for him to meet one of your more sophisticated friends. Perhaps Madame D’Aramitz?’
‘Are you suggesting we spy on him?’ Alyssandra rebelled at the idea of Helene D’Aramitz enjoying North’s charms and reporting back all the details.
Julian’s eyes were twin orbs of calculation. ‘Yes, I am suggesting exactly that.’ He flashed her a cold smile. ‘I can keep an eye on him when he’s here at the salle, but it will be up to you to use your connections and to keep an eye on him in society.’ He gave Antoine a respectful nod. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to prepare for.’
‘I don’t think North is a threat,’ Alyssandra said after Julian left.
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Antoine blew out a breath. ‘I hate being tied to this chair. It should be me out there fencing him. We shouldn’t even have to worry about an inquisitive Englishman, but because of me, we do.’
What could she say? Her brother could no more change the facts of his existence than command his legs to walk. ‘We’ll manage. Julian makes too much of it.’
‘I think Julian is right. He does bear watching so he’s not given the chance to become trouble. But, I don’t think Helene D’Aramitz is the answer. She’s a terrible gossip and far too perceptive. Then we’ll have her asking questions, too. She’ll want to know why we’re so interested in what North does.’ Antoine’s face became thoughtful. ‘If anyone is going to watch him in society, it should be you. It will eliminate the risk of exposing ourselves unnecessarily to outside parties. Will you do it?’
Her stomach somersaulted at the prospect of engaging the handsome Englishman on two fronts: as the masked, mysterious Leodegrance, and in person as herself. Part of her—the very feminine part of her that responded to him as a handsome man— revelled in being able to meet him on her own merits. But the other part of her understood the enormous risk she ran. ‘La petite déception’ had just become a grande one. She must don two identities in order to preserve one. The feminine part of her could not afford to be distracted from the professional goal of protecting the salle and Antoine. She would start tonight. She had a fairly good of idea of where North and his friends would be. Anyone of note was attending Madame Aguillard’s Italian musicale.
Alyssandra squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Yes, of course, I will do it,’ she said as if there’d ever been a choice.
Chapter Four (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
The match lingered on his mind that evening, distracting Haviland from Madame Aguillard’s elegantly appointed entertainment. The musicale was unable to hold his attention for long no matter how lovely the Italian soprano, or how talented the pianist who accompanied her or even how often the hostess herself trailed her beautifully manicured fingers down his arm in provocative suggestion. No matter the enticement, his mind drifted back to the faceless, silent Leodegrance. Even without words, without a visage, the man had a charisma that had drawn Haviland. The force of that presence was disturbing to say nothing of the circumstances in which it had been felt. Fencing with Leodegrance had been like fencing a phantom. He’d never faced an opponent shrouded quite literally in such mystery. He couldn’t quite get over it, or past it.
‘Stop brooding,’ Nolan scolded sotto voce as they moved through the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.
Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.
He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.
‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.
Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’
‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.
‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.
‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.
Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.
What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.
Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.
Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’
That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.
‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.
‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’
‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard about it in London. It’s entirely plausible he’s become a bit reclusive as a result. It’s not as if Anjou’s explanations about the scars don’t make sense,’ Haviland argued. Perhaps Nolan was right. He just needed to stop brooding. When Archer pressed him to see a conspiracy, he simply couldn’t come up with a motive for such efforts. Perhaps that was what Archer intended all along; to make him see the foolishness of his notions. A silent look of comprehension passed between them.
Archer smiled in confirmation. Haviland had read him aright. Archer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Put it to bed, old friend, and have some fun. You need a distraction. Perhaps I could get our hostess to introduce you to one. There’s several pretty ones here tonight.’
The crowd around them ebbed, affording Haviland a glimpse across the room. Archer shifted to the right to deposit his empty glass on a passing tray and there she was—a distraction to end all distractions. She must have come late. He would have noticed her earlier otherwise. She was the sort of woman who could command a man’s attention without doing a thing. She was proving it right now, simply standing against a wall and stealing his breath along with any ability to formulate coherent thought.
‘Archer, don’t move. I think I’ve found my distraction.’ She was a stunning brunette in an evening gown of crinkled taffeta the shade of gentian blue. The gown was plain by French standards, unadorned with ruffles or embroidered hems, yet the plainness lent itself to an understated elegance, as did the exquisite tailoring. For all its lack of affectations, this was not a poor woman’s gown and no one would mistake the wearer for a peasant.
‘I take it it’s not a masked man?’ Archer raised an interested eyebrow, but remained obediently frozen.
‘Hardly.’ Haviland inclined his head in the smallest of gestures for Archer to follow his gaze. ‘Turn your head slowly and remember I saw her first.’ He did see her, the woman beyond the dress. When he looked at her, he saw the confidence of her carriage, the delicate beauty of her very bone structure that declared her a woman of high birth. There was strength, too, in that delicacy. This was no retiring wallflower and yet she was alone.
Archer smirked. ‘What are you thinking?’
Haviland gave him a wry grin that spoke volumes. ‘I’m thinking I’m looking at Plan B.’ One last affaire, one last opportunity to drink from passion’s cup before settling into his marriage. He might not have chosen Christina Everly, but neither had she chosen him. He would not shame her with infidelities after they wed, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their union. Until then, however, a gentleman need feel no such restraint, especially if travelling abroad.
The woman in question looked their direction, catching his stare, the slight raise of his eyebrow. She answered his silent enquiry with the flick of her wrist, her fan opening in a sophisticated gesture that covered just the bottom of her face. Haviland’s gaze dropped to her hands. She held the fan in her left, and Haviland smiled at the discreet sign to approach. Negotiations complete. Beside him, Archer let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Now, that’s a woman to cross a room for.’
‘I doubt men stop there,’ Haviland said under his breath. They’d cross mountains, even oceans for her. She was the sort of woman who could wreck a lesser man, one given to baser instincts and spontaneity. Thank goodness he wasn’t such a man. ‘Here, hold this for me.’ Haviland handed his flute to Archer.
‘Why? Do you think you’ll be back for it?’
Haviland chuckled. ‘With luck, no’, and then he crossed the room.
* * *
Alyssandra felt a little tremor of anxious anticipation skate down her spine, so strong was her awareness of him. His eyes were on her, piercing and intense, demanding she meet his gaze as he approached, demanding she be aware of him. But it was too late to back out of this exquisite deception. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d orchestrated her evening around in the hopes of it happening.
She’d not known with certainty that he’d be here, but she’d known it was highly possible. The odds had favoured her. Madame Aguillard’s soirée in the seventh arondissement was a coveted invitation and the Englishman and his friends had become coveted guests in certain circles. Men with money and connections could not be kept secret for long, and North was positively delicious on both accounts. He had looks and was heir to a title and a fortune, both English, which made him more impressive than his Continental counterparts. French nobles and Italian contes were thick on the ground and notoriously light in the pockets. In short, Haviland was the stuff of mothers’ dreams. Even French mamans.
Who wouldn’t jump, nay, who wouldn’t leap at the chance to marry their daughters to such prestige and such security? There were those who would leap for much less than an offer of marriage. Alyssandra reminded herself she wasn’t here for purely selfish reasons. It was what her brother needed. Her presence here tonight was professional. She had to remain objective just as if she were facing him from behind a fencing mask. There was no room behind the mask for carnal thoughts and there was no room for them now, although that didn’t seem to be stopping them from trying to intrude.
She’d heard the women talking behind their fans all night. ‘With a body like that, he cannot help but be extraordinary in bed,’ one woman had remarked. Another had commented, ‘I just want to look at him, preferably naked.’ Alyssandra could understand the sentiment. He was gorgeously made, lean hipped and broad shouldered. She had studied that physique from behind peepholes for weeks now in anonymity. She had seen that body up close today during their exercise and it had been positively scintillating. It was in part responsible for the more feminine side of her wanting to risk the encounter tonight. She wanted to test the electricity between them. Would it happen again or was the spark between them limited to the fencing floor?
Around her, women whispered, watching his approach with interest and perhaps hope, from behind their fans. His stride was purposeful, confident, his gaze locked on her, making his destination clear to those who hoped otherwise. Alyssandra raised her chin just a fraction, enjoying a moment of defiant victory. The Englishman was coming for her.
Alyssandra lowered her fan and met his gaze with equal strength. She let the rush of excitement over meeting him as herself fill her, let him take her hand and bend over it with eyes that never left hers. He would never look at her incarnation of Antoine Leodegrance the way he was looking at her, all banked fire and desire in those blue eyes. His lips brushed her gloved knuckles. Even that briefest of touches sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. The connection she’d sensed today at the salle was still there.
‘Mademoiselle, enchanté. I must apologise for my boldness. I could not wait for a proper introduction. May I present myself? I am Viscount Amersham.’
She’d known all of his names, of course. It was on his application at the club although he preferred to go by his given name there. Therein lay her advantage. He was meeting a stranger. But she was not. She knew him, whereas, there was nothing to connect her to Antoine save her name, and that would be revealed when and if she chose.
She let a little smile play across her lips, her eyes flirting coolly, her body trying to ignore the hot spark that passed between them upon contact. ‘I know who you are.’ She gestured to the groups gathered around them with her closed fan. ‘Everyone knows. You’ve become quite the celebrity.’ She rose and retrieved her hand, breaking the electric connection. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘What reputation would that be?’ He arched a dark brow.
She gave a laugh and spread her fan again, enjoying having the upper hand for the moment. ‘Are you fishing for a compliment, monsieur levicomte? I don’t think vanity becomes you. I think you know very well what sort of reputation.’
‘Touché.’ He grinned, showing even white teeth in that kissable mouth of his. It was every bit as delectable up close as it was from the distance of the viewing room or from behind a mask. His blue eyes danced, his gaze taking in all she had to offer. She was acutely alert to the skim of his eyes roaming over the slender length of her neck, how they’d dropped discreetly to the low sweep of her décolletage. His attraction to her was not in doubt.
Electric awareness crackled between them, broken only by their hostess signalling the end of the intermission—a critical moment that would define the direction of the evening and perhaps even their association. Allowing him to go back to his seat would suggest at worst she did not return his level of interest or, at the very least, she had not been serious when she’d summoned him. She must act quickly. She had done the summoning; the next move was hers. She had to be one to establish the purpose of having called him to her.
Alyssandra placed a hand on his arm, braving the physical pull of him. Men had crossed rooms for her before. Tonight, she had even encouraged such a response, knowing how well she looked in the gentian blue and the careful upsweep of her hair, both of which showed the silhouette of her body and the profile of her face to advantage. Would it be enough? ‘Some of the others will go to the card rooms instead of returning to their seats. Perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the gardens? I have been here before, if you’re interested.’ He was a sophisticated man. He would hear the entendre in her words and the invitation, just as he was aware she would see the silent interest he communicated with his eyes.
‘I have heard much about the beauty of the French gardens. I would be delighted to see one in person if you could be spared?’
Alyssandra smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
He allowed her to step slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd finding their seats, his hand confident of its reception, as if it belonged there. She could hear his voice, low and familiar at her ear. ‘It will be mine as well, I am certain of it.’ She recognised, too, what this was; the touch, the words, the very closeness of him. His body was advertising its skills in his touch, in his bid for familiarity. These were the opening moves to a seduction and it would be up to her just how far they would go. Suffice it to say, it was much harder to be professionally objective just now.
Chapter Five (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
There was nothing wrong per se with the garden. It was inherently respectable with its paper lanterns and exotic-shaped shrubs. The incipient lure to wickedness was Alyssandra’s construction entirely. She knew very well they’d not come out here to be respectable, or even to see the topiaries, although the famed shrubs did make a good ruse for the reality: They’d come outside to test the waters of their attraction in the way sophisticated men and women do who are not necessarily looking for attachment but something more fleeting: momentary pleasure, momentary escape.
While she understood the allure escape held for her, she was hard pressed to imagine the allure of escape for a man like Haviland North, whose life was already perfect. And yet what did she know of him? He was here after all, wasn’t he? In Paris, hundreds of miles and a body of water way from home. The Tour itself was an escape of sorts and those on it escapees. It often stood to contrary reason that the more perfect something looked on the outside, the more rotten it was on the inside. What imperfections might the handsome viscount have, hidden away behind those blue eyes? It did make a girl wonder what he might be running from, and there was nothing sexier than a man shrouded in intrigue.
It was part of her mission to peel away those perfect outer layers and get to those imperfections beneath. Of course, she wouldn’t peel all those layers tonight. That took time and trust. Tonight was about establishing the latter. ‘Do you see the shrub shaped as a dog?’ She pointed to the shape near a fountain. ‘It was modelled after Madame Aguillard’s favourite hunting hound. The fountain itself is made from marble imported from Italy.’
‘Very impressive.’ North said, walking beside her, his hand always at her back, offering a physical reminder of his presence.
‘Very expensive, if you ask me,’ Alyssandra shot back. It had always struck her as foolish to have imported the marble at extra cost when there were quarries nearby. It was darker now. There were fewer lanterns and even fewer guests in this remote corner of the garden. Her pulse began to leap. They’d reached their destination—somewhere private.
‘It seems we have reached the perimeter of the garden.’ North commented, his eyes full of mischief. ‘What do you suppose we do now?’
Alyssandra wet her lips and turned towards him so they were no longer side by side, but face to face. ‘I’ve talked far too long. You could tell me about yourself. What brings you to Paris?’ She stepped closer, drawing a long line down the white linen of his chest with her fan. She’d genuinely like to know. She’d spent the past three weeks making up stories in her mind about what he was doing in France.
But she’d not come out to the garden to acquire a thorough history of Viscount Amersham. That would come in time, as those layers came off. Tonight was about making first impressions, ones that would eventually lead to...more. Even so, she rather doubted her brother had expected ‘more’ to involve stealing away to the dark corners of Madame Aguillard’s garden with somewhat illicit intentions. Julian, on the other hand, had envisioned exactly such manoeuvres when he’d suggested Madame D’Aramitz.
‘I could tell you my life story,’ he drawled, his eyes darkening to a deep sapphire. ‘Or perhaps we might do something more interesting.’ Those sapphire eyes dropped to her mouth, signalling his definition of ‘interesting’ and her breath caught. Something more interesting, please.
It was hard to say who kissed whom. His head had angled towards her in initiation, but she had stepped into him, welcoming the advance of his mouth on hers, the meeting of their bodies; gentian-blue skirts pressed black-clad thighs, corseted breasts met the muscled firmness of his chest beneath white linen.
Her mouth opened for him, letting his tongue tangle with hers in a sensual duel. She met his boldness with boldness of her own, tasting the fruity sweetness of champagne where it lingered on his tongue. Life pulsed through her as she nipped his lip, and he growled low in his throat, his arm pressing her to the hard contours of him. She moved against his hips, challenging him, knowing full well this bordered on madness. Desire was rising between them, hot and heady.
‘You are bold for an Englishman.’ She sucked at his earlobe until she elicited another growl of arousal.
‘Is that a problem?’ he whispered hoarsely against her throat, his lips nuzzling the column of her neck, his hands moving over her rib cage, warm and sure. A hand closed decadently over a breast, a thumb offering a circling caress over the fabric of her nipple. It was both a siren song and a swan’s song. This had to end.
‘It is if I have to go and I do.’ She summoned the shreds of her resolve. If she didn’t pull away, she’d end up half-naked in the garden, her dress around her waist and his hands on her breasts. The only layers that would end up being peeled would be hers and that would hardly bring him back for more.
Alyssandra stepped away, smoothing her skirts, taking a formal tone designed to cool anyone’s growing ardour. ‘It has been a most enjoyable evening, monsieur le vicomte.’
‘Perhaps you might call me Haviland,’ he offered abruptly as if the use of his title offended him. She thought she understood. After such an intimacy he wanted to be a man, not a title. It was not so different from the reason she was reluctant to give him her own name.
‘Bon nuit, then, Haviland.’ She dropped a little curtsy in a flirty farewell. Maybe she would escape this encounter unexposed after all.
She turned to go. His hand closed on her arm. ‘Not so fast, my lady of mystery.’ His voice held a tone of authority beneath the seduction. ‘While we’ve had some pleasure tonight, one pleasure yet eludes me. Might I have your name?’
She did not mistake it for a request that could be denied or flirted away. How would Haviland North, Viscount Amersham, a man used to power and obedience, feel about her name now? Would he be angry? Would he feel betrayed or used? She dropped her eyes, assuming a demure, penitent posture. ‘May I tell you a secret?’
‘Absolutely. I love secrets.’ His voice was a sensual whisper close to her ear, but she did not miss the firmness in it. His tolerance had limits.
‘I must beg your forgiveness. I fear I have had you at a disadvantage.’ She looked up beneath her lashes, gauging his reaction.
‘Ah, so it’s absolution you’re seeking.’ His eyes narrowed in assessment.
‘Not absolution, sanctuary. If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.’ She let her eyes dance, building the mystery so that he would promise her anything to hear her secret.
He leaned close, a smile on his lips. She could smell the clean scent of linen and sandalwood soap on him, ‘Sanctuary it is, then. Tell me your secret.’ Good, curiosity had got the better of him. She hoped bad judgement hadn’t got the better of her.
She locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’
* * *
Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?
This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.
‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.
‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.
‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’
Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.
Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.
‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’
‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.
‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.
Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’
‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’
But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.
‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’
Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride came in. Had she’d been told to do those things or had they been part of the natural chemistry at work between them? Which all came back to the initial question: Had she known him before he’d said his name?
She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.
‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.
‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’
A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?
Chapter Six (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.
‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland North. Alyssandra buttered a piece of bread with unnecessary fierceness. ‘It was just a kiss, Antoine.’ Had he forgotten she’d once been highly sought after before their fortunes had changed?
‘Why? This is not what we’d talked about. You were supposed to talk to him, not kiss him.’ Antoine fought to keep his voice from rising. ‘It’s not just a kiss! Who knows what he’ll be thinking now.’
‘It hardly matters what he thinks. He’ll only be here long enough for you to make some money on him and that’s all that matters to you and Julian,’ Alyssandra shot back uncharitably. How dare he ask her to play this double masquerade and then question her execution of it.
‘Yes, plenty of money; money from lessons, money from the tournament when I wager on him. Money for the salle when people see the kind of fencer we can turn out. That money keeps you in this fine house, keeps you in gowns like the one you wore last night,’ Antoine retorted sharply.
She supposed she deserved that. It was an unfair shot on her part. Money always made Antoine prickly. He was acutely aware of the limits of his ability to provide for them. There was always enough, but just enough. She bit her tongue against the temptation to remind him just how much of that money she helped earn. He would not appreciate it and she already had one black mark against her this morning.
‘Since he truly is only here a short while there’s really no harm in it, is there?’ Alyssandra soothed. She sensed there was something else bothering him. She felt terrible. Guilt niggled at her for causing her brother angst. She wanted to believe there was no harm in last night’s kiss, that she could indulge herself just a little. At times she felt that she had become a recluse, too, along with Antoine.
Before his accident, she used to go out to all nature of entertainments. She used to dance, ride in the parks and the woods outside town, shop with her friends—many of whom had long since married and had children. Now, she seldom went out at all. When she did it was only in the evenings after the work at the salle was done.
At first, she’d stayed in because she felt guilty about dancing and riding when Antoine, who’d loved those activities, could no longer do them. They’d been things the two of them had done together and it seemed disloyal to her twin to enjoy them without him. In the early days after his accident, there had been nursing to occupy her. Then, there simply hadn’t been time. Antoine had needed her at the salle and at home. Any attempts at maintaining her old social life had eventually faded, replaced by other needs.
‘We have to be careful,’ Antoine said. ‘A conversation is one thing, but a kiss might have him sniffing around even more than he would have otherwise and that’s hardly solving the problem.’
Alyssandra knew too well how fragile their masquerade was, how lucky they were it had lasted this long and how little it would take to see it all undone. Everything was done covertly. They kept only the most loyal of staff. No one could see Antoine leaving the house or entering the salle, carried by his manservant. No one could come to the house. Antoine conducted all his business in writing or at the salle where he had Julian and her to act as his legs.
She understood maintaining the ruse was a great sacrifice on Antoine’s part, too. If he allowed everyone to know his injury was lingering, he could go about publicly in his chair, or with his manservant. He could attend musicales and plays, the opera, picnics even. But to do so would mean the end of the salle and the end of their income. Ironically, without income and means there would be no social invitations to such events. They would be nothing more than the impoverished children of a dead vicomte. It was not a bargain Antoine could afford to make. So in exchange for social security, Antoine had fashioned a secretive, reclusive life for himself—a life that consisted of his family home, the elegant Hôtel Leodegrance in the sixth arondissement, his father’s salle and his sister’s well-being; three things only after a life that had been full of so much more.
‘I’m sorry.’ Alyssandra bowed her head. She had been selfish last night. She should not have kissed Haviland North. She should have resisted the temptation to seize a little pleasure for herself when Antoine could seize none. All the choices he had made had been for her, for them. She should do the same. They were all each other had left. Perhaps that was what was worrying him this morning—a fear of losing her.
The very thought of having caused him such pain when he already had so much to bear made her chest tight. She’d not thought in those terms last night—indeed, she’d hardly thought at all in Haviland’s arms. She rose and went to Antoine, kneeling at his side and taking his hands in hers, tears in her eyes. ‘I will not leave you. I promise. You mustn’t worry about that, never again.’
Antoine placed a hand on her head. ‘I know it’s hard and I know it’s unfair to ask you to stay,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what it costs you. You could be out dancing every night. What would become of me without you? I am afraid I’m too scared to find out, but perhaps I won’t always be. Maybe some day I’ll find the courage to let you go.’
She shook her head in denial. ‘You must never worry. You are my brother—’ Hurried footsteps interrupted her. The butler stepped into the room. She rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘What is it, Renaud?’
The butler drew himself up, trying with great effort not to look disturbed. ‘There is a gentleman downstairs. He is asking to see you. He has given me his card.’ The butler handed it to her, hiding a very French sneer of disdain. ‘He’s English.’
Her initial reaction was one of relief. No one was asking to see Antoine. People had stopped asking to see Antoine years ago at home. The story about facial scars had worked well in keeping people away. But the sight of the name on the card put a knot in her stomach that curled right around her buttered toast. She passed the card silently to her brother. Antoine had been right. It hadn’t been just a kiss. The kiss had become an invitation to seek her out and he had. Haviland North was here, in a home that hadn’t seen a visitor in three years.
‘You’d better go down.’ Antoine handed the card back to her.
‘Take him for a walk through the back garden or over to the Luxembourg Gardens. That will look civil enough.’ What he meant was ‘normal’ enough and it would get North out of the house, away from any telltale sign of Antoine’s incapacity.
Antoine glanced at Renaud. ‘Did he say anything about the nature of his business?’
‘No, he did not.’
But Alyssandra knew. She had no illusions as to why he had come. He was here to make her accountable for last night.
* * *
‘You played me false last night.’ Haviland announced the intent of his visit the moment she stepped into the drawing room. This was not a social call and he would not treat it as such by dressing it up as one, nor would he allow her to escape the reckoning he’d come for. It would be too easy to forget his agenda in those deep-brown eyes, too easy instead to remember those lips on his, the press of her body against his.
He’d come as early as he dared in hopes that morning light would mitigate his memories of the midnight garden and show them to be just that—fantasies exaggerated by the lateness of the hour and his desire for distraction. He’d also come early simply because he wanted the situation resolved. Resolution would determine his next course of action.
He might have come earlier if finding the house had been easier. No one at the salle had been eager to give up the address, directing him only to the sixth arondissement. No one, not even Julian Anjou, had refused him outright, of course. They’d said instead in the indirect way of the French, ‘The master does not receive anyone.’ Haviland had been forced to rely on general directions from merchants and shopkeepers who recognised his description of Alyssandra and eventually made his way.
Alyssandra gestured to a small cluster of furniture set before the wide mantel of the fireplace. ‘Please, monsieur le vicomte, have a seat.’ He grimaced as she returned to formality as she had at the last in the garden. ‘Shall I call for tea or perhaps you’d prefer something more substantial? Have you eaten?’ The formality and now this. It was a deft reprimand regarding the hour of his call.
Haviland shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was sit and eat. He understood her strategy. If he was determined to not make this a social call, she was determined to do the opposite. A social call required a different set of rules, polite ones. He was intent on something a little more blunt, a little more direct.
She sat and arranged her skirts, the unhurried movements calling attention to the elegant slimness of her hands, the delicate bones of her wrists. Haviland could not help but follow her motions with his eyes. She was in no rush to answer his accusation and her sense of calmness rather took the wind out of his bold claim. He’d expected the passionate woman of last night to leap to her own defence and deny him. He’d expected her to engage him in a heated argument at his charges of duplicity. She did neither.
She arched a dark brow in cool enquiry as he sat. ‘You are disappointed? Perhaps you thought to make some drama of this?’
‘I do not appreciate being toyed with,’ Haviland said tersely. ‘You did not tell me who you were.’
She dropped her lashes and looked down at her hands as she had last night and, like last night, she was only playing at being penitent. ‘I did not think it mattered so much at the time. We understood one another, I thought.’
Inside the drawing room perhaps they had understood one another. They had made eye contact, she’d given him tacit approval to approach, to flirt. At that point, a name had not been of issue. ‘It mattered a great deal in the garden,’ Haviland answered, his eyes resolutely fixed on her face, watching for some reaction, any reaction that might give her away, daring her to lift those deep-brown eyes to his. She was far too serene for his tastes. He wanted her agitated. She’d kept him up all night, damn it.
She did lift her gaze, a worldly half smile on her lips to match the hint of condescension in her eyes. ‘Then I kissed you and apparently that changes everything for an Englishman. Are all of you so chivalrous? Tell me you’ve not come to propose marriage to atone for your great sin.’
‘I am not in the habit of kissing women whom I do not know. That makes me particular, not chivalrous,’ Haviland corrected. She was mocking him and he didn’t care for it, although he recognised it was an offensive move of some sort, a protective strategy, something to put him on the defensive much like a reprise in fencing after an attack has failed. He recognised, too, that she would not be much help in supplying the answers he wanted without his asking directly. ‘Are you his wife?’
She made him wait for it, studying him with her eyes, letting precious seconds pass before she uttered the words, ‘No, I’m his sister.’
Haviland felt the tension inside him ease. One mystery solved, but another remained. He asked his second question, the one that mattered more in the larger sense. The first question had been for his private pride. ‘You knew who I was last night the moment you heard my name. Why did you pretend otherwise?’
‘You promised me sanctuary in exchange for my secret.’ She stood and pierced him with narrow-eyed speculation. How had he lost the upper hand? She had played him and now, somehow, he was the one in violation.
‘Is this how an Englishman keeps his word? By interrogating a lady?’ Her retort was a powerful dismissal. Manners dictated that he should rise, too, but he knew where that would lead if he didn’t change the direction of this conversation. It would lead to farewell and he had not yet got what he came for. Her manoeuvre had been skilfully done. She’d put his own leave-taking into motion, taking control of the interaction out of his domain.
Haviland rose. He was skilful, too. He wasn’t going to be outflanked. He smiled charmingly. ‘You are right, of course. My curiosity has got the better of my manners. I can do better if you would give me a chance. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the park? It’s a lovely day, and I’d prefer not to walk alone. Or should I ask your brother?’ He did not think she needed the approval. He’d added the request for formality’s sake. He didn’t want to risk angering the eccentric Leodegrance. It was also a goad. She wouldn’t refuse a dare. She was old enough to make her own decisions as she’d exhibited last night. A woman who kissed like that didn’t live under her brother’s thumb.
‘There’s no need to ask him,’ she said too quickly. ‘I’ll send for my hat and gloves.’ He was not prepared for the odd look that crossed her face ever so briefly. Was that fear? Anxiety? She was hiding something, that much was clear. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that she hadn’t told her brother she’d met him last night. And perhaps it was something more. Maybe Alyssandra Leodegrance was a woman with secrets.
Chapter Seven (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
In for a sou, in for a livre. Alyssandra drew a deep, steadying breath and slipped her arm through his with a confidence comprised mostly of bravado. She couldn’t cry off now for at least two reasons. First, she’d promised her brother she’d keep Haviland close even if the two of them disagreed on the method. Second, Haviland had come back for more. Coming back had been the plan since the moment she’d put on the blue dress. She’d not flirted with him for the simple prize of a single night and a few stolen kisses. She’d played for bigger stakes and she’d got them in spades. The only surprise was how early he’d called. He’d wasted no time coming back for more.
That in itself was impressive. It was something of a feat for him to have made it this far. ‘How did you find our home?’ she asked as they made the short walk to the park. ‘It’s hardly common knowledge.’ For an outsider, was the implied message. There were plenty of people who knew where they lived. The hôtel had been in the Leodegrance family since the sixteen hundreds. But everyone who knew them knew Antoine did not receive visitors. It was difficult to imagine which of their acquaintances would have given up that information to an Englishman. His only connection to them would be through the salle d’armes and while his skill was respected, he was still an outsider. Surely, no one there would have told him.
‘By trial and error mostly. Shopkeepers.’ His eyes rested on her. ‘I did not think it would prove to be such a secret.’
‘My brother likes his privacy,’ she answered shortly, making sure he heard the warning in that and the caution not to come again. Visitors were not welcome.
‘And you? Do you like your privacy as well?’ Haviland was probing now and not so subtly.
‘When I want company, I go out.’ Her retort was pointed, in the hopes of dissuading him from pursuing this line of question. It would be a good time to let the subject drop. They’d arrived at the wide gates of the Luxembourg Gardens, and there was a small crowd of people to navigate: nannies with children, children with kites and boats for sailing in the fountains. She was conscious of Haviland’s hand moving to the small of her back to negotiate the knots of people at the entrance.
Even the smallest, most mundane touch from him sent a jolt through her. Some men just knew how to touch a woman. Haviland North was one of them. Etienne’s touch had been comfortable, but nothing like this. If a simple touch from him could ignite such a reaction, it made one wonder what other more intimate touches could do.
‘Like last night?’ he said once they’d found their way clear of the people at the entrance. Touches like last night? Those had certainly been more intimate. It took her a moment to remember where they’d left the conversation. Then she realised with no small amount of disappointment he was not talking about touches, but about company.
‘Did you come looking for me or for any company in general?’ His tone was edged with ice. He’d misunderstood her answer. He was thinking she was a loose woman, looking for intimate male company whenever and wherever it pleased her. She wanted him to be warm and charming as he had been last evening, as he had been before he knew who she was and everything had turned into a fencing match of the verbal variety. Her identity had made him wary as she’d known it would.
‘You approached me, as I recall. You crossed the room.’ It would be entertaining to banter with him if so much wasn’t at stake. He was clever and bold, not afraid to say the audacious. It made conversation an adventure, wondering what would come next, what her response would be. ‘I hardly think it’s fair to blame me.’
He shrugged, contemplating, his eyes on her mouth. ‘If I had known who you were from the start, it might have changed the, ah, “direction” of the evening. There’s no denying being who you are complicates things. I kissed the sister of my fencing instructor. Surely, you can understand the precarious position that puts me in.’
Kissed was a relative understatement and they both knew it. They’d acted precipitously. She’d been a stranger to him. They’d owed each other nothing but passion in those moments. Then she’d become someone and everything changed.
‘And I kissed my brother’s star pupil. Certainly, you can understand the position that puts me in.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. What position is that, exactly?’
She met his smile with a coy one of her own. They were expert wits toying with one another the way expert fencers tested the skills of their opponents. How much to reveal? How much to conceal? ‘The position of deciding whether or not I can trust you. There’s so much to consider if we were to become, shall we say, entangled.’ It was hard to play cool with his body so close to hers, his eyes lingering every so often on her mouth, just enough to remind her of what their mouths could do. She had to resist. She could flirt all she liked, but ultimately, resistance was in her best interest. She needed to keep him close, but not too close. Too much intimacy and he would start asking more questions.
‘What is there to consider?’ he drawled, playing his end of the game with audacious charm. He was overtly in pursuit, driving her towards a particular conclusion to this conversation by stripping away her objections.
But she knew the game. Alyssandra ticked off the considerations on her fingers. ‘First, I must consider your motives. Are you using me to gain an entrée with my brother? If so, it won’t work. I don’t appreciate being made an intermediary pawn and my brother doesn’t receive anyone. Second, I must ask myself what kind of liaison are you looking for? Based on what I’ve seen of your like-minded countrymen, I can only assume you’re looking for a short-term sexual companion, an exotic adventure to write home about. That, too, is an unappealing motivation. I have no desire to become an Englishman’s souvenir, a story that is trotted out in his clubs back home when he’s sloshed with brandy and reminiscing.’
Her words were sharp as she laid down her terms. She’d meant them to be. She wanted him to understand she would not be used no matter how strong their attraction. But Haviland merely laughed and gave her a wide smile. ‘I agree entirely. Neither option sounds even remotely appealing. Those are not things I would ever want for myself.’ That wide smile almost disarmed her.
Almost. Agreement was a most effective strategy and while she hadn’t expected it, she was ready for it. ‘I suppose you want me to ask what do you want?’ She tried for a bored tone, or at least one that suggested she’d travelled this path before when, in reality, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his blue eyes and her pulse speeded up in anticipation of his answer. What could a man with a perfect life possible want that he didn’t already have?
His voice dropped, low and private, and the size of her world shrank with it until nothing existed but him, her and the tree at her back. ‘What if I said I was looking for something else—an escape? What if I could offer that same escape to you? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be interested. I can see the tension in you. Your life is not a free one. I can see it.’ Those blue eyes dropped to her mouth again. ‘Why not escape, even if it’s just for a little while, to find pleasure with a man who knows how to provide it?’
He was bold. ‘Are you propositioning me?’ She could be bold, too. The game was heating up. Too bad she could do nothing more than let the pot boil.
Haviland shook his head. ‘No, nothing as base as that. I’m merely asking you to consider the possibilities, that’s all.’ He smiled and leaned towards her ear, his voice a whisper. ‘I have already considered the possibilities and found them positively delectable.’
She was going to swoon right there and she might have if she hadn’t been so sure that was what he was after. It took all of her sangfroid to muster the words, ‘Has a woman ever said no to you, Haviland North?’
He grinned. ‘No, not that I recall.’
She leaned into him, letting her mouth hover as near to him as she dared without touching. ‘Then this is your lucky day. I’m about to be your first.’
He chuckled, low and throaty, a sexy invitation to repeal her decision. He didn’t take rejection like any man she’d ever known. ‘Then I shall delight in helping you change your mind.’
‘You flirt like you fence, all balestra and lunge.’
‘It’s an aggressive combination.’ His response was sexy and sharp in its immediacy. His eyes hooded so she couldn’t see them, his forehead pressed to hers. ‘So you did know me before last night. So you have seen me fence.’ His tone was flintily accusatory.
She bit her lip. ‘I did say your reputation preceded you. It stands to reason that you’re a phenomenal fencer if my brother is willing to take you on.’
‘So you did.’
She swallowed. He was going to kiss her. And he might have if Madame Aguillard hadn’t swept down upon them with her little coterie of friends.
‘There you are, monsieur le vicomte! And how nice to see you, too, mademoiselle.’ She nodded at Alyssandra. ‘You’re out twice in as many days,’ she added cattily, her eyes drifting between the two of them, but it was clear who the centre of her attention was. ‘My friends have been dying to meet you, Amersham.’ She gushed in rapid French to Haviland.
‘Je suis enchanté.’ Haviland smiled, overlooking the familiarity, but it was a polite smile only, nothing at all like the wicked smiles he’d been giving her. Alyssandra took a petty satisfaction in knowing he preferred sparring with her over Madame Aguillard’s company.
‘I am giving a little dinner party tonight,’ she said after introductions had been made. ‘Perhaps you and your friends would like to come?’ She stepped close to Haviland, affording him a view of her bosom if he so chose to look. Alyssandra noted Haviland did not. It was another small victory and one Madame Aguillard was well aware of. But she was not a woman who admitted defeat easily. She put a confiding hand on his arm. ‘There will be cards for Monsieur Gray and ladies for Monsieur Carr. I have some especial friends who would like to meet him particularly and I’m sure you and I can find something special for you, too.’
Alyssandra wanted to skewer the woman for her audacity. She watched Haviland step back, freeing his arm from the woman’s touch. ‘I appreciate the invitation, but I must respectfully decline.’ He offered no reason. The conversation mopped up after that with polite small talk and Madame Aguillard wandered off to join other groups.
‘She’ll be back,’ Alyssandra said as the woman took her friends and left.
Haviland gave her a small, private smile. ‘Well, what I’m interested in is right here.’
But for how long? They started walking, a slow, steady stroll, taking in the lush greenery of spring, the pleasant, warm air of the day. She was thankful for the silence as they strolled. Her mind was whirling and she needed a minute to think. How did she fulfil her promise to watch Haviland? How did she keep him from asking too many questions? How did she keep herself from rushing headlong into this forbidden attraction while not losing Haviland in the process? Or worse, losing herself? It would be too easy to capitulate to his charm, to set herself up for heartbreak when he left. How to balance all this?
The audacious Madame Aguillard might be routed for now, but the lesson was learned. Haviland was a person of interest to the women of Paris and a healthy male in his prime. Madame Aguillard might not be to his taste, but he wasn’t a man used to being alone. It had crossed her mind as she’d watched Madame Aguillard jockey for position that if she didn’t claim him, someone would.
Maybe the real question to ask was how much was she herself willing to risk? Could she have it all? Could she reach for the pleasure Haviland promised, the escape he offered to explore with her, and still preserve her secrets? It was already the end of April.
‘How long will you be in Paris?’ She cocked her head to look up at him, letting her eyes give away a little of her contemplation.
His eyes danced in response. ‘Long enough for you to take me up on my offer. Changed your mind already, have you?’ He paused. ‘All teasing aside, we plan to stay until June, unless Nolan offends any gamblers or Brennan angers any husbands. Then, it will be sooner.’
‘Your friends sound delightful.’ She had six weeks at most. Surely she could keep her secret and have her pleasure, too, if she dared.
He nodded. ‘They are. The very best of friends a man could hope for, actually. Perhaps you’ll get to meet them.’
‘Then where will you go?’ She shouldn’t feel so empty at the prospect of him leaving. Her strategy depended on him leaving. She couldn’t keep up this ruse for ever. He would go on to other places, other women, and she would still be here, her world much smaller than his and likely to remain so. Don’t think on it. He is here now, yours now if you encourage him. He’s already made his offer, he is just waiting for you to accept.
‘My friends fancy a summer in the Alps, climbing the peaks.’ He shrugged, and she thought she sensed some reluctance there.
‘The Alps don’t appeal to you?’ They reached a fork in the walkway, and she gestured that they take the path to the right.
‘The Alps do, just not as much as Paris,’ he admitted. ‘They are not known for their fencing salles. But it is on the way to Italy and Italy appeals a great deal.’
‘Is it the salles alone that give Paris its appeal?’ She might be guilty of fishing for a compliment here, but flirting was a way to keep the conversation light.
Haviland smiled. ‘The salles d’armes are big part of it, but I love the coffee houses, the intellectual discussions. When I’m not at Leodegrance’s, Archer and I sit for hours in the Latin Quarter, listening to the debates, joining in sometimes.’
‘Surely you have that in London?’ She shot him a sideways glance.
‘I suppose we do. Soho is awash with artists and foreigners bringing their own flavour to the city, but it’s not a place I am able to frequent often.’ Wistfulness passed over his features and was quickly gone, but not missed. ‘Perhaps it’s not the city I love so much as the freedom I have in it. No one has expectations of me here.’
She gave a soft laugh of understanding. ‘Le Vicomte Amersham has to keep up appearances?’ There were places she no longer frequented, too, because life required otherwise. She thought about his comment regarding escape. Paris was about freedom for him. She’d been surprised a man of his background didn’t already consider himself free, that he found it necessary to leave his home to taste freedom. She’d always thought money and power were the keys to freedom, and he seemed to have plenty of them. She and her brother had struggled to keep what little they had of either.
‘Where does fencing fit with all of that?’ She risked probing a little further.
‘Fencing is a gentleman’s art. A man should how to defend himself adequately.’ It was a rote answer, the kind fencing instructors gave to build their student base.
‘You’ve attained enough skill to have stopped ages ago.’ She wouldn’t let him get off with an easy answer.
He stopped walking and faced her, eyes serious. ‘If you want to know, it’s about freedom, the chance to prove myself on my terms and no one else’s. Skill cannot be inherited, it has to be worked for, it has to be honed to perfection and that is something only a man can do for himself.’
‘I know.’ Her answer was a whisper. She did know. Better than he thought because that was how she felt every time she picked up a foil, every time she faced an opponent on the piste. How would she be able to keep her emotional detachment when he looked at her like that? Spoke to her in words that echoed in her heart? She swallowed in the silence. ‘Come, the fountain I want you to see is just up here.’ The layers were coming off. But his layers weren’t the only ones being peeled back. She’d not bargained on the fact that exposing him would also mean exposing herself.
* * *
It was quiet beneath the shade of the leafy canopy overhead, the sound of trickling water growing louder as they approached the end of the path. ‘This is the Medici Fountain, one of the prizes of our park.’ Her voice was quiet out of reverence for the solitude.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Haviland spared a glance at the stonework, but his gaze rested on her and she had no doubt his words hadn’t been for the fountain alone. ‘Is this what you wanted to show me?’ His eyes dropped to her mouth, silently encouraging.
‘And I wanted to show you this.’ She stretched up on her toes, arms wrapping around his neck as she brought her mouth to his. This time there would be no mistake about who was kissing whom and who had started it.
Chapter Eight (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
It was both easier and more difficult to fence Haviland on Thursday, two days later. Alyssandra had not bargained on this. She would have thought the sensation of kissing him would have waned by now. And, most certainly, fencing him should have been easier. After all, this time she knew what to look for in his attacks from the experience of having opposed him before; knew how he’d hold his body, how he’d move, how fast he’d be. But the distraction of him, of knowing that body and how it felt pressed to hers, was mentally overwhelming. No wonder Eve was not to have eaten from the tree of knowledge.
It took all her concentration to think about flèches instead of kisses while knowing full well he did not share the distraction. How could he? He thought he was facing her brother. He had no idea she was behind the mask. Yet, she sensed he carried his own distraction, too. The timing of his movements was off and he was dropping his shoulder more than usual.
Even so, it took her longer than she’d planned to defeat him. With a rather large sense of relief, her button pierced his shoulder in the same place. She put up her foil, nodding to Julian, and turned to make a quick departure as she had on Tuesday. Today, Haviland was ready for such an exit.
‘Wait, aren’t you going to explain to me how you do that?’ he called before she reached the door. ‘That’s twice now, Leodegrance. There must be something you look for.’ She did not turn. She kept moving. She could see in her mind the scene playing out behind her: Haviland stepping forward instinctively, wanting to follow her out, and Julian stepping between them. She could hear Julian as she slipped into the hallway.
‘Monsieur, you were distracted today. Your movements were like an amateur’s. Mon Dieu!’ Julian picked up the instruction with a rapid cataloguing of Haviland’s mistakes.
It was not unlike the discussion awaiting her in the viewing room. She had barely taken off the mask and tugged her hair out of its tight bun before Antoine voiced his disapproval. ‘You weren’t concentrating!’ He turned his chair from the peepholes with a fierce turn, his features grim. ‘If this is what one kiss has done, it is too dangerous! He nearly had you today.’
Alyssandra shrugged, trying to give a show of nonchalance. It wasn’t what one kiss had done, it was what one moonlit garden, one afternoon stroll, a rather charged flirtation up against an oak tree and another kiss at a fountain had done. ‘If he had, we would have told him it was planned, part of the lesson to work on something or other.’
‘That’s not good enough,’ Antoine snapped. ‘You are supposed to be me. My reputation is on the line when you fence like that.’
It was true. Antoine would never have been distracted by thoughts of hot kisses or by anything for that matter. One of his many skills in fencing was his single-minded focus. Once, during a championship match, a fire had started outside but Antoine had been oblivious to all of it—people screaming, the fire brigade throwing water—until he’d defeated his opponent. It had become part of the legend surrounding him. She would never have that level of concentration. Privately, she wasn’t sure it was a great loss. She’d rather see a fire coming.
She gave her brother a patient smile. ‘Everything ended as we wanted. Shall I tell Julian to instruct him on his dropped shoulder tomorrow?’ It would pacify Haviland and keep him from charging out of the room demanding answers from an opponent who wouldn’t speak to him.
Antoine nodded, calming down. ‘I’ll tell Julian myself. We need to meet afterwards anyway.’ He paused. ‘I think I must apologise. It was wrong of me to ask you to stay close to the vicomte. I never meant for you to jeopardise your virtue. I thought you would be safe with him. I should have known better. I’ve seen enough of them come through the salle on their Grand Tours. They’re all looking for the same thing. Your charming vicomte isn’t any different, much to my regret.’
But he was different. He talked of freedom. He had offered escape, not a bawdy roll in the sheets. But how did she articulate those things in terms that wouldn’t worry Antoine? ‘I’ll manage him. I’m not fool enough to lose my head over a kiss,’ Alyssandra said tightly. ‘I think I will change and go home now. I have a few errands to run on the way.’
Alyssandra changed quickly in her brother’s office, her movements fast and jerky as she pulled off her trousers and slid into half-boots and a walking dress, mirroring the rapid, angry thoughts rushing through her mind. She wasn’t mad at Antoine. She was mad at herself. He was right. Today’s lesson had teetered on the brink of disaster. She’d nearly been too distracted and a second’s distraction was all it would have taken. At the first opportunity, she’d failed to maintain the professional objectivity she’d promised herself.
He was right, too, about the uselessness of encouraging Haviland’s interest in her. Nothing good could come of it outside of preserving their secrets. She had seen rich, titled heirs just like him come through the salle. The Grand Tour was supposed to be a time of intellectual enlightenment for young men, a chance to learn about the highbrowed philosophies that governed other cultures and countries. Alyssandra suspected that was simply the justification wealthy families gave for sending young Englishmen abroad to rut and gamble and drink so they couldn’t cause trouble at home.
Alyssandra grabbed her pelisse from a hook on the back of the door and her shopping basket. It was hard to imagine Haviland fitting the standard mould, however. He looked to be a few years older than the usual fare they saw. Most of those men were in their early twenties and far too young to appreciate any of the cultural differences they might encounter. In contrast, Haviland had a polished demeanor to him, a sophistication that could only be acquired with experience. And the way he’d talked about freedom in the park hinted at depths behind those blue eyes. But that changed nothing. Even if he turned out to be different than the usual passer-through, what could he offer her but a short affaire and a broken heart? He would leave. They needed him to leave.
Perhaps a short affaire is best. What do you have to offer him or anyone for the long term? No one will want to take on an invalid brother-in-law, the wicked argument whispered, tempting. She’d been so focused on Haviland, she hadn’t spent much time thinking about her part in this equation. Alyssandra pushed open the door leading into the back alley behind the salle and stepped into the afternoon light. She couldn’t leave Antoine in the immediate future. She might never be able to. Didn’t Etienne prove as much?
‘Alyssandra!’ The sound of her name startled her out of her thoughts. The sight of the man who called it startled her even more. Haviland leaned against the brick wall across the narrow alley, his coat draped over one arm, his clothes slightly rumpled as if he’d changed in a hurry. He stepped towards her. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He took the basket from her arm. She could feel the heat of exertion through his clothes. He had indeed made a quick departure. How had he managed to escape Julian?
‘I came down to bring my brother lunch. I just dropped it off.’ Alyssandra improvised and gestured to the basket to give the fabrication credibility. ‘Shouldn’t you still be working with Monsieur Anjou?’ According to the schedule, he was supposed to be with Julian for an hour to give her plenty of time to change and leave the building without this happening. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. He didn’t suspect anything. It wasn’t unusual for a sister to want to bring her brother lunch.
‘I had enough fencing for one day.’ Haviland shook his head and gave a half smile. ‘The lesson didn’t go very well. Monsieur Anjou assures me I wasn’t concentrating. I didn’t stay long enough to hear everything else I did wrong.’
‘Perhaps you weren’t,’ she teased, looping an arm through his and beginning to walk. It did occur to her that Julian and her brother were still inside. If they concluded their meeting, they would come out this door—this discreet door that hardly anyone knew about or paid attention to. She needed to get Haviland away from the exit before something happened she couldn’t explain away.
‘Your brother got me in the same place he got me on Tuesday, right in the centre of my shoulder. I must be doing something to leave myself open for it.’ Haviland looked back over his shoulder towards the door. ‘In fact, I was hoping to catch your brother afterwards and speak with him.’
She’d guessed as much. She gave him an exaggerated pout. ‘I’m not sure that’s what a girl wants to hear—that you’ve come looking for her brother, but not her.’
‘I didn’t know you would be here.’ He smiled back and gave up on the door.
‘Now that you do know, perhaps you’d like to accompany me on a few errands?’ She told herself she was doing this for Antoine. If she didn’t, he would exit the building sans mask, hefted in the arms of his manservant, and Haviland waiting to witness it. Haviland would learn the error was not in Antoine’s face, but in his legs. Yes, all this was to protect the great ruse. But her pulse still raced at his nearness, at the thought of spending the afternoon in his company.
This would be new territory for her. She had not been in the company of such a gentleman. Most of her encounters had been at balls and soirées—in short, events that were heavily scripted, where everyone was expected to be on their best behaviour. She’d never been out in public, at a ‘non-event’ where there was no script except for the one the participants wrote between them. It was a new kind of freedom, and Alyssandra liked it. Even without the requirements of a ballroom, Haviland was solicitous. He carried her basket. He didn’t show impatience when she debated, perhaps overlong, which bread to purchase at the boulangerie. He held the shop doors open for her. He walked on the far side of the pavement to shield her from any traffic.
It was all done effortlessly. Alyssandra hardly noticed, so easily were these little tasks performed. Maybe she wouldn’t have noticed at all if she’d come to expect such treatment. As it was, it was new to her. Etienne had never had an opportunity to do these things for her. Their meetings had always been at events or carefully chaperoned in her home. Antoine might have done such things for her if he could have. But this was clearly not new to Haviland. These choices were ingrained in his being and it was intoxicating, a further reminder of his polish, his sophistication. This was no boy wet behind the ears. If he was this polished in public, how he must shine in private.
She shot him a saucy, sideways glance, wanting to flirt a little. ‘You’re very good at a lady’s errands. Is this part of your “persuasion”?’
He laughed. ‘A master never tells his secrets.’
‘I can think of other ways a gentleman might prefer to spend his afternoons,’ she teased.
‘Really?’ He gave her one of his raised-eyebrow looks. ‘I can’t.’ He could melt ice with that look.
What was it the old wives said about flattery? It got you everywhere? There was definitely some merit in that when done right and, in her estimation, Haviland was doing it right indeed. It was hard to resist his charm even when she knew she so obviously should.
They crossed a street, skirting the edge of the gardens. They were just a few streets from the hôtel, and a few streets from the end of her glorious afternoon. Shopping had never been this much fun. Her stomach growled. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her middle, trying to squelch the embarrassingly loud reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and not much at that. Breakfast had been a hard roll and cheese.
‘Are you expected back soon?’ Haviland asked, his hand falling to the small of her back, guiding her towards the park entrance instead of home. ‘I was thinking we might stop and try some of that bread you debated over for so long and some of that cheese. Maybe even some of that wine if you don’t mind drinking straight from the bottle.’ His motions suggested he was not expecting any resistance.
She liked that—confidence in a man was always attractive. Not Julian’s over-confidence, which was really a combination of ego and arrogance, but the assumption that he knew they were enjoying their time together and would mutually like to continue it. She was also wary of that confidence. She’d not forgotten he’d given something up to be with her this afternoon. Maybe he thought this would be another avenue for getting what he wanted: a meeting with her brother. She’d warned him about such a ploy once before.
They found a patch of grass away from the path in enough shade to keep their eyes from being blinded by the sun. Haviland made to spread out his coat for her, but she declined with a laugh. ‘I’m not so delicate as to need something to sit on. The grass is fine.’ To prove it, she sat down and tucked her legs beneath her. She welcomed it actually, this chance to sit on the ground and just be.
Haviland reached into the basket and took out the wheel of cheese. ‘You might as well take out the sausage, too,’ Alyssandra said and then realised the flaw in their impromptu picnic. Bottles could be drunk out of in the absence of glasses, but they absolutely could not sit there and simply bite off hunks of sausage and bread with their mouths. ‘Oh, no! We don’t have a knife.’
Haviland grinned and dug into his pocket. ‘Yes, we do.’ He flipped open a small silver knife. ‘It won’t be elegant carving, but it will do.’ In that moment, she didn’t care. It was enough to watch this man smile, to know that he was smiling at her, enough to cling to the knowledge that he’d been interested in her before he’d known who she was.
Haviland sawed through a slice of bread and cheese and handed it to her. ‘Bon appétit, Alyssandra.’ His blue eyes twinkled. Good lord, he was handsome but that didn’t mean she wasn’t cautious.
She tilted her head to study him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Haviland bent his knee in a casual pose. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’
‘There usually is.’ She didn’t particularly want to know it, but she would probably be better off in the long run knowing it now instead of later.
Haviland chewed his bread. ‘You know. Persuasion. I made you an offer of pleasure and escape. The offer is still on the table.’
‘I already rejected it,’ she reminded him.
Haviland arched a dark brow. ‘You didn’t mean it.’ He leaned closer, over the basket of food between them, his hand cupping her cheek. His voice was a low whisper against her jaw. ‘You kissed me at the Medici Fountain. That’s the most unlikely rejection I’ve ever had.’
She closed her eyes and let herself drink in the scent of him, the touch of his hand against her skin, his voice a caress at her ear. ‘Then there’s this electricity that jumps whenever I’m near you, like it’s doing now. That’s not any form of rejection I’ve ever known.’
She drew a deep breath and let herself pretend it could be real a moment longer before she uttered the words that would break the spell. ‘Does that electricity have anything to do with wanting to meet my brother? Do you think seducing me will gain you an introduction to the famed Antoine Leodegrance?’
She expected him to rear back, expected him to take her words as a blow to his honour. It was what a gentleman would do, lie or not. No gentleman in good conscience would admit to such a thing. Haviland did neither. His mouth found hers, his lips brushed hers.
‘Is that what other men have led you to believe? What fools.’ He breathed against her and deepened the kiss until she wanted to forget that she needed to refuse him, that she needed to exercise caution. Too much too soon and perhaps he wouldn’t come back having had all he’d come for, or perhaps it would push him to ask his insatiable questions. ‘You don’t want to turn me down, Alyssandra, you’re just not sure how to accept.’
Maybe just this once, she could indulge. She knew her boundaries, after all. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss over it. She leaned into him and gave over to the kiss, over to him, part of her mind remembering how far back they were from the public path. There was no one to see. His hand was in her hair at the back of her neck, massaging, guiding her into the depths of his mouth. He tasted of spicy sausage and fresh bread, of sun and grass, and of Paris in spring—hope and heat and possibility.
Alyssandra reached for his cravat, tugging him to her, letting him press her back to the cool grass. His hands bracketed her head, his body half lay against hers, her arms about his neck. Madness welled in her, want surged at the feel of him hard against her stomach. The madness was in him, too. Amidst this desire it was easy to believe this wasn’t about Antoine, after all, but about her and about him. A hand slid up her rib cage, cupping a breast, and she gave a sweet moan and arched against him. There was only pleasure for a moment, before it exploded into chaos.
‘Bâtard! Get off her, you English swine!’ A booted kick seem to come out of nowhere, catching Haviland in the stomach. He groaned and rolled, staggering to his feet as she scrambled to sit up. Her first instinct was to grab a weapon, anything. Haviland’s knife was on the ground beside her. She curled her hand around the tiny hilt. If only she had her épée.
Haviland was still bent double, but his fists were up, and he moved to stand between her and their attacker. There was no need for his chivalry or her puny weapon of a penknife. She recognised their attacker as he drove his fist into Haviland’s jaw.
‘Julian! Stop!’ Alyssandra screamed, but neither man was interested in listening.
Chapter Nine (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
Haviland’s head snapped back, taking the force of the blow. He vaguely registered Alyssandra’s scream, but he was too enraged to heed it. He charged like a bull, burying his head into the midsection of the Frenchman. Julian went down, Haviland on top of him, delivering a few equalising punches.
‘Haviland! Enough!’ He was aware of hands tugging at him, trying to pull him off Julian Anjou. Alyssandra’s hands. Some of the rage ebbed out of him at the realisation she was safe. There was no need for more violence unless Anjou chose to jump him again. He rose, straddling Anjou and dragging him to his feet. From the look on Anjou’s face, Haviland wasn’t so sure Anjou wasn’t going to do just that.
‘What do you mean by attacking a man without warning?’ Haviland barked.
‘That is hardly the greater crime here! You were all over her!’ Julian roared. Haviland released him with a shake. It was a mistake to let Julian go. It gave the man a chance to focus on Alyssandra. ‘And you!’ He jabbed a finger her direction. ‘You let him. That makes you a—’
Haviland stepped between Julian and his view of Alyssandra. ‘I’d advise you to stop before you say something you regret.’ His voice held unmistakable steel. He wouldn’t mind punching Julian again—the slightest provocation would justify it.
Julian backed away, throwing one last threat at Alyssandra. ‘Your brother will hear of this and he won’t be pleased.’
With Julian gone, he could focus on Alyssandra. Haviland turned towards her. She was pale, but not entirely from fear or shock. There was anger in her eyes. ‘Alyssandra, I am sorry—’
She cut him off sharply. ‘Do not apologise. Neither one of us is sorry about what happened, only that we got caught. An apology makes at least one of us a hypocrite.’
True as that was, he knew better and to carry on so in a public place was unconscionable. One moment he’d been stealing a kiss, the next, things had progressed far beyond what he’d intended, but not beyond what he minded. Although perhaps he should mind if the consequence was getting hit in the face. His cheek was starting to throb now that the adrenaline had receded, and his lip was split.
‘Julian had no right,’ Alyssandra insisted, still fuming as she gathered up their picnic.
‘Doesn’t he?’ Haviland crossed his arms and leaned against the tree trunk, watching her, thinking. He knew so little about her and yet he’d risked so much in those unguarded moments. ‘It seems to me that he felt he did. Is there an understanding between the two of you?’ He’d not considered that. Up until now, he’d been focused on her as merely the sister of his fencing instructor. He’d not thought of her as belonging to another. An Englishwoman would never have invited his attentions the way Alyssandra had if she was claimed by another. Maybe that was his mistake. This was France, after all, the country where husbands begged guests to flirt atrociously with their wives.
She stood and faced him, hands on hips, looking gorgeously defiant. Her hair had come down and now it hung in a long chestnut skein over one shoulder. ‘There is an understanding between Julian and me, but not the sort you think.’ She slid the basket on to her arm and handed him his discarded coat. ‘Thank you for the afternoon.’ Her tone was terse, perfunctory. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me? I have to go home and clean up this mess.’
‘I’ll come with you. Perhaps I can explain.’ Haviland shrugged into his coat. His split lip and bruised cheek could wait. He owed her this much. A gentleman didn’t let a lady face scandal alone even if the scandal wasn’t likely to leave the house.
She gave a harsh laugh. ‘What do you think you’ll explain, exactly? It’s not as if Julian misunderstood what he saw. No, I don’t think an explanation would improve the situation.’ She stepped away from him, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp. ‘It would be best if I did this alone. I am sorry if that thwarts your plans yet again to meet my brother. Au revoir.’
It didn’t occur to Haviland until after she’d disappeared from sight that he might not see her again. Ever.
* * *
‘She doesn’t trust me,’ he groused to his friends in the common room of their apartments, a cold rag held to his cheek.
‘And you don’t trust her. She hid her identity from you on purpose,’ Archer reminded him, handing over another cold rag to replace the one he held. ‘It seems you have something in common.’
‘She thinks I am using her to meet her brother. Even today when I offered to walk her home and explain, she refused on the grounds that I was manipulating the situation into a meeting.’ Lucifer’s stones, he’d made a mess of things. He’d never been so ham-handed with a woman before. Usually, he was discreet, masterful, charming. His affaires were smooth associations. Women could and did trust his lead.
Brennan snorted from his corner of the room where he lounged casually in a chair, his shirt open, his waistcoat undone. It was nearing evening and he looked as if he’d just risen. ‘What did you think you were going to explain? The angle of your tongue in her throat?’
Haviland threw him a quelling look and winced. It hurt his face to move. ‘Don’t be crass. It’s not funny.’
‘I disagree.’ Brennan laughed. ‘It’s hilarious. It’s the sort of the thing that happens to me, not you. I am going to enjoy the shoe being on the other foot. Thoroughly.’ He pushed himself out of the chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed. I’m anticipating a busy night at Madame Ravenelle’s.’
‘Stay in the Marais, Bren,’ Haviland cautioned out of habit. He couldn’t go with Brennan tonight, and Brennan was in the routine of slumming in the more dangerous parts of the city. At least in their more aristocratic neighbourhood, Brennan would be safer. Although ‘safe’ was always a relative term when it came to him.
Brennan clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. ‘I can take care of myself, old man. Don’t worry. Take care of you. You’ll have quite a bruise in the morning. I’m an expert at these things.’ Then he grinned. ‘Was she worth it?’
Haviland chuckled even though it hurt. ‘Yes.’ God, yes, she’d been worth Julian’s fist in his face. Julian would look worse, though. It was a male sort of consolation.
Nolan raised his head from his book. ‘She was worth it? Truly? I find it interesting you would say that about a woman you don’t trust. It is as if you are saying “I trust whatever you are keeping hidden from me will not be damaging to me”.’
‘This is exactly why I like horses.’ Archer sighed. ‘Horses don’t require cynicism. Your thoughts on human nature are so uplifting.’
Nolan shrugged. ‘I’m sorry if the truth offends you. Humans require more cynicism than others in the animal kingdom.’
‘More than wolves? I would have thought...’ Archer began.
Haviland stood, grabbing a spare rag to take with him. He didn’t particularly want to hear what Archer thought. He wasn’t up to listening to Nolan and Archer debate wolves, horses and humans. He wanted to retreat, nurse his cheek and think in the privacy of his room where his friends couldn’t voice their well-meant opinions.
Alyssandra Leodegrance had him spinning. She was beautiful and intriguing. It was the latter that concerned him most. What drew him to her? Where did the intrigue come from? Some women could naturally affect an air of mystery. Was she one of them or was there truly a mystery about her?
Haviland lay on his bed, eyes closed, his thoughts turning inward. He suspected the mystery had to do with what she wanted with him. She wanted him and yet she didn’t. It was as if she was afraid to get too close. Her actions where he was concerned were things of contradictions. She’d signalled him to approach at the musicale, she’d gone into the garden with him knowing who he was. She’d kissed him knowing that, too, and yet she was reluctant to accept his offer for pleasure in full.
Today had followed much the same pattern. She’d spent the afternoon with him and then pushed him away when they had to confront the consequences of their brief indulgence.
He knew what Brennan would say. She’s using you for sex, reeling you in nice and slow until you’re mad for her and nothing more. That’s every man’s dream. Embrace it. It wasn’t quite his dream, particularly. His dream was freedom. His dream was choosing his own destiny. A thought came to him. Haviland’s eyes opened slowly, as if opening them too quickly would cause the idea to evaporate. Suddenly, he knew why she intrigued him. She’d not been selected for him by someone else. He’d chosen her. She was his choice alone.
* * *
Julian Anjou chose to remain near the long windows in the main foyer of the Leodegrance hôtel while he waited for Alyssandra to return. He schooled his anger, focusing instead on the green expanse of the back garden. Perhaps a nobler man would contain his emotions better, but he was not that man. He was a man who had pulled himself up the social ladder rung by painstaking rung with the talent of his sword. He might look like a gentleman on the outside after years of cultivation, but inside he was a scrapper from the streets and a desperate one at that.
So close and yet so far as the expression went. He had free access to the elegant, generations-old hôtel of the noble Leodegrances, he worked side by side with the vicomte himself. His own mother had been a washerwoman. She would have been beside herself with her son’s success. But it was not enough for him. He understood how fragile his elevated status was, how precarious. He was not permanently bound to Antoine Leodegrance in any way and yet all his own status rested on Antoine’s. Should the salle fail, should Antoine be exposed, Antoine would survive it in some fashion, reduced though it might be. But he would not. No one would care where he landed. Fencing instructors without references were cheaply come by.
Behind him he could hear the front door open and Alyssandra’s voice as she passed her pelisse to a waiting footman. He turned from the window and watched her face pale when she saw him, but she did not try to evade him or his reason for being there.
‘He will be gone in six weeks, what harm can come of it? I’ll never see him again,’ she said baldly, her dark eyes meeting his in challenge. She joined him at the window, unafraid. She was far too bold. If he was Antoine, he would have taken a strap to her and demanded obedience. This latest adventure of hers could ruin them all and for what? For a roll in the grass with an Englishman? For momentary pleasure? There were far safer ways to achieve those ends.
Julian exhaled, letting his mind clear. Anger would not endear him to her and that’s what he needed— endearment, and if not that, at least tolerance. ‘When I suggested we use feminine wiles to keep him from asking questions, I was not suggesting we use yours.’
Images from the park began to stir in his mind where he’d trapped them. He’d rather not think of her as he’d seen her this afternoon, her hair loose, her face flushed, her eyes closed, savouring her pleasure, the Englishman pressed against her. And that sound she’d made, that mewl of unmistakable delight. He wanted to be the one who offered her those pleasures. He could, too. If it was pleasure she was after, he had more than one talent to his repertoire. It might be time to remind her, get her to reconsider what he’d once offered her.
‘I’m surprised you’re here.’ Alyssandra ignored his remark. Her tone was cool, but not entirely. There was concern beneath it. ‘I didn’t think you’d really tell Antoine.’
‘And hurt him like that?’ he queried. Alyssandra was a loyal creature. It would be worthwhile to stir that particular pot with a little guilt. ‘Do you know what that would do to him?’ Julian replied. ‘He will not hear it from me that his sister was playing the harlot in the park.’
‘Of course not.’ Her words were filled with acid. ‘It hardly suits your purposes.’ She made to move past him, but Julian wasn’t done. His hand shot out and gripped her arm. She was not going to walk away from him as if he were a servant, as if he didn’t wager his fate every day on the twins Leodegrance. He deserved her respect.
‘What are you running from? Are you afraid of what I’m going to say? Are you afraid I’m right? Only a coward would walk away and leave things unsettled.’ Julian knew just where to poke her. She was a temperamental one, any dare would spark her tenacity. She wouldn’t walk out of a room where her courage was in doubt.
She wrenched her arm free. It was the only defiance she could afford and he knew it. ‘There is nothing you can say that would frighten me.’
‘I hope so.’ Julian softened his tone. He didn’t want her angry, he wanted her confused, wanted her to doubt her attraction to the Englishman. ‘It’s not my intention to hurt you, Alyssandra. We are family, the three of us, we’re all each other has. We all guard the same secret for the same reasons. The truth is, the Englishman is just using you. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already suspect. He wants to get to your brother and you’re his best chance.’ He reached for her chin, trapping it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘In your heart, you know this is true. He tried to follow you out of the salon today, thinking to speak to your brother. He was waiting in the alley for your brother today, not you. You were a surprise.’
‘How did you know he was out there?’ Alyssandra jerked her chin away, the answer coming to her before he could supply one. ‘You followed me.’ Her eyes flashed with accusation.
‘I followed him,’ Julian corrected. ‘He left his lesson early, walked out on me, in fact. I suspected what he was up to and I was worried.’ They were standing toe to toe now. The world had narrowed to just the two of them. He was conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts, of the scent of her. He had not been this close to her in ages. It was arousing even to fight with her. But he had to be careful. He didn’t want to engender danger or she would never come to him.
‘And you kept following us. You spied on us the entire afternoon! It’s the only way you could have known where we were at.’
She was making him look obsessed. That was not the image he was going for. ‘I was protecting you,’ Julian answered swiftly. He dropped his gaze to the floor as if to appear humble, perhaps momentarily vulnerable before he dissembled. ‘Your brother is not the only one who cares for you.’ It had the desired effect. She closed her eyes and gave a tired sigh.
‘Julian, we’ve been through this—’ she began.
He held up a hand to stall her words. ‘Don’t say it, Alyssandra. I cannot stand by and let you throw yourself away on an Englishman who will offer you nothing. You are too fine, you deserve better than that and I know it. I doubt your Englishman does.’ He left her then by the windows to ponder his warning, his offer, and strode off down the hall.
It was time to make his next move. He needed to speak with Antoine and start laying his groundwork. He just needed Antoine to take up his suit with Alyssandra once more—perhaps this time it would succeed. When he’d approached her before, it had been three years ago, during the early stages of Antoine’s accident. In hindsight he could see it had been too soon. She hadn’t been nearly desperate enough. She was full of hope that Antoine would recover. Frankly, so was he. But those hopeful days were long past. He wondered if Alyssandra had admitted her brother would never walk again. There would be no miracle. She needed to start planning the rest of her life. He needed to convince her he was part of that plan. Together, they could keep the charade up, the salon running until a son of their own could take over.
Who better to leave the salle to than Alyssandra’s husband, his very own brother-in-law? If that happened, Julian needn’t wait for a son to establish his claims. He could claim it outright. Truly, how long would Antoine last? Cripples didn’t live long healthy lives and he’d already put in three years.
He knocked on the door to Antoine’s study and stepped inside. ‘I need to speak with you. It’s about Alyssandra.’
Marriage to Alyssandra would solidify his dreams. He was so close and one damn Englishman wasn’t going to get in his way.
Chapter Ten (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
‘Alyssandra needs a husband.’ Julian had meant the words to shock and they had. Antoine looked up from the papers spread before him, worry and confusion on his face. ‘What? Why? Is she all right?’ His instant concern almost made Julian laugh. Antoine was such an easy puppet to manipulate. Mention his beloved twin and he melted. It even took him a moment to notice. ‘Mon Dieu, Julian, what happened to your face?’
Julian took the chair on the near side of the desk, shrugging off the reference to his purpling eye. ‘Just a small accident after you left the salle today. It is nothing. It looks worse than it is.’ He reached for the decanter on the desk’s edge. Sometimes Antoine took a little brandy for the pain. He helped himself to a glass. They’d become equals, partners, over the past three years. Older than Antoine by seven years, Julian had painstakingly cultivated the complex role of mentor, friend, uncle-cum-older brother when the case demanded it. Antoine had bought into it wholeheartedly first during his grief over his father’s death and then in the throes of despair after his accident. Today, he was claiming that role to the hilt: taking a chair without permission, helping himself to the brandy—an equal interacting with another peer.
‘It’s time she marries,’ Julian repeated. ‘A husband, a family, is what she needs. She’s twenty-eight. Most of her friends have long since wed.’
‘I know.’ Antoine’s eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Perhaps it’s time to give up the ruse and accept the fact that I will never walk again. We could sell and Alyssandra could go on with her life.’
Julian interrupted abruptly. This was not where he’d imagined the conversation heading. If Antoine were to sell, it would be devastating to him. ‘Why not have the best of both worlds?’ he prompted in silken tones. The salle d’armes was Antoine’s other weakness. It meant the world to him. He must be worried indeed about Alyssandra if he was willing to consider giving it up. ‘Keep the salle, you can “retire” if you like, but let Alyssandra and I run it as husband and wife. I am offering myself as a husband for her.’ He said it quietly, humbly, watching Antoine’s eyes lose some of their softness and become shrewdly assessing.
‘You?’ Antoine said.
‘Yes. Who better? I have been with your father and with you. All total, I’ve spent twelve years in the service of your family. I have known Alyssandra since she was sixteen. I have been with you through death and through despair. What better than to have your sister marry your friend and keep your father’s fencing legacy, your fencing legacy, alive? Some day, there may even be a nephew to look after that legacy.’
Antoine smiled at that, as Julian had known he would. Family was important to Antoine. ‘What does Alyssandra think?’
Julian shrugged. He chose his words carefully. This answer had to be handled delicately. ‘She’s a wild creature. I don’t know that her opinion is the one that matters most here. She may not know what is best for her over the long term.’
Something affirmative moved in Antoine’s brown eyes, and he gave the most imperceptible of nods. Julian pushed his advantage. ‘I fear her head may be turned by the Englishman. He is a fine figure of a man,’ Julian offered. ‘But I think it is nothing more than a sign of how lonely she is, how ready she is to move on with her life. It is too bad Etienne DeFarge has wed.’ The reference to Alyssandra’s old fiancé would make Antoine feel guilty.
‘I like the Englishman, although I’m not sure of his motives. So many of them are just passing through,’ Antoine said tentatively but it was enough to ring alarms.
‘I’m sure North is a fine man. He’s a real man’s man. The other men at the salle seem to enjoy him,’ Julian put in blandly, wondering what Antoine was thinking. He took a swallow from his snifter, hoping Antoine would elaborate.
‘He has desirable qualities; a title in England, wealth, good manners,’ Antoine mused out loud. Julian wanted to argue the last. Those manners had his hands on Alyssandra and his tongue in her mouth. ‘Alyssandra is not without recommendations of her own. He would be a good match for her, and the salle could use him.’
Julian felt his insides freeze. He’d been right not to tell Antoine about the park. It would be all the provocation Antoine would need to start negotiating a marriage. He’d not counted on this. Antoine agreed with him on marriage, but not on the groom, and now Antoine was thinking of giving the Englishmana place at the salle, too. Julian’s ego didn’t like that one bit. He was the senior instructor and he didn’t like to share, which was precisely what he’d be doing.
Julian gave a sigh. ‘That’s a nice fantasy, Antoine, but I don’t suppose it will work, do you? He’s a viscount, heir to an earldom. He’s not going to want to work as a fencing instructor.’
Antoine was far too quick to clarify. ‘Of course not! He would be an owner. If he married Alyssandra, I could leave the salle to them and you certainly. I could retire and you could carry on. He could show up and offer instruction whenever he felt like it, make it a hobby for himself. He’s talented enough.’
Julian took a healthy swallow of brandy. This was getting worse by the minute. It would be complete torture to have to answer to Haviland North at the salle every day, knowing North was going home to Alyssandra every night. He’d have to live every day with the man who’d taken everything from him. That was a lot of ‘everys’ and it was not to be borne.
‘I think you’re forgetting one thing.’ Julian gave a sad half smile as if commiserating with Antoine. ‘He’ll want to go home some day. He’ll have to go home when he inherits. There wouldn’t be much good in that for us.’ This was the second time Antoine had mentioned retiring. It was a bit disconcerting.
Antoine nodded his head. ‘Well, still, it’s a nice fantasy to think of Alyssandra with him, happy, safe, secure. I think she fancies him, and he’d be a fool not to fancy her.’
There was nothing left to say. Antoine seemed determined to ignore his own offer and now was clearly not the time to push it. Julian could only hope a few of his doubts would take root in Antoine’s thoughts. Meanwhile, he needed a secondary plan. Alyssandra could not marry a man who wasn’t there, nor could Antoine hire a man who couldn’t fence well. It might be time to call in a few favours from the streets. With the tournament nearing, there would be ample opportunity to eliminate Haviland North.
* * *
Haviland was not going to let one Frenchman stand in the way of his training. Or maybe two Frenchmen depending on how Leodegrance had taken the news about the park. Haviland couldn’t imagine him taking it well. He squared his shoulders as he entered the Leodegrance salle d’armes on Rue Saint Marc.
He was unsure of his reception. Perhaps it was good news he had yet to receive a challenge. He had no desire to fight a duel with the master. For one, the outcome would be uncertain at best. He had yet to beat the master in their lessons. And two, fighting a duel abroad over a foreign woman was exactly the type of scandal his family had prodigiously avoided for generations. His father would be appalled if news of such a thing reached English shores. It would validate all the reasons his father wanted to keep him close to home. ‘Going abroad to sow wild oats suggests there’s something wrong, something that can’t be aired in public at home,’ he’d argued on more than one occasion when Haviland had brought up his desire for freedom.
Inside, the salle was busy, filled with the clash and slide of steel on steel. It was mid-afternoon and all three fencing salons were busy with clients, pupils and day guests. The sight brought a smile to his face and he allowed himself a moment to drink it all in. Whatever else the reclusive Leodegrance might be, he’d certainly made a little world for himself here. From the moment Haviland had first entered the salle, he’d felt the energy of the place. To his right was the long day salon with its medieval shields and antique swords decorating the walls to set a tone of respect. This was the place where clients could pay by the day to use the services of the salle. Haviland had noticed the price was slightly more than the other salles in the city, but perhaps that increased the prestige. The fee included the use of the salle’s changing rooms and its weapons for those who didn’t have their own.
In the centre was the large main salon for members only. It looked more like a ballroom with its two enormous chandeliers at either end. Weapons and fighting equipment through the ages adorned these walls too, interspersed with silver cups set in niches bearing testimony to the greatness of Antoine Leodegrance and his father before him. The elegance, the trophies, the historic weaponry only a noble family would possess were all subtle, or perhaps not-so-subtle reminders that the fees for this club were well worth it.
Not for the first time, Haviland felt a stab of envy for the eccentric Leodegrance. This salle was his. It might have been his father’s before him, but he’d maintained it through his hard work and his talents. It was a different kind of accomplishment than simply inheriting estates others ran for you. To do what you loved every day and see those efforts grow into a place like this, now that would be a legacy.
The third salon was smaller than the other two and more private. This was where Julian held his lessons, where Leodegrance met with the elite pupils. He would go there later and seek out Julian for his latest lesson, but for now he’d join the other members in the main salon.
The others present were glad to see him. Of course, they were unaware of the contretemps in the park. Haviland soon found himself engaged in a few bouts, helping another member master his inquartata. During his time here, he’d discovered he had an aptitude for teaching. Helping others with their fencing was something he enjoyed doing. ‘Don’t turn too far,’ Haviland instructed. ‘Turn to the inside, bend at the waist and get your left foot behind you so you can deliver a counter-attack. Perhaps if you moved your feet like this.’ Haviland demonstrated.
‘Too much footwork! Do you want to fence like an Italian, Pierre?’ Julian’s harsh tones broke in, scolding the younger man although Haviland knew the scold was directed at him as well. Haviland turned to face the surly senior instructor. He stifled a smile. He’d been right. Julian did look worse. True, he was sporting a bruised jaw of his own but that could almost be overlooked. There was no overlooking Julian’s purple eye which stood out against his paler skin. ‘You fence like the Italian school.’ Julian spat the words in disgust at him. ‘In the French school, it’s all in the wrist.’ If you were a real Frenchman and not some upstart Anglais, you’d know that. Haviland could almost hear the hidden derogatory message being spoken out loud.
‘Are you ready for your lesson?’ Julian queried coolly. The question was designed to remind everyone just who was the instructor and who was the pupil. ‘Although it looks as if someone already gave you one.’
‘And yourself?’ Haviland enquired politely. ‘Did someone give you a lesson, too?’ There were a few nervous snickers from those who’d gathered around to watch. Julian’s talent might have won him respect from the members, but his cutting wit hadn’t won him many friends. Left with no response, Julian narrowed his eyes to a glare.
In the private salon, Julian set to the lesson with brisk efficiency. ‘Today, we will study the methods of the Spanish school.’ He began pacing the floor with an occasional flourish of his rapier. ‘We have a few Spaniards coming to the tournament and no doubt they will be eager to show that their methods are superior. If at all possible, you must have some ability to anticipate their moves. If you have done your reading, you will know that Carranza’s La Destreza system has been the leading influence on Spanish swordplay for nearly three hundred years.’ This was said as a challenge, as if to expose an intellectual weakness.
Haviland decided to go on the offensive. He picked up his foil and joined Julian’s circling so that now they circled each other. ‘The primary difference between the Spanish and Italian schools is that the Spanish focus on defence whereas the Italian school focuses on attacks,’ Haviland answered. He’d done his homework. One of the many aspects he liked about the salon was the clubroom, an elegant gentleman’s gathering place where fencers could meet for a drink or take advantage of the excellent library lining the walls. The library contained nearly every known treatise on fencing from all the major schools in Europe and even a few texts on the katana from Japan.
‘Very good.’ Julian gave him a begrudging nod. He stepped back and went to the weapons cupboard, unlocking it with a key and pulling out two rapiers. He handed one to Haviland. ‘Then you will also know these are Spanish rapiers. You are not required to compete with one, but you should know what kind of weapon your opponent is using, how it manoeuvres, how it feels in his hand.’
Haviland took the blade, noting the difference in design. The Spanish rapier had a cup hilt that covered the hand. He tested it, giving a few experimental thrusts. It was lighter and shorter. It would definitely have an advantage in a longer bout where arm stamina might become an issue, but it would also be at a disadvantage against the reach of a longer French blade.
They worked throughout the lesson on the Spanish defences until Haviland was sweat-soaked. Whatever he thought of Julian Anjou, the man knew his fencing. ‘Will I see Leodegrance on Thursday?’ Haviland asked casually as they put their blades away.
‘I do not know. He has not told me if he has time.’ Julian did not look at him. It was impossible to know if he was lying. ‘He is very busy organising the tournament. There is much to be done.’ He gave a shrug. ‘There is plenty you and I can work on in the meanwhile.’ Julian gave him a hard look. ‘Jusque à demain.’
‘No,’ Haviland said with quiet fierceness. ‘We are going to talk about her. We are not going to pretend Leodegrance is too busy to meet with me because of the tournament and we are not going to pretend you didn’t ambush me in the park yesterday because I was kissing her.’
Julian’s face was a study of subdued anger. ‘You misunderstand the situation. We are not talking about her because doing so would validate the absurd idea that you have any claim on her.’
‘And you do?’ Haviland took an unconscious step towards Anjou, his body tensing, fists clenching.
‘I have been with the family for years. I will be with them long after you’ve left,’ Julian said tersely. ‘If you would exit the room, monsieur le vicomte? I have another lesson.’
The situation was deuced odd. Haviland took a chair in the clubroom close to the bookshelves, nodding for the waiter to bring him a drink. It wasn’t that he wanted to fight Leodegrance in a duel, but it did appear strange that there’d been no outrage on the man’s part. If he had a sister, he’d have been furious. The family would have required marriage. Yet Leodegrance was acting as if nothing happened. Had Julian told him?
Ah. Haviland took a swallow of the red wine. It was starting to make sense. Julian hadn’t reported the incident for exactly that reason. Seeing Alyssandra married to an Englishman wasn’t what Julian wanted. He wanted Alyssandra for himself. That’s why there hadn’t been any repercussions. Antoine Leodegrance didn’t know.
‘Monsieur, a message.’ The waiter extended a salver towards him bearing a single folded sheet of heavy white paper.
Haviland took it and thanked him, waiting until the man left before he read it. A little smile played along his mouth, he could feel his lips twitching with it. He was to meet Alyssandra at Madame LaTour’s salon that evening. It was further confirmation Julian hadn’t told Leodegrance. She’d never be allowed out of the house otherwise. A silver lining indeed, although not without an edge of madness to it. Alyssandra Leodegrance had proven to be dangerous to his health. Surely, there were far easier seductions to be had.
* * *
She must be mad to seek him out so boldly. Alyssandra wove a path through the guests crowded into Madam LaTour’s Egyptian-themed drawing room, discreetly searching the room for any sign of him. Dancing had started and the sidelines were a crush of people as room was made for the dancers. It was early yet, far too soon to conclude he hadn’t come. Although, such a conclusion was within the scope of possibility. Why should he come? The last time she’d invited him to come with her, he’d ended up with a bruised jaw and publicly brawling. She doubted the handsome, mannerly Viscount Amersham had ever resorted to public brawling. He’d known how to bloody his knuckles, though. So many gentlemen were useless outside the salle d’armes. But he’d known how to use all that muscle in practical application. He could defend a woman. Not that she needed defending. Still, it was nice to know he could. And, more importantly, that he would. A woman would be safe with him in all ways. Perhaps that was why she’d risked the invitation. She would be safe with him, body and honour both.
Alyssandra slipped outside onto the veranda at the first opportunity. The fresh air was welcome after the heat of the drawing room. It was a chance, too, to escape the gossips. Julian might not tell Antoine about the park, but that didn’t ensure the gossip tonight wouldn’t reach Antoine’s ears if someone saw her with the Englishman. It stood to reason that if she was with him, Antoine must condone him as an escort. Anyone who knew them well knew Antoine to be a socially reclusive but protective brother when it came to her welfare.
Alyssandra unfurled her fan, this time a white one painted with pink roses to match the rose of her gown. She would rest here for a moment and go back inside to dance with friends and to wait. And to see. If he would come.
‘I knew I’d find you out here.’ His voice was low and sensual at her ear, his hands at her shoulders ever so briefly. She could smell the vanilla and spice of his soap. All men should smell this good. She closed her eyes for just a moment to take it all in in her mind before he stepped back.
‘How did you know I’d be outside?’ She turned with a smile, her eyes skimming his face for signs of yesterday’s altercation. It was hard to see any damage in the dark. She had seen Julian, though, and it made her cringe. She didn’t like thinking of Haviland being hurt because of her.
‘I would know you anywhere.’ It was a lie, of course. She fooled him enough times in the practice room. In there, he had no idea who was behind the mesh mask. He grinned and she could make out the remnants of his split lip, but just barely.
She reached out her fingertip to it. ‘Ouch!’ Haviland scolded, jerking his head back.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only when people touch it.’ He laughed and then turned serious. ‘Am I to understand your brother remains unaware?’
‘Yes. It doesn’t serve Julian’s purposes to bring yesterday to Antoine’s attention.’
Haviland nodded. ‘I figured as much. Still, I don’t like secrecy or the idea that we have to sneak around. It seems deceptive. Perhaps I could call on him and formally ask permission to take you driving in the park or to escort you to these sorts of gatherings.’
Her stomach clenched. This was hardly deceptive. She could only imagine how he would feel about the deception. If he ever found out. Another thought came to her. ‘I think the sooner you can accept the fact that my brother will not meet with you, the sooner we can move forward.’
‘We’re back to that again?’ Haviland’s eyes darkened, his body stiffening. ‘You insult my honour to imply I am using you for an entrée.’ His mouth came down close to her ear, the harshness of his voice roughly erotic. ‘You know damn well I wanted you before I knew your name.’
‘How do I know that hasn’t changed?’
‘You sent me the invitation.’ He growled, his teeth nipping the lobe of her ear, sending a delicious trill down her spine. ‘Now it’s my turn. There’s a carriage parked at the kerb, pulled by two matched greys. If you believe me, get in. The driver knows where to go. He will wait only fifteen minutes.’
Her throat went dry at the implication. One choice and everything would change.
Chapter Eleven (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
Get in the carriage. Don’t get in the carriage. It was somewhat amazing how one simple decision could set in motion a series of significant events. But she’d been making ‘simple’ decisions about Haviland North since she met him: going to Madame Aguillard’s musicale, unfurling her fan, taking a walk in the gardens. All were simple decisions and all had led to this moment of choice. Would she make one more simple decision that would move her forward on this path?
Her feet registered the decision before her mind. She was already moving towards the entrance before she fully realised the import of the decision. What she meant to do was reckless. She’d had a lover before, but not an affaire. She and Etienne had been together two years. They’d meant to marry. They would have, too, if not for Antoine’s accident. An affaire was terminal. There would be an end—such a liaison began with that assumption in mind. It was the end that contained the risk. How would it end? With her heart still intact? With Haviland angry and knowledgeable of the deception that had been perpetrated on him? With Haviland happily naive to the drama around him and moving on to his summer in Switzerland?
Alyssandra came up short at the top of the steps leading down to the kerb, partygoers moving about her as people entered and exited the mansion. The carriage was there, an expensive, shiny black-lacquered vehicle complete with glass windows and lanterns. Two greys pranced in their traces, eager to be off. Seeing tangible proof made the decision real. Twenty more feet and there’d be no turning back.
The decision might be reckless, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been thought out. Being with Haviland would mean far more to her than it would to him. He would go on to be with other women, she would be one of many to him if she wasn’t already. A man like him must have women begging for his attentions. But she would live on this for ever. The coachman pulled out a watch to check the time, and she felt a surge of urgency. He was getting impatient. Had fifteen minutes passed already? What if she missed the carriage?
Then she would miss it—her one chance to date at experiencing true, unbridled, physical passion. She didn’t hold out much hope there’d be other opportunities. Tonight had been Haviland’s gauntlet thrown down. There would be no more arguing over trust and motives. If she did not take the carriage, he would not ask again. All would be settled between them whether she liked that settlement or not. Haviland North was not a man to be toyed with. Nor was he a man who tolerated having his word challenged.
Alyssandra hurried down the steps. It was time to be reckless. What had caution ever done for her anyway? The coachman nodded at her approach. A footman waiting at the kerb lowered the steps and helped her in. It all seemed so disturbingly normal when she felt as if the phrase ‘I’m off to a clandestine rendezvous’ was scrawled across her forehead.
The interior of the carriage bore out its external luxury with plush grey-velvet seats and matching draperies held back with maroon ties. But the carriage was disappointingly empty. Haviland was not inside. She supposed discretion demanded he be picked up at a separate destination a distance away from the venue, but she was disappointed all the same. Now that she’d decided to take his invitation, she wanted that invitation to begin right now.
She didn’t have to wait long. The carriage pulled over three streets later to pick up Haviland, who managed to look urbane and quite comfortable with these arrangements as if he had assignations all the time. For all she knew, he probably did. He certainly could, anyway.
Haviland took the rear-facing seat across from her and gave the signal to move on, a rap of his walking stick on the carriage ceiling. He reached under the seat and drew out a thick lap robe of luxurious fur. ‘Are you cold?’ He settled the blanket across her knees. The warmth felt good and helped to quiet her nerves. Spring evenings and pending anticipation had their own special brand of chilliness.
‘I thought we would drive for a while and enjoy the evening. Then, I have some place I would like to show you.’ Haviland reached under the seat and pulled out a basket this time. ‘I have champagne and if we drink it now, it should still be cold.’
His dexterity was nothing short of amazing. He managed to pop the cork and pour two glasses without spilling while the carriage moved over the rough cobblestones of the Paris streets. ‘Years of practice.’ He handed her a glass with a wink, and she had the feeling that ‘years of practice’ referred to far more than pouring champagne.
‘Pour champagne for women in carriages often, do you?’ she teased, sipping carefully from her glass.
Haviland laughed and had the good grace to look slightly abashed. ‘I am hoist by my own petard, as the expression goes. Can I just answer “maybe” and leave it at that?’
‘Absolutely. A gentleman with a bit of mystery to him is far more intriguing than an open book.’ She smiled and risked clinking her glass against his—a difficult manoeuvre to accomplish in a moving carriage without spilling. She liked him this way; more relaxed, less intimidating than he was at the salle. It was the way he behaved around the men in the members’ salon. She’d seen him in there on occasion working with others. He was a natural leader even in casual circumstances. It was how he’d been the day he’d come on her errands, as if a mask had been stripped away. When he was with Julian and even with ‘her brother’ he was different. In those lessons, he exuded a formality, an intensity that was as magnetic as his casual charm. She wondered which persona he’d bring to the bedroom.
‘As is mystery in a woman, up to a point.’ His eyes held hers, blue and intense over the rim of his glass. Mon Dieu, those eyes of his could sell a line. ‘I think the mystery lures a man in, but after a while, he wants to know more and that desire for knowledge outweighs the desire for mystery.’ That was the urbane rake in him delivering a practised line for certain—a remark designed to compliment and pursue, to bring a woman into his circle of sophistication.
Even knowing it, she couldn’t stop a thrill of excitement from racing down her back. Still, she would not be an easy conquest. She might have agreed to this assignation and they both might be fully aware of the evening’s intended conclusion, but she didn’t have to be a quivering blancmange just because he was handsome and silver-tongued beyond reason.
Haviland looked out the window. ‘Pont Neuf. Right on schedule. I thought we could take a walk. It’s still just early enough in the evening to be safe out.’
Alyssandra laughed. It was only ten o’clock, early by Parisian standards. ‘The streets aren’t truly dangerous until after midnight. Surely, London streets are no different.’
Haviland jumped down to set the steps. He reached out a hand to help her down. ‘They’re wider though. For such a modern city, Paris has the narrowest of streets. I think a medieval merchant could walk through town and find the city unchanged in many regards.’
‘I think that’s true of most European cities.’ Alyssandra stepped down onto the pavement. ‘You will find Florence much the same.’ She thought she detected the fleetest of grimaces. In the gaslight, it was difficult to be sure. It might have been a trick of shadow and light. ‘You are going on to Italy, are you not?’
He smiled, and she felt sure the grimace had been nothing more than shadows. ‘It is one of my greatest wishes.’ He tucked her hand through his arm and signalled the driver to meet them on the other side of the bridge. They began to stroll, joining other couples taking the evening air. She had not been out like this for years and it was intoxicating; to be out with this man, in this place. The Seine was dark below them, smooth and still, the gaslights lining the stone vestibules of the bridge, casting a kind light on everything around them.
‘I meant it, a few minutes ago, about trading mystery for knowledge.’ His voice was low, weaving privacy about them even in public. ‘Tell me about yourself, Alyssandra. Have you always lived in Paris?’
‘The Leodegrances have a country home in Fontainebleau. We were raised there, but we’ve lived primarily in Paris since I was eighteen.’ No need to mention that living in town allowed them to close up the country house and economise. The beautiful home in Fontainebleau was too big to keep open for just two people. It was enough of a financial commitment to live in the family hôtel.
‘The salle d’armes occupies a great deal of your brother’s time, but what about you? What do you do all day?’
‘It might surprise you, but my days aren’t much different than yours.’ She offered him a coy smile and stepped into one of the vestibules, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she wasn’t above distracting him when questions became more akin to an interrogation.
‘You might be surprised what I spend my days doing.’ His words were husky. His eyes darkened, his gaze falling on her mouth. ‘I think about doing this.’ His mouth took hers in a firm press of a kiss, and then another one. ‘And this,’ he whispered against her mouth. His hands fell to her waist, drawing her against him, his touch low and intimate on her hips where his thumbs imprinted themselves through the thin chiffon of her gown.
In the distance, she could the hear strains of a roving musician’s violin. Haviland heard it, too. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured against her throat. He began to move in a slow circle of a dance, his hands still at her hips, his lips still at her neck, her ear, her lips. She moved, too, her arms lifting about his neck, her body swaying with his. This was like no ballroom waltz or indeed like any dance she’d ever experienced. This was intimate and close. This was bodies pressed together, the hard planes of him against the soft curves of her. This was two people falling into each other. She could drink in the whole of him; she could taste the lingering fruity tang of champagne in his mouth, smell the spice and vanilla of his soap, feel the power of him where their bodies met. Her fingers dug into the depths of his dark hair, her body hungry for every inch of him.
This was precisely what she’d wanted when she’d issued her invitation: to forget who she was for a while and a man who could help her do it. Tonight was for her, not to talk about Antoine, or the salle, not to think ahead to the next day’s lessons. It was just to enjoy, to feel alive again.
The music ebbed as the violinist passed into the street beyond the bridge. Their dance ended. She rested her head against the wool of his jacket, reluctant to step back just yet. Here on the bridge, surrounded by strangers who were too wrapped up in their own lives, their own romances, she was anonymous. She could do as she pleased in a way Antoine Leodegrance’s sister never could.
‘I know a place we can go.’ Haviland’s voice was low at her ear, whispering temptation.
‘Yes.’ Her own response was not more than a whisper of its own. She hoped it wasn’t far. They crossed the remainder of the bridge in silence, hands interlaced, his grip firm and warm, her body awake, every nerve on edge, alert and raw to even the slightest sensations. She needed satisfaction.
In the carriage, they drank the rest of the champagne. The ride was short. The carriage came to a rolling halt and his eyes met hers over the empty glasses, the intensity of his gaze proof he was as primed for this as she, his eyes two intense blue flames, his body taut with wanting. It was flattering in a primal sense to be desired by such a man.
Haviland handed her out and she looked up at the building in question. It was an elegant building in a prestigious neighbourhood. ‘Your place?’ she asked quietly. Only a man for whom prices were no object could afford quarters like these.
Inside matched her expectations—expensive carpets, airy rooms in a city that was cramped for space. Behind her, Haviland lit a lamp. ‘This is the common area, my room is this way.’ She liked the feel of his hand at her back, confident and strong, as they made their way down the hall. He pushed a door open revealing a room dominated by a tall four-poster bed with carved pillars and dressed in pale-green damask linens. French doors on the side led out to a small garden.
Haviland left her for a moment to shut the door and set the lamp down on the bureau. It was a beautiful room for seduction, for making love. She wandered to the bed, a hand reaching out to caress the coverings. A decorative pillow covered in satin and trimmed with dangling crystal beads lay in the centre of it. Useless, but beautiful. They hadn’t had such luxuries at the Leodegrance hôtel for years now. The heat in her began to build again, subdued momentarily by the intermission of the carriage ride. The bed conjured a thousand fantasies on its own, of rolling entwined among the rich fabrics.
Haviland turned towards her, playing the host. ‘Would you like something to drink? There is more champagne. We’ve fallen in love with it, all four of us, and laid in cases. Perhaps something to eat? Our cook always leaves something in the larder.’
She shook her head, locking eyes with him.
He gestured to the two chairs set near the French doors. ‘We could talk.’
Alyssandra let a smile slip across her face as she crossed the room to him. She let her hips sway. She pressed a finger to his lips before he could say another word. She kissed him once on the mouth, hard, and then stepped back, pulling her hair free of its butterfly clip in one deft movement. She let it fall, her tongue running across her lips. ‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’
Chapter Twelve (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
‘I don’t want to talk, Haviland.’ Good Lord. Was there a more seductive line in the whole world? His entire body was on full alert. He watched her hair fall and his groin hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d sent the invitation after all.
‘Alyssandra.’ His voice was a rasp, made hoarse by desire.
A knowing smile spread across her face. She knew precisely how she was affecting him, the vixen. She wet her lips in a slow, passing lick, her eyes locked on his. ‘Shall I undress you first?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved towards him. Her hands rested at the waistband of his trousers, her fingers warm against his skin where they curled inside the band, tugging at the tails of his shirt until they were free. Her hands moved beneath the fabric, sure and confident, sliding up his torso, over his nipples. Her touch was a hint of the intimacy to follow, of being skin to skin. But the most searing aspect of her play was her eyes—dark flames that held his with a bold message: I know what I’m doing to you, I want to watch you come apart under my hands, under my mouth. He would, too, Haviland had no doubts of that. It was just a matter of when.
He cupped her face between his hands, taking her mouth in a full kiss. She answered aggressively, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his lower lip, her hands working his shirt open, pushing it from his shoulders. Then her hands were on him, on his chest, her thumbs stroking the nipples they’d so recently glided over in an effort to divest him of his shirt.
He kissed her hard, his hands taking possession of her waist, his thumbs reaching to stroke the underside of her breasts, sending a bold message of his own. He would be no passive lover. She could not play him without consequence. For every stroke, every caress she used to heighten his arousal and prolong his desire, he would apply himself in equal measure. His arousal would become her arousal, his waiting would become her waiting.
She gave a little moan as his tongue found hers, their mouths hungry, devouring one another as desire spiked. He could feel her breaths come shorter, her excitement rising. Her hands were rough at his waistband, fumbling with his trousers, her movements no longer focused, premeditated strategies of arousal. He knew a moment’s pleasure at having distracted her, of knowing her desire for him was no longer a calculated thing, but something organic that was taking on a life of its own.
The moment was short lived. Her hand closed about his length, firm as she began to stroke him. She had the advantage just now. Haviland could not remember a time when he’d been handled so boldly, so enticingly. She pushed him with a gentle shove into the chair waiting by the French doors, kneeling before him, pulling his trousers down his legs. She ran her hands along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, spreading him for more pleasure. Her eyes glittered mischievously before their gazes broke and she dropped her head between his legs. She took him in her mouth with a dilettante’s skill; slowly at first, her tongue laving his head, her mouth sucking before it travelled his length inch by sensual inch.
He gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the urge to slide, the urge to explode. Her fingers squeezed the sac behind his phallus, and he nearly lost the fight. But losing would mean ending this and he was loath, oh, so loath to see this glorious torture end. And yet his body was priming to return the favour, such as it was. He wanted this—her mouth on him, her hand on him—but he wanted her beneath him, too, wanted her writhing as he did, wanted her eyes to go dark, wanted moans to escape her mouth in acknowledgement of what he could do to her, for her.
His eyes were shut tight, his senses overwhelmed when his body began to pulse, his balls drawing up tight. He felt her warm mouth leave him so she could catch his release in her hand. Once, twice, three times, four, five, he convulsed against her palm. His breath came ragged and short and when he looked at her it very nearly didn’t come at all. He’d expected the smug superiority of a victorious woman, but the look she wore was one of amazement, the classic lines of her face soft with awe as if they’d witnessed something significant together, done something significant together.
Haviland leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and kissed her softly in recognition of it. ‘I am naked and you are not,’ he whispered against her cheek. ‘We must rectify that immediately.’
* * *
Laces loosened, silk slid. Alyssandra could not have said when her dress had fallen, or when her undergarments joined it in a heap on the floor. All of her senses were riveted on the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the pressure of his mouth on hers. It was a wicked sort of heaven to press against him, skin to skin, to feel him rise hard and strong against her stomach without any barriers between them.
He swept her up into his arms in a slow fluid motion and made the short journey to the high, gloriously bedecked bed, depositing her amid the luxurious pillows as if she were a precious gem. ‘All the better to see you.’ The gravel of Haviland’s voice sent a tremor of anticipation through her.
‘And you, too.’ Alyssandra tucked a hand behind her head and held his eyes before letting her gaze drop slowly down the length of him. The lamp favoured him with light and shadows, showing off the carved perfection of his torso, the sculpted muscle of his abdomen, the masculine contours of his lean hips with their defined, square bones. ‘A man can be such a beautifully made creature.’ Haviland North was definitely that. Years of physical exercise had created the masterpiece standing in front of her.
‘But you, Alyssandra, you are a goddess.’ He came to the bed then and stretched his length down beside her. She fought a moment’s self-consciousness. This was so much more intimate than standing naked together. Then they could only see the other’s face. But now, he could see all of her, could reach all of her and he did. Haviland’s fingers started a slow journey down her body, drawing heat where he touched her, drawing desire.
Haviland North was a tactile lover. With him, it was all about touch, how he could make her feel, and she revelled in it; the feathering caresses that ran from breastbone to navel, his fingertips light and sensual on her skin; the deeper, firmer touches when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs passing over her nipples, coaxing them to erectness much as she had for him earlier. Had it felt like this? This exquisite friction?
Alyssandra arched, hips lifting to him, her body asking for more and for less. There must have been an end to this heat, this slow burn that existed somewhere between torture and pleasure. Her legs opened in invitation, and he settled between them, rising up over her, the muscles in his arms taut with the effort and the discipline of pacing his desire to hers. Their eyes met one more time, one last time. He was looking for consent, waiting for it, she realised, when many men would have been hasty in their lust and seen to their own wants first. Alyssandra gave the signal. She wrapped her arms about his neck and took him full on the mouth, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted.
He thrust, and her body welcomed him, stretching, accommodating as they took up the rhythm, finding one another in the motion of joining and parting only to join again, each time more intensely until the rhythm consumed her, defined her. Nothing existed outside of this. There was only Haviland, there was only pleasure and it pushed her, he pushed her with each stroke towards some unknown cliff.
This pleasure, brilliant as it was, was unsustainable. It would end. She knew it empirically. They could not keep it up for ever. Haviland’s shoulders were sweat-slicked with effort, her own legs strained from wrapping about him, but unwilling to release him. And yet it built, achieving the unattainable. She heard herself cry out, a series of sobs strung together between ragged breaths, desperate and satisfied at once. She felt the muscles of his arms tighten where she gripped them, felt his body tense, his muscles gathering themselves, her own body matching his. He gave a hard, final thrust and pushed them both into completion, into fulfilment.
This was new territory. It was her first coherent thought when she could think again. Long after Haviland had rolled to one side and taken her against him, his arm slung comfortably across her hips, she’d simply felt. She’d felt the rhythm of their breathing start to slow, their bodies start to cool, a hundred other sensations, not the least being the irony of feeling such completion while feeling as if her body had shattered into a thousand crystal shards, each a shining point of light.
Her body had awakened and it was greedy. Having discovered this place where nothing mattered, nothing existed but pleasure, her body wanted to stay. But to stay, it would have to happen again. Could it? Clearly it didn’t always happen. It had never happened...before. She gave a little moan and pushed the thought away. There was not room in this bed for memories or for comparison. Or for hopes. Tonight existed in a vacuum, one time only.
‘How are you?’ Haviland’s voice was at her ear, warm and comfortable as if they were more than acquaintances who’d found temporary pleasure together.
‘Fine. I was just thinking,’ Alyssandra murmured, turning over to face him.
‘Don’t do it. Thinking is dangerous.’ He smiled at her, the sight of it warming her. Probably because he did it so seldom, not a genuine smile, anyway.
‘You’re very handsome like this.’ Alyssandra pushed a strand of dark hair back from his face.
‘Like this? Do you mean naked?’ Haviland chuckled.
She shook her head and smiled. ‘No, just being, I don’t know, relaxed, as if the mask you show the world is off and you’re very simply yourself.’
His eyes drifted away from her, and she felt a moment’s anxiety over having gone too far, which seemed absurd in the extreme considering what they’d already done tonight. A simple observation shouldn’t tip the balance. Yet when his eyes strayed back to hers, she knew it had.
‘Do you know me so well after an afternoon and an evening spent together?’ His tone carried a hint of sharpness beneath the quietness.
She met the challenge and placed a hand against his chest. ‘I know how you look when you kiss me and there has been plenty of that.’
‘How is that?’ The fire was starting to stir in his eyes again. He was going to forgive her intrusion into his privacy.
‘Like a man who could be happy,’ Alyssandra whispered and decided to push her advantage. She pressed against him and kissed him, effectively distracting them both from any chance of dangerous thinking. She didn’t want to contemplate what lay beyond this night, nor did she want to contemplate why Haviland was so very private. ‘Private’ was often a polite euphemism for secrets. People who were private had something to hide. People like the Leodegrances.
Chapter Thirteen (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)
This was going to be complicated. It was the one thought Haviland’s mind kept returning to as the sky began to lighten outside the carriage windows. Alyssandra drowsed against his shoulder even though the drive to the Leodegrance hôtel would be a short one. Neither of them had been overeager to leave his warm bed and they had in fact already lingered longer in that haven than was prudent.
Paris had been waking up around them, or going to bed, depending on one’s perspective, when they’d finally dressed and slipped out the gate at the back of the garden. He didn’t think Archer and Nolan had come home yet, but he hadn’t wanted to risk going through the common room. If the milkmaids and early vendors were out, his friends wouldn’t be far behind. There were a few carriages like his out, too, taking the wealthy home from a night of revels. It was not at all odd to be out this time of day—and night—but there’d been no question of waiting any longer to see her home. They’d escaped her brother’s detection over the kiss in the park, but that would look like a minor infraction if he caught them after tonight. Nor had Haviland wanted to encounter his friends. Nolan would most likely still be drunk and Archer would ask too many questions.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of them or of Antoine Leodegrance. He simply didn’t want to share. He wanted to keep Alyssandra to himself. She shifted in her sleep and murmured something softly incoherent. He looked down where her head rested against his shoulder. She was beautiful even in her sleep, with all that hair falling over her shoulder in a silky curtain of caramel, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek.
He was already planning when he could see her again and how. After tonight, he knew that once would not be enough. That was the complicated part. There were the logistics, but there were also the ethics. How long could he go on seeing Leodegrance’s sister without telling him? She was of an age to make her own decisions, but Haviland felt something of the cuckolder to face Leodegrance across the fencing piste while pursuing the man’s sister behind his back, regardless of her age. Although it might be best if Leodegrance remained oblivious. The man would want to know his intentions and those were hardly classified as honourable.
Despite the concerns, Haviland knew it wouldn’t stop him. Tonight had been heady stuff indeed. It had been hard to tell who was seducing whom. They’d been partners in pleasure. The result had been explosive and satisfying. The result had also been dangerous—it had created an intimacy, that if pursued, would eventually make demands of its own. There were already signs of it. When I kiss you, you look like a man who could be happy.
She saw too much and he could not give her that part of himself. She wanted to know him, but therein lay the rub. If she knew him, she wouldn’t want him. How could he tell her he was expected to return home and marry Lady Christina Everly? Not only was he expected to marry, but it was a match he’d known about since he was eight years old. He could not plead ignorance.
But neither could Alyssandra, on different grounds. She was no blushing English virgin expecting marriage. She’d come to him for pleasure, not a proposal. She’d come to him tonight knowing full well what could happen and she’d certainly initiated a fair share of it. One night did not qualify as an affaire. However, the longer this went on, expectations would form, a consequence of intimacy that went beyond physical pleasure. It occurred to him that just as he’d never indulged in a purely self-motivated pursuit of a woman, neither had he indulged in a free-standing affaire. It was different than dealing with mistresses where the terms and expectations were less emotional and far more defined. The carriage pulled to a halt and Haviland gave Alyssandra a gentle shake. ‘We’re here.’
She lifted her head and gave him a drowsy smile that had him wishing the driver could take another turn around the city, but the sky was already considerably brighter than when they’d left his rooms. He jumped down and helped her out, insisting on watching her all the way to the door when she refused to let him walk her any farther. He doubted Antoine Leodegrance was awake this time of day, but the servants would be up and servants would talk.
‘Goodnight, or should I say good morning?’ She gave him one last smile and turned to go before it became too difficult. He wanted nothing more than to haul her back to his rooms and lock the day out. Haviland caught her arm before she could slip away. There was at least one detail they could settle that would make the rest of the day tolerable. ‘I have to be at the salle this afternoon, but this evening, where can I find you?’
She gave him a coy smile. ‘I’ll send you a note.’
Haviland arched a brow. ‘It’s to be a puzzle, then?’
Alyssandra stepped away, dancing backwards with a little trill of laughter. ‘I have it on good authority you like a woman of mystery. À ce soir, Haviland.’
Haviland folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the carriage, watching her until she disappeared. Even the Leodegrance home was private in the extreme. A high stone wall set it apart from the street, making the house accessible only through the arch that led into the inner courtyard. Certain she was safely inside, Haviland climbed back into the carriage for the lonely drive home.
Only he wasn’t alone. She had not left him entirely. The carriage smelled faintly of her soap—lavender and lemongrass—as did his coat where she’d rested against him. The seat was still warm from her body, he was still warm. It was something of a novelty to realise he wanted her again, or was it that he wanted her still? After a night of rather thorough lovemaking, he would have thought he was ready for a respite, not just for a chance to recover, but to reclaim his space. He’d always been happy after a night with a woman’s charms to be back in his space, to have his privacy. He enjoyed women, but he didn’t need them clinging to him every second of the day. He liked an independent woman. But this morning he’d not been ready to let Alyssandra go.
* * *
Back at the rooms, Brennan had returned, looking entirely unkempt. Most of his clothes were draped over a chair instead of on his person, a sure sign he’d had to make a quick exit from somewhere. Apparently, he wasn’t in any great danger, though, because he’d stopped for breakfast. French rolls, cheese and a block of rich creamy butter were laid out on the dining table.
‘Just getting in?’ Brennan said around a mouthful of bread. He motioned to an empty chair. ‘I’ll have Guillaume bring coffee.’
Haviland gave a tired smile, the night catching up with him at last. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll go to bed.’
Brennan winked. ‘I’ve already been there tonight, twice in fact.’
‘You can tell me about it later.’ Haviland tried to laugh, but it came out as a yawn. He didn’t know how Brennan did it; up all night, every night, and always cheerful as if his personal life didn’t teeter on the edge of disaster.

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