Chapter 13
DIANE
At dinner, I meet the mayor, who’s adorable with his seventies mustache and a polo shirt tucked into his old-fashioned jeans. His wife wears a pink tweed jacket and has an easy laugh. We get on immediately and chat away for most of the meal.
Just as I begin to tell myself this evening isn’t as bad as I’d expected, Darcy invites the guests to move to the drawing room for a more relaxed second part of the soirée.
Darcy and Dr. Muller walk over to the window and launch into a long conversation.
Genevieve expertly maneuvers the mayor’s wife away from me to the other sofa across a ginormous coffee table.
“Did you like the cave?” she asks.
Something tells me she doesn’t really care. Her question is just an opener for something else.
“It was impressive,” I say honestly. “I loved the paintings and I learned a lot.”
She inches a little closer. “Isn’t Penelope—that’s Dr. Muller’s first name—amazing?”
Et voilà. “She sure is.”
“Such competence, such drive! You know, she comes from a long pedigree of writers and academics.”
“Good for her.”
“Penelope and I are very close,” she says. “I have so much respect for her achievement. In my eyes, it’s more important than money or titles.”
She gives me a long, intense stare as if trying to gauge if the penny has dropped.
I’m itching to say, Hey, I get it, despite my limited education.
You’re reminding me I have neither merit nor money, not to mention a title.
You’re suggesting I’m the odd one out in this room.
But you know what? We’re in agreement. I don’t belong here, and I sure as hell don’t want to belong.
If I weren’t bound by a contract, I’d be hanging out with Elorie and Manon at La Bohème instead of wasting precious minutes of my life listening to your aristocratic farts.
They stink just the same as everyone else’s.
Unfortunately, I can’t say any of it.
Damn that contract!
This is the hardest I’ve bitten my tongue in the past two months.
There’ve been other temptations, but none of them this strong.
Genevieve has been cold and indifferent, but not mean.
Neither have any of Darcy’s other acquaintances.
Most of them just try to be friendly without realizing they’re patronizing me.
When we chat, they avoid long words. They find me “cute.” In their eyes, I’m Darcy’s long-overdue fling with a plebeian.
They consider our amourette as his rite of passage, his brave—and brief—exploration of the world of commoners.
And I’m forced to put up with that shit.
If there’s one reason I look forward to Darcy’s announcement of our betrothal, it’s to see the look on their faces at that moment. Especially on Genevieve’s.
My peripheral vision catches Darcy’s shape looming next to us.
“Can I steal my girlfriend for a moment?” he asks Genevieve.
“Of course.” She gives him a canned smile. “You can sit here—I was going to go chat with Raphael, anyway.”
Darcy puts his glass on the coffee table and sits next to me. “I hope you enjoyed your first day at the castle.”
“I did,” I say. “Up until ten minutes ago.”
He doesn’t ask why. Instead, he takes my hand and holds it with both his.
I lift my gaze to his face. He’s staring at me with an intensity that would’ve stopped my heart under different circumstances.
Wow. Anyone looking at him right now would say he’s crazy for me.
Even I have to remind myself he’s just playing a part.
And he’s damn good at it, just like everything he does.
Hmm, let’s see if I can match his skill. I peer into his dark brown eyes, remarking a hue in them I hadn’t noticed before. It’s amber gold. In fact, it’s the exact color of the Scotch he was sipping before he sat down.
Will I taste it on his tongue if we kiss?
Right on cue, he leans in for a smooch, and I whisper “extra hot” before I can stop myself.
Surprise flickers in his eyes. A split second later, he angles his head and slants his mouth over mine.
His evening stubble grates against my chin in a most pleasant way.
He runs his tongue over my lips and nips gently.
I open up. His tongue penetrates deep inside between my teeth, against my palate and my cheeks, pushing against my own tongue.
He thrusts, strokes and suckles, giving my mouth the most sensual, shameless treatment it’s ever had.
He’s making love to it.
Desire shoots to my core in a lightning bolt of unspeakable sweetness. I find myself leaning into him, opening up more, asking for more. Me, who despises couples who can’t restrain their ardor in public—I can’t get enough of him at this moment, public opinion be damned.
He tastes of whisky and of something quintessentially male. That taste, combined with his head-turning scent, is nudging me into an unfamiliar territory that borders on total abandon. My breasts ache for his hand to cup and fondle them. As for his other hand, I want it between my legs.
I need it between my legs.
There’s only one word to qualify the effect of this kiss—madness.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
And I don’t even care.
Just as abruptly as he started the kiss, Darcy stops and draws away.
I gasp for air and open my eyes.
He’s watching me. There’s no more playfulness nor the slightest shade of amber left in his eyes. His gaze is dark, and his lips are red from our kiss.
He turns away and says something to the person on his right.
I blink to clear the haze from my eyes and focus on the man he’s talking to.
It’s Raphael.
My hearing returns next, and with it, a profound sense of embarrassment.
“I’ll talk to him first thing Monday morning,” Raphael says.
Darcy nods. “Be sure that you do.”
Next to Raphael, Genevieve studies my face, barely pretending to listen to what her “very close” friend Penelope is saying to her.
Penelope glances at her watch and stands. “I should be going.”
“You should stay,” Darcy says. “It’s late, and there are plenty of empty bedrooms in this castle.”
She hesitates. “The village is only twenty minutes away. I’ll be fine—I’m a big girl.”
“Penelope.” There’s a bossy note in Darcy’s voice. “I don’t like the idea of you driving alone on dark countryside roads at this hour.”
She stares at him, saying nothing.
“You’ll sleep at the castle.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll let Jacqueline know, so she can get you everything you need.”
“That’s very kind of you, Sebastian.” Penelope smiles. “Thank you.”
I approve of his thoughtful gesture, but I can’t help wishing Penelope had refused. The thought of her sleeping in one of the guest chambers under the same roof as Darcy is unpleasant to say the least.
Is he going to join her later tonight, so that they could continue their conversation?
No, he won’t. He’d never do anything that could blow our cover. This scheme of his matters too much to him.
Just as I sigh with relief, a thought strikes me.
I’m jealous.
Why else would I care if Darcy and Penelope spend the night together?
Chill out, woman.
What you’re experiencing is a version of Stockholm syndrome, when hostages end up supporting the bad guy because they’ve spent too much time in close proximity with him.
The difference between the classic version of the syndrome and mine is that instead of sympathizing with Darcy’s cause, I’ve become sympathetic toward his body. Fervently sympathetic.
No, this won’t do.
Repeat after me, Diane: Darcy is an entitled jerk. He ruined and nearly killed Dad. It’s sick to lust after him while plotting his downfall. My dream is to see him destroyed.
Excellent.
And now the refrain.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.