Chapter Thirty-six
“Well, well,” murmured Louis, glancing up from the calling card in his hand. “How utterly delightful. Do show her in.” Checking his pocket watch, he added, “And have the blue rooms prepared… and an extra place laid for dinner.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
When his visitor entered, Louis rose elegantly, studying her with amused curiosity.
The delightful creature looked in fear of being eaten alive — eyes downcast, hands tightly clasped — and then she looked up.
She blinked once, then twice in surprise.
Satisfaction radiated through him, knowing whatever monster she’d imagined facing — it was not this.
“Marchioness,” he said smoothly, dipping a slight bow, “a most unexpected pleasure.”
“Forgive my intrusion, Monsieur le Comte, I understand how very improper this must seem… without invitation, without even introduction, but I beg only a few moments of your time, and my apologies for the lateness of the hour… but I have travelled all day from London.”
He afforded her a gracious smile, amused by her words bubbling forth like champagne from a shaken bottle. Undecided if she was fearful of him or of failing in her mission, he held his arm out to indicate a chair.
“Shall we play?”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
“Chess, my dear. You can play?”
“Oh, um… yes, though quite poorly.”
“Excellent, then we are well matched. I lack patience for a serious game where one’s opponent is too consumed to converse. Come, a quick game while your rooms are prepared… before you change for dinner. Sherry?”
“Oh no, Monsieur le Comte, I came only to ask… I cannot possibly…”
“Please, call me Louis. And what sort of a host would I be if I allowed you to travel all day, from London, no less, to see me… without offering my hospitality? You cannot possibly return tonight. It will be dark within the hour.”
“I, I had intended to stay at the inn we passed… the Jolly Sailor, I believe it was called.”
“Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head. “Flea-ridden hovel frequented by undesirables, far from safe for a lady such as yourself… travelling alone. I would never forgive myself if anything untoward befell you.”
“Monsieur,” she replied hastily without artifice, “indeed, I may be safer within your walls, as I believe you to be… well… I cannot say unequivocally honourable if some of the things I have heard said are to be believed, though Lady Eleonore spoke very highly of you. But, my reputation, monsieur, would certainly not be safe if it were to be known I had stayed under the same roof, in the sole company of an unmarried man of… of your renown. So, I must insist…”
“Ah,” he chuckled, delighted by her innocent honesty.
“I highly doubt any prying eyes noted your arrival… at such a discreet hour, in such a deliciously secluded spot. But forgive me, Lady Westland, how remiss of me. Mayhap, I should have mentioned the Dowager Countess is floating about somewhere above and will, of course, be a most suitable companion to ensure your respectability. She is both feared and revered by society on both sides of the pond, and will be enchanted to make your acquaintance. Madeline has always been very fond of your husband and may even help persuade me to grant the information you seek. Now… about that sherry?”
“You… you know why I am here?” spluttered Sylvie. “And you call your mother by her given name?”
“My dear, I most certainly do, upon her insistence, you understand. She is the vainest of creatures and feels being addressed as Mama… from the mouth of a grown man, utterly horrifying. As to your first question… well, let us reason together. You travel all day, alone, to the home of your husband’s adversary…
unaccompanied… at night! A gentleman, you apparently know, possesses something that your husband requires, though is too proud to ask for.
And, alas,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “since it appears you are not here to seduce me, my deduction was swift.” A teasing smile played upon his lips.
“Or am I mistaken? Are you indeed here to seduce me?”
The Comte de Roche, the man before her, was nothing like the creature Sylvie had imagined from whispered tales.
He was said to be tall and handsome, but handsome was far too meagre a word.
His beauty rivalled Lord Humber’s, though where Humber’s charm was all boyish mischief, Louis’s was cut from darker, more sinisterly masculine cloth.
His hair, that astonishing silver — not the pallor of age but the gift of birth — was drawn neatly at the nape, the colour catching the light like spun frost. It framed features too perfectly balanced to be merely handsome, a strong jaw, sculpted mouth, skin so flawless it might have been carved from marble.
But it was his eyes that held her — eyes of deep, impossible violet, bright with mischief beneath long dark lashes and perfectly shaped brows.
Everything about him spoke of control. His style exquisite, his clothes immaculate.
The effortless grace of each movement, the smooth deliberation of his words.
Even his teasing — daring, even erring on the side of risqué — was measured.
He was obviously a man who never hurried or stumbled over words, whose voice, deep and silken, could lull or command at will.
And as she stood before him, Sylvie understood Society’s fear yet fascination with him, and why, despite herself, she could not quite look away.
And had she not been utterly in love with Angus, she might have imagined him as the dangerous hero of one of her own stories.
Yet, however cunning and perilous this man was reputed to be — and he may indeed be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, his wickedness concealed beneath this suave, sophisticated persona — she found herself rather liking him.
Allowing herself to relax a little, she met his gaze with a warm, honest smile. “You are not mistaken, Monsieur le Comte, as I am utterly in love with my husband. It may not be fashionable to say so, but it is the truth… and I will do anything to make him happy.”
“Mm? Anything?” His brow arched. “Yet, your husband does not know you are here, does he, my dear?”
Sylvie sighed. “No… though I shall tell him immediately upon my return.”
“Even if you are unsuccessful in your quest?”
Her head snapped up, meeting his gaze directly. “Will I be? Or have I misjudged you, monsieur?”
Louis tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes before he smiled, a startlingly dazzling smile. “Spirit as well as beauty. My old friend is indeed a fortunate man.”
“I am the fortunate one, my lord. My husband is the finest man I know.”
“With that, I cannot argue, nor tease,” he murmured.
“So, Lady Westland, for the pleasure of your company this evening, I shall grant you what you wish… unless you keep me any longer from my sherry. Since you have already prohibited our game of chess with your chitter-chatter, you’d better run along and change. Dinner will be upon us soon.”
He pulled the bell cord, summoning the butler.
“Change?” Sylvie murmured as a very becoming flush touched her cheeks. “I am sorry, monsieur, I’m afraid I will not be able to join you for dinner, I have no appropriate gown and…”
“A mere trifle, my dear,” he said, his eyes appraising her from top to toe.
For the first time since stepping into the room, Sylvie understood exactly why this man’s name was cloaked in danger. His gaze lingered — cool, appraising, deliberate — and as his eyes finally met hers, a momentary wolfish glint before he blinked slowly and afforded her a shadow of a smile.
“Forbes, have one of Giselle… no… wait… “ he said to the butler without looking away. “Have Sophia’s ice blue gown delivered to Lady Westland’s rooms.”
“I couldn’t possibly wear… one of your…” spluttered Sylvie. “I… I’m sorry, I have made a terrible mistake. I should never have come.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” clicked Louis with amused satisfaction.
“A small price to pay, so we can share entertaining conversation… and intimate details over dinner. Sophia, my poor brother’s widow, would be only too happy to know I am gifting one of her new gowns to such a lovely creature…
on such a worthy cause. A heart’s quest, no less.
So…” giving the slightest inclination of his head and a dazzling smile, he held out his arm in the direction of the door to indicate the matter was settled.
“Oh!” gasped Sylvie. “Your hand.”
Louis stilled.
“Forgive me, my lord, how rude of me, to blurt such a thing… but… your hand is… is quite unexpected and umm, very beautiful.”
“Mm.” He raised it slightly, the light catching the exquisitely wrought silver fingers as he turned it one way then the other as he studied it.
“I’ve offended you, my lord,” she whispered. “Please forgive me, it was unforgivable.”
Raising his eyes slowly, he regarded her for a moment.
“I take no offence, my dear. It is, as you observe, a beautiful thing… though I will own to being a little offended when its predecessor was taken from me. I was rather attached to it, you understand… and to be parted from something dear. Ah, but for the folly of youth…” he mused, as his eyes drifted back to the metallic hand protruding from his cuff, “… and the misguided notions of honour. Yet now, as one is a little older and wiser, one is less inclined to fall foul of such notions and more inclined to take full advantage of every unexpected gift. After all, I believe it is said… all is fair in love and war, is it not, my dear?”
“Umm…”
Taking an unhurried breath afore he spoke again. His tone was gentle, his smile flawless, yet the violet of his eyes, as he looked back at her, had darkened. “Are we to be friends, Lady Westland?”
“I… I should like to think we shall.”
“Then may I suggest you do not jeopardise such a budding new friendship by keeping me waiting for my supper… as you have my sherry.”