Chapter One #2
She’d ask about it. That was all there was to that. For now, she tipped her glass upside down and emptied the vile, tepid wine into the chrysanthemums.
He grimaced. “The poor flowers.”
“Better they die than me.” Extending her glass toward him, she ventured, “Bordeaux may be blockaded, but smugglers get it through.”
“By hook and crook, we say.” He poured, generously so, up to the rim of her flute. “Lady Carlisle will have to order more of those exotic flowers shipped from Canton. Drink.” He urged her with his fingers flexing up, up, up. “You will like yourself better.”
She took a long, satisfying swallow and settled completely into the cushions on her chair. “Merci beaucoup. The pleasure happens already.”
She let her eyes drift closed. The sounds of tiny animals in the grasses and the flutter of the occasional bird brought her peace. She sat like that for long minutes, longer than she expected…and startled when she realized her companion had not said a word.
One eye opened.
He stood before her in his glory. Tall. Mon Dieu, the man was tall. And she was no dainty woman. She matched most men in height. But when—if—she stood near this man, he would rise above her, disarmingly so, a foot or more.
She met his level gaze. His eyes widened, and in the light of the brazier, she admired him as much as she could in the soft November shades of evening.
He did not flinch or turn away, but let her have her fill.
Dark curls fell over his high brow, a rich brown with streaks of chocolate.
A remarkable contrast to his unusual eyes.
His complexion had been kissed by the sun.
A man of the elements, then. The ivory of his stock contrasted well.
His bone structure? Ah, oui. She was back to that, and it seized her breath.
He’d been sculpted by the Roman gods. A square face was completed by a handsome jawline.
His wide, full brows sat atop large, long-lashed eyes.
His nose was long and nigh unto Gallic French.
His flat cheeks fanned out over high bones.
His lips were generous, meant to speak and persuade—and kiss.
All his features lent a regal sophistication so that, she was certain when he was in need of it, his arrogance was established by the mere fix of brow and set of strong, wide mouth.
To his perfection, she was drawn so badly that her mouth watered. What she would give to trace her lips over the arch of his cheek and make that mouth open for her and consume her. He was a man who knew what to do to please a woman and rejoice in the long hours he spent to make her happy.
But he is not for you, Inès. He is too sharp. Too accomplished.
She had promised herself no entanglements too soon after arriving in London. That was the only way to establish her reputation as viable. Impeccable. Worthy of…so many things that are not true.
She straightened in her chair.
With men, she would be selective. Very selective. If she even took one to her at all. Even then, no man could be hers too quickly or without her own investigation of his proclivities…and her compatibility.
He lifted his noble chin. “Take another drink.”
Her eyes on his, she did. The warmth spread down her throat, through her chest. It was certainly superb, this brew. This heat. This man’s silent allure.
He grinned, one side of his mouth hooking up in a wry smile. He had a dimple! Another quality, damn his perfection, to lure a lady into his lap.
But then he turned away and sat down. This time, he must be sitting on one of the stepping stones.
She could see the back of his head. The curls there were thick.
She was certain they were soft. They even made her fingers itch to touch them.
His neck was corded. His shoulders were deliciously wide, meant to capture and hug and keep a woman…
“You think too loudly, Mademoiselle Bechard.”
She blew disdain at him.
He chuckled, but did not turn to face her, then said, “Why not come to my young sister’s ball next week? You and I can learn more of each other…without talking, that is.”
“Dancing?” No, she should not move in his arms, feel his strength or his pulse beneath her fingertips.
She chose her men carefully, according to need.
Now here in London, she might choose one.
Only one. All for her own very practical reason.
This man did not fit. He was a virile animal, most likely untamable.
She needed one she could manage. He was not that at all.
He was a man who charmed women easily. She would not be his quick conquest.
He got to his feet, brushing off the back of his coat and his trousers without turning around. “Friday. Nine o’clock.”
“Should I?” she asked herself, but teased him with the possibility. She had not danced in months and she loved to do it with a partner who knew how to command the floor.
“Of course.” He appeared so innocent. So dashing.
“Why?”
He gazed up at the moon. “Come to meet my mother.”
Mothers could be too perceptive and ruin her. But then, this mother could not hurt her because she would not take up with this man. Suddenly a stab of sadness had her taking another sip of the cognac. She’d try instead for polite conversation. “Is she formidable?”
“Very.” He drained his cognac. “My five sisters, too.”
“Five?” Inès swallowed in dismay. Female scrutiny was not a challenge she sought.
“Indeed. Each, her own woman.” He waggled a dark brow. “Like you.”
“Monsieur, you presume too much. I do not impress others easily and I do not try.”
“Come.” He faced her, and mon Dieu, his expression bore the look of enchantment. “Be as you are always. My mother is curious about new émigrés from France. She loves to be able to view their chances of navigating the ton.”
“I see. And your sisters?” Her mind raced, trying to remember Augustine’s, Lady Ashley’s, words about the single men prominent among the ton. Which man had five sisters? “Why would they wish to meet me?”
He gave her a smile that produced two dimples. Two! One in each cheek. She was intrigued that a man could be so graced by the gods!
He came closer. “They like to become well acquainted with London’s next raging beauty.”
She held her expression serene and unaffected. After all, she was a consummate actress. “They will waste their time with me, monsieur.” As will you.
He took the two steps forward, standing so close before her that she inhaled his cologne. Mild sandalwood with a hint of lime.
He towered over her, covering her, absorbing her.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered as he put out a hand, cupped her chin, and—mon Dieu—traced with his thumb the outline of her lower lip.
“I hear the whispered words among men about the lovely new woman in our midst. I know the clever needs of many an Englishman.”
“They matter not to me.”
“I am certain you choose your own protectors.”
He had not said “lovers,” but he inclined in the right direction. She would need here a man who could, for a time, appear to be her champion. “I choose with whom I associate.” Especially now. Especially here in England.
To argue with him—to argue with any man bent on delighting her when she could and had resisted the finest, richest, most illustrious creatures—was unnecessary. She stared him down—and he still held her firmly. Dare she admit to herself she was transfixed?
“Ah, I see. You do not choose soon.” He dropped his hand at his side. “Not without reason.”
To her surprise, she wished for once that were not so. That she might choose a man for his tenderness and care for her. But she put that to weariness from her flight from France—and to be honest, a bit of fear.
“Come dance with me next Friday. Take another chance to look over all the choices. Take your time deciding who will receive your charms.”
She opened her mouth, intending to say, “No one.”
But he hushed her words with a finger across her lips. “Au revoir, mon chérie, Inès. Next Friday.”
His lively purple eyes did a marvelous thing that reminded her of gaiety and springtime. His lips did that remarkable thing that spoke of humor—and desire.
Ah, oui. His attentions aroused her. If she were free, she would not hesitate to accept him. But she was bound to her task. So his affection she could not take. His desire she would not match. Nor would she allow herself the pleasure.
He might be a rogue, he might be the most refined of lovers, he might be rich, even influential, but he was an innocent in those elements with which she dealt.
She needed a man with access, knowledge, cunning, and charm. That man exhibited a few of those traits, but she needed one with all of them. Not one who could also seduce her, delay her, and confuse her with hours of delight in his magnificent arms.
So she would chance nothing with him.
Nothing.
She watched him leave.
But at the entrance to the conservatory, he turned to face her. Swathed in golden moonlight, he appeared to be gilded as he smiled. “Do not forget your slippers, Mademoiselle of Bare Toes.” He patted his frockcoat pocket. “I keep your stocking ribbons. Claim them Friday when we dance.”
#
Long after he hobbled away, Inès sat, remembering his affection and ruing his boldness to offer it.
She frowned, her traitorous pulse racing, her lower lip tingling from his touch. Her lack of any fond regards these past two years had not bothered her. She’d accomplished so much. Done it quietly, too, with only the aid of a good runner.
Now she had no assistant. No accomplice. No need.
I am alone in this.
A good thing. No one can know how I am so bound.
But by that man’s arrogance to caress her, he made her yearn for more loving ways. A bad thing, that. She did not want. She did not pine. She did not need…not from any man.
She claimed a solitary life to keep her conscience clear—all others near and dear to her, innocent. What she planned was not for anyone else to know, to share, to advise or consent. Nor was it anyone else’s purview to debate.
And as for him? His allure?
Oh, he was the epitome of man. Dashing. Suave. So perfect of face, so muscular of form, that her body had tightened at his gaze—and rejoiced at his touch.
But she did not know him. She knew nothing of him. His background. A lord, whatever that meant. Here in England, everyone was a lord. Or those she’d been introduced to, at any rate. She did not wish it otherwise.
But she had a purpose to her days. A mission that meant her nights were not to be taken up with rendezvous. Affairs were not in her plan. They took time. They were complicated. They were ultimately very messy. And she was not a woman to tarry.
A shiver shook her frame.
Halsey had left her. Gone back to the party. Wise of him not to push her.
Ah, mais oui, she would not think of him until she learned more about him.
Besides, so many other men existed who might offer potential for her plan. She had to investigate them.
Furthermore, she had no reason to focus on one man so soon since her arrival. She would, as her friends had encouraged her, enjoy herself.
Too bad that could not be with so luscious a man as he, whoever he was.