Chapter 10 #3
Watching his reflection as he laced his shirt and tied his neckcloth was more than she could manage.
What had transpired between them in front of that very mirror was too immediate, too fresh, for her to feign nonchalance.
She downed the remainder of her own drink, concentrating afterwards on the few amber droplets that clung still to the sides of the glass.
Fabric swished; his waistcoat and jacket going on, she presumed. His boots thudded softly when he crossed to her.
His mask of inscrutability was firmly back in place, his gloves in his hands. “Shall we? Baudelaire is expecting us shortly.”
“Yes.” She rose, picking up her own gloves.
Oh, but their scheme of pretense had just become further complicated.
During the silent ride to Frascati’s, no matter how he wished to will it away, Nate’s mind kept returning to the noise Isobel made when he closed his mouth on her nape.
He was under no delusions concerning his sexual attraction to her, but the sheer lust that had blazed away reason had clarified for him immediately that he had quite underestimated the strength of it.
The hell of it was that had they met under some simpler circumstance, he’d have sought her honestly, knowing she reciprocated it.
Such was not the life he had, however. Some years past, in the name of king and country, he had volunteered to inhabit a world made of shadows and lies.
Had accepted along the way the personal sacrifices involved.
The freedom to pursue a woman outside that world was but one such limitation.
No matter that Isobel now willingly toed the periphery of it.
He’d meant what he’d told Amélie. Meant it still: Wanting Isobel was a complication. He needed to concentrate on what was at stake, on his job for tonight.
She had turned molten under his hands directly after he’d closed his teeth on her. I was willing in all ways, she’d said afterwards.
Christ. He needed to put it from his mind.
He looked blindly out the fiacre’s window.
All patrons were required to hand over coats as they entered Frascati’s and men their hats and canes. In the brightly lit entry with her pelisse removed, Nate could fully appreciate the vivid picture Isobel made.
The gown was made of silky fabric, cream-colored, trimmed with midnight-blue ribbon that banded her décolletage and encircled her waist. The bodice clung to her breasts and emphasized her slender figure above the suggestion of flared hips.
Baudelaire, having met them outside, examined her with frank appreciation, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Ravissante, Mlle Blanchet,” he murmured. “You quite cast in the shade any other on whom I lay my eyes tonight.” He winked, releasing her hand.
She laughed. “I think, Monsieur, you will nonetheless find your way to charming one or two of the ladies present.”
Baudelaire grinned appreciatively, shrugging one shoulder. “It is so,” he agreed, turning towards Nate. “But it is time now to seek my luck with rouge et noir.”
While Baudelaire played rouge et noir for reasons of his own, he would play deep at trente-et-un just as he had on his last visit.
If Isobel had nerves about this outing—or anything residual from what transpired in his rooms—she hid it extremely well.
Her shoulders were back, chin up, eyes lifted to boldly peruse the salon.
The slight sheen in the dark ribbons at breast and waist echoed the gleam of her black hair.
Everything about her invited a man’s eyes to linger.
He was not alone in that; a glance around the room confirmed that.
With a touch on his shoulder, Baudelaire leaned forward to murmur for his ears alone, “A most intriguing woman, your demoiselle écossaise, but this you already know. As I am able, I will have also my eyes and ears open tonight where she is concerned.”
Nate inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Baudelaire’s voice lifted. “Bonne chance, mon ami. I shall see you after our games conclude.” Hands in his pockets, he sauntered towards the arcade.
Two gaily dressed women strolling the perimeter intercepted him almost at once.
He said something, pointing towards the adjacent salon, and the women giggled, each taking an arm.
“Ah, M. Beaumont!” The banker Fournier hailing him “Have you come to give me another game of trente-et-un?”
“Indeed.” Fournier was his primary target tonight, his reason for playing trente-et-un.
“And who is this lovely creature?” Fournier exclaimed, eyes moving over Isobel. “Surely you are new here? I would remember you, I am certain.”
Isobel smiled. “Yes, this is my first time coming with M. Beaumont.”
Giving in to a desire that was only partly for show, Nate ran a hand along the flare of her hip and tugged her against him. She came willingly, looping an arm around his neck.
“Lucky man,” Fournier commented. “Very lucky. But come, my friend, let us see if tonight your luck ends there. Others are gathering at the table.”
Isobel rose on her tiptoes to press a kiss against Nate’s jaw. “For extra luck, mon coeur.” With a swish of skirts, she moved towards a grouping of several women along the edge of the room.
I was willing, she’d said.
He needed to put it from his mind.