Gabriel D'Arcy

‘Then it seems the gentlemen in London are failing you badly.’

Ah, there it was, the offer for them to become closer. They separated at the end of the line. Three figures later, they joined hands for a fast turn. A shiver ran down her spine at their touch despite the layers of their gloves. Anticipation. Followed quickly by annoyance. Yes, the man was attractive. No woman could ignore the classically carved features of his face, or the sensual mobility of his mouth, or even the way the candlelight glinted gold in his hair, but she must never forget he was a traitor with the potential to cause the loss of hundreds of lives. Perhaps even thousands. And not just soldiers. Innocent lives. A cold calm filled her chest. Her work was too important to let her desire for a handsome man make her starry-eyed.

She arched a brow. ‘I presume you think you would do better.’

A take-it-or-leave-it grin lit his face. So devil-may-care her stomach gave a pleasurable little hop. ‘I know I would.’ His deep voice was a velvet caress.

A tingle of warmth low in her abdomen cut short her breath. No. This was not about her desires. Duty came first. And Minette. Only by keeping her distance could she trap him successfully. He had to believe her indifferent. There was nothing more alluring to a man for whom women routinely swooned, than one who remained elusive.

She gave a non-committal shrug. ‘So you say.’

Something flashed in his eyes. Frustration? Annoyance? Or something warmer? Only time would tell. He forbore to make any further comment, leaving her in the dark and awaiting his next move.

The dance concluded. It was time to adjourn for supper and she placed a hand on his forearm. It was a forearm with the strength of steel beneath an elegantly tailored coat of the finest cloth. Her fingers tingled with a longing to explore the detail of that strength. A surprising reaction, since in her experience, beneath their trappings, fashionable men either ran to fat or scrawniness. But not Mooreshead. The man looked to have the physique of a Greek god. It was a theory she would likely have an opportunity to test in the not-too-distant future.

To achieve her goal. Nothing more.

The cream-and-gold room set aside for supper was tastefully arranged with small, round tables that allowed guests to eat and talk in small groups after selecting their own food from the sideboard against one wall. He held both their plates in one large hand, while she selected the morsels she fancied: lobster patties, oysters and little, fancy cakes. He led her to a table in the corner. A perfect place from which they could watch the room as a whole and no one could approach without advanced warning.

It was the table she would have chosen if given the option.

As if by tacit agreement, no one else made an attempt to join them. It was not surprising, for they both lived on the fringes of good society. She knew that about him, even as he must know the same about her.

‘No doubt all the gentlemen you have met tonight have told you how stunning you look,’ Mooreshead said. ‘May I therefore say how honoured I am that you chose to take supper with me?’

‘Why, my lord, you have a silver tongue as well as good looks.’

‘My lady is too kind.’

‘D’accord. It seems we have reached a fine understanding of one another.’

His chuckle in response sounded so natural she was enchanted. Not something she wished to be at all. Not with him. She must keep a straight head on her shoulders.

‘You must have been in England a long time,’ he said. ‘Your speech is impeccable.’

‘Merci. I left France after the death of my husband.’ She too could avoid the provision of useful facts.

He frowned as he attempted the calculation of age and circumstances. He would likely think her young to be a wife, let alone a widow. Appearances were deceiving. He would be horrified to know she’d been wed for nearly five years by the time she was twenty. ‘It must have been a very difficult time,’ he murmured in a tone that invited confidences.

‘I survived when many did not.’

‘You are to be congratulated on your escape.’

It was what she kept telling herself. As they so often did, the images of the fire flashed before her mind. The face of the soldier, Captain Chiroux, a demon’s mask of satisfaction in the glare of the flames. If she had realised... But it was too late to change what she had done. She could only hope Minette had somehow survived, then she would indeed feel fortunate to have escaped from France. If not, then there was only regret.

‘Where have you been until now?’ he asked.

‘Waiting for you.’

His eyes widened. And then he laughed. Yet the shadows deep in those icy-blue eyes gave his laugh the lie. The danger he exuded was not merely that of a male in pursuit of pleasure, though that was certainly there in good measure, the shadows hinted at darker pursuits that chilled her very soul.

She widened her eyes in feigned innocence. ‘I see you do not believe me.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘And to add insult to injury, here comes my companion, Madame Featherstone. I am afraid our delightful tête-à-tête is to be disturbed.’ The poor dear looked quite harassed beneath her puce turban and its nodding peacock feather. Well, she would. She was supposed to keep a close eye on her and Mooreshead. At least until they were sure he suspected nothing. A cornered man was more than risky.

‘Do you ride?’ she asked with one eye on the widow’s imminent arrival. ‘I usually go to Hyde Park at seven in the morning. Before it is busy.’

His eyes gleamed with wickedness. ‘So, you like to gallop.’ The innuendo was not lost on her, but she chose to ignore it.

After a brief hesitation, he continued smoothly. ‘I’ll take you up in my carriage at six. Bring your horse and your groom. We will breakfast afterwards.’

She smiled her acceptance of the invitation as Mrs Featherstone arrived at their table. Mooreshead rose to his feet and offered the older lady a chair with a bow and a charming smile. If he felt the slightest irritation at their lack of privacy, it did not show. Exquisite manners were his forte. But a storm lurked beneath the unruffled surface. She could feel it battering against her skin.

As was usual among the English, the conversation turned to the weather. Certainly no one was ever ill-bred enough to mention the war.

Chapter Two (#ulink_c69fb844-e051-5428-b53f-4c901bf19583)

The discovery of the Countess Vilandry’s dwelling required little effort on Gabe’s part. Her location in Golden Square was known by all and sundry. While not exactly desirable, the location was respectable. Her companion, Mrs Featherstone, was an unknown and generally described as bit of a mushroom. Not that Gabe put much store by stuffy conventions. While the countess might be considered fast, and a little risqué, his enquiries into her background and her obvious acceptance into society had made him wonder if his suspicions might be wrong.

Sceptre had been unable to tell him anything, good or bad.

Émigrés were nothing unusual these days. London seethed with refugees from Bonaparte’s vision of France. The more he had thought about it, the more certain he had become that neither side was so stupid as to send anyone so obvious against him. Or was his reluctance to believe it the result of the smouldering attraction low in his gut every time he brought her to mind. Wanting a woman that much was dangerous to any man’s sanity, but in his case it was completely out of character. The few relationships he had allowed since returning from France had been fleeting, an integral part of establishing his persona. Nevertheless, after Armande’s warning, he could not afford to ignore such an obvious play for his attention. Not now when one stumble, one error in judgement, would bring down his carefully erected house of cards.

He drew his carriage up at her front door, pleased to see a waiting groom mounted on a staid-looking hack holding the reins of a showy little black mare who showed the whites of her eyes at the sight of his curricle. His tiger, Jimmy, jumped down and went to his horses’ heads at the same moment the front door opened and the countess stepped out in a riding habit of pale blue that showed off her curvaceous figure to perfection. A curly brimmed beaver adorned with a veil set on severely styled hair made her look naughty.

Gabe leapt down and strode up the steps to meet her. He bowed. ‘Good morning, Countess. I am encouraged by your promptness.’

A corner of her mouth curled upwards. ‘Don’t be, mon cher Mooreshead. My Peridot does not like to be kept waiting.’

‘Your mare is as beautiful as her mistress.’

‘And far more impatient.’

He chuckled. She was clearly a woman skilled in the art of flirtation with a lively wit. She would keep his thoughts from growing too dark for an hour or two. She might even be willing to slake his lust. His body hardened. He quelled his surge of desire with ruthless determination. He had other more important matters on his mind. Like leaving London for Cornwall at the earliest opportunity, which he would do as soon as he was sure the countess was harmless.

Taking her hand, he escorted her down the steps onto the flagstones. ‘Then I must not keep either of you waiting. I have ordered our breakfast for nine.’

Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘You are very forward, milor’.’

He inclined his head. ‘Faint heart does not win fair lady.’ He gestured to the curricle. ‘May I assist you?’

‘Certainement.’

As he lifted her, his fingers spanned her slender waist and, despite her very feminine curves, he was aware of the lithe strength beneath his hands. A woman who rode frequently and hard.

Once more his body stirred at an image of the kind of riding she might enjoy that would involve them being alone together. Between the sheets. Once more the urgency of his visceral response surprised him. He was without doubt going to enjoy their association, no matter how brief.

He walked around to his side of the carriage and climbed up. ‘Your man will follow behind?’

‘He will.’