Rake Most Likely To Rebel

Who wouldn’t jump, nay, who wouldn’t leap at the chance to marry their daughters to such prestige and such security? There were those who would leap for much less than an offer of marriage. Alyssandra reminded herself she wasn’t here for purely selfish reasons. It was what her brother needed. Her presence here tonight was professional. She had to remain objective just as if she were facing him from behind a fencing mask. There was no room behind the mask for carnal thoughts and there was no room for them now, although that didn’t seem to be stopping them from trying to intrude.

She’d heard the women talking behind their fans all night. ‘With a body like that, he cannot help but be extraordinary in bed,’ one woman had remarked. Another had commented, ‘I just want to look at him, preferably naked.’ Alyssandra could understand the sentiment. He was gorgeously made, lean hipped and broad shouldered. She had studied that physique from behind peepholes for weeks now in anonymity. She had seen that body up close today during their exercise and it had been positively scintillating. It was in part responsible for the more feminine side of her wanting to risk the encounter tonight. She wanted to test the electricity between them. Would it happen again or was the spark between them limited to the fencing floor?

Around her, women whispered, watching his approach with interest and perhaps hope, from behind their fans. His stride was purposeful, confident, his gaze locked on her, making his destination clear to those who hoped otherwise. Alyssandra raised her chin just a fraction, enjoying a moment of defiant victory. The Englishman was coming for her.

Alyssandra lowered her fan and met his gaze with equal strength. She let the rush of excitement over meeting him as herself fill her, let him take her hand and bend over it with eyes that never left hers. He would never look at her incarnation of Antoine Leodegrance the way he was looking at her, all banked fire and desire in those blue eyes. His lips brushed her gloved knuckles. Even that briefest of touches sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. The connection she’d sensed today at the salle was still there.

‘Mademoiselle, enchanté. I must apologise for my boldness. I could not wait for a proper introduction. May I present myself? I am Viscount Amersham.’

She’d known all of his names, of course. It was on his application at the club although he preferred to go by his given name there. Therein lay her advantage. He was meeting a stranger. But she was not. She knew him, whereas, there was nothing to connect her to Antoine save her name, and that would be revealed when and if she chose.

She let a little smile play across her lips, her eyes flirting coolly, her body trying to ignore the hot spark that passed between them upon contact. ‘I know who you are.’ She gestured to the groups gathered around them with her closed fan. ‘Everyone knows. You’ve become quite the celebrity.’ She rose and retrieved her hand, breaking the electric connection. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’

‘What reputation would that be?’ He arched a dark brow.

She gave a laugh and spread her fan again, enjoying having the upper hand for the moment. ‘Are you fishing for a compliment, monsieur levicomte? I don’t think vanity becomes you. I think you know very well what sort of reputation.’

‘Touché.’ He grinned, showing even white teeth in that kissable mouth of his. It was every bit as delectable up close as it was from the distance of the viewing room or from behind a mask. His blue eyes danced, his gaze taking in all she had to offer. She was acutely alert to the skim of his eyes roaming over the slender length of her neck, how they’d dropped discreetly to the low sweep of her décolletage. His attraction to her was not in doubt.

Electric awareness crackled between them, broken only by their hostess signalling the end of the intermission—a critical moment that would define the direction of the evening and perhaps even their association. Allowing him to go back to his seat would suggest at worst she did not return his level of interest or, at the very least, she had not been serious when she’d summoned him. She must act quickly. She had done the summoning; the next move was hers. She had to be one to establish the purpose of having called him to her.

Alyssandra placed a hand on his arm, braving the physical pull of him. Men had crossed rooms for her before. Tonight, she had even encouraged such a response, knowing how well she looked in the gentian blue and the careful upsweep of her hair, both of which showed the silhouette of her body and the profile of her face to advantage. Would it be enough? ‘Some of the others will go to the card rooms instead of returning to their seats. Perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the gardens? I have been here before, if you’re interested.’ He was a sophisticated man. He would hear the entendre in her words and the invitation, just as he was aware she would see the silent interest he communicated with his eyes.

‘I have heard much about the beauty of the French gardens. I would be delighted to see one in person if you could be spared?’

Alyssandra smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

He allowed her to step slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd finding their seats, his hand confident of its reception, as if it belonged there. She could hear his voice, low and familiar at her ear. ‘It will be mine as well, I am certain of it.’ She recognised, too, what this was; the touch, the words, the very closeness of him. His body was advertising its skills in his touch, in his bid for familiarity. These were the opening moves to a seduction and it would be up to her just how far they would go. Suffice it to say, it was much harder to be professionally objective just now.

Chapter Five (#ulink_02ebf130-56b2-58e2-a394-80979362429b)

There was nothing wrong per se with the garden. It was inherently respectable with its paper lanterns and exotic-shaped shrubs. The incipient lure to wickedness was Alyssandra’s construction entirely. She knew very well they’d not come out here to be respectable, or even to see the topiaries, although the famed shrubs did make a good ruse for the reality: They’d come outside to test the waters of their attraction in the way sophisticated men and women do who are not necessarily looking for attachment but something more fleeting: momentary pleasure, momentary escape.

While she understood the allure escape held for her, she was hard pressed to imagine the allure of escape for a man like Haviland North, whose life was already perfect. And yet what did she know of him? He was here after all, wasn’t he? In Paris, hundreds of miles and a body of water way from home. The Tour itself was an escape of sorts and those on it escapees. It often stood to contrary reason that the more perfect something looked on the outside, the more rotten it was on the inside. What imperfections might the handsome viscount have, hidden away behind those blue eyes? It did make a girl wonder what he might be running from, and there was nothing sexier than a man shrouded in intrigue.

It was part of her mission to peel away those perfect outer layers and get to those imperfections beneath. Of course, she wouldn’t peel all those layers tonight. That took time and trust. Tonight was about establishing the latter. ‘Do you see the shrub shaped as a dog?’ She pointed to the shape near a fountain. ‘It was modelled after Madame Aguillard’s favourite hunting hound. The fountain itself is made from marble imported from Italy.’

‘Very impressive.’ North said, walking beside her, his hand always at her back, offering a physical reminder of his presence.

‘Very expensive, if you ask me,’ Alyssandra shot back. It had always struck her as foolish to have imported the marble at extra cost when there were quarries nearby. It was darker now. There were fewer lanterns and even fewer guests in this remote corner of the garden. Her pulse began to leap. They’d reached their destination—somewhere private.

‘It seems we have reached the perimeter of the garden.’ North commented, his eyes full of mischief. ‘What do you suppose we do now?’

Alyssandra wet her lips and turned towards him so they were no longer side by side, but face to face. ‘I’ve talked far too long. You could tell me about yourself. What brings you to Paris?’ She stepped closer, drawing a long line down the white linen of his chest with her fan. She’d genuinely like to know. She’d spent the past three weeks making up stories in her mind about what he was doing in France.

But she’d not come out to the garden to acquire a thorough history of Viscount Amersham. That would come in time, as those layers came off. Tonight was about making first impressions, ones that would eventually lead to...more. Even so, she rather doubted her brother had expected ‘more’ to involve stealing away to the dark corners of Madame Aguillard’s garden with somewhat illicit intentions. Julian, on the other hand, had envisioned exactly such manoeuvres when he’d suggested Madame D’Aramitz.

‘I could tell you my life story,’ he drawled, his eyes darkening to a deep sapphire. ‘Or perhaps we might do something more interesting.’ Those sapphire eyes dropped to her mouth, signalling his definition of ‘interesting’ and her breath caught. Something more interesting, please.

It was hard to say who kissed whom. His head had angled towards her in initiation, but she had stepped into him, welcoming the advance of his mouth on hers, the meeting of their bodies; gentian-blue skirts pressed black-clad thighs, corseted breasts met the muscled firmness of his chest beneath white linen.

Her mouth opened for him, letting his tongue tangle with hers in a sensual duel. She met his boldness with boldness of her own, tasting the fruity sweetness of champagne where it lingered on his tongue. Life pulsed through her as she nipped his lip, and he growled low in his throat, his arm pressing her to the hard contours of him. She moved against his hips, challenging him, knowing full well this bordered on madness. Desire was rising between them, hot and heady.

‘You are bold for an Englishman.’ She sucked at his earlobe until she elicited another growl of arousal.

‘Is that a problem?’ he whispered hoarsely against her throat, his lips nuzzling the column of her neck, his hands moving over her rib cage, warm and sure. A hand closed decadently over a breast, a thumb offering a circling caress over the fabric of her nipple. It was both a siren song and a swan’s song. This had to end.

‘It is if I have to go and I do.’ She summoned the shreds of her resolve. If she didn’t pull away, she’d end up half-naked in the garden, her dress around her waist and his hands on her breasts. The only layers that would end up being peeled would be hers and that would hardly bring him back for more.

Alyssandra stepped away, smoothing her skirts, taking a formal tone designed to cool anyone’s growing ardour. ‘It has been a most enjoyable evening, monsieur le vicomte.’

‘Perhaps you might call me Haviland,’ he offered abruptly as if the use of his title offended him. She thought she understood. After such an intimacy he wanted to be a man, not a title. It was not so different from the reason she was reluctant to give him her own name.

‘Bon nuit, then, Haviland.’ She dropped a little curtsy in a flirty farewell. Maybe she would escape this encounter unexposed after all.

She turned to go. His hand closed on her arm. ‘Not so fast, my lady of mystery.’ His voice held a tone of authority beneath the seduction. ‘While we’ve had some pleasure tonight, one pleasure yet eludes me. Might I have your name?’

She did not mistake it for a request that could be denied or flirted away. How would Haviland North, Viscount Amersham, a man used to power and obedience, feel about her name now? Would he be angry? Would he feel betrayed or used? She dropped her eyes, assuming a demure, penitent posture. ‘May I tell you a secret?’

‘Absolutely. I love secrets.’ His voice was a sensual whisper close to her ear, but she did not miss the firmness in it. His tolerance had limits.

‘I must beg your forgiveness. I fear I have had you at a disadvantage.’ She looked up beneath her lashes, gauging his reaction.

‘Ah, so it’s absolution you’re seeking.’ His eyes narrowed in assessment.

‘Not absolution, sanctuary. If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.’ She let her eyes dance, building the mystery so that he would promise her anything to hear her secret.

He leaned close, a smile on his lips. She could smell the clean scent of linen and sandalwood soap on him, ‘Sanctuary it is, then. Tell me your secret.’ Good, curiosity had got the better of him. She hoped bad judgement hadn’t got the better of her.

She locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’

* * *

Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?

This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.

‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.

‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.

‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’

Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.

Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.

‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’