Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel

‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.

‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.

Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.

What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.

Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.

Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’

That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.

‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.

‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’

‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard about it in London. It’s entirely plausible he’s become a bit reclusive as a result. It’s not as if Anjou’s explanations about the scars don’t make sense,’ Haviland argued. Perhaps Nolan was right. He just needed to stop brooding. When Archer pressed him to see a conspiracy, he simply couldn’t come up with a motive for such efforts. Perhaps that was what Archer intended all along; to make him see the foolishness of his notions. A silent look of comprehension passed between them.

Archer smiled in confirmation. Haviland had read him aright. Archer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Put it to bed, old friend, and have some fun. You need a distraction. Perhaps I could get our hostess to introduce you to one. There’s several pretty ones here tonight.’

The crowd around them ebbed, affording Haviland a glimpse across the room. Archer shifted to the right to deposit his empty glass on a passing tray and there she was—a distraction to end all distractions. She must have come late. He would have noticed her earlier otherwise. She was the sort of woman who could command a man’s attention without doing a thing. She was proving it right now, simply standing against a wall and stealing his breath along with any ability to formulate coherent thought.

‘Archer, don’t move. I think I’ve found my distraction.’ She was a stunning brunette in an evening gown of crinkled taffeta the shade of gentian blue. The gown was plain by French standards, unadorned with ruffles or embroidered hems, yet the plainness lent itself to an understated elegance, as did the exquisite tailoring. For all its lack of affectations, this was not a poor woman’s gown and no one would mistake the wearer for a peasant.

‘I take it it’s not a masked man?’ Archer raised an interested eyebrow, but remained obediently frozen.

‘Hardly.’ Haviland inclined his head in the smallest of gestures for Archer to follow his gaze. ‘Turn your head slowly and remember I saw her first.’ He did see her, the woman beyond the dress. When he looked at her, he saw the confidence of her carriage, the delicate beauty of her very bone structure that declared her a woman of high birth. There was strength, too, in that delicacy. This was no retiring wallflower and yet she was alone.

Archer smirked. ‘What are you thinking?’

Haviland gave him a wry grin that spoke volumes. ‘I’m thinking I’m looking at Plan B.’ One last affaire, one last opportunity to drink from passion’s cup before settling into his marriage. He might not have chosen Christina Everly, but neither had she chosen him. He would not shame her with infidelities after they wed, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their union. Until then, however, a gentleman need feel no such restraint, especially if travelling abroad.

The woman in question looked their direction, catching his stare, the slight raise of his eyebrow. She answered his silent enquiry with the flick of her wrist, her fan opening in a sophisticated gesture that covered just the bottom of her face. Haviland’s gaze dropped to her hands. She held the fan in her left, and Haviland smiled at the discreet sign to approach. Negotiations complete. Beside him, Archer let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Now, that’s a woman to cross a room for.’

‘I doubt men stop there,’ Haviland said under his breath. They’d cross mountains, even oceans for her. She was the sort of woman who could wreck a lesser man, one given to baser instincts and spontaneity. Thank goodness he wasn’t such a man. ‘Here, hold this for me.’ Haviland handed his flute to Archer.

‘Why? Do you think you’ll be back for it?’

Haviland chuckled. ‘With luck, no’, and then he crossed the room.

* * *

Alyssandra felt a little tremor of anxious anticipation skate down her spine, so strong was her awareness of him. His eyes were on her, piercing and intense, demanding she meet his gaze as he approached, demanding she be aware of him. But it was too late to back out of this exquisite deception. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d orchestrated her evening around in the hopes of it happening.

She’d not known with certainty that he’d be here, but she’d known it was highly possible. The odds had favoured her. Madame Aguillard’s soirée in the seventh arondissement was a coveted invitation and the Englishman and his friends had become coveted guests in certain circles. Men with money and connections could not be kept secret for long, and North was positively delicious on both accounts. He had looks and was heir to a title and a fortune, both English, which made him more impressive than his Continental counterparts. French nobles and Italian contes were thick on the ground and notoriously light in the pockets. In short, Haviland was the stuff of mothers’ dreams. Even French mamans.

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 (#uda4e34eb-cb5f-5662-9883-a01b2747c530)

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.