Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel

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.’

‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.

‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.

Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’

‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’

But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.

‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’

Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride came in. Had she’d been told to do those things or had they been part of the natural chemistry at work between them? Which all came back to the initial question: Had she known him before he’d said his name?

She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.

‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.

‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’

A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?

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

‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.

‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland North. Alyssandra buttered a piece of bread with unnecessary fierceness. ‘It was just a kiss, Antoine.’ Had he forgotten she’d once been highly sought after before their fortunes had changed?

‘Why? This is not what we’d talked about. You were supposed to talk to him, not kiss him.’ Antoine fought to keep his voice from rising. ‘It’s not just a kiss! Who knows what he’ll be thinking now.’

‘It hardly matters what he thinks. He’ll only be here long enough for you to make some money on him and that’s all that matters to you and Julian,’ Alyssandra shot back uncharitably. How dare he ask her to play this double masquerade and then question her execution of it.

‘Yes, plenty of money; money from lessons, money from the tournament when I wager on him. Money for the salle when people see the kind of fencer we can turn out. That money keeps you in this fine house, keeps you in gowns like the one you wore last night,’ Antoine retorted sharply.

She supposed she deserved that. It was an unfair shot on her part. Money always made Antoine prickly. He was acutely aware of the limits of his ability to provide for them. There was always enough, but just enough. She bit her tongue against the temptation to remind him just how much of that money she helped earn. He would not appreciate it and she already had one black mark against her this morning.

‘Since he truly is only here a short while there’s really no harm in it, is there?’ Alyssandra soothed. She sensed there was something else bothering him. She felt terrible. Guilt niggled at her for causing her brother angst. She wanted to believe there was no harm in last night’s kiss, that she could indulge herself just a little. At times she felt that she had become a recluse, too, along with Antoine.

Before his accident, she used to go out to all nature of entertainments. She used to dance, ride in the parks and the woods outside town, shop with her friends—many of whom had long since married and had children. Now, she seldom went out at all. When she did it was only in the evenings after the work at the salle was done.

At first, she’d stayed in because she felt guilty about dancing and riding when Antoine, who’d loved those activities, could no longer do them. They’d been things the two of them had done together and it seemed disloyal to her twin to enjoy them without him. In the early days after his accident, there had been nursing to occupy her. Then, there simply hadn’t been time. Antoine had needed her at the salle and at home. Any attempts at maintaining her old social life had eventually faded, replaced by other needs.

‘We have to be careful,’ Antoine said. ‘A conversation is one thing, but a kiss might have him sniffing around even more than he would have otherwise and that’s hardly solving the problem.’

Alyssandra knew too well how fragile their masquerade was, how lucky they were it had lasted this long and how little it would take to see it all undone. Everything was done covertly. They kept only the most loyal of staff. No one could see Antoine leaving the house or entering the salle, carried by his manservant. No one could come to the house. Antoine conducted all his business in writing or at the salle where he had Julian and her to act as his legs.

She understood maintaining the ruse was a great sacrifice on Antoine’s part, too. If he allowed everyone to know his injury was lingering, he could go about publicly in his chair, or with his manservant. He could attend musicales and plays, the opera, picnics even. But to do so would mean the end of the salle and the end of their income. Ironically, without income and means there would be no social invitations to such events. They would be nothing more than the impoverished children of a dead vicomte. It was not a bargain Antoine could afford to make. So in exchange for social security, Antoine had fashioned a secretive, reclusive life for himself—a life that consisted of his family home, the elegant Hôtel Leodegrance in the sixth arondissement, his father’s salle and his sister’s well-being; three things only after a life that had been full of so much more.

‘I’m sorry.’ Alyssandra bowed her head. She had been selfish last night. She should not have kissed Haviland North. She should have resisted the temptation to seize a little pleasure for herself when Antoine could seize none. All the choices he had made had been for her, for them. She should do the same. They were all each other had left. Perhaps that was what was worrying him this morning—a fear of losing her.