Surrender The Heart
Surrender The Heart
Nina Beaumont
Christopher Blanchard Was Everything She'd Ever Needed…Yet Didn't Want Ariane de Valmont prized her independence above all else, and to secure it, she'd struck a seductive bargain with a tantalizing American. Now she feared that in this heart's gamble, le beau sauvage , as Parisian society had named him, held all the cards… .The son of scandal, Chris Blanchard caused a sensation among the "beau monde," intending to settle old scores and quickly be gone again. Until he was caught by the gaze of Ariane de Valmont, whose eyes bespoke a forever kind of love… .
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u868f96f9-d35a-5032-b4f5-af8e17900010)
Excerpt (#ubb2406f3-0b3c-5eb6-ba50-7ef676f5dd30)
Dear Reader (#u8941b8e0-ab9c-5059-95d0-4b2b3d0812e3)
Title Page (#u0589aaae-828e-5490-ba38-f839ab4e4a03)
About The Author (#uae17002a-8ca5-5691-b5cf-7f08319f98ec)
Dedication (#u1316d4e2-badd-54f8-9016-bb829233f719)
Chapter One (#u960d0986-5d5f-5bb4-a948-52e7abd041c9)
Chapter Two (#u1b7cfd9b-b9bc-5a6e-91ca-c56f7d4d534d)
Chapter Three (#u0dc8092e-4b13-5f89-93d0-3c4812527962)
Chapter Four (#ud2ad3ded-c30b-582e-bf2f-f6c448982238)
Chapter Five (#u6c7d63c6-3c5a-5a2f-8002-b1318987c86c)
Chapter Six (#u668ef7e8-a07b-50eb-b86b-bbe716a1f20b)
Chapter Seven (#u2189f893-d6a9-596d-8788-1ff0a99afd07)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Her beauty was delicate, but there
was nothing fragile about it.
And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.
“Bon soir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”
“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”
“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”
“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all…!”
Dear Reader
In Nina Beaumont’s new historical, Surrender the Heart, a brash American and an independent Frenchwoman make a dangerous bargain. He will court her to keep away unwanted suitors, and she, in return, will allow him the chance to seduce her. But the two are unprepared for the passionate love that develops between them in this sizzling story set in nineteenth-century Paris.
In Bogus Bride, by Australian author Emily French, a spirited young woman must convince her new husband that although he had intended to marry her sister, she is his true soul mate. And in Knights Divided by Suzanne Barclay, a medieval tale from one of our most popular authors, a young woman finds herself embroiled in a maelstrom of passion and deceit when she kidnaps the rogue whom she believes murdered her sister.
And in our final selection for the month, Judith Stacy’s heartwarming Western, Outlaw Love, a Federal Marshal on the trail of a gang of female outlaws doesn’t realize that the woman he’s falling in love with is their leader.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical novel. Keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell,
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Surrender The Heart
Nina Beaumont
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NINA BEAUMONT
is of Russian parentage and has a family tree that includes the Counts Stroganoff and a Mongolian khan. A real cosmopolitan, she was born in Salzburg and grew up in Massachusetts before moving to Austria, where she lived for twenty-five years.
Although she has relocated to the Seattle area, her European ties are still strong, so she plans to stick with the exotic settings she has had the opportunity to get to know firsthand.
Books and music are her first loves, but she also enjoys painting watercolors and making pottery.
To Loma and Ed Hudgens—
thank you for making me part of your family.
My heartfelt thanks to:
my editor, Tracy Farrell, and she and I know why;
my writer friends, Sonya Jorgensen, Suzanne Neel and
Mike Miller, for their brainstorming help
when I was in need.
Chapter One (#ulink_1de4612b-76cd-5433-b597-50604572e663)
Paris, October 1855
“Ariane, if you don’t take that bored look off your face, you’re never going to get a husband.”
Ariane de Valmont barely managed to suppress the temptation to roll her eyes in exasperation. Curving her mouth into the semblance of a smile, she shifted so that she faced the stage more fully. Perhaps, she thought, maman would not be able to see the expression on her face quite so precisely from this angle.
She refused to be amused, even though the catchy tunes of the Offenbach operetta tempted her to tap her foot and the antics of the very human Greek gods frolicking around on the stage were hilarious. Instead, she let her gaze wander around the audience.
The theater, charming despite its overabundance of gilt decorations and red velvet, was full and the lights had been only partly dimmed in deference to the fact that the audience itself was as much part of the entertainment as what took place on the stage. The ladies, either alone or in the company of parents, chaperons or, since this was Paris, after all, lovers, occupied the boxes. The men, who were either unattached or pretending to be so, were in the stalls. She might be the only one whose mood was not in tune with the gaiety that seemed to pervade the theater like the opulent scent of a sensual perfume, Ariane noted sullenly, but she was certainly not the only one whose attention was elsewhere than on the stage.
Smiles, flutters of fans, flirtatious looks flew back and forth with dizzying speed. It was just like a horse fair back home, she thought with a sniff. Men came from all around the area with their horses, the manes and tails braided with bright-colored ribbons, hoping to attract a rich buyer. The only difference here was that the price for a wife who was blue-blooded and rich or for a beautiful, accomplished mistress was infinitely higher—for the buyer and the seller both.
The thought that she was no different from them all did not improve her mood one bit. Her father had dragged her to Paris to make a broodmare out of her, she thought grimly. All her father cared about were male heirs for the Valmont fortune.
So, here she was on display, her fair hair carefully coiffed and wearing a highly fashionable and extravagantly expensive gown of pale lavender silk. The thought alone of just how much the haughty Parisian dressmaker, who had descended on their chateau with her army of seamstresses for a whole month, had cost, soured Ariane’s mood still further.
She had tried to point out to papa that they would be far better off if they used the money for repairs on the stables. But he had merely given a disparaging wave and reminded her that they had plenty of money. She had not bothered to mention that the only reason they did was that she spent her time diplomatically circumventing every decision he made about how the estate was to be run.
Tucking her chin into the palm of one hand, she looked down at the stalls. The men, she decided, were as given to smiles and flirtatious glances as the women. Her eyebrows, which were shades darker than her golden hair, curved upward in a discreetly derisive gesture.
They all seemed to be wearing either elegant black and white evening dress or uniforms decorated with such quantities of gold braid that she was sure they would not have been out of place on a stage. Their sideburns were lavishly curled, their mustaches raffishly twirled, and they all looked as if they had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. How could her father possibly expect her to choose a husband from such a sorry collection of fops, she asked herself irritably—even if she had been disposed to want a husband at all?
Suddenly her gaze stumbled and came to an abrupt stop.
It was his hair that caught her attention first. The tawny mane with just a touch of curl brushed his shoulders in contradiction of every fashionable dictate, making him look like a lion in the middle of so many motley tomcats. And the color! It was streaked in a dozen different shades of blond—from the color of pale, sun-bleached wheat to a deep honey color. Although she was not aware of it, her fingers curled with the unconscious desire to touch it.
Her gaze followed the straight, clear lines of his profile, which reminded her of faces she had seen on Roman coins. She had always wondered what a profile like that looked like from the front.
As if he had divined her thought, he turned slightly and looked up directly at her. Not even thinking to look away or disguise her perusal behind her fan, she kept her gaze on his face, wishing that she could see the color of his eyes.
Ariane did not know it, but her eyes lost that studiously bored look, the corners of her mouth tipped up in the barest hint of a smile and her stiffly held shoulders softened enough for her mother to slant her a look.
Comtesse Marguerite de Valmont saw the expression on her daughter’s face change and smiled. Leaning back in her gilt and red velvet chair, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It would be all right after all, she thought, and turned her attention toward her husband.
The Greek gods capering on the stage coaxed an absent half smile onto Christopher Blanchard’s mouth, but most of his attention was on the people in the audience. He’d lived in too many places where your chances for survival rose in proportion to your ability to judge precisely and instantaneously the people you were dealing with. And from his own childhood experiences in Paris twenty years ago he knew all too well that Parisian society could be quite as deadly as any gold town in California, if perhaps more subtly so. And yet, he thought, it was this very Parisian society that his father had pined for all his life.
Chris had been in Paris a week, long enough to acquire an exquisitely tailored wardrobe and to comprehend that the main motor of Parisian society was the pursuit of pleasure, money and power.
He had also ascertained that Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux, his father’s sister, still lived in the same severe mansion that he remembered all too well. And he had discovered that the money from the sale of the gold mine, which he and his father had jointly owned, had gone to buy shares floated by an investment bank that belonged to his half brother.
His roving gaze paused as it brushed a woman attractive in the way of a full-blown rose. She was leaning against the balustrade of her box, her crossed arms beneath her breasts unapologetically emphasizing her creamy bosom. Meeting his gaze, she plucked a flower from the bouquet that lay in front of her and slid it over her mouth in flagrant invitation.
“Suzette Lavalier is one of the most expensive courtesans in Paris,” his neighbor murmured. “But rumor has it that her skill is worth every franc and more.”
“Actually my taste runs to women who have not been sampled by half the male population.” Chris grinned at Roger de Monnier. He felt comfortable in the younger man’s company although their acquaintance was only a few days old. “I’m not nearly old enough to need a woman’s skill.” His grin grew just a shade wicked. “And besides, I like to think that I have skill enough for both of us.”
“I’m certain you won’t have a problem finding what you want.” He smiled back at Chris, wondering if there was some way he could duplicate the American’s not-quite-civilized aura that seemed to attract so many inviting female stares. “Paris has something for every taste.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
As they both turned back to face the stage, Chris felt a tingle at the back of his neck. He tipped his head up and to the side and unerringly homed in on the eyes watching him.
The eyes were dark, although he could not quite discern the color at that distance. They belonged to a face with the tiny, perfect features of a porcelain doll. Yet there was strength there beneath the delicate beauty—even a touch of imperiousness. She might look like a soft Aphrodite who would come easily to a man’s bed, but he suspected that she was a proud Athena instead. She would fight surrender, he mused, but if conquered, she would give delight beyond measure. And right now she was looking at him with undisguised interest.
He felt the jolt right down to the pit of his belly. A jolt that spread a heat not unlike the fire of whiskey on an empty stomach.
His gaze drifted down to her mouth. The corners tilted upward in the merest hint of a smile as she continued to look at him with an openness and a concentration that another man might have found either unnerving or ill-bred. Chris, on the other hand, found himself inordinately pleased and decided to answer in kind. Instead of the discreet bow that convention would have demanded of him, he tilted his head back in a gesture that was more a challenge than a decorous greeting.
He watched the young woman’s mouth turn serious again. Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes narrowed slightly, but she still did not look away. No, she kept watching him, and under her gaze, he felt the heat in his belly spread. Well, well, he thought as his mouth curved, perhaps his stay in Paris would bring him a few new, pleasant memories to replace the old, ugly ones.
Ariane watched the stranger tip back his head. She was not well-versed in the games men and women engaged in, but she understood a challenge better than most. Although she frowned, wondering just what it was that he was challenging her to and why, she was distracted by the sheer, untamed beauty of the man. The movement of his head had his incredible mane of hair rippling back so that it caught the light and she found herself wondering—consciously this time—what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.
When she saw his mouth tilt upward in a smile that managed to be both boyishly charming and insolent, the horrible thought that he had read her mind had her stiffening. Still, pride would not allow her to look away.
“Roger, do you know the girl up there?” Chris did not shift his gaze away from her face as he spoke. “The golden-haired one in the lavender gown.”
Roger de Monnier leaned forward, and recognizing the young woman, lowered his head in a well-mannered bow.
“That is Ariane de Valmont. Comtesse Ariane de Val-mont. She and her parents have come to Paris for the season,” he said. “She’s older than most of the debutantes, apparently. God knows why her parents kept her buried in the country for so long. No hint of scandal though,” he hastened to add. “Would you like me to present you?”
Roger felt a flicker of regret. He had been rather taken with the young countess himself, but now, seeing the way she and his new friend were staring at each other, he had no illusions about his chances with her.
“I would like that.” Chris sent his friend a quick smile before his gaze returned to the young woman.
“Chris?”
“Mmm?”
“She is a young lady of good family.” Roger gnawed at his lower lip, not quite sure how to phrase what he wanted to say without insulting his friend. “And this is not—” he coughed discreetly “—the American West”.
Slowly Chris turned to face him fully and Roger almost recoiled at the way his pale green eyes had cooled. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry, mon ami. I may be an uncivilized American in your eyes, but my parents were easily the equals of anyone here tonight and more. I know what conduct your society demands—” he paused and raised a tawny eyebrow “—on the surface.”
“I meant no insult.”
Chris relaxed and smiled. “Then I will not take it as one.”
In unison, both men turned back to the stage where the singers had arranged themselves for the finale of the act.
Damn, Chris swore at himself. Why had he let Mon-nier’s words get to him like that? He had been so certain that he no longer cared what they thought of him. Wasn’t that why he had come here? To put all those old ghosts to rest? To exorcise all the old memories?
All these years he had told himself that none of them mattered any longer. Now he realized that he had been lying to himself. The memories still hurt. He still cared.
Applause surged up in a wave as the curtain came down, but most of the audience was already engaged in orchestrating the intermission.
Ariane had carefully kept her gaze on the stage for the past minutes. Now, as the audience began to chat and move around, she allowed her eyes to drift back over the stalls. The blond man’s seat was empty and she suppressed the sting of disappointment, assuring herself that she cared nothing about his whereabouts.
“I think I’ll go visit Justine de Monnier in her box,” she said, turning toward her mother. But she saw that her mother was not listening to her. Instead, she was looking up her husband with undisguised adoration, hanging on to every word of whatever it was he was saying to her.
Shrugging, she rose, but before she could move away from her chair, her father shot her a displeased look.
“Sit down, Ariane,” Pierre de Valmont said. “I’ve told you that one stays in one’s box at intermission to receive visitors.”
“If everyone stays in their box, then who are the visitors?” she asked with a feigned artlessness.
“Don’t be impudent. Now s—”
A knock at the door to their box interrupted him.
“You see,” the Comte de Valmont said, pleased, his irritation with his daughter forgotten.
Ariane returned to her chair with a huff. “If it’s that pudgy little duke with the pig’s eyes,” she retorted,
“Will be polite,” her father finished firmly and invited the visitors to enter.
As the man with the mane of tawny hair stepped into the box, Ariane’s mouth went dry.
Chapter Two (#ulink_62cde085-d71c-5b75-932b-9d01dc82b77f)
He was even taller than Ariane had imagined, his shoulders uncommonly, almost indecorously broad. His severely elegant evening clothes were perfectly tailored, but that only seemed to call attention to the aura of wild-ness that clung to him. Certainly he did not look even remotely like the idle young men she had met in the past week.
Ariane stared at him, hearing neither the babble of pleasantries as her parents greeted Roger de Monnier nor the shocked gasp in the box adjacent to theirs.
“May I present my friend, Christopher Blanchard.” Although it pained his Gallic sensibilities, Roger said the name as Chris had told him it was pronounced in America. “He comes from America.”
“You are an American? How interesting.” Marguerite de Valmont smiled vapidly. “We had a visitor from America recently. Where was the gentleman from, chéri?” She looked up at her husband.
“Where was he from?” Valmont passed the question on to his daughter.
“Virginia, papa.”
“Ah, yes,” Valmont said. “A very pleasant gentleman. He purchased several of our horses. He rubbed his hands lightly as he remembered. “Une bonne affaire. An excellent deal.”
Yes, Ariane thought with a touch of acrimony, it had been an excellent deal. But only because she had spent the week haggling with this very pleasant gentleman over one card game after another.
“And where are you from?”
Pierre de Valmont’s voice had the interrogative tone typical of fathers of unmarried daughters, reminding Chris of Roger’s words. It occurred to him that in California, a question like that would be more likely to elicit a challenge to a fight than an answer, but his voice showed no trace of irritation when he spoke.
“I’ve moved around a great deal, but I’ve lived in California for a number of years now.”
California? The image of desert. and ocean and hot sun was so real that Ariane could almost feel the heat on her bared shoulders. Was it the hot sun which had made his hair that fabulous color, which had bronzed his skin? The men of Provence, where she had spent most of her life, were a handsome lot, but she had never seen a man of such pagan beauty. Suddenly painfully aware that she had been staring, she looked away.
“Are you in Paris on business or pleasure?” Valmont inquired.
“I have interests here that require looking after. But I am certain that being in Paris will also be a pleasure.”
Valmont nodded, marginally relieved. After all, a man who had business interests in France was most likely not a complete barbarian, even if his shoulder-length hair and insolent eyes made him look like a Viking intent on plunder.
His gaze drifted to his daughter and he swore to himself. It was the very devil to guard the virtue of a daughter—especially when the daughter had more intelligence and energy than was good for her. Too bad her intelligence had not extended to choosing a husband from one of the many perfectly acceptable sons of the other landowners.
Well, he thought, he was going to make sure that she had a husband before they left Paris. A husband who would give her the sons to inherit the fortune he had built. With a sigh, he returned to his duties as host.
Ariane held herself aloof from the conversation, irritated at the way her parents were quizzing this man. The American was not very loquacious, she remarked, responding to questions in faultless French, but volunteering no additional information. Paradoxically, she found his reticence annoying, although she deplored those self-important mentions about lineage or wealth that most other men made.
“We are looking forward to seeing you at our ball.” Roger turned to Ariane. “My sister Justine has spoken of little else since she made your acquaintance the other evening.”
“And I am looking forward to seeing her.” And she-truly was wanting to see again the young girl who was everything that she was not—tall and willowy, with hair the color of pitch, and perfectly at ease in the whirl of balls, carriage rides and flirtation.
He was watching her, Ariane thought, as she kept up the stream of polite chatter. She could feel it as surely as if he were touching her. He was challenging her again, just as he had before. Only this time, she understood that he was challenging her to look at him because he knew perfectly well that she was avoiding it.
She was being rude, she knew, but that thought disturbed her less than the thought that he might think her a coward. Or worse, that he was laughing at her.
Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him. His eyes, which were the clear, cool green of a mountain stream, held a faint amusement that had her forgetting her unsureness, her embarrassment in the face of the surge of annoyance.
He knows just how attractive he is, she thought with an instinctive understanding that went far beyond her experience. He is so aware of the power of his charm that he expects all women to fall at his feet. But despite her irritation, she found that she could not remove herself completely from his allure.
“What do you think of all this, Monsieur Blan-chard?” She made a small circular gesture with her fan. “How does it compare to California?”
“Paris is Paris, of course,” he said smoothly, “but people, in essence, are the same everywhere.”
“Do you really think so?”
The sharp inquiry in her tone pleased him far more than docile agreement would have. “You don’t?”
“Actually, no.” Her eyes moved over him boldly, as if her uneasiness of a few moments ago had never been. “I somehow doubt that you are anything like anyone I have met in Paris.” Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug. “Or elsewhere for that matter.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He grinned, making it perfectly clear that he considered it the former.
Unable to resist, she grinned back. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made up my mind.”
Helpless, Valmont watched Ariane flirt with the large, handsome American. She was truly impossible, he thought. He had never seen her quite as animated with other, more suitable men.
“Shall we have some champagne now?” Valmont signaled to the waiting footman to fill the champagne flutes.
“To a pleasant stay in Paris for all of you.” Roger de Monnier raised his glass. “And a long one.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Chris said, his eyes not moving from Ariane’s face.
Ariane lifted her glass and sipped, watching the American over the rim of her flute. His eyes of that unusual transparent green were lit with male interest. In the past week she had been the recipient of enough such looks to be able to identify it. But while she had easily shrugged off the interest of all those insipid, dull young men, she suddenly found herself unwilling to look away from this man’s eyes, which held heat and challenge and that maddening trace of amusement.
Chris watched her, waiting for her to flutter the golden-tipped eyelashes that fringed her fabulous eyes, which were the rich color of amethysts, or send him a flirtatious smile, or hide coquettishly behind her fan. But she did none of those things. Instead she kept watching him, her eyes and mouth serious, as if she were measuring him. It occurred to him that he had never seen a woman with such a capacity for stillness before.
“And you, comtesse? Are you looking forward to it?”
His voice was soft and insinuating and, despite her lack of experience, Ariane recognized the ripple of excitement that traveled down her spine for what it was. She smiled, for the first time in weeks feeling no rancor that her parents had dragged her off to Paris.
“Yes,” she said, “I am.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
A melodious gong sounded, signaling the end of intermission, and Chris stood and bowed over the hand she held out to him.
“The first waltz tomorrow night,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears. “The first and the last.”
“I’ll have to check my dance card.” She tipped up her chin. “I don’t know if they’re still free.”
“The first and the last waltz, comtesse.” His smile was very white and very wicked in his bronzed face. “Some things are not negotiable.”
Ariane felt her pulse skitter as he held her eyes for a long moment before he turned toward her parents.
“I thank you for your hospitality.” Chris bowed over Marguerite de Valmont’s hand.
As he turned away, his gaze brushed over the woman staring at him from the adjacent box. And all the old, ugly memories came flooding over him.
“What insolence,” Ariane said to no one in particular when the box door had closed behind the two men. Shrugging with a not quite successful attempt at nonchalance, she turned back toward the audience. “But at least he’s not boring.”
“Really, Ariane,” Valmont said, “I fail to understand you.”
“Don’t worry, papa,” Ariane said without looking at her father. She knew just what kind of face he was making. “I’m not planning to marry the man.”
“Good God,” Valmont sputtered. “I hope not. Not when you have men like the Duc de Santerre dancing attendance on you.”
Chris sat staring into a glass of brandy he had yet to touch.
Nothing had changed, he realized. The moment he had seen Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux in the box, he had been catapulted back in time.
He had stood, his small, sweaty hand in his father’s larger one, looking up with longing at the tall, fair-haired woman who resembled his father so strongly. She had smelled like some kind of flower and he had desperately wanted her to stroke his cheek with her soft hands, just like maman had always done before she had gone away to live among the angels.
But she had not touched him. She had not even really looked at him.
“I don’t know what you could be thinking of to subject me to the presence of your filthy, little bastard,” she’d said. “Really, Charles, apparently living among those savages in America has made you forget good manners completely.”
He remembered the sharp sound of her voice as if it had been yesterday. And he remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he had tried to understand why she looked at him with such disgust.
And he discovered that now, twenty years later, the memory still hurt.
“May I abduct your daughter?” Justine de Monnier’s chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as she floated up to the Valmonts in a fussy gown of pink satin and cream-colored lace. Barely waiting for the Valmonts’ reply, she tucked Ariane’s arm into hers and strolled off.
“I’m going to tell you who everyone is.” With a coquettish smile Justine acknowledged a greeting from one young man and then another without missing a beat.
Her eyes amused, Ariane’s eyebrows curved upward. “Is the ball going to last a week then?” Justine’s words should have irritated her, she thought, since she cared nothing about who “everyone” was, but somehow the younger girl’s enthusiasm was infectious.
Justine’s laughter chimed. “Only the ones who are someone, of course,” she clarified.
“That’s good to hear, but couldn’t we sneak into the game room instead?”
“That would be very naughty of us.” Justine giggled. “It’s frowned upon for unmarried young women, you know.”
“I know.” Ariane sighed at the thought that even this diversion was closed to her. At least on those rare occasions when she had found herself at some festivity at home, she had seldom had a problem finding a lively card game—if worst came to worst, in the stables.
“Oh!”
Ariane heard the soft gasp and glanced at Justine, who had snapped open her fan with an elegant flick of her wrist and was fluttering it daintily. Ariane wondered how many hours in front of a mirror it had taken the girl to achieve such perfection. Justine’s eyes had become as round as coins and Ariane automatically followed the direction of her gaze.
When she found her own gaze trapped by Christopher Blanchard’s eyes, she felt like a fly that had inadvertently walked into a honey pot. She told herself that the small flicker in the pit of her stomach was not excitement but dismay.
“Do you see that man with Roger?” Justine’s voice was just short of reverent. “The one staring at us so shamelessly.” Her breath caught in an excited little hiccup. “Oh, mon Dieu.” She pressed her hand against her bosom. “Where did Roger find him and who is he?”
“I don’t know where your brother found him, but his name is Christopher Blanchard and he’s an American.”
He was still looking at her as if challenging her to be the first one to look away, so she stared back, unwilling to lose this small battle.
Justine’s fan went suddenly still and dropped several inches, revealing her Cupid’s bow mouth, which was slightly open in surprise. “You know who he is?” She moved closer and gave Ariane’s arm a small pinch under the cover of her fan. “You’re staring.”
“I know.” Annoyance stirring, Ariane did not move except to raise her chin another notch. “It’s a contest.”
Her face remained composed, but her eyes grew turbulent. Her fingers on her lace and ivory fan tightened, but she did not notice. But she was very aware that the blood had begun to rush in her veins as quickly as a river swollen with the spring rains.
His image had floated through her dreams last night, but the reality of the man, so large and bronzed, so very male, had her heart drumming. It is nothing remarkable, she assured herself. It is no different from the way your heartbeat picks up the moment before you take up a hand of cards when the stakes are high. At the moment, the fatal precision of her observation escaped her.
A moment later her view was obstructed by the pudgy figure of the young Duc de Santerre.
“I am enchanted to see you here tonight, comtesse.” His beatific smile had his almost colorless eyes disappearing into the folds of soft, pink flesh. “May I have the honor of dancing the first waltz with you?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur le duc. I am promised.” Her father’s instructions forgotten, the words slipped out as if they had a will of their own. Because she felt sorry for him, she gave him an especially warm smile. “One of the others perhaps?” she said rashly, regretting her words the moment they were said.
The young duke’s eyes disappeared again as, delighted at his good fortune, he watched Ariane write his name on her dance card. He opened his mouth to say something, but he saw that she had raised her head and was looking across the ballroom. He hovered over her a moment longer before he understood that he had been dismissed.
Her eyes trapped in the American’s gaze again, Ariane barely noticed as Santerre drifted off. He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment, and she saw that his eyes were amused and knowing.
Damn him. He knows that you saved the first waltz for him. You should have given it to Santerre.
Why cut off your nose to spite your face? Santerre’s conversation would put an insomniac to sleep and he’ll step on your toes besides.
And the American? What will he do to you?
As if to answer her question he moved then, striding across the ballroom toward her with a singleness of purpose that had the clusters of chatting people parting to let him pass. She stiffened her spine against the flutter in the pit of her stomach, admitting to the uneasiness, but not to the excitement.
She was truly lovely, Chris thought. She was tiny, her soft curves just on the verge of lush. And her skin! He had once seen pearls of that same color—a translucent milky white with just a blush of pink.
Her white gown, adorned only by tiny bunches of silk violets the exact color of her eyes, was almost severe in comparison to the creations decorated with lace and ruffles worn by the other women. And she stood very still, even when she was speaking, as if all that was going on around her concerned her not at all.
Her beauty was delicate, but there was nothing fragile about it. And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior, he thought. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.
“Bonsoir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”
“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”
“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”
“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all.”
“And to what then do I owe your—” he paused “—unusual acquiescence?”
Ariane knew that he was trying to provoke her and, determined not to be bested, she decided to answer him in kind.
“To the fact that your conversation is more amusing the Santerre’s.” She let her eyes move over him in a casual but thorough sweep. “And you look as if you will exhibit a certain grace on the dance floor.”
Justine let out a small, shocked gasp, but Ariane did not hear it as her own breath caught when Chris threw back his head and laughed. This was not a polite society laugh or a mocking chuckle, but a rich sound of amusement that was as physical as a touch. People around them stared, but Ariane did not notice, for she was fascinated by his laughter and by the way it made the bronzed skin of his throat ripple.
His mouth was still curved in a smile when his eyes returned to hers. “I am enchanted.”
It took some effort, but she managed to pull away from his magnetism.
“By what?” She frowned, bristling less at his words than at the amusement in his eyes.
Chris watched, fascinated, as her fabulous eyes iced over, even as they retained a heated flicker of anger.
“How do you do that?” he demanded softly, forgetting completely that she had asked him a question.
“Do what? What are you talking about?” Her brisk, impatient tone softened as she saw that the amusement in his eyes had fled and been replaced by heat. How could eyes of that cool green color carry such intense heat? she wondered.
“How do you make your eyes go as cold as an arctic night and yet the fire is still there?” He curled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides.
She stilled at the sound of his voice—low and yet somehow urgent. A shiver glided over her skin as if he had touched her. For a moment, she merely looked at him, unable to speak. Then forcibly shaking off the feeling, she tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her stormy eyes challenged him and Chris felt the blood begin to pound in his veins. Had he ever Wanted a woman so quickly, so urgently? Yes, she was lovely, he thought, but it was not just her beauty that lured him. Far more, it was her spirit—and the unbridled passion he sensed within her. He pulled in a deep breath and managed a casual smile. “I’ll explain it to you some other time.”
“Monsieur Blanchard—” Ariane drew herself up to her full height and cursed silently that she did not even reach the American’s shoulders. “I do not believe there will be some other time.”
“Oh, on the contrary.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “I promise you there will be.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”
“Not a threat. Even uncivilized Americans do not threaten beautiful young women.” He smiled. “It’s a promise.”
He wanted to lock her in a room and make love to her until she was out of his system, Chris thought, feeling his body tighten. It occurred to him that one did not need a great deal of imagination to construe a desire that strong as a threat.
“I have had quite enough of your promises, Monsieur Blanchard. And your demands.” She started to turn away. “You will excuse me.”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the musicians began to play the lilting introduction to a Strauss waltz.
“I believe this is my dance, comtesse.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_98dc45e5-7468-5497-a224-e4f825b826c6)
Even as Ariane turned away from him, Chris took her hand and, with his other hand at the small of her back, maneuvered her toward the dance floor so elegantly, so deftly that she knew there was no way she could escape without making a scene.
Despite the difference in their height, there was no awkwardness as he whirled her around to the three-quarter time of the dance. On the contrary, they moved together as if neither of them had ever danced with anyone else.
As much as Ariane disliked the empty chatter at social gatherings, she had always loved to dance. Now the pleasure of moving in time with the music made her forget her annoyance—almost.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” Chris said. “Why don’t you give in and smile?”
She tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes. The amusement was there again and it touched off her temper as surely as a match touches off a flame.
“I do not relish being manipulated, monsieur. Or laughed at.”
“I’ll admit to the manipulating, but I was not laughing at you.”
“Weren’t you?”
“No.” His eyes turned suddenly serious. “I know how much mockery can hurt. Firsthand.”
“You?” Ariane was so surprised at his words and at the way the amusement had drained out of his eyes so quickly that she missed a step. “I cannot believe that”
“Well, it’s true,” he said brusquely, a little appalled that he had shared that long-ago hurt with her.
“I can’t quite imagine anyone daring to mock you.”
Annoyed at himself, he shrugged. “It was a long time ago.
Ariane understood childhood hurts—after all, she lived with some of her own. Feeling his discomfort at the confession he had made, she said nothing. Instead, she shifted the hand that lay lightly in his palm and gave his hand a squeeze, accompanying it with a smile.
The touch she gave him was so brief that Chris wondered if he had imagined it. But he knew that he had not imagined the smile of extraordinary sweetness that curved her mouth and was reflected in her violet eyes.
When the dance ended, they found themselves near Justine and her partner.
“Just a word, Ariane,” Justine called out. Then, leaving her dance partner with an apologetic gesture, she moved over to her new friend and, under the guise of adjusting the tiny bunch of silk violets that was fastened above Ariane’s ear, she pulled her a step away from Chris and whispered, “Be careful. He’s gorgeous, but get rid of him quickly and don’t dance with him again. People are staring.”
“What was that all about?” Chris asked, when Ariane turned back to him and placed her hand on his proffered arm.
“Apparently we have made a spectacle of ourselves.” Her shrug was more exasperated than rueful. “She told me to get rid of you and warned me not to dance with you again.”
Had someone asked him, he would have denied that his nerves had tightened. “And are you?”
“Going to get rid of you or going to dance with you again?” Her mouth was serious, but her eyes were smiling.
“Both, either.”
They began to walk toward the part of the ballroom where her parents were seated.
“I don’t take direction very well. Especially from children.” Ariane shrugged. “Justine thinks she knows everything, but she is only a child.”
Chris smiled. “While you are veritably ancient,” he teased.
“You have no idea how true your words are.” His smile was so charming, so infectious that Ariane smiled back, forgetting her earlier irritation. “That’s why I’m here, after all. In Paris, I mean.” She made a face.
“You see, I’ve reached the age of twenty-five and my father is appalled that he does not yet have a son-in-law and a horde of grandchildren.”
Chris felt a tightening in his belly at the thought of her with another man. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was planning to provide her father with what he wanted when he realized that they had reached the far end of the ballroom. He bowed politely toward the elder Valmonts before he turned toward Ariane.
“Thank you for the waltz, comtesse.” This time he did not reach for her hand, but waited politely for her to offer it to him. “May I look forward to dancing with you again?” he asked when she did.
Ariane felt the pressure of his fingers on hers. As he lifted his head and met her gaze, she read the challenge in his eyes that told her that the touch had not been accidental. She could feel her father’s displeased gaze on her, but the temptation of the dare this man offered was stronger.
“You may.”
He retained her hand a moment longer than convention allowed, but she had no desire to pull her hand away from the warmth she could feel despite her gloves. Again there was that brief pressure and she suppressed a shiver of excitement just as he finally released her.
She should not want to dance with him again so badly, she thought, as he walked away, but she did. It was only because his amusing, impudent conversation was such a pleasant change from the inanities she had been hearing, she assured herself. And at the moment she believed it.
Several moments passed before she realized that her father was speaking to her.
“I’m sorry, papa.” She turned to him and put a soothing hand on his arm. “What were you saying?”
“I don’t want you dancing with him again,” he repeated petulantly. “We didn’t bring you to Paris to fall into the hands of some—some adventurer,” Valmont continued. “I want you to have a good, French husband.”
“Papa—“
“I want your promise, Ariane, that you will do as I say.” Because he had drunk enough champagne to make him feel expansive, but not enough to sour his temper, his tone wheedled rather than commanded.
“I am here in Paris, papa, because you wished it.” She gave her father a direct look and felt a little spurt of guilty satisfaction when he lowered his eyes. “The least you can do is let me enjoy myself.”
She turned away, refraining from adding that she planned to leave Paris as unencumbered by a husband as she had arrived.
“Ariane—”
The Comtesse de Valmont tucked her hand into her husband’s arm and screwed up the courage to speak. “Leave her be, Pierre,” she whispered. “The more you storm against him, the more attractive he will seem to her.” She remembered quite well how her own father had stormed against the feckless, volatile Comte de Valmont.
Ariane stared after Christopher Blanchard’s retreating figure, a plan forming in her mind.
And she was not the only one who stared after him.
It was too much to be borne. The Marquise de Blan-chard closed her eyes. The moment she had seen him she had known with an absolute certainty that this man was Charles’s son. Oh, he was taller and broader, but the handsome features were too similar to her husband’s to be anyone else. The man whom she had loved. The man who had left her for another woman. She had never forgiven him for being either.
Hatred, old and new, was bitter on her tongue as she approached him.
“You are Charles de Blanchard’s son. Do not bother to deny it.”
The voice behind him was soft, but it dripped ice and venom in equal parts. Instinctively knowing whom the voice belonged to, Chris turned around to face the woman whose stubbornness and pride had condemned him to being a bastard. Reminding himself that he was a grown man and that his existence had, after all, condemned her to being an abandoned wife, he bowed.
“I would not think of denying the truth, madame la marquise.”
“You know who I am?” Her small, round black eyes, which gave her the aspect of a plump bird, narrowed. “How?”
“My father had a miniature.”
“He kept my portrait?” Her thin mouth, the only thin feature she possessed, curved in a triumphant smile.
“He kept a portrait of his children.” Chris kept his voice carefully neutral. “I suspect your presence there was incidental.”
The smile froze briefly to a grimace before it disappeared.
“What are you doing here in Paris?” The marquise heard the ebony slats of her fan groan under the pressure of her fingers and forced her hands to relax. “If you have come here to embarrass me, embarrass my children, I shall—”
“I advise you not to threaten me, madame la marquise. It is not something I take kindly to.”
“I will do as I please,” she said, choosing to ignore the steel beneath the mild tone. “I do not take kindly to the presence of my husband’s bastard son, fathered on a woman of easy virtue.”
His pale green eyes iced over so quickly that it took all her control not to step back before the cold, dangerous fury she saw there.
“Be grateful, madame la marquise—” although his tone was almost without inflection, he managed to make the title sound like an insult “—that we are in public and that I do not choose to make a scene.” He paused for a moment to make certain that he had been understood. “I will not be that lenient again.”
Slowly Chris turned away and went in search of brandy to wash away the memory of his mother’s tears and all the old childhood hurts that were suddenly clogging his throat.
With an outraged gasp Odile de Blanchard watched Charles’s bastard turn his back on her. Catching sight of her country cousin, Pierre, across the room, she hurried toward him to tell him just who his daughter had been dancing with.
Ariane had always prided herself on her ability to give her attention to more than one activity at a time. So while she whirled around in a succession of waltzes and polkas and quadrilles, while she carried on one conversation after another empty of everything but a little light flirtation, her mind clicked away efficiently.
Deciding that she did not have the patience to wait for the last waltz, she took advantage of the intermission between sets to look for Roger de Monnier. He was talking to his sister, she saw. Well, it could not be helped, she thought, and it really did not matter. Justine would know soon enough that she had no intention of taking her advice.
“May I interrupt?”
“You’re not interrupting, Ariane.” Justine hooked her arm around Ariane’s. “In fact, we were just talking about you.”
Ariane raised her eyes heavenward. “I can imagine.”
“I apologize for what I said, but you have no idea how people talk here in Paris.”
“Well,” Ariane said, “they’re going to have to talk some more.” Giving Justine’s arm a pat, she turned to Roger. “Would you give Monsieur Blanchard a message for me, Roger?”
“Of course.” Roger smiled brightly. Perhaps he would have a chance with the young countess after all.
“Please tell him that I would like to speak to him during the next intermission.”
“But—” He threw a helpless look at his sister.
“Please, Roger.”
With a bow Roger left the two young women.
“But Ariane, don’t you understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” Ariane smiled. “But let me explain so that you do.” Seeing yet another eligible young man bearing down on them, she deliberately turned away, pulling Justine along with her.
“I am here in Paris because my parents decided I could no longer do without a husband. But I have no intention of saddling myself with one. Thus it is of no import whether people gossip about me or not. Do you understand now?”
“You don’t want a husband?” Justine stared at Ariane with something resembling horror. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Justine,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I am twenty-five. I’ve lived as I please for a long time and I have no intention of changing that.”
“Oh, pooh.” Justine wiggled her fingers as if she were chasing a pesky fly. “The empress was twenty-six when she married, and from what one hears, she lived as she pleased and she still does.”
Ariane shook her head. “I want my life to stay just as it is. I love my home, my land.” Her eyes softened as she thought of the endless fields. “You have no idea how beautiful it is.” For a moment she considered explaining how she had made a moderately prosperous estate into very wealthy one, by running it behind her father’s back, but she rejected the notion. It was not something Justine would understand.
“And I have no desire to have a husband who will only want to mold me into an obedient wife.” Never, she thought, never did she want to be like her mother, who had no life but what her husband chose to give her.
“But what does Christopher Blanchard have to do with all this?”
“I need a smoke screen, Justine.”
The girl sighed dramatically. “I don’t understand a word.”
“Don’t worry.” Ariane patted Justine’s arm. “The main thing is that Christopher Blanchard understands.” It occurred to her that she was playing with fire, but, intent on her purpose, she pushed the thought away.
Chapter Four (#ulink_6002a561-5b5c-5f17-a71c-836f4292ca1f)
Chris watched Ariane from the edge of the dance floor, as he had been doing all evening. When her dance partner bent down and whispered something into her ear, he clenched his fists at his sides. When she lifted her face toward the baby-faced young man, revealing her radiant smile, he barely managed to prevent himself from barging onto the dance floor.
Pulling in a deep breath, he cursed himself for a fool. Perhaps it had been simply too long since he had had a woman, he thought Perhaps he should take Roger’s advice and see what Suzette Lavalier or one of her colleagues had to offer.
“What’s the matter, Chris? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course, I am.” Forcing himself to relax, he turned toward Roger. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re scowling like the very devil.” He grinned despite his misgivings. He had seen the direction of Chris’s gaze.
Shrugging, Chris said nothing, but his eyes returned to the dance floor.
“I have a message for you. From Ariane de Valmont.”
“Indeed?” His heartbeat leaped at Roger’s words, but his indifferent tone gave no hint of his sudden turmoil. If her message was to cancel the dance she had promised him, he swore to himself, she was in for a surprise.
“She would like your company during the next intermission between sets.”
“What does she want?”
“I am not her confidant.” He gnawed at his lip, wondering if he should dare Chris’s anger again.
“Don’t worry, Roger,” Chris said, feeling his friend’s discomfort. “You’ve done your duty and you can believe me when I tell you that I have never forced my attentions on a woman.”
“The question of force never entered my mind.” Roger smiled ruefully. “Ariane de Valmont is an inexperienced young woman, unused to society. She is no match for a man like you—”
Chris shot him a black look.
“A man like you—” Roger continued unperturbed “—who draws female stares as a magnet draws pins. A man who has enough charm to talk his way into any bed.”
“Should I be flattered or insulted?” Chris’s brows took on a mocking curve. Then he glanced across the ballroom, where Ariane stood surrounded by several young men while her parents looked on proudly.
“Don’t worry, Roger. I think the young Comtesse de Valmont can take care of herself just fine.”
“I got your message,” Chris said when he collected Ariane after the set had ended. He touched her elbow and soft flesh made his cool restraint disintegrate. “If you are going to tell me that you’ve decided to get rid of me after all, don’t.”
Ariane stopped in the middle of a movement, her eyebrows rising at the vehemence of his tone. “And if I was?”
“I shall—”
“More threats, Monsieur Blanchard?”
Chris understood desire. He understood how to gratify it and how to keep it in check. But he was appalled at the unfamiliar, turbulent feelings that were racing through him. Even more, he was appalled at how effortlessly they eluded the control he had honed so carefully. He gave Ariane a searching look. Her mouth and her eyes were serious, but there had been a definite smile in her voice. The unreasoning sense of relief he felt at that unnerved him still further.
“No.” He softened the curt answer with a smile. “No threats.”
“Good.” Ariane’s nod was all coolness and composure, but as the unexpected heat curled through her, unfamiliar and a little frightening, she looked away from his charming, lopsided smile.
He was altogether too beautiful, too charming, too virile, she thought. And much too sure of himself. How many women had fallen victim to him? she wondered. Did he, like Don Juan, need a servant to keep a list of his myriad conquests? Well, she was forewarned, she told herself. She would use him for her purpose, but she would not succumb. to that charm he dispensed so fac-ilely.
“What do you want from me then?”
Ariane’s gaze skidded up at his directness. “For the moment, your company.”
“My name is on your dance card. So impatient?” His lifted eyebrows insinuated more.
“Are you trying very hard to be disagreeable?” she demanded.
“No. I just don’t believe in wasting time nor in beating around the bush.” He paused. “Well?”
“Presently.” Ariane lifted her hand in a gesture that requested patience. “I am not beating around the bush,” she explained not quite truthfully. “I merely do things in my own good time.”
She was hedging and she knew it. But now that he was standing next to her—so large, so handsome, so utterly male—she found that her stomach was quivering. And what had seemed so reasonable, so expedient just a little while ago was suddenly madness.
“Agreed.” Apparently the young countess did not intend to send him to the devil, so Chris reined in his impatience. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he directed their steps toward one of the rooms off the main ballroom, where light refreshments were being served.
As they strolled by, a door opened and several footmen carrying huge trays full of empty bottles emerged. The door remained open, revealing a room hazy with smoke, quiet but for the sound of hushed voices, the occasional slap of cards and the gradually slowing clack of the ball on the roulette wheel.
Chris slowed his steps to match Ariane’s. When he heard her wistful sigh, he could not resist a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re a gambler.”
“I don’t mind a good game of cards.” She grimaced inwardly at her prim tone and the lukewarm understatement.
“So the countess has a weakness for games of chance.” He laughed, pleased.
“No, cards,” Ariane corrected as they began to walk again. “I cannot abide games of chance.”
“That’s a very fine line you are drawing.”
“Not at all.” She warmed to the subject, forgetting that young, unmarried countesses did not gamble. And if they did, they certainly did not talk about it. “Cards require skill. In games of chance you are completely dependent on what luck may deal you.”
“Don’t you believe in luck?” Chris had had too many close brushes with disaster not to. Besides, the blood that ran in his veins was half-Russian, so he came by his belief in the vagaries of fortune honestly.
“Of course I do. Only fools believe solely in their own abilities.” She grinned. “On the other hand, only fools depend on their luck to help them every time.”
“Lovely, charming, witty, a gambler and a philosopher to boot. Unbelievable.” He shook his head. “Now are you going to tell me why you wanted to speak to me?” he said, his impatience getting the better of him.
Ariane took a deep breath. She supposed it was as good a time as any.
“Are you looking for a wife, Monsieur Blanchard?” She met his eyes and held them.
Struck dumb for a moment, Chris only stared at her. There was no facetiousness or coquetry in her eyes. Instead they held only a mild inquiry, as if she were asking a shopkeeper about the relative merits of two bolts of cloth.
“No, actually I am not,” he replied, wondering what her game was. She continued to look at him with her eyes of that startling violet color so that he felt compelled to elaborate. “I have no need for an heiress, nor does a man of my station need to make a dynastic marriage.”
“There are other reasons to choose a wife.”
He slanted her a look, not certain if she was flirting or being outrageous, but her gaze still appeared to hold no more than polite interest.
“Pledging my heart forever holds no appeal for me. In fact, I find the thought of my happiness being dependent on another person quite appalling.”
The memory of his father, prostrate with grief at his mother’s death, nudged him. Chris had no intention of ever opening himself up to that kind of vulnerability. Ever.
“Excellent.” Pleased and relieved, she smiled. She could not have wished for a better reaction, she thought. “Nor am I looking for a husband. I, too, find the institution of marriage quite hideous. Unfortunately, my father is deaf to reason, so I would like to enlist your help.”
“My help?”
She nodded. “Could I interest you in the role of suitor to throw him off the scent, so to speak? You pretend to court me until others lose interest and my father decides to let me go home. I give you my word,” she continued quickly, “that there are no hidden traps here.”
Her smile was so dazzling, her eyes so sincere that for a moment he found himself speechless. Because his reaction troubled him, he drew back into himself and raised an eyebrow.
“And what is in it for me?”
Vaguely dissatisfied with his flippant question, Ariane shrugged. “The same, I suppose. The moment word gets around that you’re rich—if you are indeed rich—you’ll have to beat off all the daughters of impoverished counts and dukes with a stick.” She did not add that she suspected it would be no different if he were as poor as the proverbial church mouse.
“Ah, yes?” His mouth curved in a smile Ariane might have recognized as predatory if she had been more experienced—or known him better. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“No.” He smiled. Now that the first shock was past, he was beginning-to enjoy himself. “What else do you have to offer me?”
She stopped and gave him a long, serious look. He was smiling that lethal smile of his, and she needed to remind herself that she had sworn to be immune to it. But there was something in his pale green eyes that had not been there before. She did not know what it was and that alarmed her as much as the fact that, whatever it was, it seemed to touch her where she had never been touched before.
“I’m not very good at games,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you want.”
“And here I thought I’d be a gentleman and let you offer first.”
“A gentleman?” Her tone was bland, but the curve of her eyebrows left no doubt as to her meaning.
“You wound me.” He touched his hand to his heart. “And here I thought my manners were impeccable.”
Because the curve of his tawny eyebrows was cynical and the tone of his voice just bordering on insolence, she discounted the flicker in his eyes that she might otherwise have interpreted as hurt.
“Your manners are impeccable, if you wish them to be,” she added, thinking of his bold touch earlier that evening. “But I have the distinct feeling that the real you lurks somewhere beneath those manners and is not quite civilized.” She thought of her first impression of him as a lion among tomcats, and before she knew it, the words had found their way to her tongue.
He threw back his head and roared with laughter, cementing that impression thoroughly.
His laugh was so luxurious, so full of life that Ariane could not suppress her smile. “Good. Now that I seem to have complimented you so lavishly, perhaps you will tell me what it is you want from me.”
“A sporting chance of seducing you.” He spoke lightly and the smile that still played around his mouth was easy.
“What?” Ariane stopped so suddenly that her crinoline swayed like a boat in distress.
Her exclamation had the chatter around them stilling as all eyes turned toward them.
“You heard me.” Chris covered her hand, which still lay on his arm, with his and gave it a small tug. “Come along now and keep your voice down unless you want to create a scene.”
Skillfully, he navigated them through the crowd. Deciding to forgo refreshments, he guided her onto the gallery that ran around the main staircase. The moment he closed the door to the ballroom behind them, Ariane snatched her hand away from his arm and spun around to face him.
“How dare you?”
He leaned against the marble balustrade, which was richly veined in reddish brown and black, and crossed his ankles, the very picture of relaxed, self-confident masculinity.
“I thought you appreciated direct speech.” The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “Was my impression mistaken?”
“I do appreciate direct speech. But I do not appreciate indecent proposals”. She pushed away the uncomfortable suspicion that she sounded priggish.
“I didn’t ask you to become my mistress, Ariane,” he said softly, “although that thought has its own appeal. I asked for a sporting chance to seduce you. There is a world of difference between the two.” He allowed his mouth to curve fully. “If you like, I’ll explain it to you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“My thought exactly.”
“Don’t be coarse.” She glared at him. He looked so at ease, so sure of himself, and her insides felt like a mass of not-quite-settled aspic.
“I have no wish to entrap you. I have no intention of using flattery or wine to get you into my bed.” He leaned forward a little. “Look, it’s like a card game with two players doing their best with their skill—” he paused for a heartbeat “—and their luck.”
His wicked grin infuriated her. “I am not interested in your games.”
“Oh, but Ariane, they are such pleasant games.” His smile warmed. “You have just finished telling me that you are not looking for a husband. What good reason do you have then to deny yourself a little pleasure? Pleasure should be taken when it is offered. Life is too short for anything else.”
Damn him, she thought, he knew far too well just how attractive he was. His velvet voice alone was enough to conjure up all manner of delights.
Bracing herself against the impossible images that assaulted her, her voice was cold. “Your conceit is gargantuan. Pleasure, indeed. How do I know that it will be a pleasure?” She tilted up her chin, defying him, but even more defying her own terrible premonition that he spoke the truth.
“I guarantee it, comtesse.”
In one swift, supple movement he straightened, captured her hand and brought it to his lips.
“I guarantee it personally.”
She tried to free her hand, but Chris did not relinquish it. Instead, keeping his eyes on hers, he began to remove her glove—slowly tugging it off finger by finger, making as sensual a ritual of it as if he were divesting her of some intimate article of clothing.
Ariane forgot to breathe as he slipped the glove off and tossed it aside. Then he raised her hand again and pressed his mouth to the center of her palm.
Chapter Five (#ulink_cd036384-56f4-5d7e-84aa-e180d504d9e8)
Heat. That was all Ariane could think of as Chris’s mouth pressed against her palm, as his breath skimmed over her skin like a hot desert wind. When he touched the tip of his tongue to her hand, she jolted as if she had been burned. And, indeed, an unfamiliar ache swept through her like a firestorm.
“Don’t” Her voice was so low and smoky that she barely recognized it, and something resembling panic licked at her nerves.
“Don’t what?” Chris asked.
His lips shifted seductively over her skin as he spoke. She knew that she should pull her hand out of his grasp, but it was as if she had lost command over her body.
“Don’t do this,” she managed.
“This?” He traced the width of her palm with his tongue. “Or this?” Moving his mouth downward, he nipped at the fleshy pad beneath her thumb.
She managed to suppress the soft sound that rose in her throat, but she was helpless to prevent the sinuous curl of heat that spread through her to pool in her belly. The desire to close her eyes, to savor this new sensation was so strong that she almost gave in to it. But some last shred of wariness had her bracing against it.
Yet it was that very tension that had her fingers spreading and pressing against his cheek. The slight abrasiveness of his skin tempted her beyond measure, making her want to rub her fingertips against it to acquaint herself with this new texture.
“Go ahead,” Chris murmured, fascinated by her expressive eyes, which were able to conceal neither the curiosity nor the temptation. “It is not forbidden to touch.”
His words pulled her back from the sea of sensation where she had been foundering.
“Let me go.” The words that had been meant as a command came out sounding like a plea. Anger at her own weakness flared within her. Anger—and the traitorous desire to take the words back.
Slowly, his eyes on hers, he lowered her hand and released her.
Fighting an unreasonable sense of loss, Ariane grappled for the right words.
“Is this how your game of seduction is played?” Alarm, masked by indignation, colored her words.
“Would you care to be more specific?”
“Insidiously.” She filled her lungs with air in the vain attempt to soothe her raw nerves. “Unscrupulously.”
Even as she said the words, she understood that her accusation was excessive, but she was trembling. Trembling, damn it! And she had sworn long ago that she would tremble for no man.
“I played my hand with the cards a kind fate dealt me.” He shrugged, trying to rid himself of the sharp desire to feel her fingers on his skin again. “You are making me responsible for your own weakness.”
Ariane stared at him, appalled at his nonchalant words. How could he be so indifferent when he had turned her world and her vision of herself upside down with a few words and a touch?
Forcing herself to move, she paced a few steps away and linked her hands to steady them. A measure of self-control returned, reminding her that it was not her wont to blame others for her own mistakes.
Why was she having this absurd conversation? she asked herself harshly. What had possessed her to pick the most dangerous man she had ever seen for her scheme? Why had she not asked someone safe, someone like Roger de Monnier, or one of those baby-faced young men she had danced with?
But she hadn’t asked someone else, she reminded herself. She had asked the insolent, beautiful American. And she could not back away now, any more than she could have backed away from a wager or a card game simply because she had discovered too late that the odds were against her. Her pride would not allow it.
The turmoil in her eyes made Chris want to reach out and reassure her that he meant her no harm. Even though it occurred to him that his notion of harm was possibly very different from hers, he pushed away from the balustrade, his hand raised in a placating gesture. Before he could take more than a single step toward her, she whirled around to face him.
“Yes, my weakness. That is exactly the point, Monsieur Blanchard.” The fact that her voice was even, showing little sign of the agitation of a moment ago, settled her nerves still further. She was in control, she told herself. And she would stay in control. “You have challenged me to a game where you have an unfair advantage.”
The cool determination on her face made him wonder if he had imagined her confusion, her vulnerability a moment ago.
“If you think so,” he answered, “then perhaps we should lay down some rules.”
“It is not a question of rules,” Her voice was brisk. “The fact remains that you have challenged me to a game where you are apparently quite expert, while I have never played it before.”
“Never?” His body stirred at the thought. “I can hardly believe that you have never engaged in a little harmless flirtation.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Your demonstration just now had nothing whatsoever to do with harmless flirtation.”
“I’m flattered.”
“That was not my intention.” Because his velvet voice, coupled with his charming half smile, had her stomach fluttering, her tone was sharper than it might have been.
How could he have thought the little spitfire vulnerable? Chris asked himself. His conscience appeased, he prepared to enjoy himself.
“So tell me, ma chére comtesse—” he relaxed back against the cool marble “—have you been kissed before, or has no man braved your fury?” He grinned. “I do not ask because I am indiscreet. I merely want to know how high are the walls to be scaled.”
“Your effrontery appears to be truly boundless.”
“Assuming that as given, why don’t you answer my question.”
Because his cheeky grin made her want to smile back at him, she took refuge in a haughty look.
“Yes, I have been kissed before.” Clumsy kisses, she thought, or bland ones or simply dull ones. Before she knew it, her gaze had drifted down to Chris’s mouth. His kiss would be—Oh, God, if his mouth had created such delicious sensations when he had touched it to her palm, what would it feel like if he kissed her?
Suddenly aware of the direction of her thoughts, her cheeks flamed, but she did not avert her gaze, not even when she saw the knowledge in his eyes.
“Go ahead, Ariane.” Slowly he pushed away from the balustrade again and took a step forward and then another. “Go ahead and satisfy your curiosity.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” He took another step toward her. “Kiss me. Don’t say you don’t want to.”
“No.” That one small word seemed to cost her all her breath.
“Afraid?”
“Cautious.”
“One could think that you believe me a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Ariane gave Chris a long, slow look before she shook her head. “No. I don’t think you would ever bother disguising yourself with sheep’s clothing.” Giving in, she grinned. “At best you’re a wolf wearing a scrap of some poor sheep’s pelt who was too imprudent or too slow getting away.”
He laughed. “You have a wicked tongue, Ariane.”
One association led to another and his laughter died as he imagined taking her mouth, twining his tongue around hers, tasting it, feeling her passion come to life.
The heat in his eyes was so intense that Ariane would have sworn that she felt it on her skin. “So I’ve been told.” Her voice had grown softer and softer until she had only mouthed the last word.
They stared at each other, breath uneven, pulses racing.
“So where do we go from here, Ariane?” Chris asked when he was certain he could speak without babbling like a fool.
“I don’t know.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “I still need help—yours or someone else’s.”
“Mine,” he said quickly, not recognizing the sharp emotion that sliced through him as jealousy.
“Yours,” Ariane agreed. With him, at least, she would know just where she stood.
“Even though I’m the big, bad wolf.” A corner of his mouth lifted.
“But I’m not Little Red Riding Hood.” She smiled, regaining her confidence now that she had seen that this time he had been as moved as she. Surely this had been only a random moment where they had unwittingly gotten under each other’s skin. “Nor one of those imprudent sheep.”
“And the other?” he pressed.
His gaze was so serious, so intense that she felt the dangerous breath lessness return. It occurred to her that perhaps the moment had not been such a random one after all, but she pushed the thought away, unwilling to believe it.
“And here I thought you were a gambler, Ariane. A risk taker,” Chris goaded, the urgent beat of his heart at odds with his flippant words. “A chance,” he said softly. “That’s all I’m asking for.” His voice lowered, grew huskier. “Surely you would not deny a man a chance.”
Ariane’s head made one more attempt to remind her that she was a reasonable person who had never made a decision without carefully weighing both sides of an issue. A sensible person who had never taken a risk that could not be calculated. But now her heart was pounding so madly, so loudly that she heard nothing else.
“All right, Monsieur Blanchard. A bargain. You play the suitor and in return I shall give you a chance.” She lifted her small hand against his triumphant smile. “But not a chance to seduce me. That is just a prettier word for the strong forcing their will on the weak.”
“Then just what is it that you are offering me?”
She took a deep breath and ignored the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.
“I am offering you the chance to persuade me that a taste of that pleasure you guaranteed personally is an experience not to be missed.”
Because the flare of excitement was strong, he wanted to reach for her, touch her. Because it was too strong, he did not. He had never been a man to be ruled by desire, but for the first time in his life he understood the true temptation of a woman.
“That sounds fair enough.”
“How good of you to think so, Monsieur Blanchard.”
When she held out her hand to him, not languidly as women present their hand to be bowed over or kissed, but thrust straight out like a man’s, Chris’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Is the custom of sealing a bargain with a handshake unknown in California?” she demanded, feeling foolish with her hand thrust out in front of her.
“Of course not” Belatedly, he took her hand in a firm grip. “Forgive me. I have never made a bargain with a lady before.” He grinned wickedly. “At least not a bargain like this one.”
“Monsieur—”
Chris shook his head. “Why don’t we put Monsieur Blanchard to rest? Or don’t you think that we are well enough acquainted for you to call me by my given name?”
“I don’t think—”
“Say it.” Suddenly it was important to him to hear her say his name. Not merely important, but crucial, as if that would, in some odd way, turn a bargain made half in jest into a promise. At the moment it eluded him why he should find promises so desirable, when he had always assiduously avoided them.
Still holding her hand, he took a step and then another until they stood so close together that his body pushed her crinoline back so that her skirt billowed behind her. So close that he could feel the light, tempting press of her body against his.
“Say my name, Ariane.”
She should be frightened, Ariane thought. He was so tall, so broad that her world was suddenly completely circumscribed by his body, whose power was not disguised by his elegant evening clothes. His fingers circled her hand so relentlessly that she might have been manacled to him. But it was his eyes where the true danger loomed—his eyes, so intent that they seemed to consume her.
“Christopher,” she whispered obediently, spellbound by those cool green eyes that held more heat than a thousand fires.
“Chris,” he corrected.
She smiled. “That suits you better.”
“So?”
“Christopher belongs in a stuffy drawing room. Chris belongs among mountains and deserts and beautiful, empty valleys.”
Chris chuckled at the precision of her observation. “Is that a polite way of saying that I don’t belong here?”
“It’s not an insult when I say that. On the contrary.” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t particularly belong here myself.”
“It depends on how you define ‘here.’” Slowly he loosened his grip on her hand and placed it palm down against his chest. Then, using thumb and forefinger, he tipped her face upward. “You belong here perfectly.” He lifted his other hand to lie against the nape of her neck. “Perfectly.”
He remained very still, his touch so light that they both knew all Ariane had to do was step away.
But she did not step away. She had been waiting for this moment, she realized, ever since she had seen him in the theater.
“Now we will seal our bargain my way.”
Despite the command in his voice, Chris lowered his head slowly. Then he touched his mouth to hers.
Not wanting to frighten her and knowing well just how much a little control could intensify pleasure, he reined in the impulse to take her mouth fully. Instead he tasted his way along her lower lip, adding only an occasional flicker of his tongue.
Even when her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, he did not take the invitation. Instead he continued to tantalize, to tease, allowing himself no more than a brief foray to taste her.
Ariane felt heat blossom within her. It poured through her veins until she was suffused with it. Until she was light-headed with it. And still he did not kiss her, but continued to brush her mouth with his as if he was interested in no more than a casual game.
Her hand was still lying on his chest just over his heart and when her fingertips picked up his quickening heartbeat, she knew that the same heat that curled through her like a living, breathing entity had taken possession of him as well. But he continued with the maddening game, even as his heart began to pound heavily against her fingers.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her. How could he be so controlled, she thought, when she could feel the drumming of his heart? How could he be so controlled when she was melting with the need to taste him?
Lifting her other hand, she threaded it in his hair. She felt the leap of his heart and the answering thud of her own.
“Now,” she whispered against his mouth.
The tug of her fingers on his hair and her breathy invitation had his control crumbling like a house of cards. As he took her mouth fully, he heard a sound that he only vaguely realized came from his own throat. Now that he had surrendered, he plunged into the kiss like a man on the brink of starvation.
For a moment Ariane went still as he invaded her mouth. Voracious, his tongue explored and probed. Unbearably aroused, even more by the sensation of being wanted so badly than by the kiss itself, she moaned.
Her moan pierced his consciousness, which had been clouded by his passion. Oh, God, he thought as he pulled back. He had fallen on her like a wild animal. When she moaned again, his eyes flew open.
As he looked down at her, her eyelids rose to reveal eyes dark and unfocused with arousal. Ridiculously grateful that he had not frightened her, he lowered his mouth to hers again.
She waited for the passion to blaze again, but she found that everything had changed. The fire and flash of a moment ago were gone and in their place was a steady, bright flame. Where he had plundered, he caressed. Where he had demanded before, he offered. Where he had taken before, he gave.
Minutes passed that seemed like hours as they feasted on each other, breaking away only because their breath had become as ragged as if they had run for miles.
As Chris lifted his head, the stunned look in his eyes matched hers. He had not expected such hunger, such need. Nor had he expected a pleasure so sweet, so sharp.
They stared at each other, trying to come to terms with their feelings. If they heard the opening and closing of the door, neither one gave a sign. Even when the indignant voice sounded, they moved apart slowly, choppily, like windup dolls whose mechanisms had begun to run down.
“Monsieur!” The voice sounded again.
Only then did Ariane recognize her father’s voice.
Chapter Six (#ulink_7a6098b5-3c85-5188-bcda-751853799da2)
As Ariane turned around to face her father, the warmth and pleasure that were drifting through her began to fade. With something resembling panic she struggled to hold on to these sensations that she had never experienced before.
“Monsieur, unhand my daughter.” Pierre de Val-mont’s voice quivered.
Ariane saw the telltale glazing of his eyes that preceded one of his rages. “Papa. please—” Moving forward, she stretched her hand out to him. She was not afraid of his rage, but she was afraid of ruining the last of the pleasure that was still drifting through her like the echo of a lovely melody. “Please.”
His daughter’s plea penetrated that place inside his head that sometimes seemed to take over. Her voice was soft and submissive as it should be. He focused his eyes on her face and the fear he saw there soothed him.
“You will come with me now.” He strode toward her and held out his arm.
Ariane obeyed him, grateful for the support of his arm and hating herself for needing it.
“You will stay away from my daughter, monsieur,” he said. “Stay away.”
When they reached the ballroom door, Ariane stopped and turned to look over her shoulder.
Chris was standing there as she had left him—his hands by his sides, his eyes still stunned. Perhaps, she thought, the odds were not against her after all.
Ariane took a deep breath the moment they were seated in their carriage. There was no sense in prolonging it, she thought. If he was going to fly into a rage, he would do it whether they were in a carriage or in their apartments.
“Papa—” she began.
He interrupted her. “Your conduct was inexcusable, Ariane. You made a spectacle of yourself.” He leaned forward. “But that isn’t the worst of it”.
“What do you mean?” She flinched back from the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Do you know who this man is?”
She shook her head and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I know as much as you do.”
“What?” he screamed. “You know?”
“Pierre, chéri—” Marguerite de Valmont’s hands fluttered ineffectually. “Please.” She touched her husband’s arm, but he shoved her roughly into the corner of the carriage. Softly, she began to cry.
“What are you talking about, papa?” Ariane demanded loudly, knowing that it was important that she keep her father’s attention focused on her. “Know what?”
“That he’s a bastard,” Valmont shouted. “He’s Charles de Blanchard’s bastard.”
Ariane stared uncomprehendingly at her father for a moment before she made the connection.
“The Charles de Blanc hard who was married to Cousin Odile?”
“Yes. Don’t you understand?” He gestured with his fist. “He left her for another woman and this man is their child.”
He was still glaring at her, but she saw that the unreasoning rage had passed.
“But, papa,” she said, “that was at least thirty years ago.”
“So?” he growled. “Odile still remembers very well that she and her children were abandoned. And we cannot afford to insult her. She will be invaluable in introducing us to the right people.”
“Papa—”
He silenced her with a gesture. “All that aside, someone of his parentage would not be a suitable husband.”
“Papa—”
“The discussion is over, Ariane.” Valmont subsided against the cushions of the carriage and, forgetting his daughter’s presence, tugged his wife out of the corner where she was still sniffling and put his arm around her shoulders.
Ariane watched her mother smile tremulously and go into her husband’s arms with no hesitation, his roughness of a few moments before already forgotten.
Her stomach twisting, she looked away. She would never allow herself to love a man, she thought. Never.
Chris swore under his breath as he nicked his chin. Reaching blindly for the soapstone to stop the small trickle of blood, he managed to send a glass tumbling into the washbowl. The sound of breaking glass had him swearing again. Damnation, he seemed to have two left hands today—both apparently equipped with five thumbs.
Sam, who after twenty years was more companion than servant, looked up from brushing a suit, his thick black eyebrows raised in surprise.
Chris met Sam’s gaze in the mirror and suppressed the urge to growl. He was in a foul, edgy mood after a restless night full of dreams. Shadowy dreams that he could barely remember and explicit dreams that even now had his body stirring.
She was crowding him. Not a moment seemed to go by that he did not find himself remembering something about her. Her lovely face. The texture of her skin. The look in her extraordinary eyes when she had suggested her outrageous bargain. And then there was the taste of her mouth.
Suddenly he snapped back to reality and found Sam’s fingers circling his wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Your eyes got all dreamy like. Wouldn’t want you to cut up that pretty face of yours.” Sam grinned. “Why don’t you let me finish doin’ that?”
Chris frowned, but did not protest as Sam took the razor.
“You sure did a lot of dreamin’ last night,” Sam said conversationally, bending his knees to accommodate the difference in their height. “Lot of talkin’, too.”
Chris slanted a look up at Sam, a glimmer of humor entering his eyes for the first time that day. “Are you trying to tell me something, Sam, or ask me something?”
“Both, I guess.” Sam grinned again. “You took to speakin’ Frenchie half ways through the night.” Adroitly he scraped away the last of Chris’s beard. “She must be somethin’, this Areeann, huh?”
“Something,” Chris agreed, deciding that this was possibly more apt than any description of Ariane he had come up with.
“Some female company’ll do you good.” Sam pronounced sagely. “Maybe you’ll sleep better at night.”
“And then again maybe not.” Chris thought of the odd bargain he had made with Ariane. Somehow he did not think that it would allow him to sleep better anytime soon. Not unless he got very lucky. And if by chance he did, he would definitely not be spending his nights sleeping.
He frowned at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell was Ariane de Valmont doing in his dreams anyway?
Why was he dreaming again now? He’d kept dreams at bay for so long. He shivered. Even now, twenty years later, he shivered at the memory of the nightmares that had begun as his mother had lain dying.
But he had fought them, he reminded himself just a little desperately. Fought and obliterated them. He’d freed himself from all the fears, all the emotions. Now he didn’t need anyone anymore and he was determined to keep it that way.
Chris placed his card on the silver salver offered by the majordomo. While the majordomo strode off, another liveried footman showed him into a small salon. The room was elegantly furnished, but its empty feeling led to the assumption that it had no other purpose than to function as a kind of waiting room for visitors.
Minutes passed—five, ten, fifteen. Although Chris had spent most of his life in places where niceties like engraved cards and gloved servants and silver salvers were the exception, he understood the rules of society well enough. And he understood that the Marquise de Blan-chard was keeping him waiting in order to humiliate him.
He remembered a room much like this one. He’d sat there, expectant and excited as he waited with his father for his aunt, Leontine, to receive them. Then he’d sat there alone, fighting angry tears, after his aunt had had him removed from her presence. The old memories tugged at him, but he pushed them away. He was no longer a small boy who could be hurt by petty meannesses, he told himself. He was a man who had made something of his life.
With every appearance of equanimity, he extracted some papers, as well as a small notebook and pencil, from the inside pocket of his navy blue frock coat and began to make notes for the business meetings that he had scheduled in the coming days.
Almost half an hour had passed when yet another footman came to tell him that the marquise would see him now. Chris gathered up his papers without hurry, drawing a disapproving glance from the servant, and followed, the man.
The drawing room was overheated, overstuffed with excessively fussy rococo furniture and smothered in heavy velvet drapes, whose only saving grace was their brilliant azure color. The sweet, heavy scent of patchouli lay over the room like a pall. Chris remembered his father’s simple tastes and decided that it was no wonder that he had fled.
The Marquise de Blanchard sat on a fragile, gilt armchair as if it were a throne, the passionate hatred in her eyes belying the arrogant coolness of her features. A short, jowly man stood behind her, his hand curved on the back of the chair, his dark coloring and the embonpoint that strained his waistcoat making it obvious that he owed his appearance only to his mother.
“I thought I made it quite clear last night that I wanted nothing to do with you,” the marquise began without preamble, not even bothering to wait until the footman had closed the door behind him.
“Your effrontery in calling on me is quite staggering.” She paused. “Almost as great as your effrontery in daring to use the Blanchard name.” Contemptuously she tipped her plump chin toward the salver where his card lay.
“I regret to disappoint you, but although my birth was not sanctioned by marriage, my father adopted me. It is all quite legal. As for calling on you, it would not have been my choice to do so, madame la marquise,” Chris said, lifting one broad shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It was, however, your choice whether you choose to receive me or not”.
“You should have him thrown out on his ear, ma-man.” The lines of ill-temper around Maurice de Blanchard’s mouth deepened. “You have absolutely no reason to acknowledge him like this.”
“Do I assume correctly that this is my half brother?”
Maurice straightened as if he had been prodded with a hot poker.
“What excruciatingly bad taste to even mention that we are—that we could be related,” he corrected quickly. “But what can one expect from a man raised among savages?”
“An interesting concept.” Chris’s mouth curved in a derisive smile. “It could be worthwhile to debate which one of us was raised among savages.” Ignoring the marquise’s outraged gasp, he continued. “As far as the question of our being related is concerned, perhaps you should ask—” his cool gaze flickered briefly to the marquise “—madame votre mére if we are.”
Although she understood his implication perfectly, it was that transient look that the marquise found truly insulting. Jumping up, she advanced toward him.
“I will not endure your vulgarities any longer, monsieur.” She waved at him with a heavily beringed hand. “State your business and decamp.”
“I am here at my father’s request.”
The marquise gave a snort of a laugh. “The wretch probably wants to mend his fences, as he did after his—” her small mouth curled “—mistress died.”
Chris stiffened. “I beg to correct you. After my mother’s death, my father wanted to mend his fences with his sister. Only with his sister.”
“And whom does he want to mend fences with this time?” She laughed.
“I must disappoint you, madame la marquise,” Chris said softly. “My father died four months ago.” Grief welled up within him to clog his throat, but he kept his expression tightly controlled. This he would not share with them.
“Charles is dead?”
Chris fell absurdly touched by her stricken whisper. Words of condolence rose to his lips, but before he could speak, he saw the look in her small, black eyes sharpen.
“You said you were here at his request. Did he leave—”
“Was there a—” Maurice stepped from behind the chair.
“No.” Chris looked from the marquise to her son. Neither one showed even a perfunctory sign of grief. He could have forgiven them that, he thought After all, his father had wronged them both. But he could not forgive the gleam of cupidity in their eyes.
“That is no more than was to be expected,” the marquise snapped. “He probably didn’t have a franc to his name.” Feeling the unsteadiness of her hands, she linked them tightly to stop the hateful trembling. That one moment of hope could redeem a lifetime of humiliation tinged her next words with an extra dose of acid.
“What are you doing here then?” she demanded. “Making a collection so that you can have masses said for his black soul?”
Chris tamped down the anger that rose within him—anger not for himself, but for the gentle man who had been his father. Yes, he had had his faults. Yes, he had committed his sins. But surely he had not deserved this crude vindictiveness.
“If my father did not have a franc to his name, then it was only because he signed all his property over to me when his health began to fail,” he said, keeping his voice neutral with some effort.
Suddenly the acute instincts that had enabled him to hold his own and better in a hundred rough-and-tumble card games had him lifting his head like a wild animal scenting danger. The tension in the room had changed, intensified. There was more than simple greed here, he thought. There was the smell of a card player down to his last chips who had drawn a poor hand. There was the smell of desperation.
“He requested only,” he continued without missing a beat, “that I travel to France to inform his wife and children of his death.”
“How very generous of him,” the marquise mocked.
“No, madame la marquise, only foolish.” Suddenly Chris felt very tired. “You see, he had not given up hope that I would someday find a bond with my—” he paused “—with his legitimate children.” He shrugged. “Per-haps he hoped that his death would be that bond.”
“Bond?” Maurice shrieked. “How dare you sneak into our home with some flimsy excuse.” His fists balled, he moved forward—a prudent two steps only. “You are probably nothing but a common thief looking for a target” His voice rose still higher. “I should have you arrested.”
“You would be ill-advised if you did,” Chris said softly.
Another insult on the tip of his tongue, Maurice de Blanchard opened his mouth. But the words died on his lips as he saw the warning in his half brother’s eyes.
Chris shifted his gaze to the marquise and bowed. “I consider my errand discharged and wish you a good day.”
Odile de Blanchard stared after her husband’s bastard. Oh, how she hated Charles, she thought. For leaving her for another woman and for fathering such a beautiful creature when—her gaze brushed over Maurice—he had given her such a sorry specimen of a son.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_f61856dc-1c14-5e01-b458-0dd95cfb1a13)
Chris dismissed his carriage. After the oppressive heat and scent of the Hdtel de Blanchard, he needed fresh, cool air. His cape slung carelessly over his shoulders against the light October drizzle, he began to walk.
The past hour had left an ugly taste in his mouth. He had expected bitterness, but even after his meeting with the marquise the previous evening, the personal animosity that he had encountered today had surprised him. What angered him most was that he had permitted himself to be dragged down to their level of making personally insulting remarks.
Well, it couldn’t be helped, he thought. He had never been a man to whine over mistakes made. Mistakes were something to be corrected, and if that was not possible, then you just had to live with them. And the past hour belonged definitely in the latter category.
Blanking out his mind with the willpower he had honed for years like a sharp blade, he covered block after block with his long stride.
Rounding a corner, he found himself on the quay. Aware for the first time of his surroundings, he crossed the road and stood at the low stone wall. Across the gray ribbon of the Seine was the stately facade of the Louvre, to his right the Ile de la Cité, the twin towers of Notre-Dame visible over the haphazard cluster of crooked walls and roofs.
It was strange, he mused, how clearly he remembered the city from his stay here twenty years ago. Only now that he was here did he realize how precisely every impression had stayed with him.
He’d come here to prove to himself that the old ghosts no longer existed. And if they did, that they no longer mattered. But they still existed, he brooded. And they still mattered. And he had no idea what the hell he was going to do about it. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his midnight-blue cape, he stared down into the swiftly flowing water.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Out.” Ariane finished buttoning her pelisse. “For days I’ve been trussed up like a holiday goose and displayed like a slave on the block. I need some fresh air.” She looked at the reflection of Henriette’s broad face in the mirror, and the tug of tenderness had her regretting her ill-tempered words. “I’m sorry.” She turned around. “I didn’t intend to snap at you.”
Henriette put down the tray she had been carrying. “It’s not proper for you to go out alone.”
“I’ve been going out alone for years and am none the worse for it.” Her eyebrows rose. “No one knows that better than you.” Henriette, after all, had been her nursemaid, then her maid and her confidante.
“But not in Paris.”
Ariane smiled. “You say that as if the devil is lurking in every doorway.”
“Maybe not the devil, but perhaps one of those fops who brought their cards today.” Henriette scowled at the cards, which had been stacked on a small silver tray. “Who knows what’s worse?” she grumbled, giving voice to her French peasant’s healthy mistrust of the capital and its residents.
“Don’t worry, Henriette.” Ariane patted her maid’s ruddy cheek. “I’m just going for a walk and no one is going to accost me.” She grinned. “I’m sure that Parisian fops do not make a habit of lurking about in the Tain.” She winked. “It would spoil their pretty curls.”
“And what will I tell your parents when they ask me where you’ve gone?”
Ariane shrugged and turned back toward the mirror to tie her bonnet.
The older woman sighed, realizing the uselessness of any further protest. Moving closer, she fluffed out the bonnet’s bow of violet silk. “Be careful, then, ma petite.”
“Don’t worry,” Ariane repeated. “With my sharp tongue, I can probably disable one of those fops you are so afraid of at twenty paces.”
Her words reminded her of the previous evening and the American’s reference to her wicked tongue. The memory spun further, slipping much too easily past all the defenses she had spent half the night erecting. She remembered how the American had. looked at her. Remembered how his mouth had felt on hers.
Fireworks of arousal exploded within her. In her innocence she could not have put a name to it, but she recognized it, for it was the same feverish sensation that had pulsed through her the evening before.
“What is it?” Henriette demanded, attuned to every nuance in her charge’s eyes.
Ariane shook her head and slipped out the door. What she needed was a gallop through the fields, she thought, but since that was not possible, a brisk walk would have to do.
As she stepped outside, she filled her lungs. But the cool, damp air did nothing to stem the heat that was still welling up inside her. Deciding that the light drizzle hardly warranted opening her umbrella, she set off down the rue de Lille as quickly as the heels on her elegant half boots would allow.
Even from a block away she could smell the tainted scent of the river. Taking a left onto the quay, she crossed the road and stood at-the low stone wall.
The drizzle had stopped and the watery sun that was fighting its way through the clouds was reflected on the water. The voices of street criers hawking soap and eggs and fish competed somewhere down the quay. A carriage clattered over the uneven sandstone pavement behind her. As she shifted to avoid being splashed, she saw him.
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Nina Beaumont
Christopher Blanchard Was Everything She'd Ever Needed…Yet Didn't Want Ariane de Valmont prized her independence above all else, and to secure it, she'd struck a seductive bargain with a tantalizing American. Now she feared that in this heart's gamble, le beau sauvage , as Parisian society had named him, held all the cards… .The son of scandal, Chris Blanchard caused a sensation among the "beau monde," intending to settle old scores and quickly be gone again. Until he was caught by the gaze of Ariane de Valmont, whose eyes bespoke a forever kind of love… .
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u868f96f9-d35a-5032-b4f5-af8e17900010)
Excerpt (#ubb2406f3-0b3c-5eb6-ba50-7ef676f5dd30)
Dear Reader (#u8941b8e0-ab9c-5059-95d0-4b2b3d0812e3)
Title Page (#u0589aaae-828e-5490-ba38-f839ab4e4a03)
About The Author (#uae17002a-8ca5-5691-b5cf-7f08319f98ec)
Dedication (#u1316d4e2-badd-54f8-9016-bb829233f719)
Chapter One (#u960d0986-5d5f-5bb4-a948-52e7abd041c9)
Chapter Two (#u1b7cfd9b-b9bc-5a6e-91ca-c56f7d4d534d)
Chapter Three (#u0dc8092e-4b13-5f89-93d0-3c4812527962)
Chapter Four (#ud2ad3ded-c30b-582e-bf2f-f6c448982238)
Chapter Five (#u6c7d63c6-3c5a-5a2f-8002-b1318987c86c)
Chapter Six (#u668ef7e8-a07b-50eb-b86b-bbe716a1f20b)
Chapter Seven (#u2189f893-d6a9-596d-8788-1ff0a99afd07)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Her beauty was delicate, but there
was nothing fragile about it.
And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.
“Bon soir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”
“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”
“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”
“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all…!”
Dear Reader
In Nina Beaumont’s new historical, Surrender the Heart, a brash American and an independent Frenchwoman make a dangerous bargain. He will court her to keep away unwanted suitors, and she, in return, will allow him the chance to seduce her. But the two are unprepared for the passionate love that develops between them in this sizzling story set in nineteenth-century Paris.
In Bogus Bride, by Australian author Emily French, a spirited young woman must convince her new husband that although he had intended to marry her sister, she is his true soul mate. And in Knights Divided by Suzanne Barclay, a medieval tale from one of our most popular authors, a young woman finds herself embroiled in a maelstrom of passion and deceit when she kidnaps the rogue whom she believes murdered her sister.
And in our final selection for the month, Judith Stacy’s heartwarming Western, Outlaw Love, a Federal Marshal on the trail of a gang of female outlaws doesn’t realize that the woman he’s falling in love with is their leader.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical novel. Keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell,
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Surrender The Heart
Nina Beaumont
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NINA BEAUMONT
is of Russian parentage and has a family tree that includes the Counts Stroganoff and a Mongolian khan. A real cosmopolitan, she was born in Salzburg and grew up in Massachusetts before moving to Austria, where she lived for twenty-five years.
Although she has relocated to the Seattle area, her European ties are still strong, so she plans to stick with the exotic settings she has had the opportunity to get to know firsthand.
Books and music are her first loves, but she also enjoys painting watercolors and making pottery.
To Loma and Ed Hudgens—
thank you for making me part of your family.
My heartfelt thanks to:
my editor, Tracy Farrell, and she and I know why;
my writer friends, Sonya Jorgensen, Suzanne Neel and
Mike Miller, for their brainstorming help
when I was in need.
Chapter One (#ulink_1de4612b-76cd-5433-b597-50604572e663)
Paris, October 1855
“Ariane, if you don’t take that bored look off your face, you’re never going to get a husband.”
Ariane de Valmont barely managed to suppress the temptation to roll her eyes in exasperation. Curving her mouth into the semblance of a smile, she shifted so that she faced the stage more fully. Perhaps, she thought, maman would not be able to see the expression on her face quite so precisely from this angle.
She refused to be amused, even though the catchy tunes of the Offenbach operetta tempted her to tap her foot and the antics of the very human Greek gods frolicking around on the stage were hilarious. Instead, she let her gaze wander around the audience.
The theater, charming despite its overabundance of gilt decorations and red velvet, was full and the lights had been only partly dimmed in deference to the fact that the audience itself was as much part of the entertainment as what took place on the stage. The ladies, either alone or in the company of parents, chaperons or, since this was Paris, after all, lovers, occupied the boxes. The men, who were either unattached or pretending to be so, were in the stalls. She might be the only one whose mood was not in tune with the gaiety that seemed to pervade the theater like the opulent scent of a sensual perfume, Ariane noted sullenly, but she was certainly not the only one whose attention was elsewhere than on the stage.
Smiles, flutters of fans, flirtatious looks flew back and forth with dizzying speed. It was just like a horse fair back home, she thought with a sniff. Men came from all around the area with their horses, the manes and tails braided with bright-colored ribbons, hoping to attract a rich buyer. The only difference here was that the price for a wife who was blue-blooded and rich or for a beautiful, accomplished mistress was infinitely higher—for the buyer and the seller both.
The thought that she was no different from them all did not improve her mood one bit. Her father had dragged her to Paris to make a broodmare out of her, she thought grimly. All her father cared about were male heirs for the Valmont fortune.
So, here she was on display, her fair hair carefully coiffed and wearing a highly fashionable and extravagantly expensive gown of pale lavender silk. The thought alone of just how much the haughty Parisian dressmaker, who had descended on their chateau with her army of seamstresses for a whole month, had cost, soured Ariane’s mood still further.
She had tried to point out to papa that they would be far better off if they used the money for repairs on the stables. But he had merely given a disparaging wave and reminded her that they had plenty of money. She had not bothered to mention that the only reason they did was that she spent her time diplomatically circumventing every decision he made about how the estate was to be run.
Tucking her chin into the palm of one hand, she looked down at the stalls. The men, she decided, were as given to smiles and flirtatious glances as the women. Her eyebrows, which were shades darker than her golden hair, curved upward in a discreetly derisive gesture.
They all seemed to be wearing either elegant black and white evening dress or uniforms decorated with such quantities of gold braid that she was sure they would not have been out of place on a stage. Their sideburns were lavishly curled, their mustaches raffishly twirled, and they all looked as if they had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. How could her father possibly expect her to choose a husband from such a sorry collection of fops, she asked herself irritably—even if she had been disposed to want a husband at all?
Suddenly her gaze stumbled and came to an abrupt stop.
It was his hair that caught her attention first. The tawny mane with just a touch of curl brushed his shoulders in contradiction of every fashionable dictate, making him look like a lion in the middle of so many motley tomcats. And the color! It was streaked in a dozen different shades of blond—from the color of pale, sun-bleached wheat to a deep honey color. Although she was not aware of it, her fingers curled with the unconscious desire to touch it.
Her gaze followed the straight, clear lines of his profile, which reminded her of faces she had seen on Roman coins. She had always wondered what a profile like that looked like from the front.
As if he had divined her thought, he turned slightly and looked up directly at her. Not even thinking to look away or disguise her perusal behind her fan, she kept her gaze on his face, wishing that she could see the color of his eyes.
Ariane did not know it, but her eyes lost that studiously bored look, the corners of her mouth tipped up in the barest hint of a smile and her stiffly held shoulders softened enough for her mother to slant her a look.
Comtesse Marguerite de Valmont saw the expression on her daughter’s face change and smiled. Leaning back in her gilt and red velvet chair, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It would be all right after all, she thought, and turned her attention toward her husband.
The Greek gods capering on the stage coaxed an absent half smile onto Christopher Blanchard’s mouth, but most of his attention was on the people in the audience. He’d lived in too many places where your chances for survival rose in proportion to your ability to judge precisely and instantaneously the people you were dealing with. And from his own childhood experiences in Paris twenty years ago he knew all too well that Parisian society could be quite as deadly as any gold town in California, if perhaps more subtly so. And yet, he thought, it was this very Parisian society that his father had pined for all his life.
Chris had been in Paris a week, long enough to acquire an exquisitely tailored wardrobe and to comprehend that the main motor of Parisian society was the pursuit of pleasure, money and power.
He had also ascertained that Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux, his father’s sister, still lived in the same severe mansion that he remembered all too well. And he had discovered that the money from the sale of the gold mine, which he and his father had jointly owned, had gone to buy shares floated by an investment bank that belonged to his half brother.
His roving gaze paused as it brushed a woman attractive in the way of a full-blown rose. She was leaning against the balustrade of her box, her crossed arms beneath her breasts unapologetically emphasizing her creamy bosom. Meeting his gaze, she plucked a flower from the bouquet that lay in front of her and slid it over her mouth in flagrant invitation.
“Suzette Lavalier is one of the most expensive courtesans in Paris,” his neighbor murmured. “But rumor has it that her skill is worth every franc and more.”
“Actually my taste runs to women who have not been sampled by half the male population.” Chris grinned at Roger de Monnier. He felt comfortable in the younger man’s company although their acquaintance was only a few days old. “I’m not nearly old enough to need a woman’s skill.” His grin grew just a shade wicked. “And besides, I like to think that I have skill enough for both of us.”
“I’m certain you won’t have a problem finding what you want.” He smiled back at Chris, wondering if there was some way he could duplicate the American’s not-quite-civilized aura that seemed to attract so many inviting female stares. “Paris has something for every taste.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
As they both turned back to face the stage, Chris felt a tingle at the back of his neck. He tipped his head up and to the side and unerringly homed in on the eyes watching him.
The eyes were dark, although he could not quite discern the color at that distance. They belonged to a face with the tiny, perfect features of a porcelain doll. Yet there was strength there beneath the delicate beauty—even a touch of imperiousness. She might look like a soft Aphrodite who would come easily to a man’s bed, but he suspected that she was a proud Athena instead. She would fight surrender, he mused, but if conquered, she would give delight beyond measure. And right now she was looking at him with undisguised interest.
He felt the jolt right down to the pit of his belly. A jolt that spread a heat not unlike the fire of whiskey on an empty stomach.
His gaze drifted down to her mouth. The corners tilted upward in the merest hint of a smile as she continued to look at him with an openness and a concentration that another man might have found either unnerving or ill-bred. Chris, on the other hand, found himself inordinately pleased and decided to answer in kind. Instead of the discreet bow that convention would have demanded of him, he tilted his head back in a gesture that was more a challenge than a decorous greeting.
He watched the young woman’s mouth turn serious again. Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes narrowed slightly, but she still did not look away. No, she kept watching him, and under her gaze, he felt the heat in his belly spread. Well, well, he thought as his mouth curved, perhaps his stay in Paris would bring him a few new, pleasant memories to replace the old, ugly ones.
Ariane watched the stranger tip back his head. She was not well-versed in the games men and women engaged in, but she understood a challenge better than most. Although she frowned, wondering just what it was that he was challenging her to and why, she was distracted by the sheer, untamed beauty of the man. The movement of his head had his incredible mane of hair rippling back so that it caught the light and she found herself wondering—consciously this time—what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.
When she saw his mouth tilt upward in a smile that managed to be both boyishly charming and insolent, the horrible thought that he had read her mind had her stiffening. Still, pride would not allow her to look away.
“Roger, do you know the girl up there?” Chris did not shift his gaze away from her face as he spoke. “The golden-haired one in the lavender gown.”
Roger de Monnier leaned forward, and recognizing the young woman, lowered his head in a well-mannered bow.
“That is Ariane de Valmont. Comtesse Ariane de Val-mont. She and her parents have come to Paris for the season,” he said. “She’s older than most of the debutantes, apparently. God knows why her parents kept her buried in the country for so long. No hint of scandal though,” he hastened to add. “Would you like me to present you?”
Roger felt a flicker of regret. He had been rather taken with the young countess himself, but now, seeing the way she and his new friend were staring at each other, he had no illusions about his chances with her.
“I would like that.” Chris sent his friend a quick smile before his gaze returned to the young woman.
“Chris?”
“Mmm?”
“She is a young lady of good family.” Roger gnawed at his lower lip, not quite sure how to phrase what he wanted to say without insulting his friend. “And this is not—” he coughed discreetly “—the American West”.
Slowly Chris turned to face him fully and Roger almost recoiled at the way his pale green eyes had cooled. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry, mon ami. I may be an uncivilized American in your eyes, but my parents were easily the equals of anyone here tonight and more. I know what conduct your society demands—” he paused and raised a tawny eyebrow “—on the surface.”
“I meant no insult.”
Chris relaxed and smiled. “Then I will not take it as one.”
In unison, both men turned back to the stage where the singers had arranged themselves for the finale of the act.
Damn, Chris swore at himself. Why had he let Mon-nier’s words get to him like that? He had been so certain that he no longer cared what they thought of him. Wasn’t that why he had come here? To put all those old ghosts to rest? To exorcise all the old memories?
All these years he had told himself that none of them mattered any longer. Now he realized that he had been lying to himself. The memories still hurt. He still cared.
Applause surged up in a wave as the curtain came down, but most of the audience was already engaged in orchestrating the intermission.
Ariane had carefully kept her gaze on the stage for the past minutes. Now, as the audience began to chat and move around, she allowed her eyes to drift back over the stalls. The blond man’s seat was empty and she suppressed the sting of disappointment, assuring herself that she cared nothing about his whereabouts.
“I think I’ll go visit Justine de Monnier in her box,” she said, turning toward her mother. But she saw that her mother was not listening to her. Instead, she was looking up her husband with undisguised adoration, hanging on to every word of whatever it was he was saying to her.
Shrugging, she rose, but before she could move away from her chair, her father shot her a displeased look.
“Sit down, Ariane,” Pierre de Valmont said. “I’ve told you that one stays in one’s box at intermission to receive visitors.”
“If everyone stays in their box, then who are the visitors?” she asked with a feigned artlessness.
“Don’t be impudent. Now s—”
A knock at the door to their box interrupted him.
“You see,” the Comte de Valmont said, pleased, his irritation with his daughter forgotten.
Ariane returned to her chair with a huff. “If it’s that pudgy little duke with the pig’s eyes,” she retorted,
“Will be polite,” her father finished firmly and invited the visitors to enter.
As the man with the mane of tawny hair stepped into the box, Ariane’s mouth went dry.
Chapter Two (#ulink_62cde085-d71c-5b75-932b-9d01dc82b77f)
He was even taller than Ariane had imagined, his shoulders uncommonly, almost indecorously broad. His severely elegant evening clothes were perfectly tailored, but that only seemed to call attention to the aura of wild-ness that clung to him. Certainly he did not look even remotely like the idle young men she had met in the past week.
Ariane stared at him, hearing neither the babble of pleasantries as her parents greeted Roger de Monnier nor the shocked gasp in the box adjacent to theirs.
“May I present my friend, Christopher Blanchard.” Although it pained his Gallic sensibilities, Roger said the name as Chris had told him it was pronounced in America. “He comes from America.”
“You are an American? How interesting.” Marguerite de Valmont smiled vapidly. “We had a visitor from America recently. Where was the gentleman from, chéri?” She looked up at her husband.
“Where was he from?” Valmont passed the question on to his daughter.
“Virginia, papa.”
“Ah, yes,” Valmont said. “A very pleasant gentleman. He purchased several of our horses. He rubbed his hands lightly as he remembered. “Une bonne affaire. An excellent deal.”
Yes, Ariane thought with a touch of acrimony, it had been an excellent deal. But only because she had spent the week haggling with this very pleasant gentleman over one card game after another.
“And where are you from?”
Pierre de Valmont’s voice had the interrogative tone typical of fathers of unmarried daughters, reminding Chris of Roger’s words. It occurred to him that in California, a question like that would be more likely to elicit a challenge to a fight than an answer, but his voice showed no trace of irritation when he spoke.
“I’ve moved around a great deal, but I’ve lived in California for a number of years now.”
California? The image of desert. and ocean and hot sun was so real that Ariane could almost feel the heat on her bared shoulders. Was it the hot sun which had made his hair that fabulous color, which had bronzed his skin? The men of Provence, where she had spent most of her life, were a handsome lot, but she had never seen a man of such pagan beauty. Suddenly painfully aware that she had been staring, she looked away.
“Are you in Paris on business or pleasure?” Valmont inquired.
“I have interests here that require looking after. But I am certain that being in Paris will also be a pleasure.”
Valmont nodded, marginally relieved. After all, a man who had business interests in France was most likely not a complete barbarian, even if his shoulder-length hair and insolent eyes made him look like a Viking intent on plunder.
His gaze drifted to his daughter and he swore to himself. It was the very devil to guard the virtue of a daughter—especially when the daughter had more intelligence and energy than was good for her. Too bad her intelligence had not extended to choosing a husband from one of the many perfectly acceptable sons of the other landowners.
Well, he thought, he was going to make sure that she had a husband before they left Paris. A husband who would give her the sons to inherit the fortune he had built. With a sigh, he returned to his duties as host.
Ariane held herself aloof from the conversation, irritated at the way her parents were quizzing this man. The American was not very loquacious, she remarked, responding to questions in faultless French, but volunteering no additional information. Paradoxically, she found his reticence annoying, although she deplored those self-important mentions about lineage or wealth that most other men made.
“We are looking forward to seeing you at our ball.” Roger turned to Ariane. “My sister Justine has spoken of little else since she made your acquaintance the other evening.”
“And I am looking forward to seeing her.” And she-truly was wanting to see again the young girl who was everything that she was not—tall and willowy, with hair the color of pitch, and perfectly at ease in the whirl of balls, carriage rides and flirtation.
He was watching her, Ariane thought, as she kept up the stream of polite chatter. She could feel it as surely as if he were touching her. He was challenging her again, just as he had before. Only this time, she understood that he was challenging her to look at him because he knew perfectly well that she was avoiding it.
She was being rude, she knew, but that thought disturbed her less than the thought that he might think her a coward. Or worse, that he was laughing at her.
Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him. His eyes, which were the clear, cool green of a mountain stream, held a faint amusement that had her forgetting her unsureness, her embarrassment in the face of the surge of annoyance.
He knows just how attractive he is, she thought with an instinctive understanding that went far beyond her experience. He is so aware of the power of his charm that he expects all women to fall at his feet. But despite her irritation, she found that she could not remove herself completely from his allure.
“What do you think of all this, Monsieur Blan-chard?” She made a small circular gesture with her fan. “How does it compare to California?”
“Paris is Paris, of course,” he said smoothly, “but people, in essence, are the same everywhere.”
“Do you really think so?”
The sharp inquiry in her tone pleased him far more than docile agreement would have. “You don’t?”
“Actually, no.” Her eyes moved over him boldly, as if her uneasiness of a few moments ago had never been. “I somehow doubt that you are anything like anyone I have met in Paris.” Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug. “Or elsewhere for that matter.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He grinned, making it perfectly clear that he considered it the former.
Unable to resist, she grinned back. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made up my mind.”
Helpless, Valmont watched Ariane flirt with the large, handsome American. She was truly impossible, he thought. He had never seen her quite as animated with other, more suitable men.
“Shall we have some champagne now?” Valmont signaled to the waiting footman to fill the champagne flutes.
“To a pleasant stay in Paris for all of you.” Roger de Monnier raised his glass. “And a long one.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Chris said, his eyes not moving from Ariane’s face.
Ariane lifted her glass and sipped, watching the American over the rim of her flute. His eyes of that unusual transparent green were lit with male interest. In the past week she had been the recipient of enough such looks to be able to identify it. But while she had easily shrugged off the interest of all those insipid, dull young men, she suddenly found herself unwilling to look away from this man’s eyes, which held heat and challenge and that maddening trace of amusement.
Chris watched her, waiting for her to flutter the golden-tipped eyelashes that fringed her fabulous eyes, which were the rich color of amethysts, or send him a flirtatious smile, or hide coquettishly behind her fan. But she did none of those things. Instead she kept watching him, her eyes and mouth serious, as if she were measuring him. It occurred to him that he had never seen a woman with such a capacity for stillness before.
“And you, comtesse? Are you looking forward to it?”
His voice was soft and insinuating and, despite her lack of experience, Ariane recognized the ripple of excitement that traveled down her spine for what it was. She smiled, for the first time in weeks feeling no rancor that her parents had dragged her off to Paris.
“Yes,” she said, “I am.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
A melodious gong sounded, signaling the end of intermission, and Chris stood and bowed over the hand she held out to him.
“The first waltz tomorrow night,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears. “The first and the last.”
“I’ll have to check my dance card.” She tipped up her chin. “I don’t know if they’re still free.”
“The first and the last waltz, comtesse.” His smile was very white and very wicked in his bronzed face. “Some things are not negotiable.”
Ariane felt her pulse skitter as he held her eyes for a long moment before he turned toward her parents.
“I thank you for your hospitality.” Chris bowed over Marguerite de Valmont’s hand.
As he turned away, his gaze brushed over the woman staring at him from the adjacent box. And all the old, ugly memories came flooding over him.
“What insolence,” Ariane said to no one in particular when the box door had closed behind the two men. Shrugging with a not quite successful attempt at nonchalance, she turned back toward the audience. “But at least he’s not boring.”
“Really, Ariane,” Valmont said, “I fail to understand you.”
“Don’t worry, papa,” Ariane said without looking at her father. She knew just what kind of face he was making. “I’m not planning to marry the man.”
“Good God,” Valmont sputtered. “I hope not. Not when you have men like the Duc de Santerre dancing attendance on you.”
Chris sat staring into a glass of brandy he had yet to touch.
Nothing had changed, he realized. The moment he had seen Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux in the box, he had been catapulted back in time.
He had stood, his small, sweaty hand in his father’s larger one, looking up with longing at the tall, fair-haired woman who resembled his father so strongly. She had smelled like some kind of flower and he had desperately wanted her to stroke his cheek with her soft hands, just like maman had always done before she had gone away to live among the angels.
But she had not touched him. She had not even really looked at him.
“I don’t know what you could be thinking of to subject me to the presence of your filthy, little bastard,” she’d said. “Really, Charles, apparently living among those savages in America has made you forget good manners completely.”
He remembered the sharp sound of her voice as if it had been yesterday. And he remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he had tried to understand why she looked at him with such disgust.
And he discovered that now, twenty years later, the memory still hurt.
“May I abduct your daughter?” Justine de Monnier’s chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as she floated up to the Valmonts in a fussy gown of pink satin and cream-colored lace. Barely waiting for the Valmonts’ reply, she tucked Ariane’s arm into hers and strolled off.
“I’m going to tell you who everyone is.” With a coquettish smile Justine acknowledged a greeting from one young man and then another without missing a beat.
Her eyes amused, Ariane’s eyebrows curved upward. “Is the ball going to last a week then?” Justine’s words should have irritated her, she thought, since she cared nothing about who “everyone” was, but somehow the younger girl’s enthusiasm was infectious.
Justine’s laughter chimed. “Only the ones who are someone, of course,” she clarified.
“That’s good to hear, but couldn’t we sneak into the game room instead?”
“That would be very naughty of us.” Justine giggled. “It’s frowned upon for unmarried young women, you know.”
“I know.” Ariane sighed at the thought that even this diversion was closed to her. At least on those rare occasions when she had found herself at some festivity at home, she had seldom had a problem finding a lively card game—if worst came to worst, in the stables.
“Oh!”
Ariane heard the soft gasp and glanced at Justine, who had snapped open her fan with an elegant flick of her wrist and was fluttering it daintily. Ariane wondered how many hours in front of a mirror it had taken the girl to achieve such perfection. Justine’s eyes had become as round as coins and Ariane automatically followed the direction of her gaze.
When she found her own gaze trapped by Christopher Blanchard’s eyes, she felt like a fly that had inadvertently walked into a honey pot. She told herself that the small flicker in the pit of her stomach was not excitement but dismay.
“Do you see that man with Roger?” Justine’s voice was just short of reverent. “The one staring at us so shamelessly.” Her breath caught in an excited little hiccup. “Oh, mon Dieu.” She pressed her hand against her bosom. “Where did Roger find him and who is he?”
“I don’t know where your brother found him, but his name is Christopher Blanchard and he’s an American.”
He was still looking at her as if challenging her to be the first one to look away, so she stared back, unwilling to lose this small battle.
Justine’s fan went suddenly still and dropped several inches, revealing her Cupid’s bow mouth, which was slightly open in surprise. “You know who he is?” She moved closer and gave Ariane’s arm a small pinch under the cover of her fan. “You’re staring.”
“I know.” Annoyance stirring, Ariane did not move except to raise her chin another notch. “It’s a contest.”
Her face remained composed, but her eyes grew turbulent. Her fingers on her lace and ivory fan tightened, but she did not notice. But she was very aware that the blood had begun to rush in her veins as quickly as a river swollen with the spring rains.
His image had floated through her dreams last night, but the reality of the man, so large and bronzed, so very male, had her heart drumming. It is nothing remarkable, she assured herself. It is no different from the way your heartbeat picks up the moment before you take up a hand of cards when the stakes are high. At the moment, the fatal precision of her observation escaped her.
A moment later her view was obstructed by the pudgy figure of the young Duc de Santerre.
“I am enchanted to see you here tonight, comtesse.” His beatific smile had his almost colorless eyes disappearing into the folds of soft, pink flesh. “May I have the honor of dancing the first waltz with you?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur le duc. I am promised.” Her father’s instructions forgotten, the words slipped out as if they had a will of their own. Because she felt sorry for him, she gave him an especially warm smile. “One of the others perhaps?” she said rashly, regretting her words the moment they were said.
The young duke’s eyes disappeared again as, delighted at his good fortune, he watched Ariane write his name on her dance card. He opened his mouth to say something, but he saw that she had raised her head and was looking across the ballroom. He hovered over her a moment longer before he understood that he had been dismissed.
Her eyes trapped in the American’s gaze again, Ariane barely noticed as Santerre drifted off. He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment, and she saw that his eyes were amused and knowing.
Damn him. He knows that you saved the first waltz for him. You should have given it to Santerre.
Why cut off your nose to spite your face? Santerre’s conversation would put an insomniac to sleep and he’ll step on your toes besides.
And the American? What will he do to you?
As if to answer her question he moved then, striding across the ballroom toward her with a singleness of purpose that had the clusters of chatting people parting to let him pass. She stiffened her spine against the flutter in the pit of her stomach, admitting to the uneasiness, but not to the excitement.
She was truly lovely, Chris thought. She was tiny, her soft curves just on the verge of lush. And her skin! He had once seen pearls of that same color—a translucent milky white with just a blush of pink.
Her white gown, adorned only by tiny bunches of silk violets the exact color of her eyes, was almost severe in comparison to the creations decorated with lace and ruffles worn by the other women. And she stood very still, even when she was speaking, as if all that was going on around her concerned her not at all.
Her beauty was delicate, but there was nothing fragile about it. And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior, he thought. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.
“Bonsoir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”
“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”
“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”
“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all.”
“And to what then do I owe your—” he paused “—unusual acquiescence?”
Ariane knew that he was trying to provoke her and, determined not to be bested, she decided to answer him in kind.
“To the fact that your conversation is more amusing the Santerre’s.” She let her eyes move over him in a casual but thorough sweep. “And you look as if you will exhibit a certain grace on the dance floor.”
Justine let out a small, shocked gasp, but Ariane did not hear it as her own breath caught when Chris threw back his head and laughed. This was not a polite society laugh or a mocking chuckle, but a rich sound of amusement that was as physical as a touch. People around them stared, but Ariane did not notice, for she was fascinated by his laughter and by the way it made the bronzed skin of his throat ripple.
His mouth was still curved in a smile when his eyes returned to hers. “I am enchanted.”
It took some effort, but she managed to pull away from his magnetism.
“By what?” She frowned, bristling less at his words than at the amusement in his eyes.
Chris watched, fascinated, as her fabulous eyes iced over, even as they retained a heated flicker of anger.
“How do you do that?” he demanded softly, forgetting completely that she had asked him a question.
“Do what? What are you talking about?” Her brisk, impatient tone softened as she saw that the amusement in his eyes had fled and been replaced by heat. How could eyes of that cool green color carry such intense heat? she wondered.
“How do you make your eyes go as cold as an arctic night and yet the fire is still there?” He curled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides.
She stilled at the sound of his voice—low and yet somehow urgent. A shiver glided over her skin as if he had touched her. For a moment, she merely looked at him, unable to speak. Then forcibly shaking off the feeling, she tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her stormy eyes challenged him and Chris felt the blood begin to pound in his veins. Had he ever Wanted a woman so quickly, so urgently? Yes, she was lovely, he thought, but it was not just her beauty that lured him. Far more, it was her spirit—and the unbridled passion he sensed within her. He pulled in a deep breath and managed a casual smile. “I’ll explain it to you some other time.”
“Monsieur Blanchard—” Ariane drew herself up to her full height and cursed silently that she did not even reach the American’s shoulders. “I do not believe there will be some other time.”
“Oh, on the contrary.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “I promise you there will be.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”
“Not a threat. Even uncivilized Americans do not threaten beautiful young women.” He smiled. “It’s a promise.”
He wanted to lock her in a room and make love to her until she was out of his system, Chris thought, feeling his body tighten. It occurred to him that one did not need a great deal of imagination to construe a desire that strong as a threat.
“I have had quite enough of your promises, Monsieur Blanchard. And your demands.” She started to turn away. “You will excuse me.”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the musicians began to play the lilting introduction to a Strauss waltz.
“I believe this is my dance, comtesse.”
Chapter Three (#ulink_98dc45e5-7468-5497-a224-e4f825b826c6)
Even as Ariane turned away from him, Chris took her hand and, with his other hand at the small of her back, maneuvered her toward the dance floor so elegantly, so deftly that she knew there was no way she could escape without making a scene.
Despite the difference in their height, there was no awkwardness as he whirled her around to the three-quarter time of the dance. On the contrary, they moved together as if neither of them had ever danced with anyone else.
As much as Ariane disliked the empty chatter at social gatherings, she had always loved to dance. Now the pleasure of moving in time with the music made her forget her annoyance—almost.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” Chris said. “Why don’t you give in and smile?”
She tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes. The amusement was there again and it touched off her temper as surely as a match touches off a flame.
“I do not relish being manipulated, monsieur. Or laughed at.”
“I’ll admit to the manipulating, but I was not laughing at you.”
“Weren’t you?”
“No.” His eyes turned suddenly serious. “I know how much mockery can hurt. Firsthand.”
“You?” Ariane was so surprised at his words and at the way the amusement had drained out of his eyes so quickly that she missed a step. “I cannot believe that”
“Well, it’s true,” he said brusquely, a little appalled that he had shared that long-ago hurt with her.
“I can’t quite imagine anyone daring to mock you.”
Annoyed at himself, he shrugged. “It was a long time ago.
Ariane understood childhood hurts—after all, she lived with some of her own. Feeling his discomfort at the confession he had made, she said nothing. Instead, she shifted the hand that lay lightly in his palm and gave his hand a squeeze, accompanying it with a smile.
The touch she gave him was so brief that Chris wondered if he had imagined it. But he knew that he had not imagined the smile of extraordinary sweetness that curved her mouth and was reflected in her violet eyes.
When the dance ended, they found themselves near Justine and her partner.
“Just a word, Ariane,” Justine called out. Then, leaving her dance partner with an apologetic gesture, she moved over to her new friend and, under the guise of adjusting the tiny bunch of silk violets that was fastened above Ariane’s ear, she pulled her a step away from Chris and whispered, “Be careful. He’s gorgeous, but get rid of him quickly and don’t dance with him again. People are staring.”
“What was that all about?” Chris asked, when Ariane turned back to him and placed her hand on his proffered arm.
“Apparently we have made a spectacle of ourselves.” Her shrug was more exasperated than rueful. “She told me to get rid of you and warned me not to dance with you again.”
Had someone asked him, he would have denied that his nerves had tightened. “And are you?”
“Going to get rid of you or going to dance with you again?” Her mouth was serious, but her eyes were smiling.
“Both, either.”
They began to walk toward the part of the ballroom where her parents were seated.
“I don’t take direction very well. Especially from children.” Ariane shrugged. “Justine thinks she knows everything, but she is only a child.”
Chris smiled. “While you are veritably ancient,” he teased.
“You have no idea how true your words are.” His smile was so charming, so infectious that Ariane smiled back, forgetting her earlier irritation. “That’s why I’m here, after all. In Paris, I mean.” She made a face.
“You see, I’ve reached the age of twenty-five and my father is appalled that he does not yet have a son-in-law and a horde of grandchildren.”
Chris felt a tightening in his belly at the thought of her with another man. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was planning to provide her father with what he wanted when he realized that they had reached the far end of the ballroom. He bowed politely toward the elder Valmonts before he turned toward Ariane.
“Thank you for the waltz, comtesse.” This time he did not reach for her hand, but waited politely for her to offer it to him. “May I look forward to dancing with you again?” he asked when she did.
Ariane felt the pressure of his fingers on hers. As he lifted his head and met her gaze, she read the challenge in his eyes that told her that the touch had not been accidental. She could feel her father’s displeased gaze on her, but the temptation of the dare this man offered was stronger.
“You may.”
He retained her hand a moment longer than convention allowed, but she had no desire to pull her hand away from the warmth she could feel despite her gloves. Again there was that brief pressure and she suppressed a shiver of excitement just as he finally released her.
She should not want to dance with him again so badly, she thought, as he walked away, but she did. It was only because his amusing, impudent conversation was such a pleasant change from the inanities she had been hearing, she assured herself. And at the moment she believed it.
Several moments passed before she realized that her father was speaking to her.
“I’m sorry, papa.” She turned to him and put a soothing hand on his arm. “What were you saying?”
“I don’t want you dancing with him again,” he repeated petulantly. “We didn’t bring you to Paris to fall into the hands of some—some adventurer,” Valmont continued. “I want you to have a good, French husband.”
“Papa—“
“I want your promise, Ariane, that you will do as I say.” Because he had drunk enough champagne to make him feel expansive, but not enough to sour his temper, his tone wheedled rather than commanded.
“I am here in Paris, papa, because you wished it.” She gave her father a direct look and felt a little spurt of guilty satisfaction when he lowered his eyes. “The least you can do is let me enjoy myself.”
She turned away, refraining from adding that she planned to leave Paris as unencumbered by a husband as she had arrived.
“Ariane—”
The Comtesse de Valmont tucked her hand into her husband’s arm and screwed up the courage to speak. “Leave her be, Pierre,” she whispered. “The more you storm against him, the more attractive he will seem to her.” She remembered quite well how her own father had stormed against the feckless, volatile Comte de Valmont.
Ariane stared after Christopher Blanchard’s retreating figure, a plan forming in her mind.
And she was not the only one who stared after him.
It was too much to be borne. The Marquise de Blan-chard closed her eyes. The moment she had seen him she had known with an absolute certainty that this man was Charles’s son. Oh, he was taller and broader, but the handsome features were too similar to her husband’s to be anyone else. The man whom she had loved. The man who had left her for another woman. She had never forgiven him for being either.
Hatred, old and new, was bitter on her tongue as she approached him.
“You are Charles de Blanchard’s son. Do not bother to deny it.”
The voice behind him was soft, but it dripped ice and venom in equal parts. Instinctively knowing whom the voice belonged to, Chris turned around to face the woman whose stubbornness and pride had condemned him to being a bastard. Reminding himself that he was a grown man and that his existence had, after all, condemned her to being an abandoned wife, he bowed.
“I would not think of denying the truth, madame la marquise.”
“You know who I am?” Her small, round black eyes, which gave her the aspect of a plump bird, narrowed. “How?”
“My father had a miniature.”
“He kept my portrait?” Her thin mouth, the only thin feature she possessed, curved in a triumphant smile.
“He kept a portrait of his children.” Chris kept his voice carefully neutral. “I suspect your presence there was incidental.”
The smile froze briefly to a grimace before it disappeared.
“What are you doing here in Paris?” The marquise heard the ebony slats of her fan groan under the pressure of her fingers and forced her hands to relax. “If you have come here to embarrass me, embarrass my children, I shall—”
“I advise you not to threaten me, madame la marquise. It is not something I take kindly to.”
“I will do as I please,” she said, choosing to ignore the steel beneath the mild tone. “I do not take kindly to the presence of my husband’s bastard son, fathered on a woman of easy virtue.”
His pale green eyes iced over so quickly that it took all her control not to step back before the cold, dangerous fury she saw there.
“Be grateful, madame la marquise—” although his tone was almost without inflection, he managed to make the title sound like an insult “—that we are in public and that I do not choose to make a scene.” He paused for a moment to make certain that he had been understood. “I will not be that lenient again.”
Slowly Chris turned away and went in search of brandy to wash away the memory of his mother’s tears and all the old childhood hurts that were suddenly clogging his throat.
With an outraged gasp Odile de Blanchard watched Charles’s bastard turn his back on her. Catching sight of her country cousin, Pierre, across the room, she hurried toward him to tell him just who his daughter had been dancing with.
Ariane had always prided herself on her ability to give her attention to more than one activity at a time. So while she whirled around in a succession of waltzes and polkas and quadrilles, while she carried on one conversation after another empty of everything but a little light flirtation, her mind clicked away efficiently.
Deciding that she did not have the patience to wait for the last waltz, she took advantage of the intermission between sets to look for Roger de Monnier. He was talking to his sister, she saw. Well, it could not be helped, she thought, and it really did not matter. Justine would know soon enough that she had no intention of taking her advice.
“May I interrupt?”
“You’re not interrupting, Ariane.” Justine hooked her arm around Ariane’s. “In fact, we were just talking about you.”
Ariane raised her eyes heavenward. “I can imagine.”
“I apologize for what I said, but you have no idea how people talk here in Paris.”
“Well,” Ariane said, “they’re going to have to talk some more.” Giving Justine’s arm a pat, she turned to Roger. “Would you give Monsieur Blanchard a message for me, Roger?”
“Of course.” Roger smiled brightly. Perhaps he would have a chance with the young countess after all.
“Please tell him that I would like to speak to him during the next intermission.”
“But—” He threw a helpless look at his sister.
“Please, Roger.”
With a bow Roger left the two young women.
“But Ariane, don’t you understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” Ariane smiled. “But let me explain so that you do.” Seeing yet another eligible young man bearing down on them, she deliberately turned away, pulling Justine along with her.
“I am here in Paris because my parents decided I could no longer do without a husband. But I have no intention of saddling myself with one. Thus it is of no import whether people gossip about me or not. Do you understand now?”
“You don’t want a husband?” Justine stared at Ariane with something resembling horror. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Justine,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I am twenty-five. I’ve lived as I please for a long time and I have no intention of changing that.”
“Oh, pooh.” Justine wiggled her fingers as if she were chasing a pesky fly. “The empress was twenty-six when she married, and from what one hears, she lived as she pleased and she still does.”
Ariane shook her head. “I want my life to stay just as it is. I love my home, my land.” Her eyes softened as she thought of the endless fields. “You have no idea how beautiful it is.” For a moment she considered explaining how she had made a moderately prosperous estate into very wealthy one, by running it behind her father’s back, but she rejected the notion. It was not something Justine would understand.
“And I have no desire to have a husband who will only want to mold me into an obedient wife.” Never, she thought, never did she want to be like her mother, who had no life but what her husband chose to give her.
“But what does Christopher Blanchard have to do with all this?”
“I need a smoke screen, Justine.”
The girl sighed dramatically. “I don’t understand a word.”
“Don’t worry.” Ariane patted Justine’s arm. “The main thing is that Christopher Blanchard understands.” It occurred to her that she was playing with fire, but, intent on her purpose, she pushed the thought away.
Chapter Four (#ulink_6002a561-5b5c-5f17-a71c-836f4292ca1f)
Chris watched Ariane from the edge of the dance floor, as he had been doing all evening. When her dance partner bent down and whispered something into her ear, he clenched his fists at his sides. When she lifted her face toward the baby-faced young man, revealing her radiant smile, he barely managed to prevent himself from barging onto the dance floor.
Pulling in a deep breath, he cursed himself for a fool. Perhaps it had been simply too long since he had had a woman, he thought Perhaps he should take Roger’s advice and see what Suzette Lavalier or one of her colleagues had to offer.
“What’s the matter, Chris? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Of course, I am.” Forcing himself to relax, he turned toward Roger. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re scowling like the very devil.” He grinned despite his misgivings. He had seen the direction of Chris’s gaze.
Shrugging, Chris said nothing, but his eyes returned to the dance floor.
“I have a message for you. From Ariane de Valmont.”
“Indeed?” His heartbeat leaped at Roger’s words, but his indifferent tone gave no hint of his sudden turmoil. If her message was to cancel the dance she had promised him, he swore to himself, she was in for a surprise.
“She would like your company during the next intermission between sets.”
“What does she want?”
“I am not her confidant.” He gnawed at his lip, wondering if he should dare Chris’s anger again.
“Don’t worry, Roger,” Chris said, feeling his friend’s discomfort. “You’ve done your duty and you can believe me when I tell you that I have never forced my attentions on a woman.”
“The question of force never entered my mind.” Roger smiled ruefully. “Ariane de Valmont is an inexperienced young woman, unused to society. She is no match for a man like you—”
Chris shot him a black look.
“A man like you—” Roger continued unperturbed “—who draws female stares as a magnet draws pins. A man who has enough charm to talk his way into any bed.”
“Should I be flattered or insulted?” Chris’s brows took on a mocking curve. Then he glanced across the ballroom, where Ariane stood surrounded by several young men while her parents looked on proudly.
“Don’t worry, Roger. I think the young Comtesse de Valmont can take care of herself just fine.”
“I got your message,” Chris said when he collected Ariane after the set had ended. He touched her elbow and soft flesh made his cool restraint disintegrate. “If you are going to tell me that you’ve decided to get rid of me after all, don’t.”
Ariane stopped in the middle of a movement, her eyebrows rising at the vehemence of his tone. “And if I was?”
“I shall—”
“More threats, Monsieur Blanchard?”
Chris understood desire. He understood how to gratify it and how to keep it in check. But he was appalled at the unfamiliar, turbulent feelings that were racing through him. Even more, he was appalled at how effortlessly they eluded the control he had honed so carefully. He gave Ariane a searching look. Her mouth and her eyes were serious, but there had been a definite smile in her voice. The unreasoning sense of relief he felt at that unnerved him still further.
“No.” He softened the curt answer with a smile. “No threats.”
“Good.” Ariane’s nod was all coolness and composure, but as the unexpected heat curled through her, unfamiliar and a little frightening, she looked away from his charming, lopsided smile.
He was altogether too beautiful, too charming, too virile, she thought. And much too sure of himself. How many women had fallen victim to him? she wondered. Did he, like Don Juan, need a servant to keep a list of his myriad conquests? Well, she was forewarned, she told herself. She would use him for her purpose, but she would not succumb. to that charm he dispensed so fac-ilely.
“What do you want from me then?”
Ariane’s gaze skidded up at his directness. “For the moment, your company.”
“My name is on your dance card. So impatient?” His lifted eyebrows insinuated more.
“Are you trying very hard to be disagreeable?” she demanded.
“No. I just don’t believe in wasting time nor in beating around the bush.” He paused. “Well?”
“Presently.” Ariane lifted her hand in a gesture that requested patience. “I am not beating around the bush,” she explained not quite truthfully. “I merely do things in my own good time.”
She was hedging and she knew it. But now that he was standing next to her—so large, so handsome, so utterly male—she found that her stomach was quivering. And what had seemed so reasonable, so expedient just a little while ago was suddenly madness.
“Agreed.” Apparently the young countess did not intend to send him to the devil, so Chris reined in his impatience. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he directed their steps toward one of the rooms off the main ballroom, where light refreshments were being served.
As they strolled by, a door opened and several footmen carrying huge trays full of empty bottles emerged. The door remained open, revealing a room hazy with smoke, quiet but for the sound of hushed voices, the occasional slap of cards and the gradually slowing clack of the ball on the roulette wheel.
Chris slowed his steps to match Ariane’s. When he heard her wistful sigh, he could not resist a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re a gambler.”
“I don’t mind a good game of cards.” She grimaced inwardly at her prim tone and the lukewarm understatement.
“So the countess has a weakness for games of chance.” He laughed, pleased.
“No, cards,” Ariane corrected as they began to walk again. “I cannot abide games of chance.”
“That’s a very fine line you are drawing.”
“Not at all.” She warmed to the subject, forgetting that young, unmarried countesses did not gamble. And if they did, they certainly did not talk about it. “Cards require skill. In games of chance you are completely dependent on what luck may deal you.”
“Don’t you believe in luck?” Chris had had too many close brushes with disaster not to. Besides, the blood that ran in his veins was half-Russian, so he came by his belief in the vagaries of fortune honestly.
“Of course I do. Only fools believe solely in their own abilities.” She grinned. “On the other hand, only fools depend on their luck to help them every time.”
“Lovely, charming, witty, a gambler and a philosopher to boot. Unbelievable.” He shook his head. “Now are you going to tell me why you wanted to speak to me?” he said, his impatience getting the better of him.
Ariane took a deep breath. She supposed it was as good a time as any.
“Are you looking for a wife, Monsieur Blanchard?” She met his eyes and held them.
Struck dumb for a moment, Chris only stared at her. There was no facetiousness or coquetry in her eyes. Instead they held only a mild inquiry, as if she were asking a shopkeeper about the relative merits of two bolts of cloth.
“No, actually I am not,” he replied, wondering what her game was. She continued to look at him with her eyes of that startling violet color so that he felt compelled to elaborate. “I have no need for an heiress, nor does a man of my station need to make a dynastic marriage.”
“There are other reasons to choose a wife.”
He slanted her a look, not certain if she was flirting or being outrageous, but her gaze still appeared to hold no more than polite interest.
“Pledging my heart forever holds no appeal for me. In fact, I find the thought of my happiness being dependent on another person quite appalling.”
The memory of his father, prostrate with grief at his mother’s death, nudged him. Chris had no intention of ever opening himself up to that kind of vulnerability. Ever.
“Excellent.” Pleased and relieved, she smiled. She could not have wished for a better reaction, she thought. “Nor am I looking for a husband. I, too, find the institution of marriage quite hideous. Unfortunately, my father is deaf to reason, so I would like to enlist your help.”
“My help?”
She nodded. “Could I interest you in the role of suitor to throw him off the scent, so to speak? You pretend to court me until others lose interest and my father decides to let me go home. I give you my word,” she continued quickly, “that there are no hidden traps here.”
Her smile was so dazzling, her eyes so sincere that for a moment he found himself speechless. Because his reaction troubled him, he drew back into himself and raised an eyebrow.
“And what is in it for me?”
Vaguely dissatisfied with his flippant question, Ariane shrugged. “The same, I suppose. The moment word gets around that you’re rich—if you are indeed rich—you’ll have to beat off all the daughters of impoverished counts and dukes with a stick.” She did not add that she suspected it would be no different if he were as poor as the proverbial church mouse.
“Ah, yes?” His mouth curved in a smile Ariane might have recognized as predatory if she had been more experienced—or known him better. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“No.” He smiled. Now that the first shock was past, he was beginning-to enjoy himself. “What else do you have to offer me?”
She stopped and gave him a long, serious look. He was smiling that lethal smile of his, and she needed to remind herself that she had sworn to be immune to it. But there was something in his pale green eyes that had not been there before. She did not know what it was and that alarmed her as much as the fact that, whatever it was, it seemed to touch her where she had never been touched before.
“I’m not very good at games,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you want.”
“And here I thought I’d be a gentleman and let you offer first.”
“A gentleman?” Her tone was bland, but the curve of her eyebrows left no doubt as to her meaning.
“You wound me.” He touched his hand to his heart. “And here I thought my manners were impeccable.”
Because the curve of his tawny eyebrows was cynical and the tone of his voice just bordering on insolence, she discounted the flicker in his eyes that she might otherwise have interpreted as hurt.
“Your manners are impeccable, if you wish them to be,” she added, thinking of his bold touch earlier that evening. “But I have the distinct feeling that the real you lurks somewhere beneath those manners and is not quite civilized.” She thought of her first impression of him as a lion among tomcats, and before she knew it, the words had found their way to her tongue.
He threw back his head and roared with laughter, cementing that impression thoroughly.
His laugh was so luxurious, so full of life that Ariane could not suppress her smile. “Good. Now that I seem to have complimented you so lavishly, perhaps you will tell me what it is you want from me.”
“A sporting chance of seducing you.” He spoke lightly and the smile that still played around his mouth was easy.
“What?” Ariane stopped so suddenly that her crinoline swayed like a boat in distress.
Her exclamation had the chatter around them stilling as all eyes turned toward them.
“You heard me.” Chris covered her hand, which still lay on his arm, with his and gave it a small tug. “Come along now and keep your voice down unless you want to create a scene.”
Skillfully, he navigated them through the crowd. Deciding to forgo refreshments, he guided her onto the gallery that ran around the main staircase. The moment he closed the door to the ballroom behind them, Ariane snatched her hand away from his arm and spun around to face him.
“How dare you?”
He leaned against the marble balustrade, which was richly veined in reddish brown and black, and crossed his ankles, the very picture of relaxed, self-confident masculinity.
“I thought you appreciated direct speech.” The corners of Chris’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “Was my impression mistaken?”
“I do appreciate direct speech. But I do not appreciate indecent proposals”. She pushed away the uncomfortable suspicion that she sounded priggish.
“I didn’t ask you to become my mistress, Ariane,” he said softly, “although that thought has its own appeal. I asked for a sporting chance to seduce you. There is a world of difference between the two.” He allowed his mouth to curve fully. “If you like, I’ll explain it to you.”
“I’m not a child.”
“My thought exactly.”
“Don’t be coarse.” She glared at him. He looked so at ease, so sure of himself, and her insides felt like a mass of not-quite-settled aspic.
“I have no wish to entrap you. I have no intention of using flattery or wine to get you into my bed.” He leaned forward a little. “Look, it’s like a card game with two players doing their best with their skill—” he paused for a heartbeat “—and their luck.”
His wicked grin infuriated her. “I am not interested in your games.”
“Oh, but Ariane, they are such pleasant games.” His smile warmed. “You have just finished telling me that you are not looking for a husband. What good reason do you have then to deny yourself a little pleasure? Pleasure should be taken when it is offered. Life is too short for anything else.”
Damn him, she thought, he knew far too well just how attractive he was. His velvet voice alone was enough to conjure up all manner of delights.
Bracing herself against the impossible images that assaulted her, her voice was cold. “Your conceit is gargantuan. Pleasure, indeed. How do I know that it will be a pleasure?” She tilted up her chin, defying him, but even more defying her own terrible premonition that he spoke the truth.
“I guarantee it, comtesse.”
In one swift, supple movement he straightened, captured her hand and brought it to his lips.
“I guarantee it personally.”
She tried to free her hand, but Chris did not relinquish it. Instead, keeping his eyes on hers, he began to remove her glove—slowly tugging it off finger by finger, making as sensual a ritual of it as if he were divesting her of some intimate article of clothing.
Ariane forgot to breathe as he slipped the glove off and tossed it aside. Then he raised her hand again and pressed his mouth to the center of her palm.
Chapter Five (#ulink_cd036384-56f4-5d7e-84aa-e180d504d9e8)
Heat. That was all Ariane could think of as Chris’s mouth pressed against her palm, as his breath skimmed over her skin like a hot desert wind. When he touched the tip of his tongue to her hand, she jolted as if she had been burned. And, indeed, an unfamiliar ache swept through her like a firestorm.
“Don’t” Her voice was so low and smoky that she barely recognized it, and something resembling panic licked at her nerves.
“Don’t what?” Chris asked.
His lips shifted seductively over her skin as he spoke. She knew that she should pull her hand out of his grasp, but it was as if she had lost command over her body.
“Don’t do this,” she managed.
“This?” He traced the width of her palm with his tongue. “Or this?” Moving his mouth downward, he nipped at the fleshy pad beneath her thumb.
She managed to suppress the soft sound that rose in her throat, but she was helpless to prevent the sinuous curl of heat that spread through her to pool in her belly. The desire to close her eyes, to savor this new sensation was so strong that she almost gave in to it. But some last shred of wariness had her bracing against it.
Yet it was that very tension that had her fingers spreading and pressing against his cheek. The slight abrasiveness of his skin tempted her beyond measure, making her want to rub her fingertips against it to acquaint herself with this new texture.
“Go ahead,” Chris murmured, fascinated by her expressive eyes, which were able to conceal neither the curiosity nor the temptation. “It is not forbidden to touch.”
His words pulled her back from the sea of sensation where she had been foundering.
“Let me go.” The words that had been meant as a command came out sounding like a plea. Anger at her own weakness flared within her. Anger—and the traitorous desire to take the words back.
Slowly, his eyes on hers, he lowered her hand and released her.
Fighting an unreasonable sense of loss, Ariane grappled for the right words.
“Is this how your game of seduction is played?” Alarm, masked by indignation, colored her words.
“Would you care to be more specific?”
“Insidiously.” She filled her lungs with air in the vain attempt to soothe her raw nerves. “Unscrupulously.”
Even as she said the words, she understood that her accusation was excessive, but she was trembling. Trembling, damn it! And she had sworn long ago that she would tremble for no man.
“I played my hand with the cards a kind fate dealt me.” He shrugged, trying to rid himself of the sharp desire to feel her fingers on his skin again. “You are making me responsible for your own weakness.”
Ariane stared at him, appalled at his nonchalant words. How could he be so indifferent when he had turned her world and her vision of herself upside down with a few words and a touch?
Forcing herself to move, she paced a few steps away and linked her hands to steady them. A measure of self-control returned, reminding her that it was not her wont to blame others for her own mistakes.
Why was she having this absurd conversation? she asked herself harshly. What had possessed her to pick the most dangerous man she had ever seen for her scheme? Why had she not asked someone safe, someone like Roger de Monnier, or one of those baby-faced young men she had danced with?
But she hadn’t asked someone else, she reminded herself. She had asked the insolent, beautiful American. And she could not back away now, any more than she could have backed away from a wager or a card game simply because she had discovered too late that the odds were against her. Her pride would not allow it.
The turmoil in her eyes made Chris want to reach out and reassure her that he meant her no harm. Even though it occurred to him that his notion of harm was possibly very different from hers, he pushed away from the balustrade, his hand raised in a placating gesture. Before he could take more than a single step toward her, she whirled around to face him.
“Yes, my weakness. That is exactly the point, Monsieur Blanchard.” The fact that her voice was even, showing little sign of the agitation of a moment ago, settled her nerves still further. She was in control, she told herself. And she would stay in control. “You have challenged me to a game where you have an unfair advantage.”
The cool determination on her face made him wonder if he had imagined her confusion, her vulnerability a moment ago.
“If you think so,” he answered, “then perhaps we should lay down some rules.”
“It is not a question of rules,” Her voice was brisk. “The fact remains that you have challenged me to a game where you are apparently quite expert, while I have never played it before.”
“Never?” His body stirred at the thought. “I can hardly believe that you have never engaged in a little harmless flirtation.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Your demonstration just now had nothing whatsoever to do with harmless flirtation.”
“I’m flattered.”
“That was not my intention.” Because his velvet voice, coupled with his charming half smile, had her stomach fluttering, her tone was sharper than it might have been.
How could he have thought the little spitfire vulnerable? Chris asked himself. His conscience appeased, he prepared to enjoy himself.
“So tell me, ma chére comtesse—” he relaxed back against the cool marble “—have you been kissed before, or has no man braved your fury?” He grinned. “I do not ask because I am indiscreet. I merely want to know how high are the walls to be scaled.”
“Your effrontery appears to be truly boundless.”
“Assuming that as given, why don’t you answer my question.”
Because his cheeky grin made her want to smile back at him, she took refuge in a haughty look.
“Yes, I have been kissed before.” Clumsy kisses, she thought, or bland ones or simply dull ones. Before she knew it, her gaze had drifted down to Chris’s mouth. His kiss would be—Oh, God, if his mouth had created such delicious sensations when he had touched it to her palm, what would it feel like if he kissed her?
Suddenly aware of the direction of her thoughts, her cheeks flamed, but she did not avert her gaze, not even when she saw the knowledge in his eyes.
“Go ahead, Ariane.” Slowly he pushed away from the balustrade again and took a step forward and then another. “Go ahead and satisfy your curiosity.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” He took another step toward her. “Kiss me. Don’t say you don’t want to.”
“No.” That one small word seemed to cost her all her breath.
“Afraid?”
“Cautious.”
“One could think that you believe me a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Ariane gave Chris a long, slow look before she shook her head. “No. I don’t think you would ever bother disguising yourself with sheep’s clothing.” Giving in, she grinned. “At best you’re a wolf wearing a scrap of some poor sheep’s pelt who was too imprudent or too slow getting away.”
He laughed. “You have a wicked tongue, Ariane.”
One association led to another and his laughter died as he imagined taking her mouth, twining his tongue around hers, tasting it, feeling her passion come to life.
The heat in his eyes was so intense that Ariane would have sworn that she felt it on her skin. “So I’ve been told.” Her voice had grown softer and softer until she had only mouthed the last word.
They stared at each other, breath uneven, pulses racing.
“So where do we go from here, Ariane?” Chris asked when he was certain he could speak without babbling like a fool.
“I don’t know.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “I still need help—yours or someone else’s.”
“Mine,” he said quickly, not recognizing the sharp emotion that sliced through him as jealousy.
“Yours,” Ariane agreed. With him, at least, she would know just where she stood.
“Even though I’m the big, bad wolf.” A corner of his mouth lifted.
“But I’m not Little Red Riding Hood.” She smiled, regaining her confidence now that she had seen that this time he had been as moved as she. Surely this had been only a random moment where they had unwittingly gotten under each other’s skin. “Nor one of those imprudent sheep.”
“And the other?” he pressed.
His gaze was so serious, so intense that she felt the dangerous breath lessness return. It occurred to her that perhaps the moment had not been such a random one after all, but she pushed the thought away, unwilling to believe it.
“And here I thought you were a gambler, Ariane. A risk taker,” Chris goaded, the urgent beat of his heart at odds with his flippant words. “A chance,” he said softly. “That’s all I’m asking for.” His voice lowered, grew huskier. “Surely you would not deny a man a chance.”
Ariane’s head made one more attempt to remind her that she was a reasonable person who had never made a decision without carefully weighing both sides of an issue. A sensible person who had never taken a risk that could not be calculated. But now her heart was pounding so madly, so loudly that she heard nothing else.
“All right, Monsieur Blanchard. A bargain. You play the suitor and in return I shall give you a chance.” She lifted her small hand against his triumphant smile. “But not a chance to seduce me. That is just a prettier word for the strong forcing their will on the weak.”
“Then just what is it that you are offering me?”
She took a deep breath and ignored the feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.
“I am offering you the chance to persuade me that a taste of that pleasure you guaranteed personally is an experience not to be missed.”
Because the flare of excitement was strong, he wanted to reach for her, touch her. Because it was too strong, he did not. He had never been a man to be ruled by desire, but for the first time in his life he understood the true temptation of a woman.
“That sounds fair enough.”
“How good of you to think so, Monsieur Blanchard.”
When she held out her hand to him, not languidly as women present their hand to be bowed over or kissed, but thrust straight out like a man’s, Chris’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Is the custom of sealing a bargain with a handshake unknown in California?” she demanded, feeling foolish with her hand thrust out in front of her.
“Of course not” Belatedly, he took her hand in a firm grip. “Forgive me. I have never made a bargain with a lady before.” He grinned wickedly. “At least not a bargain like this one.”
“Monsieur—”
Chris shook his head. “Why don’t we put Monsieur Blanchard to rest? Or don’t you think that we are well enough acquainted for you to call me by my given name?”
“I don’t think—”
“Say it.” Suddenly it was important to him to hear her say his name. Not merely important, but crucial, as if that would, in some odd way, turn a bargain made half in jest into a promise. At the moment it eluded him why he should find promises so desirable, when he had always assiduously avoided them.
Still holding her hand, he took a step and then another until they stood so close together that his body pushed her crinoline back so that her skirt billowed behind her. So close that he could feel the light, tempting press of her body against his.
“Say my name, Ariane.”
She should be frightened, Ariane thought. He was so tall, so broad that her world was suddenly completely circumscribed by his body, whose power was not disguised by his elegant evening clothes. His fingers circled her hand so relentlessly that she might have been manacled to him. But it was his eyes where the true danger loomed—his eyes, so intent that they seemed to consume her.
“Christopher,” she whispered obediently, spellbound by those cool green eyes that held more heat than a thousand fires.
“Chris,” he corrected.
She smiled. “That suits you better.”
“So?”
“Christopher belongs in a stuffy drawing room. Chris belongs among mountains and deserts and beautiful, empty valleys.”
Chris chuckled at the precision of her observation. “Is that a polite way of saying that I don’t belong here?”
“It’s not an insult when I say that. On the contrary.” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t particularly belong here myself.”
“It depends on how you define ‘here.’” Slowly he loosened his grip on her hand and placed it palm down against his chest. Then, using thumb and forefinger, he tipped her face upward. “You belong here perfectly.” He lifted his other hand to lie against the nape of her neck. “Perfectly.”
He remained very still, his touch so light that they both knew all Ariane had to do was step away.
But she did not step away. She had been waiting for this moment, she realized, ever since she had seen him in the theater.
“Now we will seal our bargain my way.”
Despite the command in his voice, Chris lowered his head slowly. Then he touched his mouth to hers.
Not wanting to frighten her and knowing well just how much a little control could intensify pleasure, he reined in the impulse to take her mouth fully. Instead he tasted his way along her lower lip, adding only an occasional flicker of his tongue.
Even when her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, he did not take the invitation. Instead he continued to tantalize, to tease, allowing himself no more than a brief foray to taste her.
Ariane felt heat blossom within her. It poured through her veins until she was suffused with it. Until she was light-headed with it. And still he did not kiss her, but continued to brush her mouth with his as if he was interested in no more than a casual game.
Her hand was still lying on his chest just over his heart and when her fingertips picked up his quickening heartbeat, she knew that the same heat that curled through her like a living, breathing entity had taken possession of him as well. But he continued with the maddening game, even as his heart began to pound heavily against her fingers.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her. How could he be so controlled, she thought, when she could feel the drumming of his heart? How could he be so controlled when she was melting with the need to taste him?
Lifting her other hand, she threaded it in his hair. She felt the leap of his heart and the answering thud of her own.
“Now,” she whispered against his mouth.
The tug of her fingers on his hair and her breathy invitation had his control crumbling like a house of cards. As he took her mouth fully, he heard a sound that he only vaguely realized came from his own throat. Now that he had surrendered, he plunged into the kiss like a man on the brink of starvation.
For a moment Ariane went still as he invaded her mouth. Voracious, his tongue explored and probed. Unbearably aroused, even more by the sensation of being wanted so badly than by the kiss itself, she moaned.
Her moan pierced his consciousness, which had been clouded by his passion. Oh, God, he thought as he pulled back. He had fallen on her like a wild animal. When she moaned again, his eyes flew open.
As he looked down at her, her eyelids rose to reveal eyes dark and unfocused with arousal. Ridiculously grateful that he had not frightened her, he lowered his mouth to hers again.
She waited for the passion to blaze again, but she found that everything had changed. The fire and flash of a moment ago were gone and in their place was a steady, bright flame. Where he had plundered, he caressed. Where he had demanded before, he offered. Where he had taken before, he gave.
Minutes passed that seemed like hours as they feasted on each other, breaking away only because their breath had become as ragged as if they had run for miles.
As Chris lifted his head, the stunned look in his eyes matched hers. He had not expected such hunger, such need. Nor had he expected a pleasure so sweet, so sharp.
They stared at each other, trying to come to terms with their feelings. If they heard the opening and closing of the door, neither one gave a sign. Even when the indignant voice sounded, they moved apart slowly, choppily, like windup dolls whose mechanisms had begun to run down.
“Monsieur!” The voice sounded again.
Only then did Ariane recognize her father’s voice.
Chapter Six (#ulink_7a6098b5-3c85-5188-bcda-751853799da2)
As Ariane turned around to face her father, the warmth and pleasure that were drifting through her began to fade. With something resembling panic she struggled to hold on to these sensations that she had never experienced before.
“Monsieur, unhand my daughter.” Pierre de Val-mont’s voice quivered.
Ariane saw the telltale glazing of his eyes that preceded one of his rages. “Papa. please—” Moving forward, she stretched her hand out to him. She was not afraid of his rage, but she was afraid of ruining the last of the pleasure that was still drifting through her like the echo of a lovely melody. “Please.”
His daughter’s plea penetrated that place inside his head that sometimes seemed to take over. Her voice was soft and submissive as it should be. He focused his eyes on her face and the fear he saw there soothed him.
“You will come with me now.” He strode toward her and held out his arm.
Ariane obeyed him, grateful for the support of his arm and hating herself for needing it.
“You will stay away from my daughter, monsieur,” he said. “Stay away.”
When they reached the ballroom door, Ariane stopped and turned to look over her shoulder.
Chris was standing there as she had left him—his hands by his sides, his eyes still stunned. Perhaps, she thought, the odds were not against her after all.
Ariane took a deep breath the moment they were seated in their carriage. There was no sense in prolonging it, she thought. If he was going to fly into a rage, he would do it whether they were in a carriage or in their apartments.
“Papa—” she began.
He interrupted her. “Your conduct was inexcusable, Ariane. You made a spectacle of yourself.” He leaned forward. “But that isn’t the worst of it”.
“What do you mean?” She flinched back from the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Do you know who this man is?”
She shook her head and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I know as much as you do.”
“What?” he screamed. “You know?”
“Pierre, chéri—” Marguerite de Valmont’s hands fluttered ineffectually. “Please.” She touched her husband’s arm, but he shoved her roughly into the corner of the carriage. Softly, she began to cry.
“What are you talking about, papa?” Ariane demanded loudly, knowing that it was important that she keep her father’s attention focused on her. “Know what?”
“That he’s a bastard,” Valmont shouted. “He’s Charles de Blanchard’s bastard.”
Ariane stared uncomprehendingly at her father for a moment before she made the connection.
“The Charles de Blanc hard who was married to Cousin Odile?”
“Yes. Don’t you understand?” He gestured with his fist. “He left her for another woman and this man is their child.”
He was still glaring at her, but she saw that the unreasoning rage had passed.
“But, papa,” she said, “that was at least thirty years ago.”
“So?” he growled. “Odile still remembers very well that she and her children were abandoned. And we cannot afford to insult her. She will be invaluable in introducing us to the right people.”
“Papa—”
He silenced her with a gesture. “All that aside, someone of his parentage would not be a suitable husband.”
“Papa—”
“The discussion is over, Ariane.” Valmont subsided against the cushions of the carriage and, forgetting his daughter’s presence, tugged his wife out of the corner where she was still sniffling and put his arm around her shoulders.
Ariane watched her mother smile tremulously and go into her husband’s arms with no hesitation, his roughness of a few moments before already forgotten.
Her stomach twisting, she looked away. She would never allow herself to love a man, she thought. Never.
Chris swore under his breath as he nicked his chin. Reaching blindly for the soapstone to stop the small trickle of blood, he managed to send a glass tumbling into the washbowl. The sound of breaking glass had him swearing again. Damnation, he seemed to have two left hands today—both apparently equipped with five thumbs.
Sam, who after twenty years was more companion than servant, looked up from brushing a suit, his thick black eyebrows raised in surprise.
Chris met Sam’s gaze in the mirror and suppressed the urge to growl. He was in a foul, edgy mood after a restless night full of dreams. Shadowy dreams that he could barely remember and explicit dreams that even now had his body stirring.
She was crowding him. Not a moment seemed to go by that he did not find himself remembering something about her. Her lovely face. The texture of her skin. The look in her extraordinary eyes when she had suggested her outrageous bargain. And then there was the taste of her mouth.
Suddenly he snapped back to reality and found Sam’s fingers circling his wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Your eyes got all dreamy like. Wouldn’t want you to cut up that pretty face of yours.” Sam grinned. “Why don’t you let me finish doin’ that?”
Chris frowned, but did not protest as Sam took the razor.
“You sure did a lot of dreamin’ last night,” Sam said conversationally, bending his knees to accommodate the difference in their height. “Lot of talkin’, too.”
Chris slanted a look up at Sam, a glimmer of humor entering his eyes for the first time that day. “Are you trying to tell me something, Sam, or ask me something?”
“Both, I guess.” Sam grinned again. “You took to speakin’ Frenchie half ways through the night.” Adroitly he scraped away the last of Chris’s beard. “She must be somethin’, this Areeann, huh?”
“Something,” Chris agreed, deciding that this was possibly more apt than any description of Ariane he had come up with.
“Some female company’ll do you good.” Sam pronounced sagely. “Maybe you’ll sleep better at night.”
“And then again maybe not.” Chris thought of the odd bargain he had made with Ariane. Somehow he did not think that it would allow him to sleep better anytime soon. Not unless he got very lucky. And if by chance he did, he would definitely not be spending his nights sleeping.
He frowned at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell was Ariane de Valmont doing in his dreams anyway?
Why was he dreaming again now? He’d kept dreams at bay for so long. He shivered. Even now, twenty years later, he shivered at the memory of the nightmares that had begun as his mother had lain dying.
But he had fought them, he reminded himself just a little desperately. Fought and obliterated them. He’d freed himself from all the fears, all the emotions. Now he didn’t need anyone anymore and he was determined to keep it that way.
Chris placed his card on the silver salver offered by the majordomo. While the majordomo strode off, another liveried footman showed him into a small salon. The room was elegantly furnished, but its empty feeling led to the assumption that it had no other purpose than to function as a kind of waiting room for visitors.
Minutes passed—five, ten, fifteen. Although Chris had spent most of his life in places where niceties like engraved cards and gloved servants and silver salvers were the exception, he understood the rules of society well enough. And he understood that the Marquise de Blan-chard was keeping him waiting in order to humiliate him.
He remembered a room much like this one. He’d sat there, expectant and excited as he waited with his father for his aunt, Leontine, to receive them. Then he’d sat there alone, fighting angry tears, after his aunt had had him removed from her presence. The old memories tugged at him, but he pushed them away. He was no longer a small boy who could be hurt by petty meannesses, he told himself. He was a man who had made something of his life.
With every appearance of equanimity, he extracted some papers, as well as a small notebook and pencil, from the inside pocket of his navy blue frock coat and began to make notes for the business meetings that he had scheduled in the coming days.
Almost half an hour had passed when yet another footman came to tell him that the marquise would see him now. Chris gathered up his papers without hurry, drawing a disapproving glance from the servant, and followed, the man.
The drawing room was overheated, overstuffed with excessively fussy rococo furniture and smothered in heavy velvet drapes, whose only saving grace was their brilliant azure color. The sweet, heavy scent of patchouli lay over the room like a pall. Chris remembered his father’s simple tastes and decided that it was no wonder that he had fled.
The Marquise de Blanchard sat on a fragile, gilt armchair as if it were a throne, the passionate hatred in her eyes belying the arrogant coolness of her features. A short, jowly man stood behind her, his hand curved on the back of the chair, his dark coloring and the embonpoint that strained his waistcoat making it obvious that he owed his appearance only to his mother.
“I thought I made it quite clear last night that I wanted nothing to do with you,” the marquise began without preamble, not even bothering to wait until the footman had closed the door behind him.
“Your effrontery in calling on me is quite staggering.” She paused. “Almost as great as your effrontery in daring to use the Blanchard name.” Contemptuously she tipped her plump chin toward the salver where his card lay.
“I regret to disappoint you, but although my birth was not sanctioned by marriage, my father adopted me. It is all quite legal. As for calling on you, it would not have been my choice to do so, madame la marquise,” Chris said, lifting one broad shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It was, however, your choice whether you choose to receive me or not”.
“You should have him thrown out on his ear, ma-man.” The lines of ill-temper around Maurice de Blanchard’s mouth deepened. “You have absolutely no reason to acknowledge him like this.”
“Do I assume correctly that this is my half brother?”
Maurice straightened as if he had been prodded with a hot poker.
“What excruciatingly bad taste to even mention that we are—that we could be related,” he corrected quickly. “But what can one expect from a man raised among savages?”
“An interesting concept.” Chris’s mouth curved in a derisive smile. “It could be worthwhile to debate which one of us was raised among savages.” Ignoring the marquise’s outraged gasp, he continued. “As far as the question of our being related is concerned, perhaps you should ask—” his cool gaze flickered briefly to the marquise “—madame votre mére if we are.”
Although she understood his implication perfectly, it was that transient look that the marquise found truly insulting. Jumping up, she advanced toward him.
“I will not endure your vulgarities any longer, monsieur.” She waved at him with a heavily beringed hand. “State your business and decamp.”
“I am here at my father’s request.”
The marquise gave a snort of a laugh. “The wretch probably wants to mend his fences, as he did after his—” her small mouth curled “—mistress died.”
Chris stiffened. “I beg to correct you. After my mother’s death, my father wanted to mend his fences with his sister. Only with his sister.”
“And whom does he want to mend fences with this time?” She laughed.
“I must disappoint you, madame la marquise,” Chris said softly. “My father died four months ago.” Grief welled up within him to clog his throat, but he kept his expression tightly controlled. This he would not share with them.
“Charles is dead?”
Chris fell absurdly touched by her stricken whisper. Words of condolence rose to his lips, but before he could speak, he saw the look in her small, black eyes sharpen.
“You said you were here at his request. Did he leave—”
“Was there a—” Maurice stepped from behind the chair.
“No.” Chris looked from the marquise to her son. Neither one showed even a perfunctory sign of grief. He could have forgiven them that, he thought After all, his father had wronged them both. But he could not forgive the gleam of cupidity in their eyes.
“That is no more than was to be expected,” the marquise snapped. “He probably didn’t have a franc to his name.” Feeling the unsteadiness of her hands, she linked them tightly to stop the hateful trembling. That one moment of hope could redeem a lifetime of humiliation tinged her next words with an extra dose of acid.
“What are you doing here then?” she demanded. “Making a collection so that you can have masses said for his black soul?”
Chris tamped down the anger that rose within him—anger not for himself, but for the gentle man who had been his father. Yes, he had had his faults. Yes, he had committed his sins. But surely he had not deserved this crude vindictiveness.
“If my father did not have a franc to his name, then it was only because he signed all his property over to me when his health began to fail,” he said, keeping his voice neutral with some effort.
Suddenly the acute instincts that had enabled him to hold his own and better in a hundred rough-and-tumble card games had him lifting his head like a wild animal scenting danger. The tension in the room had changed, intensified. There was more than simple greed here, he thought. There was the smell of a card player down to his last chips who had drawn a poor hand. There was the smell of desperation.
“He requested only,” he continued without missing a beat, “that I travel to France to inform his wife and children of his death.”
“How very generous of him,” the marquise mocked.
“No, madame la marquise, only foolish.” Suddenly Chris felt very tired. “You see, he had not given up hope that I would someday find a bond with my—” he paused “—with his legitimate children.” He shrugged. “Per-haps he hoped that his death would be that bond.”
“Bond?” Maurice shrieked. “How dare you sneak into our home with some flimsy excuse.” His fists balled, he moved forward—a prudent two steps only. “You are probably nothing but a common thief looking for a target” His voice rose still higher. “I should have you arrested.”
“You would be ill-advised if you did,” Chris said softly.
Another insult on the tip of his tongue, Maurice de Blanchard opened his mouth. But the words died on his lips as he saw the warning in his half brother’s eyes.
Chris shifted his gaze to the marquise and bowed. “I consider my errand discharged and wish you a good day.”
Odile de Blanchard stared after her husband’s bastard. Oh, how she hated Charles, she thought. For leaving her for another woman and for fathering such a beautiful creature when—her gaze brushed over Maurice—he had given her such a sorry specimen of a son.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_f61856dc-1c14-5e01-b458-0dd95cfb1a13)
Chris dismissed his carriage. After the oppressive heat and scent of the Hdtel de Blanchard, he needed fresh, cool air. His cape slung carelessly over his shoulders against the light October drizzle, he began to walk.
The past hour had left an ugly taste in his mouth. He had expected bitterness, but even after his meeting with the marquise the previous evening, the personal animosity that he had encountered today had surprised him. What angered him most was that he had permitted himself to be dragged down to their level of making personally insulting remarks.
Well, it couldn’t be helped, he thought. He had never been a man to whine over mistakes made. Mistakes were something to be corrected, and if that was not possible, then you just had to live with them. And the past hour belonged definitely in the latter category.
Blanking out his mind with the willpower he had honed for years like a sharp blade, he covered block after block with his long stride.
Rounding a corner, he found himself on the quay. Aware for the first time of his surroundings, he crossed the road and stood at the low stone wall. Across the gray ribbon of the Seine was the stately facade of the Louvre, to his right the Ile de la Cité, the twin towers of Notre-Dame visible over the haphazard cluster of crooked walls and roofs.
It was strange, he mused, how clearly he remembered the city from his stay here twenty years ago. Only now that he was here did he realize how precisely every impression had stayed with him.
He’d come here to prove to himself that the old ghosts no longer existed. And if they did, that they no longer mattered. But they still existed, he brooded. And they still mattered. And he had no idea what the hell he was going to do about it. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his midnight-blue cape, he stared down into the swiftly flowing water.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Out.” Ariane finished buttoning her pelisse. “For days I’ve been trussed up like a holiday goose and displayed like a slave on the block. I need some fresh air.” She looked at the reflection of Henriette’s broad face in the mirror, and the tug of tenderness had her regretting her ill-tempered words. “I’m sorry.” She turned around. “I didn’t intend to snap at you.”
Henriette put down the tray she had been carrying. “It’s not proper for you to go out alone.”
“I’ve been going out alone for years and am none the worse for it.” Her eyebrows rose. “No one knows that better than you.” Henriette, after all, had been her nursemaid, then her maid and her confidante.
“But not in Paris.”
Ariane smiled. “You say that as if the devil is lurking in every doorway.”
“Maybe not the devil, but perhaps one of those fops who brought their cards today.” Henriette scowled at the cards, which had been stacked on a small silver tray. “Who knows what’s worse?” she grumbled, giving voice to her French peasant’s healthy mistrust of the capital and its residents.
“Don’t worry, Henriette.” Ariane patted her maid’s ruddy cheek. “I’m just going for a walk and no one is going to accost me.” She grinned. “I’m sure that Parisian fops do not make a habit of lurking about in the Tain.” She winked. “It would spoil their pretty curls.”
“And what will I tell your parents when they ask me where you’ve gone?”
Ariane shrugged and turned back toward the mirror to tie her bonnet.
The older woman sighed, realizing the uselessness of any further protest. Moving closer, she fluffed out the bonnet’s bow of violet silk. “Be careful, then, ma petite.”
“Don’t worry,” Ariane repeated. “With my sharp tongue, I can probably disable one of those fops you are so afraid of at twenty paces.”
Her words reminded her of the previous evening and the American’s reference to her wicked tongue. The memory spun further, slipping much too easily past all the defenses she had spent half the night erecting. She remembered how the American had. looked at her. Remembered how his mouth had felt on hers.
Fireworks of arousal exploded within her. In her innocence she could not have put a name to it, but she recognized it, for it was the same feverish sensation that had pulsed through her the evening before.
“What is it?” Henriette demanded, attuned to every nuance in her charge’s eyes.
Ariane shook her head and slipped out the door. What she needed was a gallop through the fields, she thought, but since that was not possible, a brisk walk would have to do.
As she stepped outside, she filled her lungs. But the cool, damp air did nothing to stem the heat that was still welling up inside her. Deciding that the light drizzle hardly warranted opening her umbrella, she set off down the rue de Lille as quickly as the heels on her elegant half boots would allow.
Even from a block away she could smell the tainted scent of the river. Taking a left onto the quay, she crossed the road and stood at-the low stone wall.
The drizzle had stopped and the watery sun that was fighting its way through the clouds was reflected on the water. The voices of street criers hawking soap and eggs and fish competed somewhere down the quay. A carriage clattered over the uneven sandstone pavement behind her. As she shifted to avoid being splashed, she saw him.
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Nina Beaumont
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Christopher Blanchard Was Everything She′d Ever Needed…Yet Didn′t Want Ariane de Valmont prized her independence above all else, and to secure it, she′d struck a seductive bargain with a tantalizing American. Now she feared that in this heart′s gamble, le beau sauvage , as Parisian society had named him, held all the cards… .The son of scandal, Chris Blanchard caused a sensation among the «beau monde,» intending to settle old scores and quickly be gone again. Until he was caught by the gaze of Ariane de Valmont, whose eyes bespoke a forever kind of love… .