London 1803
“Do not look now, Your Grace, but there is a man staring at you.”
At Felicity’s words, Rowena turned her head—exactly as she had been instructed not to do. She caught herself just in time and returned her gaze to her son Armand’s wife. The lovely girl with the blond hair and the ever-present smile had been at her side since they’d arrived at the ball. If this ball were like the others, Rowena would not be alone for even a moment. One of her sons or their wives would keep her company—as though she was a girl who’d just made her come out. But it had been a long, long time since Rowena’s come out.
The ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square was held each year during the Christmas season for the members of the ton still in Town. Rumor had it half of the ton actually returned for the sole purpose of attending Lady Winterson’s ball. The lords and ladies of the upper ten thousand whispered that the ball was enchanted, and it did indeed seem so, for each year the ball managed to produce a match when a special couple fell rather unexpectedly in love.
Rowena did not believe such rubbish. She certainly did not expect or even hope to fall in love. She was a dowager and far too old for that sort of thing. When, last year, for the first time in memory, the de Valère family had received Lady Winterson’s invitation, Rowena, as the matriarch of the family, had politely declined and thought no more of it. The family had already planned to remove to Armand and Felicity’s country house and she looked forward to a holiday in the country. But she had made the mistake of mentioning declining Lady Winterson’s invitation the day after Christmas, and from the family’s uproar, one would have thought the King had died.
She had not expected another invitation this year—after all, one did not decline an invitation to the Christmas ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square and then expect a second chance—so when the card came, she had accepted with alacrity. The entire family would again travel to The Gardens, Armand’s country estate in Southampton, a day or so after the ball, and everyone, save Armand and herself, had been thrilled to be included in the celebrated holiday gathering. So she had resignedly agreed to accompany her three sons and their wives to the affair in Grosvenor Square tonight.
“You may look now,” Felicity said in a loud whisper, “but only if you pretend to look about the room before you fix your gaze near the refreshment table.”
“I am too old for this,” Rowena said.
“Rubbish,” Felicity argued. “Your cheeks are as pink as any debutante’s at the mention of an admirer.”
Rowena resisted putting her gloved hands to her cheeks and decided she would peer about the room rather than respond to the girl. She was no debutante and had not been one in many a year. At seven and forty, she was far too old for admirers and love affairs. She studied Lady Winterson’s ballroom. It was a lovely room, quite spacious enough for the hundreds of guests invited. Paneled in pale blue with cream molding and embellishments, the room had been made even cheerier by the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers, the warm fires in the hearth, and the boughs of evergreen and beribboned bouquets of holly on the mantels.
Guests were still arriving, and Rowena expected a crush before the night was over. It had been some time since she attended a ball where she could later boast of the affair as having been a squeeze. Once she’d been the popular daughter of an English baron and invited to every event of the Season, but then she married a French duc and removed to France with him. Her three sons—the duc de Valère, the comte de Valère, and the marquis de Valère—were French noblemen in name only. Since the revolution and the coming to power of Napoleon Bonaparte, her sons had no French estates to speak of. The family was accepted into Society and even welcomed, but they were not the ton’s darlings by any stretch.
Oh, they made the gossip columns now and then, and when one had money, making friends was always easy. Julien, only seven and twenty but clever with finances and investments, had more money than he knew what to do with, and Bastien, ever resourceful at five and twenty, had made his own fortune. But Rowena cared little for wealth. She was happy her family was together again. She only wished dear Philip could be here too. It had been fourteen years since he’d been beheaded by the blade of Madame Le Guillotine, and she still missed him every day.
Rowena blinked at the sparkling crystal chandeliers blazing with light and then lowered her gaze to the chalk still lining the edges of the dance floor, where hundreds of feet had not yet rubbed the art away. Her gaze flitted to rest on her son Julien and his wife, Sarah, laughing with Lord and Lady Aldon. As the Duke and Duchess de Valère, they represented the family. Julien took his role seriously and made a point of speaking briefly with all of the family’s friends and acquaintances. Rowena did not see Armand, but she spotted Raeven and Bastien easily enough. They were dancing a reel, laughing and spinning like mad. The two of them always made her smile.
And finally, she allowed her gaze to wander to the refreshment table. Ah! There was Armand. Her quiet son appeared to marvel at the plethora of sweet and savory offerings, and at the other end of the table—
Rowena caught her breath.
Her gaze snapped back to Felicity. The girl nodded. “I told you he was watching you.”
Rowena put a hand to her heart to steady the pounding. “So you did.” She managed to sound calm, though her voice retained a breathless quality.
Felicity was not fooled. “What is the matter, Duchess? Are you unwell?” She frowned in concern.
“No. I—” She could not seem to control her gaze, for it defied her wishes and returned to the man standing beside the refreshment table. He was still watching her, his lips curled in a slow smile that gave her delicious goosebumps.
Gabriel.
Could it really be him? Impossible. He looked like the footman she remembered, but he—the footman who had once served her family so faithfully—could not possibly be dressed like a nobleman and attending the Countess of Winterson’s ball.
Except…if it was not Gabriel, why was he staring at her?
She’d thought of him often over the years, wondered if he was well. She recalled him as a young man, little more than a boy at two and twenty, but he was no boy now. He was a devastatingly handsome man. Even across the ballroom she could see how tall he was, how his broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist. And there were his eyes—that unique shade that was not quite blue, not quite green. When his gaze touched her, she felt heat infuse her limbs from her belly all the way to her toes.
The music ended and Raeven and Bastien approached. Rowena turned to Felicity. “Perhaps I should step outside for a breath of air.”
Felicity frowned. “Madam, it is freezing outside.”
“What is the matter?” Bastien asked, coming to stand beside her. “Ma mère, you look as though you have seen a ghost.”
That was an apt phrase if she had ever heard one.
“Rowena, shall I fetch you a drink? Some champagne?” Raeven asked.
“No, I only need a breath of air.”
Suddenly Julien and Sarah were beside them. “Lady Winterson is coming this way,” Julien said between clenched teeth curved into a smile so it would not appear he was discussing the countess.
Rowena turned to observe their hostess crossing the ballroom. The countess was young for a widow. She could not have been more than five and twenty. She was also quite lovely with blond hair, large blue eyes, and a lush figure. The scandal broth Rowena heard was that the old earl had died in his new wife’s bed. His energetic young bride had been too much for him, but he’d died with a smile on his lips.
The countess’s arm was twined with…Rowena’s breath seemed to whoosh out of her, and she could not manage to draw enough in again. Lady Winterson’s arm was linked with Gabriel’s as the two descended upon Rowena. Watching them come inexorably closer, she suddenly had the urge to run. It was a most unbecoming sort of urge, especially for a woman of her position and her maturity. But she suddenly felt eighteen all over again, and prone to immature action.
“
My dear Duke and Duchess de Valère,” Lady Winterson said, curtsying prettily. Julien and Sarah curtsied in return and Julien said…something. Rowena was no longer listening. She was staring at the man beside the countess. It was he. Gabriel. And she was suddenly awash in memories. She and Julien had ridden away from their burning chateau, away from the bloodthirsty peasants, and into the security offered by the woods. Just as she’d thought they were safe, a man jumped out at Julien and her, frightening both them and the horses. To her relief, it was Gabriel, who offered to help them escape and, a day later, saved their lives. She remembered her nausea when they’d been attacked on the road and Gabriel had shot a man in the head to save them. He’d done it—murder. For her and her son.
She looked at Julien before returning her gaze to Gabriel, who watched her unabashedly. Did her son not recognize the man, their savior? Did none of the boys remember their servant? He looked so much as he had all those years ago, though Rowena realized that he must be now, what six and thirty? He still had the long straight nose of his Gallic ancestors and the thick black hair, though he had acquired a few patches of gray at his temples. His eyes were pale greenish blue and framed by thick brows and lashes. He had high patrician cheekbones and a strong noble jaw, though he certainly was no nobleman.
“Allow me to introduce the most celebrated man in all of England,” the countess said, finally indicating Gabriel. “This is a fellow Frenchman, Monsieur Lemarque. But he is better known as the French Fox.”
Bastien gasped. “Good God, man, is that you?” He cut his gaze to his mother.
Most of the family was aware of her fascination with the French Fox. She’d followed the reports of his feats of bravery religiously. The way he’d snatched innocent aristos—mothers and children, old men—from the blade of the guillotine was nothing short of heroic. He escaped even the most intricate traps the enemy laid for him, seemed to laugh in the face of danger, risked everything for men and women to whom he owed nothing. She was half in love with the mysterious spy already.
And Gabriel was the French Fox. It all made sense now. Gabriel, the man who had once held her hand when they’d been hiding from revolutionaries—“Do not fear, duchesse. I will die before I allow these devils to so much as look at you.”
Now Gabriel smiled thinly and glanced at Lady Winterson. “That was supposed to be our secret, my lady.”
Rowena took a slow, shaky breath as heat flooded through her. His voice. That accent.
Lady Winterson waved a hand. “Oh, but you know I cannot keep a secret. It is much more fun to share. And, Your Grace”—she looked at Rowena—“I have a secret for you.”
Rowena blinked. “Me?”
The countess was smiling. “Monsieur Lemarque has asked for an introduction. I believe he would like to claim this dance.”
“What?” Rowena’s hand flew to her bosom. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. “But why?”
“Yes, why?” Julien asked. Sarah put a restraining hand on Julien’s arm.
Ignoring them, the countess reached for Rowena’s hand and joined it with Gabriel’s. “Duchess, allow me to present Monsieur Gabriel Lemarque. Monsieur, the Dowager Duchess de Valère.”
Her hand felt small and weightless in his much larger one. She was aware the eyes of her children were on her, and she tried very hard not to notice how strong his fingers felt or the way he peered down at her with those alluring green-blue eyes. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head. “I would be honored if you would favor me with the next dance.”
“I…” She did not know what to say. She had not danced in years. And even in her dancing days, she would not have danced with a man such as Gabriel—a mere footman. But looking at him now, in his coat of superfine and his tight breeches and starched cravat, she knew he was no mere footman. He was the man to whom she owed her life.
He was looking at her, his expression expectant and slightly bemused, as though he knew the turmoil in her mind. His mouth curved up slightly in that way French men had—the way she had always found incredibly erotic.
“I…”
Oh, good grief. Was everyone waiting for her response? Julien was watching her, his gaze dark and protective. Sarah’s brow was furrowed with concern. Felicity was smiling encouragingly. Bastien winked at her, and Raeven was watching Gabriel, assessing him as one might an enemy about to attack. Rowena shook her head, aware she must give an answer. “Yes, thank you, sir.”
“Your Grace.” He bowed his head. “I will collect you in a few moments’ time.” He moved away, the countess at his side.
Julien was the first to speak. “What is that man about?”
Felicity sighed as Armand joined them, standing at his wife’s side. “Is it not romantic? He sought you out, Rowena.”
“Why?” Raeven asked. “For what purpose?”
“To dance, dear,” Sarah added. “We are at a ball, after all.”
“What is the French Fox?” Julien wanted to know. “What did Lady Winterson mean by that comment?”
“He’s a spy,” Bastien said. “The one maman is always reading about. I heard the French Fox was given a knighthood for his role in the capture of several officials in Bonaparte’s government.”
Rowena considered that the least of the Fox’s accomplishments.
“Is he a real spy?” Julien asked his brother, “or a pretend spy, as you were a pretend pirate?”
Bastien gave him a dangerous smile. “Any time you wish to test my skills as a captain, Julien, say the word. Your ship will rest on the bottom of the ocean at my slightest command.”
“Boys,” Rowena said, cutting them off. “It is a dance, nothing more. It will be fun.” But was she convincing herself or them?
Armand gave Felicity a curious look, and Felicity nodded at Gabriel, who was standing a little ways away conversing with their hostess. Rowena warmed when she realized he was still watching her, waiting for the next set to begin. “Monsieur Lemarque has asked your mother to dance,” Felicity told her husband. “She has accepted.”
Armand’s gaze followed the direction of Felicity’s nod, and he tilted his head. “Gabriel.”
“Finally!” Rowena said. “Someone other than me recognizes the man.”
“You know Monsieur Lemarque?” Sarah asked Armand.
“He was our footman.”
At Armand’s words, Julien turned to stare at Gabriel outright. “The footman?”
“Yes,” Rowena said. “Have you forgotten the service he did us, Julien?”
“No.” Julien shook his head, his eyes clouding. “But…I…you will dance with a footman? I do not like it.”
“Well, it is too late now. I have accepted, and here he comes to claim me.” Indeed, before anyone else could speak or object, Gabriel was before her, bowing and holding out a gloved hand in invitation.
She took it, feeling her breath catch at his touch—even through the fabric of their gloves. As though he felt it too, he glanced down at her, his gaze meeting hers, and then led her to the center of the dance floor. Belatedly, Rowena realized they would be at the top of the set. Everyone would be watching them.
“Quelque chose vous dérangez, Your Grace?” Gabriel asked, watching her look nervously about the room. He didn’t remember her being a nervous woman. She had always been calm and serene. And beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. No doubt his presence here had unnerved her.
Her attention snapped back to him, and he felt his heart thud slowly in his chest, the way it had all of those years ago whenever she looked at him.
“I am not used to dancing, that is all,” she said. Her voice sounded more British than he remembered, but then she’d always spoken in French when he’d known her before. He had not even known English then. He’d been a young man, and she the mistress of a large chateau, the beautiful wife to a powerful and wealthy duke. She was a duchess, but more than that she was a kind woman. It was her kindness that slayed him. She’d cared enough about a nobody like him to tutor him in reading. He’d been poor a
nd illiterate, but she told him he had a future. And then she’d given him one with her patient instruction. How many hours had he watched her mouth form words, her delicate fingers trace writing on the page, the firelight limn her hair until it glowed blue-black? The arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin—he knew her face as well as his own. How could he have not fallen in love with her?
“Not used to dancing? That is a tragedy. You should dance often, and with a man who worships the ground where you tread.”
Her lovely blue eyes widened. “If I were to wait for a man like that, sir, I would never dance.” The music began and they came together, touching palms.
“You are dancing with one such man now, madam,” he said and then stepped back.
She stared at him, her attention drifting only momentarily when she had to execute one of the figures. He knew she remembered him. He’d seen the flash of recognition in her eyes when he’d been standing at the refreshment table. He’d noted her the moment she and her family arrived at the ball. He’d watched her, unable to catch his breath at the sight of her. All of these years, and his feelings for her had not changed. She had not changed. Oh, she was a little older, a little sadder, but she was just as lovely. Perhaps she was even more beautiful. It was he who had convinced his friend Lucy Frost, the Countess of Winterson, to invite the de Valère family to her annual ball.
The dowager duchess had declined the invitation last year. He’d been determined to find another way to meet her, but with the rising tensions between France and England, he had been occupied by missions and assignments and had no opportunity to pursue her.
But she was here now, a breath away and reaching for him. He took her small hand as they turned, their gazes locked on each other as their bodies circled. “I know you remember me,” he said. “I have thought of you often over the years.”
“As I have you. You disappeared after you left us in London.”
Gabriel raised a brow. “Did you worry about me?”
“Yes. I would have given you employment.”
He laughed. “As a footman?” He shook his head. “Pas pour moi, merci.”
“I did not mean—”
He placed a finger over her lips before she could continue. Her eyes grew wide at his too-familiar gesture, and in his peripheral vision he saw her son Julien take a step toward them. So much like his father, that one. So protective. But Rowena did not need protection from him. “I am not offended,” he told her. “I helped you and your son because that was what any decent man would have done, not because I wanted anything in return. I was a footman, but after what I saw in the revolution, I knew I had a greater purpose.”
“And now you are a spy?” she whispered.
“Oui. And also a courier of sorts.” They separated for the next form and came back together.
“A courier of what, if I might ask?”
“Men,” he answered, unwilling and unable to say more. “But I am not so talented a spy. After all, you recognized me immediately.”
She blushed, a pretty pink color infusing her cheeks. He wanted to touch those cheeks, to caress them and feel their heat beneath the pad of his thumb.
For years he’d been numb. He lost his home and all he had known when he’d fled France for England. And then he’d not dared allow himself to feel lest his emotions interfere with his work. He was a spy against the country of his birth—a country gone mad with bloodlust, a country he could no longer recognize. England was his home now. It had taken him in, enfolded him in its dank, cold arms and given him the hope of building a new life.
Not as a footman. No, he would never serve again. But he found new opportunities open to him. He tutored the children of the haute ton in French, and he found a position with a man who worked in the Aliens Office. Lord Wickham saw something in Gabriel he hadn’t seen himself. He’d trained him as a spy and sent Gabriel back to France, this time on behalf of England.
Throughout all those years, Gabriel had not forgotten Rowena, the beautiful duchesse de Valère. In fact, there were times he imagined his work was in tribute to her, to avenge the wrongs done to her and her family. But that time in his life was over. He was no longer the French Fox. He had a title—the rumors of his knighthood were true—and he had a little land. Now he wanted to share his life with someone—no, not someone—her. Rowena.
“It was your eyes I recalled,” she said. “They are quite memorable.”
“Your Grace.” He inclined his head at the compliment. “Thank you. I am flattered you remembered me.” And relieved. He’d feared that if she did not accept the countess’s invitation this year, he might have to abduct her in order to see her again.
“I could hardly forget you after the service you did us.”
He shook his head. “You would have been fine on your own. I merely assisted you. I was but a youth. You were the one who had the strength to see all three of us through the ordeals that followed.” He led them down the line of men and women on either side of them.
“That is not true, and you know it,” she said with passion in her voice. “You saved my life—mine and Julien’s. If there is any way I can repay you—” But they were parted again, and he stood across from her as couples promenaded past them. He knew how she might repay him. He knew what he wanted.
Her.
He’d always wanted her.
And so when he took her hand for the last form of the dance, he leaned close until he was enveloped by the scent of lavender. His lips brushed her ear and were teased, in turn, by the velvet of her skin. “If you wish to repay me,” he whispered against her hair, “meet me in the blue parlor in a few moments’ time. I must speak with you. Alone.” The music ended, and he bowed to her. He would have escorted her off the floor, but Julien came to meet them. He took his mother’s hand and led her away. Gabriel watched as Rowena followed her son. She turned once to look back at him and, with a smile, Gabriel moved toward the parlor he’d arranged to have empty in the hopes she’d deign to see him alone.
He was as nervous as a boy before his first kiss. He had one chance to win her, to seduce her, to make her love him. He was, once again, hopelessly in love with her.
Two
A Grosvenor Square Christmas Page 3