by Joan Vincent
A smile slowly came to Elizabeth’s lips. She laughed softly. “Uncle Henry is a wise man,” she sighed. “I fear I am in the sullens too oft for it to be wise to send you away.”
Cavilon cocked his head in question. Seeing the answer he sought in her eyes, he drew Elizabeth into his arms. Slowly he bent his head to kiss her, first in a gentle pledge. The kiss proved but a spark to the desire rising in both of them.
Sometime later as they sat on the sofa, Elizabeth laid her head against Cavilon’s arm and gazed lovingly at him. “Will I truly be a comtesse?” she teased.
“So it does matter,” he drawled.
Elizabeth frowned.
“The title is genuine,” the comte smiled. “But you shall have to endure my powder and rouge in public for some time to come. It would be dangerous to drop the pose suddenly. I want none of my... enemies to take their revenge by harming you.”
“Do I dare ask what you have been doing all these years?”
“I have been an agent for the government.” Cavilon became very serious. “You shall learn no more than that.”
“How many know of your connection to Martin?”
“Only one. My skill at disguise is not a small talent.” He posed affectedly.
“Is that one Lord Tretain?” she guessed shrewdly.
“Ma chère petite, we have more interesting matters to discuss.” Cavilon took her hand and kissed it, then her wrist.
Elizabeth drew back and arched a brow.
The comte sighed and lifted an eyebrow. “Adrian knows, but not Juliane. She will be most happy to see me leg-shackled.”
“How is she?” Elizabeth suddenly remembered her condition.
“A son. Louis. As of the past week.” He smiled. “We shall he hard put to match them,” he teased.
“You know,” Elizabeth ignored his words and poised a finger on her chin, “this is most interesting. Tell me, how am I to know if you are truly the odd gentleman or the curious rogue?”
“She wounds me,” he sighed, then became serious. “The true comte lies somewhere between the two.” His lips twitched with a teasing smile.
“But when you look at me like that,” his hand caressed her chin, “I definitely prefer Martin’s methods.”
“There are times when a little of Martin could be interesting,” she agreed.
Their mutual smiles altered subtly as they read the desire in each other.
“I love you,” Elizabeth breathed.
“And I, you,” Cavilon answered huskily.
They embraced and kissed tenderly. “Uncle Henry will be concerned if we do not call him soon,” she sighed sometime later.
“La,” Cavilon drawled the tease, “how am I ever to explain the immediate need of a special license to him?”
“Could it be that you no longer find ardour tiresome, my lord?” Elizabeth asked in mock surprise as Cavilon drew the peruke back over his dark mane.
Pausing outside the doors of the salon, Sir Henry heard the question. When no reply sounded, he opened the doors slightly and saw that there was no debating the “answer” before him. Smiling broadly, he pulled the door shut and returned to the gardens.
To Vince
with love
Copyright © 1981 by Joan C. Wesolowsky
Originally published by Dell Candlelight Georgian Special (0440111862)
Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.