“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 and 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 m
emorable.”
“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
Considering she owed him her life, Rowena could hardly turn down a simple request to meet Gabriel in the parlor. Nor could she tell anyone she was going to meet a man either. Julien would insist on accompanying her, and she did not need a chaperone. She was the mother of three and a widow. She was a dowager, for goodness sake—and didn’t that title make her feel elderly! Her reputation was not at stake. She could be alone with the man who had saved her life, and there was nothing scandalous about it. Nothing. Nothing at all. And as soon as her heart listened to her mind, it would stop thumping wildly. Her skin where he’d touched her, where his breath had caressed her, would cease burning.
“I cannot believe I did not recognize him immediately,” Julien was saying as he led her back to the circle of her sons and their wives. “We should do something to thank him for all he did for us.”
“Is he in need of anything, Rowena?” Sarah asked. “Was that why he wanted to dance with you?”
“He is not in need of anything,” she said, “and I do not think he wants to be repaid. He helped Julien and me because it was the right thing to do, not because he expected anything in return.” But what did he expect now? What did he want from her? A kiss? She shivered in anticipation. More than a kiss? Oh, yes, please.
“The man is still doing good deeds,” Raeven said. “The French would love nothing better than to capture the sly French Fox.”
“And the English are grateful for his services,” Bastien added. “Our family, in particular, owes him a debt of gratitude for saving maman’s life.”
“Really?” Felicity clapped her hands. “How romantic!”
“It is not romantic,” Julien said. “I am pleased for the man, grateful to him, but I cannot help but wonder why he asked you to dance, ma mère.”
Everyone looked at her expectantly. Rowena straightened her shoulders and rose to her full height. “And why should a man not ask a woman to dance? I am not yet so old or ugly as to be incapable of attracting a man.” And suddenly she needed to prove that to be true. She needed to feel attractive and desired again. Gabriel made her feel that way.
The group fell silent, all staring at her with shocked expressions. Except Bastien. He was grinning. “Well said, Mother.”
“Not well said,” Julien cut in. “He is at least ten years younger than you, ma mère.”
“What are you saying, Julien? That I am too old to attract a man like Gabriel?”
“He is a footman!”
“Not anymore,” she shot back. No, he had ceased being a mere footman when he’d saved her life. And tonight, tonight he had practically swept her off her feet. He was so much more than a footman.
Sarah stepped forward. “Julien does have a point. Perhaps the man is a fortune hunter.”
Rowena scoffed. “Do you think me so bad a judge of character?”
“No!”
“Ma mère!
Everyone was speaking at once, arguing and gesturing wildly. A few people nearby turned to watch the Valère family antics with curiosity. For her part, Rowena only wanted to escape. Was Gabriel already in the blue parlor?
“Stop,” Armand said quietly. It was as though a thunderbolt struck. Everyone stilled. “If maman approves of the man, then I do. Without him, Julien and, consequently, I might be dead.”
Felicity put a hand on his arm. Rowena felt tears sting her eyes, and she gave Armand a grateful smile. Now was her opportunity. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must find the ladies retiring room.”
“I will come with you,” Raeven said.
Rowena gave the girl a look, and Raeven shrank back. “Actually, Bastien was just about to ask me to dance.”
With a nod, Rowena walked away, crossing the ballroom with her head held high. She had crossed this very same ballroom an hour or so ago when she had arrived, but she felt different now. Then she had been tired and annoyed that she was expected to attend the ball. Now she practically glided across the floor. A man had asked her to dance with him. A man had touched her lips, had seemed to desire her. Good Lord, she might even now be going to meet him for a tête-à-tête. She felt giddy and elated and light as air.
She had not felt this way since…since the first years of her marriage to Philip. She smiled as she thought of him. Philip had loved her so, and he would not begrudge her this romance so long after his passing. He would have wanted her to be happy, to enjoy life.
The sounds of the ball faded quickly when she stepped into the entrance hall. It boasted a gently curved white marble staircase with ornate ironwork and bright blue carpets. The iron railings were festooned with fragrant boughs of greenery. A servant of indeterminate years—perhaps thirty, perhaps closer to her own age—stood with his back to the wall, staring above her head.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Your Grace.” He stepped forward, and she realized that he must be the butler. He did not wear livery; instead, he was dressed in a dark suit of rather fine material. He was a typical butler—a handsome man, noticeably tall, with a full head of brown hair and a pleasing, if stony, face.
“Are you Lady Winterson’s butler?”
“I am Philbert, her ladyship’s butler, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”
“I was looking for the blue parlor, Philbert.” Rowena felt her cheeks heat and she willed herself to stop blushing. She was no green girl. She was doing nothing scandalous—well, not so very scandalous at any rate.
“The blue parlor, Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Right this way, Your Grace.”
He led her across the entrance hall and to a door, which was slightly ajar. “This is the music room, Your Grace. If you pass through it, you will find yourself in the blue parlor.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped in front of the door, blocking her path. “You will need this if you are to enter the blue parlor, Your Grace.”
She looked down, expecting him to hand her a lantern or a candle in case she desired more light, but instead he held out a small leaf. No, actually, it was not a leaf at all. “Philbert, this is mistletoe.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“I do not need mistletoe, Philbert.”
“Of course not, Your
Grace.” But he held the mistletoe out to her nonetheless.
“Philbert, I do not want the mistletoe.” How would she explain to Gabriel why she was carrying mistletoe? He would think she wanted to be kissed. Did she want to be kissed again after all these years? She rather thought that yes, she did. But she was not going to use mistletoe to accomplish it.
“I am afraid you may not enter the blue parlor without it, Your Grace. I have my instructions, you see.”
She stared at him. “Are you suggesting I must take the mistletoe or you will not allow me to enter the blue parlor?”
“I do not make the rules, Your Grace.”
She was wasting time, and this conversation was ridiculous. She yanked the mistletoe out of the butler’s hand and said through clenched teeth, “Thank you, Philbert. That will be all.”
“You are most welcome, Your Grace.” He stepped aside, and she could have sworn that the man winked at her. But that was not possible, was it? Servants did not wink at their employers’ guests. This was turning into a strange night. A very strange night, she thought as she pushed the door to the music room open and strode through it. She felt foolish carrying the sprig of mistletoe in her hand, but she did not set it down. She should have. Something made her cling to it—nervousness or hope or…anticipation?
She continued to walk, her legs feeling heavier with each passing step. Where was the sparkle and lightness of the ballroom?
At the far end of the music room another door greeted her. This one was closed, and she paused before it. This must be the door to the blue parlor. Her hand shook as she reached for it. Was Gabriel already inside? Had he given up on her? Had he changed his mind and decided he did not want to meet her at all?
And was she going to stand here all night like a ninny?
Rowena opened the door. The room before her glittered with the flickering light of a dozen candles. Hothouse flowers graced several vases, their intoxicating scents permeating the air. On the floor a sparkling path of winking spangles led to the man on the other side of the room. Gabriel turned to face her. Her legs went from feeling as though they were made of lead to feeling as though they were supported by nothing more than water. She wobbled slightly before she regained her balance and took a step forward. Into the room. Onto the magical path.
A Grosvernor Square Christmas Page 2