Search for Love

by Nora Roberts

  “Ah, a credit to his parents, I am sure,” the countess had decided, either unaware or unperturbed by Serenity’s mockery. “I am sure Christophe will be most pleased to meet him.”

  A faint glimmer of uneasiness had been born in Serenity’s brain. “I’m sure he will.”

  “Mais, oui.” The countess smiled. “Christophe will be very interested to meet such a close friend of yours.” The emphasis on “close” had been unmistakable, and Serenity’s senses had sharpened as her uneasiness had grown.

  “I fail to see why Christophe should be overly interested in Tony, Grandmère.”

  “Ah, ma chérie, I am sure Christophe will be fascinated by your Monsieur Rollins.”

  “Tony is not my Monsieur Rollins,” Serenity had corrected, rising from the divan and advancing on her grandmother. “And I really don’t see anything they have in common.”

  “No?” the countess asked with such irritating innocence that Serenity fought with amusement.

  “You are a devious minx, Grandmère. What are you up to?”

  Blue eyes met amber with the innocence of sweet childhood. “Serenity, ma chérie, I have no idea what you are talking about.” As Serenity had opened her mouth to retort, the countess once more cloaked herself in her royalty. “I must finish my correspondence. I will see you this evening.”

  The command had been crystal clear, and Serenity had been forced to leave the room unsatisfied. The closing of the door with undue force had been her only concession to her rising temper.

  Serenity’s thoughts returned to the present. Slowly, her slim form, draped in amethyst, came into focus in the mirror. She smoothed her blond curls absently and erased the frown from her face. We’re going to play this very cool, she informed herself as she fastened on pearl earrings. Unless I am very much mistaken, my aristocratic grandmother would like to stir up some fireworks this evening, but she won’t set off any sparks in this corner.

  She knocked on the door of Tony’s room. “It’s Serenity, Tony. If you’re ready, I’ll walk down with you.” Tony’s call bade her to enter, and she opened the door to see the tall, fair man struggling with a cufflink. “Having trouble?” she inquired with a wide grin.

  “Very funny.” He looked up from his task with a scowl. “I can’t do anything lefthanded.”

  “Neither could my father,” she stated with a quick, warm feeling of remembrance. “But he used to curse beautifully. It’s amazing how many adjectives he used to describe a small pair of cufflinks.” She moved to him and took his wrist in her hand. “Here, let me do it.” She began to work the small object through his cuff. “Though what you would have done if I hadn’t come along, I don’t know.” She shook her head and bent over his hand.

  “I would have spent the evening with one hand thrust in my pocket,” he answered smoothly. “Sort of a suave and continental stance.”

  “Oh, Tony.” She looked up with a bright smile and shining eyes. “Sometimes you’re positively cute.”

  A sound outside the door caught her attention, and she turned her head as Christophe walked by, paused for a moment to take in the intimate picture of the laughing woman fastening the man’s cufflink, two fair heads close together. One dark brow raised fractionally, and with a small bow, Christophe continued on his way, leaving Serenity flushed and disconcerted.

  “Who was that?” Tony asked with blatant curiosity, and she bent her head over his wrist to hide her burning cheeks.

  “Le Comte de Kergallen,” she answered with studied nonchalance.

  “Not your grandmother’s husband?” His voice was incredulous, and the question elicited a bright peal of laughter from Serenity, doing much to erase her tension.

  “Oh, Tony, you are cute.” She patted his wrist, the errant cufflink at last secured, and she looked up at him with sparkling eyes. “Christophe is the present count, and he’s her grandson.”

  “Oh.” Tony’s brow creased in thought. “He’s your cousin, then.”

  “Well …” She drew the word out slowly. “Not precisely.” She explained the rather complicated family history and the resulting relationship between herself and the Breton count. “So, you see,” she concluded, taking Tony’s arm and walking from the room, “in a roundabout sort of way, we could be considered cousins.”

  “Kissing cousins,” Tony observed with a definite frown.

  “Don’t be silly,” she protested too quickly, unnerved by the memories of hard, demanding lips on hers.

  If Tony noted the rushed denial and flushed cheeks, he made no comment.

  They entered the drawing room arm in arm, and Serenity felt her flush deepen at Christophe’s brief but encompassing appraisal. His face was smooth and unreadable, and she wished with sudden fervor that she could see the thoughts that lived behind his cool exterior.

  Serenity watched his gaze shift to the man at her side, but his gaze remained impassive and correct.

  “Ah, Serenity, Monsieur Rollins.” The countess sat in the high-backed, richly brocaded chair framed by the massive stone fireplace, the image of a monarch receiving her subjects. Serenity wondered whether this placement had been deliberate or accidental. “Christophe, allow me to present Monsieur Anthony Rollins from America, Serenity’s guest.” The countess, Serenity noted with irony, had neatly categorized Tony as her personal property.

  “Monsieur Rollins,” she continued without breaking her rhythm, “allow me to present your host, Monsieur le Comte de Kergallen.”

  The title was emphasized delicately, and Christophe’s position as master of the château was established. Serenity shot her grandmother a knowing glance.

  The two men exchanged formalities, and Serenity was observant enough to note the age-old routine of sizing up, like two male dogs gauging the adversary before entering into combat.

  Christophe served his grandmother an apéritif, then inquired as to Serenity’s pleasure before continuing with his duties with Tony. He echoed Serenity’s request for vermouth, and she stifled a smile, knowing Tony’s taste ran strictly to dry vodka martinis or an occasional brandy.

  The conversation flowed smoothly, the countess inserting several of the facts pertaining to Tony’s background he had so conveniently provided her with that afternoon.

  “It is so comforting to know that Serenity is in such capable hands in America,” she stated with a gracious smile, and continued, ignoring the scowl Serenity threw at her. “You have been friends for some time, non?” The faint hesitation, barely perceptible, on the words “friends” caused Serenity’s scowl to deepen.

  “Yes,” Tony agreed, patting Serenity’s hand with affection. “We met about a year ago at a dinner party. Remember, darling?” He turned to smile at her, and she erased her scowl quickly.

  “Of course. The Carsons’ party.”

  “Now you have traveled so far just for a short visit.” The countess smiled with fond indulgence. “Was that not considerate, Christophe?”

  “Most considerate.” With a nod, he lifted his glass.

  Why, you artful minx, Serenity thought irreverently. You know very well Tony came on business. What are you up to?

  “Such a pity you cannot remain longer, Monsieur Rollins. It is pleasant for Serenity to have company from America. Do you ride?”

  “Ride?” he repeated, baffled for a moment. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “C’est dommage. Christophe has been teaching Serenity. How is your pupil progressing, Christophe?”

  “Très bien, Grandmère,” he answered easily, his gaze moving from his grandmother to Serenity. “She has a natural ability, and now that the initial stiffness has passed”—a fleeting smile appeared, and her color rose in memory—“we are progressing nicely, eh, mignonne?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, thrown off balance by the casual endearment after days of cool politeness. “I’m glad you persuaded me to learn.”

  “It has been my pleasure.” His enigmatic smile only served to increase her confusion.

  “Perhaps you in tur
n will teach Monsieur Rollins, Serenity, when you have the opportunity.” The countess drew her attention, and amber eyes narrowed at the innocence of the tone.

  The meddler! she fumed inwardly. She’s playing the two against each other, dangling me in the middle like a meaty bone. Irritation transformed into reluctant amusement as the clear eyes met hers, a devil of mischief dancing in their depths.

  “Perhaps, Grandmère, though I doubt I shall be able to make the jump from student to instructor for some time. Two brief lessons hardly make me an expert.”

  “But you shall have others, n’est-ce pas?” She tossed off Serenity’s counterploy and rose with fluid grace. “Monsieur Rollins, would you be so kind as to escort me to dinner?”

  Tony smiled, greatly flattered, and took the countess’s arm, though who was leading whom from the room was painfully obvious to the woman left behind.

  “Alors, chérie.” Christophe advanced on Serenity and held out his hand to assist her to her feet. “It seems you must make do with me.”

  “I guess I can just about bear it,” she retorted, ignoring the furious thumping of her heart as his hand closed over hers.

  “Your American must be very slow,” he began conversationally, retaining her hand and towering over her in a distracting manner. “He has known you for nearly a year, and still he is not your lover.”

  Her face flamed, and she glared up at him, grasping at her dignity. “Really, Christophe, you surprise me. What an incredibly rude observation.”

  “But a true one,” he returned, unperturbed.

  “Not all men think exclusively of sex. Tony is a very warm and considerate person, not overbearing like some others I could name.”

  He only smiled with maddening confidence. “Does your Tony make your pulse race as it does now?” His thumb caressed her wrist. “Or your heart beat like this?” His hand covered the heart that galloped like a mad horse, and his lips brushed hers in a gentle, lingering kiss so unlike any of the others he had given her that she could only stand swaying with dazed sensations.

  Lips feathered over her face, teasing the corners of her mouth, withholding the promise with the experience of seduction. Teeth nibbled at the lobe of her ear, and she sighed as the small spark of pain shot inestimable currents of pleasure along her skin, drugging her with delight and slow, smoldering desire. Lightly, his fingers traced the length of her spine, then moved with devastating laziness along the bare flesh of her back until she was pliant and yielding in his arms, her mouth seeking his for fulfillment. He gave her only a brief taste of his lips before they roamed to the hollow of her throat, and his hands moved slowly from curve to curve, fingers teasing but not taking the fullness of breast before they began a circling, gentle massage at her hips.

  Murmuring his name, she went limp against him, unable to demand what she craved, starving for the mouth he denied her. Wanting only to be possessed, needing what only he could give, her arms pulled him closer in silent supplication.

  “Tell me,” Christophe murmured, and through mists of languor, she heard the light mockery of his tone. “Has Tony heard you sigh his name, or felt your bones melt against him as he held you so?”

  Stunned, she jerked back convulsively from his embrace, anger and humiliation warring with desire. “You are overconfident, Monsieur,” she choked. “It’s none of your business how Tony makes me feel.”

  “You think not?” he asked in a politely inquiring tone. “We must discuss that later, ma belle cousine. Now I think we had best join Grandmère and our guest.” He gave her an engaging and exasperating grin. “They may well wonder what has become of us.”

  They need not have concerned themselves, Serenity noted as she entered the dining room on Christophe’s arm. The countess was entertaining Tony beautifully, currently discussing the collection of antique Fabergé boxes displayed on a large mirrored buffet.

  The meal commenced with vichyssoise, cold and refreshing, the conversation continuing in English for Tony’s benefit. Talk was general and impersonal, and Serenity felt herself relaxing, commanding her muscles to uncoil as the soup course was cleared and the homard grillé was served. The lobster was nothing less than perfection, and she mused idly that, if the cook was indeed a dragon, as Christophe had joked on that first day, she was indeed a very skilled one.

  “I imagine your mother made the transition from the château to your house in Georgetown very easily, Serenity,” Tony stated suddenly, and she regarded him with a puzzled frown.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “There are so many basic similarities,” he observed, and as she continued to look blank, he elaborated. “Of course, everything’s on a much larger scale here, but there are the high ceilings, the fireplaces in every room, the style of furniture. Why, even the banisters on the stairs are similar. Surely you noticed?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose I did,” she answered slowly, “though I didn’t realize it until now.” Perhaps, she reasoned, her father had chosen the Georgetown house because he, too, had noted the similarities, and her mother had selected the furnishings from the memories of her childhood. The thought was somehow comforting. “Yes, even the banisters,” she continued aloud with a smile. “I used to slide down them constantly, down from the third-floor studio, smack into the newel post, then slide to the ground floor and smack into the next one.” The smile turned into a laugh. “Maman used to say that another part of my anatomy must be as hard as my head to take such punishment.”

  “She used to say the same to me,” Christophe stated suddenly, and Serenity’s eyes flew to him in surprise. “Mais oui, petite.” He answered her look of surprise with one of his rare, full smiles. “What is the sense of walking if one can slide?”

  A picture of a small, dark boy flying down the smooth rail, and her mother, young and lovely, watching and laughing, filled her mind. Her startled look faded slowly into a smile which mirrored Christophe’s.

  She helped herself to the raisin souffle, light as a cloud, accompanied by a dry and sparkling champagne. She felt herself drifting through dinner in a warm, contented glow, happy to let the easy conversation flow around her.

  When they moved to the drawing room after dinner, she decided to refuse the offer of a liqueur or brandy. The glow persisted, and she suspected that at least part of it (she was determined not to think about the other part and the quick, tantalizing embrace before dinner) was due to the wine served with each course. No one appeared to notice her bemused state, her flushed cheeks, and her almost mechanical answers. She found her senses almost unbearably sharpened as she listened to the music of the voices, the deep hum of the men’s mingling with the lighter tones of her grandmother. She inhaled with sensuous pleasure the tangy smoke of Christophe’s cheroot drifting toward her, and she breathed deeply of the women’s mingled subtle perfumes overpowered by the sweet scent of the roses spilling from every porcelain vase. A pleasing balance, she decided, the artist in her responding to and enjoying the harmony, the fluid continuity of the scene. The soft lights, the night breeze gently lifting the curtains, the quiet clink of glasses being set on the table—all merged into an impressionistic canvas to be registered and stored in her mind’s eye.

  The dowager countess, magnificent on her brocade throne, presided, sipping crème de menthe from an exquisite gold-rimmed glass. Tony and Christophe were seated across from each other, like day and night, angel and devil. The last comparison brought Serenity up short. Angel and Devil? she repeated silently, surveying the two men.

  Tony—sweet, reliable, predictable Tony, who applied the gentlest pressure. Tony of the infinite patience and carefully thought-out plans. What did she feel for him? Affection, loyalty, gratitude for being there when she needed him. A mild, comfortable love.

  Her eyes moved to Christophe. Arrogant, dominating, exasperating, exciting. Demanding what he wanted, and taking it, bestowing his sudden, unexpected smile and stealing her heart like a thief in the night. He was moody, whereas Tony was const
ant; imperious, whereas Tony was persuasive. But if Tony’s kisses had been pleasant and stirring, Christophe’s had been wildly intoxicating, turning her blood to fire and lifting her into an unknown world of sensation and desire. And the love she felt for him was neither mild nor comfortable, but tempestuous and inescapable.

  “Such a pity you do not play the piano, Serenity.” The countess’s voice brought her back with a guilty jerk.

  “Oh, Serenity plays, Madame,” Tony informed her with a wide grin. “Dreadfully, but she plays.”

  “Traitor!” Serenity gave him a cheerful grin.

  “You do not play well?” the countess was clearly incredulous.

  “I’m sorry to bring disgrace to the family once again, Grandmère,” Serenity apologized. “But not only do I not play well, I play quite miserably. I even offend Tony, who is absolutely tone deaf.”

  “You’d offend a corpse with your playing, darling.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face in a gesture of casual intimacy.

  “Quite true.” She smiled at him before glancing at her grandmother. “Poor Grandmère, don’t look so stricken,” Her smile faded somewhat as she met Christophe’s frigid stare.

  “But Gaelle played so beautifully,” her grandmother countered with a gesture of her hand.

  Serenity brought her attention back, attempting to shake off the chill of Christophe’s eyes. “She could never understand the way I slaughtered music, either, but even with her abundant patience, she finally gave in and left me to my paints and easel.”

  “Extraordinaire!” The countess shook her head, and Serenity shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Since you cannot play for us, ma petite,” she began in a change of mood, “perhaps Monsieur Rollins would enjoy a tour of the garden.” She smiled wickedly. “Serenity enjoys the garden in the moonlight, n’est-ce pas?”

  “That sounds tempting,” Tony agreed before Serenity could respond. Sending her grandmother a telling look, Serenity allowed herself to be led outside.