by Louise Clark
"Mademoiselle, I hope I do not prove you wrong," Nicholas said grimly.
* * *
The gaming house was, as Stephanie said, frequented by some of the finest members of society. They were, however, confirmed gamblers whose patronage would be the lifeblood of any gaming establishment. It would not have been sensible to clean them out in one or two evenings, then have them go elsewhere when they were flush again. It was only pigeons like Mademoiselle de la Riviére, people playing for the excitement of the moment only, who were thoroughly fleeced by the house.
Nicholas's lips thinned into a grim line when he caught sight of Stephanie seated at a table with St. Luc standing behind her, watching her cards over her shoulder. Her insistence on accompanying the Vicomte that evening filled Nicholas with rage that was uncomfortably akin to jealousy.
He found a table in the same room, but settled into a seat so that his back would be toward Stephanie. He knew that if he could see her, he would be watching her intently, and the distraction would ruin his concentration. He planned to prove to the lady that the decks were indeed tampered with to ensure that the house always won.
Four hours later, he threw down his cards in frustrated resentment. He had lost, and heavily, but despite his careful observations, he could find no evidence of wrongdoing. Yet, he knew that the cards had been marked. The proof had just not been forthcoming.
Stephanie, on the other hand, rose from the table a winner once more. She paused by his seat on her way out, a purse stuffed with golden guineas ostentatiously resting in her palm. Nicholas got some satisfaction when her eyes opened wide at the sight of the scrawled notes in his handwriting stacked before his opponent, and at the concern in her voice as she said, "Monsieur Wroxton, I fear you have been unlucky tonight."
He stood at the sound of her voice and bowed. "Not unlucky, Mademoiselle. Unfortunate." His rueful gaze settled on her fat purse. "I see you are a winner once more."
"Mais oui," she agreed complacently, remembering the challenge between them. Her eyes sparkled dangerously. "The cards favored me tonight."
Nicholas winced at her terminology. Could he have been wrong? He had assumed that she was gambling for the excitement and experience. Could she have a deeper need? Was she one of those for whom the game was a vice that could not be sated? To his knowledge, her father had kept a strict rein on her activities in France, but gambling over cards was rife at the court of Louis the Sixteenth. Perhaps he had been overly sanguine in believing Stephanie to have no experience of the art at all.
"Mademoiselle de la Riviére shows exquisite judgment in her choice of cards," the Vicomte interjected, his voice smooth and without sincerity.
Resisting his first impulse, which was to plant his fist in the Frenchman's smirking face, Nicholas instead said, "A pity her judgment is not so acute when it comes to her choice of companions." He looked pointedly at St. Luc, who reddened. Satisfied that he had scored a hit, Nicholas turned to Stephanie. "Mademoiselle, as I am also leaving this establishment, permit me to escort you home."
His eyes demanded that she agree, but until he saw the relief, quickly followed by the warm pleasure in her face, he feared that her stubborn pride would make her choose the Vicomte over him. That he could not have borne. The resulting scene would have led to a duel and eliminated his usefulness to Gideon and his government, but Nicholas was beyond caring at that moment.
However, Stephanie's dark eyes silently thanked him for rescuing her from the necessity of spending more time in St. Luc's unpleasant company. "Of course, Monsieur," she murmured, placing her hand on Nicholas's silk-clad arm. "If you will excuse me, Monsieur le Vicomte?"
St. Luc had no choice but to agree, though deep in his eyes burned the bitter anger of an enemy.
* * *
For the third time, Stephanie journeyed to the gambling club to which St. Luc had introduced her, her spirits high with excitement. In her past two visits, she had won a sizable chunk of the funds she needed to provide her father with an escape route from France. This night, she would gamble it all, for to double her winnings would create the total sum she required.
As she entered the house, there was nothing to indicate that this night would be any different from the others. The sensible caution that had sustained her in previous visits had dissipated with the sweet attainment of her winnings. One more evening spent in the despicable Vicomte's company, and she would have succeeded doubly. Not only would her father's safety be assured, but she would be free of the Vicomte forever. Her spirits rose another notch.
"En bien," she said as she released her cloak into the care of the butler when they arrived at the de Trouville house. She preened a little as the cheery robin's egg blue gown with the primrose sash that so exemplified her mood was revealed. "I am feeling lucky, Monsieur de St. Luc. Your interest in my playing on my last visit was most kind, but this evening I shall pick my table and play without your aid, I think."
The Vicomte's eyes gleamed with temper, which he quickly suppressed. "But of course, Mademoiselle, the choice is yours. I shall be joining a pharo table in the Maroon Room. Send a footman to fetch me when you are ready to leave." He bowed. "Mademoiselle, Madame de Trouville, until later."
Regine de Trouville, who had bustled over at their arrival, smiled at Stephanie. "You will permit me to introduce you to an opponent, will you not, Mademoiselle?"
Stephanie raised one dark brow. "Is the chevalier de Louvois here this evening?"
De Trouville was momentarily stilled, then smiled again. "But of course. Would you like to play against him once again?"
Nodding, Stephanie said, "I would. I made him a promise on my first evening here and I intend to follow through on it."
"I see." Regine de Trouville's expression was thoughtful as she led the way to a table in the small room where Stephanie and Louvois had played on her first visit. Louvois was seated at the same table, and his opponent this time was also a woman. Regine cleared her throat and announced, "Monsieur de Louvois, do you remember Mademoiselle de la Riviére? She has come tonight to keep a promise she made to you earlier. I see that you are currently occupied, but..."
Louvois rose hastily and bowed. "I am always willing to play against Mademoiselle de la Riviére. Perhaps later in the evening..."
The woman at his table threw down her cards. "I would be delighted to relinquish my place, Mademoiselle. The Chevalier is too good a player for my skills. You are welcome to test your mettle with him, for I am done."
A sense of foreboding settled over Stephanie, but she ruthlessly thrust it aside. She would not allow doubts to spoil her concentration. She would win the sums she needed, then be free of St. Luc and this shabby place. This night, she had to win.
Her luck held for two hours. She won, and handsomely. With her goal within reach, a heady excitement pumped through her veins and an element of recklessness entered her play. She began to wager more as she envisioned success within her grasp.
When she first lost a hand, she put it down to the normal give and take of the game. She had lost hands before and would again. She played on.
At first she won more than she lost, but as one hour stretched into another, her losses began to outnumber her wins. A frown puckered her lovely features.
"Does Mademoiselle de la Riviére have a problem?" asked Louvois.
Stephanie shook her head. In truth, she did not think there was any underhanded activity occurring. She was simply disappointed by her inability to continue her winning streak. "Non," she said tersely. "Let us continue to play."
Her luck had definitely turned. The stack of golden coins before her melted away, and as it disappeared, she remembered the woman's remark about Louvois's skill. Moreover, she suddenly noticed that although the Chevalier was dressed fashionably in a chocolate-brown frock coat laced with golden thread, his cuffs were rather worn and the linen of his shirt and neckcloth was coarse. She could hear the Earl's dire warning about gambling establishments fleecing the unwary, and wondered if Louv
ois was more than just a simple gambler. Even as she considered the possibility, she dismissed it. To accept it would mean that she had been manipulated from the beginning.
Her thoughts churning, Stephanie's confidence began to erode. A desperation akin to panic took its place. She must win, she thought, and the only way to do so was to continue to play. Yet, the more she played, the more quickly her stake melted away.
In the end, it was her pride that sealed her defeat. As she lost hand after hand, the Chevalier began to suggest—gently, and oh, so kindly—that she should give up for the evening. With his every thoughtful suggestion, her determination to turn her fortune around became stronger.
Not even when the last gold coin changed hands had Stephanie come to her senses. She scribbled a promissory note on a scrap of paper and handed it to Louvois.
"Mademoiselle," he said, unsure how to tell her that her paper was no good there. "Mademoiselle, I cannot accept this."
"And why not?" she demanded haughtily. "I have sufficient funds to pay it. Do you doubt my word?"
Louvois, who was a mere pawn in a bigger game, had his orders. But he was a kind man and he had developed a certain respect for the spirited Mademoiselle de la Riviére. "I do not doubt it, Mademoiselle, but I do doubt the wisdom of continuing to play when your luck has deserted you."
He had given her the out she needed to withdraw gracefully. "I would play again," she said stubbornly, but the fiery determination was gone from her voice. "However, it is late and I must return to my home."
She rose from the table, dropped a tiny curtsy, and said, "Monsieur, if you will excuse me?"
Not waiting for a response she turned from the table. As she glided away, she snapped her fingers for a footman. "Summon the Vicomte de St. Luc. I have finished my business here and wish to go home." Her head high, she turned her back on the site of her victory—and defeat.
Chapter 8
"Good morning, Mademoiselle." Nicholas was having his coffee and his voice revealed concern at Stephanie's unusually late appearance in the dining room.
"Bonjour, Milord." To avoid meeting his eyes, she listlessly inspected the covered trays on the sideboard and had the hovering footman fill a plate with food she was sure she would not eat. The avoidance ritual could only be prolonged a certain amount of time, however, and as she sat down, Nicholas waved the liveried servant out of the room.
"You lost last, night," he said gently, leaning forward.
Staring unhappily at the polished tabletop, she nodded.
"How much?"
"All of it," she whispered miserably.
Nicholas let his breath out in a gusty sigh of dismay.
"I... I took it all, you see. All my winnings. I was so flushed with pride and so sure I would continue to win." Her lips trembled. She darted a quick look into his eyes, and seeing compassion and possibly pity in their vivid blue depths, she felt her face go hot with shame. Nicholas swore softly.
"Mademoiselle—Stephanie!" He shoved back his chair with all the violence he wished he could vent on the Vicomte de St. Luc.
Stephanie's lips drooped tremulously. "I was a fool, n'est-ce pas?"
Nicholas moved so that he could kneel beside her. Gently, he stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "You were taken advantage of by experts." His voice was grim with an anger that could find no outlet, and his expression promised retribution to those who had dared to harm her.
Instinctively, Stephanie was reassured. The fear that he would think less of her for her rashness ebbed away. A halting smile touched her mouth briefly and was gone. "I am so mortified, Milord. You warned me of what my fate would be, but I refused to listen. Indeed, I embroiled you in my mad scheme, to your detriment, I know. How can I repay you?"
"A smile that stays in place would be nice," he suggested, gently tracing her lips into an upward curve. "Stephanie, my dear, you must not allow yourself to be overset by this incident. Consider. You were badly used by a gang of scoundrels, but what did you lose? Nothing really, but a little of your self-respect. The money you won initially was never truly yours."
Stephanie looked deep into the Earl's clear blue eyes and wondered what he would say if she confided her true reason for going to the gaming club. Would he offer to help? Or would he brush off her fears for her father's safety?
She remembered their hours of discussion in that very room: the arguments about the need for change in France, and the inequalities the radicals aimed to right. The smile Nicholas had coaxed into life wavered and faded. He would never understand her anger toward the new regime, or her fear for the fate of the country she loved and the father she adored. No, she could not explain why the loss of a few hundred guineas could mean so much to one who already had enough.
His thumbs traced the shadows beneath her dark, moody eyes. "Poor sweet," he murmured soothingly. "They hurt you badly, didn't they?"
"Yes." A faint, sad smile flickered across her lips, a smile from which an element of innocence had been washed away by the bitterness of experience. "I was so certain I could control the Vicomte. In a way, I trusted him. I never expected him to use me as he did, because, vraiment, he is a Frenchman, an émigré, as I am. And the people who ran the club—they were also my countrymen. Why would they do this to me, who is one of them? Do they not know what they did was wrong? Where has their honor gone?"
Nicholas caught her hands in his and drew her to her feet. The gaily sprigged muslin of her gown flowed softly about her figure as she moved toward him. "Men like the Vicomte have no honor because they do not know the meaning of the word." He cradled her against him, comforting her with his voice and touch.
Stephanie laid her head against his shoulder, immeasurably reassured by the strength in his arms and the warmth of his body. His arms held her securely around her waist. Absently, he began to stroke her back. The humiliation she had suffered at the hands of the Vicomte and his associates fled from her mind as Stephanie became aware of the uncompromising masculinity of the man embracing her.
This was not a brother, or cousin, or father offering his strength and comfort. This was a man who had no claim to family ties, despite his honorary title of guardian. Moreover, this was the man who argued with her, who teased her, who laughed with her, who rescued her from one mad, impetuous scrape after another. This was the man who set her emotions on end, who sparked the fires in her mind, whose touch was even now creating a new sensation in her body, one that demanded something more than the lazy stroke of his hand on her back.
She shifted her body sinuously against his, very much aware that he had not yet donned his coat, and was wearing only a fine lawn shirt beneath a silver-white waistcoat that emphasized the black of his hair and the blue of his eyes. The shirt was open at his throat and she could see a vein throbbing there. Her lips parted as she considered caressing the warm skin only inches away. She looked up a little nervously and was caught by his blazing blue eyes. Heat blossomed in her and she had to moisten her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "Milord," she murmured, not sure whether she was asking or demanding.
Her mouth was inches away from his, teasing and tempting. Nicholas tensed as his desire fought with duty. "Do you know what you are doing to me, Stephanie?" he asked huskily.
"I know what you do to me," she responded in a throaty whisper. She slid her hand up his chest, to cup his cheek in her palm. "I know how I feel and what I want."
His arms tightened around her, pressing her against him, making her aware of the intensity of his desire at that moment. The hand which had been stroking her back tangled demandingly in the soft curls which cascaded past her nape. "What do you want?"
Stephanie laughed softly. "Must I speak the words, Milord? Am I not telling you what I crave in a thousand more honest ways?"
His eyes probed hers, seeking proof of her statement. What he saw there made him say, half-groaning, half-laughing, "Sweet Stephanie, I know you to be impetuous and far too trusting. What am I going to do with you?"
> Rising to the tips of her toes, she slid her body lazily along his until their lips were mere inches apart. "Kiss me," she suggested huskily.
Nicholas had fought as far as he was able. There was danger in allowing himself to become involved with Stephanie de la Riviére, but danger was something he had never shunned. Gently, carefully, he covered her lips with his in a kiss that was intended to be sweetly tender, but Stephanie's response heated his own and recklessly he deepened the kiss.
As Nicholas's lips caressed hers, Stephanie discovered that she had been holding her breath. His touch seemed to make her body act in ways it never had before. Her chest constricted and her head spun, as if she lacked oxygen, while her blood seemed to flow more hotly in her veins, pumped by a heart beating with crazy speed. Instinctively, her hands clutched his shoulders for support as her body molded itself to his.
Desire—hot, sweet, potent—flowed between them, making them oblivious to everything but themselves and the magical bonding of their physical beings.
Neither heard the opening of the door or the sweep of a trained satin gown across the polished floor as Madeleine entered the dining room. When she first saw Stephanie and Nicholas locked in their passionate embrace, too lost in themselves to notice her, she hesitated, wondering if she should leave them to the privacy of their moment. Then, a smile of satisfaction on her lips, she decided that the fires burning between them were perhaps too new for these young people to control as they should. The first step had been taken. It would not do to rush and have the whole relationship collapse from an awkward misstep.
Her feet, clad in fashionable slippers with low, wedge-shaped French heels, made barely a sound as she moved across the polished floor. She wished shoes still had the sharp Italian heels that had been the rage twenty years before, so that each step she made would click loudly on the floorboards. Breaking Nicholas and Stephanie apart without embarrassment would have been so much easier if they had heard her footsteps and separated voluntarily. That, however, was not an option. She cleared her throat noisily. "Good morning."