Susan Carroll
Page 40
Phaedra became aware of a strong hand at her waist, another clasping her palm. With a start, she came back to the present, realizing that she had almost blundered into the next set, but Armande discreetly guided her back into position.
"There, you see," she said, feeling her cheeks burn. "I did try to warn you. As my husband was wont to say, I am not plagued by an overabundance of grace."
"If there was grace found wanting, my lady, it would not be any fault of yours, but your partner's."
His lips came startlingly close to her ear until she felt the warmth of his breath. How could any voice so deep, so undeniably masculine, be also soft and caressing? She wondered if he could feel the tremor that passed through her and hailed with relief the next pattern of the dance that separated them.
What was she doing? she wondered as she circled the room. She had not informed him as she had planned, that she could do without his interference in her life. She had not asked him even one question. Now Armande had her by the hand again, pulling her close, outwardly maintaining all the formality, the ritual of the dance, while his fingers teased the sensitive hollow of her palm.
"My lord," she said, trying to bring her disordered wits together, "I fear I have a complaint to lodge against you."
He spoke as if he had not heard her, his voice pensive. "How sad you appeared a moment ago, my lady, so far away. As if some unhappy memory had risen to haunt you."
Phaedra nearly snatched her hand away. What sort of man was this, that he could read her innermost thoughts? She began to regret greatly that she had removed her own mask. The marquis had her at a decided disadvantage.
"My grandfather, my lord," she said, firmly steering him toward the one topic she wished to discuss. "You have been at great pains to convince him I should remain in Bath. Why?"
"Now that I have seen you, I almost regret my advice." The look which accompanied these words made her pulse skip, made her nearly forget he had evaded her question.
"Only almost?" she challenged.
"I naturally assumed you would wish to live in seclusion, to be alone with your grief. According to your grandpere, it was your own idea to remove to Bath, n'est-ce pas?"
Phaedra could not deny this. The trip to Bath had been her doing. After Ewan's accident, she had desperately needed some time alone, not to grieve, but to reconsider her future prospects away from the presence of her domineering grandfather. But that had always been a temporary measure. She now coldly informed the marquis, "I never intended to be banished to Bath for the rest of my life. I have had more than enough time to recover from my husband's death."
"And yet your widowhood is most recent." The unfathomable blue eyes skimmed over her gown, lingering for the briefest moment upon the creamy swell of breast exposed by her decolletage.
Phaedra stiffened, mustering all her defenses. Did he, too, look to criticize her for abandoning her widow's weeds? What right had he to judge her? He understood no better than anyone else the six years of subtle hell that she had endured. When Ewan died, her tears had been tears of relief rather than sorrow.
"Yes, my widowhood is recent. Too recent to suit me. Ewan should have been in his grave a long time ago." She looked at Armande to gauge the effect of her bitter words.
His eyes widened a moment before resuming their normal hooded expression. "There is no sadness at all in your heart for his death? Not one regret?"
“No!"
"But I understand your husband was a most-" He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word, "A most estimable man. Young, handsome, and intelligent."
Phaedra was so weary of this eulogizing of Ewan Grantham. So charming, so handsome. Such a tragedy that he should perish so young, in such a gruesome riding accident. Now that he was dead, society would make him a saint, casting herself into the role of black-hearted villainess who had not shed one tear for that ‘estimable’ man. Even this cold, emotionless marquis took Ewan's part. It was so unjust, for Lord Varnais did not know the truth of her life with Ewan. But if he wished to be as ignorant as the others, to perceive her as shallow and heartless, who was she to disappoint him?
As they went down the dance, Phaedra said, "Now that you mention it, I do have one regret. Ewan died in the autumn, and I was obliged to wear black for the Christmas holidays. I do so loathe black. It is not at all my color."
"I would have thought black most becoming to you. Such a foil for that magnificent, fiery hair. "
Now she was certain that he mocked her. "La, sir, but you Frenchmen are smooth-tongued rascals. Are all those in your family so clever? I have never heard the name de LeCroix before. Where are you from?"
"France, my lady. It is where most Frenchmen are from."
"Have you been in London long?"
"Scarcely long enough."
Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. The man was a master of evasion.
"It is a perilous time for you to be enjoying yourself in London, my lord, is it not? Our two countries are drawing so close to a declaration of war. It is expected any day that your king will side with the American colonists, championing them in their quest for freedom."
"That is a strange phrase to spring from the lips of an English lady. I suspect you have been reading too much of that-what is the name of that rogue- Robin Goodfellow?"
"Yes, I have heard a little of his writings.” Phaedra's eyes swept down and she pretended to concentrate on her steps. "But many others have been discussing the likelihood of war between England and France. What is your opinion?"
Armande shrugged as he took her hand to circle her around him. "The prospect interests me not. I am not a soldier."
A diplomat then? Phaedra wondered. No, the marquis seemed far too uncompromising for such a role. Maybe he had been drawn to London by business interests. But none that he would disclose.
Each gambit that she flung out met with little success. The marquis fielded her questions with polite boredom until Phaedra seethed with frustration. She flattered herself that she could set any man talking, but never in her life had she encountered anyone as icily reserved as Varnais. His very reticence excited both her curiosity and her suspicions. If the man possessed no interest in politics or business affairs, then what did he have in common with Sawyer Weylin?
"I was wondering," she said. "Have you known my grandfather for long? When did you first become acquainted?"
She felt a sudden tension in the fingers touching hers. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he replied tersely, "At a coffeehouse in Fleet Street. And now, my lady, I believe our dance has ended."
To her intense disappointment, Phaedra saw that this was true. The last notes of the music had died away and she knew little more about Armande than when she had first stood up with him. As she sank into the final curtsy, he bowed over her hand, raising her fingertips to graze them with his lips.
Phaedra was seized by an impulse she could not have explained, not even to herself. Her fingers shot upward, tugging at the strings above the marquis's ear which held his mask in place. The tie came undone, the mask fluttering to the floor.
His lordship straightened, anger flashing in his eyes. The anger passed quickly, leaving a cold stare in its wake. Phaedra's breath caught in her throat at her first full view of Armande's face. He was more handsome than she had supposed, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His brows were dark slashes above those ice-blue eyes. But never had she seen any man's face so dispassionate. He might well have still been wearing a mask.
"I am sorry," she said, "I fear my curiosity got the better of me."
He said nothing, bending to retrieve the mask. As he did so, his coat shifted, revealing a silver hilt of a rapier that nestled beside the silk-shot folds of his pale blue waistcoat.
Why had she not noticed the slender sheath before? A tiny gasp escaped Phaedra as she stared at the hilt devoid of all ornament, a stark bit of steel wrought for lethal service, not fashion.
"Is something amiss, my lady?" With slow deliberation, Armande re
fastened the mask about his face.
"I was but noticing your sword. So few gentlemen wear them nowadays, especially not to a ball."
"The streets of your fair city are teeming with danger for the unwary. I wear the sword.for protection. It also provides an excellent deterrent for the overly curious."
Was that meant to be a warning to her? Phaedra arched her neck and stared defiantly up at him. "Yes, I daresay curiosity could be a nuisance to a man who had something to hide."
Before she could prevent it, he cupped her chin firmly between his long, powerful fingers. There was nowhere else for her to look except into the hypnotic depths of those eyes peering at her through the slits of the mask.
"Your grandfather described you to me as a young woman with an excessively inquisitive nature. It would have been far better if you had taken my advice and remained in Bath. But now that you are here, I suspect you are intelligent enough to understand me when I say how very much I dislike anyone trying to interfere with my affairs."
Phaedra struck his hand aside. "As much as I dislike anyone interfering with mine! So monsieur, I strongly advise you to keep your opinions about widows to yourself and stay away from my grandfather. Otherwise I might be obliged to-to-"
"Yes?" he prompted.
"To find some way to be rid of you," she said,
For the first time that evening, Armande smiled, a smile nowise reflected in the dangerous depths of his eyes.
"How amusing," he drawled, in a voice silken with menace. "I was thinking exactly the same thing about you."
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Chapter One
Chapter Two