by Sahara Kelly
For a brief instant a wicked smile shone from her eyes. “Do you like me?”
He bit down on a sudden and almost painful bolt of lust. “Possibly. But not if you make inappropriate comments when the Earl of Trowbridge is about to demand I introduce you. Now behave yourself.”
“Yes Dev.”
He laughed. Her demure tone and downcast eyes were the picture of maidenly innocence. And she charmed the Earl, as she did everyone else he introduced her to during the evening.
She danced well, conversing with ease, looking as comfortable when partnered with an elderly peer as she did with a young sprig trying to impress her.
She was calm, collected and the perfect model of what a young lady should be when mingling with London society. Of course, he should have expected nothing less, since this was her milieu.
She’d cut her teeth on Russian protocol, and carried those lessons with her to Vienna where perfection wasn’t just expected, it was demanded. And as he watched her circle the floor with a Parisian émigré who had begged an introduction, Dev realized she’d built herself a specific identity, behind which she could take shelter.
She could relax into that persona, because it had been part of her life from childhood. It was a cultured and intelligent façade, blessed with a bright mind and a lovely countenance. She was chatting away as they executed the measures of the dance, and he expected it would be in French to judge by the way her partner was smiling. To look at her, one would think she was the pinnacle of what a young lady should be.
Flawless. But it wasn’t her.
It wasn’t the Léonie he’d begun to uncover. Not the one who had pleaded with him to touch her and melted when he did, nor was it the woman who had ordered him to return her ring with a look that should have seared him into ashes.
No, that was the real Léonie. And although this public character was irreproachable, he preferred the less perfect and more passionate firebrand that lurked beneath those elegant manners and impersonal smiles.
He tried not to think about the vibrant emotions she would bring to his bed. Because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would be there before long. What burned between them could only lead to one thing.
And he bloody well hoped it would be soon, because he was getting impatient to learn the naked truth about his obsession. Mentally cringing at his own appalling pun, he straightened as her partner led her back to his side. It was almost time for dinner and he had the dinner dance already reserved.
“Miss me?” She whispered impishly as soon as they were alone, fanning herself against the heat of the room.
“Not at all. I was quite engaged in observing Dudley Longmathers. He is determinedly pursuing Miss Henrietta Fincham, who isn’t interested in him, preferring—as is evident by her gaze—the rather dashing Jeremy Higginbotham.”
She flashed him a grin. “You made all that up, didn’t you?”
He grinned back. “Imp. This is our dance, I believe.”
*~~*~~*
Léonie was enjoying herself.
This ball, while not like the evenings she’d attended in Europe, was possessed of a charm all its own. And perhaps, she confessed to herself, it had a lot to do with the fact that she was on the arm of her “fiancé”.
Guests had been curious, of course. Dev was well-known, liked by most and a suitable match for more than a few. So the glares she occasionally intercepted from older ladies were dismissed as nothing more than sour grapes.
A smile, a polite greeting and an attentive manner worked just as well here in Mayfair as it did in St. Petersburg, Brussels or Paris.
She enjoyed the chance to stretch her French conversation with Comte De Chamborde as they danced, and even found use for her Russian with a quiet young man who had been sent to London to acquire business contacts and was under the aegis of the Gallunders.
But at the end of each and every dance, she returned to Dev’s side. It was as if there was a magnet in his pocket drawing her to him. A force she was helpless to resist. And in truth she didn’t want to.
Being next to him, her hand resting on his arm…it seemed so right. And the look on his face as she neared him, well it took her breath away. Thank goodness the dinner dance had been a lively country dance rather than a slower quadrille. She didn’t want to linger with her hand in his, or brush against him in the turns. The shock of his touch still trembled within her, an earthquake of passion too close to the surface now for her to suppress or deny.
After their meal, which Dev pronounced acceptable although the lobster patties weren’t up to their usual standard, they rejoined the crowd moving back from the dining room to the ballroom.
“I will leave you for a few moments if I may, Dev.” Léonie noticed a number of ladies strolling to and from a corridor, and made the correct deduction.
“Of course. Would you like me to wait here?”
She looked at the small crowd. “It might be a little while. Why don’t you return to the ballroom? I’ll find you. The stairs will give me a lift up over the heads. I won’t miss you. I promise.” She smiled at him.
He smiled back. “But I’ll miss you.” Then he bowed and let her go.
She turned toward the stream of gowns and fell in with several other ladies heading the same way. There were polite nods and brief moments of conversation—fashions, of course. The occasional mention of a gentleman or two.
It was all much as Léonie had experienced at least a hundred times before. Women in groups this size tended toward safe topics. The mature ones spoke of their children or the girls they were bringing out this season. The younger ones spoke of their wishes and dreams. And everyone looked at everyone else’s dress and jewelry, silently comparing, assessing and sometimes coming out of the private competition a winner.
Léonie herself just smiled and made her way into the ladies’ withdrawing room.
On the way out, feeling a lot more comfortable and ready to find Dev, she was stopped by the gentle touch of a gloved hand.
“Excuse me. Are you Miss Girard?”
Léonie turned to see a woman in a soft green gown looking at her. She was tall, and certainly not a debutante.
“I am, yes. Have we met?” There was something familiar there…
The woman smiled. “We have. Once. In Vienna, but I am at a loss to recall which ball we were attending.”
“There were so many,” Léonie smiled back.
“Indeed. I was with the Auvergnes. My mother’s family connections. They graciously invited me to spend some time there.” She leaned forward to whisper. “I believe they were hoping to marry me off to some wealthy Count.”
Léonie sighed. “It was the way, wasn’t it? Since you’re here in London, should I assume their maneuverings were unsuccessful?”
The woman laughed. “Thankfully yes. I met my husband when I took up residence here in England. We are happy, comfortable and have good friends.” She glanced around. “But it is nice to see an old acquaintance.” She blinked. “Forgive me. I’m Jean Solange. Lady Jean Montgomery now, of course.”
“Ahh.” Léonie nodded, although her memory of this woman was very vague indeed. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my Lady.”
“Just Jean, please.” They recommenced their progress toward the ballroom. “And is your father here this evening? I recall how in demand he was in Vienna.”
“No, he has not been able to attend many functions recently. The press of his work, you know. And the need to travel frequently on various matters of diplomatic import.”
It was a stock answer, one Léonie had perfected to cover times like these when she had no clue where her father actually was.
“A shame indeed. You must miss him.”
“Of course.”
Thankful that courtesy forbade Lady Montgomery from pressing for any more information, Léonie looked for the staircase. “You must forgive me, my Lady. I suspect my fiancé will be wondering where I am.”
“That would be the estimable Mr. Deverell. I saw t
he happy announcement in the papers. A delightful man, I hear, so I wish you all the joy you deserve, Miss Girard.”
“Thank you. You are very kind. I hope you will enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Léonie moved away and mounted the staircase, dismissing the brief interlude from her mind. It had happened on more than a few occasions and was a fact of life for those in certain circles. Diplomacy was one of those circles.
Although there had been something a little unsettling in Lady Montgomery’s gaze…
Locating Dev wasn’t as easy as it had sounded, since the orchestra had struck up a lively waltz and many couples thronged the floor. But from the staircase she could see over the whirling mass of heads.
One couple immediately caught her attention. That dress stood out like a flame in a hearth full of glowing embers.
And there was Dev, holding Amelia DeVere and whisking her around the floor in a graceful waltz.
She sighed as she watched them. She believed Dev when he’d avowed that there had been no affair between them. There was no rational reason why she should believe him, but her instincts were seldom wrong. They told her Dev didn’t like prevarication.
But they also told her that Amelia was a woman who enjoyed making trouble, for no other reason than she could. Léonie had also told the truth—women like Amelia were everywhere there was money, elegance, parties, titles and the opportunity to revel in all of it.
So she watched them, but also watched the rest of the crowd as well, tapping her foot to the rhythm and smiling as it drew to a close.
Just as the applause broke out, something very hard hit her sharply right on the bare skin between her shoulders and she turned on a gasp.
“Owww…”
“Oh my dear girl, forgive me.” A gentleman was walking down the steps toward her. “My button. It just popped right off my waistcoat.”
Léonie blinked. “You shot me with a button?”
The gentleman’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I suppose…” He stared at her.
She stared back.
And then they both smiled and began to laugh.
“I cannot apologize enough, Ma’am.”
Léonie curtseyed. “I am Léonie Girard, and no apologies are necessary, sir. No damage done and one cannot blame a poor simple button for surrendering at an inconvenient moment, can one?”
“You are quite right indeed.” He bowed. “Palmerston at your service, Miss Girard.” He frowned “Wait. Girard. Are you related to Colonel Anatole Girard, the diplomat?”
“I have the honor to be his daughter, my Lord.” Léonie had recognized the Secretary of War as soon as he mentioned his name.
“He’s a great man, you know. I haven’t met him yet, but his name is legend here in London. What a pleasure to meet his daughter.” Lord Palmerston beamed at her and offered his arm. “May I escort you somewhere? Preferably before anyone realizes I’m here.” He leaned toward her as she took his arm. “I had to bribe that damn butler not to announce me. Can’t get a minute of peace and quiet at these things, but one’s duty takes many forms, you know.”
“I can well imagine your popularity, my Lord, and how it is enhanced by the air of power you wear so well.”
His chuckle rumbled through him. “Well said.”
At that moment, Dev appeared at the bottom of the steps. “There’s my escort, my Lord. He’ll be pleased to find me in such august company.”
“Pshaw.” Palmerston huffed. “Deverell, lad. Is this angel yours?”
“How do you do, sir.” Dev bowed. “Pleasure to see you this evening, and yes, she is indeed mine so you’ll have to give her back now. Our engagement was formally announced just this week.”
“Lucky lad.” He passed Léonie’s hand to Dev. “Take care of her. I have a feeling she’ll be following in her father’s footsteps someday. A born diplomat if ever I saw one.”
“I will, sir. Never fear.”
“Miss Girard.” Lord Palmerston bowed, smiled and moved away to be swallowed up by the crowd.
“What a charming gentleman. And devoted to this country, I hear. He turned down the Exchequer in favor of the Secretary of War’s office.”
Dev was once again stunned at his fiancée’s political knowledge. “You’re quite right.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t look so surprised. I have spent most of my life listening and remembering chance comments, political opinions and diplomatic arrangements. I had to know who did what, especially as I got older and participated more often in events such as these.”
They were strolling as she spoke, circling the dancers and avoiding onlookers as best they could.
“Well, Palmerston has certainly fallen before your charm and intellect.” He grinned. “And you’re right. At the moment he’s desperately trying to interest the government in upgrading our naval defenses. He feels that England’s coastline is too vulnerable in places that matter. I just read an article he wrote on the value of ports such as Southampton and Portsmouth, and how easily they could be attacked. His solution is to put a battery on the Isle of Wight. The Needles, of all places. And he wonders why it’s a difficult concept to sell to his peers.”
“The Needles? What are the Needles?” Léonie turned her head to look up at him.
“They’re rocks, a strange rock formation off the very tip of the Isle of Wight. Chalk, I think. And the one that looked like a needle fell down a generation ago, but there are still three left…”
She was clutching his arm with fingers of iron as the significance of what he had just said rocked her to her slippers. “Dev,” she whispered urgently. “Needles.”
“Yes.” He looked puzzled, but covered her hand with his. “The Needles…”
Suddenly his eyes widened. “You can’t think…”
“Oh my God, yes I can.” She turned fully, facing him, her expression excited and intense. “Needles sew. Where the sands sew the sea.”
“It could be.”
She could almost see his mind whirling at what she was suggesting.
“Yes, it could be. Where else would fit that clue so well?”
“By God, if you’re right…” Dev swallowed.
“If I’m right we’ll find something there at sunset. Stars. Or a star. Or something.” She grabbed him by his jacket. “We have to go there, Dev. Perhaps my father is there…”
He took her hands in his, easing them away from his jacket but holding them tight. “I know. We will. As soon as we can make arrangements.”
The music began again behind them. Léonie barely heard it, and then only as an annoying distraction. “Dev,” she began, “would it be a terrible insult to the Gallunders if we left? I’m too excited to concentrate on something as frivolous as a ball when it looks as if we might have solved a very important clue…”
Dev smiled. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Leaving a message for Aunt Bertrande was simple, since she was engaged in a fierce game of cards with several of her cronies. She simply nodded and waved the two of them off.
“How will she get home?” Léonie whispered to Dev as they left the card room.
“She has many acquaintances, and more than a few admirers, who will be happy to see her home safely. She does it all the time.”
Dev put his arm beneath Léonie’s and led her to the foyer where they collected her wrap and summoned the carriage.
They were both quiet on the short ride back to Deverell House, each busy with their thoughts.
Dev’s were divided between trying to remember if he’d ever been to the Isle of Wight, and what he was going to do about the woman sitting across from him, gazing silently out into the darkened streets.
He wanted her so very much. Not because of her ability to swan through a major social event without a falter, nor because she could speak several languages and capture the admiration of everyone from Princes to butlers.
He wanted her because something deep inside was t
elling him one thing only.
His life would never be the same without her.
They arrived at their front door and Dev helped her down the carriage steps, earning a brief smile of thanks.
Only when they were inside and indulging in a small snifter each of brandy did Léonie break her silence.
“So we will travel to see these Needles. We have to, I think.”
Dev nodded. “Yes. I’ve turned it over in my mind and it does make a lot of sense. The sunset will illuminate the cliff face—there’s a thin beach there, I can’t remember the name of it—but that would be the first place to explore.”
She smiled. “That’s good. I look forward to finding out what awaits us there.” Then she put down her snifter and walked to Dev. “We must talk, Dev.”
He put down his glass as well. “I know.”
She put her hands on him and ran them up to his shoulders. “Kiss me first.”
He put his hands on her waist and pulled her against him. “All right.”
The first touch of her lips and he was lost, falling once again into that magnificent chasm of delight and desire. She was warm and soft and opening her mouth for him, welcoming his tongue even as she thrust hers past it to learn his taste.
There was hunger and heat, need and pleasure, all the things that such contact should inspire. And it rocked Dev all the way from his toes to his eyebrows.
He pulled her closer, loving her indrawn breath as she lifted to her tiptoes and parted her thighs, opening a space for his bulging cock to nestle. He wished they were naked. He’d do a lot more with that cock than nestle.
She moved away and struggled with his buttons.
He put a hand over hers, stilling her. “Léonie. Wait.”
“Why?”
“Are you sure?”
“I want to touch you, Dev. I want my heart beating against yours. Is that so wrong? I want to kiss you and feel that I’m as close to you as I can be without disappearing inside you.”
Her words inflamed him and he tore at his waistcoat, letting her work his shirt buttons as he loosened the laces of her gown and pulled it away from her shoulders.
True to her word, as soon as his chest was bare, she shrugged off the thin lace chemise and pushed her breasts against his heat.