by Liana Lefey
Alessandro remained patient, for in truth, he had nothing better to do than await the lady’s leisure. He watched as her curiosity again defeated caution. After a long moment, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her farther into the wood.
Knowing that it was usually best to keep quiet when Fate worked in one’s favor, lest one muck up one’s own good fortune, he remained silent as they walked.
Only a short distance through the trees, a charming copse peppered with seemingly random clumps of wildflowers was revealed. The little green was graced with a small bench.
In a show of just how nervous she really was, Mademoiselle d’Orleans immediately disengaged herself and sat, leaving just enough space beside her. Her startled glance as he seated himself at her side told him her invitation had been an unwitting one. Giving her an innocent smile, he folded his hands in his lap and again waited.
Her fingers curled and bunched the fabric of her gown. In an effort to ease her anxiety, Alessandro leaned back and looked up at the bit of sky peeking from between the leaves. “Do you intend to speak, or do you prefer silent companionship?” he teased.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I suppose I’m still a bit embarrassed.” She flicked a worried glance at him. “About knocking you over, I mean.”
“It will forever be our secret,” he promised, his smile broadening. “The secret of how we met.” A soft laugh escaped her, and Alessandro’s breath stilled. Her gentle smile transformed an already beautiful face into something worthy of a master’s brushstroke.
Brushstroke...
A vague memory teased the edges of his thoughts, just out of reach.
“This is not the first time we’ve met, my lord,” she informed him, still chuckling. “We met last night during the ball, quite by accident. You probably don’t even remember me.”
She was wrong. The dappled sunlight caught in her eyes, sparking their depths with emerald fire, and Alessandro bit back an oath as it all came back in a rush: the unattractive gown, the ridiculous powdered hair—and the impossible eyes.
Da tutto che è santo! The creature he’d run into last night had been a disaster. The woman before him now was so beautiful that it was difficult to believe she was even the same person. But the eyes, they were the same.
Impossible emerald eyes.
The memory that had been tickling his subconscious finally surfaced. He’d seen those eyes before last night’s encounter...
Brushstrokes.
A portrait hung in Louis’s private chambers—a portrait of his mother.
Astonishment rendered him mute. Her odd disguise, her reluctance to speak—it all suddenly made sense. If she was who he thought she was, then...
Madre di Dio...I must be very careful here. If she knows who she is, I risk the king’s wrath, and if she does not...
In the eye blink that had passed while these thoughts raced through Alessandro’s mind, the lady’s expression had turned rueful.
“I admit I was not at my best last night,” she muttered, coloring a little.
Shaking off a strange feeling of premonition, he forced himself to stop staring and answer her. “Well, you have certainly made up for it today,” he murmured. He must act as though he knew nothing. Which was only true, actually, for he had no way of proving his theory. Yet. “But why hide your beauty behind—if you will please pardon my rudeness—such an ill-appearing disguise? You would have outshone every other woman present at last night’s fête.”
One corner of her full, ripe lips curled. Lips that had come so very close to his only moments ago.
“I thank you for the compliment, monsieur, but you should know that your reputation precedes you. I am well aware of your habits where women are concerned.”
The chit was a strange mixture of woman and girl, one moment innocent and fresh, the next as wary and cynical as any jade. Alessandro decided not to bring up the matter of her disguise again, since she’d chosen to evade his question. Her frank admission of knowledge regarding his pursuits was far more interesting, anyway.
“If you are aware of my proclivities, then why did you choose to come here alone with me?”
The air between them became charged as the silence stretched, as she groped for an answer. He could tell part of her wanted to run away, while another part, the curious, rebellious part, wished to stay.
“I think you know as well as I that a reputation is often a poor reflection of a person,” he chided. “People say many things about me. It is up to you to determine whether you believe the good or the bad. I would, however, hope that you form your opinion of me based upon your own experience. As you can see, mademoiselle, I have refrained from leaping upon you like a wild beast, though I admit it has been terribly difficult,” he teased, lightening the mood.
“That you have, monsieur,” she granted with a grudging smile.
“Then trust the instinct that brought you here. Tell me what sent you fleeing to this place. Perhaps I can help?”
After a long hesitation, she finally relented. “A match has been arranged for me with someone I do not wish to marry.”
Inexplicable disappointment filled Alessandro. “Have you told them of your objection to their choice?”
“I have not, as I came by this information through another means. My desires matter not, in any case. Regardless of my opinion, I know they will insist upon the marriage.”
“They?”
“My parents.”
“I see. What is so bad about this prospective husband?”
“Nothing,” she snapped. “He is a good man, and already a great friend of mine.”
“Then I am afraid don’t see the problem.” Damn. If she’d told him the man was abusive or indifferent, he might have had a chance.
“I cannot marry him! The idea is repugnant!”
The vehemence of her protest surprised him. “Is he deformed?” he asked, confused.
A sad little laugh escaped her. “No. In truth, he is considered quite handsome.”
“Yet you feel no desire for him.” It was a statement, not a question, for the answer was clear in the grim set of her mouth. Who was this man? It could not be anyone in his circle or he would surely have heard about this woman. “Does the gentleman share your lack of sentiment?”
“We have known each other since I was born. He is a brother to me in all but blood, and I am certain he feels the same.”
Looking at her now, Alessandro doubted the man would continue to feel brotherly for very long. “Perhaps in time you will learn to desire him?”
She shot him a withering stare.
“I see,” he mumbled. “Surely, you can convince—”
“There is nothing to be done,” she interrupted. “My father has already said that upon our return home, the agreement between our families will be formalized. There is no alternative for someone like me. Whether I want it or not, I must accept it.”
My father. Our families. Someone like me... A royal cuckoo. It was the only explanation. “If there is no alternative, then you can only try to view your circumstance with optimism. At least you are amiable toward one another.” The lie tasted sour in his mouth. Nothing good would come of forcing this woman to marry a man she did not want. After a moment’s pause, he cocked his head and peered at her. “Or is it that you have already given your heart to someone else?”
An indelicate snort of derision was her only answer.
Molto bene. At least her heart was not taken—yet.
“Indulge me for a moment, mademoiselle,” he continued, taking on the tone of a trusted counselor. “I have helped many a friend escape an undesirable marriage. What if you were to tell your parents that you have fallen in love with someone else? Would that not make them reconsider the match?”
She shook her head. “Such a lie would never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is one of only two unmarried gentlemen in my acquaintance. And I have even less desire to marry the other.”
“There
is a third option,” he whispered, giving her a sidelong look. “You could always say you were corrupted by a mysterious stranger. Someone with a reputation black enough to deter his parents’ interest in you as a prospective bride.” Leaning back, he quirked a brow.
“But I would be ruined!”
“Sciocchezze!” he scoffed. “There would be a little scandal, just enough to rid you of your unwanted bridegroom. Then, next year you can return to court and find someone more to your liking. I can assure you that such a tiny incident will be nothing to a man in love. Especially when he discovers your innocence on your wedding night.”
A furious blush stole into her cheeks, making her eyes appear even greener. “And I suppose you’re offering to be the scapegoat?” she asked, eyeing him dubiously.
“I’ve played the sacrificial lamb countless times,” he whispered, his grin widening.
“And when my parents go to the king to force you to marry me, what then?” she retorted, laughter in her voice. “Will you go to the slaughter on behalf of a woman you do not even know?”
“Mademoiselle, you underestimate my skills at evasion,” he said in a wounded tone. “You see, I am not a citizen of France. No one here can force me to marry unless it is my wish to do so.”
“Ah, so you would jilt me?” she said, eyes lighting with merriment. “I would simply be another of the unfortunate women left crying in your wake. Another casualty of your charm.”
Unruffled by her sarcasm, Alessandro accepted the backhanded compliment with aplomb. “Not to seem immodest, but I have done this before with great success. My monstrous reputation can be used to your advantage, if you will allow me to help you.”
Mélisande considered the shameless seducer beside her. She had no illusions regarding his motives—but his idea was inspiring. Had she been a Frenchwoman facing an untenable marriage to another Frenchman, she would have leapt at his offer. But as she was returning to England soon, it was not a feasible solution.
She opened her mouth, fully intending to thank Lord Orsini for his “kind” offer and then politely excuse herself. Maman was looking for her, and...
Maman. Anger sat in her chest like a burning-hot coal. Papa wasn’t to blame. After all, he’d only been kind enough to give both his name and love to another man’s get. He probably wants to marry me off to David as quickly as possible to protect me and make certain no one finds out I’m a...
She couldn’t even think the word without her throat tightening.
Something stirred within Mélisande then, a recklessness born of hurt and rage. The circumstances of her birth, her impending marriage, all the pain she felt now—everything was her mother’s fault.
And here she was, alone with a man whose very name represented everything her mother wanted her to stay away from.
The sun shone on Orsini’s hair, infusing it with warm russet lights. His brown eyes gleamed, full of the promise of pleasures she could only begin to imagine—and probably several she couldn’t.
With a shock, Mélisande realized she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to take her in his arms again, hold her as he’d done when she’d knocked him to the ground, and kiss her.
She’d never been kissed before, not really. David didn’t count. She’d been only ten years old at the time, and it had been on a dare. And it had been disgusting.
Kissing this man would be quite different.
A wild, feverish heat ignited in Mélisande’s belly. Somehow, her desire must have communicated itself to the man beside her, for his warm, brown eyes deepened to nearly black and, only a moment later, he leaned in and captured her mouth.
She flinched at the initial contact but did not retreat. She couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to—her body simply would not allow it. She knew she ought to have delivered a stinging slap in reward for his presumption, but instead, she reveled in the turbulent sensations raging through her as her lips clung to his.
Her eyes drifted shut as his hands rose, one to clasp her waist, the other to lightly caress the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh rose all over her body, and she sighed into his mouth, softening, melting into him.
Every nerve in her body was alive, drowning in an ocean of touch, smell, and taste. He felt so wonderfully solid against her, all lean muscle beneath his clothes. His kiss was infused with the sweet, heady flavor of brandy, and the clean scent of soap and leather clung to his warm skin. Her hands began to roam, first clutching his shoulders, then traveling up to twine about his neck, where her fingers curled into his soft, dark hair.
He tasted her as though savoring a sweet, and she responded instinctively by grazing the corner of his mouth with her tongue. At that delicate, hesitant touch, he shuddered and pressed his palm hard into the curve of her spine, deepening the contact.
The only coherent thought left in Mélisande’s mind was: more.
At her unconscious urging, he gently caressed the side of one silk-clad breast, his thumb grazing the very edge of her nipple through the thin fabric.
She gasped as the hardening bud began to itch and ache, longing for something infinitely more satisfying. He touched her again, and liquid heat built down below, coalescing into a molten fire that made her yearn for him to touch her there, to touch her everywhere. Her body thrummed like a plucked harp string, responding to his caresses with a violent joy that resonated throughout her.
Laughter.
Harsh and unwelcome, it intruded into Alessandro’s awareness, dragging him back to the earthly realm. It had originated at the outer edge of the wood—and it was moving closer. The sweetness in his arms was oblivious to the danger, but he was not.
With regret bordering on physical pain, he pulled away. She resisted, making a small sound of protest.
“My lady!” he whispered, startled at the unsteadiness of his own voice. The dark fringes of her lashes lifted, revealing emerald slits glazed with unmitigated lust. His mouth went dry and the muscles of his arms trembled.
The sound of voices drew closer, and her gaze shifted away, sweeping the little glade in confusion. When she turned back, he saw the entire scene as it must look through her eyes: her wrists held prisoner in his hands. His hair, mussed from the restless meanderings of her fingers.
A high-pitched squeal from the trees nearby caused them both to start in alarm.
Helpless, Alessandro watched the emotions flicker across her face. In that instant, he knew without a doubt she was an innocent. It hit him like a cannonball in the gut. He wondered if this had been her very first kiss. To his amazement, his loins tightened unbearably at the idea. He was no seducer of virgins, yet he wanted this one with a ferocity that overrode every other desire he’d ever experienced.
The interlopers drew closer, and before he could so much as open his mouth to speak, she broke free and bolted.
“Wait!” He took off after her, swearing. But it was too late. By the time he made it to the edge of the wood, she was already far ahead, flying across the green toward the palace.
He stopped. If he were seen chasing after her, it would result in her ruination and quite possibly the king’s wrath.
A wry grin creased his lips. If she was ruined, would Louis allow her to marry him instead of her “family’s” choice?
The thought surprised him. That a green girl could make him contemplate abandoning the life of debauchery he’d so enjoyed was ridiculous. The minx could be no more than sixteen or seventeen! Marriage was out of the question.
But he could make her his mistress.
It might be nice to have a steady mistress. Given what she’d told him, it was unlikely that her groom-to-be would object.
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. She was a natural-born sensualist, like himself. She’d be quick to learn and just as uninhibited, given the right encouragement. Innocent she might be, but she was no fool. Their conversation had revealed much. She was intelligent and canny, possessing wit and humor.
She was his perfect match.
Ye
s. He would find Lady Mélisande d’Orleans and make the arrangements. With these thoughts, Alessandro settled against the bole of a tree to wait until enough time had elapsed before following his soon-to-be lover.
THE NOT SO TENDER TRAP
Warwickshire, England, early spring 1747
RAIN PELTED THE crown glass windows of the parlor, echoing Mélisande’s dark mood as she looked across the room at David Pelham, nineteen-year-old heir to the dukedom of Newcastle. Any woman should have been ecstatic at the prospect of becoming not only the wife of a duke but the wife of a dear friend.
Her current state, however, was one of irritation and despair. Since his introduction to Society, women had made fools of themselves over David on a constant basis, but when she looked at him, Mélisande was distinctly uninspired. He was David. The closest thing to a brother she had on this earth. Love him, yes; but want him, no.
“We could do worse, I suppose,” he announced with a faint grimace of distaste. “We know each other, at least, and our lands adjoin, so you’d be close to your home and your parents.”
She looked at him as if he were mad. “It doesn’t matter how convenient it would be, David! There is no point in even having this ridiculous conversation. We’d both be absolutely miserable, and you know it!” Exasperated, she flopped into a chair.
They’d both argued vociferously against the marriage since her discovery of the arrangement, but to no avail. As children, they’d been promised to each other for the good of both families, and wed they would. Nothing could persuade their parents otherwise.
David had done his best, ignoring his father’s summons for the past year. He’d been brought to heel only when the duke himself had come to fetch his son—along with several burly “footmen.”
Now, the unwillingly betrothed pair had been locked in an upstairs parlor in the hope that confinement together would bring them to reason. After all, they’d not actually laid eyes on each other in almost four years, and both had changed a great deal. Their parents assumed that a handsome young couple put in such a situation would be unable to resist the lure of nature’s impulses.