A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  For a long, painful minute he simply studied it, his expression unreadable. She scratched her nose and resisted the urge to ask whether he liked it.

  “I could have made you much less attractive, you know,” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Just a shade larger nose. Eyes a little closer together. I could have made you look like one of the gargoyles on the corners of Notre-Dame.”

  His laughing eyes flicked to hers. “Instead, I am a veritable Adonis.”

  Sabine narrowed her eyes. She could hardly deny it; he was a physically handsome specimen, but he had no need of anyone to puff up his sense of self-importance. “It’s what’s inside that counts,” she said severely.

  He stood and pointed to the edge of the paper. “You haven’t signed it. I want proof I own an original Sabine de la Tour. Just in case you get famous for something other than counterfeiting.”

  With a put-upon sigh she signed a simple S. de la Tour in the lower right corner. It felt good to sign her own name, instead of hiding behind the initials P.L. Maybe this was the first small step in her transformation from criminal to honest woman.

  Hampden’s fingers brushed hers as he took the paper and a little tingle ran up her arm. He stepped closer. “Hold still.”

  Sabine’s legs turned to water at the hungry intensity of his look. She barely breathed as he steadied her chin and brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

  His smile was a lazy glitter. “You had a smudge.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. Awareness thickened the air between them, a bright, expectant tension, like the hush before a thunderstorm. He leaned closer. Sabine could feel the warmth of him against her lips and sucked in a drowning breath. Oh, this was wrong. So wrong. She had to step away. She didn’t move.

  His thumb came to rest at the outer edge of her mouth. Sabine closed her eyes, lost in the thrall of the sensation. Her body felt like melting wax. His breath mingled with her own, hot as hellfire, tempting as the devil. Only the width of a piece of paper separated them.

  “Would you like me to kiss you?”

  His voice was a rough whisper against her mouth, more sensation than sound.

  Yes! her heart screamed. Yes yes yes.

  “No.”

  He turned his head, and his lips slid against her cheek. She shivered at the faint rasp of his jaw against her skin.

  “Liar,” he chuckled softly.

  She almost did it. Almost turned her head and met his mouth, and to hell with sense and safety. But sanity prevailed. She drew back and opened her eyes. For one brief moment he stared down at her, his expression unreadable. And then he dropped his hand and strode to the door.

  “Good night, Miss de la Tour.”

  The panel closed behind him with a quiet click.

  Sabine drew in a shattered breath. Good God. Such monstrous lust was insupportable. She was a fool, wanting to kiss him. She should be keeping him as far away as possible, not wondering how good he would taste.

  She was here for only another few weeks. She would control her attraction.

  Chapter 28

  Sabine stood in her petticoats in the center of her bedroom and surveyed the new hairstyle she’d been given. Mr. Travers, the coiffeur, had just left, having cut and styled her hair in a tumble of artful curls around her face.

  Behind her, reflected in the mirror, Heloise and Madame Hortense, London’s most celebrated modiste, nodded their approval.

  Madame ’Ortense, it had transpired, was as French as Napoleon himself—which was to say, not French at all. When Sabine had first introduced herself in her own language, saying how nice it was to meet a fellow countrywoman, the woman had cheerfully admitted that she’d never been farther than Gravesend. She’d adopted the pseudonym when the original Madame Hortense, her former employer, died, having cannily realized that a French “modiste” got twice as much trade as plain old Sally-Anne Clackett, seamstress.

  From the quality of the dresses that the woman had already provided for Heloise, it was clear that her skills at dressmaking were just as good as her skills of self-promotion. Sabine thoroughly approved of the woman’s shrewd tactics. A girl had to get ahead any way she could.

  Heloise tapped her lips. “Now, about the gown for Lady C’s ball? I’m so glad you’re not a debutante, Sabine. You can wear something dramatic that will have all the men fighting for your attention.”

  They’d already selected three day gowns and three evening gowns. Sabine had tried to refuse them for being too elaborate, but Heloise wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I promised Richard I’d help you get a suitable wardrobe,” she said firmly.

  “I have just the thing,” Madame ’Ortense said. “New style, from Vienna. The pattern book’s downstairs. If you ladies will excuse me for a moment?”

  She bustled out of the salon and Heloise turned to Sabine. “You must teach me how to swear properly in French. I love languages. I can speak several quite fluently, but there’s nothing like learning colloquialisms from a native.”

  “I’m not sure your brother or your mother would approve.”

  “That’s exactly why I need to know! Who else can I trust? I can’t even ask my own husband. Raven’s so perverse he’d probably tell me something completely wrong, just for his own amusement. He’d have me saying ‘I love your hat,’ instead of ‘go to the devil!’ ”

  “All right.” Sabine tried to think of the least offensive phrases she knew. “If someone is drunk we say they are allumé—‘lit up.’ ”

  “Excellent. Go on.”

  Sabine pursed her lips and racked her brains, beginning to enjoy herself. She hadn’t had many female friends in Paris. It was fun to have someone with whom to giggle and share secrets.

  “Well, a girl’s breasts, showing out the top of her dress, is her ‘balcony.’ Her balcon. If she has a big chest the men might say, ‘There are lots of people on her balcony.’ ”

  “I should be taking notes.” Heloise gave a wicked chuckle. “And what about terms for the male member? There must be lots of those.”

  Sabine nodded, grinning too. “Hundreds, but I expect most of them are the same as in English. Men can’t stop talking about it, no matter what nationality they are. They call it their ‘tree branch,’ their ‘spade,’ their ‘bow,’ ‘cigar,’ ‘rod.’ ”

  Heloise gave Sabine a spontaneous hug. “Oh, I wish I’d had you as a sister! It would have been such fun. Growing up with three older brothers is just not the same at all.”

  “Three brothers?” Sabine asked, surprised. “Richard mentioned your brother Nicolas, but—”

  Heloise’s face fell. “Tony, our other brother, died in France as a prisoner of war.”

  Sabine’s stomach tightened with a heavy knot of guilt and compassion. Guilt that it had been her countrymen responsible for his death. Compassion for the thread of anguish she heard in the other girl’s voice. She squeezed her arm lightly. “I’m sorry.”

  Her thoughts veered to Richard Hampden and she experienced another sharp stab of guilt. She’d taunted him about not being affected by the war. But he’d been as affected as herself, as the thousands of other families who’d suffered the loss of a loved one. What other hurts was he hiding from her? What other scars?

  Heloise gave a sad, resigned smile. “It wasn’t your fault. But we all miss him.” She took a breath and brightened, apparently determined to banish the maudlin mood. “Now tell me something truly shocking. And remember, I am a married woman.”

  “But I’m not,” Sabine said primly.

  Heloise shot her a knowing glance. “Well, you’ve hardly been living in a nunnery, have you?”

  When the door clicked open neither of them paid it any heed, assuming it was Madame ’Ortense returning.

  “What are you two giggling about?”

  Heloise gave a gasp of shocked outrage. “Richard! Get out this instant!”

  Sabine scowled and clapped her hands over her almost-exposed bosom, humiliatingly aware of
the fact that she was wearing nothing but her chemise.

  Hampden ignored their protests. He strolled into the center of the room as if he owned it. Which—technically—he did, Sabine thought waspishly.

  “I’ve come to help you choose a dress for Lady Carstairs’s ball. If I’m going to be seen in public with you, I need to be sure you’re appropriately dressed.”

  “I don’t need your assistance!”

  “Now, now. I know you have a wonderful, artistic eye, but even you must admit you aren’t up to date with the latest fashions. I wish you to be comme il faut.” He flicked back the tails of his coat and settled himself comfortably in a chair. “There’s nothing improper or scandalous about it. Women have allowed their intimates to assist in their toilette for years.” He shot Sabine a triumphant smile that said he wasn’t going anywhere. “Now, why don’t you tell me what was so funny?”

  The two women glanced at one another. Both adopted innocent-as-nuns expressions. “Oh, nothing. Just fashions and gossip.”

  Heloise nudged Sabine’s elbow and stifled a giggle. Sabine nudged her back.

  “Miss de la Tour was just educating me on the intricacies of Parisian culture,” Heloise snorted.

  “I’ll just bet she was,” Richard muttered dryly.

  Heloise shot him a dazzling smile. “She was. It’s been an extremely enlightening conversation.”

  “I think it was a very bad decision to introduce the two of you.” Hampden gave Sabine a hard stare. “Isn’t there somewhere else you need to be, Heloise? I’m sure Raven’s anxiously awaiting your return.”

  Heloise looked from him to Sabine and sighed. “If you want to get rid of me, just say it, Richard.”

  “I want to get rid of you.”

  She threw her arms up in the air. “Fine. I’m going. But don’t you dare be mean to Sabine, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

  “I’m quaking in my boots,” Richard drawled. “Besides, Miss de la Tour can take care of herself. Goodbye, sister dearest.”

  Heloise shot one last, apologetic glance at Sabine. “Now do you see what I mean about brothers? I’ll see you soon.”

  She left in a flurry of skirts.

  Sabine’s earlier merriment faded as she faced Hampden, horribly aware of how little she was wearing. “I don’t need your help,” she said again.

  “I’ll have no companion of mine dressed in anything but the first stare of fashion.” He tilted his head and his gaze lingered on her face. “Our poor debutantes must languish in lavenders and creams. You, however, shall wear a deep midnight blue.”

  Madame ’Ortense chose that moment to reenter the room. “I’ve brought the—oh! Gawd! Yer lordship!” she gasped, as she caught sight of Richard. “I mean—I beg your—”

  “Do come in, madame,” he said serenely.

  The modiste straightened. Richard waved an airy hand at Sabine.

  “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, Miss de la Tour is something quite out of the ordinary. I want a dress to reflect that. Something unique. Something stark and simple. Nothing too obvious. No hint of the ingénue.” He picked up one of the books of fashion plates that had been left on the side table, flicked through it, and tapped a design with his forefinger. “Something like this. But without all the bows and the frills.”

  The dressmaker peered over his shoulder, then glanced back up at Sabine. She narrowed her eyes as if trying to visualize the finished product. “Yes, my lord. I see what you mean.”

  He shot Sabine a wicked glance. “And lower the neckline.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  He selected a fabric swatch next, a dark indigo shot silk. “In this fabric.”

  “It shall be done, your lordship.”

  Hampden rested his elbows on the chair and his fingers obscured his mouth. Those amber eyes studied her. Sabine ground her teeth and tried to maintain an impassive countenance, but inside she was seething at his high-handed behavior.

  He glanced at the dressmaker. “Have it ready by tomorrow. You may leave us now.” He dismissed her with a languid flick of his fingers.

  Madame ’Ortense bobbed a deferential curtsey. “Of course, m’lord.”

  And suddenly they were alone.

  Chapter 29

  Goose bumps broke out over Sabine’s skin. Technically, there was no more of her on display than if she’d been wearing a ball gown, but she still felt vulnerable, dressed only in her silk under-dress and petticoats. Heat bloomed in her cheeks as Hampden regarded her. She could feel her pulse beating erratically in her throat. He stood and came toward her, lazy, relaxed. All her muscles, in contrast, tensed for a fight, but she couldn’t move, caught by the look in his eyes.

  She moistened her lips. “You should leave. I wish to dress.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  She glared at him. “What do you want, Hampden?”

  “Now there’s a question,” he mused softly. “I want so many things.” He held her gaze until she looked away. “Can you dance?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Waltz?”

  She paused. “I never learned.”

  She heard him sigh and cursed the combination of anger and embarrassment that flushed her cheeks.

  “Forgive me if I’m not up to your exacting standards, my lord,” she said with acid sarcasm, “but my life has been rather lacking in elegant soirées of late. My country’s bloody revolution and subsequent war with yours deprived me of a come-out at Versailles.”

  He took another step toward her. His chest was a scant inch away from hers. “Ah, but you must learn to waltz. Wasn’t it Molière who said, ‘All the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing’?”

  Sabine tried to think of a witty comeback and failed. How annoying that he should be able to out-quote her. On Molière—a fellow Frenchman, of all people. “We have no music,” she said stubbornly.

  “I’ll hum.”

  Clearly there was no escape. Had she been fully dressed, his closeness would have been unremarkable. Or at least more bearable. But she was not. Proximity heightened her acute awareness of him. Something dark and twisting uncurled in her stomach. She raised her chin. “All right. I’ll make you a deal.”

  His sigh was heartfelt. “Everything is barter and exchange with you.”

  “That’s how the world works. It’s commerce. You never get anything for nothing.”

  “Except when it’s fake money,” he said.

  She inclined her head to acknowledge the hit.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Since working for you is proving more dangerous than anticipated, I think I should improve my skills of self-defense. Heloise says you box and fence. Will you teach me how to fight?”

  “Agreed,” he said abruptly.

  One of his hands slipped around to the back of her spine, the other caught her right hand and held it slightly away from her body. Sabine had no option but to lift her own free hand to his chest to keep him at a respectable distance.

  He pulled her closer, fitting her thighs to his, fusing the lower halves of their bodies together. She fixed her gaze on his shoulder and tried to ignore the smooth fabric of his coat beneath her hand, the hard muscles beneath. The alarming, fluttering heat warming her. Impatient with him just standing there, she made the first move—and promptly stepped on his toe.

  He chuckled. “There can only be one leader in this dance, Sabine.”

  That was the first time he’d ever used her given name, she realized. The intimacy of it made her shiver.

  He swept her into an impromptu whirl.

  Sabine caught her breath. The waltz was positively indecent. Their palms were touching; she could feel her own pulse in her fingers, in her throat, in the tips of her breasts as they brushed against him. His soft humming reverberated through his chest and into her. His thigh insinuated itself between her l
egs. They might as well have been naked, for all the space there was between their bodies. It was a dizzying, intricate whirl, all curlicues and arabesques, like the scrolling borders of a banknote. Sabine closed her eyes and allowed herself to be swept away.

  Finally, Hampden swung them to a breathless, panting stop.

  There was a beat of silence; the thread of something bright and expectant hovered between them. Sabine held her breath as Hampden leaned forward…and then his eyes crinkled at the corners in the way she’d come to recognize heralded a joke.

  “Want me to kiss you?” he whispered.

  She wanted to kick him, for teasing her. And for how much she wanted to say yes. She pinned a bright smile on her lips. “Not in the slightest.”

  He tilted his head, maddeningly confident. “You will.”

  Sabine sucked cool air into her lungs as he stepped away and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise. You have to teach me to fight.”

  “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. Meet me in the ballroom at the back of the house.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He strode to the door and turned back, his hand resting on the knob. “I’ll keep asking, you know.”

  “Asking what?”

  “Whether you want me to kiss you.” His smile was diabolical. “Sooner or later you’re going to say yes.”

  Before she could summon up a suitably scathing retort to that arrogant statement, he pulled open the door and disappeared. Sabine sent up a silent prayer for patience. And for the strength to resist.

  Chapter 30

  The ballroom was located at the back of the house. Sabine approached silently, intrigued by the grunts of exertion, the scuffle of feet, and the metallic clash of blades that met her ears.

  She peered around the door, hoping to spy a little before announcing her presence. There were three men in the room. Raven was shouting encouragement and insults from the side. Hampden, dressed in shirtsleeves and pale breeches, was sparring fiercely with another blond man she didn’t recognize. He was as tall as Hampden, but thinner, almost gaunt.