Only he wasn’t alone. She had not left him entirely. The carriage smelled faintly of her soap—lavender and lemongrass—as did his coat where she’d rested against him. The seat was still warm from her body, he was still warm. It was something of a novelty to realise he wanted her again, or was it that he wanted her still? After a night of rather thorough lovemaking, he would have thought he was ready for a respite, not just for a chance to recover, but to reclaim his space. He’d always been happy after a night with a woman’s charms to be back in his space, to have his privacy. He enjoyed women, but he didn’t need them clinging to him every second of the day. He liked an independent woman. But this morning he’d not been ready to let Alyssandra go.
* * *
Back at the rooms, Brennan had returned, looking entirely unkempt. Most of his clothes were draped over a chair instead of on his person, a sure sign he’d had to make a quick exit from somewhere. Apparently, he wasn’t in any great danger, though, because he’d stopped for breakfast. French rolls, cheese and a block of rich creamy butter were laid out on the dining table.
‘Just getting in?’ Brennan said around a mouthful of bread. He motioned to an empty chair. ‘I’ll have Guillaume bring coffee.’
Haviland gave a tired smile, the night catching up with him at last. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll go to bed.’
Brennan winked. ‘I’ve already been there tonight, twice in fact.’
‘You can tell me about it later.’ Haviland tried to laugh, but it came out as a yawn. He didn’t know how Brennan did it; up all night, every night, and always cheerful as if his personal life didn’t teeter on the edge of disaster.
Haviland knew what he’d find before he opened the door to his room. The carriage had been fair warning, but he was still unprepared for the lingering effects of her scent in the confines of a closed space. Lavender and lemongrass mingled with the musk of sex. She was everywhere in his room, they were everywhere. Haviland smiled to himself and tugged off his boots. All the better to dream of her. The only problem with getting up so early was that it took night that much longer to come. He had nothing to do except wait for her note and go to the salle for another lesson at three. But that was ten hours away. Until then, sleep could help. He lay back on the pillows amid the rumpled sheets, eyes closed, and let the dreams come.
* * *
Archer woke him shortly after one. ‘You’ve slept the day away, lazybones. Don’t you have to be at the salle for lessons at three? And...’ He stopped there and grimaced. The grimace had all of Haviland’s attention. ‘You have a letter from home.’ He held up the letter as proof.
Haviland groaned. ‘Leave it for me. I’ll read it after I get dressed.’ He’d slept too long. He should have been up at noon. He rolled out of bed and did a quick wash. Anything more would have to wait until tonight—some time after fencing, but before he went out. The letter kept creeping into his periphery. He’d best get it over with. Shirt half-buttoned and feet still bare, Haviland picked up the letter and ripped it open. It was from his mother. The handwriting was a collection of neatly regulated loops. He sighed and slouched into a chair.
My Dearest Son,
I hope you are well and that you are finding Paris lovely. I appreciated the one letter you sent upon arrival...
He could hear the rebuke in that for not sending others. She would want a full accounting of the parties and the fashions. He felt guilty. He should have written. It would have been the dutiful thing to do, but he’d wanted to keep Paris to himself.
I have been busy with the Marchioness of Dunmore. We have begun plans for the wedding. It will be a Christmas affair at the abbey, the Dunmore family seat. We’ve decided to make the most of the holiday season and greenery.
The abbey will look stunning all done up with boughs and berries and garlands. Christina and her mother have met with the dressmaker and selected the fabric for her gown. I have seen it; it’s an ice blue that shows off her eyes and her hair to perfection. You will have the most beautiful bride in the ton.
He stopped reading.
Archer came in with a small tea tray. ‘I thought you might want to eat before you left.’ His eyes flicked sideways to the letter. ‘Bad news?’
‘It’s from my mother. It’s always bad news.’
Archer sat down and poured him a tea cup. ‘Don’t say that, Haviland. She loves you in her way and at least you have a mother.’
Haviland took the tea cup, regretting his words. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.’ He nodded to the letter. ‘You can read it if you want. She sends her love to you, it’s down at the bottom.’ He reached for the small decanter of brandy Archer had thoughtfully included with the tea tray and poured some in, giving time for Archer to scan the contents of the letter.
‘It goes on for pages, but you get the gist.’ Haviland sighed and eased back in his chair, one bare foot crossed over his knee.
‘I can see that.’ Archer gave him a shrewd look. ‘It’s really going to happen, then. You’re going to marry Christina Everly.’ He tried for a smile. Haviland knew he was trying to make him feel better. ‘Congrats, old man. You’ll be the first of us to marry and no doubt you’ll have the loveliest wife of us all. Shall I tell Brennan and Nolan? We could go out and celebrate tonight, all four of us, when you get back from fencing.’
Haviland shook his head. ‘No.’ Getting three sheets to the wind with Nolan and Brennan was usually quite entertaining, but it wouldn’t solve anything and it certainly wouldn’t make his situation go away. Besides, he had plans to be with Alyssandra, plans to escape.
Haviland got up and paced the room. ‘I shouldn’t complain. I feel like a petulant child when I think about all I’m resisting. Men would kill to have what I have.’
Archer didn’t argue. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’ Haviland pushed a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know what I stand for any more.’
‘You have a little more time,’ Archer said soothingly.
‘A little.’ Haviland looked out the French doors leading into the garden. There would be no petitioning his father for extra time now, his mother had neatly ruined that option with her wedding plans.
‘I suppose this means you won’t make Italy,’ Archer said quietly after a while.
Haviland nodded his head, not daring to look back at Archer for fear emotion would get the better of him. ‘I would have liked to have seen you race. It would really have been something to see you win the Palio, flying around the Campo.’ It wasn’t just the Palio he’d be missing. There would be no summering in the Alps, no second spring spent in Naples, no afternoons spent in the Italian salles d’armes of Florence. All the adventures he’d imagined would never be.
‘Perhaps you can go as far as Switzerland with Brennan and Nolan,’ Archer put in.
‘Perhaps,’ Haviland replied noncommittally. What would the point be? He’d just have to turn back. Why not stay in Paris a little longer with Alyssandra? These were all horrible thoughts and there was no time for them, so in customary fashion whenever the subject of his future came up, Haviland pushed it away. ‘I have to go, Archer, but I’ll see you later.’
Archer rose, concern etched in his face. ‘Will you be all right?’
Haviland tried to smile his reassurance. ‘I’ll be all right. After all, there is still a little time.’
* * *
She’d thought she’d have more time. Alyssandra stared at the list of clients on the desk in front of her. It was to be business as usual, although the idea of anything being ‘normal’ or ‘usual’ felt decidedly surreal after last night. It seemed even more impossible after seeing the list of the day’s clients. ‘Antoine Leodegrance’ was giving three lessons today; the first two were regulars, young wealthy students from the university. They would be no problem, but the third name on the list held all of her attention. Haviland North.
‘Is there a problem?’ Julian leaned forward from his seat across the desk.
They were alone in the salle’s office and she felt the absence of her brother’s presence acutely. Antoine had not come in today. It was the first time she had seen Julian since their conversation after the park incident and he’d had a couple of days to recover. His black eye had faded to a yellow-grey halo, making it difficult for her to look at him and not remember who put it there.
‘No,’ Alyssandra lied swiftly. Of course she’d known she’d have to face Haviland again in the guise of her brother. She’d just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon, not when she could still feel the delicious remnants of their lovemaking on her body. She’d hoped to have time to settle into it, into him. Leading a dual life certainly had its complications. ‘Today, we have to tell North about his dropped shoulder. He’ll need to control the habit for the tournament. This will give him two weeks to work on it.’
Keep it business as usual, she told herself one more time. This was good. If she could keep the conversation focused on the work at hand, perhaps she’d forget how uncomfortable Julian made her feel or how fabulous Haviland made her feel. ‘Let’s be clear on what I will need from you in the lesson today. I will need you to show him. I can’t touch him.’ Especially not now. Perhaps earlier with her full-face mask on, she could have touched him to demonstrate a point during the lesson, but not after last night. Surely, he would recognise her touch or she would do something to give herself away if she got too close. Better to maintain the aloof distance she’d already established in her relationship to him as Antoine Leodegrance.
‘No, I suppose you can’t.’ Julian’s response was snide. ‘Hopefully you do understand in hindsight just how ill advised your little rebellion was. It has even jeopardised your ability to give a lesson.’
Alyssandra fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Scolding does not become you, Julian.’ For a man who insisted he had feelings for her, he certainly didn’t understand her. He ought to know berating her would not prove to be an effective suit. She stood up to avoid giving him a chance to respond. She didn’t want to fight with him. She had too much threatening to distract her without adding worry over Julian. ‘It’s time to change. Our first pupil will be here soon. I will see you in the private practice room.’
Changing did help to soothe her thoughts. The ritual of wrapping her breasts flat, of pulling on the trousers, worn loose enough to hide any telltale curves or lack of them under the guise that they provided freedom of movement, of putting on one of her brother’s white shirts. She twisted her hair up into a tight bun and settled the mask over her head. Thirty years ago, her masquerade wouldn’t have been possible with just a leather mask that covered the eyes, but the new invention of the full-mesh face mask gave her the social anonymity she needed. The genetics of being a twin gave her the rest.
Alyssandra opened the wall case and took out her foil, giving it a few experimental slashes. The grip felt solid in her hand. She could feel peace settle over her. All was right with the world when she held a blade. It always had been. She went through the eight parries, stretching her muscles to warm up. She moved about the room, calling sequences in her head: Balestra flèche! Balestra lunge! Coup lancé!
Her body took over automatically, letting her mind focus on the upcoming lessons. The first pupil needed to work on the pronation of his wrist while he executed parry three, tierce. The second pupil’s lesson would focus on coups d’arret, stop cuts, as a way of improving his mediocre defence.
Alyssandra brought her exercise to a halt and blew out a breath. She felt good. Her body was primed, her mind was ready. Everything would be fine. Everything would be business as usual.
* * *
And it was. Through the first two pupils. Then Haviland stepped into the room. The air crackled, the tension ratcheted. The tenor of the room changed entirely or was it merely a trick of her imagination? His reserve was back, his polite aloofness in place. Gone was the man she’d been in bed with just hours before. What was he so determined no one see?
Haviland eyed Julian with a gaze that managed to convey respect and disdain all at once. Julian responded in kind. But Julian was far more wary. As he should be. Haviland could beat him. She wondered what would happen if the two met in competition at the tournament? If they both made the final rounds, they would most certainly face each other.
She smiled behind her mask. Two years ago at the tournament, she’d beaten Julian. Everyone had thought it was Leodegrance who had beaten him, but the three of them knew the truth and Julian had never forgiven her for it. Perhaps this year, she’d be facing Haviland instead.
That thought wiped the smile from her face. Facing Haviland would be dangerous in the extreme. Julian knew his duty: lose in the final on purpose if for some reason ‘Leodegrance’ couldn’t win on his own. But Haviland would not be bound by any such compunction. Couldn’t be bound without knowing their secret.
Julian stepped forward, explaining the structure of today’s lesson. She had to pay attention. ‘Master Leodegrance would like to open today’s lesson with a bout. Then, after you lose, he would like to show you where your error lies and how to remedy it.’ She thought he might have said most of that with too much relish, especially the ‘after you lose’ and ‘where your error lies’ parts.
Haviland gave a short nod in her direction. ‘I will appreciate any instruction.’ She approached her end of the piste and Haviland took up his position. Julian stepped between them and dropped the white flag. ‘Gentlemen, en garde.’
Chapter Fourteen
En garde, indeed! It took all of Haviland’s concentration not to see Alyssandra everywhere. She was in everything Antoine did, every move he made. Leodegrance’s signature wrist flick was a damnable distraction today, calling to mind a flirtatious fan rather than the fleuret of Antoine’s foil. That particular distraction nearly saw Haviland skewered embarrassingly early in the match. Then there was the smell—the light scent of lavender and lemongrass that wafted subtly whenever their blades made contact.
That was when Haviland realised how much danger his agitated brain was really in—they probably used the same soap or the laundress washed with the same soap. There were all sorts of reasons why Antoine carried the faintest scent of Alyssandra and none them validated fencing like novice. It didn’t help that Leodegrance seemed edgy, jittery almost. His movements were fierce and confident, but less fluid than usual. Julian was revelling in his inadequacies.
‘Get your arm up! Hold your frame!’ Julian barked. ‘Tierce!’
Haviland used a balestra-lunge combination in an attempt to launch an attack, but he had no chance to execute it. Apparently impatient with the bout, Julian inserted himself between the two, seizing Leodegrance’s foil in a lightning-quick move and stood en garde against him. ‘Come now, monsieur. Let’s see what you can really do.’ His tone was grim, his eyes narrow flints of competitive fire. But it had the desired effect. There was nothing distracting about this opponent. Haviland’s mind and emotions focused singularly on one aim—defeat Julian.
Julian was not easy to beat, even on a good day. Today he was especially sharp and indefatigable while Haviland was neither. They parried and thrust endlessly. Sweat ran. Haviland’s arm ached. On the sideline, Leodegrance clapped his hands and halted the match after it became apparent it would go on until exhaustion. Julian stepped forward and lowered his foil. ‘Now, monsieur, let’s talk about your dropped shoulder. Master Leodegrance has analysed your technique and has noticed this as a weakness. This is when you are most vulnerable. You will recall this was how Master Leodegrance was able to defeat you every time.’
‘Twice,’ Haviland ground out in correction. Haviland was sure he didn’t overlook the emphasis Anjou placed on defeated. The bastard was enjoying this too much. In standard odd fashion, Leodegrance stood silently on the side, watching while Julian conducted the rest of the lesson. It was, however, the longest Leodegrance had ever stayed in the room. Haviland supposed that was something even if the master remained remote. The lesson ended only when Julian and Leodegran
ce were satisfied he’d overcome the tendency to drop his shoulder. He was sweaty and exhausted, but this, he thought with a surge of satisfaction, was what he’d come to Paris for—to excel, to acquire skills and knowledge he could not attain at home and to attain it from experts whom he could not access in London. Today of all days, with his mother’s letter fresh in his head, the reminder was much needed.
Haviland wiped his face and hands with a towel and headed for the changing rooms, trying to ignore the old dilemma rearing its ugly head in his mind: what to choose? Family honour or personal freedom? Out of habit and practice, his mind sought to shove the dilemma away, ignore it. No. He had to stop doing that. Ignoring it solved nothing. Ignoring had only led to this point: his mother was decorating for his wedding and a girl he barely knew was designing her wedding gown. Ignoring no longer meant avoiding. It meant acceptance.
In the changing room he washed up and reached for a clean shirt. He exchanged casual words with a few others present and made his way to the club room, feeling again that stab of envy for Leodegrance’s accomplishment in creating such a place. He didn’t want to deprive Leodegrance of his achievement, he merely wanted such a place, too. Haviland felt at home here, as if he’d found his place in the world at Sixteen Rue Saint Marc.
In the club room, he nodded at a few men he knew and settled in what was becoming his usual chair by the bookshelves. The waiter came with a glass of his preferred red wine. A new friend or two stopped by to ask his advice on parries. In between visits, he reviewed Agrippa’s Italian treatise on fencing for his next lesson with Julian. They had moved on from the Spanish school to a quick study of the Italians and their love of offensive manoeuvres. But between the pages and the rich red wine, all the ‘what ifs’ he’d held at bay, hardly daring to believe in them, began to find their way forward in his thoughts.
Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 11