A Dance with Seduction

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Wait, mademoiselle.” He set a hand on her arm, gently, and though she did not stop walking, she did slow. “My brother has a tendency to incite trouble, and it was ill-mannered of me to look at you as I did. I should have averted my gaze.”

  Affection crept into her heart, mingling with surprise. “No one else did.”

  “Precisely.” As if that settled it. His head swiveled back and forth to study the street, as though suddenly realizing she was not receiving him in her front salon. “Why are we in the street?”

  She hesitated. Perhaps it was too long keeping her own counsel, but she could not tell him her intentions in Manchester Square. He would want to accompany her, and she would want him to, which was why she also could not give in to her need for him. To be kissed by him, or more.

  The Flower was meant to be alone.

  “I am on a mission, monsieur.” Cold night air brushed her face as she turned the street corner. “Thank you for the unnecessary apology. Good night.”

  Manchester Square was not far, but far enough she must hurry if she was to act before dawn. Quickening her pace to a trot, she expected him to stay behind, but he continued to match her pace.

  “Doesn’t he wonder where you are every night?”

  “Who?”

  “Your protector.”

  She could tell him Henri was her commander, as it was a truth buried deep within espionage. Habit and training prevailed, breaking a piece from her heart even as her mind sorted through a multitude of truths and lies to tell him.

  “My protector has imbibed much brandy this evening. If he wakes, I will simply tell him I was in the house but he did not look in the proper location. It has worked before. If he learns I was with another man—that cannot happen. Do you see?” Webs of lies were spinning in the night air. “You must go home. I am busy.”

  “I did not leave you at Pemberly’s when you needed to steal the documents, and I do not intend to leave now. What kind of man do you think I am that I would abandon a lady alone on the street?” Insult rang in his tone, slapping at her the way her boots slapped the walkway.

  Hilarity built inside her so that she could not move, and her feet slowed. “Monsieur!” She tried to hold back her peal of laughter, but it would not be stifled. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “No.” He scowled, bending forward slightly to draw a breath.

  “You are foolish.” It was amusing and charming that he would worry so about her safety. “I am armed, monsieur. All is well, and I must hurry. Bonne nuit.” A light fog swirled around her as she trotted once more down the street, its gray bands curling through the darkness between her and the town houses. Mist and fog were useful when one needed to be unseen, but this fog was not as dense and useful as she wished.

  Footsteps sounded beside her, again in perfect rhythm with her own.

  “Damnation,” he said. “Pretend I am not here.”

  “You are ridiculous,” she bit out as her temper rose, but she had very little time to argue. The sun would show its face soon. “The place I am going, you cannot come in. You may stand watch. That is all.”

  He did not speak again, nor did he lose his breath as he jogged beside her. He was not a soft aristocrat, which surprised her, but she did not have time to think on it. There was no pale light in the sky yet, but she and the night understood each other. The darkness was slipping away.

  Suddenly Number 6 on Manchester Square was in her vision. She stopped across the street to study the facade, as she had not studied it the night before. Yes, she could climb it. It would be difficult, but there were handholds in the stone ledges and the brick outcropping. There, above the first window, then the tiny iron railing around the second window. She could move, with a strong leap, to the next railing. If she were quiet and surefooted, it could be done.

  Beside her Monsieur Westwood shifted. She felt him rather than saw him, heard the scrape of his shoes.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “Do not move.”

  Monsieur Westwood stilled, his body going taut and tense. Vivienne heard his irritated exhale but ignored it to focus on the window where she had seen Anne’s shadow. It was high. Perhaps it would be better to pick the lock and go in through the front door, then she would see what she could see on the inside instead of guessing on the outside.

  “Do not be in my way.” She did not turn toward the monsieur. Looking, now, would distract her. “Wait somewhere.”

  “Where are you—”

  “Just go somewhere. Go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The confounded woman left him without a bloody backward glance.

  Maximilian did his best to slink into the shadows. How did the Flower seem to become the darkness? Feeling like a fool, he hunched between two front doors and tried to pretend he was a brick, just minding his own brick-like affairs. She, however, with her dancer’s grace, dashed across the street without even the slightest whisper of boot on cobblestone.

  He was coming to admire that stealth now that he knew how difficult it was to achieve.

  Her figure paused at the front door. He could not see what she did, but it seemed to him she bent over. He had a sudden image of what her buttocks might look like in such a moment, then cast it out of his brain with a mental oath. What her buttocks looked like was of no concern. Mostly. But the vision was burned into his brain now.

  When he looked for her again by the door, she was missing.

  Hell, where did she go? The front step was empty. At what point had she disappeared into the town house? He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, rubbed. That should teach a man a lesson. Best to keep your eyes on the spy, not her derriere.

  Now he was stuck in the street, unable to go anywhere. Logically, if she were to come looking for him, she would return to the place she’d told him to wait. So he couldn’t move, but had to go on being brick-like in the shadows he couldn’t hide in, watching the sky lighten above him.

  He was ten times a fool.

  He should have turned around when he saw her leave her town house. Better yet, he should have stayed at home with his work, but the apology had been burning on his tongue. Highchester and his acquaintances might dishonor women, but Maximilian had made a point of not doing so. Except this little foray of chivalry was costing him. He could be translating something for a paying client. Instead, he was—

  A window opened high above the street. Silent, but quickly. Against the white casement, he saw a dark leg thrown over sill, then a small, quick body emerged from the window. The Flower. She was in a hurry, judging by her fast, fluid exit from the building.

  Three sets of windows above the street. There were no railings under that window to assist her. Nothing but brick and stone. His damn fool feet were already running across the road. Did they think he was going to climb up there and save her?

  The Flower didn’t need his assistance. By some miracle of espionage training, she was pulling the window closed at the same time she was nimbly slipping down the side of the building. Watching the black-clad figure dance across the face of the building was a study of strength and proportion, of confident feet and clever fingers that found purchase in nothing but brick and stone.

  When she leaped from one windowsill to another, his heart slammed into his chest. The daft woman was twenty feet in the air and leaping over the razor-sharp points of the iron area fence. If she fell— He shuddered and stepped beneath her. Then he realized what she’d done. Moved from the window over the area fence to the window above the front door. There was nothing to stop her drop to the front step.

  Except him.

  He looked up, saw her body falling through the air, and raised his arms to catch her.

  Damn, she was heavy for such a little thing.

  The impact knocked the breath from him, but he flexed his muscles to prevent her from falling through his arms. They fell with
a tumble of limbs and a bone-jarring thud. He twisted to keep her from landing on the stone, jarred his shoulder, then rolled so that he lay on the ground and she lay above him.

  She was not soft in his arms, as some women could be. She was spare. And strong—damn, she was strong. Pushing hard at him, she sprang to her feet. By all that was holy, the Flower was gorgeous, standing above him and blazing like all of hell’s fury.

  “Stupide! I knew where I was landing. Then you were there. Just there, where I did not want you.” She reached down, her small, gloved hands fisting into his coat. “Idiote!”

  “Oi! Who’s there!” The shout was masculine and above them. A head poked out of a window.

  Instinct seized him. He rolled to his feet and shoved her against the front door of the town house. The door was set into the wall so there was some protection from the view above, but not enough, confound it. Not enough.

  “I woke him.” The Flower’s voice was muffled against his chest, but he still heard the fear lurking beneath the velvet tones. “I was not as quiet as I should be.”

  “Did you get what you needed?” He breathed the words into her ear. Her body warmed his skin as he pressed against her. Each curve seemed to fit perfectly against his angles.

  “No. The room was empty.” Not only fear in her voice now. Despair lurked there as well so that her words quavered.

  Above them, the window slid closed.

  “We should leave,” he whispered.

  She seemed frozen. Shock, fear, something held her in place, tightening her muscles so she was motionless in his arms. When she didn’t exhibit any intent to move, he took her hand and pulled her away from the building. Setting their pace at a quick jog, he was pleased when she matched him without question. He wasn’t accustomed to the Flower being so biddable.

  “What were you looking for?” He waited to ask the question until they turned the corner onto another street.

  She only shook her head as an answer, lips pressed together.

  “Very well. I won’t inquire further.” He grabbed her arm, swung her around to face him. “Whatever it is, you can trust me to help you.”

  Her eyes were huge in the pale light of the coming dawn and seemed dark against her skin. Her chin trembled, then firmed. She wasn’t going to cry—he knew that much of her—but she was troubled. The unusual vulnerability tugged at some guarded place in his heart. He gathered her in, trying as best he could to protect her. It would not fix whatever was wrong, but that did not stop his need to try.

  “What I wanted was there but is gone now.” Her words were like the sun that would soon break over the horizon. Quiet, but significant. “The room was empty.” Her hands clutched at his arms, fingers working against the muscle.

  Did she know how much information those quick, clever fingers could impart?

  “What will happen now?” He didn’t even know what he was asking, or what was supposed to be in the room, but despair echoed in her ragged breath and the tightening of her dancer’s body.

  “I don’t know. I had planned—” She stopped. “I must go home and rethink.”

  Breaking away, the Flower began sprinting down the street. Her footsteps were light on the walkway, despite the exhausting pace she set herself. Even infused with such utter terror that each muscle and sinew was tight and tense, she still moved with fluid grace.

  Some primitive, animalistic part of him craved to follow her.

  He should not. The gentleman inside refused to let his feet move. He didn’t understand the Flower, couldn’t untangle the secrets of her heart and mind, and whatever made her so afraid was not something she was ready to share.

  Turning away, he hunched his shoulders against the fact that she didn’t want to let him in. Very well. He could respect her need to be private. She was a spy, after all, and he a gentleman.

  Except he couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t let him.

  Dash it all.

  He spun around and studied the black coat and narrow shoulders beneath it as she fled. Her feet flew over the walkway, arms pumping with a desperation that left him sick in his gut.

  To hell with being a gentleman.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Mademoiselle!”

  It was no easy task to catch up to the Flower. She was quick, but his legs were longer.

  Gripping her arm to stop her and bring her around to face him, he caught a glimpse of a white face and large eyes before her fist connected with his jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes as pain lanced through his chin and face.

  “By all the saints!” He doubled over, as much to avoid her fist a second time as to recover.

  “Do not touch me.”

  He straightened, quick as a whip snapping, to stare at her. “You sound afraid.” He hated it. Anger he could understand, but the fear layering over her voice stabbed through him. Seeing it blocked the pain in his jaw, the throbbing of his lip.

  “I am not afraid.” She stepped back. She seemed very small, as though she’d closed in on herself. “Do not touch me,” she repeated, more quietly now.

  “I would never hurt you.” He wanted to touch her again to prove it. His hand reached out, fingers spread to find some part of her.

  “I know.” She didn’t flinch, didn’t even tense, but some inner part of her withdrew more than her body did.

  He let his hand fall away. If he touched her now, she might run again and never return to him. The thought clawed at his chest, so he took a step back himself and gave her the physical space she so clearly needed.

  “What were you looking for in Manchester Square?” he asked.

  She shook her head, the delicate features of her face grim.

  “Tell me.” Whatever it was, he wanted to remove the residual fright in her gaze. It was important, somehow, to discover if he could ease her pain.

  “The servants in this area, they will soon be awake,” she said, avoiding his question entirely. “It is nearly morning.”

  So it was. The eastern horizon was beginning to lighten from blue to yellow, so he could more easily see her lashes as they swept down to cover her gaze. He stepped toward the nearest building, into the shadowed doorway where he was masked by pillars and a small portico, and gestured for her to join him. She hesitated, then edged into the space.

  “There’s time before the sun rises.” Now they were partly hidden from the world, he wanted to draw her in against him.

  Her inhale was slow and bracing. Impossibly long lashes swept up, and though her eyes were dry when they met his, her chin quivered just the slightest bit.

  “The girl,” she whispered. “I found her.”

  He sucked in his own breath and stepped toward her. Gripped her upper arms. “That was Marchand’s house?”

  She shook her head, and a thick, curling lock of hair fell from beneath the confines of the cap she wore. “It is simply a place one of his agents uses. I have seen the agent come and go, and the room I searched held a prisoner recently, but they were both gone.”

  Beneath his fingers her arms were taut. He relaxed his hands and slid them down to cup her elbows. “The man that shouted out the window? Who was he?”

  “Just a man, I think. A servant hired to keep watch on the empty house.” She tilted her face toward his, almost in the same position a lady would request a kiss. “He was bumbling and loud, and he did not pursue us, so he is not a spy. I woke him, as I was careless in my search when I realized the house was empty of any spies—or the girl.” Her voice broke, but still she did not weep.

  “Who is she to you?” he asked quietly.

  A long, weighty silence ensued. He gave her time to think, as it was clear that’s what she was doing. If her brain had been made of gears and pulleys, he would have seen them moving.

  “She is no one. An innocent girl.”

  Her face had lost all expression
, and he could not tell from it whether she lied—but he did hear the hitch in her voice. Slowly rubbing her arms, Maximilian trying to calm her with long, slow strokes. He continued the movement, whispering, “We’ll find her,” even though he hadn’t the slightest idea how.

  “I know you cannot make such a promise, but I wish you could.” Her sigh was as quiet as the breeze ruffling the curl spilling from beneath her cap. “I wish I had some assurance that all our efforts weren’t in vain.”

  Beneath his hands, her muscles had gone lax. She raised her face again, and the brightening light beaming through the pillars gilded each delicately drawn feature. He felt her fear and uncertainty as though they were his own, as though they flowed from one to the other of them.

  Standing on a street with clouds of gold and pink lighting the sky, Maximilian did something he’d never done before.

  Kissed a lady to comfort her.

  …

  In but a moment, she could force him flat onto his back. He would fall hard, this large and gentle man. But she did not want him to stop. His lips were warm and firm, and they filled the cold place left by Anne’s absence. She wanted to sigh with relief, cry and burrow into him, all in a single heartbeat. His lips pressed against hers, held, shifted to press again.

  She could not say why she found it acceptable for this man to kiss her.

  It simply was. He simply was.

  She should step away. Run away. Plans must be made, and there were people she needed to speak with. Instead, she slid her arms around his waist and gripped the side seams of his coat. She wanted to hold onto something. To someone.

  Knowing a spy had no right to this moment, she still chose to remain in his embrace. Heart aching for Anne, body aching for this man, she would stay just a moment longer. She needed him. Maximilian. He was not just the monsieur. They had moved beyond that. He was Maximilian to her now.

  So when his mouth became a little persistent, when his tongue nudged at the seam of her lips, she parted them. Opened for him. He tasted of man, of mist. Of some mysterious thing that could only be Maximilian.