Duel of Hearts

by Farr, Diane

  They pulled him bodily away from the doorway and into the ballroom. He was so tall that she could watch his progress for a few seconds more, his chestnut head bobbing like a cork tossed on a sea of masks and plumes. Then he vanished from view and she was alone.

  Alone.

  Lilah took a deep breath, pressing one hand against her tightly-constricted rib cage. She felt oddly bereft, and a little frightened, abandoned by her one ally at this party of strangers. She reminded herself that Papa was present…somewhere…and sternly quelled the silly sense of danger that had come over her. Papa did not know she was here, but never mind. She was at an exclusive party, surrounded by elegant people, not criminals. Nothing bad could happen to her.

  A silky male voice spoke out of the darkness behind her. “Marie Antoinette, I presume?”

  She whirled, startled, and saw a tall figure leaning lazily against the doorjamb of an open door to her right. She could not see his face; the blaze of light from the ballroom did not reach into the shadows where he stood. But his form was outlined by light coming from the room behind him. He was lean yet powerful, graceful as a dancer. And he was wearing impeccable evening attire instead of a costume. This man hadn’t even bothered with a domino, as Drake had.

  Her sense of danger increased. There was arrogance and mockery in every line of the stranger’s being. His lack of costume indicated that he didn’t care who recognized him, no matter what he did. This did not reassure her. Another man might have indicated, through his lack of costume, that he never behaved scandalously—even at a masquerade. This one had the aura of a man who behaved scandalously whether he was at a masquerade or no.

  He straightened languidly and strolled toward her. “Speechless, Your Majesty?” Laughter lurked in his mocking voice.

  “You…you startled me.” Then she remembered her role and thankfully assumed it. It was like throwing a cloak over nakedness; she immediately felt safer. “I am not Marie Antoinette,” she scolded, in her best French accent. “I am Madame de Pompadour.”

  The man was close enough now that she could see his face. He was quite young; possibly one of the Corinthian set, who prided themselves on equal degrees of elegance and athletic achievement. One of his eyebrows flew up as the corner of his mouth turned down, a perfect expression of sardonic amusement. “I see. How could I mistake? Mille pardons, my pretty Pompadour. I shall blame my error on the dimness of the light.”

  She snapped her fan open with one hand and fluttered it, bestowing upon him a haughty nod. “Eh bien. I forgive you the slight, monsieur.”

  Keen interest suddenly flickered in his dark eyes. “Heigh-ho, what’s this? I thought I knew you,” he remarked. “But I don’t, do I?”

  He reached out and, outrageously, tilted her chin up with one lean finger. His hands were bare and his skin felt shockingly warm as he lightly caressed her chin. “A mystery,” he murmured, raking her with his bold eyes. “I do love a mystery. Who are you?”

  Lilah’s heart hammered with fear, but she managed a regal frown. She did not remove his fingers; it would be undignified to struggle with him. “Who I am, m’sieur, is none of your affair,” she told him coolly. “To you I shall be only La Pompadour.”

  He laughed. “Very well, petite. I could do worse than to spend a few idle moments with La Pompadour. Every man’s dream, in fact.”

  Would he never take his hand away? She tossed her head to dislodge his fingers, frowning crossly at him. “You should recall, m’sieur, that my heart belongs to Louis XV.”

  “Not to mention your lovely body.” His gaze traveled insolently over her form, a wicked grin of appreciation spreading across his features. “You’re a lush little morsel. His Majesty is a lucky man.”

  Lilah was too shocked to think of a clever reply. She simply stared at him, nonplussed. His grin widened. “Have I been too frank?” he enquired, with mock contrition. “I hope His Majesty does not clap me in the Bastille for my insolence.”

  “Voyons, I hope he does!” declared Lilah fervently. “I think you are a rogue, m’sieur.”

  “Do you?” He pretended to find the idea surprising. “You, know, I think you may be right, cherie. I must be a rogue.” His eyes gleamed recklessly. “Only a rogue would poach on the king’s private property.” And before she knew what he intended, the stranger pulled her roughly into his arms.

  His mouth came down on hers. He tasted very strongly of spirits. Too late, she realized that he was half drunk. It would be difficult to convince him that she was in earnest. She struggled, but his arms tightened around her like bands of steel.

  The kiss was not pleasant, it was terrifying. She could not get away. All she could do was press her own lips as tightly together as she could, to make her mouth hard and unkissable. Through the haze of alcohol he seemed to recognize her tactic, but his only response was a thick chuckle. He stopped kissing her, but he did not let her go. His face lifted an inch or two from her own, and he grinned again. It struck her as a singularly wicked grin.

  “Give me a chance, cherie. Don’t you prefer me to your fat king?”

  “Let me go! You’re mad.”

  “What a fiery little thing you are.” His dark eyes mocked her. “I’ll strike a bargain with you. Let me taste a little of that fire, and I won’t pull off your mask. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “I’m afraid that mask will have to go.”

  “No!” Furious, she twisted her head back and forth to evade his laughing kiss, but to no avail. He seemed to have far more experience than she; he easily captured her mouth. He was growling playfully, but this was no game to Lilah. She worked one hand free and beat his shoulder uselessly with her fist.

  She was concentrating so hard on defeating the scoundrel that she was utterly unaware of her surroundings. It seemed that the stranger’s concentration was equally complete, because both he and Lilah were startled when a large hand reached between them, grabbed a fistful of the man’s coat, and threw him bodily off her.

  The stranger went sprawling backwards and Lilah fell to a sitting position on the marble floor. Unhurt, she scrambled instantly back to her feet with a little cry of relief, but the stranger looked a bit dazed.

  It was Drake who had rescued her. Somehow, she had known it would be Drake. She rushed forward and seized his arm in a frenzy of gratitude. “Thank you,” she gasped. “Oh, thank you very much.”

  He barely spared a glance for her, but stood, fists clenched, glaring at the stranger. “Are you hurt?” he asked brusquely. He shot the question over his shoulder, but his concentration remained fixed on his opponent.

  “No,” Lilah assured him. “Just—shaken. A bit. Oh, pray do not cause any more disturbance!” She was suddenly aware, agonizingly, of the curious stares they were drawing from the adjacent ballroom.

  Drake looked to be in a barely-controlled rage. It was almost frightening. In fact, had that rage been directed at her, Lilah thought it would be frightening. Under the circumstances, however, she was deeply grateful that her champion was immense, strong, and formidable.

  He spoke again, this time to the rake. His voice was utterly cold and even, and somehow more intimidating than a shout would have been. “Get up, Rival.”

  Lilah had never seen a man half-sprawled on the floor look so graceful and collected. Amusement lit his features, and he rose with admirable aplomb. “My, my,” he drawled, twitching his coat back into place. “So theatrical! Really, my dear Drakesley, I deplore your tactics. It is Drake, isn’t it?” He peered, squinting slightly, at the masked avenger towering at Lilah’s side. “Yes, of course it is. I recognize the chip on your shoulder.” His mocking gaze traveled to Lilah. “The lady is English,” he commented, dusting his sleeve. Then he shrugged, laughing a little. “Ah, well. It was an honest mistake.”

  Now that the danger was past, Lilah was trembling with anger. “You forced your attentions on an unwilling lady,” she told him hotly. “Dastard!”

  The young man looked pained. “Dastard? No, no, I assure you. I am nothin
g worse than a rakehell. I will even apologize, if you insist.”

  Drake spoke through gritted teeth. “I insist.”

  The self-confessed rakehell turned to Drake, laughter lighting his dark eyes. “You? Really, Drake, apologizing to you would set a dangerous precedent. I will apologize to the lady.” He turned back to Lilah and executed a beautiful bow. “Dear ma’am, whoever you may be, I beg your pardon for my—er—dastardly behavior. Pray chalk it up to the effects of excellent champagne on an empty stomach.”

  She curtsied stiffly, but did not reply. The man’s grin flashed again, white teeth bared in his dark face. “Still so cold? I shall remove my unwanted presence. I fancy I will not have far to seek, to find a more willing partner.” And with a last nod to Drake, he strolled off, not a hair out of place.

  Lilah, in a glow of gratitude, turned to thank Drake—but he placed one hand in the small of her back and propelled her roughly toward the open doorway, the one that had been filled a moment ago by the rakish stranger.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” cried Lilah. To her astonishment—and outrage—the blaze of anger in Drake’s eyes, once focused on the stranger, was now directed at her. She had thought a moment ago that his anger would be terrifying. Now that she experienced it, however, answering anger shot through her and stiffened her spine. “How dare you shove me about? Unhand me this instant!”

  “Stow it!” he snapped.

  He pushed her, despite her resistance, through the doorway and slammed it shut behind him. They were in a small library lit by a single branch of candles. The candles matched nothing in the room, so they appeared to have been brought in from elsewhere. It was obvious that the rake, on the prowl for a willing victim, had opened up a room that the hostess had not intended to use and set it up for a trysting place. Ghastly! Lilah processed all this information at a glance—but did not spare a shudder for the fate that might have awaited her, had the stranger somehow lured her in here. She was too overwrought at the moment to care. Instead she rounded on her erstwhile champion, spitting fire.

  “What is the meaning of this? Are you angry with me?”

  “Very angry! What the devil were you doing?”

  “I? Nothing!” Lilah fairly spluttered with outrage. “Don’t you dare pretend that that scene was my fault!”

  Drake was pale with fury. “It was your fault, you little fool! Don’t you know better than to go off alone with the worst rake in England?”

  “Oh! Oh, how unjust!” gasped Lilah. “I didn’t go anywhere with him! He accosted me! And how could I know who he was? You went off, God alone knows where, and left me by myself. I don’t know any of these people—”

  “All the more reason to be careful! Good God, woman, do you have no sense at all? You can’t let a fellow like that paw you.” He ground his teeth. “And in public! Are you daft?”

  “Let him?” Lilah nearly shrieked. “Are you daft? I couldn’t prevent him!” Her eyes narrowed. “And that reminds me of another thing. You called him ‘rival.’ I heard you say it. And I daresay others did as well, since you drew quite a crowd, tossing us both on the floor! Well, let me make one thing perfectly clear: You have no right, no right whatsoever, to call any man ‘rival,’ because you are not my suitor! I don’t know how you came up with that idea. It’s the most breathtaking piece of presumption I ever heard!” She advanced on him, her teeth clenched in impotent rage, and drove her index finger into his chest. “If you have begun to think of yourself in that light, you may stop now. I would rather die a spinster than marry you!”

  He grabbed her hands and held them away from his chest, which she had been furiously jabbing with one finger. “Marry you? Marry you?” He sounded like he was strangling. “My God! I would rather be boiled in oil! I am going to marry Eugenia. Where have you been during the past three days? Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

  “I’ve listened,” she panted, struggling unsuccessfully to free her hands. “I listened, and I heard you call that horrible man a rival. Well, he’s no rival of yours!”

  Drake gave her a very queer look. “I called him rival, you crazy little vixen, because Rival is his name.”

  “His—his name?” Lilah stared at Drake. He did not appear to be joking her, but she gave a scornful sniff in case he was. “Ha! A likely story! I never met anyone with a name like that.” She had a terrible, sinking suspicion that she had just made a royal fool of herself. Her chin jutted stubbornly. “There is no such name as Rival. It’s absurd.”

  “It may be absurd, but that’s his name. His title, anyway.” A slow, jeering grin spread across Drake’s face. “So you thought I was jealous! You thought I saw some chap kissing you, and went all hot under the collar.”

  Lilah burned with shame. She could not meet his eyes. That was exactly what she had thought. She had made a perfect idiot of herself. Tears of anger and humiliation pricked her eyelids and she blinked, furiously wishing them away. She would not let him see her cry!

  Besides, why should she cry? So he hadn’t been jealous. What did that matter? It wasn’t as if she wanted to make him jealous. It was appropriate to feel embarrassed, but there was no reason in the world to feel…disappointed. She must be more shaken by the incident than she had thought.

  “I don’t care what you feel,” she said, trying to sound as scornful as she wished she felt. Her voice betrayed her, however, coming out small and quavery. “I thought you had come to rescue me. Apparently I was wrong. I don’t know why you intervened, and I certainly don’t understand why you are so angry, but—” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I don’t care. After this night’s work is over, I hope and trust that I will never see you again.”

  Drake’s hands, large and warm, had moved from her hands to her shoulders, his grip almost painfully tight. “You don’t understand?” His voice sounded odd, hoarse and strained. He gave a queer little laugh. “Neither do I. But you guessed right the first time: I was jealous. God help me! I was jealous.”

  Her eyes flew to his, wide and startled. Drake’s amber eyes burned with emotion—she saw anger, bewilderment and self-mockery there. And something else, something hot and compelling that made Lilah’s heart seem to leap in her chest and begin pounding with…fear? No, it wasn’t fear, it was something else, something momentous, it was—

  But then his mouth closed over hers and she couldn’t think anymore.

  Chapter 9

  Drake’s kiss was rougher than Rival’s had been. He held her too tightly. He ravaged her mouth. It should have been worse, far worse, than her previous ordeal—but somehow it drove every thought of that previous ordeal right out of her head. In fact, it drove every rational thought out of her head. She went out of her head. Out of her mind.

  His kiss was ruthless. Fierce. Almost brutal. She should have loathed it. Instead, she loved it. She should have fought him. Instead, she clung to him. She should have been terrified. Instead, an answering ferocity rose in her, and she kissed him back with a wildness that swiftly matched his own.

  It was inexplicable. Insane. But she not only endured his kiss, she welcomed it, and melted before his onslaught like butter before a flame.

  She heard his soft, hoarse exclamations, urging her on, and dimly realized that the moaned response she heard was coming from her own throat. Their touch was more than physical; so deep a thrill could not be explained by the contact of mere flesh. It was their minds that met and linked, in a primitive communication far deeper than words. The shock of recognition was like discovering, unexpectedly, that your soul had an identical twin.

  Lilah clung to Drake as if he were a long-lost part of her, the missing half of the most important, cherished part of her being, heart of her heart, unexpectedly discovered after life-long separation…a part of her she had not known was missing, but once met, instinctively recognized. Joy filled her. Madness seized her. She could not get close enough.

  Frenzied fingers tore at each other’s masks, removing them, discarding them. His face, oh, his face
. More skin to touch, closer, closer. More mutters, more gasps. More feelings. She was drowning in emotions she could not name. She clutched at Drake, writhing, pressing wantonly against his body, glorying in the feel of him. There was a tearing sound as her lace gave way, and then the pop of a waistcoat button.

  Drake’s button hit the marble floor and flew, skittering, across the tile, striking the baseboard on the other side of the room with a ping like a bell. This sound, at last, penetrated the fog of heat that enveloped them.

  They fell apart at once, gasping for breath. Lilah’s chest was heaving as if she had just run a race. She pressed one hand to her bosom, struggling to fill her lungs while restraining her breasts. They were ready to pop entirely out of the low decolletage where her lace had torn.

  The strange, wild joy she had felt was rudely dispelled by the breaking of their contact. Her emotions seemed to break into wisps and float away like fog in a wind. Confusion shot through her, quickly followed by embarrassment. And consternation. She hardly knew where to look.

  “What,” she uttered faintly, “was that?”

  Drake looked as dazed as she felt. He cleared his throat and shook his head like a dog emerging from water. “Nothing,” he croaked. “That was nothing.”

  Now Lilah felt even more confused. “Rubbish,” she said. Her voice was a little stronger. “Whatever that was, it certainly was not nothing.”

  Drake’s button had bounced off the baseboard and flown back toward them; it was lying on the floor nearby. Needing an excuse to avoid Drake’s eyes, Lilah reached down to retrieve it. Unfortunately, Drake dove for it at the same moment. They collided awkwardly and, at his touch, she jumped back as if burned.

  “Sorry,” said Drake. His voice still sounded strained. “Sorry.” He straightened, tucking the button into his waistcoat pocket. Lilah dared not look up, but she could feel his eyes on her.