by Shana Galen
“I have embarrassed you?” he asked.
“I am not used to so much attention,” she answered, her voice low, which forced him to lean close again. She had to stop whispering. Every time he leaned close, her belly fluttered, and she felt even more light-headed. She had the urge to turn her head and bury her face in his neck, inhaling his scent. He smelled so wonderful.
“And you do not care for attention?”
She smiled. “Not as much as you, monsieur.”
“Oh, very few people crave attention as much as I do, but I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. Your cheeks are red as cherries.”
How Collette wished she had something cold to press against her heated face. She searched for something to say to cover her awkwardness. “It is the exertion of the dance,” she said. “Did you know that the lengthy courtship rituals of the Erinaceus europaeus are considered a means for the sow to determine which boar is the most fit to serve as a mate?”
Beaumont flashed her a smile that made her heart tumble and roll.
“Are we speaking of hedgehogs again? I believe that is my new favorite topic of conversation.”
Collette was mortified. “I would rather not speak of hedgehogs. But when I am nervous I sometimes say things before I can think.”
“Such as?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me,” he drawled. “How does a male hedgehog know when a female hedgehog is attracted to him?”
She shook her head again. She would not answer this question. He danced them into the center of the ballroom, so the light from the chandelier shone directly on her. There was no denying every single eye in the ballroom was on her.
“Does the female hedgehog wink at the male or flutter a fan?”
“No. Sh-she—”
He raised a dark brow.
“The boar may be attracted to scent cues produced from females in estrus.”
“Scent cues from…?” He gave her an innocent look, but she imagined he looked as innocent as Lucifer fallen from heaven. “Her lips? Her skin? Her—”
“The music is so loud, my throat is quite hoarse,” Collette said. The only way to avoid this topic was to pretend she could not speak.
“Fortunately, I can remedy the problem and give us a chance to speak privately.”
She did not like the look on his face. “The waltz will be over soon,” she objected.
“Not soon enough. Now, just follow my lead.”
Collette’s heard thudded in her chest. Now what did the man plan to do? She could not allow him to make more of a spectacle of the two of them. “But monsieur—”
Too late. With exaggerated movements, Beaumont twisted to the side and grimaced in pain. “My ankle!” he cried. Keeping one hand in hers, he bent and touched his ankle with the other. “I fear I have sprained it,” he said loudly.
Collette felt her mouth drop open, but when she bent to examine his ankle, she caught him staring at her.
He winked.
The scoundrel! His ankle was perfectly fine. But if this was his plan to remove her from the center of attention, he had not thought it through. This little play was only earning them more attention.
“Are you hurt badly?” a lady who had been dancing near them asked.
“Do you need assistance?” her partner inquired.
“No, no.” Beaumont waved a hand. “I think a few moments’ rest is just the thing. Miss Fournay, may I escort you to the terrace? The fresh air will do us both good.”
“O-of course,” she said. Her face was so hot she could have touched a wick to it and lit a candle. But Beaumont was playing his part for all he was worth. He draped an arm over her shoulder and hobbled beside her. Collette was forced to put an arm around his waist to maintain her balance. The other guests made way for them as Beaumont steered her toward the terrace doors. He bent his head, as though in pain, and his warm breath fell on the bare patch of skin between her neck and shoulder.
“You needn’t make such a show,” she said, speaking without moving her lips.
“Oh, but I like making a show. Even more, I like having your arm about me. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”
Collette held her tongue until they finally reached the terrace. She pushed the door open and led him outside, where she released him as though he were the handle of a hot pan. If his ankle had really been injured, he would have stumbled. But he caught himself easily and leaned negligently on the stone balustrade. Collette walked to the other end, only a short distance away. This was no country house, but a London town house and the terrace was only five or six feet across. But even if she could not distance herself from Beaumont, she was grateful for the cool air on her face. She lifted her face to catch the breeze and closed her eyes as it washed over her.
“I take it you did not appreciate my little piece of theater.”
She flicked a glance at him. “Truthfully, monsieur, I would have preferred to simply finish the dance and exit the floor unobtrusively.”
“You are very good at being unobtrusive.”
She froze, her arms on the balustrade going quite stiff. She chose her next words carefully. “It must appear so to you. You are very good at creating a spectacle.”
He laughed. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
Collette let out a sigh of relief. She was reading too much into his words. He did not suspect her. He was a flirt and hungry for attention. He didn’t mean anything more than what he said.
“And how are you enjoying your stay in London, Miss Fournay?”
Collette bit her lip. Now she would be forced to make conversation with him, a skill for which she amply shown had no talent. But it would not last long. Dinner would be served soon, and they would have to go in. “London is…” What should she say? It was not nearly as beautiful as Paris, but she did not want to invite speculation about any time she might have spent in Paris.
“London is rainy. I think it must have rained every day since I have been here.”
“And it never rains in Paris?”
“Of course, it rains in Paris, but…” She trailed off. She had given away more than she’d planned. “I mean to say, but I have not spent much time in Paris and cannot adequately compare the two.”
“There is no comparison,” Beaumont said casually. “Paris is architecturally stunning and eminently more sophisticated than London. A simple stroll down Bond Street will tell you it pales in comparison with the Champs-Élysées.”
“I have not strolled on the Champs-Élysées in years,” she said. “I am surprised you have had the opportunity.”
He smiled. “I can be unobtrusive too.”
She had seen the truth of that tonight, when he’d seemed to come out of the woodwork to claim their dance.
“If you did not live in Paris, where did you live?”
This was a common topic of conversation, and she launched into her well-rehearsed answer. She’d lived in the countryside with her parents, who had been devastated when her brother died in the Battle of Waterloo. Now that their period of mourning was over, her parents had thought it might be beneficial for her, their young daughter, to travel to London and see her cousin and attend social events. Her mother and father were still far too distressed to interact socially and they did not want their daughter to suffer.
As she spoke, she’d stared out at the small garden behind the town house. Very little bloomed at this time of year, a few roses could be seen in the light filtering from the ballroom. But when she finished speaking, she looked back at Beaumont and almost jumped to see him standing right beside her. She hadn’t even heard him move.
“That’s a lovely story,” he said, his gaze on her face. Collette felt it heat again at the intensity of his look. She wondered if she would ever become used to having such an attractive man so close to her.
“It�
��s all true,” she said, and immediately regretted the words. They sounded too much like a protest, when one had not been required.
“I don’t doubt it. I too was in the war, though I didn’t fight at Waterloo. Tell me, was your brother army or cavalry?”
Collette opened her lips, but she had not encountered that question before. Moreover, she had not been schooled in the answer. It had never occurred to her or to the men holding her father that any Englishman would care about the particular placement of a French soldier.
Beaumont noticed her hesitation. “Don’t you know?”
“Yes, but…” Should she choose one? Then what if he asked more questions like the brigade number or the commander? “You must excuse me, sir. It is difficult for me to discuss.” He was not the only one with acting skills.
“No, you must excuse me. I should never have brought it up.” He lifted her hand from the balustrade, forcing her to angle toward him. “Forgive me?” he said, kissing the back of her hand.
“Of course.”
His took a step forward, forcing her back if she wanted to keep any space between them, and her shoulders touched the wall of the terrace. “It must be hard to lose a sibling.”
She nodded. He was so close. Even in the darkness, she could see his violet eyes. He still held her hand, and his other hand rested lightly on the balustrade beside her hip. “I have seven. You are welcome to borrow any of mine. You met my youngest sister?”
She nodded again, trying to focus on his words, not the feel of his hand holding hers or the closeness of his body or how soft his lips looked, how inviting.
“Did she tell you all of my secrets?”
Collette shook her head. Her voice had deserted her, and she feared if she attempted to speak, he would lean close to her and she would catch his scent and lose all control over her baser urges.
“I suppose I shall have to leave that to my brothers. I have four, and we live to humiliate each other. Two of my brothers are in the navy. Officers and proud of it. They want nothing but to serve the king. And your brother? Did he support Napoleon?”
She nodded, all but transfixed by his good looks and his melodious voice, then realized what he’d asked. “I mean, no.”
“He did not support Napoleon?”
“I—” What was the correct answer? She did not want to be seen as a supporter of the dictator who had been England’s enemy. “No, he was conscripted.”
“I see. And did your father work for Napoleon against his will too?”
“He—” Collette drew in a sharp breath. “My father did not work for Napoleon, monsieur. He was a farmer.”
“Did you mention that before?”
“I thought I did.”
“I must have been confused.” He leaned close and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. “I will confess… May I confess something to you?”
Collette didn’t know what to reply. She wasn’t certain she could have spoken if she’d tried.
“When I look at you, my brain goes to mush. My thoughts are all muddled. Do you know how that feels?” His body pressed against hers, a warm, solid weight that terrified and excited her at the same time. “All I can think about when I am this close to you is my mouth on yours.” He reached out and touched a finger to her lips. He’d removed his gloves at some point, and the feel of his bare skin sent a zing of pleasure through her. “My hands on your skin.” He caressed her lips with his finger. “My body pressed to yours.”
Collette could not breathe. Her lungs burned and her heart beat painfully in her chest. As though she watched from far away, she stood immobile while Beaumont trailed his finger from her lips to her chin, catching it lightly between thumb and forefinger. Then he lowered his mouth to hers, brushing over her in a slow, tantalizing whisper of a kiss. Collette drew in a sharp breath, and Beaumont moved to the corner of her mouth. “I make you nervous, don’t I, mademoiselle?” He spoke in French now, though she barely realized it. “You are afraid I will kiss you, really kiss you. And you are also afraid I will not.”
Collette wanted to move her mouth to meet his and give in to him—his velvet voice, his teasing mouth, his intoxicating scent. But she could not afford to indulge in flirtations, especially not with men she could not trust. Her father’s life depended on her, and she would not gain any useful information on the terrace with Mr. Beaumont.
Collette closed her eyes and summoned all her strength. “I am afraid if you kiss me, you will receive a nasty surprise, monsieur.”
His lips paused in their exploration as he undoubtedly felt the pressure of her knee between his legs.
“Step back, or I will make certain amorous activities are the last thing on your mind for the next few days.”
Slowly, very slowly, Beaumont moved back. As soon as he was out of range of her knee, she lowered it and let out an audible breath.
“You might simply have said you had a headache.”
“I don’t have a headache,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I am not attracted to you.”
The fact that she was able to spew such a blatant lie and keep a straight face was testament to how determined she was to free her father. The fact that she could resist Beaumont at all was proof of how dedicated she was to stealing those codes.
“I see.” He gave her a puzzled look. “You will forgive me if I’m at a loss. This has never happened to me before.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?” Now that he was not standing so close and not looking quite so confident, she could almost speak to him as though he were a mortal man.
He shifted awkwardly and raked a hand through his hair. All of which served to make him seem even less like a god and more like a human.
“I mean, no woman has ever refused me before.”
“Never?”
“No.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Not a single woman?”
“Not until now.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable and his voice was quiet and hesitant. Collette had the urge to apologize and to confess that she actually did find him incredibly attractive. But that was lunacy. She could not confess such a thing, even if such an admission would not beg for more information.
Collette moved toward the terrace doors. “I take no pleasure in rejecting you, sir. Thank you for the dance.” She pulled at the latch on the doors.
“I must escort you into supper.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I can find my own way and sit with Lady Ravensgate.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “Please. I think it would be best if you and I do not speak again. Ever.”
And she swept into the ballroom, feeling very much as she had when she’d been a child and had her favorite toy taken away.
Five
Rafe didn’t wait for Porter, the Master of the House at the Draven Club, to answer the door. He merely shoved it open and barreled into the wood-paneled vestibule, noting that candles in the large chandelier lit the room. Then Porter appeared, making his way down the winding staircase. He moved quickly for a man with only one leg, but Rafe signaled to him. “No hurry, Porter. I let myself in.”
He shrugged off his greatcoat and tossed it on the suit of armor on one side of the vestibule. There was a perfectly good coatrack beside the door, but Rafe always hung his greatcoat on the suit of armor. Porter had ceased bothering to remove it. Rafe saluted the shield opposite the door. It bore eighteen fleur-de-lis, symbolizing the eighteen men of Draven’s troop who had died fighting for England.
“The billiards room, Mr. Beaumont?” Porter asked.
“Not tonight.” Rafe wouldn’t have been able to hit a ball if the damn thing was right in front of his face. The French chit had muddled his mind. He’d made two wrong turns on his way from Montjoy’s ball to the Draven Club, and before tonight Rafe would have sworn he coul
d find the Draven Club in his sleep. “I want the dining room. And I want brandy.” He gave Porter a meaningful glance. “A lot of brandy, Porter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rafe started up the staircase, the royal-blue runner familiar and somewhat calming.
Porter followed. “Is anything the matter, sir?”
“Why should anything be the matter?”
“You don’t normally drink to excess, sir.”
“Oh, that.” Rafe reached the top of the staircase and turned toward the dining room. “There is no normal anymore, Porter. Up is down and black is white and front is back. Hasn’t anyone told you?”
“No, sir. I regret to say no one has informed me of this change.” He opened the doors to the dining room. Rafe paused in the doorway and looked down at the silver-haired man.
“Well, then I suppose the duty falls to me. Porter, it grieves me to tell you that the world as we know it no longer exists. And this new world will require much more brandy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rafe entered the dining room, spotted his friends Neil and Jasper at one of the round tables, and made his way toward another table. He sat alone and lowered his head onto the freshly starched white linen tablecloth. The benefit of burying his face in the linen was it eradicated the lingering scent of Miss Fournay—or was it Fortier?—from his nose. He’d spent far too much time the past week trying to determine what scent clung to her before realizing it was the crisp scent of juniper in bloom.
Rafe attempted to ignore the rumble of voices at the other table. No doubt Neil, who was formerly the leader of Draven’s men, and Jasper, probably the troop’s best hunter turned bounty hunter, would try to engage Rafe at some point. Rafe intended to ignore them. If he’d wanted conversation, he would have gone home. There was always some woman loitering there, hoping to catch him and convince him to take her to bed. Rafe didn’t want company—female or male—tonight.
After what seemed like at least a fortnight, he heard Porter’s distinctive steps and then two quiet thumps of the table alerted him that a decanter of brandy and a snifter had been placed beside him on the table. The splash of liquid was music to his ears.