Now he was writing.
Writing a polite and distant St Valentine’s Day note to her as required by Lady Athelton, for Lucien would humor his hostess and not appear churlish when he obviously could have any woman here he desired. Lisette had not missed the veiled and interested looks so many sent him, while Lucien had appeared to notice nothing.
How self-contained he seemed these days. How different from the eager, fervent youth she’d looked up to when she herself was just flowering into womanhood, full of trust and hope. And belief in Lucien’s loyalty.
How they’d both changed.
James’s hand was upon her shoulder. “You will not fail me, will you, Lisette?”
She heard the threat.
“I will not fail my father,” she whispered, darting an angry look at him as she clarified the distinction with the emphasis. Yes, James had been her salvation when she might have starved to death after her father’s murder, and the confiscation of his estates had left her orphaned and penniless, but what she was doing tonight was for her father, not for James. James had merely put into motion events by which she could achieve justice for le duc.
“Of course. That is what I meant.” James’s response was clipped. He was ever quick to remind Lisette of her shortcomings, dampening down the exuberance that on occasion swept away the dignity she must remember to adopt in public to honor her dead father. Her nature had not been serious when she’d been a child, but James had made sure her natural gaiety was subsumed by what he considered an appropriate gravitas befitting an orphaned child of the revolution. The tutors, governesses, and companions he had engaged to instruct her in her lessons and in preparation for her entry into public life had, since she’d been thirteen, focused on reminding her of her duty: her duty toward James and the gratitude she owed him; her duty toward the memories of her father and mother; and her need to visit justice upon those responsible for their deaths.
Tonight was the night these long years of plotting came to fruition. Tonight would not only restore a fortune lost, but it would set in motion public humiliation, perhaps even death, for Lucien Monteil. He deserved everything he would soon be served.
“I will not fail,” she whispered, now obedient, pliant. It was the only way she could respond to James. She took a quick breath to banish the fear and anguish. Her mouth was dry, and her hands shook so much she had to toss back the remains of the dry, fizzing liquid merely to give them occupation. Courage was returning. She tittered at some inane remark made by the voluble conversationalist who’d swept into their midst. At least, she presumed it was inane. Miss Forrester, just out of the schoolroom and one of the few English here tonight, seemed capable of little else, though wasn’t Lisette just as bad? The edge of hysteria to her voice rang in her ears.
“Handsome feathers,” she managed, equilibrium restored with a squeeze of her elbow from James before he left. Lisette indicated the plumes that adorned Miss Forrester’s headdress. “From Paris?” Oh Lord, hadn’t she said exactly the same to Madame Pasquier about her headdress?
“Mademoiselle St Claire, I have a message for you.”
Lisette did not see the footman who handed her Lucien’s note; her vision was too blurred with terror.
She fought for courage. For clarity. Her life depended on it. Or rather, her reason for living. To make a mistake now would plunge her into disaster.
Lisette took the letter while Madame Pasquier and Miss Forrester leaned over her shoulder, gasping as they took in Lucien’s signature.
“You have won him! The handsomest man here tonight!” squealed Miss Forrester.
“Lisette tried to calm her rapid breathing as she waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps it is some mistake.” She pretended surprise, angling the direction of her gaze so she could better observe the vicomte’s leisurely progress toward her.
He’d paused to speak to a small group nearby, but in moments he would address her.
Such a plethora of intense and conflicting emotions warred within her. Once, her whole world had revolved around this man. He’d been her sun, her family’s savior, her…everything…
Before his betrayal.
Two weeks ago, when James had told her of tonight’s plan, she’d wondered if she’d recognize Lucien, but how could she not? He did not disappoint when assessed on looks alone. Indeed, he was as handsome as his reputation painted him. His clever, clear eyes, sparkling with wit and intelligence above sharp cheekbones, and his careless elegance, were as she remembered. The dark, sleek hair, tied in a queue, and athlete’s body beneath his finely cut clothes were further testimony to his unrivaled position as a nonpareil.
But then, he’d not have survived the guillotine had he not molded himself into the man of the moment.
It made it easier that bitterness burned the back of her throat. Not everyone was so capable of changing their coats to suit the moment.
James brushed against her with a final whispered reminder; a reminder of what she must do and what was at stake, but also a reminder that he was watching her every “move.
She shivered at his heat, the brush of his coat sleeve against the sensitive flesh between the top of her elbow-length gloves, and the silver thread embroidery that adorned the short puffs of finest netting of her white crepe and sarcenet ball gown. A ball gown she might have chosen with her mother, had her mother lived and her father remained in possession of his fortune.
A ball gown that James had chosen and funded, its rich fabric and intricate embroidery testimony to the importance of tonight.
“You are cold, my love?”
Lisette shook her head, wishing James’s touch kindled more than fear and unease. She owed him everything and yet—
Steeling herself against any feeling whatsoever, she answered his question with a smile. “Not cold, James. Remember, the moment is almost upon me.”
“You will be marvelous.” His hooded eyes contemplated her lazily as he flicked his attention from elegant Madame Paquier, who was being summoned by the dowager from near the doorway, back to Lisette.
“You are beautiful, and Monteil has a reputation for enjoying a pretty face.” He moved his head closer, his thin mouth appearing before Lisette’s vision like a terrifying reminder of the duty she must steel herself to perform, for her honor, and that of James’s, too.
Woodenly, she intoned the words James had made her repeat so many times over the years—“The murderer of my parents will pay with blood.”
Barely had she reassembled her smile than her senses switched to high alert. She was ready. Lisette, only child of the Duc de “St Claire, had learned how to put on a performance worthy of those James attended so regularly at Drury Lane.
“Make him want you, Lisette. And for god’s sake, smile!” Then James was gone, and Lucien was nearly upon her.
Forcing a breath while the blood seemed to tickle the surface of her skin and pound in her brain, Lisette did as she was bid, horrified to acknowledge that it was not fear alone which accounted for the disarray of her senses.
Fascination was a great part of the mix. Lucien was even more devastating up close; more devastating than he’d been when she’d last seen him.
“Mademoiselle, would you care to walk awhile?” he asked her after the formalities of being introduced were complete. “Or perhaps you would be afraid to leave the comfort of so many people?” He must have seen the flare in her eye.
Utterly terrified would have been a more apt description.
But there was something else too. Her lungs were constricted. She could barely breathe. Terror, excitement, and vengeance swirled through her veins as did a heady dose of the same disconcerting cocktail of emotions she’d experienced when on the cusp of womanhood.
“I am not afraid. But, suddenly I feel faint.”
“Then, please take my arm. Perhaps a little fresh air is in order.” His mellifluous tones were balm to her jagged nerves. His touch, when he gently raised her wrist as if it were the stem of the most precious bloom, seared h
er to the core. And just as she’d fought the desire she’d known was so wrong all those years ago, so she forced herself to remember that which had driven her since the age of thirteen.
The man who’d betrayed her parents must be brought to account.
“No, not the gardens. Not outside,” she managed. James had told her exactly where she must take him. “Perhaps we could…go upstairs. To a room where I might sit down. Somewhere quieter.”
He inclined his head, and she leaned against him, murmuring, “Thank you for your note. I am honored that the brave and handsome Vicomte Monteil has chosen so humble a young woman like myself to while away a few minutes of conversation.”
They were halfway up the staircase and barely had she finished her rehearsed sentence, than he gripped her hand which lightly clasped his forearm. “Why pretend “you do not recognize me, Lisette? If I may still call you that?”
She glanced about her in sudden panic. Below her, James was watching. His eyes flared with warning and the reminder of her promise to him. James’s regimen of so many years had been designed to make her quiet and obedient. Ironically, obedience this evening meant she must be more of what she’d once been: lively and diverting. Flirtatious.
She fluttered her fan and gave a soft laugh as she smiled at Lucien. “I had thought to wait until we were somewhere private rather than address you with what you might consider uncomfortable familiarity in front of all these people. You are a great man now.”
He did not answer her with more than an ironic grunt until they’d reached the landing and were heading along the passage where she indicated a door on the left, saying, “There’s a chaise longue in this room and a small fire, Lady Athelton told me.”
“You do not mind if we are alone?”
“I would welcome it, Lucien. We have many years to catch up on. I have thought often of you since I was a child and madly in love with you.”
“In love with me?” He really did seem surprised at this as he closed the door behind them and led her to the chaise longue near the window.
She nodded as she lowered herself onto the blue and gold brocade. “You must have been blind if you did not know that, Lucien.” She hoped her smile didn’t waver too much. “You have not changed except to grow handsomer. And now you are a national hero, admired by French and English alike.”
He brushed aside her compliments as he regarded her with a look of perplexity, lounging against the mantelpiece. If she seemed different from the girl he remembered, he was right. Certainly, it seemed he truly could not countenance the fact they were together after all these years.
Little did he know how carefully she and James had orchestrated this moment.
“And you are unrecognizable, Lisette.” He shook his head in wonder. “Had I not been told your name by Lady Athelton, I’d have simply thought you the most beautiful woman in the room. But you are little Lisette. The child who was so small she barely reached my chest when…those terrible events forced us apart. And so thin, you were all lively eyes and mouth. Such a smile, Lisette. You were the happiest child I knew—except when your puppy died and I dried your tears. And, of course, the last moment I saw you.” A shadow crossed his face, and he lowered his voice. She saw that he swallowed convulsively. “I can’t believe that, at last, I am with the daughter of the man who treated me like a son and to whom I owe so much. You have endured greatly, Lisette. At the time I was torn between remaining at the chateau with you and your mother and rushing to Paris to see what I could do for your father.”
She nodded sadly as she looked up at him through soulful eyes. Oh, he was good. His pain appeared so sincere she might almost believe his version of events were true—that he’d had nothing to do with the slaughter of her parents. “That is in the past, Lucien, and my life is very different from when we were last together. I lost dear Mama and Papa, yes, but I had a savior in my cousin, James, who brought me up. You, by contrast, distinguished yourself on a “broader stage. You saved many lives during those final terrible days of revolution.”
“I would to God that I could have saved your father and mother. I tried, Lisette.”
How marvelously real his anguish seemed. She closed her eyes and breathed carefully to gather her wits, angry with herself at the lustful tingling of her nipples and urge to feel his mouth pressed to hers, a betrayal of her ideals. Of her parents’ memory.
But then, Lucien had always done this to her. His arrival into her father’s household the same summer she slipped across the threshold from childhood into womanhood had been life-changing. Life affirming. She remembered the covert glances she’d sent him as she stitched her sampler sitting in her chair by the fire as he and her father pored over ledgers, Lucien’s inky-black hair tied in a queue, rather than concealed beneath the wigs that had been the fashion then.
Lisette cleared her throat and strove for a more husky tone. The time was approaching when she must try out her more feminine wiles. Strange that she’d never felt the desire to use them with any man other than Lucien.
“Then it must be providence—or Lady Athelton’s sense of appropriateness—that saw my name matched with yours. I was telling her only the other week how you’d lived in my family’s household, but that now you were back in England, I was afraid of making myself known to you.”
“Afraid?” Lisette noticed that he tapped his fingers upon the mantelpiece. In agitation? Or through guilt? “Why would you be afraid of speaking to me? You know how much you and your family meant to me. I always hoped you’d somehow make contact. After I ensured you were safe, you slipped into obscurity.” He smiled sadly. “Your dear, lively mother was the first woman to whom I lost my heart when I’d just reached manhood. You were the sister I never had. I thought I’d lost you…forever.”
“But I was never your sister,” she reminded him, forcing a touch of suggestiveness into her tone, and aware by the tense light in his eye that he was far from immune to the woman she’d become. She knew she was beautiful, but she had no conceit about it. Beauty was simply a useful tool in achieving a desired outcome—namely, justice. Tonight was just the same, only more personal. James had instructed Lisette in the many ways to tempt a man since she’d blossomed into a woman, and she had been a conscientious student; with a cold and calculating core, she’d been told, after more than one guilty man had in a moment of weakness confessed to crimes for which he’d then had to answer.
No man in five years had pierced the casing of her frozen heart.
Lucien was not supposed to either. With another brittle laugh, she added, “You are now a great man, Vicomte, and I am…” She shrugged. “Nothing. Since my father’s estates were confiscated, I have lived on the charity of my cousin, James.”
He searched her face as she waited for his response in the tense silence. Did he suspect she knew more than she was indicating? Was he afraid that she would charge him directly with his guilt?
Of course not. Lucien was too smooth, too wily. He was trading on his charm peppered with the necessary degree of concern, for now he asked haltingly. “James…is good to you?”
“Of course.”
Lucien looked unconvinced, as of course he would. He shook his head, his voice urgent, as if he truly did think she’d believe his lies. “Lisette, I did what I could for your parents.” He pushed back from the mantelpiece and strode forward, grasping her wrists and forcing her to her feet. “In the end, it was only you I was able to save.” Putting his head close to hers, he tilted her chin with his forefinger. “Lisette, your father was betrayed. You were all to go to the guillotine. The guards who entered the chateau that night had instructions that you were to go, too. Did you know that? Thank god they were susceptible to some of the inducements I offered.” Relinquishing her hands he turned, staring through the window, shaking his head again. He seemed frustrated. “Did you ever suspect who might have betrayed you?”
He’d pulled the rug from under her feet. She choked, then managed a laugh, as if the matter were of little cons
equence now, for it did not suit her purposes to confront him yet. James had drilled her so many times on the nature of her conduct depending on his responses. “I’d have done what I could to extract vengeance if I knew that, Lucien.”
“It was someone in the household. I had my suspicions, but….”
She stepped forward and clasped his hand, squeezing it as if in sudden affection, wishing once again she were immune to the charge of sensation that jolted her heart out of its steady, placid rhythm.
Reminding herself that his words regarding this unknown traitor were all part of the act to preserve the fiction of his innocence, Lisette schooled her features. She had other directions she must lead him. Lucien would get what he was due, in time, but not before he revealed the great secret that would restore her fortune. This—and the justice he deserved—were behind the charade: the trading of information that would enable James to ensure Lisette finally received the inheritance that had been denied her. Whether Lucien knew that what he possessed was so valuable, or whether he did not, it was Lisette’s duty tonight to ensure she gained possession of it.
Lucien searched her face as if for a sign. “You have changed a great deal, Lisette.”
“No! I am still as in love with you now as I was when I was a child of twelve.” She thrust out her chin. “Do you remember the eve of my thirteenth birthday? I wished you would kiss me so I would have something to compare when the time came for me to marry.”
A slow smile spread across his face; not of calculation but reminiscence. “You declared you would not know if love were real unless you had a kiss from me as a benchmark.”
“And you humored me, Lucien.” Lisette gave an embarrassed laugh. She tried to breathe, but her stays were suddenly too constricting. “A innocent kiss, notwithstanding but do you know, no man has kissed me from that day to this. And now it’s St Valentine’s Day, and it is a leap year. I think I am within my rights to ask you to kiss me again.”
Her Valentine's Secret (A Georgian Romance Book 2) Page 2