by Lora Darling
Instinctively, she curled her upper lip inward in an attempt to hide its fullness. She had always detested the asymmetry of her lips, the way the bottom lip sat tucked beneath the awning of the upper. A reverse pout, for lack of a better description. To be fair, her mouth suited the rest of her features as well, considering her full cheeks and pert nose were marred by a smattering of freckles no amount of self-remedy could diminish. A perfect mouth would have been wasted on such a flawed countenance. Had her mother not claimed as much time after time?
She had implored Eirene to focus on becoming graceful so as to distract men from her facial flaws. Woo them with harp music, and they might not notice the size of her eyes or the distance between them. Impress them with a kind, delicate, feminine mind, and perhaps they would grow to admire her “spots.” Dance as though in possession of angel wings, and mayhap none will remark upon her short stature.
Blast! Why must she recall such things to mind at present as though she were a wide-eyed debutante afeard of being rejected? It was Benoit who should fear rejection.
Sitting straighter, she cleared her throat and arranged the lists she had brought upon the blotter. “I wish to begin by confirming a few details about your past, my lord.” She glanced up. “Do you object?”
“Do I have a choice?” His smile softened the rejoinder.
“Good.” She returned her gaze to the papers, memorized the facts, then offered Benoit her best studious glare. “You fled France in 1792, correct?”
“Oui.”
“Forced to do so after an act of violence that led to the death of your parents and older brother, yes?”
“Oui.” He sipped the brandy.
“Upon arriving in England, you took up residence with Sir Andrew Petley and his wife and son, yes?”
“Oui.”
“You now share bachelor quarters with Sir Andrew’s son, yes?”
“Oui.” He finished the brandy in one long swallow, then shifted forward to place the empty glass upon the tray at the edge of the desk.
Eirene went on before Benoit completed the task. “If my calculations are accurate, you are three and thirty years of—”
“No.” He settled back into the chair and flashed a smile. “My birth month is August.”
“August. I see.” Eirene took up her pen and made a notation, worrying her bottom lip as she did so. How could she have gotten such a basic bit of information wrong? By all accounts, Adrien Benoit, second son of Vicomte Jean Benoit, had been born April of 1777. She supposed it was easy enough to mistake August for April, assuming the person making such a mistake was prone to do so. She was not.
Holding the pen poised above the paper, she met Benoit’s gaze. “I apologize in advance if my next question seems a tad personal—”
“Color me intrigued,” he drawled while crossing his legs again and propping both elbows upon the arms of the chair.
Eirene tried very hard not to stare at the stretch of black fabric along the length of one very masculine thigh. “Are you able to offer an estimate of your financial worth?”
Some gentlemen hadn’t a clue until they began receiving overdue bills that they did not possess quite the wealth they had assumed. Given the quality and workmanship of the coat adorning Benoit’s rather impressive frame, she would not be surprised if he was one such gentleman.
“Might I ask why that concerns you, my lady?”
“You may not.” She had decided it would not do to allow the gentlemen to pose questions of their own during the beginning stages of the interview. Their time would be given at the end. “I understand, given the circumstances of your past, if you do not possess the wealth enjoyed by a number of your peers, my lord. It is common knowledge most émigrés left France with nothing but the history of their good name.”
“I am not destitute, my lady.”
Eirene chose to ignore the tightness of his tone. “No? And yet you gamble like a man running from the devil lest he drag you to debtor’s prison.”
He uncrossed his legs to lean forward. “And how would you know that?”
“Anyone who cares to read the Society pages knows that tidbit, along with a great many others, my lord.”
“Do enlighten me, my lady.”
“The purpose of this interview is not to stroke your ego, my lord.” As if she would repeat most of what had been written about him. As if he did not likely read the articles over his morning repast.
“What is the purpose of this interview?”
Eirene waved away the question. “I shall reveal all, in good time.”
“Now would be a good time.” He stood. Not only was it a gross misconduct for him to do so before the interview had ended, it forced her to track up the entire length of his form to meet his gaze. Given his height, it was not a quick journey. “I am not a man with a great deal of patience, Lady Rowe-Weston, so if you have no desire to get to the point, I do believe I will bid you adieu.” He turned his back and skirted the chair.
Eirene snapped her gaping mouth shut and lurched to her feet. “I have not concluded the interview, my lord.”
Already halfway across the room, he shot a fleeting glance over his shoulder. “If you wish for me to remain, tell me why I am here.” He looked away. “You have until I reach the door.” Considering the length of his strides, that gave her less than five seconds.
He reached the door in two seconds.
“Very well!” Eirene clenched her fists against the sides of her gown. “If you would be so kind as to return to your seat, my lord—”
He turned to face her but remained at the door. “I can hear just fine from here.” The insufferable man crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
Eirene swallowed a scream of frustration. Not only did the man lack the common courtesy to be the prancing, empty-headed peacock she had expected, he had the audacity to be bull-headed, arrogant, and distractingly handsome. Leaning against the doorframe, dressed in navy and black with his arms and ankles crossed, his lush mouth smirking, his golden hair catching the light of the lamp mounted above his shoulder, he looked like a pirate, lacking only a cutlass at his hip.
“My lady?”
She ground her teeth. “I have asked you here in order to determine if you are the best candidate to perform a necessary task.”
“The other candidates being, Petley, Westhaven, Venton and Kilby.”
“How did you—”
“We gentlemen talk amongst ourselves, my lady, and it’s not always about cards, horses, and women.”
“I see.” Why had she not considered the gentlemen would find out about one another? The papers did label them as mates, after all. How could she have failed to recognize the implications of that designation? And how, if at all, did it alter things? Blast! If ever there was a time for a good list, it was now, but she could not set about the task with Benoit glowering at her from across the room. “Will you return to your seat now that I have satisfied your conditions?”
“You have failed to give any satisfaction.” He had the audacity to sweep his gaze up and down her person. “Though I imagine you could.”
Heat blossomed in Eirene’s face. Heat prompted by anger over his leering and innuendo. Yes. Anger. To blame it on any other emotion was just downright ridiculous. “I have decided you will not suit at all, my lord. I do thank you for your time. Hamish will—”
“Ah.” He pushed away from the door and strolled back across the room with a languid stride that recalled to mind her silly comparison of him to a pirate. Only now she imagined the cutlass clutched in his teeth and perhaps his cravat gone missing and his shirt undone.
Really! She had never possessed the slightest inclination to be fanciful. A handful of minutes in Benoit’s presence and suddenly her whimsy was second only to a female who filled her mind with tales of romance and happily ever after.
She made a mental note to order Hamish to have the room aired thoroughly. Clearly some invisible to the senses noxious odor had made its way inside
. A logical explanation for her illogical thoughts.
“Am I being dismissed because I noticed you are a woman?” He halted before the desk and once more raked her with his dark gaze. “A fetching woman.”
“Do not be ridiculous, my lord. I did nothing to disguise my gender so why would you not notice?” Fetching. He had called her fetching. Her grandfather had always labeled her intelligent, quick-witted, and keen. Her mother and father…well, never mind them. Suffice to say, no one had ever called her fetching.
“True, you are not wearing trousers and a waistcoat, but there are other ways to disguise one’s womanly charms.” His gaze fell to her bosom. “That fichu, for example.”
Eirene touched the length of fabric tucked into the top of her bodice. “What is the matter with my fichu?” Good lord, had she spilled tea on—
“I do not care for it.”
He did not care for it? Who the devil asked his opinion on matters concerning her wardrobe choices? Who did the man think he was? “If we are to swap unsolicited opinions upon one another’s wardrobe choices, allow me to confess a great dislike for your coat.”
“My coat?” He looked down at the expertly tailored garment, then at her with wide eyes. “What the blazes is wrong with my coat? Do you have any idea what a piece like this costs?” He ran a hand lovingly down the front. “I fear you have no taste, my lady.”
He was right. There was not a single thing wrong with his coat, but she’d been unable to form a more plausible complaint in regards to his person.
Still stroking the velvety lapels, he leveled a rather disconcerting gaze upon her. “If it truly offends you, my lady, do allow me to dispose of it.” Before she could say yay or nay, he worked the garment down his arms. It seemed a task best carried out with an extra set of hands, but he managed with only minimal struggles. Rather lovingly, he laid the coat over the back of his vacated chair.
Eirene almost smiled at his exaggerated show of affection for an article of clothing. The man had missed his calling as an actor. The wayward thought wiped the smile from her face. Her grandfather had always insisted that one never formed a thought that did not warrant further investigation. Was Benoit’s behavior an act? Was it possible he was more or less than he wished her to believe? The puzzle forced her to take a more studied approach in her observation of the man. Given the way his fingers caressed the coat, he certainly appeared genuine in his regard for the frock. But then he dropped his hand, rolled his shoulders, and sighed.
For the second time since entering the study, she gaped. Without the coat, Benoit seemed much altered. He became rather unrestrained, for lack of a better adjective. Of course, the garment had been snug as evidenced by the work it had required for him to remove it, but she dismissed that excuse. The man before her had transformed, and heaven help her, it made him interesting.
She had half a mind to order him to put the coat back on, if only to allow her a moment to gather her thoughts. Of course, she did no such thing because a lady would not. It had nothing to do with how much she enjoyed the sight of Benoit in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
“Your turn,” he announced without warning, with a flick of his hand in the general vicinity of her person. “Fair is fair.”
Good heavens! Did the man mean for her to remove her gown? “My lord, you cannot possibly be suggesting what I suspect you are sug—”
He reached across the desk and plucked the fichu free. The boldness of his action, the sheer audacity of it, rendered her speechless. While he slid the light fabric from around her neck, he held her gaze. “Now we are even.”
Eirene glanced down at the exposed, upper swells of her breasts. She had always believed she possessed too much bosom for a woman blessed with sharp wit and keen intelligence. Such bounty would have better served a different sort of female. Though her mother had believed a good bosom could attract a man’s attention who might otherwise be inclined to look elsewhere. She need only utilize said bosom to the best of its potential. Despite her mother’s sage advice, she had vowed to never use her bosom in such a base fashion.
A coal shifted in the fire, sending a draft of heated air toward the desk and across her exposed flesh. Her nipples tightened. She drew her attention back to Benoit and expected to find him ogling her cleavage. Instead, he looked her directly in the eyes.
“Whoever invented this scrap of modesty”—he lifted his hand to indicate the fichu balled in his fist—“deserves to be drawn and quartered.”
Eirene chose to interpret his words as crass though she suspected they were intended as a compliment. “Exposing me in such a fashion is hardly equivalent to you removing your coat.”
Now why the blazes had she said that? It sounded like a challenge, and Benoit looked like a man willing to face any challenge. Heaven help her.
He dropped the fichu atop the desk and reached for the knot of his cravat. Still holding her gaze, he undid the knot, then the buttons of his collar. He spread the fabric wide enough to expose a tantalizing glimpse of collarbone. “Better?”
“You misunderstood my—” Eirene forced her gaze to the man’s face. His smile nearly blinded her.
“Are we even now or should I expose more?”
“More?”
He winked. “Only if you tell me why I am here.”
Was he determined to purposely misunderstand everything she said? “My lord, I—”
“Why have you invited me into your home, my lady? Given your reaction to the removal of my clothing, I assume it is not for reasons of a base nature.”
In an effort to allow herself a much needed moment to consider his assumptions, Eirene averted her gaze, letting her focus fall where it would. Odd, she had never considered her own collarbone to be all that interesting, but Benoit’s drew her attention like a bee to pollen.
“I will gladly satisfy the hungry curiosity on your face, my lady, if you solve the riddle of why I am here.”
It was rather ungentlemanly of him to continue to barter with the promise of removing more clothing. Likewise, it would be highly improper for her to admit she wished to see more.
She found his gaze. “I need to be ruined.” Not the most tactful way to present her dilemma, but tact seemed to have misplaced its invite this evening.
“Financially?” Was that hope she heard in his tone?
She shook her head. “No. Socially.”
He narrowed his pewter eyes. “I am not quite certain I fully understand.”
“I need to be ruined in the eyes of Society.” She sat down, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. Maybe she should have run through everything out loud before meeting with the first candidate?
“How? Exactly.”
Eirene gazed up at Benoit. Was the man truly that daft? “Really, my lord, must I draw a picture? I need to be discovered in a compromising position, one too scandalous to be forgiven.”
He regained his seat as well. “You want me to compromise you?”
“Well, I have not decided if you will be the one, but yes, that is the plan.”
Chapter Three
Adrien stared at the woman behind the desk. She wished to be compromised. By him. No. Possibly by him. And if not him, then by Westhaven, Kilby, Petley, or Venton. Good God. Amongst such company, he actually emerged the shiniest coin, if one could believe it.
“I have shocked you.”
“Oui.” Why lie? She had, indeed, shocked him. From the moment she walked into the study. Thanks to Cyril’s enlightening gossip about the woman, Adrien had braced himself to come face to face with a “countenance only a mother could love.” Cyril deserved to be dunked in the Thames for giving life to such a falsehood.
Lady Rowe-Weston possessed a beauty worthy of inspiring sonnets. Had he fancied himself a poet, he might compare her to a warm summer day or a refreshing gust of wind on a sultry night.
Mon Dieu. The woman had turned him into a minstrel. And a bad one. But who would blame him? Lady Rowe-Weston was extraordinary, from her plump lips to her gen
erous cleavage, down to the swell of her hips that could not be disguised under the shapeless sheath gown. In a Society overrun with willowy, thin-lipped beauties, Lady Rowe-Weston was a gust of fresh air on a sultry night. Jesu, he was repeating himself.
“I will admit I was rather shocked myself when I decided upon this course of action.”
Adrien continued to stare as the woman talked. Her tone was a bit too conversational, considering the conversation. It wasn’t as if she had just invited him to a garden party, after all.
“Actually, it was Hamish who gave me the idea.”
Her butler had suggested she hire a man to ruin her? And Adrien thought Cyril’s servants needed discipline? He shook his head, and she ceased talking to regard him with a look one might use to gaze upon a confused child. He was far from being a child, but he was damn confused.
“Pourquoi? Pardonez. Why?” Given the circumstances, no other question took priority.
“Ah.” She nodded in complete understanding. “It is simple, really. I have no wish to marry—”
“Then simply do not marry.”
The poor-sweet-child-allow-me-to-explain look returned to her face. “I wish it were that simple, but it is not.”
“Why?” Lord, he was beginning to sound like a poorly trained parrot.
“Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, but I am worth a great deal of money.”
“Yes. I have been made aware of the fact.”
She nodded once. “Such wealth has gained me a certain popularity among unwed gentlemen, and I have no want of such regard.” She held up a hand to silence him as he drew breath to ask another question. “Yes, I could spend the rest of my days rejecting marriage proposals, which arrive daily by the dozens, or I could simply remove myself from the most wanted list. I have chosen to do the latter.”
“By hiring me to ruin you.”
“I have not made my decision yet, my lord. Nor would it be wise to do so before meeting with the other candidates.”