A Lady's Ruinous Plan

by Lora Darling

  “Am I also forbidden to derive pleasure from the experience?”

  Had his voice dropped an octave or two? A result of too much brandy? “I cannot control what does or does not bring you pleasure, my lord. I only ask that you make every attempt to comport yourself in a professional manner when the time comes.”

  “Does this mean you accept my conditions?”

  “I would be a fool to pay for a service you wish to offer free of charge, would I not? As for the contract—”

  “What if I offered you something more binding than a signature?”

  “Such as?” As far as she knew, no such thing existed.

  “I will give you the power to ruin me in return.”

  Chapter Four

  Adrien had no idea what had come over him. He blamed Lady Rowe-Weston. The woman smelled like a field of wildflowers. What man wouldn’t be discombobulated by such a fragrance? Add to that her fetching looks, and he’d been doomed to make a fool of himself from the start. Top that fact off with copious amounts of brandy, and he was surprised he hadn’t made some ill-advised advance upon her person.

  Unless one counted the removal of her fichu as an advance. Though she had not seemed particularly offended, especially when he had returned the favor by loosening his cravat and undoing his shirt. He had not missed the way her gaze strayed, time after time, to his throat. The lady might claim she had not planned for pleasure, but he would bet Cyril’s finest horse she would be keen to experience some once introduced to the concept.

  But to return to the matter at hand. That of his moment of madness. What had he been thinking to suggest he would offer her the means to ruin him in return?

  “It is my understanding, my lord, it is near impossible to ruin the reputation of an established rake. Or of any man, for that matter. Your gender is forgiven nearly every indiscretion, so whatever it is you think to offer, I must question if it would truly ruin you.”

  “What if I told you I am not who you think I am?” And with that, he made it too late to change his mind.

  Lady Rowe-Weston blinked. “If that is the case, it would explain the discrepancy of your birth month while affirming my attention to detail.”

  The woman never said what he thought she would. It made for a damn confusing conversation, not to mention unpredictable. “Most women would take this opportunity to ask who am I really.”

  “Yes, I imagine they might, but you seem keen to drag out the drama of it all, so I will simply be patient and allow you the moment.” She folded her hands together atop the desk.

  Adrien stifled a growl of frustration. The longer he remained in Lady Rowe-Weston’s presence the more he admired her for realizing she should avoid marriage. She would drive a husband mad within a week’s time. Assuming the poor bloke lasted a week. Adrien had been in the woman’s company for under an hour and had already begun to debate the merits of throwing himself out a window.

  “I am breathless with anticipation, my lord.” Her cool composure claimed otherwise, but Adrien refused to rise to every sliver of bait thrown his way.

  “I am not a lord.” There. It was done. His great secret was out. Wouldn’t Cyril be proud?

  “No offense intended, but I am not entirely surprised by your revelation. You lack the polish of a true aristocrat, polish that no amount of tailoring—” She cast a glance toward his discarded coat. “—will give you. Once you removed that frock, you became an entirely new person, one much more comfortable and, dare I say, common.”

  Adrien gaped at the woman. Had she really called him common? That was twice now she had offered an insult worthy of a challenge. Never mind the fact he was a commoner.

  “So it would seem we have reached an agreement, my l—monsieur.”

  “Not so fast, my lady.” His words halted her in midmotion as she made to stand. She looked up at him rather awkwardly from her stooped position, then slowly lowered herself back into the chair. “I have given you nothing ruinous.”

  “You have admitted you are not a lord. I assume your acquaintances do not know.”

  “Cyril Petley knows.”

  She nodded. “Well, of course, he does. You live with the man. I imagine he knows more about you than your own mother.” Her tone left no room for him to question the logic of her words. “Even devoid of further details, if I decided to expose you in the papers, it would cause quite the sensation.”

  A chill swept over Adrien. Mon Dieu. “It would be your word against mine, my lady.”

  “True.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “And I imagine your word would hold a great deal more weight than mine.”

  “A gentleman versus a recluse? Yes. I do believe the chips would fall in my favor.”

  “Indeed. Then tell me the rest of your secret, so I might possess the necessary ammunition to ruin you should you fail to hold up your end of our agreement.”

  No one could ever accuse Lady Rowe-Weston of being timid. The woman spoke her mind and made demands as though granted permission to do so by The Almighty. “We have not reached an agreement,” he felt it necessary to point out.

  “Really, monsieur, must we continue to spar? I have heard your conditions, and I accept your ruinous secret in lieu of your signature, meaning, we have reached an agreement.” She stood and thrust out a hand. “Let us shake and make it official.”

  “You might change your mind once you know who I truly am.”

  “Are you wanted by the law?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then, no, I do not care who you really are.” She flicked her gaze down toward her extended hand, leaving no doubt as to her impatience.

  Adrien clasped Lady Rowe-Weston’s hand, but instead of shaking it, he used it to tug her forward. Off balance, she had to plant her other hand atop the desk to catch herself. Her gasp of surprise, wide eyes, and parted lips thrilled him.

  “Monsieur, what is the—”

  “Hush.” He reached for her with his other hand, lightly tracing his thumb along her bottom lip. She snapped her mouth shut with a sharp inhale. “I can think of a better way to seal our deal, my lady. A way more befitting a man and a woman.”

  “I will not kiss you.” She spoke against the light pressure of his thumb, and it seemed the friction affected her as much as it did him. Her cheeks flared with color, and her breaths quickened.

  Adrien lowered his gaze to enjoy the rapid rise and fall of Lady Rowe-Weston’s bosom. Without the fichu, her pale skin glowed against the dark burgundy of her gown. The contrast brought to mind images of milk-white limbs entangled in dark sheets. What would her reaction be if he told her that her gown matched his bed sheets perfectly? She claimed she had decided upon the location of her ruination, but maybe she would be open to some suggestions.

  “Monsieur?” Her voice did not tremble with desire as he might have wished. Instead, she spoke the single-word query in a tone that would have brought a hound to heel.

  Adrien returned his gaze to her eyes. “You have hired me to ruin you, my lady, oui?” He waited for her to nod. “You claim to have thought this matter all the way through, oui?” Another nod. “It seems silly for you to balk at a kiss, considering what will have to transpire for you to be ‘irreversibly’ ruined.”

  Ah ha! Just as he suspected. She had not thought of everything.

  She tried to pull her hand free, but Adrien held firm, forcing her to give up the fight. “Whatever physical contact is necessary to achieve my goal can be dealt with during The Incident. I see no reason to partake in any contact prior to that time.”

  “Have you considered the very fine line that exists between being ruined and being victimized, my lady? That depending upon what the witnesses see versus what is intended, I might be the only one ruined by our encounter?”

  She shook her head. “That is ridiculous. I have no intention of playing the victim.”

  “Prove it. Allow me to kiss you. Now. With no one watching. If you can convince me you are a willing participant, convinci
ng a stranger should be child’s play.”

  “I will not kiss you.”

  “Why? Because I am common?”

  Irritation flared in her eyes. “Do not twist my words in order to use them against me, monsieur. I referred to you as common after you admitted to not being a lord. It is not my fault if the truth of your situation offends you. Now to answer your original question. I will not kiss you because there is no logic behind doing so at this moment in time, despite your argument to the contrary. The witnesses will believe what is laid before them, and by my reckoning, that will be myself engaged in lewd behavior with you. They will require nothing more damning to arrive at their conclusions.” She cast another impatient glance at their joined hands. “Now kindly unhand me.”

  “What if kissing you changes my mind? What if I find you offensive and believe myself incapable of participating in—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake.” Shocking the ever living hell out of him, she hooked her free hand around his nape and used the grip as leverage to bring her face closer. He barely had time to take a breath before she pressed her mouth to his with enough force to grind his teeth against the inside of his lips. Just as spontaneously, the kiss ended. “There.” She pulled back and swiped the back of her hand across her lips. “I do hope you are satisfied now.”

  Adrien released Lady Rowe-Weston and straightened on his side of the desk. “What the devil was that supposed to have been?” Napoleon, himself, would have envied the woman’s show of aggression but surely not her faulty execution.

  “You very well know it was a kiss.” She busied herself with the papers on her desk, stacking them into one pile, then restacking them into two piles before putting them in one pile yet again.

  Adrien suppressed a growl and the urge to take hold of the lady’s busy hands. “That was not a kiss.” Hell, he could probably summon more passion if provoked to kiss Kilby.

  She glanced up. “I have no doubt you would know better than I, monsieur.” Her cheeks were red under the stain of freckles. Was she blushing? Did women such as Lady Rowe-Weston actually possess the ability to blush?

  “Any person who has ever been kissed would know the diff—” He stopped. She had never been kissed. The realization tempered his irritation as did the way she returned her attention to her perfectly stacked papers. “You have never been kissed.”

  “Seeing as how you did not phrase that as a question—”

  “How old are you?”

  Her gaze jerked up. “I would scold you for asking such an ungentlemanly question of a lady, but—”

  “We both know I am not a gentleman,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes. Touché.”

  “I am twenty-six.”

  Twenty-six? How on earth had the woman reached the ripe age of twenty-six, looking the way she did without ever having been kissed? He asked as much.

  “How you have managed to convince anyone you are a gentleman is astounding.”

  “Suffice to say, being in your company has brought out a much different side in me.”

  “Hmph.” She sat down and stared at her paper pile. “To answer your rude question, I have never been presented with the opportunity.”

  “Why?” Unless she had been born and had grown to adulthood in an all-female school, she had to have encountered a man at some point in her life. Hell, even if she had not, one of the other females might have kissed her.

  There was a scenario best left unexplored.

  She looked up, clearly exasperated. “Does it matter? I have never been kissed, so do forgive me if my attempt was less than perfect. Can we move on from this topic now?”

  “No.” Adrien rounded the desk to stand beside her chair. “Stand up.”

  “I am perfectly comfortable seated, thank you.”

  Had he really imagined she would obey? “Please stand up, my lady.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed, then stood. “What now, monsieur? Are you going to take me in your arms and introduce me to the wonders of a proper kiss?” Her cynical tone might have put off a less determined man, but Adrien had never lacked determination.

  He took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. She complied with another put upon sigh. He almost laughed at her show of disinterest. Did she not realize how flushed her skin was above her bodice? Could she not feel the rapid pulse visibly fluttering at the base of her throat? Could she not tell she was aroused?

  “Go on then. Have done with your demonstration.” She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and pursed her lips.

  Adrien smiled and dipped his head toward Lady Rowe-Weston.

  ****

  Eirene wondered what was taking the man so long. Her neck was beginning to stiffen in protest. She peeked through her lashes in time to watch his blond head descend. Oh, dear! She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for contact. Should she have moistened her lips? Should she have opened a window? The room seemed awfully hot of a sudden.

  His lips feathered across the line of her jaw. How could he have missed her mouth? Even with his eyes closed, and she assumed they were closed, he should have been able to hone in on her lips. The man was a rake, after all. Rakes were capable of finding their targets in the dark, were they not? No doubt there would be fewer debutantes sent to the countryside each season if all rakes were as inept as Monsieur Benoit was proving to be.

  His mouth found her ear.

  Did the man require a map?

  She drew breath to ask, but then his mouth opened against the side of her neck. Heavens!

  Eirene instinctively lashed out to hold on to something as her knees trembled. That something ended up being the monsieur’s coatless shoulders. Part of her hand touched silk, the other part linen. Heat seared her fingers through the thin linen of his shirt. As fascinating as the sensation was, it could not compete with the feel of his open mouth against her neck. His hot breath caressed her skin, making her shiver as if caught in the throes of a horrible fever.

  She was not entirely certain she liked kissing.

  Benoit’s mouth found its way to her ear once more. “You taste as good as you smell, and you smell like a slice of heaven.”

  Well. That was a rather lovely compliment. It almost made up for his lack of aim.

  He cupped the back of her neck, then slipped his fingers under the weight of her twisted, pinned locks. With the slightest pressure, he coaxed her to lower her chin just a bit. Their eyes met. “You are trembling.”

  “A gentleman would never remark upon such a thing.”

  “Have you forgotten, my delicious Lady Rowe-Weston, I am not a gentleman.” He found her mouth then, with exacting aim. His lips angled over hers with just the right amount of pressure, no doubt a technique perfected upon the lips of many women before her.

  No. She would not think of such things. They did not matter to her. His past did not matter to her. This was business.

  She held still and allowed his mouth to shift slightly. The pressure of the kiss increased as did the tightness of his fingers beneath her hair. It seemed logical to respond by holding his shoulders tighter. The linen bunched under her fingers. Her grip would leave wrinkles as if he had been pawed at by a wanton woman.

  She would have laughed at the notion had the monsieur not angled his mouth yet again in a way that coerced her lips to part. His tongue slid alongside hers, then retreated almost before she could register the shocking sensation. She waited for him to do it again, but instead, he drew back and released her altogether. She was a tad slower in releasing him, however.

  Still holding onto Benoit’s shoulders, Eirene opened her eyes. “Forgive me for saying so, but that seemed rather incomplete, monsieur.”

  He shook his head and plucked each of her hands from his shoulders. “Perhaps it is best if we leave it unfinished until the moment of your ruination.” He lowered her arms to her sides and held her thus while giving her an odd, unreadable look. “To answer the question anyone else in your position would have asked, my true name is Adrien Cloutier.
My father was a blacksmith, and my mother a lady’s maid to Marquise Benoit. The Benoit’s second son, also named Adrien, had been born four months before I, and the marquise insisted my mother install me in the chateau nursery while she worked. As a result, I grew up alongside Adrien Benoit. We became inseparable. He was the brother I never had.”

  Eirene noted the change in the monsieur’s tone as soon as he mentioned the marquise’s son. She wanted to tell him to stop. His past was his own. He owed her nothing. Instead, she stood silent with her hands clenched in his and tried to remain unaffected by the pain that flooded his pewter eyes.

  “When we were fifteen, his parents were murdered and the chateau burned. My parents and Adrien’s older brother were inside. None of them survived.”

  Eirene’s heart stuttered. “I am so very—”

  He shook his head, stopping her useless words. Releasing her, he strolled away, toward the fireplace and the judgmental portrait of her grandfather. He stood with his back to her so she could not know if he looked at the painting. “It was not easy, but I managed to arrange for Adrien and myself to leave France on an English ship. Adrien fell ill the first night. To this day, I have no idea what caused his sickness.” He lowered his head and reached out to brace a hand on the mantle. Said hand appeared to be trembling.

  Eirene stood rooted behind her desk. Part of her wished to offer comfort and part of her was terrified to move. She could not recall ever having experienced such a conflict of emotions.

  “The other French passengers believed Adrien when he claimed to be my servant. He made all of them promise to ensure I arrived safely in England. I was the sole survivor of a great legacy, he told them. He made me promise to live my life as befitting the son of a marquis. How could I refuse him?” All of a sudden he turned and looked at her, nearly knocking her over with the intensity of his gaze. “So I lied. I lied to Sir Petley and his lady when they came to collect me from the dockside boarding house. I lied to Cyril when he decided we would be great friends in spite of me being French, and I have lied to every soul I have met since. I assure you, my lady, you now possess more than enough information if you find it necessary to ruin me.”