Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel

Chapter Four

The match lingered on his mind that evening, distracting Haviland from Madame Aguillard’s elegantly appointed entertainment. The musicale was unable to hold his attention for long no matter how lovely the Italian soprano, or how talented the pianist who accompanied her or even how often the hostess herself trailed her beautifully manicured fingers down his arm in provocative suggestion. No matter the enticement, his mind drifted back to the faceless, silent Leodegrance. Even without words, without a visage, the man had a charisma that had drawn Haviland. The force of that presence was disturbing to say nothing of the circumstances in which it had been felt. Fencing with Leodegrance had been like fencing a phantom. He’d never faced an opponent shrouded quite literally in such mystery. He couldn’t quite get over it, or past it.

‘Stop brooding,’ Nolan scolded sotto voce as they moved through the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.

Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.

He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.

‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.

Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’

‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.

‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.

‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.

Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.

What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.

Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.

Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’

That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.

‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.

‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’

‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard about it in London. It’s entirely plausible he’s become a bit reclusive as a result. It’s not as if Anjou’s explanations about the scars don’t make sense,’ Haviland argued. Perhaps Nolan was right. He just needed to stop brooding. When Archer pressed him to see a conspiracy, he simply couldn’t come up with a motive for such efforts. Perhaps that was what Archer intended all along; to make him see the foolishness of his notions. A silent look of comprehension passed between them.

Archer smiled in confirmation. Haviland had read him aright. Archer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Put it to bed, old friend, and have some fun. You need a distraction. Perhaps I could get our hostess to introduce you to one. There’s several pretty ones here tonight.’

The crowd around them ebbed, affording Haviland a glimpse across the room. Archer shifted to the right to deposit his empty glass on a passing tray and there she was—a distraction to end all distractions. She must have come late. He would have noticed her earlier otherwise. She was the sort of woman who could command a man’s attention without doing a thing. She was proving it right now, simply standing against a wall and stealing his breath along with any ability to formulate coherent thought.

‘Archer, don’t move. I think I’ve found my distraction.’ She was a stunning brunette in an evening gown of crinkled taffeta the shade of gentian blue. The gown was plain by French standards, unadorned with ruffles or embroidered hems, yet the plainness lent itself to an understated elegance, as did the exquisite tailoring. For all its lack of affectations, this was not a poor woman’s gown and no one would mistake the wearer for a peasant.

‘I take it it’s not a masked man?’ Archer raised an interested eyebrow, but remained obediently frozen.

‘Hardly.’ Haviland inclined his head in the smallest of gestures for Archer to follow his gaze. ‘Turn your head slowly and remember I saw her first.’ He did see her, the woman beyond the dress. When he looked at her, he saw the confidence of her carriage, the delicate beauty of her very bone structure that declared her a woman of high birth. There was strength, too, in that delicacy. This was no retiring wallflower and yet she was alone.

Archer smirked. ‘What are you thinking?’

Haviland gave him a wry grin that spoke volumes. ‘I’m thinking I’m looking at Plan B.’ One last affaire, one last opportunity to drink from passion’s cup before settling into his marriage. He might not have chosen Christina Everly, but neither had she chosen him. He would not shame her with infidelities after they wed, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their union. Until then, however, a gentleman need feel no such restraint, especially if travelling abroad.

The woman in question looked their direction, catching his stare, the slight raise of his eyebrow. She answered his silent enquiry with the flick of her wrist, her fan opening in a sophisticated gesture that covered just the bottom of her face. Haviland’s gaze dropped to her hands. She held the fan in her left, and Haviland smiled at the discreet sign to approach. Negotiations complete. Beside him, Archer let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Now, that’s a woman to cross a room for.’

‘I doubt men stop there,’ Haviland said under his breath. They’d cross mountains, even oceans for her. She was the sort of woman who could wreck a lesser man, one given to baser instincts and spontaneity. Thank goodness he wasn’t such a man. ‘Here, hold this for me.’ Haviland handed his flute to Archer.

‘Why? Do you think you’ll be back for it?’

Haviland chuckled. ‘With luck, no’, and then he crossed the room.

* * *

Alyssandra felt a little tremor of anxious anticipation skate down her spine, so strong was her awareness of him. His eyes were on her, piercing and intense, demanding she meet his gaze as he approached, demanding she be aware of him. But it was too late to back out of this exquisite deception. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d orchestrated her evening around in the hopes of it happening.

She’d not known with certainty that he’d be here, but she’d known it was highly possible. The odds had favoured her. Madame Aguillard’s soirée in the seventh arondissement was a coveted invitation and the Englishman and his friends had become coveted guests in certain circles. Men with money and connections could not be kept secret for long, and North was positively delicious on both accounts. He had looks and was heir to a title and a fortune, both English, which made him more impressive than his Continental counterparts. French nobles and Italian contes were thick on the ground and notoriously light in the pockets. In short, Haviland was the stuff of mothers’ dreams. Even French mamans.

Who wouldn’t jump, nay, who wouldn’t leap at the chance to marry their daughters to such prestige and such security? There were those who would leap for much less than an offer of marriage. Alyssandra reminded herself she wasn’t here for purely selfish reasons. It was what her brother needed. Her presence here tonight was professional. She had to remain objective just as if she were facing him from behind a fencing mask. There was no room behind the mask for carnal thoughts and there was no room for them now, although that didn’t seem to be stopping them from trying to intrude.

She’d heard the women talking behind their fans all night. ‘With a body like that, he cannot help but be extraordinary in bed,’ one woman had remarked. Another had commented, ‘I just want to look at him, preferably naked.’ Alyssandra could understand the sentiment. He was gorgeously made, lean hipped and broad shouldered. She had studied that physique from behind peepholes for weeks now in anonymity. She had seen that body up close today during their exercise and it had been positively scintillating. It was in part responsible for the more feminine side of her wanting to risk the encounter tonight. She wanted to test the electricity between them. Would it happen again or was the spark between them limited to the fencing floor?

Around her, women whispered, watching his approach with interest and perhaps hope, from behind their fans. His stride was purposeful, confident, his gaze locked on her, making his destination clear to those who hoped otherwise. Alyssandra raised her chin just a fraction, enjoying a moment of defiant victory. The Englishman was coming for her.

Alyssandra lowered her fan and met his gaze with equal strength. She let the rush of excitement over meeting him as herself fill her, let him take her hand and bend over it with eyes that never left hers. He would never look at her incarnation of Antoine Leodegrance the way he was looking at her, all banked fire and desire in those blue eyes. His lips brushed her gloved knuckles. Even that briefest of touches sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. The connection she’d sensed today at the salle was still there.

‘Mademoiselle, enchanté. I must apologise for my boldness. I could not wait for a proper introduction. May I present myself? I am Viscount Amersham.’

She’d known all of his names, of course. It was on his application at the club although he preferred to go by his given name there. Therein lay her advantage. He was meeting a stranger. But she was not. She knew him, whereas, there was nothing to connect her to Antoine save her name, and that would be revealed when and if she chose.

She let a little smile play across her lips, her eyes flirting coolly, her body trying to ignore the hot spark that passed between them upon contact. ‘I know who you are.’ She gestured to the groups gathered around them with her closed fan. ‘Everyone knows. You’ve become quite the celebrity.’ She rose and retrieved her hand, breaking the electric connection. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’

‘What reputation would that be?’ He arched a dark brow.

She gave a laugh and spread her fan again, enjoying having the upper hand for the moment. ‘Are you fishing for a compliment, monsieur le vicomte? I don’t think vanity becomes you. I think you know very well what sort of reputation.’

‘Touché.’ He grinned, showing even white teeth in that kissable mouth of his. It was every bit as delectable up close as it was from the distance of the viewing room or from behind a mask. His blue eyes danced, his gaze taking in all she had to offer. She was acutely alert to the skim of his eyes roaming over the slender length of her neck, how they’d dropped discreetly to the low sweep of her décolletage. His attraction to her was not in doubt.

Electric awareness crackled between them, broken only by their hostess signalling the end of the intermission—a critical moment that would define the direction of the evening and perhaps even their association. Allowing him to go back to his seat would suggest at worst she did not return his level of interest or, at the very least, she had not been serious when she’d summoned him. She must act quickly. She had done the summoning; the next move was hers. She had to be one to establish the purpose of having called him to her.

Alyssandra placed a hand on his arm, braving the physical pull of him. Men had crossed rooms for her before. Tonight, she had even encouraged such a response, knowing how well she looked in the gentian blue and the careful upsweep of her hair, both of which showed the silhouette of her body and the profile of her face to advantage. Would it be enough? ‘Some of the others will go to the card rooms instead of returning to their seats. Perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the gardens? I have been here before, if you’re interested.’ He was a sophisticated man. He would hear the entendre in her words and the invitation, just as he was aware she would see the silent interest he communicated with his eyes.

‘I have heard much about the beauty of the French gardens. I would be delighted to see one in person if you could be spared?’

Alyssandra smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

He allowed her to step slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd finding their seats, his hand confident of its reception, as if it belonged there. She could hear his voice, low and familiar at her ear. ‘It will be mine as well, I am certain of it.’ She recognised, too, what this was; the touch, the words, the very closeness of him. His body was advertising its skills in his touch, in his bid for familiarity. These were the opening moves to a seduction and it would be up to her just how far they would go. Suffice it to say, it was much harder to be professionally objective just now.

Chapter Five

There was nothing wrong per se with the garden. It was inherently respectable with its paper lanterns and exotic-shaped shrubs. The incipient lure to wickedness was Alyssandra’s construction entirely. She knew very well they’d not come out here to be respectable, or even to see the topiaries, although the famed shrubs did make a good ruse for the reality: They’d come outside to test the waters of their attraction in the way sophisticated men and women do who are not necessarily looking for attachment but something more fleeting: momentary pleasure, momentary escape.

While she understood the allure escape held for her, she was hard pressed to imagine the allure of escape for a man like Haviland North, whose life was already perfect. And yet what did she know of him? He was here after all, wasn’t he? In Paris, hundreds of miles and a body of water way from home. The Tour itself was an escape of sorts and those on it escapees. It often stood to contrary reason that the more perfect something looked on the outside, the more rotten it was on the inside. What imperfections might the handsome viscount have, hidden away behind those blue eyes? It did make a girl wonder what he might be running from, and there was nothing sexier than a man shrouded in intrigue.

It was part of her mission to peel away those perfect outer layers and get to those imperfections beneath. Of course, she wouldn’t peel all those layers tonight. That took time and trust. Tonight was about establishing the latter. ‘Do you see the shrub shaped as a dog?’ She pointed to the shape near a fountain. ‘It was modelled after Madame Aguillard’s favourite hunting hound. The fountain itself is made from marble imported from Italy.’

‘Very impressive.’ North said, walking beside her, his hand always at her back, offering a physical reminder of his presence.

‘Very expensive, if you ask me,’ Alyssandra shot back. It had always struck her as foolish to have imported the marble at extra cost when there were quarries nearby. It was darker now. There were fewer lanterns and even fewer guests in this remote corner of the garden. Her pulse began to leap. They’d reached their destination—somewhere private.

‘It seems we have reached the perimeter of the garden.’ North commented, his eyes full of mischief. ‘What do you suppose we do now?’

Alyssandra wet her lips and turned towards him so they were no longer side by side, but face to face. ‘I’ve talked far too long. You could tell me about yourself. What brings you to Paris?’ She stepped closer, drawing a long line down the white linen of his chest with her fan. She’d genuinely like to know. She’d spent the past three weeks making up stories in her mind about what he was doing in France.

But she’d not come out to the garden to acquire a thorough history of Viscount Amersham. That would come in time, as those layers came off. Tonight was about making first impressions, ones that would eventually lead to...more. Even so, she rather doubted her brother had expected ‘more’ to involve stealing away to the dark corners of Madame Aguillard’s garden with somewhat illicit intentions. Julian, on the other hand, had envisioned exactly such manoeuvres when he’d suggested Madame D’Aramitz.

‘I could tell you my life story,’ he drawled, his eyes darkening to a deep sapphire. ‘Or perhaps we might do something more interesting.’ Those sapphire eyes dropped to her mouth, signalling his definition of ‘interesting’ and her breath caught. Something more interesting, please.

It was hard to say who kissed whom. His head had angled towards her in initiation, but she had stepped into him, welcoming the advance of his mouth on hers, the meeting of their bodies; gentian-blue skirts pressed black-clad thighs, corseted breasts met the muscled firmness of his chest beneath white linen.

Her mouth opened for him, letting his tongue tangle with hers in a sensual duel. She met his boldness with boldness of her own, tasting the fruity sweetness of champagne where it lingered on his tongue. Life pulsed through her as she nipped his lip, and he growled low in his throat, his arm pressing her to the hard contours of him. She moved against his hips, challenging him, knowing full well this bordered on madness. Desire was rising between them, hot and heady.

‘You are bold for an Englishman.’ She sucked at his earlobe until she elicited another growl of arousal.

‘Is that a problem?’ he whispered hoarsely against her throat, his lips nuzzling the column of her neck, his hands moving over her rib cage, warm and sure. A hand closed decadently over a breast, a thumb offering a circling caress over the fabric of her nipple. It was both a siren song and a swan’s song. This had to end.

‘It is if I have to go and I do.’ She summoned the shreds of her resolve. If she didn’t pull away, she’d end up half-naked in the garden, her dress around her waist and his hands on her breasts. The only layers that would end up being peeled would be hers and that would hardly bring him back for more.

Alyssandra stepped away, smoothing her skirts, taking a formal tone designed to cool anyone’s growing ardour. ‘It has been a most enjoyable evening, monsieur le vicomte.’

‘Perhaps you might call me Haviland,’ he offered abruptly as if the use of his title offended him. She thought she understood. After such an intimacy he wanted to be a man, not a title. It was not so different from the reason she was reluctant to give him her own name.

‘Bon nuit, then, Haviland.’ She dropped a little curtsy in a flirty farewell. Maybe she would escape this encounter unexposed after all.

She turned to go. His hand closed on her arm. ‘Not so fast, my lady of mystery.’ His voice held a tone of authority beneath the seduction. ‘While we’ve had some pleasure tonight, one pleasure yet eludes me. Might I have your name?’

She did not mistake it for a request that could be denied or flirted away. How would Haviland North, Viscount Amersham, a man used to power and obedience, feel about her name now? Would he be angry? Would he feel betrayed or used? She dropped her eyes, assuming a demure, penitent posture. ‘May I tell you a secret?’

‘Absolutely. I love secrets.’ His voice was a sensual whisper close to her ear, but she did not miss the firmness in it. His tolerance had limits.

‘I must beg your forgiveness. I fear I have had you at a disadvantage.’ She looked up beneath her lashes, gauging his reaction.

‘Ah, so it’s absolution you’re seeking.’ His eyes narrowed in assessment.

‘Not absolution, sanctuary. If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.’ She let her eyes dance, building the mystery so that he would promise her anything to hear her secret.

He leaned close, a smile on his lips. She could smell the clean scent of linen and sandalwood soap on him, ‘Sanctuary it is, then. Tell me your secret.’ Good, curiosity had got the better of him. She hoped bad judgement hadn’t got the better of her.

She locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’

* * *

Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?

This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.

‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.

‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.

‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’

Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.

Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.

‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’

‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.

‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.

Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’

‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’

But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.

‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’

Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride came in. Had she’d been told to do those things or had they been part of the natural chemistry at work between them? Which all came back to the initial question: Had she known him before he’d said his name?

She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.

‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.

‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’

A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?