by Nan Ryan
He stood before her, totally confident, smiling easily, his white teeth flashing in the darkness of his face, an exasperating gleam flashing from his eyes.
Madeleine would have been very surprised had she known what was going through Armand’s mind as he smiled at her.
Projecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel, Armand gazed steadily at the russet-haired beauty in the low-cut velvet dress and his heart thumped violently against his ribs. She was looking straight into his eyes, assuring him she was not afraid, daring him to try to misbehave, warning him that she could and would easily hold her own against him.
Armand vowed he would never give her the satisfaction of knowing that she possessed the power to make him weak in the knees, to cause his heart to race out of control. But she did have that power. And it was not solely because she was a dazzling fair-skinned beauty with hair that flamed in the sunlight and a perfect willowy body that made him want her with a hot, eternal passion.
It was more, much more than just her beauty. He’d had many beautiful women, some even more beautiful that she. But none had had the ability to twist his insides into knots the way she could. Everything about her charmed him. Her irrepressible spirit and the regal way she held her head and the brilliant green fire that flashed from her eyes and the pugnacious lift of her chin when she was angry.
And she was angry now.
Madeleine reached down and picked up her velvet reticule, slipped the drawstrings around her wrist and regally rose.
She crossed to the smiling Armand, lifted her noble chin a trifle higher and said scathingly, “I would rather be burned at the stake than dance twenty times with you, de Chevalier.”
“In that case I’ll pay twenty dollars for one dance,” he said as he reached out, took her hand, and placed the twenty-dollar gold piece in her palm. He grinned then and, unceremoniously sliding her reticule’s drawstrings down over her hand, told her, “You can leave this here. No one’s going to steal your little music box.”
Madeleine’s emerald eyes widened, then narrowed and blazed with anger. “There’s no music box in my…”
“Maddie, Maddie, I hate to point this out,” he gently scolded, shaking his dark head, “but you’re becoming quite the little liar.”
“I am not a liar!”
“No? Then open that velvet bag and show me what’s inside.”
“I will do nothing of the kind!” she informed him icily. “But here’s a bit of truth for you, Creole, I do not want to dance even one dance with you!”
Armand shrugged wide shoulders. “Perhaps I can make you change your mind.” He grinned impishly and added, “Or at least your heart.”
“Never in a million years,” she sarcastically informed him, crossing her arms over her chest.
He continued to grin. “I paid twenty dollars to try, so quit hiding behind that counter and give me a chance.”
She flashed him a bored, impatient look. Then sighed irritably and ducked under the counter and rose to face him.
“I think you’ll find, de Chevalier,” she said, “that you have wasted your twenty dollars.”
“Perhaps,” he said, still smiling, cocksure as always. “It’s too soon to tell.” He took her arm, guided her toward the floor.
“You never tire of tormenting me, do you?”
Armand stopped, lifted his hands and, clasping her upper arms, gently turned her to face him. “You let me know if this dance is torment, Countess.”
With that he commandingly took her in his arms and began to slowly dance her across the floor. He held her no closer than he’d held Melissa Ann Ledette, no closer than Desmond had held her when they had danced. Yet she felt as if she were being forcefully pulled against the heat and hardness of his tall, lean frame. It was as if there were some strange electrical field between them, drawing them together like powerful magnets, making it nearly impossible to stay decently apart. It was all she could do to keep herself from pressing closer to the potent lure of his athletic body.
Did he feel it too?
All at once she found herself much closer to him, so close she could feel the heavy beating of his heart against her breasts, the hardness of his long legs brushing against hers through the velvet skirts of her dress. She swallowed hard and nervously glanced up at him.
Her head was tipped back, face lifted to his. His head was bent, face lowered to hers. Their gazes locked. Her breath caught in her throat.
His eyes gleamed with heat and his lips—those beautifully sculptured, sinfully sensual lips—were mere scant inches from her own. She felt her own parted lips quiver and for a moment she was afraid he was actually going to kiss her.
She was equally afraid that he was not.
She saw the muscles in his tanned throat work convulsively as he swallowed with difficulty and she knew that he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss him. For one wild, insane second, she was tempted to throw away her nice, safe future, pull Armand’s handsome head down to her and kiss him as he’d never been kissed before.
And let the devil take the hindermost.
It was Armand who saved her from herself when he said, with a cynical curve to his tempting mouth and a subtle rotation of his slim hips, “Tell me the truth, chérie, is this torment?”
“Yes, it most certainly is!” she was able to say with total honesty.
And it was.
It was torture of a kind against which she was totally powerless. This dark, dangerous Creole had awakened in her a long-sleeping passion. When he had made love to her on that sinking ship, he had shown her a kind of ecstasy she had never known existed. Ever since that stormy afternoon she had yearned to experience it again. Yes, yes it was torment to be held by him, and not to be loved by him. Not to be kissed and touched and caressed by him. Not to know again the wonder of his passionate lovemaking.
Armand smiled and let her know that he was on to her. “But a highly enjoyable kind of torment, oui, chérie?”
Trying desperately to sound incensed, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Creole!”
“Am I?” he said. “Ah, Countess, don’t. Don’t pretend that nothing has happened between us during this dance.”
“I’m not pretending! Nothing has happened. What could have possibly happened on a dance floor with dozens of people around?”
“The sweet stirring of shared desire?”
“Hardly!” She made a face at him.
He smiled at her. “Don’t say that you don’t want me to hold you closer in my arms.”
“I do not want any such thing!”
“Don’t tell me that you don’t want to kiss me.”
His last statement silenced her. She stared at him, mute, and made a misstep. He smoothly caught her, kept her from tripping. He hadn’t said “Don’t tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.” He had said “Don’t tell me you don’t want to kiss me.” Which was exactly the way it was. She had, only seconds ago, wanted to kiss him so badly she had almost stupidly jeopardized her future and ruined her life.
Mercifully the music stopped. Madeleine anxiously pulled out of Armand’s embrace.
He said, “The best twenty dollars I ever spent.”
She replied hatefully, “For your sake I certainly hope so, because that dance is all you’ll ever get from me, Creole.”
“You’re wrong, Countess,” he said and his dark, hooded eyes held both warning and promise. “You know you are.”
Alarmed, she exploded in anger. “Dear lord, how I hate you!” Her emerald eyes flashed and spots of high color stained her pale cheeks.
She had never looked prettier and Armand was totally enchanted.
“You know what they say, Countess,” he leaned close and whispered, “There’s a fine line between hate and love. Perhaps the reason you hate me so much is because actually you love me.”
Her hands immediately went to her velvet-covered hips. She said, “If you were the only man left on this earth, I would leap to my death in the Mississippi before I’d allow
you to touch me! Does that sound like love, Creole?”
“What’s going on, Madeleine?”
“Going on?”
“Yes,” said Lord Enfield. “I saw you dancing with de Chevalier and…”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.”
“I had absolutely no choice, Desmond,” Madeleine quickly assured him. “You recall Melissa asking if I’d help out in one the booths for a while?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, it turns out that they were selling dances there,” Madeleine said, shaking her head as if disgusted. “De Chevalier bought a dance and I…”
“I see,” Desmond interrupted, nodding. “It looked as if the two of you were…ah…well…should I be worried?”
“Good heavens, no!” Madeleine said emphatically as if that were the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard in her life.
Realizing with a stab of guilt that she was once again being “quite the little liar” Armand had accused her of becoming, she was tempted to shout at her fiancé, “Yes, you should be worried! You should be very worried because I have been in Armand’s arms, have made passionate love with him when I’ve never made love to you. Worse, the Creole’s trying to get me into his bed again and I’m not certain how long I can hold out against such overwhelming magnetism. Yes, yes, yes! You should be worried and insanely jealous!”
Instead she smiled sweetly at the earl and said again, “No, darling. I was only doing my duty, raising funds for our brave British Florence Nightingale.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that,” he told her as he took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. As they began to dance, he whispered in her ear, “De Chevalier wants you. Desires you. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
“Oh, Desmond, that’s not…”
“Shh,” he gently chided. “It’s okay. Doesn’t matter. In fact, I find it rather satisfying knowing that while he wants you, I have you. And although I don’t trust the Creole as far as I can throw him, I have the utmost faith in you, my love.”
For the remainder of the evening, Madeleine stayed safely close to her fiancé, silently vowing to behave herself and earn the deep trust Desmond had in her. The couple danced and talked with friends and accepted congratulations on their engagement.
Madeleine was disappointed when Desmond told her that her Uncle Colfax had grown weary and had left the dance early.
“That’s not like him,” Madeleine said with a worried frown.
“Now, darling, don’t make more of it than is there,” cautioned Lord Enfield. “He told me to assure you that nothing’s wrong, he’s just a bit tired from all the excitement and activity.”
“Mmm,” Madeleine murmured. “Montro drove him home?”
“Yes, of course,” said Desmond. “Now stop your fretting and let’s dance again.”
Madeleine finally smiled and stepped into his arms. But as they danced she caught herself involuntarily searching the crowd for the Creole. She finally found him. He was standing alone on the perimeter of the dance floor, a drink in his hand. When she caught sight of him, his eyes were fastened on her and in them was a puzzling sadness.
It was gone the instant she caught him looking at her. Replaced by that cool, cynical appraisal she’d come to expect from him. Then he looked away as an elegantly gowned woman approached him and touched his forearm. Madeleine recognized the dark-haired, milky-skinned widow, Raphelle Delion.
Madeleine’s eyes clouded slightly. She remembered the gossips saying that the rich, beautiful widow Delion had set her cap for Armand de Chevalier. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor.
Madeleine watched as the tall, shapely brunette smiled seductively, laid a hand on Armand’s arm, and said something to him. Armand immediately set his liquor glass aside, led Raphelle Delion onto the dance floor, and took her in his arms.
Raphelle smiled up at Armand, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and said, “It’s getting late, Armand, and I’m getting tired.”
“Are you?” he replied, noncommittally.
“I am,” she said and pressed aggressively closer, subtly, but provocatively thrusting her pelvis against his groin. “I keep thinking of my big, comfortable four-poster and the blaze in the fireplace across from it. My maid’s laid out a naughty black lace nightgown for me to slip into when I get home.”
Armand studied the forward young widow whose pale breasts were resting against his chest. She was a voluptuous southern beauty with soft, generous curves, milky-white skin, dark, lustrous hair and big bedroom eyes. And this was not the first time she had made an overture to him. He had no doubt he could be in her bed within the hour and stay there for as long as he wished.
Raphelle was waiting for him to say something. When he did not, she said, “Take me home, Armand. Enjoy my big four-poster and the blazing fire and my naughty nightie. And most of all, enjoy me. We can sip chilled champagne and make hot love all night.”
Armand was tempted.
His blood was up. He was edgy, restless, yearning. Coiled as tightly as a watch spring. He badly needed release. If he could enjoy Raphelle’s ample charms for the night with no strings attached, he would take her up on the offer. But he knew her game. She wanted a great deal more than one night of passion.
Taking her to bed would be a big mistake. She would, he felt sure, be the clinging, weeping type who would make his life hell and getting out of her clutches would be a full-time occupation. She had told friends that she wanted him, hoped to marry him.
He had enough trouble.
He didn’t want any more.
“Armand?” Raphelle was gazing hungrily at him, hoping he’d say yes.
“I’m very flattered, but…” He shrugged. Her face fell and she looked as if she might be going to cry. Quickly, he said, “Good night, Raphelle,” and made a hasty exit.
Twenty
The pale winter moon had risen and the night air was damp and bitterly cold when Madeleine and Desmond left the dance shortly after midnight. Madeleine began shivering as the pair climbed into Lord Enfield’s waiting carriage.
“My dear, you’re freezing,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and drawing her close.
Madeleine’s right hand, with her reticule dangling from her wrist, got wedged between them. She felt the sharp corner of the miniature music box jab her in the ribs. She held her breath, hoping that it wasn’t touching Desmond.
It was.
Frowning, he reached between them and lifted the reticule. “Darling, what’s in your evening bag?” He felt it, confounded by the shape. “Something in here stuck me in the side.”
Anxiously snatching the reticule away from him, Madeleine laughed nervously and said, “I’m sorry, Desmond.” She cleared her throat needlessly and explained, “The head of the bazaar committee gave me a little gift for helping out.”
“I see. What is it?”
“Ah—a—it’s a tin box of chocolates.” Another lie. “Would you like one?”
“No, thanks,” he said, and she released a soft sigh of relief.
She quickly switched the telltale reticule to her other hand and out of the way. Desmond again drew her close as the carriage wheels rumbled over the cobblestone street in the cold winter darkness.
Her head tucked beneath his chin, cheek resting on his chest, Madeleine closed her eyes and berated herself for lying to him. Again. She who hated lies and deceptions. She who had always prided herself on being totally honest with everyone and fully expecting the same from them.
It was astounding how one lie led to another.
And another.
“We’re here, darling.” Desmond abruptly shook her from her painful reveries.
She raised her head as the carriage rolled through the iron gates of home. Big Montro immediately stepped out of the shadows and opened the carriage door.
“Give us a minute, will you, Montro!” Lord Enfield said sharply.
“Yes, sir,” said Montro, contrite as he qui
ckly closed the door.
“Desmond,” Madeleine scolded, brows knitted, “why did you speak to him like that? I’m afraid you’ve hurt his feelings.”
“Madeleine, good God, the man’s a common servant,” Desmond replied. “Why should I be worried about his feelings?”
“Because he is a human being and a very kind one at that.”
“Yes, well he’s often an irritant if you ask me. Always underfoot. Every time I look up, there he is, in my way. It’s a bit tiresome.”
“I had no idea you felt that way, Desmond,” she said, staring at him.
He quickly softened his expression, touched her cheek, and answered, “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that…well, I wanted to give you a nice, long good-night kiss here in the warmth of the carriage and…”
“You aren’t coming up?”
“Not tonight, sweet. It’s been a long, trying day and I’m exhausted.”
Secretly glad that he wasn’t coming inside, she said, “Then I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Indeed you will,” he agreed, taking her chin in his hand, leaning close to kiss her.
“Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Desmond.”
He rapped on the carriage door. Big Montro came forward and opened it. As the mannerly giant gently lifted his mistress to the ground, Lord Enfield stuck his head out and said, “I say, Montro, do forgive me for being testy. I’m overly tired, but that’s no excuse. I do apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” replied Big Montro before he closed the carriage door.
Ushering Madeleine up the outside staircase in the cold, Montro asked, “Did you enjoy the bazaar, my lady?”
“Very much,” she responded. “We raised a tidy sum for the Crimea and I had a wonderful time.” She mentally kicked herself. Here she was lying again. She had not had a wonderful time. Armand de Chevalier had seen to that.
At the door, Montro handed her inside the foyer, smiled, and said, “Sleep well, sleep warm.”
“You too,” she returned, “and thanks, Montro, for consistently being here when I need you.”
