A wondrous idiot, more like. A man always at the center of parties would never lose his heart to a wallflower.
She tried to jerk free, but his grip tightened. “Who could it be?” he asked, teasing. He’d mistaken her resistance for part of the game. “A lady, to turn so bashful. To say nothing of these elegant hands.” His fingers flexed around hers, his thumbs stroking her wrists.
She swallowed. The blindfold obscured the azure brilliance of his eyes and the sharp planes of his cheekbones, but it made a becoming frame for the strong square of his jaw. She would not blame herself for having lost her head to him in Munich; he was quite the most handsome man in the diplomatic corps. But Paris had brought out his raffish side: he wore his black hair long now, with no pomade to tame it. It hardly suited him.
He leaned close—close enough to breathe deeply of her. He still wore the same scent, a faint trace of bergamot that made her stomach clutch. “No perfume,” he murmured. “Not Lady von Bittner, then.”
“You noticed my perfume, did you?” The German lady sounded pleased about this. Her husband looked less gratified.
This was absurd. Georgie opened her mouth, but the other guests shushed her. “Don’t spoil the fun,” Lipscomb said, as the rest of them gathered around to watch. Meanwhile, Godwin eased his hands up her arms.
She gritted her teeth. These casual touches were the very reason adults played such games. They gave license to misbehave—and made spoilsports of anyone who preferred to remain aloof.
She would not be called a spoilsport. But as Godwin’s hand brushed the patch of skin bared between her glove and sleeve, some stalwart place inside her came violently unseated. She felt unbalanced, a little dizzy. The shape of his mouth, that long lower lip . . . She had dreamed of his mouth, but she had never kissed it.
She bit down hard on her cheek. She must mask her inward turmoil, so the others did not remark on it. Godwin had forgotten all about that month in Munich; he would not expect her to remember it, either. How humiliating if he found out the truth!
His hand closed with a testing gentleness on her shoulder. “Well, now,” he murmured. His smile settled into a gentler curve, drawing out the dimple in his cheek.
She felt struck through by the sight of it. Two years might as well have been two weeks. She remembered everything.
Recognize me. The thought sang through her brain, clear as ringing crystal. God help her, she had not forgotten the least detail of their time together. The conversations they had shared, their easy laughter and instant rapport—she had looked for that kind of kinship elsewhere and never found it. Remember me, Lucas. It felt like a prayer. Say my name! Give me an explanation for why you left—
“Too petite to be Countess Obolenskaya,” he said in a friendly voice. “Mrs. Sobieska, then?”
The breath left her in a sigh. Of course he did not remember.
Anger pricked her. It had meant nothing. A fleeting flirtation: why could she not accept that?
“Wrong,” cried Lipscomb, “but not all is lost. You’re standing beneath the mistletoe—see if you can figure out that way.”
Everybody laughed delightedly. Aghast, Georgie looked up. What rascal had tacked that sprig above the doorway? “No,” she said, but it was too late—Godwin was leaning down. He had the instinct of a rake born rotten: despite the blindfold, his mouth found hers.
Chapter Two
It did seem a bit odd to Lucas, as he leaned down under the mistletoe, that Mr. Lipscomb would egg him into a kiss—for by Lucas’s count, Mrs. Lipscomb was the only woman remaining whose name he hadn’t guessed. Or perhaps he’d lost track of the ladies in the room? He was exhausted to the bone.
Four days ago, he’d been shaken awake by the British ambassador to Paris. The sight of Viscount Lyons hanging over his bed had been bewildering enough; Lucas had wondered for a moment if the Queen had been assassinated, war declared. Surely nothing short of disaster could move such a lofty personage to steal into Lucas’s apartment in the middle of the night.
But Lyons’s news had proved stranger yet. Lucas’s uncle was dead. That man’s widow, Lady Lilleston, was due to give birth at any moment. But all of Lilleston’s children, to date, had been girls.
“In short,” Viscount Lyons had told him, “you’re on disponibilité until the child is born. Get to England; you will want to pay your respects to the countess, of course. If she gives birth to a boy, you’ll return to your post after Christmas. But if it’s a girl, well . . .”
Here Lyons had let his pause speak for him. If Lilleston’s last child was born female, Lucas would inherit his uncle’s honors. He would be the new Earl of Lilleston.
A fine piece of irony. Lucas had never met Lilleston, nor any of the Godwin family. Given a chance, they would have cut him dead in the street. But if the newest Godwin was born with the wrong bits, Lucas would soon be their patriarch.
Moreover, he would be retired from the diplomatic service. It was one thing to have clawed his way up the ranks, despite being the son of an outcast. But the Foreign Office would never keep him on if he were made nobility. The British government did not employ earls as midgrade flunkies.
Ten hours by the tidal express to Charing Cross, then—not counting the two hours Lucas had spent hanging over a bucket on the winter-tossed seas of the Channel. A night in flea-ridden lodgings, then a long trip by rail to Harlboro Grange, where he had tendered his card to the Lillestons’ butler, then cooled his heels beneath a mirror draped in mourning crepe.
Harlboro Grange had felt like a dream. The only thing Lucas’s father had ever mentioned of the manor was how cold it had grown in wintertime. He’d claimed to prefer the two-room flat in which he’d raised Lucas. Strange, then, to think that Father had grown up here, a beloved son; had played, perhaps, in this very room, a domed hall some three stories high; and had slipped out through that very door to Lucas’s left, to elope with Lucas’s mother one night.
That elopement would never be forgiven. The butler, returning, told Lucas he was not welcome. Very well; Lucas caught the next train back to London, where he promptly booked himself into a hotel far too expensive for his salary, determined on getting some rest. Before he could fall asleep, however, a knock came: a clerk with a letter from Sir Philip Trent.
The sight of Sir Philip’s scrawl had set Lucas’s blood boiling. How had the old devil tracked him down?
Godwin—
Understand you are in London. Require your aid. Was forced to abandon my guests at Brisbon Hall in order to mediate a quarrel between Russia and Bulgaria. One of the guests, probably von Bittner, has broken into my study and stolen correspondence that must remain private. Get to Brisbon Hall. Find the letter (details enclosed). Do not let it leave the premises. Would ruin my negotiations.
A dozen curses, a rage so livid that it hazed Lucas’s vision—no use. Lucas could not afford to cross a superior.
And so—to Brisbon Hall for the holidays. Delightful! Had Philip Trent ordered him to hell, Lucas might have felt more cheerful.
At least the hostess was nowhere in evidence; Miss Trent had retired early, no doubt as unhappy with his visit as he was. After all, Brisbon Hall was not accustomed to receiving mongrels, and Miss Trent’s pride must prick keenly at the prospect of Lucas soiling her purebred circles.
Do the job. Find the letter. Leave. His aim was plain.
A game of blindman’s bluff, greased by copious champagne, seemed a good strategy for putting the guests into an oblivious mood. Lucas gamely leaned down toward Mrs. Lipscomb. Her mouth briefly startled him; it was surprisingly soft, for all that she walked about so purse-lipped. But she kissed woodenly.
On the other hand, that seemed about right for a woman being mauled at her husband’s behest. Two seconds, Lucas calculated, was just long enough for good manners. As he inhaled, he realized he’d been mistaken—the lady was wearing perfume.
No. That was soap. Lemon verbena.
Every muscle in his body contracted.
Georgie.
Not in bed, after all. In front of him. Beneath him. Soft, fragrant, and no doubt repulsed.
He tightened his grip to push her away. Instead, some perverse imp seized the reins, and goaded him to kiss her more deeply—to kiss her properly, as he’d never managed to do in Munich.
He brushed his lips over hers. Madness. She would slap him, soon enough. She did not consort with lowbred dogs like him.
And yet . . . her lips quivered beneath his. They felt . . . increasingly pliant. Interested.
Sensation redoubled, growing painfully acute: the warm velvet of her mouth. The ragged puff of her breath. The swell of her breasts against his chest . . . And that scent, God above, too pedestrian to belong to a lady in silk. It had poisoned his brain in Munich.
It was doing so again.
At the last moment, he could not resist tasting her, his tongue brushing against the seam of her mouth, simply to see . . .
Well, there was the answer he’d long wanted: she tasted like wine. Wine and want and wasted nights and an ache that should be dead, but which resurrected now as a solid knot in his throat. She tasted like stupidity. Regret, and a toxic blow to his pride: that was what Georgiana Trent tasted like.
He let go of her. He did not shove her away; he would congratulate himself later on his restraint. He withdrew in one long step as he shoved up his blindfold, and from that distance—too short; a continent would have served better—he stared at her.
She opened her eyes. It shocked him how much she looked the same—her face as round and pale as the moon; her hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, and her eyes as dark and soft as a doe’s. He’d told himself he’d inflated her charms. Misremembered them.
He hadn’t. Her eyes, however, did not look warm and appreciative, as his memories suggested. Instead, they glared.
“Forgive me,” he heard himself say. “It seems you stumbled into our little game. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“Offended? Goodness, how could I be? You kiss like a grandfather.” As he digested this blow to his vanity, she smiled. “Very good of you to join us, though. Four hours after you were expected.” She wiped her mouth with her knuckles.
“Four hours?” He offered her a smile of his own, sharp on his lips. If she imagined he was here by choice—that her father’s orders suited him—then she flattered herself extremely. “Curious. The journey felt far longer. Endless, really.”
“Did it?” She shrugged. “You’ll understand, then, why we did not hold supper for you.”
“Yes, of course. That is a pity.” This entire week had been nothing but one unhappy surprise after the next, but seeing her again—in this manner, with the feel of her mouth still burning through him—well, a playwright could not have scripted a blacker farce. He very much regretted missing dinner. So much easier to disdain her over the fish course. To study her coldly while picking bones out of his filet.
She was not beautiful, he told himself. Of middling height and slight build, she was perfectly average.
And yet . . . those eyes retained all the force that had once struck him dumb. Her low-necked evening gown of scarlet bared an entrancing expanse of creamy bosom. Worse yet, as she stepped toward him, she betrayed that peculiar grace that had riveted him in Munich. In his derangement, he had written verses that likened her to a wood nymph, daughter of the willow, her movements magically fluid.
Her subtle charms were traps for the unsuspecting. He knew that now.
He took her hand and sketched a low bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Trent. Two years, has it been?” And one week, exactly.
“Only two years? Goodness. It feels ages longer.” Her bland smile widened as she glanced beyond him to the encircling diplomats. “Well,” she said as she pulled her hand free, “now we are all assembled, I am very happy to commence our merry little Christmas!”
Her cheer seemed misplaced, overstated. After a puzzled hesitation, a few of the guests offered halting applause. After all, they had already been in residence for three days.
Clearly Miss Trent had not inherited her father’s bonhomie. She favored books over parties; she disdained common entertainments, much as she disdained the common man. She needed help here.
Girding himself to his duty, Lucas stepped in. “Yes,” he said, “welcome to one and all. I am honored to preside in Sir Philip’s place while he—”
A sharp elbow in his ribs sent his teeth slamming together. Miss Trent had developed some muscle. “As your hostess,” she said sweetly, “I have designed a program of events for the next three days. You will find them waiting in your sitting rooms. We begin our formal festivities tomorrow, when we will rendezvous for breakfast at half six before we set out on our first expedition. Does that agree with everyone?”
“Half . . . six?” said Countess Obolenskaya. She looked aghast. “Six in the morning?”
“The English are a race of early birds,” balding Mr. Lipscomb informed her. “Sir Trent is a rare night owl, but his daughter, you see, is English to the bone.”
“That’s right,” said Miss Trent. “And my father has left me very clear instructions: I am to introduce you to all the local customs, the purely English way of celebrating the holidays.”
“Half six,” the countess repeated, dazed.
“Would half eight suit you better?” Lucas said. When Miss Trent turned on him with a scowl, pure malice made him add: “Yes, half eight, then. Everyone agreed?”
Eager exclamations, nods. “Splendid!” said Mr. Lipscomb, and tugged down his jacket. “Gives us a bit of time for dancing, tonight. Lord von Bittner—help me with the carpets?”
Lucas took Miss Trent’s arm, ignoring her resistance as he pulled her toward the privacy of the far corner of the room. Every fixture had been trimmed in holly and fir; the walls veritably bristled with holiday cheer. He took a deep breath, letting the fragrance of the evergreens clear his thoughts. “We should come up with a plan,” he said.
Miss Trent yanked free. “For what? Your orders are clear.”
Lucas took a survey of the possible culprits. Lipscomb, currently kneeling to roll up one side of the carpet, was from the Home Office—beyond suspicion. Von Bittner, who was kicking at the other end of the rug, was the one whom Trent suspected of the theft. But Lucas would not rule out Sobieski and Obolensky—nor their wives. Diplomats were trained to be canny; their wives, in Lucas’s experience, were born to it. “Your father suggests I start with the German. What’s your opinion?”
“I have none.”
He glanced at her sidelong. The woman he remembered had nursed opinions on every subject under the sun. But this one seemed content to bite her lip as she stared toward the piano, where Mrs. Lipscomb was testing the first notes of a reel.
Rouge would have helped Miss Trent’s pallor. But she didn’t require powder; her skin was flawless. It had felt like silk beneath his touch.
And that was the only time he would touch it. He cleared his throat. “You’ve spent the last three days with this lot. Surely you have an inkling of their characters.”
“None whatsoever.” Her great dark eyes flashed toward him. “I pray you find that letter quickly, though. I did not plan for a party of ten.”
Her asperity startled him. He had imagined, at worst, mockery or contempt—not cold hostility.
No doubt she thought him an upstart for daring to have admired her in Munich. But what had she imagined her effect would be? When a woman looked at a man as she had done—when she listened to his thoughts so intently, proving warm, amused, even delighted in reply—
Well. She’d shown him a thousand different encouragements, none of them reflective of what she actually felt for him. At least she was being honest now. “I’ll start tomorrow in the Germans’ rooms,” he said curtly. “With any luck, I’ll find the letter by noon and be gone before dinner.”
“Oh, dear. Will luck be required?” She laid a hand on his arm, gazing at him with overstated sympathy. “And here I ima
gined you’d have a talent for sneaking into places. After all, Mr. Godwin, you excel at sneaking out of them.”
He gritted his teeth. She referred, of course, to his impromptu flight from Munich. Whose fault had that been? It took great restraint not to ask. “Luck can’t hurt.” There, a fine piece of neutrality: he truly was a diplomat, after all.
She continued to stare at him. “You’re shorter than I remembered.”
Delightful! “It must be from the grave burden of steering our nation’s course overseas. The responsibility does weigh heavily.”
“On the shoulders of a second secretary?” Paired with her words, her smile stung. He had moved up the ranks faster than any man in history without aristocratic patronage, but a second secretaryship hardly carried real power. “Of course, you take your duties very seriously,” she went on. “Marvelous, how you manage to balance them with all the time you spend drinking absinthe at the Chat Noir!”
Lucas inwardly cursed. That single night’s excursion to Montmartre would hound his reputation forever. He would never again go exploring in the company of poets! As a breed, they seemed to derive their inspiration from bar brawls. “You’ve been keeping track of me? How flattering.”
“Oh, one could not ignore you if she tried. Newspapers these days have no notion of what is fit to print. All manner of rubbish collects in the social columns!”
“Indeed?” he said. “I suppose you must take particular interest in that section, since you so rarely find yourself included in it.” As her eyes narrowed, Lucas added with feigned haste, “Not for want of invitations, I expect. Surely not! You simply prefer . . . books.”
Her color rose. No longer pale, she. In a minute, she would match the cluster of holly berries tapping at her shoulder. “As Sir Philip’s daughter, I am naturally forced to be selective with my time. Otherwise, between this soiree and that ball, I would never get anything done.”
“Sir Philip’s daughter, of course.” He gave her a very kind smile. “I expect Sir Philip’s daughter would be in demand even if she sported horns and a tail.” Here he paused, casting a questioning look down her figure.
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