Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  And who the devil was Mademoiselle de la Riviére? And why was she apparently living in his house? He thought rather grimly that when he saw his brother-in-law, Gideon, Lord Broughton, the next day, he would have several very pointed questions to ask.

  As quickly as it had come, his ill temper disappeared. The crossing from France had been worse than usual, and he was a poor sailor at the best of times. All that had sustained him had been the prospect of a quiet evening in the serenity and security of his home. It had been a shock to find his house filled with people upon his arrival.

  He carelessly tossed the dark coat he was wearing onto the daybed atop the overcoat. Then, with a sigh, he cast himself onto the other end of the couch and stretched his booted feet onto the discarded garments. Leaning his dark head back against the cushions, he closed his eyes as he enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire.

  He had just drifted off to sleep when the cautious squeak of an unoiled hinge alerted him that someone was attempting to gain entry to his chamber. His reflexes, honed to a sharp edge, sprang into play. He was on his feet with one lithe movement that had him facing the intruder in a defensive pose, even as he reached for the sword that was no longer at his side.

  Baines, the butler, who had grown gray-haired in service to the Prescott family, took a startled step back. "My lord?" he said dubiously.

  The adrenaline rush faded, leaving Nicholas drained. He wiped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his fine lawn shirt. "It's all right, Baines. I was deep asleep when you came in and I was startled. That's all."

  "I am sorry then, my lord, that I disturbed you." He peered short-sightedly at the Earl's hard, handsome features. "If you will permit me, my lord," he said, with the familiarity of an old and trusted retainer, "you do not look your usual healthy self. I have brought you up a decanter of brandy." A quick glance around the room made his eyes widen. "My lord, your coat!"

  Nicholas glanced without interest at the garments on the daybed. His boots had been muddy and had left stains on the fabric. "It doesn't matter. I no longer have any use for them. Discard them."

  Baines gathered up the clothes and bowed. "Shall I send up a footman to help you remove your boots, my lord?"

  "Yes. And heat some water. I want a bath."

  "Immediately, my lord."

  When he was alone, Nicholas poured himself a snifter of the excellent brandy and swiftly drank it down. He had better get hold of himself, or people were going to be asking questions he did not want to answer.

  He had poured a second brandy and was sipping it slowly when a footman arrived to remove his close-fitting boots. The manservant was soon followed by others, carrying a bathtub and buckets of hot water. Nicholas waited until he was alone once more, and had taken the precaution of locking his bedroom door, before stripping off his shirt and breeches and stepping into the hot, soothing water. He wanted no questions about the livid red scar that made a jagged track along his rib cage.

  The sense of security and the brandy combined to ease his jangled nerves. His thoughts began to drift lazily, and he found the image of Stephanie de la Riviére forming in his mind's eye. And a very pleasant image it was. His mouth curled in a smile of pure male appreciation.

  Stephanie de la Riviére was not what could be called a classic beauty, though her features were lovely. There was too much animation and spirit in her expression for picture perfection. She was, however, extremely alluring. Slanting, almond-shaped eyes dominated her heart-shaped face. Her nose was small and straight, but that had not kept her from looking down it in a most imperious manner as she let fly her verbal arrows. Her chin was sharp, and prominent enough to indicate a stubborn, provocative nature, but her straight, well-formed lips begged to be kissed. He had watched them tremble at certain moments during their short meeting and knew that her response matched his own.

  Though her hair had been powdered, her brows were dark and he guessed that she had the rich brunette coloring of a true Frenchwoman. He smiled, shifting lazily in the bath as he sipped his brandy with thoughtful enjoyment. He had never found the cold beauty of fair women appealing.

  But no matter how attractive Stephanie de la Riviére was, the sparkling challenge in her dark eyes told him she would be more than a handful for any male to manage. Their short meeting had alerted him that she was likely to be as self-centered and high-handed as the rest of her nationality and class.

  Nicholas took another swallow of the brandy and reminded himself that many members of the French aristocracy believed passionately in the reforms brought about by the revolution. It was the aristocracy who had given birth to the revolution when they had forced the calling of the Estates General in 1789. However, those who had fled France resented the changes made by the new rulers of their country, and were bitter about the loss of their former power. These were the émigrés of London—complainers who preferred to bray their slights to the world rather than actively seek to right them. Being a man for whom deeds were more important than words, Nicholas had nothing but contempt for these French exiles.

  Still, he mused, his mind retreating from thoughts of the strife-filled land he had so recently left, Stephanie de la Riviére was beautiful and spirited, and she was apparently living in his house. Her presence would make his short visit to London interesting.

  Draining the brandy and pouring another, he sank deeper into the tub with a contented sigh. The lady had the look of someone who took life very seriously. He would have to tease her a bit to see what sparks he could set flying.

  He chuckled to himself. He had been on English soil for little more than a day and already he was catapulting himself into danger. A pleasant sort of danger, though, and one that he could enjoy with the knowledge that it was only temporary.

  He remained in the tub, thinking lazy, pleasurable thoughts of Stephanie until the water began to cool and the brandy was gone. Setting the snifter down, he completed his ablutions, then stepped from the tub. Tomorrow he would visit his brother-in-law Gideon, the man who had convinced him that his presence among the counterrevolutionaries in the French provinces would provide England with vital influence and information and, at the same time, allow Nicholas to make the contribution to his country that he believed his rank required of him.

  If Gideon had any more dangerous assignments in France for him, Nicholas thought, as he tumbled onto the huge canopied bed, they would have to wait for a month or two. He intended to stay a few days in London, recovering his strength and visiting some old friends; then he was heading to Wroxton Hall, the family seat, far away in the fastness of the Welsh border country. There he hoped to recapture the sense of balance that his brush with death amid strangers in a foreign country had wrested from him.

  For now, he was home and glad of it. For the first time in many, many nights, he would be able to sleep without fear of being disturbed. Home, he thought, as he drifted off, was a very soothing place.

  * * *

  "I think the morning after a ball is even more enjoyable than the ball itself," Madeleine observed, as she inspected the breakfast selections laid out on the impressive Queen Anne sideboard. "The strain of smiling and being pleasant, even as one wonders if the servants are laying the supper properly, or if there is sufficient champagne for the hordes of guests who have decided to grace your ball rather than Lady Whoever's, always gives me indigestion."

  Already seated in her place beside Madeleine at the long mahogany table, Stephanie laughed. "You know that you were delighted by the attendance last night, chère Tante Madeleine."

  The Countess made her choices by airily waving a finger in the direction of each, then sat at the end of the imposing table, which could easily seat thirty or more, while a footman made haste to fill her plate. "We did have the cream of society enjoying our hospitality," she noted with satisfaction, as she draped a linen napkin over the blue-gray tabby of her gown. "But I am more pleased for your sake, Stephanie, than my own. Your launch into English society was a tremendous success. I must confes
s that I was extremely worried that you would become trapped in the constricted world of the émigré community here in London, and that would never do."

  The lighthearted smile faded from Stephanie's face. "Tante Madeleine, I am an émigré," she protested sadly. "Unlike you, I did not come to England because I chose to. I am here because my dear Papa feared for my safety in France and sent me away!" She looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. The gaily decorated muslin of her chemise gown, brightly patterned with flowers in greens and pinks, mocked her somber mood. Raising her eyes, she said forcefully, "The émigrés here in London plot and scheme to bring about the downfall of the revolution and to restore the King's rights and powers. Is that so bad?"

  "The Marquis de Mont Royale sent you here to begin a new life, Stephanie," Madeleine said gently, her hazel eyes dark with concern. "He would be shocked if he thought you were involved in the Byzantine plots that swirl about the émigré community."

  Stephanie's soft lips twisted in a grimace of self-disgust. "I know, Tante Madeleine. But I cannot cut myself off from my past, as Papa thinks I should! Every time I read a newspaper, or hear a bit of gossip about the events in France, I worry about him and how he is faring!" She pushed her plate away, her breakfast untasted. "While I am here in England, eating fine meals and worrying about nothing more than the gown I am to wear for my next party," she said, her voice rising and her eyes sparkling angrily, "the odious revolutionaries seek to destroy the King!"

  Stephanie's bitter pronouncement hung in the quiet air as Nicholas sauntered into the elegant dining room. The words confirmed his thoughts of the previous evening. Absurdly disappointed, he couldn't resist interjecting, "I doubt Louis needs the aid of revolutionaries, no matter how zealous they are, to arrange his destruction. He is quite capable of doing so all by himself."

  Outraged, Stephanie's eyes blazed dark fire. "Bah! What would you, milord, know of France and her problems?"

  Nicholas waved away the footman's help and served himself from the ample stock of food on the sideboard. Settling into a seat opposite Stephanie, he raised one black brow in mild disdain. "A great deal," he remarked. "And I would estimate that my judgment is a good deal sounder than yours—or that of your émigré friends."

  He made the last sound like a rather nasty disease.

  Stephanie bridled. "En bien! For a man who wastes his time languishing in the country, you certainly have a high opinion of your own importance. Perhaps, Monsieur le Comte, you should bestir yourself to share some of that voluminous knowledge with the poor benighted souls who attempt to govern this country!"

  Nicholas almost laughed. Stephanie de la Riviére, controlled and contained by the social mores, was a comely woman. With her passions aroused, her eyes spitting fire, and her fine features animated with spirited intelligence, she far surpassed mere beauty. "It is not my country that is in the throes of destroying its monarch." He paused, then observed, "Although, I must own, old King George and his brood of willful brats rival Louis of France in their inability to endear themselves to their subjects."

  Though she would have liked to have retorted that King Louis was beloved of his people, Stephanie was too honest to blurt out such an untruth, even in the heat of anger. "It is not the role of kings to endear themselves, as you put it, to the people. They rule the nations they reign over and no one should gainsay that!"

  "Perhaps in France the king is all powerful, but not in England," Nicholas countered mildly. "The time of absolute monarchies is over in Europe. If Louis had the least political sense, he would accept the changes the revolution has wrought and seek to make them work."

  "Never!"

  "Children, children," Madeleine interjected pacifically. "Enough of your squabbling."

  Nicholas glanced over at her and grinned. Stephanie, more intense, did not cool down so easily. She fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup and nursed her grievances. In the forefront was her passionate response to Nicholas himself. The man confused her. He challenged the most basic of her beliefs. He infuriated her. At the same time, her senses responded to the fine figure he made, dressed in a dark blue coat and fawn-colored breeches, and to the sensual caress of his deep voice. Never before had she been unable to control her physical response with her intellect.

  Knowing how volatile Stephanie's mood became after discussions of events in France, Madeleine steered the conversation to less contentious subjects. "What are your plans, Nicholas? Have you come to London for a protracted visit?"

  Nicholas enjoyed morsels of egg and bacon before replying. "I came up to town to see Gideon and Honoria. Beyond that, I had not thought."

  The Countess nodded knowledgeably. "Ah, Honoria has sent you word of her happy condition. I am not surprised. They are both deliriously happy."

  As Nicholas had not had any but the most basic communications from his brother-in-law since October, he had some difficulty hiding his surprise at the news of his sister's pregnancy. "Er, quite."

  While Nicholas was distracted by his conversation with Madeleine, Stephanie took the opportunity to observe him, as if by watching his every expression she could find some clue to her own response to his masculine attraction. Even as her slanting, curious gaze rested on his thin, aristocratic features, a series of emotions, the most dominant of which was happy surprise, flickered across his handsome face.

  Immediately, Stephanie leapt to the obvious conclusion: he had not known of Honoria's delicate condition. Yet, he was pretending he did. Fascinated, she wondered what else he pretended to know. "How odd that you chose last evening to come up to town. Have you not been receiving your correspondence of late?"

  "Evidently not," Nicholas said, reasonably truthfully, having had no personal letters while living with the counterrevolutionaries in France.

  "But your secretary wrote an answer to my letter informing you of the ball. He sent your regrets," Madeleine said, distressed.

  Nicholas immediately used her opening to salvage a situation rapidly escaping his control. "He did? If that is so, then I shall have to speak to him. He has seriously overstepped his bounds."

  "I sent the letter to Wroxton Hall," Madeleine remarked. "Perhaps you were at one of your other properties, and he thought you would be unable to attend."

  Nicholas nodded. "Once again you are correct, Aunt. I was at Silverbrooke."

  As Silverbrooke Manor was the estate where Nicholas had grown up, Madeleine knew it was more home to her nephew than the ancestral mansion of the Wroxton earls. She was not surprised that he had been spending time at Silverbrooke, but she was surprised that he had arrived at ten o'clock at night from a property that was no more than thirty miles from London. "At Silverbrooke you say?"

  Nicholas was alerted by the sharp question in her voice, and he realized too late that the pieces of information he was dropping were not fitting into the picture he was trying to present. He reflected that he had better have Gideon provide him with an update on recent family events before he got into any more discussions with his sharp-witted aunt, not to mention the observant Mademoiselle de la Riviére.

  Pushing back his chair, he decided it was time to make his escape. "Yes, Aunt Madeleine, I was at Silverbrooke. Had I left yesterday morning, when I intended, I would have reached London in good time. However, I was held up by, er, a birthing."

  "A birthing?" Stephanie repeated, wide-eyed and disbelieving. In her experience, gentlemen of the Earl's rank did not discuss such topics.

  "Yes, indeed," Nicholas continued seriously, but his blue eyes glittered with reckless amusement. "The product of a mating between my most prized dairy cow and a new strain of bull."

  Stephanie almost choked. "You delayed your departure because a cow was in calf?"

  "Husbandry is very important to the Prescott men," Madeleine explained, though she too was looking at Nicholas a little strangely. "My late husband was very interested in the newest techniques of farming. He believed that it was the primary duty of every gentleman to look to his la
nds before all else."

  Stephanie shook her head dubiously. "Bah! These are the concerns of a country squire, not a gentleman of high rank. Good day, Monsieur le Comte!"

  A smile slowly curled the passionate line of Nicholas's mouth. He had been right in yet another of his assessments the previous night, Mademoiselle de la Riviére was a handful, definitely a handful. "Until later, Mademoiselle." He couldn't resist adding a teasing, "Perhaps when I return, I can enlighten you further on the latest developments in estate management. I have heard from reliable sources that it is a skill lamentably lacking in France." He watched her eyes flash with temper, then sauntered lazily out of the room, well pleased with himself—and the lady.

  Chapter 2

  Nicholas found his sister, but not his brother-in-law, at their Berkeley Square mansion. This posed a certain problem, as Nicholas had wanted to keep private his meeting with Gideon. He could, of course, visit Gideon at his office in Whitehall, but as Nicholas's whole purpose was to act in a way which would not arouse questions, he would have preferred to return to Berkeley Square another time, thus prolonging his sojourn in London. Honoria solved the problem, however, by greeting him with flattering delight and immediately dispatching a footman to summon her husband home.

  She hugged her brother with unrestrained pleasure when they were alone in the elegant drawing room, which had recently been redecorated in the style known as Chinese Chippendale. The cream and pale rose of the silk brocade covering the chairs was a charming complement to the pale lilac lustring of the chemise gown Honoria was wearing. The color of the gown, with its deeper violet taffeta sash, accented her glossy black hair and the blue-gray of her eyes.