by Louise Clark
She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. He had what she thought of as a very English face. The bones were long, the cheekbones hard, but not so high that the cheeks beneath were cadaverous. Like the expression in his bright, penetrating blue eyes, his mouth was firm, with a hint of toughness. His hair was his own, black and thick. As he had on that first night, he wore it tied unpretentiously at his nape with a black velvet ribbon.
On his arrival this morning, dressed with such stark simplicity, her heart had beat with indecent speed, while her tongue seemed to have cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She had no doubt that to have him a member of the household would be extremely unsettling. And exciting.
But, sadly, impossible, as Madeleine's reply to her nephew's remark showed. "Mademoiselle de la Riviére is staying with me for the Season and beyond."
The Earl glanced at Stephanie, caught her staring at him and slowly smiled. "I know."
Stephanie blushed, but a dimple peeped into life in her cheek.
Madeleine firmly drew his attention back to herself. "Mademoiselle de la Riviére is my goddaughter, but she is not related to you, Nicholas."
"I know." His momentary animation fled, relentlessly pursued by an unpalatable reality. "Aunt Madeleine, Mademoiselle, please forgive my presumption, but—" The words stuck in his throat, but the effect of leaving the hint dangling sizzled provocatively in the ensuing silence. Stephanie watched him, wide-eyed, while his aunt regarded him more narrowly. Using the advantage he had unwittingly created, he waited the space of a heartbeat, and another. Someone will have to speak, he thought grimly, but it will not be me.
It was Stephanie's voice, morning husky, that broke the silence. He felt it slither over his nerve endings, charging them with unexpected heat. "What presumption is there to forgive, Monsieur?"
As he looked deep into Stephanie's wide, slanting brown eyes, he again silently cursed Gideon and his interfering sister. Still, he knew what he must do. "When I learned you had come to England, Mademoiselle, I wrote your father, offering you the benefit of my protection. He has graciously accepted my suggestion."
Stephanie blinked as she frowned with astonishment. "Pardon?"
"Yes, Nicholas, pray clarify that statement. Even I am confused, and I have been speaking English far longer than Stephanie."
Rather grimly, he turned to the Dowager. "Put simply, I have a letter from the Marquis de Mont Royale stating that his daughter, Stephanie de la Riviére, is to be my ward while she is residing at Wroxton House. That is why I have chosen to grace this particular Season with my presence." The lies burned on his tongue, but he and Gideon had been unable to come up with another excuse which would provide an explanation for his sudden interest in London society, despite his known aversion to the social round, as well as supplying him with an entrée into émigré society.
He had expected an angry objection from Mademoiselle de la Riviére and he was not disappointed. "Mon Dieu, this is not right! My Papa would never do something like this without warning me in advance! He would not!"
The confused anguish in Stephanie's eyes froze Nicholas where he stood. He understood better than most that deadly undercurrent of danger that pervaded every part of French life, impossible to define, but there nonetheless. Tougher people than Stephanie had cracked under the strain of a life lived with no certainties to fix expectations upon. Obviously, her trust and the closeness she shared with her father were what kept her from giving in to the terror of an unknown future. And he was deliberately destroying that trust. He said woodenly, "The mails are no longer running regularly between London and Paris. Perhaps he sent you word, but it was lost."
To his relief, she accepted his suggestion. "That must be so. Nothing is sacred in France anymore." She smiled gallantly, if a trifle shakily. Nicholas felt his throat constrict.
"Mademoiselle," he began, intending to confess there had been no correspondence with the Marquis. He was interrupted by his aunt, who, for reasons of her own, had decided to accept the existence of the spurious letter.
"Mont Royale was ever a sensible man. Tongues would wag if Nicholas, being an eligible bachelor, were to stay in the same house with a beautiful, unmarried young woman such as you, Stephanie, even though the house is Nicholas's own. Stephanie and I could leave and find lodgings elsewhere in London, of course, but... I must confess that I am loath to leave the comforts of Wroxton House, which has been my home for so many years."
"Are you saying that this is merely a form to appease society?" Stephanie asked, choosing her words carefully.
Madeleine beamed. "Exactly! Stephanie, your father broached the same idea to me, but unsure of what Nicholas's plans were, I had not mentioned it before. Because, you see, if he chose not to visit London this Season the subterfuge would not be necessary."
What the devil! Nicholas thought with asperity. Is Madeleine in on it too?
But the Dowager had her own set of hidden plans, and they had nothing to do with international politics and everything to do with proximity between her nephew and goddaughter.
* * *
Inclement weather was bound to occur during the winter months, and, as Stephanie watched the delicate flakes of wet snow drift lazily down from a leaden sky, she wondered hopefully if the weather was sufficient excuse to avoid the ball being given by the Duchesse d'Arden that evening. In the two weeks since the party that had marked her entry into English society, she had visited more new acquaintances and attended more teas, luncheons, dinners, and evening parties than she cared to remember. The constantly busy schedule had left her, on this dreary day, tired and melancholy.
The article that she had just read on the situation in Paris had not helped improve her mood, either. The newspaper report had told of food riots in the capital, of deputies to the National Constituent Assembly daily becoming more radical in their demands, of a king whose power was draining through his fingers, as inevitably as sand through an hourglass. Though the anonymous writer had deplored all these events, she had sensed that the fellow was smugly pleased that France was suffering through these unhappy times. She could conceive of no reason why any right-thinking person would see the revolution in a positive way, and her inability to understand made her more keenly aware that her different experiences would always make her an outsider in this comfortable, stable nation.
A snowflake hit the windowpane and instantly melted, Stephanie reached up to trace the path of the trickle of water, her expression wistful. Living in close proximity with a man who in many ways typified the best of his nation had shown her just how little she understood these English.
She had seen the Earl surprisingly often during the past two weeks, considering how busy her social schedule had been. Madeleine had taken to eating her breakfast in bed, in order to make the most of the few leisure hours the morning brought, so Nicholas and Stephanie had shared the dining room without the benefit of chaperonage.
There was a certain intimacy in looking at a man across the table first thing in the morning, and it made Stephanie understand why her father had agreed that the Earl should be accorded the honorary title of guardian. Though Nicholas always came to the table dressed in breeches, shirt and waistcoat, he rarely bothered with a coat or, indeed, a neckcloth. There was a seductiveness to the informality that made her more aware of the breadth of his shoulders, not to mention the fascinating shadow of dark hair she could just see curling close to his muscular chest.
Then, too, there were the tantalizing hints of what the man would be like just waking up. Stephanie was a slow riser. She opened her eyes; stretched, then stumbled around until she had drunk a cup of coffee.
At that point, her senses became alert and she was suddenly ready for anything. The Earl, on the other hand, was clearly wide awake before he ever entered the dining room. Stephanie fantasized that he was alert as soon as he opened his eyes, ready for any crisis that might impinge on the safety of those he held dear.
The Earl challenged her on many levels. There were intense
discussions about France, after Stephanie had finally graduated from her state of semi-hibernation into full wakefulness. She would argue passionately, while he teased her with his lazy refusal to alter his liberal English views. He listened to her heated defenses with amusement in his eyes, then countered her arguments with well thought out ones of his own. She could not sway him, and that, too, fascinated her.
At times it was difficult for Stephanie to remember that the Earl of Wroxton was an aristocrat whose lineage stretched far back into England's past. There had been an Earl of Wroxton at the Battle of Blenheim; one Earl had joined Charles I in civil war and had followed his son into exile, only to return in triumph in 1666; another had served Queen Elizabeth; and on back in history.
It was an impressive tradition of service and one Stephanie recognized, for it mirrored that of her own family. The Marquis de Mont Royale was one of the great and powerful nobles whose influence was as immense as the estates they owned.
And yet, Nicholas, Lord Wroxton, viewed his position in a vastly different manner than her beloved father. The difference, she thought now, was more fundamental than natural personality contrasts. The divergent views were fully rooted in the national distinctions between England and France.
No amount of persuasion on her part could make Nicholas accept that the radicalism of the National Assembly would lead to disaster for France, and ultimately for Europe. His stated belief was that the economic and social system in France had become cumbersome, and so unwieldy that it could no longer sustain itself. He actually seemed, like the writer of the article she had just read, to be glad that the revolution had occurred.
With a little sigh, she lowered her hand. The snow was turning to rain, driving away the pristine prettiness of the white snow and turning everything to brown muck. She would not deny that Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton, was an interesting man, but it would not do for her to get a fixation on him. She knew he was more interested in his estates than in politics, or the aristocratic society of the capital—another one of those strange English attitudes she could not understand. In France, a man of his stature and wealth would be doing everything in his power to gain entry to Court circles. Here in England, the same ambition didn't seem to exist. A man might indulge in politics, yes, but if he remained in the country, tending his estates, he was equally respected.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the ormolu clock on the mantel chiming the hour. Five o'clock. If she was to attend the ball given by the Duchesse d'Arden that evening, she would soon have to retreat to her room to dress. The idea did not appeal to her. The Duchesse was one of the émigré community and the talk would all be of events in France. But unlike the exhaustive, stimulating debates she had with the Earl, the conversation would be calm, polite, perhaps vicious, as the anger and bitterness of people resentful of their current status turned outward.
The sound of the door opening made her turn. She watched silently as Lord Wroxton entered the room. He looked a little surprised to find her standing by the window, her dark hair loosely bound, wearing a simple closed robe with little adornment. His brows drew together in a frown.
"Mademoiselle! What a surprise! I had not expected to see you here." Deliberately leaving the door ajar to maintain propriety, he advanced toward her.
Moodily, she shrugged. "The weather is so dreadful that I assumed we would not be going out this evening. I felt no reason to hurry upstairs to prepare for the Duchesse's ball."
Nicholas stopped a few feet from her. As he stood without moving, Stephanie had the sudden thought that he appeared coiled, ready to spring, as if he were prepared to react to any danger—which was absurd, for there was nothing in the house which was harmful. Perhaps it was merely the athletic appearance the riding coat and buckskin breeches with shiny top boots gave him. Still, his proximity made her edgy. She moved to sweep past him, but he reached out and caught her arm in a grasp that was both gentle and unbreakable. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and surprised.
"Have you discussed this with my aunt?"
The urgency in his voice made her pause. Why did he want her to attend the Duchesse's ball? What was so important about this party over the many others they had been invited to this past fortnight and had not attended for one reason or another? "Non. Mais...."
He relaxed perceptibly. Releasing his hold on her arm, he slid his palm down her smooth skin. Catching her hand he held it lightly clasped in his. "My pardon, Mademoiselle, if I seemed overbearing. I only thought you would enjoy an evening spent among your own people."
The slow stroke of his hand on her skin sent shock waves of sensation through Stephanie that made her tremble with pleasure and dismay. She sought refuge in a spurt of temper. "Bah! Tonight there will be nothing but talk of the riots in Paris and how food is dangerously scarce. And there will be glee in the voices of these overfed... They will discuss the King and call him a captive in his own chateau, then speculate on whether or not the mobs will storm the Tuileries, demanding his life. And their eyes will gleam with pleasure and a sick excitement. Vraiment! The revolution is not a game! Do they not understand?" Unconsciously, she clutched the Earl's hand, seeking strength, not caring how much she had revealed in that one brief statement.
He responded by tightening his own grasp. Raising his other hand, he began to stroke the back of her hand soothingly. "They are caught in a web of their own making, with no escape in sight. Of course they understand, but their flight made them exiles, unable to affect the changes occurring in France. All they can do is talk, wish and dream."
Stephanie was watching him keenly. "You pity them."
"Sometimes. In a general way, not an individual one."
She took a moment to absorb his words and the easy, confident way he spoke them. "Do you pity me?" she demanded fiercely at last.
Nicholas laughed softly. Looking deep into her eyes, he observed huskily, "Mademoiselle de la Riviére, the man who pities you would go in danger of his life. I am not such a fool." He paused, then added seriously, "Mademoiselle, I know you to be a passionate and courageous woman. You did not flee France to save your own skin, but to secure the peace of mind of one you love. Should the situation again demand that you act, you would. It is respect I feel, not pity."
As he spoke his voice roughened seductively. Stephanie unconsciously moved closer, swayed by the intensity of his tone. She placed one hand on his chest. Beneath her palm she could feel the steady throb of his heart. "Courageous? Milord, I fear you do not know me as well as you think. I am every kind of coward."
Amusement colored the Earl's inflection as he amended his statement, but something else darkened his eyes. "Perhaps then, I should have said passionate and reckless. Would that suffice?" He raised the hand he still held, lingeringly brushing her palm with his lips.
Stephanie stood stock-still as sensations raced through her. Reckless would indeed be a better description. With her comments and her actions, she had invited this momentary intimacy and now she was not sure how to cope with it. Slowly she stepped back, reluctantly shattering the sensual tension of the moment. Then, although she hurriedly moved closer to the fire, putting the safety of distance between herself and the Earl's potent masculinity, bravado made her cock her head in a flirtatious way as she smiled broadly, showing pretty white teeth. "I will admit to reckless, milord, but only if necessary. Normally, I am the most cautious of souls."
At that, Nicholas's eyes gleamed and he laughed softly. "Indeed, Mademoiselle? In the future I will look for evidence of this trait."
The thought of his probing gaze seeing into her heart filled Stephanie with a delicious dismay that brought forth the very recklessness of which he had accused her. With a little laugh, she drifted close him, ignoring the danger proximity would bring. Reaching up, she touched his cheek with the tip of one finger. He stood very still as she trailed that finger down to his chin. "I promise you will not be disappointed, Monsieur," she murmured in a husky voice. "And now you must excuse me if I am to pre
pare for this evening's ball."
And then she was gone, whisking herself out of the room, appalled at what she had just said and done. Lord Wroxton had coaxed her out of her doldrums, but he had also made her realize that she was far too attracted to him for her own good. She did not know herself, and that frightened her. There were too few certainties in her life for her to lightly lose one of the most basic. She fled to the safety of her room to repair her defenses, aware that the Earl had watched her every departing step.
Chapter 3
Candlelight flickered in the hint of a draft. The sudden shadows added a defiant gleam to Stephanie de la Riviére's dark eyes as she placed, with judicious precision, a patch at one corner of her unsmiling mouth. A quick brush of color on her cheeks with a hare's foot, then a light dusting of rice powder finished her toilette.
"Mademoiselle is perfection itself," her maid said admiringly, as she held up the gown Stephanie had chosen for the evening's entrainment.
Stephanie sat for a moment longer, gazing critically into the mirror. Perfection? She was not such a fool as to accept the flattery of a servant as the truth, but she was satisfied with her appearance this night. Her dark hair had been drawn up into an ornate froth of curls that were powdered to a glossy white, while her healthy pink complexion had been tamed by the administration of another type of powder. Fashion had largely turned its back on the fad that dictated that men and women use powder at every occasion, but for special, very formal evenings, the old-fashioned style remained de rigueur.
Satisfied, she rose and allowed the maid to drape the robin's egg blue silk over her shoulders. She stood still while the girl twitched the folds of the polonaise gown into place over the round hoops that shaped the figured yellow underskirt, then fiddled with the draping of the many ruffles which adorned the hem of the garment. The dress was elegant in a way only a French creation could be—for it was not only the aristocracy who had fled France in the face of an ever more radical revolutionary movement, but those who served them as well.
