Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  He snapped his fingers for a servant and requested that another chair be placed at the table. Ashford protested.

  "This table is limited to ten, my lord. I fear you will have to find another place."

  Nicholas raised one black brow as he gazed dispassionately at the other man. "I think not, Ashford. This is the table where I plan to play. It is your charming self I desire to compete with, you see. My expertise against yours, so to speak."

  Ashford reddened. He looked beyond the Earl to Tony Baxter and vented his embarrassment on that gentleman. "Had to run to your important cousin to make things right, did you, Baxter?"

  Tony's hands clenched into fists. "You will be sorry for that statement, Ashford!"

  Nicholas put a restraining hand on Baxter's arm. "Don't let this gentleman bait you, Tony. He is only trying to divert the focus of our discussion. I suspect he does not feel himself competent to face an opponent of equal capabilities."

  The words were tantamount to calling the man a coward. Stephanie, a forgotten observer of this confrontation, listened with a deep and growing satisfaction. The Earl was deliberately finding cause to argue—or fight—with Lord Ashford. Clearly, he understood the treacherous tangle of pride and stubbornness that had trapped her into continuing the game, even after she had realized that she was betting wildly. In taking Ashford to task, he was allowing her to ease out of an impossible situation, even as he was defending her honor to a man who evidently had none of his own.

  A comforting warmth stole through Stephanie's veins as she watched Nicholas's thin, handsome features and listened to his deep, silken voice. The Earl of Wroxton could be the most annoying man alive at times, but he had a quiet strength and iron-hard determination that she could not help but respect. It would be so very easy to allow herself to come to rely on him in every situation.

  Mrs. Freelander's butler brought Nicholas the requested chair himself. He did not want any trouble and the atmosphere around this particular table was dangerously tense. Moreover, the confrontation had attracted the attention of other gamblers. "My lord," he murmured, placing the chair. "Pray be seated. I am sure the others will be glad to have you join them." He drifted to the other side of the room where he could appear busy, yet keep a wary eye on the table.

  Nicholas settled himself with a thin, dangerous smile. "Well, Ashford, shall we play?"

  An hour later, Stephanie's markers were mostly in front of the Earl and Ashford was virtually out of funds. In fact, he was writing his own vouchers for those who were willing to take them. Nicholas was not one of them.

  In the distance, the sound of violins stopped. Polite clapping followed, signaling the end of the concert.

  Nicholas bundled up the slips of paper and pushed them into the pocket of his satin coat. Nodding to the other players, he said, "If you care to present Mademoiselle de la Riviére's promises to me in the morning, I shall be glad to retrieve them. Good evening." He held out his hand. "Mademoiselle, if you will join me? The concert is over and our carriage will be waiting."

  Her eyes glittering with dangerous pleasure, Stephanie nodded. She had been largely a spectator during the last hour. Consequently, though she had had losses, they were not now as monumental as they were before Nicholas had arrived. With his every winning bet, her enjoyment of the game had risen geometrically, for she counted each win as her own small victory. As she had watched Ashford's pile of winnings dwindle into nothing, it seemed to her that she and the Earl were linked in a partnership and she savored the joining with a sweet, feminine pleasure.

  And so, as they left the room, her hand on the Earl's arm, she squeezed his hard flesh conspiratorially. "We made the odious Monsieur Ashford squirm, did we not, milord?"

  Nicholas looked down into her mischievously pleased features. Her dark eyes gleamed with the delighted sparkle of victory torn from the jaws of defeat. He felt his breath catch in his throat at her beauty, and had to remind himself that he was in London in order to catch a spy, nothing more.

  Almost instantly, his sense of humor corrected him. For the duration of his visit he had taken on the self-imposed duty to protect Stephanie de la Riviére from her own impulsive nature. "Yes, Mademoiselle," he said with an inward sigh, "we did indeed make Monsieur Ashford squirm."

  * * *

  The Library at Wroxton House was welcoming to Nicholas when he paused there to relax with a brandy after he returned with Stephanie and his Aunt Madeleine from the Freelander's musical evening. The quiet allowed him to assess such problems as the serpentine path being trod by his quarry, the Vicomte de St. Luc, and the impulsive actions of Mademoiselle de la Riviére.

  As the Season passed, his observations of the Frenchman were slowly coming together into a pattern. Once he was sure of the man's connections, he and Gideon could spring a trap that would send the Vicomte back to France with his tail between his legs. Nicholas tossed a log on the fire and watched the wood flare into life. St. Luc was, at the moment, a known quantity. With careful surveillance, he would be dealt with in the fullness of time. Of that, Nicholas was certain. What he would do with Mademoiselle de la Riviére was an entirely different matter.

  Stephanie was proving to be more of a handful than Gideon could ever have imagined when he had suggested the guardian arrangement all those weeks ago. At the time, Nicholas had been dubious. He had had little more than an evening and a morning's experience of the lady, but even so, he had been pretty certain that she would not tamely submit her conduct to any man's ruling.

  Time, he thought with rueful amusement, had proved him right.

  Stephanie's presence in his house might indeed have given him an acceptance in the émigré community he could never have otherwise achieved, but his observations of St. Luc had shown him that the man spent as much of his time in English society as he did among the French. And Nicholas was fairly certain that the Vicomte would use a soirée or ball given by an English hostess to make the contact to pass on the information he was selling.

  Whether or not the guardian arrangement had been a good idea was now immaterial. Stephanie was living in his house, unsettling him with her presence and embroiling him in her mad schemes. Since her midnight rendezvous with St. Luc, Nicholas had come to realize that Stephanie de la Riviére was a woman whose impulsive nature was unfortunately allied to a flaring courage that did not understand the meaning of danger. As bright and brave as the lady was, she needed someone with a more sensible head to look after her.

  And, while she was in England, the job had fallen to him.

  Nicholas dragged his gaze away from the mesmerizing effects of the fire. An image of Stephanie, her expression full of delight as they had left the Freelander house, had been playing in the dancing flames, warming him from inside, as well as out. He shook himself moodily. Damn the woman for imprinting herself on his thoughts and feelings.

  He wandered over to the console table on which were displayed fine crystal decanters and crystal glassware etched with the Wroxton crest. He poured brandy into one of the delicate snifters and drank deeply. After refilling the snifter, he went back to the fire, where he settled into a comfortable wing chair and stretched out his long legs. Leaning his head back wearily, he thought, with a wry smile, of the conversation with Gideon when he had first returned from France.

  Then he had been tired, weaker than he realized from his wound, his thoughts gloomy, and his image of the future bleak. That day he had outlined a sensible plan to arrange the kind of marriage he had always expected for himself. At the time, he had been sincere in his intent. Now, fully engaged in unmasking the contemptible St. Luc and in looking after the impetuous Mademoiselle de la Riviére, he realized that he was not yet ready for the somber bonds of matrimony.

  Marriage, to Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton, was an alliance entered into by two people of good family in order to augment wealth and position, and to provide children to carry on the family line. In short, it was a business arrangement in which there was no room for the more passionate emotions.


  The woman Nicholas had imagined himself marrying was a hazy blur with no face or form, for he had always assumed that the wife he chose would be a quiet, retiring creature who would organize his household, arrange whatever parties and social events were necessary, bear his children, and keep out of his way—except, of course, when it was necessary that they be together.

  It occurred to him that it was the exasperating Mademoiselle de la Riviére who, through her vibrant personality and impulsive nature, had driven this fantasy of a peaceful, undemanding existence completely from his thoughts. In the past weeks, she had so successfully taken up residence in his mind that there were times when he was more interested in looking after her than in his primary duty of watching St. Luc. Like this evening, for instance, when he had seen St. Luc safely settled in the card room and promptly gone off to locate the lovely Stephanie.

  But he was grimly aware that there was a huge difference between fascination and commitment. Stephanie would one day make some man a tempestuous, tempting, trying wife, but not him. When the time was right, he would choose a sensible woman to share his life, a woman who was a study in grays and faded browns, not the vivid, fiery colors that were Stephanie de la Riviére. Marriage was an end, not a beginning, submission to a responsibility, not an indulgent pleasure.

  So why, he asked himself, twirling the snifter of brandy as he leaned closer to the flames, had he been so outraged this evening when none of the men in the card room had attempted to keep the immoral Ashford from abusing Stephanie's innocence? Why was he blinded by jealousy at the thought of her going to that viper, St. Luc, for aid, instead of to him? Why did the sight of Stephanie dancing with other men, laughing up into their faces, obviously enjoying their company, make him seethe inside? Even when the man was someone as solidly respectable as his cousin, Tony Baxter?

  His hand tightened on the stem of the snifter, cracking it with the force of emotions racing almost out of control. In a furious movement, he tossed the snifter into the fireplace, where it shattered on impact. A brandy-soaked log hissed and a piece of heated crystal popped like the report of a gun.

  Nicholas stared grimly at the leaping flames. Mademoiselle de la Riviére had gotten under his skin in a way he had never expected. The lady was dangerous, even more dangerous than the odious Vicomte de St. Luc. If he had any sense, he would make sure his guard was well up when he dealt with Stephanie de la Riviére in the future.

  If he had any sense...

  Chapter 6

  The events of Lady Freelander's musical evening lingered in Stephanie's mind. She had thought it would be so easy to win the money she needed at cards, but she had soon learned that games of chance, like anything else, required certain skills—skills that she did not have. Would the outcome of the evening have been different if she had known the rules of the game?

  Of course. When the Earl had joined them, he had played with the calm ruthlessness of an expert, and he had won substantial sums. Not only had he retired her markers, but he had also accepted the promises to pay off several of the other players, not to mention the gold that had been pledged at the beginning of the game.

  With the clarity of hindsight, Stephanie accepted the fact that she had lost at cards because she had not prepared in advance. But wagers were still there to be made, with immense amounts of money waiting to be won. In her mind, logic joined with rashness in a creative marriage that turned the events of Lady Freelander's evening ninety degrees in the opposite direction. The resulting plan, which would have terrified the Earl had he known of it, seemed eminently sensible to Stephanie.

  If she had lost at cards because she did not know the rules, she would learn them. Once she felt capable of winning, she would try again. Not, she decided practically, in the card room of a private party where she would be observed by all, but at one of the many gaming hells that abounded in London. Disguised in a mask, she could then play as long and as deep as she wished.

  There was one drawback to her sensible plan, she decided. Who would she find to teach her the finer points of pharo and piquet?

  Her first choice was the Earl, for with Nicholas tutoring her she would learn quickly and well. Moreover, to have him aid her in acquiring the skills she needed to win a fortune would only be just. After all, it was his intervention in her plot to sell her jewels that had driven her to this path. Though he had an annoying habit of interfering in her plans, he had captured her thoughts so totally that she had all but abandoned her scheme to seek out a husband in the émigré community. To be with him as often as this plan would require made her smile at the tantalizing potential.

  Reluctantly, though, she acknowledged that this was naught but a pleasant daydream, as impractical as it was seductive. Lord Wroxton, far from aiding her in her plan, was much more likely to disapprove of the scheme. Or worse—to do everything in his power to thwart her.

  But, if Nicholas would not help, then who amongst the small circle of people she trusted could she find to teach her games of chance? Inadvertently, Lady Wroxton planted the seed of an idea one day at luncheon.

  "Bonjour, Tante Madeleine." Stephanie breezed into the dining room, bringing with her the fresh spring sunshine as she bent to kiss the seated Countess on the cheek.

  "Stephanie, my dear. Have you had a pleasant morning?"

  "Mais oui," Stephanie said, rounding the table to take her place. "I went to the park with Mademoiselle Grant and Milady Gallaton. It was very pleasant." As she sat down, she smoothed the leaf-green petticoat of the caraco dress she had worn for walking outdoors. "And you, Tante? Did you sleep well?"

  Madeleine emitted a ladylike sigh. "At my age it is impossible to sleep deeply, dear child. My slumber is light and without much comfort, for my bones protest if they remain in one position too long. But enough of that. I prefer to turn my thoughts to happier topics." Her dark eyes twinkled. "I noticed you danced several times with Lord Mannerton at Lady Clyde's party last evening. He is an exceptional gentleman, I believe. Did Nicholas tell you about him this morning?"

  Stephanie pulled apart a freshly baked roll with a little more force than was needed. "Milord Wroxton did not come down to breakfast this morning." Dismayed by the note of irritation in her voice, she abandoned the roll, fiddling instead with the forest green sash at the waist of the sprigged muslin jacket that was the bodice of her gown. The truth was that she had come to rely on the Earl's shrewd assessments of people and events. Though she often disagreed with him and they argued freely, he helped her put both the news from France and her experiences in England into perspective.

  That morning, she had looked forward to discussing the previous evening with him. As Madeleine said, Lord Mannerton had been most assiduous in his attentions. Despite her hints, the man refused to be discouraged. Stephanie didn't dislike Lord Mannerton, but she did not want to encourage him, and she was hoping that Nicholas would have some ideas on the subject. He had been most helpful in the past, when she needed such advice.

  Secretly pleased with the note of pique she heard in Stephanie's voice, Madeleine continued serenely, "He comes of ancient stock, you know. There have been Brackens at Mannerton Hall since before the Tudors. The title was bestowed by King William, for the family's support of him in the Glorious Revolution. The present baron would be an excellent alliance for your family, I think."

  Stephanie's eyes flashed and she said passionately, "I could not commit myself to any man who does not understand intimately how the current troubles have changed life in my country. Lord Mannerton might come of respectable stock, but he lacks the experience, non, the caring, I require. He does not read the newspaper or speak of current politics. Mais non, he talks only of the architectural merit of his fine manor house and the quality of his objets d'art! Bah! Does he think I am a barbarian who has never heard of Sevres china? Or of the painter Van Dyck? Or that I do not understand what Chinoiserie is?" She paused to draw a deep breath. "Of the Englishmen I have met, I find Lord Mannerton to be the most unpleasantly insular
. I much prefer the company of Monsieur Baxter or Milord Wroxton. At least they understand who I am and what my country is!"

  The teasing twinkle in the Dowager's eyes turned thoughtful. "My poor Stephanie. I did not know you found English gentlemen so difficult to accept."

  "It is not that I do not accept them, Tante Madeleine. It is that they do not accept me!" She smiled a little shyly. "With Milord Wroxton I can speak freely. We rarely agree, but he appears to enjoy our debates as much as I. As for Monsieur Baxter, he reminds me of Paris, for he has the charming words and the gracious ways of a true Frenchman."

  Madeleine said slowly, "Tony is indeed a delightful boy, yet we all worry about him. He spends too much of his time gambling," she added gently, "That is not a habit I would willingly see you indulge in, Stephanie."

  Stephanie's eyes opened wide. "A habit? You may rest assured, Tante Madeleine, that I do not intend to gamble in a regular way. But, I thought, you see, that it would be wise for me to know how to play. Should I find myself in the position of becoming involved in a game again, you understand."

  For a moment the Dowager's shrewd eyes twinkled, then became serious. "The best defense against becoming ensnared in the toils of gambling fever, my dear Stephanie, is not to play. If you do not know the rules, you can hardly join in, is that not so?"

  "Oui, I suppose that is true, but—"

  "Thus, should you find yourself in the awkward position of being invited to join a table, you may excuse yourself without shame. No one will fault an innocent girl of your breeding for such a cause."

  Stephanie smiled and agreed. However, she made a mental note to speak privately to Tony Baxter before the week was out.

  * * *

  "How kind of you to ride with me, Cousin Tony," Stephanie said, as she drew her handsome bay mare from a spirited canter into a walk.

  Tony Baxter shot her a quizzical look. Stephanie was the picture of a fashionable lady, from her elegant violet riding habit, the jacket and waistcoat cut in imitation of a man's suit, to her curly beaver hat with a deep, round crown. His experience of elegant gentlewomen like Stephanie told him that her opening remark was not as sweetly innocent as it seemed. "I could hardly have refused the request of my cousin's ward," he said cautiously. "Especially when the invitation contained a cryptic message that intrigued me, even as it forced me to exercise all of my rusty mental processes."