Secrets to a Gentleman's Heart (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 1)

by Samantha Grace

  The clothes he’d been wearing when he’d arrived at Wedmore House were hanging in the wardrobe. They smelled freshly laundered, much to his appreciation. He would have nothing else to wear on the journey home. All of his belongings had remained at the boarding house when he’d been snatched outside of the gaming hell.

  Mrs. Zachery might have tossed everything in the rubbish bin by now, or perhaps she no longer ran the house, but he needed to pay a visit to his former residence. Money and his letter of introduction to prove his identity were hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his old bedchamber. He would have to take his chances that he could gain entry into the boarding house because stealing jewelry from the Darlingtons was no longer an option.

  A feminine clearing of a throat caused him to turn toward the doorway. The Darlingtons’ maid stood in the threshold with one hand over her eyes. A progressive blush invaded her cheeks. “I came to set out your clothes, sir.”

  “I found them. No need to bother.”

  “Yes, sir. I will inform Miss Darlington.” She whipped around and practically dashed from the room.

  Xavier smiled knowingly. It seemed he’d shocked the women earlier with his state of undress, which had been his aim. Not that he made a habit of such behavior. It had been a risk considering Miss Darlington believed he’d come to Wedmore House with the intention of seducing her, but he’d needed to convince her that he had enough water. She’d been so damned determined to fill the tub, and sitting by feeling useless while she exerted herself hadn’t set well with him.

  Xavier retrieved his drawers and trousers from the wardrobe and proceeded to dress. As he pulled the shirt over his head, a soft knock sounded at the door.

  “Are you decent, Mr. Vistoire?”

  This time it was Miss Darlington standing in the doorway with her hand over her eyes.

  “Oui. Yes.” Sometimes he reverted to his native tongue without thinking, which he’d come to learn the English did not appreciate. “Thank you for the bath. I feel much better.”

  She dropped her hand to her side. “Splendid.” A pair of scissors dangled from the hand she hadn’t used to cover her eyes. “Are you ready for that haircut, sir?”

  “By you? What do you know about cutting a man’s hair?”

  She sniffed and crossed to the desk in the corner to pull out the chair. “I’ll have you know I’m excellent with a blade.”

  “That is not reassuring.”

  Patting the chair rail, she offered an angelic smile. “Come sit. I will be gentle.”

  Despite his initial hesitation, he couldn’t resist her summons. He’d grown to crave her touch, even though he could not allow it to show, or she would raise her guard again.

  He sat in the chair and tipped his head back to see her standing behind him. “Just a little off the top and sides, and I prefer to keep my ears intact.”

  To his surprise, she smiled and tugged his ear. “These old things? It is not as if you use them. You certainly didn’t bother earlier when I told you to wait on the side of the bed.”

  “If I’m to receive a lecture, I withdraw my request. Please, take them off first.”

  “I should just to spite you.” Her mischievous smirk and irreverent teasing endeared her to him even more.

  She draped the bath sheet over his shoulders, and he sank against the seatback. He’d missed the companionship of women. Not just the physical connection, but also their gift for banter and conversation. He’d especially come to enjoy Miss Darlington’s company over the past few days. She was quick-witted and challenged him in a way no other lady ever had. He admired her mettle.

  She retrieved a comb from the desk drawer then moved back into position behind him. Xavier closed his eyes as she drew the comb through his curls. As promised, she was gentle, even when she encountered a snarl. Pleasing tingles cascaded down his back and arms.

  “I could have cut my own hair.” His protest lacked force.

  “I cut my own hair once,” she said as she took the first snip. “It was a disaster. Believe me, you are better off allowing me to perform the task on your behalf. You may shave yourself, though.”

  Xavier melted beneath her hands, savoring the scent of her soap on both of them. It was as if they’d shared the tub.

  Sacre blue. Now he couldn’t strike the vision of her naked and straddling him from his mind. And his imagination ran rampant. Warm bath water streaming over and between her small breasts, nipples as rosy pink as her lips, erect and begging to be licked. Passion smoldering in her amber and green eyes. Her elegant fingers skimming his chest, her nails grazing his skin.

  God, he had to stop thinking of her in that way. He was getting hard and the extra room in his borrowed trousers wouldn’t disguise it much longer. Shifting his position on the chair, he tried to think of something witty to say, but he found he was tongue-tied.

  “We are almost finished,” she murmured as she came to stand between his legs. Her concentration never wavered from her task, but all he could focus on was her nearness. He wanted to touch her so badly he ached. Blood pounded through his veins. She swayed closer, lifting to her toes to reach the top of his head. Her breasts were level with his face and the damned spicy sweet smell of her soap filled his lungs. He grasped the seat of the chair, his spine rigid, and battled against the temptation to embrace her.

  Her gaze strayed to his face and she drew back. “What is it? Are you feeling ill?”

  He shook his head, uncertain if he should explain or allow her to believe he wasn’t feeling up to snuff.

  She furrowed her brow. Her hands drifted down to her sides. “Your face is flushed. You are not well. Let’s put you to bed.” Turning, she placed the comb and scissors on the desk, and when she reached for him, he captured her hand. Her eyes flared as she locked gazes with him.

  “Miss Darlington, I’m well. I swear it to you.” He stroked his thumb across her knuckles. “This is difficult—being close to you. I find you very tempting, but I promised to behave as a gentleman, and I intend to keep my word.”

  “Oh.” She eased her hand from his light grasp and backed toward the desk to perch on the edge. Her mouth opened and closed. He hadn’t suspected she would ever be at a loss for words, but he appeared to have caught her by surprise. After a while, she regained composure. “May I ask a question, Mr. Vistoire?”

  He inclined his head.

  “You mentioned plans to travel to New Orleans. Do you have a home there?”

  “I do.” He settled against the seatback, more at ease now that she’d recovered her ability to speak.

  She tipped her head to the side and regarded him with tiny creases marring her brow. “You don’t sound like any American I have ever encountered.”

  “French is the predominant language. Besides, I am Creole.”

  “Creole.” She drew out the word, rolling it around on her tongue. “What is Creole?”

  “It means my ancestors settled New Orleans. My family has been there for a century.” He held his head higher. “I am eager to return. I’ve been away from home a long time.”

  “How much longer will you be in London?”

  “I will book passage to New Orleans as soon as I leave Wedmore House. My sister needs me, and I have responsibilities for a ward, my young cousin.”

  “I see. I thought perhaps if we met outside Wedmore House, we could pretend this never happened. We might even strike up a friendship.”

  He didn’t try to rein in a pleased grin. “Surely you aren’t developing a tender spot for me. Are you, Miss Darlington?”

  She wrinkled her nose and a corner of her lips twitched as she fought back a smile. “You really are as mad as a March hare. I’m quite certain I despise you.”

  He laughed, realizing she teased him. If it were possible to remain in England, he would be pleased for them to become better acquainted. He suspected they would get on very well, if she could truly forgive him.

  “I am sorry for the strain I placed on you and your family this week
. I had a moment of weakness. I am deeply ashamed of my behavior.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “People make mistakes. Thank you for keeping your word and behaving yourself.”

  Her gaze lingered on him as she twirled a loose strand of silky hair that had fallen from her coiffure. Her unselfconscious boldness was intoxicating, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her onto his lap and ravishing her.

  “What will you do now that you’ve abandoned your wicked ways, Mr. Vistoire?”

  “Oh, I’m not giving up my wicked ways,” he said with a wink. “Just breaking into homes.”

  Her eyes shone brightly when she smiled, warming him from the inside out.

  “I’ll send Joy in with a razor, so you can shave.”

  Still smiling, she whisked from the room

  Seven

  Regina ran through the drills Uncle Charles had taught her, punching the wall mounted sandbag in patterns of three. High, high, low. High, low, high. Low, low, high. Hit after hit without pause. But no matter how many times she struck the bag, she couldn’t erase the sensation of Mr. Vistoire’s thumb having stroked across her skin.

  Her heart banged against her ribs as much from the man as from her exercise. The memory of his smoldering eyes, raw with desire, refused to vacate her mind. She drew in a choppy breath and tried to deny her own excitement, but her body was more honest. Every inch of her was awake and tingling as if she had a sort of itch that she didn’t know how to scratch.

  She was also aware of how ridiculous her reaction was. Mr. Vistoire would find any woman foolish enough to enter his bedchamber tempting. He was a man, after all, and a self-proclaimed rake. He wouldn’t be particular about his choice of bed partner. Yet, when she’d stood close to trim his hair, he had wanted her. Her stomach fluttered in acknowledgment of the truth.

  Xavier Vistoire was dangerous to her future. A simple caress had given birth to a rather pesky question. Could she remain content never knowing the pleasure of being loved by a man?

  She dropped her hands to her sides with a loud exhale. “Oh, what does it matter?”

  Spinsters did not think on such matters, and even though she wasn’t quite on the shelf, that was her aim. It was best not to indulge her curiosity. She would be smart to avoid him the rest of his stay.

  Unfortunately, no one had tended to him since Evangeline delivered a supper tray to his chamber a couple of hours earlier, and Regina was the only one home. She’d managed to beg off attending the opera with her aunt and sisters, but she wouldn’t be allowed to bow out of evening entertainments much longer. Aunt Beatrice had given her the sour-faced look when she’d asked to be excused that afternoon.

  It was a well-known fact among Wedmore House residents that tight, puckered lips from Auntie signaled unpleasant things to come. While she was a cheerful companion most of the time, one didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a lecture from Auntie. She spoke her mind freely, and even though she was never cruel, she often had a lot to say. She could hold court an hour at a time. If she ever learned about Mr. Vistoire, Regina and her sisters would be gray before they heard the end of it.

  Yes, an intelligent young woman would stay away from a man who excited her imagination.

  The house creaked as it settled, and she resumed her drills, wishing wisdom wasn’t such a boring virtue. She pummeled the bag as fast as she could, striking in patterns of three and tossing in an elbow to break the monotony. When the men’s shirt she’d donned grew damp and clung to her, she ceased her exercise, leaning one hand against the wall and panting.

  “He doesn’t appear to be talking.” Mr. Vistoire’s voice cut through the quiet. She jumped and swung toward the doorway. He was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms casually crossed and a wry grin on his cleanly shaven face. “Would you like me to take a go at him?”

  “Pardon?”

  He pushed off the doorjamb and nodded toward the sandbag. “I thought you were trying to extract information from the chap. Beatings seem to be the English’s preferred method of loosening one’s lips.”

  She couldn’t refrain from returning his smile as he neared. Without his beard, his defined jaw was no longer hidden, and his nose—even in its imperfection—appeared regal. “And how do the Creole loosen one’s lips?” she asked.

  “The right way, Miss Darlington.” He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel his body heat. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath for a different reason. Xavier Vistoire was a stunningly handsome man in a way her countrymen were not.

  “What is the right way to extract secrets?”

  He leaned close to her ear but seemed to take pains not to touch her. “With kisses,” he whispered.

  The wisp of his breath danced over her skin. She shivered.

  “Oh.” Her voice was thready. “I can imagine how that might be effective under certain circumstances.”

  His self-satisfied grin caused her knees to wobble. “It’s a trick handed down from my French ancestors.”

  When he withdrew completely, she fought the impulse to grab his jacket and pull him close again. Jacket? She blinked and stepped back to run her gaze over his attire. “You are dressed as if you are leaving.”

  He shrugged, his smile seemingly tinged with regret. “It’s time for me to go.”

  Earlier, she’d thought she wanted to hurry him on his way, but now the thought of him leaving caused her to feel slightly adrift.

  “Perhaps you should recuperate a while longer. You were only able to leave your bed today.” Yes, that was exactly what he needed. More rest. She took his arm to guide him back to his room, but he resisted.

  He covered her hand, the heat of his skin against hers searing. “Miss Darlington, I am grateful to you and your sisters for your compassion and care, but it is best for everyone if I go. I’m sure you would like to resume your life.”

  Until the Season ended, she had no life of her own. Returning to the marriage mart was a waste of time, and dealing with loathsome men like Lord Geoffrey was making her miserable. She’d already chosen her path, and it did not involve marriage or leaving her kin.

  “Resume my life,” she muttered, bitterness seeping into her words.

  “Oui, you should have more time for this.” He gestured to the sandbag then her trousers. “Uh, what is this, exactly?”

  Her face flushed as she considered what he must think of her dressed in men’s clothing and glistening from exertion. Until the tussle with Lord Geoffrey, she’d kept her unladylike pursuits private. But Mr. Vistoire wasn’t glaring at her with disdain as Lord Geoffrey had done. He appeared genuinely interested.

  “Wing Chun,” she said. “My uncle learned it while traveling in the South Orient. He has practiced the ancient warrior arts since before I was born.”

  “Fascinating. And he allowed you to learn? That is rather unconventional.”

  Regina chuckled at his diplomatic response. “Yes, that does describe Uncle Charles. He taught me himself—for protection.”

  Mr. Vistoire’s eyes narrowed. “Protection from whom? Did someone try to hurt you? The bastard best have swung from the gallows.”

  She shook her head, lowering it to hide evidence of the flush of pleasure on her cheeks. “No one wished to hurt me. I had an active imagination as a child. After our parents were killed, I was afraid the murderers would come for my sisters and me. Uncle Charles tried to reassure me, but I refused to believe we were safe, so he taught me what to do if anyone did mean to do me harm.”

  “Your uncle sounds like a wise man.”

  Her head shot up to determine if he was laughing at her, but he simply regarded her with his intense green gaze. She’d made the mistake of confiding in her uncle’s godson once when they were children. Crispin had scoffed and called her ignorant.

  The blackguards are across the Irish Sea. They cannot walk on water, and they haven’t a pot to piss in. How are they going to pay for passage on a ship?

  Uncle Charles must have overheard the
m talking because he’d made Crispin do extra drills while she watched and corrected his mistakes. A hard pill to swallow for a boy on the cusp of manhood. Neither of them had held a grudge against the other, and they had been back on friendly terms the next day.

  She smiled at Mr. Vistoire for reminding her to be grateful for her unique upbringing. “Uncle Charles is wise without letting on he is trying. When reassurance was ineffective, he gave me something better: control. I didn’t need to rely on someone else to save me when I could save myself. My fears went away as soon as I knew what to do if those men ever did come for my sisters and me.”

  “Your uncle possesses the best type of wisdom, it seems.” He smiled, too, and nodded toward the sandbag. “I’ve never heard of Wing Chun. It must be a well-kept secret.”

  She turned back toward the bag when he approached it. “You aren’t going to kiss it, are you?” she teased.

  He laughed before lightly punching it and glancing over his shoulder at her. “If you refuse to tell me more, perhaps I’ll have to kiss the secrets out of you.”

  Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find her voice. The only secret he was likely to discover was that she wanted him to kiss her. She blinked, breaking eye contact, and eased away a couple of steps.

  “It is said Wing Chun was created by a woman, an abbess, who came upon a white crane fighting a snake. The goal is to deflect an attack and strike hard when your attacker can be caught by surprise, so you may escape.”

  Fittingly enough, the legend said the abbess Ng Mui trained a young woman to fight in the ways of Wing Chun in order to defeat a local warlord who was trying to force her into marriage. It seemed overbearing lords were not unique to modern London. Only a young lady’s privilege to challenge the ne’re-do-wells had gone by the wayside.

  Mr. Vistoire held out his hand as if requesting to escort her to a ballroom dance floor. “I would love a demonstration, if you please.”