"The Gold Room. But when I entered there, Danby was passed out cold and there was no sign of you-" Armande broke off, his gaze flying to her scratched hands. "The open window! You little idiot! You could have broken your neck." He flushed with anger again, but of a far different kind than she had seen upon his face before. She did not feel threatened, although Armande looked ready to shake her.
"I thought that was the idea," she said, although she was no longer so certain herself. Could the most brilliant actor in the world possibly appear as shaken and surprised as Armande did at this moment? She continued stubbornly, "I suppose that if you couldn't manage to ruin me, my death would serve as well."
"Then that was why you placed that ring in my pocket today? For revenge?"
"For protection! Did you think I was going to wait to see what malicious plot you next had in store for me?"
To her astonishment, he smiled, the expression half-rueful, half-incredulous. He covered her hand where it rested on the bed with his own. "Phaedra," he murmured, shaking his head.
She stiffened. “Don't touch me. And don't you dare use my name that way."
But he made no effort to draw his hand back. "Phaedra," he repeated. "Look at me." When she refused, he caught her chin, gently forcing her to gaze up at him.
"Considering what our past relationship has been, the suspicion and the mistrust, I know this will be difficult for you to believe. It was not I who locked you in with Arthur Danby."
"Then I suppose it was mere coincidence you just happened along with my grandfather."
"Yes. It was his idea to see the paintings, not mine."
Phaedra squirmed, feeling more uncertain of her position by the minute. But she continued to argue. "You were the one I heard suggesting that you examine the Titian in the Gold Room."
"I like Titian," Armande said. "We share the same failing-a weakness for tempestuous red-haired women."
He exhaled his breath in a long sigh. "You are an impulsive woman, Phaedra Grantham, with a distressing habit of leaping to conclusions. You sent me to hell and back today."
Phaedra studied him, still not certain if she believed his denial about Danby. But he was not lying about what she had put him through. She could see it in the fatigue etching his eyes. "You couldn't have possibly been frightened when you were arrested," she said. “You said yourself you never were in any danger."
"No danger except for that of encountering old ghosts that I thought to have put to rest. I knew a man once, a friend who was imprisoned." It was the first time Armande had ever volunteered any information about his past.
"And this friend of yours. He died?" she asked quietly.
"Oui."
"At Newgate?"
He stared at her. Phaedra could almost see the walls going up.
"Non. In France, in the Bastille." He gave her a disarming smile, and Phaedra knew he was about to turn the subject. “I suppose there is no point in my asking what you were doing in the Gold Room with Arthur Danby."
"I was not making love to him, if that's what you mean." She flushed, then wondered why she had said that. She became uncomfortably aware of just how intimate it was to be sitting with him upon this bed.
"I didn't suppose you had followed Danby out of any amorous intent," he said. “The man is a dolt. I hope you will be wise enough to place no credence in anything he might say."
Armande moved closer, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. "I wish the mistrust between us could end."
"If only you would not be so secretive," she murmured, knowing she ought to draw away. How easy for her to forget all that had passed between them, to become ensnared by that silken voice.
He pressed soft kisses against both her eyelids. "If only you would not be so inquisitive. If you could trust me enough to believe that I have no desire to harm you."
He laid such peculiar stress on the last word. Then who did he want to harm? The question was swept from her mind as his lips found hers, the contact spreading warmth through her veins. A voice deep inside her cautioned that this could be but another ploy of Armande's. When all else fails, try seduction. Yet despite the gentleness of the kiss, she could sense his longing. For whatever reason, by design or misunderstanding, both of them had journeyed to hell and back today. It was as though he kissed her now to offer comfort, as well as to seek it for himself.
Phaedra ran her hands along the nape of his neck, her fingers caressing the silken ends of his dark hair. When she melted against him, he needed little urging to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth with a kind of lightning-hot sweetness. What had been warmth became fire. He tumbled her back onto the bed, never breaking the contact of their lips.
"Lady Phaedra."
The sound of Lucy calling her struck Phaedra's like a dash of cold water. She felt Armande freeze. In another moment Lucy would enter the garret and find them thus. As Armande wrenched himself away from her, she scrambled up from the daybed, flying over to the door. She held her weight against it as the doorknob turned.
"Milady?"
"Aye, Lucy?" Phaedra asked, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt. "What do you want?"
"Your grandfather is demanding to know what has become of you. He sounds most dreadful angry."
"Tell him I will be down at once."
She waited until she heard the girl's footsteps recede, then leaned against the door for a moment to compose herself. She turned to discover Armande standing and straightening his frock coat. He bore the same look of disorientation-like a dreamer too violently awakened.
She stared from him to the rumpled daybed, hardly able to believe what had nearly happened. It had all been so sudden, the flaring of their passion-like a spark set to dried tinder. But the flame appeared to have died as quickly, leaving her embarrassed and shaken.
It helped to see that Armande was not looking his urbane self, and the smile he gave Phaedra was uncertain. "I am not sure whether we should curse that girl or thank her. It would seem I was nearly the undoing of your reputation, after all."
He strode toward the door where she yet leaned. Was he planning to leave her like this, with no more to say than that? He might attempt to dismiss what had happened so casually, but she could not.
"Armande, I-"
He placed his fingertips upon her lips. "I fear we both have been behaving with less than wisdom, ma chere. Nothing has truly changed. We still cannot trust one another. We will only make matters more complicated by embarking on a relationship sparked by mutual loneliness."
Mutual loneliness. Was that all it was, this attraction between herself and Armande, that seemed both to draw them together and pull them apart?
"I wish I could simply forget." His vehemence startled er, but it vanished as quickly as his passion had done. "But I cannot.”
Forget what? she wanted to demand, watching that shuttered look settling over his eyes. He said, "It is best we continue as we began, keeping each other at sword's length."
"I have every intention of doing so," she said.
He briefly saluted her hand with his lips. They might have parted thus if his eyes had not chanced to meet hers. This pretense could not be maintained. She read in his gaze the single truth that burned between them.
He might make what declarations he pleased. But it could not change what they both knew was going to happen, what had been inevitable from the night they first met.
Chapter Ten
The music gallery’s curtains were drawn, closing out the night, but not the distant rumble of thunder. Phaedra's hands faltered as she ran them along the spinet's keyboard. She wished the storm would break and be done with. The heavy stillness in the skies beyond the shielding of velvet seemed to magnify the tension gathering within her.
Her fingers jabbed at the black and white keys, plunking out a tune from Gay's Beggar's Opera. A song she'd oft played, it required little concentration-which was as well, for she had little to give. Her gaze traveled from the instrument to the man who st
ood half-turned away from her, appearing lost in the study of an elaborately framed work of Salvator Rosa's, mounted upon the walls. The lace tumbled over Armande's wrists and gathered at his throat seemed so at odds with the lean, dangerous slant of his profile. As though he felt her staring at him, he turned to face her. The silver candelabra mounted upon the torchere cast a bright glow, but the tiny flames burned no more brilliantly than what smoldered in the depths of Armande's eyes.
Phaedra's pulse skipped a beat as she felt the embers of a similar fire stirring deep within her. Her fingers stumbled, missing a few notes. Armande had insisted that nothing had changed between them. He was wrong.
All during the course of the long, tedious dinner, a meal they had both left nearly untouched, their eyes had often met, furtive stolen glances as though in acknowledgment of the secret they shared-that sweet, brief moment of passion. It was that secret, Phaedra believed, that prevented Armande from retreating behind his mask of impassive hauteur as he had done before, and shutting her out so completely.
He might deny the mutual desire they had known, declare that he had no intention of ever caressing her again. It mattered naught, Phaedra thought, raising her gaze from the keyboard to find him staring at her. His eyes were telling her something far different.
Her cheeks flushed, her fingers somehow located the right keys to end the song. The last note she struck seemed to reverberate forever in the gallery, resounding off the high, scrolling ceiling.
She had cut the song short, but no one appeared to have noticed. Half-asleep on the bow-fronted chaise, her grandfather's snort startled her. She had all but forgotten that he and Jonathan were still in the room.
Jonathan broke into polite applause while Weylin blinked and smacked his lips. "Eh-what? Oh, yes. Delightful, my dear, simply delightful."
Phaedra dragged her gaze from Armande long enough to stare at the old man. Her grandfather was strangely mellow this evening, all his earlier peevishness gone. He had not even rebuked her for her inexplicable behavior in bolting from the Green Salon. Throughout dinner, he had beamed at her. She could not imagine what she had done to deserve his approbation.
"Play something else for us," Jonathan requested humbly. Her grandfather bolted upright. "What! Nay, it was not that delightful." He harumphed, then struggled to his feet with a wide yawn. "Damnation, how groggy I feel. It is the fault of that port you brought me, Jonathan. Cursed heavy stuff."
"It was far superior to the other lot Scroggins tried to pass off on me," Jonathan said. "The knave! I only dealt with him at all upon Lord Danby's recommendation."
"Danby!" Her grandfather hooted. "You should have known better than to listen to him. That fool'd drink anything."
Phaedra could not help covertly studying Armande to see if the mention of Danby's name produced any reaction. He appeared absorbed in stacking her sheets of music into a neat pile.
"Even Danby would have balked at this wine," Jonathan continued. "Scroggins had sought to make the wine seem more full-bodied by treating it with oil of vitriol."
Weylin shook with amusement. "Hah! That might have made a temperate man of Danby. One glass of that, and I trow he'd have no stomach for another."
Jonathan waxed bitter over the foul tricks he had often detected amongst his fellow merchants, sulphuric acid substituted for vinegar, alum used to whiten bread. The exposing of such deceits held a keen interest for him, one of the few subjects that inspired the quiet man to passion. But he was cut short by her grandfather, bellowing for John to unfold the card table.
Phaedra heard the command with dismay. She had barely managed to get through dinner and her music. How could she possibly spend long hours of card-playing seated across from Armande, half-dreading, half-inviting his glance?
Armande circled behind her. Even the simple gallant gesture of his pulling out her chair so that she could rise from the spinet made her achingly aware of the honed grace of his tall frame.
Jonathan prepared to seat himself at the card table when Weylin prevented him. "Leave the cards to the young people." He rested his hand upon Jonathan's shoulder, giving him a wink. "What say we old men enjoy some of my fine Canary wine whilst I show you the sketches my architect has done to refurbish this room." He made a sweeping gesture of disparagement which encompassed the music gallery's heavy elegance. "It would seem this Roman palazzo stuff is now demaday."
And the heavens forbid, Phaedra thought wryly, that anything in Sawyer Weylin's manor be classified demode- whether he understood the term or not. She fancied that Jonathan looked a trifle annoyed to hear himself described as an ‘old man.’ He cast a wistful look in Phaedra's direction when Sawyer dragged him to the gallery's opposite end.
The music gallery was a long chamber that could double as a ballroom, allowing a dozen couples to perform the gavotte when the massive armchairs, sofas and torcheres were shoved aside. With her grandfather and Jonathan taking a silver candelabrum and ensconcing themselves at the end near the marble chimney piece, she and Armande might well have been left alone.
She seated herself at the card table, avoiding looking at Armande. Her voice sounded unnaturally high as she asked. "What will you, my lord? Piquet? Vingt-et-un?"
"The choice is yours, milady," he replied, settling into the chair opposite her.
"Piquet, then."
Beyond the curtains, the wind whistled and rattled the panes. She donned a pair of mufftees to protect the delicate embroidery of her sleeve hems. Armande's lips quirked into a smile.
"It would seem that I have been left to the mercy of a hardened gamester."
She shuffled the deck with rapid movements, trying to make her voice sound light. "Aye, you shall find me a far fiercer opponent than Charles Byng."
She dealt the cards, then quickly arranged hers, scarcely noticing what she held. Armande fanned his out between his fingers. Moments ticked by without his making another move.
The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Phaedra shifted restlessly in her chair. Armande's gaze at last drifted over the rim of his cards. His blue eyes appeared almost hazy in this soft light. She didn't think he was focusing on her cards so much as dreamily contemplating the curls falling past her shoulders.
Self-consciously, she fingered one tendril and brushed it back."I have dealt the hand, my lord. It is for you to open."
"Is the game to begin with no wagers?" he asked.
"I fear I am not accustomed to playing as deep as you."
"I know you are not. That is what makes any gaming betwixt us seem like I would be taking a most unfair advantage."
When their eyes met across the table, Phaedra was no longer sure they were talking about cards. "I have but little coin for you to take advantage of," she said uncertainly.
"Money is of no value to me. The only wagers worth making concern matters more precious.” He hesitated. “Perhaps a bid for what you desire most in the world."
"What I desire most?" She gave a shaky laugh. "I have never been quite sure what that might be."
"Perhaps that I should leave your grandfather's house and never return."
Once Phaedra had thought so herself, but now- However, she made no attempt to contradict him.
"And you?" she demanded. "If you propose that to be my prize, what do you ask for yourself if you should win?"
He took a long time about answering her. Then he looked up, making no attempt to mask the hunger in his eyes.
"One night with you," he said.
The cards fluttered from her fingers.
Armande's face darkened as though he regretted his reply. He folded his cards, placing them in the center of the table. "It would seem the stakes I set are too high for both of us."
Her hand flashed out, pinioning his atop the cards he sought to abandon.
"Done!" she cried. "I accept your wager." She hardly breathed as she waited for his reaction. She expected him to pull his hand free and withdraw at once. He regarded her impassively, his features so still they might wel
l have been sculpted of marble. But for the muscle that worked along his jaw, she would have had no clue at all as to the struggle that raged within him.
Then he moved her hand from his and gathered up his cards. Her heart hammering, Phaedra did likewise, splaying the small rectangles before her face in an effort to conceal the blood she felt rushing to her cheeks.
What was she doing? The passions seething inside her must at last be driving her mad, just as Ewan had always assured her they would. She tried to concentrate on the cards she held, but they faded before her eyes in a blur of black and red.
The rain broke at last, pattering against the windows. Phaedra dimly noted Jonathan taking his leave and bid him a preoccupied good night. The merciless flick of cards being laid down seemed to cut through all other noise, the rain, the muted sounds of thunder, her grandfather snoring upon one of the settees.
Armande seemed to have recovered his composure. He played with a grim intensity, yet continued to lose points. It was some time before the truth occurred to Phaedra. He was throwing the game by design.
But it had been he who had proposed the wager, and the desire firing his gaze was so heated, she did not doubt it was real. Was his present behavior prompted by gallantry or some other, darker apprehension she could not begin to understand? If he lost, did he truly mean to honor the bet and leave, never to return?
Phaedra reached for the pack and drew out an ace. Now she was almost sure to win both the next trick and the game. She risked a glance at Armande. He appeared too absorbed to notice anything she might do. With all the deftness Gilly had taught her, she slipped the card into her mufftee.
She drew again, and almost cursed aloud at the perversity of fate. What must the odds be against turning up another ace so soon? With a quick movement, she sent the card to lodge with its fellow up her sleeve.
She finally succeeded in pulling the right cards to sabotage her hand. When Armande revealed his, she laid out her losing sweep with a kind of defiant triumph. His impassive expression did not change, but when she scooped up the cards to deal again, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist. She had no time to protest before his fingers delved into her mufftee, producing the missing aces.
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