SWEET SEDUCTION
Brie stared at Dominic, her heart pounding in her throat. The flickering firelight accented the hard masculinity of his carved features.
His thumb swirled lazily against her palm. "You know I want you," he murmured, his voice low and caressing.
The husky tone sent shivers up Brie's spine. She wanted to look away, to break the spell he was weaving around her, but her eyes seemed to be locked with his. Mesmerized, she nodded wordlessly.
Dominic reached up to stroke her cheek. His touch left her breathless, and when his gaze settled on her lips, Brie found herself unable to move.
Taking his time, Dominic ran his fingers through the burnished flame of her hair. Then, cradling the back of her head, he drew her closer. His lips touched hers softly at first, in a tantalizing butterfly kiss, and her token resistance soon faded beneath his gentle persuasion.
She felt herself losing all sense of reality, yet all her senses seemed infinitely sharper. She pressed closer against his hard, lean body, wanting something more from him but unable to name what it was . . .
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1987 by Anne Bushyhead
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
First printing: June 1987
Printed in the United States of America
CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Candy and Vickie for the stars;
To Loretta for the rarest of wines;
To Paula and Marcy for the music;
And most of all,
To Jay for the romance.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
France, 1792
Although the fire in the grate burned steadily, its flickering light presented only a feeble challenge to the deepening shadows of the bedchamber. No candles had been lit to ward off the approaching dusk, nor had the velvet hangings of the windows been drawn against the night air.
Suzanne Durham failed to notice the increasing gloom, however, as she knelt before the hearth. Such things hardly mattered when her safe, serene world had shattered like fragile crystal in the space of a few days. Dead! Her mother was dead. And now it seemed her father's desire for revenge would result in another life lost. At the very least there would be bloodshed if a due! took place in the morning. Yet there must be a way to prevent it from happening!
Suzanne bent her dark head and clasped her hands, but she found herself unable to pray. Apprehension overshadowed even her grief as she remembered her father's rage that afternoon. Shivering as if the warmth of the fire were insufficient, she drew her shawl more closely about her slender shoulders. When a log became dislodged and crashed in the grate, she started violently and stared at the exploding shower of sparks. Then rising, she began to pace the floor, her black silk skirts rustling with each agitated step.
She paused from time to time, tilting her head to one side to listen intently. Where in God's name was Katherine? Would she never come? Together they might think of a way to avert the impending duel and thus prevent another tragic death.
At last Suzanne heard the anticipated footsteps. When the chamber door opened, she gave a sob. "Katherine!" she cried, flinging herself into the arms of the middle-aged woman who entered. "Where have you been? I have been worried to distraction, not knowing where you or Papa had gone."
Katherine pulled back, frowning. "Suzanne, please. This behavior is unbecoming." Her efficient gaze swept quickly around the room. "Why, whatever are you doing alone in the dark? Come, my dear, sit down."
Not waiting for a reply, she led Suzanne to a chair, then busied herself lighting the candles and removing her cloak. When she finally turned to the young woman, though, Katherine paused. Seeing Suzanne's pinched, white face, she felt compassion wring her heart. The girl was so young, so innocent. Certainly she didn't deserve to suffer such anguish.
Coming to stand before her, Katherine took Suzanne's chilled hands in her own. "My dear, we must talk. I fear what I have to say will come as a shock to you so soon after losing your mother. However . . ." She hesitated, gazing at the beautiful young face. "However, I must return to England. All the arrangements have been made. The coach leaves in a few hours. I should reach Calais by—."
"You cannot mean it," Suzanne protested, her dark eyes widening in fear. "You mustn't leave me, Katherine. I need you."
Katherine attempted to smile. "I know, my dear. But there is no possibility of my staying. Sir Charles—"
"What has Papa done? Don't tell me he has dismissed you. He cannot. I won't allow it."
Gripping the girl's hands, Katherine gave them a little shake. "Suzanne, you are behaving hysterically. Now listen to me, I beg you. Permit me to speak without interruption. This is difficult enough, so please do not make it any harder for me."
When Suzanne bowed her head submissively, Katherine continued with her usual briskness, although her tone held deep regret. "Yes, I have been given my notice. But Sir Charles was correct in his actions. You will return to school shortly and will have no need of me. The fact remains, however, that I am not fit to chaperon you. I was negligent in my duty to your mother, I will be the first to admit. As Lisette's companion, I was the one closest to her. Had I . . . had I been more on my guard, she would still be alive today."
Suzanne looked up in bewilderment. "How can you say that? You could no more have stopped Mamma than you could have commanded a butterfly to be still. I loved her, Katherine, but I wasn't blind to her failings. She was beautiful, but so very temperamental. If you must find fault, then blame my father. He was the one forever dashing about the continent, leaving poor Mamma alone. Why, he barely arrived in time for her funeral yesterday! Don't look so shocked. I am no longer a child. I can see things clearly. And now," Suzanne added bitterly, "now Papa has dismissed you, all because of Mamma's stupid letter. Heaven only knows what he intends for the comte!"
At the mention of the letter, Katherine's face drained of all color, her aging skin appearing harsh against the starkness of her black gown. "Dear God," she breathed. "How do you know about the letter?"
Freeing her hands, Suzanne rose and resumed her pacing. "I was outside the study this afternoon when you and Papa were arguing. After you left, Papa discovered me behind the stairs where I had hidden. He started shouting at me, brandishing the letter in my face, demanding to know if you had shown it to me. That was nonsense, of course—you never even mentioned it. Papa was hardly coherent, but I gathered somehow he thought Monsieur Philippe responsible for Mamma's death. Oh, Katie, it was horrible! Papa kept saying over and over again that the Comte de Valdois was a murderer who had defiled the Durham honor. And then . . . then I said things I should not have said. I told Papa he was mad, that the comte would never have hurt Mamma. Papa was furious when I defended Philippe. I couldn't stop him from storming out of the house."
Suzanne whirled to face the older woman, tears glittering in her eyes. "Kather
ine, I am so afraid! I know Papa means to challenge the comte, and I've been trying and trying to think of a way to prevent them from dueling, but I don't know how. I will never, never forgive Papa if he hurts Philippe!"
Appalled, Katherine sank into the chair Suzanne had vacated, closing her eyes. The girl could not possibly mean to take the comte's side. Or could she? Suzanne Durham was the product of a self-centered English father and a beautiful, aristocratic French mother. By nature, she was generous and loving, but she could also be stubborn and passionate. And she was no longer a mere child, Katherine reflected. At seventeen, Suzanne was both old enough and naive enough to fall prey to the handsome Comte de Valdois. She had always had something of an infatuation for their titled neighbor, in fact, but since she had frequently been away at school, her attraction had never developed into anything serious enough for concern. Until now. Now Suzanne was defending that terrible man.
Yet how could she have known what the comte was like? It had only been a short time ago that Katherine herself had considered the French nobleman no less than the gallant gentleman he appeared. Katherine had even felt sorry for him when his English wife had deserted him earlier in the year. Indeed, Philippe Serrault, the Comte of Valdois, had fooled them all with his elegant manners and devasting charm. Especially Suzanne's mother, Lisette. How foolish Lisette had been! Katherine's stomach churned as she recalled what had happened. Thank God Suzanne had been well chaperoned during her infrequent visits home.
"Suzanne, you must have nothing more to do with the comte," Katherine said abruptly.
Her voice, so unaccustomedly sharp, made Suzanne stare. "Why? What has he done?" Katherine's reply was a shudder.
Dismayed to see her pallor, Suzanne knelt before the older woman and began to rub her worn hands to return the circulation. "What did the letter say?"
Katherine shook her head. "I cannot tell you." Placing a hand protectively on the girl's dark hair, she held Suzanne's gaze. "I wish you to trust me, dear. It is better that you do not know. I can only say that your father has been deeply hurt. I cannot blame him for the anger he feels."
Suzanne's brows drew together in puzzlement. "You would condone the comte's murder? Papa will kill him if he can."
"Your father's honor is at stake," Katherine replied, looking away.
Suzanne pulled back and leapt to her feet. "What is honor, compared to a life? They will duel and Philippe will be killed! And . . . and what of his son? What will become of Dominic if his father dies? Can a seven-year-old understand the meaning of honor? Poor child! His mother an English witch who abandons him, and now this. No, Katherine. There has been one death too many. We must find a way to prevent the duel."
Katherine shook her head. From what she had heard in the village only a short while ago, there would be no duel. "Suzanne, your father has not challenged the comte. He has . . . submitted evidence to the authorities. The comte will be arrested."
Suzanne stared at Katherine in horror. "Arrested? But they will take him to Paris. He will be condemned to die without even a trial. No, I must warn him!" Not even waiting for a reply, she ran to the door and threw it open.
"Suzanne!" Katherine cried, coming to her feet. "Suzanne, I beg you, come back!" Her anguished words only echoed eerily as a rush of cold air invaded the chamber and made her shudder. "Dear God," she whispered. Then realizing she couldn't allow the girl to go rushing off like that, at night and alone, Katherine picked up her skirts and hurried out of the room.
Suzanne had already left the house and was racing across the rear lawn. She avoided the stables, heading for the woods that separated the Durham and Valdois lands. A narrow footpath led through the forest there, and she intended to save precious minutes by taking the path, rather than having a horse saddled.
When she reached the woods, Suzanne plunged recklessly into the dense vegetation and was immediately forced to slow her pace. Although it was autumn, the trees had not yet shed their leaves, and the light from the thin sliver of moon barely penetrated to the forest floor. Silver-black shadows danced all around her, making it impossible to see the brambles and low- hanging branches that choked the path.
The heavy growth impeded her progress as she tried to run. Gnarled roots and sharp rocks caused her to stumble; tough bark and prickly vines tore at her clothes and hair; branches lashed the tender skin of her face and hands. But she was oblivious to the pain. Her only thought was to go to the comte and warn him.
She was terrified to think what would happen if she were too late. Her sheltered life had not pretended her from learning what was happening elsewhere in France. The country was being swept up in the violent destruction of a long-abided social order. Chateaus were being burned to the ground by oppressed peasants, while noble families were driven from their homes and herded like animals into carts bound for Paris prisons. And in the capitol, hundreds of leagues away, the hideous instrument of the New Republic, La Guillotine, performed its grisly duty day after day without discrimination for the innocence or guilt of its victims.
For months Suzanne had listened to the horrible tales that filtered into the select boarding school she attended—tales of riots and massacres, of seething mobs demanding the country's noblest heads. But until now such incidents had touched her well-ordered life as only an extremely unpleasant dream might, and she had innocently clung to the belief that the horrors would soon end.
She had been shocked to be summoned from school in order to attend her own mother's funeral. Lisette Durham's death had not been remotely connected with the revolution, but it had brutally awakened Suzanne to what was happening around her. The revolution was spreading. Like a voracious predator, it was creeping across France, engulfing the country and its people. And now her father had harnessed the beast for his own purposes! She had been right to fear the hatred and rage she had seen burning in Sir Charles' eyes, even if she had mistakenly assumed he would abide by the strict codes that governed affairs of honor.
Suzanne's breath caught on a sob as she considered what would happen if she failed to reach Valdois in time. She had heard few people ever escaped with their lives once they had been imprisoned. Some simply rotted in the filthy cells where they had been incarcerated, while most felt the deathly caress of the knife. No matter what the comte had done, he didn't deserve such a fate.
Blindly, she raced on through the forest, while throbbing shafts of pain pierced her sides and her breath came in ragged shudders. Stumbling once again, she lost her balance and fell to the forest floor with an impact that left her stunned. She lay there a moment, her face pressed into the dirt. But her determination, born of fear, gave her the strength to clutch at a tree limb and drag herself from the ground.
For what seemed like an eternity, Suzanne compelled her legs to move. At last, though, she reached the end of the path that gave way to the side lawns. Beyond were the elegant, formal gardens and the magnificent Valdois chateau.
Suzanne drew up, gasping for breath, unable to go farther for a moment. When she recovered, she began to run again toward the great house. She could see a strange, flickering light coming from the front lawns, and it drew her like a strong magnet.
Threading her way past beautifully clipped hedges, she rounded the corner of the house, then stopped abruptly. Staring at the flaming scene in horror, she fought the scream that tore at her throat. She was too late! The drive was crowded with horses and soldiers, some of the men carrying pitchforks or other crude weapons but most brandishing firearms. Philippe Serrault, the Comte de Valdois, stood at the foot of the stone steps, his arms pinned roughly behind him by two of the soldiers.
Suzanne had a clear view of Philippe's proud profile, for his face was illuminated by torchlight. He held his dark head high, almost arrogantly, as he demanded to know the charges brought against him.
The captain of the troops swaggered up to the comte and spat on the ground at his feet. "Citizen, you no longer have the right to demand anything. Sacre! You aristos think you own the world. Mu
ch good the world will do you when you no longer have your head." Laughing at his own jest, he spat again. "But I will tell you," he added with obvious relish. "You are charged with acts of treason against the New Republic of France."
The comte raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "You know as well as I that I have committed no crimes against your precious Republic."
The grin of malicious enjoyment spread across the captain's face as he fingered the hilt of his sword. "But there is more. Citizen. You are also accused of the murder of Madame Lisette Durham."
Unable to move, Suzanne watched in frozen silence. She expected the comte to refute the accusation, but, oddly, he didn't appear to be surprised by the charge of murder. He only stared coldly at the captain. Just as Suzanne was about to take a step closer, however, the comte spoke again, asking who had accused him. Suzanne clearly heard the captain's reply.
"Why none other than the late woman's daughter," the man taunted. "Mademoiselle Suzanne has denounced you as a murderer and a traitor."
It was a moment before Suzanne understood the implication of what he had said. Then she gasped, realizing what her father had done. Sir Charles had used her name because she had tried to defend the comte!
"No," she cried, "it isn't true!" Outraged, she sprang forward, pushing her way through the crowd and startling the soldiers with her sudden appearance. The sneering grin on the captain's face vanished as she thrust herself in front of him. "You cannot arrest Monsieur le Comte," she insisted. "He has done nothing."
The captain glared at her as if he would have liked to make her disappear. "You should not have come, mademoiselle. We already have your signature on the arrest warrant."
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