by Maggie Dove
Her gaze traveled back to the viscount. In less than a week, she would elope to America, and she would never see him again. He would never tease her again, never hold her like this.
Dejection suddenly overwhelmed her, threatening to strangle the very air from her throat. Swallowing hard, she bit back tears. “Please excuse me. I must go now,” she said, drawing away from him as she struggled to control her feelings.
A puzzled expression crossed Nicholas’s chiseled features. “It’s early. Didn’t you challenge me to a game of chess?”
“I’m going to bed, monsieur,” Angelique replied, turning her back to him. “Good night.”
Jean-Claude laughed. “Tell us, Lord Kent. Do you have this effect on all your women, or is it only our petite soeur who must run for air when you place a kiss on her forehead?”
“Only her,” Nicholas replied absent-mindedly as he watched her leave the room.
* * * *
Late Friday night, Nicholas watched Angelique in the courtyard for some time before making his presence known. Shadowed by bougainvillea vines, he leaned against a stone pillar and studied her closely, wondering what the devil was going through her mind.
A war of emotions raged within him as he recalled the events of the evening. He had been prepared to partake in one more heavy French meal at yet another overly decorated castle with many of the same acquaintances he had gotten to know during his stay at Château Beauvisage. Instead, the Lumiet dinner party had been a fiasco.
Although the young Frenchman had sat at the far end of the table, and they had not exchanged a single word, having recognized him as Angelique’s doting beau, Nicholas had had his evening ruined by the mere presence of the nitwit.
After the coach ride home, he had retired to the study with a bottle of whiskey and had guzzled down half of it within the hour. Unfortunately, the whiskey had not dulled his anger one bit. In need of air, he had gone for a walk in the gardens and had come upon Angelique sitting alone in the courtyard.
Damn, the duplicity of the woman! Nicholas thought as he continued to observe Angelique, her features softened by the glow of moonlight and her long golden tresses shimmering in the light’s reflection. Their many hours together had made him forget what this enchantress was actually plotting to do to him. But seeing the Frenchman tonight had brought it all back. Apparently, their time together had changed nothing.
The laughter and ridicule at Nicholas’s expense between Angelique and her Frenchman weeks before in that very spot jabbed at him. And tonight, the furtive looks exchanged between them from across the dinner table only served to confirm that the couple was still planning to elope.
“Over my dead body,” he snarled aloud, stepping from behind the bougainvilleas.
Startled, Angelique looked up. “Nicholas? Is that you?”
Nicholas walked toward her. “What are you doing here all alone, Angelique?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Something weighs heavily on my mind,” she replied, giving him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but instead mirrored sadness.
The vulnerability reflected in her anguished green eyes made him wonder. For an awkward moment, he sensed her despair. Could she be having second thoughts about leaving him at the altar?
Bloody hell, he cursed silently, wishing he could read her mind. Although he did not want to concede her to the Frenchman, if Angelique was prepared to tell him the truth, he would grant her whatever she desired. And, contrary to what he had voiced earlier, it would not necessarily have to be over his dead body. He would call off the wedding, no matter how lucrative the venture, or how beautiful he thought her to be.
“Angelique, is there something you need to say to me?”
“Oui,” she admitted, patting the empty space beside her, motioning for him to join her.
Towering over her, Nicholas did not move. “Well?” he asked, not quite certain what he wanted to hear. A part of him wanted her to admit her deceit. This would prove that she cared enough about him not to play him for a fool and that these weeks together had meant something to her as well. But putting his pride aside, he was not ready to hear her confession. This would mean he would have to give her up.
“If there is something weighing on your mind, tell me now, Angelique. Are you happy with our arrangement?”
As he waited for her answer, he watched the play of emotions on her face. He did not have to wait long. Angelique took a determined breath and her back stiffened. Recognizing the familiar stubborn set of her delicate jaw, he knew that her next sentence would be a lie.
“Monsieur, it’s nothing. Oui, I’m happy … I’m very happy!” she said finally, her tone a little too eager. “It is just that since we’ve had such a short time to plan the wedding, I do not know if my wedding dress and trousseau will be to your liking.”
Damn the lying chit! Nicholas repressed the urge to strangle her, completely amazed by the agile workings of her mind. Leave it to her to invent such rubbish.
Swallowing down an expletive, Nicholas isrefused to listen to more of her lies. Tossing aside the half-empty bottle of whiskey he had been holding in his hand, he grabbed the small of her waist and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. “Don’t say another word, Angelique,” he ordered gruffly. “If you’re so happy with me … then show me.”
“Show you? Nicholas, you’ve been drinking—let go of me!”
“We’ll be married in less than a week. If you’re so damned happy … why wait? It won’t make a difference.”
Angelique realized the meaning of his words and tried to pull back, but he would not have it. His free hand went to the base of her neck and roughly tugged at the ribbon that held her hair in place. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and along the front of her blouse. The anger in his eyes made her flinch.
“Surely, you’re not suggesting that we … not before the wedding. Nicholas, I can’t—I won’t.”
“Why not?” he asked tersely.
“You’re drunk!” She tried to push him away from her. “You’re scaring me—you’re holding me too tight!”
Nicholas ignored her anguished pleas; his hand gnarled itself between her hair and scalp as he none too gently brought her head up closer to him. “I’m not drunk, Angelique. I know exactly what I’m doing. Do I scare you?” he asked tautly. “Why should you be scared? You want to marry me, remember?”
Shifting his thighs, his hand moved to her buttocks, hauling her against his hardness. He molded her to him while disregarding the gasp of outrage that burst from her lips at being placed so intimately against him. His cold, angry eyes bored into hers, never wavering as his mouth descended upon her in a punishing kiss.
Turning her head from side to side, she tried to evade his mouth. “Keep still,” he warned, tightening his grasp, restraining her head. Then to her further indignation, he clutched her cheeks between his fingers and constrained her mouth fish-like to his, again forcing his lips on hers. His cruel, hard lips slanted over hers until she could bear it no longer.
Mon Dieu—he was drunk and he was furious with her! Why? What had she done to make him so angry? They had hardly spoken a word since their arrival at the Lumiet dinner. Henri’s presence at the table had stifled any conversation she might have had with Nicholas or with anyone else. The shock of seeing Henri had kept her preoccupied and distressed throughout the entire evening. She could hardly recall how she had managed to get through the dinner and the coach ride home without losing her composure.
“Open your mouth, Angelique,” Nicholas coaxed, deepening the kiss.
At first, she fought him, tightening her lips, refusing to allow him entry, but as his tongue pried her lips apart and the velvety smoothness intimately probed the inside of her mouth, his odd behavior and the reasons behind the forced, turbulent kiss began to matter less. She felt herself responding.
Dragging his mouth away from hers, he lifted his head to stare down at her. His eyes bore into hers with a passion she was powerless to resist. She melt
ed against him, her body eager to surrender to his masterful seduction.
“You want me, Angelique,” he drawled. “Don’t deny it.”
“Oui,” she answered breathlessly. “I do.”
A husky, satisfied grunt exhaled from Nicholas’s throat. He kissed her again, and as he tasted her thoroughly, his hand moved to her breast, and his fingers began unfastening the buttons of her blouse.
Angelique returned his kiss—lingering, savoring every moment. He was far from gentle, but she no longer cared. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers entwined in his black hair. “Nicholas,” she panted, wanting this to go on forever. But all too soon, the cool night breeze and the feel of a rough, manly hand on her exposed breast slammed her back to reality. “Nicholas, stop! We can’t,” she cried out. “Please stop!”
He released her abruptly, causing her to stagger back. Mortified, she attempted to cover her nakedness, concealing herself from his view.
“Bloody hell, woman,” he cursed. “What kind of game are you playing with me?”
She did not reply. Teary-eyed, she turned and ran toward the château.
In dark silence, Nicholas watched her go. A short while later, his heavy uneven breathing slowly returned to normal, but he still ached for her. Never before had a kiss unsettled him so. After Clarissa, he had never again succumbed to a woman’s seductive chicanery, but tonight he had fallen victim to Angelique’s charms. He had been obstinate to all but his desire to quench the desperate thirst that had plagued him for weeks.
Recalling the anguish in Angelique’s eyes, an inner torment began to gnaw at him. He had never acted that way toward a woman before … never manhandled or taken a woman against her will. Guilt and remorse pricked his conscience, but he quickly dismissed those feelings. He was furious with himself for having treated her like a common whore, but he was more furious with her for having lied to him and having teased him in order to run off with her Frenchman. She would stop at nothing.
Damn her and her blasted games! He would not waste feelings on her—not even anger. Intent on speaking with her brothers, Nicholas checked his pocket watch. He cursed himself as he approached the library, knowing his decision tonight would forever keep Angelique from sharing his bed. The ache he had for her would never be satisfied.
* * * *
His features greatly flushed by the amount of brandy consumed during the evening, Jean-Claude glanced at the Empire-style clock by the mantelpiece. “It’s two in the morning, I’m going up.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” Pierre objected. “Not until I bring you around. Marianne’s father will not allow her to attend Angelique’s wedding without her cousin, Cecile.”
“Forget it, Pierre. I won’t be forced to spend an entire evening with this girl simply because you fancy her cousin. Never again shall I allow you to set me up.”
Jean-Claude chortled, remembering the timid and plump, pimple-faced young lady his brother had insisted on introducing to him during last year’s orange grove fest. “I haven’t seen Cecile Pesant since her departure to that silly Parisian charm school two years ago. She was quite the scrawny child then. I doubt she’s changed much.”
“That’s not so. I saw her recently.”
Suddenly the door swung open and Nicholas appeared in the doorway.
“I know about Angelique’s lover,” Nicholas announced. His words were more a growl than actual words, but their awful significance caused one brother to choke in mid-sentence, while the other spilled his brandy all over himself. Their jovial mood turned to one of shock.
“What is it you know, my lord?” Jean-Claude asked cautiously. “Angelique has no lover. We can assure you of that.”
Pouring himself a glass of brandy, Nicholas gave a sarcastic grunt. “Cut the bull. You’re both aware of him. And you were none too happy when he showed up tonight at the dinner table.”
Pierre’s wide-eyed stare turned from the Englishman to his own brother and back again. “But you were not formally introduced to him. Jean-Claude made certain of that by keeping him at the other end of the dining table. Did Angelique actually tell you about him?”
Brandy glass in hand, Nicholas sat on the sofa and stretched his legs before him. “She didn’t have to,” he replied. “I have eyes.”
“Exactly what do you mean by that, monsieur?”
“I saw them in the courtyard—the first night I arrived at the château. I don’t mind saying, it was an interesting welcome I got from her. Memorable, in fact.”
“Perhaps she was only saying her farewell to him? After all, she’s to be married to you.”
“Farewell?” Nicholas laughed cynically. “Some goodbye, considering they were plotting their escape to America. They’re to sail for New Orleans, while I’m to be left standing at the altar on the very next morning. The fool has actually booked passage on one of my ships.”
“Merde alors! Pierre, she intends to elope,” cursed Jean-Claude. “Are you certain, absolutely certain, you heard correctly, my lord? We have never known her to be so underhanded … so sly. I sincerely apologize for our sister.”
“Nicholas, she does not love the man,” Pierre insisted. “They’ve known each other since they were children. It is of no importance.”
“Tell that to her,” Nicholas grumbled, stifling a yawn. “It didn’t look like child’s play to me.”
“If I can ask, my lord, how is it that you’ve known of this plan since your first night here and have said nothing until now?”
“I thought I could change her mind. I was wrong.”
“Apparently, so were we,” Pierre admitted. “We thought once she married and lived in England she’d forget all about Bertrand.”
“Bertrand? Is that his name? Well, he can have her. In fact, he’s welcome to her.”
“Maman won’t stand for it. Angelique will be treated miserably once you are gone.”
Nicholas’s eyes squinted into slits of contempt. “Your maman can go to the devil.”
“It’s a pity the wedding is off, but I can’t blame you for not wanting to go through with it,” Jean-Claude conceded.
“Who told you the wedding is off? On the contrary,” Nicholas proclaimed darkly, before gulping down his brandy. “Now I shall give her no other option but to marry me.”
Jean-Claude’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand, my lord. You say Henri can have her, and then you say she is to become your wife. Which is it, Lord Kent? Will you or won’t you marry our sister?”
Nicholas put down his brandy glass. “Both.”
* * * *
The Bertrands’ taste in books left much to be desired, Nicholas thought while leafing through the latest Amanda St. John novel. He couldn’t decide which was the more offensive, the entire collection of St. John novels stacked neatly on the shelf or the elaborate surroundings, which resembled more a house of ill-repute than a respectable library.
The two purple settees with bright yellow and orange cushions and the hand painted pictures of plumed ostriches on the flaming-red walls were as displeasing to the eye as Bertrand’s high-pitched whining was to the ear. What the hell could Angelique see in this chump? he wondered as Henri, his face red, his teeth gnashing, rose abruptly from behind Alain Bertrand’s gold inlaid ebony-lacquered desk.
“You’re mad—all of you. What made you think I would partake in such a farce? Get out!” Henri ordered, shaking an angry finger.
Earlier, after being formally introduced to his rival, Nicholas had stepped back and watched in silent amusement as his brothers-in-law attempted to convince the Frenchman. But that was over an hour ago, and that French fop of hers was still sputtering insults at them. Now Nicholas was beginning to feel trapped in the tinseled study, his patience was wearing thin. He should have known. What else could he have expected from a man who wore knickerbockers and lace to breakfast?
“Henri, sit down. You have no other choice but to do as we suggest,” Jean-Claude urged. “The ship on which you have booked passage is
one of his.”
“His ships are not the only ones that travel to America. I will simply book passage on another. Do not think I will allow my Gellie to marry that … that … get out of my house before I set Alain’s Great Danes on you!”
Casually, Nicholas looked up from the novel. His eyes traveled to the gold-trimmed, plush red velvet curtains that hung above two large stained glass windows, depicting—bloody hell—of all things—cherubs entwined with snakes. He cringed. Damn, the room was flamboyantly decorated, much like the pompous ass who presently ranted before him, he thought, smirking.
