Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1)

by Bronwyn Scott

  She understood maintaining the ruse was a great sacrifice on Antoine’s part, too. If he allowed everyone to know his injury was lingering, he could go about publicly in his chair, or with his manservant. He could attend musicales and plays, the opera, picnics even. But to do so would mean the end of the salle and the end of their income. Ironically, without income and means there would be no social invitations to such events. They would be nothing more than the impoverished children of a dead vicomte. It was not a bargain Antoine could afford to make. So in exchange for social security, Antoine had fashioned a secretive, reclusive life for himself—a life that consisted of his family home, the elegant Hôtel Leodegrance in the sixth arondissement, his father’s salle and his sister’s well-being; three things only after a life that had been full of so much more.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Alyssandra bowed her head. She had been selfish last night. She should not have kissed Haviland North. She should have resisted the temptation to seize a little pleasure for herself when Antoine could seize none. All the choices he had made had been for her, for them. She should do the same. They were all each other had left. Perhaps that was what was worrying him this morning—a fear of losing her.

  The very thought of having caused him such pain when he already had so much to bear made her chest tight. She’d not thought in those terms last night—indeed, she’d hardly thought at all in Haviland’s arms. She rose and went to Antoine, kneeling at his side and taking his hands in hers, tears in her eyes. ‘I will not leave you. I promise. You mustn’t worry about that, never again.’

  Antoine placed a hand on her head. ‘I know it’s hard and I know it’s unfair to ask you to stay,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what it costs you. You could be out dancing every night. What would become of me without you? I am afraid I’m too scared to find out, but perhaps I won’t always be. Maybe some day I’ll find the courage to let you go.’

  She shook her head in denial. ‘You must never worry. You are my brother—’ Hurried footsteps interrupted her. The butler stepped into the room. She rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘What is it, Renaud?’

  The butler drew himself up, trying with great effort not to look disturbed. ‘There is a gentleman downstairs. He is asking to see you. He has given me his card.’ The butler handed it to her, hiding a very French sneer of disdain. ‘He’s English.’

  Her initial reaction was one of relief. No one was asking to see Antoine. People had stopped asking to see Antoine years ago at home. The story about facial scars had worked well in keeping people away. But the sight of the name on the card put a knot in her stomach that curled right around her buttered toast. She passed the card silently to her brother. Antoine had been right. It hadn’t been just a kiss. The kiss had become an invitation to seek her out and he had. Haviland North was here, in a home that hadn’t seen a visitor in three years.

  ‘You’d better go down.’ Antoine handed the card back to her.

  ‘Take him for a walk through the back garden or over to the Luxembourg Gardens. That will look civil enough.’ What he meant was ‘normal’ enough and it would get North out of the house, away from any telltale sign of Antoine’s incapacity.

  Antoine glanced at Renaud. ‘Did he say anything about the nature of his business?’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  But Alyssandra knew. She had no illusions as to why he had come. He was here to make her accountable for last night.

  * * *

  ‘You played me false last night.’ Haviland announced the intent of his visit the moment she stepped into the drawing room. This was not a social call and he would not treat it as such by dressing it up as one, nor would he allow her to escape the reckoning he’d come for. It would be too easy to forget his agenda in those deep-brown eyes, too easy instead to remember those lips on his, the press of her body against his.

  He’d come as early as he dared in hopes that morning light would mitigate his memories of the midnight garden and show them to be just that—fantasies exaggerated by the lateness of the hour and his desire for distraction. He’d also come early simply because he wanted the situation resolved. Resolution would determine his next course of action.

  He might have come earlier if finding the house had been easier. No one at the salle had been eager to give up the address, directing him only to the sixth arondissement. No one, not even Julian Anjou, had refused him outright, of course. They’d said instead in the indirect way of the French, ‘The master does not receive anyone.’ Haviland had been forced to rely on general directions from merchants and shopkeepers who recognised his description of Alyssandra and eventually made his way.

  Alyssandra gestured to a small cluster of furniture set before the wide mantel of the fireplace. ‘Please, monsieur le vicomte, have a seat.’ He grimaced as she returned to formality as she had at the last in the garden. ‘Shall I call for tea or perhaps you’d prefer something more substantial? Have you eaten?’ The formality and now this. It was a deft reprimand regarding the hour of his call.

  Haviland shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was sit and eat. He understood her strategy. If he was determined to not make this a social call, she was determined to do the opposite. A social call required a different set of rules, polite ones. He was intent on something a little more blunt, a little more direct.

  She sat and arranged her skirts, the unhurried movements calling attention to the elegant slimness of her hands, the delicate bones of her wrists. Haviland could not help but follow her motions with his eyes. She was in no rush to answer his accusation and her sense of calmness rather took the wind out of his bold claim. He’d expected the passionate woman of last night to leap to her own defence and deny him. He’d expected her to engage him in a heated argument at his charges of duplicity. She did neither.

  She arched a dark brow in cool enquiry as he sat. ‘You are disappointed? Perhaps you thought to make some drama of this?’

  ‘I do not appreciate being toyed with,’ Haviland said tersely. ‘You did not tell me who you were.’

  She dropped her lashes and looked down at her hands as she had last night and, like last night, she was only playing at being penitent. ‘I did not think it mattered so much at the time. We understood one another, I thought.’

  Inside the drawing room perhaps they had understood one another. They had made eye contact, she’d given him tacit approval to approach, to flirt. At that point, a name had not been of issue. ‘It mattered a great deal in the garden,’ Haviland answered, his eyes resolutely fixed on her face, watching for some reaction, any reaction that might give her away, daring her to lift those deep-brown eyes to his. She was far too serene for his tastes. He wanted her agitated. She’d kept him up all night, damn it.

  She did lift her gaze, a worldly half smile on her lips to match the hint of condescension in her eyes. ‘Then I kissed you and apparently that changes everything for an Englishman. Are all of you so chivalrous? Tell me you’ve not come to propose marriage to atone for your great sin.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of kissing women whom I do not know. That makes me particular, not chivalrous,’ Haviland corrected. She was mocking him and he didn’t care for it, although he recognised it was an offensive move of some sort, a protective strategy, something to put him on the defensive much like a reprise in fencing after an attack has failed. He recognised, too, that she would not be much help in supplying the answers he wanted without his asking directly. ‘Are you his wife?’

  She made him wait for it, studying him with her eyes, letting precious seconds pass before she uttered the words, ‘No, I’m his sister.’

  Haviland felt the tension inside him ease. One mystery solved, but another remained. He asked his second question, the one that mattered more in the larger sense. The first question had been for his private pride. ‘You knew who I was last night the moment you heard my name. Why did you pretend otherwise?’

  ‘You promised me sanctuary in exchange for my secret.’ She stood and pier
ced him with narrow-eyed speculation. How had he lost the upper hand? She had played him and now, somehow, he was the one in violation.

  ‘Is this how an Englishman keeps his word? By interrogating a lady?’ Her retort was a powerful dismissal. Manners dictated that he should rise, too, but he knew where that would lead if he didn’t change the direction of this conversation. It would lead to farewell and he had not yet got what he came for. Her manoeuvre had been skilfully done. She’d put his own leave-taking into motion, taking control of the interaction out of his domain.

  Haviland rose. He was skilful, too. He wasn’t going to be outflanked. He smiled charmingly. ‘You are right, of course. My curiosity has got the better of my manners. I can do better if you would give me a chance. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the park? It’s a lovely day, and I’d prefer not to walk alone. Or should I ask your brother?’ He did not think she needed the approval. He’d added the request for formality’s sake. He didn’t want to risk angering the eccentric Leodegrance. It was also a goad. She wouldn’t refuse a dare. She was old enough to make her own decisions as she’d exhibited last night. A woman who kissed like that didn’t live under her brother’s thumb.

  ‘There’s no need to ask him,’ she said too quickly. ‘I’ll send for my hat and gloves.’ He was not prepared for the odd look that crossed her face ever so briefly. Was that fear? Anxiety? She was hiding something, that much was clear. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that she hadn’t told her brother she’d met him last night. And perhaps it was something more. Maybe Alyssandra Leodegrance was a woman with secrets.

  Chapter Seven

  In for a sou, in for a livre. Alyssandra drew a deep, steadying breath and slipped her arm through his with a confidence comprised mostly of bravado. She couldn’t cry off now for at least two reasons. First, she’d promised her brother she’d keep Haviland close even if the two of them disagreed on the method. Second, Haviland had come back for more. Coming back had been the plan since the moment she’d put on the blue dress. She’d not flirted with him for the simple prize of a single night and a few stolen kisses. She’d played for bigger stakes and she’d got them in spades. The only surprise was how early he’d called. He’d wasted no time coming back for more.

  That in itself was impressive. It was something of a feat for him to have made it this far. ‘How did you find our home?’ she asked as they made the short walk to the park. ‘It’s hardly common knowledge.’ For an outsider, was the implied message. There were plenty of people who knew where they lived. The hôtel had been in the Leodegrance family since the sixteen hundreds. But everyone who knew them knew Antoine did not receive visitors. It was difficult to imagine which of their acquaintances would have given up that information to an Englishman. His only connection to them would be through the salle d’armes and while his skill was respected, he was still an outsider. Surely, no one there would have told him.

  ‘By trial and error mostly. Shopkeepers.’ His eyes rested on her. ‘I did not think it would prove to be such a secret.’

  ‘My brother likes his privacy,’ she answered shortly, making sure he heard the warning in that and the caution not to come again. Visitors were not welcome.

  ‘And you? Do you like your privacy as well?’ Haviland was probing now and not so subtly.

  ‘When I want company, I go out.’ Her retort was pointed, in the hopes of dissuading him from pursuing this line of question. It would be a good time to let the subject drop. They’d arrived at the wide gates of the Luxembourg Gardens, and there was a small crowd of people to navigate: nannies with children, children with kites and boats for sailing in the fountains. She was conscious of Haviland’s hand moving to the small of her back to negotiate the knots of people at the entrance.

  Even the smallest, most mundane touch from him sent a jolt through her. Some men just knew how to touch a woman. Haviland North was one of them. Etienne’s touch had been comfortable, but nothing like this. If a simple touch from him could ignite such a reaction, it made one wonder what other more intimate touches could do.

  ‘Like last night?’ he said once they’d found their way clear of the people at the entrance. Touches like last night? Those had certainly been more intimate. It took her a moment to remember where they’d left the conversation. Then she realised with no small amount of disappointment he was not talking about touches, but about company.

  ‘Did you come looking for me or for any company in general?’ His tone was edged with ice. He’d misunderstood her answer. He was thinking she was a loose woman, looking for intimate male company whenever and wherever it pleased her. She wanted him to be warm and charming as he had been last evening, as he had been before he knew who she was and everything had turned into a fencing match of the verbal variety. Her identity had made him wary as she’d known it would.

  ‘You approached me, as I recall. You crossed the room.’ It would be entertaining to banter with him if so much wasn’t at stake. He was clever and bold, not afraid to say the audacious. It made conversation an adventure, wondering what would come next, what her response would be. ‘I hardly think it’s fair to blame me.’

  He shrugged, contemplating, his eyes on her mouth. ‘If I had known who you were from the start, it might have changed the, ah, “direction” of the evening. There’s no denying being who you are complicates things. I kissed the sister of my fencing instructor. Surely, you can understand the precarious position that puts me in.’

  Kissed was a relative understatement and they both knew it. They’d acted precipitously. She’d been a stranger to him. They’d owed each other nothing but passion in those moments. Then she’d become someone and everything changed.

  ‘And I kissed my brother’s star pupil. Certainly, you can understand the position that puts me in.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. What position is that, exactly?’

  She met his smile with a coy one of her own. They were expert wits toying with one another the way expert fencers tested the skills of their opponents. How much to reveal? How much to conceal? ‘The position of deciding whether or not I can trust you. There’s so much to consider if we were to become, shall we say, entangled.’ It was hard to play cool with his body so close to hers, his eyes lingering every so often on her mouth, just enough to remind her of what their mouths could do. She had to resist. She could flirt all she liked, but ultimately, resistance was in her best interest. She needed to keep him close, but not too close. Too much intimacy and he would start asking more questions.

  ‘What is there to consider?’ he drawled, playing his end of the game with audacious charm. He was overtly in pursuit, driving her towards a particular conclusion to this conversation by stripping away her objections.

  But she knew the game. Alyssandra ticked off the considerations on her fingers. ‘First, I must consider your motives. Are you using me to gain an entrée with my brother? If so, it won’t work. I don’t appreciate being made an intermediary pawn and my brother doesn’t receive anyone. Second, I must ask myself what kind of liaison are you looking for? Based on what I’ve seen of your like-minded countrymen, I can only assume you’re looking for a short-term sexual companion, an exotic adventure to write home about. That, too, is an unappealing motivation. I have no desire to become an Englishman’s souvenir, a story that is trotted out in his clubs back home when he’s sloshed with brandy and reminiscing.’

  Her words were sharp as she laid down her terms. She’d meant them to be. She wanted him to understand she would not be used no matter how strong their attraction. But Haviland merely laughed and gave her a wide smile. ‘I agree entirely. Neither option sounds even remotely appealing. Those are not things I would ever want for myself.’ That wide smile almost disarmed her.

  Almost. Agreement was a most effective strategy and while she hadn’t expected it, she was ready for it. ‘I suppose you want me to ask what do you want?’ She tried for a bored tone, or at least one that suggested she’d travel
led this path before when, in reality, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his blue eyes and her pulse speeded up in anticipation of his answer. What could a man with a perfect life possible want that he didn’t already have?

  His voice dropped, low and private, and the size of her world shrank with it until nothing existed but him, her and the tree at her back. ‘What if I said I was looking for something else—an escape? What if I could offer that same escape to you? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be interested. I can see the tension in you. Your life is not a free one. I can see it.’ Those blue eyes dropped to her mouth again. ‘Why not escape, even if it’s just for a little while, to find pleasure with a man who knows how to provide it?’

  He was bold. ‘Are you propositioning me?’ She could be bold, too. The game was heating up. Too bad she could do nothing more than let the pot boil.

  Haviland shook his head. ‘No, nothing as base as that. I’m merely asking you to consider the possibilities, that’s all.’ He smiled and leaned towards her ear, his voice a whisper. ‘I have already considered the possibilities and found them positively delectable.’

  She was going to swoon right there and she might have if she hadn’t been so sure that was what he was after. It took all of her sangfroid to muster the words, ‘Has a woman ever said no to you, Haviland North?’

  He grinned. ‘No, not that I recall.’

  She leaned into him, letting her mouth hover as near to him as she dared without touching. ‘Then this is your lucky day. I’m about to be your first.’

  He chuckled, low and throaty, a sexy invitation to repeal her decision. He didn’t take rejection like any man she’d ever known. ‘Then I shall delight in helping you change your mind.’