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

by Bronwyn Scott

  It was all done effortlessly. Alyssandra hardly noticed, so easily were these little tasks performed. Maybe she wouldn’t have noticed at all if she’d come to expect such treatment. As it was, it was new to her. Etienne had never had an opportunity to do these things for her. Their meetings had always been at events or carefully chaperoned in her home. Antoine might have done such things for her if he could have. But this was clearly not new to Haviland. These choices were ingrained in his being and it was intoxicating, a further reminder of his polish, his sophistication. This was no boy wet behind the ears. If he was this polished in public, how he must shine in private.

  She shot him a saucy, sideways glance, wanting to flirt a little. ‘You’re very good at a lady’s errands. Is this part of your “persuasion”?’

  He laughed. ‘A master never tells his secrets.’

  ‘I can think of other ways a gentleman might prefer to spend his afternoons,’ she teased.

  ‘Really?’ He gave her one of his raised-eyebrow looks. ‘I can’t.’ He could melt ice with that look.

  What was it the old wives said about flattery? It got you everywhere? There was definitely some merit in that when done right and, in her estimation, Haviland was doing it right indeed. It was hard to resist his charm even when she knew she so obviously should.

  They crossed a street, skirting the edge of the gardens. They were just a few streets from the hôtel, and a few streets from the end of her glorious afternoon. Shopping had never been this much fun. Her stomach growled. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her middle, trying to squelch the embarrassingly loud reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and not much at that. Breakfast had been a hard roll and cheese.

  ‘Are you expected back soon?’ Haviland asked, his hand falling to the small of her back, guiding her towards the park entrance instead of home. ‘I was thinking we might stop and try some of that bread you debated over for so long and some of that cheese. Maybe even some of that wine if you don’t mind drinking straight from the bottle.’ His motions suggested he was not expecting any resistance.

  She liked that—confidence in a man was always attractive. Not Julian’s over-confidence, which was really a combination of ego and arrogance, but the assumption that he knew they were enjoying their time together and would mutually like to continue it. She was also wary of that confidence. She’d not forgotten he’d given something up to be with her this afternoon. Maybe he thought this would be another avenue for getting what he wanted: a meeting with her brother. She’d warned him about such a ploy once before.

  They found a patch of grass away from the path in enough shade to keep their eyes from being blinded by the sun. Haviland made to spread out his coat for her, but she declined with a laugh. ‘I’m not so delicate as to need something to sit on. The grass is fine.’ To prove it, she sat down and tucked her legs beneath her. She welcomed it actually, this chance to sit on the ground and just be.

  Haviland reached into the basket and took out the wheel of cheese. ‘You might as well take out the sausage, too,’ Alyssandra said and then realised the flaw in their impromptu picnic. Bottles could be drunk out of in the absence of glasses, but they absolutely could not sit there and simply bite off hunks of sausage and bread with their mouths. ‘Oh, no! We don’t have a knife.’

  Haviland grinned and dug into his pocket. ‘Yes, we do.’ He flipped open a small silver knife. ‘It won’t be elegant carving, but it will do.’ In that moment, she didn’t care. It was enough to watch this man smile, to know that he was smiling at her, enough to cling to the knowledge that he’d been interested in her before he’d known who she was.

  Haviland sawed through a slice of bread and cheese and handed it to her. ‘Bon appétit, Alyssandra.’ His blue eyes twinkled. Good lord, he was handsome but that didn’t mean she wasn’t cautious.

  She tilted her head to study him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Haviland bent his knee in a casual pose. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘There usually is.’ She didn’t particularly want to know it, but she would probably be better off in the long run knowing it now instead of later.

  Haviland chewed his bread. ‘You know. Persuasion. I made you an offer of pleasure and escape. The offer is still on the table.’

  ‘I already rejected it,’ she reminded him.

  Haviland arched a dark brow. ‘You didn’t mean it.’ He leaned closer, over the basket of food between them, his hand cupping her cheek. His voice was a low whisper against her jaw. ‘You kissed me at the Medici Fountain. That’s the most unlikely rejection I’ve ever had.’

  She closed her eyes and let herself drink in the scent of him, the touch of his hand against her skin, his voice a caress at her ear. ‘Then there’s this electricity that jumps whenever I’m near you, like it’s doing now. That’s not any form of rejection I’ve ever known.’

  She drew a deep breath and let herself pretend it could be real a moment longer before she uttered the words that would break the spell. ‘Does that electricity have anything to do with wanting to meet my brother? Do you think seducing me will gain you an introduction to the famed Antoine Leodegrance?’

  She expected him to rear back, expected him to take her words as a blow to his honour. It was what a gentleman would do, lie or not. No gentleman in good conscience would admit to such a thing. Haviland did neither. His mouth found hers, his lips brushed hers.

  ‘Is that what other men have led you to believe? What fools.’ He breathed against her and deepened the kiss until she wanted to forget that she needed to refuse him, that she needed to exercise caution. Too much too soon and perhaps he wouldn’t come back having had all he’d come for, or perhaps it would push him to ask his insatiable questions. ‘You don’t want to turn me down, Alyssandra, you’re just not sure how to accept.’

  Maybe just this once, she could indulge. She knew her boundaries, after all. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss over it. She leaned into him and gave over to the kiss, over to him, part of her mind remembering how far back they were from the public path. There was no one to see. His hand was in her hair at the back of her neck, massaging, guiding her into the depths of his mouth. He tasted of spicy sausage and fresh bread, of sun and grass, and of Paris in spring—hope and heat and possibility.

  Alyssandra reached for his cravat, tugging him to her, letting him press her back to the cool grass. His hands bracketed her head, his body half lay against hers, her arms about his neck. Madness welled in her, want surged at the feel of him hard against her stomach. The madness was in him, too. Amidst this desire it was easy to believe this wasn’t about Antoine, after all, but about her and about him. A hand slid up her rib cage, cupping a breast, and she gave a sweet moan and arched against him. There was only pleasure for a moment, before it exploded into chaos.

  ‘Bâtard! Get off her, you English swine!’ A booted kick seem to come out of nowhere, catching Haviland in the stomach. He groaned and rolled, staggering to his feet as she scrambled to sit up. Her first instinct was to grab a weapon, anything. Haviland’s knife was on the ground beside her. She curled her hand around the tiny hilt. If only she had her épée.

  Haviland was still bent double, but his fists were up, and he moved to stand between her and their attacker. There was no need for his chivalry or her puny weapon of a penknife. She recognised their attacker as he drove his fist into Haviland’s jaw.

  ‘Julian! Stop!’ Alyssandra screamed, but neither man was interested in listening.

  Chapter Nine

  Haviland’s head snapped back, taking the force of the blow. He vaguely registered Alyssandra’s scream, but he was too enraged to heed it. He charged like a bull, burying his head into the midsection of the Frenchman. Julian went down, Haviland on top of him, delivering a few equalising punches.

  ‘Haviland! Enough!’ He was aware of hands tugging at him, trying to pull him off Julian Anjou. Alyssandra’s hands. Some of the rage ebbed out of him at the realisation she was sa
fe. There was no need for more violence unless Anjou chose to jump him again. He rose, straddling Anjou and dragging him to his feet. From the look on Anjou’s face, Haviland wasn’t so sure Anjou wasn’t going to do just that.

  ‘What do you mean by attacking a man without warning?’ Haviland barked.

  ‘That is hardly the greater crime here! You were all over her!’ Julian roared. Haviland released him with a shake. It was a mistake to let Julian go. It gave the man a chance to focus on Alyssandra. ‘And you!’ He jabbed a finger her direction. ‘You let him. That makes you a—’

  Haviland stepped between Julian and his view of Alyssandra. ‘I’d advise you to stop before you say something you regret.’ His voice held unmistakable steel. He wouldn’t mind punching Julian again—the slightest provocation would justify it.

  Julian backed away, throwing one last threat at Alyssandra. ‘Your brother will hear of this and he won’t be pleased.’

  With Julian gone, he could focus on Alyssandra. Haviland turned towards her. She was pale, but not entirely from fear or shock. There was anger in her eyes. ‘Alyssandra, I am sorry—’

  She cut him off sharply. ‘Do not apologise. Neither one of us is sorry about what happened, only that we got caught. An apology makes at least one of us a hypocrite.’

  True as that was, he knew better and to carry on so in a public place was unconscionable. One moment he’d been stealing a kiss, the next, things had progressed far beyond what he’d intended, but not beyond what he minded. Although perhaps he should mind if the consequence was getting hit in the face. His cheek was starting to throb now that the adrenaline had receded, and his lip was split.

  ‘Julian had no right,’ Alyssandra insisted, still fuming as she gathered up their picnic.

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Haviland crossed his arms and leaned against the tree trunk, watching her, thinking. He knew so little about her and yet he’d risked so much in those unguarded moments. ‘It seems to me that he felt he did. Is there an understanding between the two of you?’ He’d not considered that. Up until now, he’d been focused on her as merely the sister of his fencing instructor. He’d not thought of her as belonging to another. An Englishwoman would never have invited his attentions the way Alyssandra had if she was claimed by another. Maybe that was his mistake. This was France, after all, the country where husbands begged guests to flirt atrociously with their wives.

  She stood and faced him, hands on hips, looking gorgeously defiant. Her hair had come down and now it hung in a long chestnut skein over one shoulder. ‘There is an understanding between Julian and me, but not the sort you think.’ She slid the basket on to her arm and handed him his discarded coat. ‘Thank you for the afternoon.’ Her tone was terse, perfunctory. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me? I have to go home and clean up this mess.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Perhaps I can explain.’ Haviland shrugged into his coat. His split lip and bruised cheek could wait. He owed her this much. A gentleman didn’t let a lady face scandal alone even if the scandal wasn’t likely to leave the house.

  She gave a harsh laugh. ‘What do you think you’ll explain, exactly? It’s not as if Julian misunderstood what he saw. No, I don’t think an explanation would improve the situation.’ She stepped away from him, her voice quieter now, but no less sharp. ‘It would be best if I did this alone. I am sorry if that thwarts your plans yet again to meet my brother. Au revoir.’

  It didn’t occur to Haviland until after she’d disappeared from sight that he might not see her again. Ever.

  * * *

  ‘She doesn’t trust me,’ he groused to his friends in the common room of their apartments, a cold rag held to his cheek.

  ‘And you don’t trust her. She hid her identity from you on purpose,’ Archer reminded him, handing over another cold rag to replace the one he held. ‘It seems you have something in common.’

  ‘She thinks I am using her to meet her brother. Even today when I offered to walk her home and explain, she refused on the grounds that I was manipulating the situation into a meeting.’ Lucifer’s stones, he’d made a mess of things. He’d never been so ham-handed with a woman before. Usually, he was discreet, masterful, charming. His affaires were smooth associations. Women could and did trust his lead.

  Brennan snorted from his corner of the room where he lounged casually in a chair, his shirt open, his waistcoat undone. It was nearing evening and he looked as if he’d just risen. ‘What did you think you were going to explain? The angle of your tongue in her throat?’

  Haviland threw him a quelling look and winced. It hurt his face to move. ‘Don’t be crass. It’s not funny.’

  ‘I disagree.’ Brennan laughed. ‘It’s hilarious. It’s the sort of the thing that happens to me, not you. I am going to enjoy the shoe being on the other foot. Thoroughly.’ He pushed himself out of the chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed. I’m anticipating a busy night at Madame Ravenelle’s.’

  ‘Stay in the Marais, Bren,’ Haviland cautioned out of habit. He couldn’t go with Brennan tonight, and Brennan was in the routine of slumming in the more dangerous parts of the city. At least in their more aristocratic neighbourhood, Brennan would be safer. Although ‘safe’ was always a relative term when it came to him.

  Brennan clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. ‘I can take care of myself, old man. Don’t worry. Take care of you. You’ll have quite a bruise in the morning. I’m an expert at these things.’ Then he grinned. ‘Was she worth it?’

  Haviland chuckled even though it hurt. ‘Yes.’ God, yes, she’d been worth Julian’s fist in his face. Julian would look worse, though. It was a male sort of consolation.

  Nolan raised his head from his book. ‘She was worth it? Truly? I find it interesting you would say that about a woman you don’t trust. It is as if you are saying “I trust whatever you are keeping hidden from me will not be damaging to me”.’

  ‘This is exactly why I like horses.’ Archer sighed. ‘Horses don’t require cynicism. Your thoughts on human nature are so uplifting.’

  Nolan shrugged. ‘I’m sorry if the truth offends you. Humans require more cynicism than others in the animal kingdom.’

  ‘More than wolves? I would have thought...’ Archer began.

  Haviland stood, grabbing a spare rag to take with him. He didn’t particularly want to hear what Archer thought. He wasn’t up to listening to Nolan and Archer debate wolves, horses and humans. He wanted to retreat, nurse his cheek and think in the privacy of his room where his friends couldn’t voice their well-meant opinions.

  Alyssandra Leodegrance had him spinning. She was beautiful and intriguing. It was the latter that concerned him most. What drew him to her? Where did the intrigue come from? Some women could naturally affect an air of mystery. Was she one of them or was there truly a mystery about her?

  Haviland lay on his bed, eyes closed, his thoughts turning inward. He suspected the mystery had to do with what she wanted with him. She wanted him and yet she didn’t. It was as if she was afraid to get too close. Her actions where he was concerned were things of contradictions. She’d signalled him to approach at the musicale, she’d gone into the garden with him knowing who he was. She’d kissed him knowing that, too, and yet she was reluctant to accept his offer for pleasure in full.

  Today had followed much the same pattern. She’d spent the afternoon with him and then pushed him away when they had to confront the consequences of their brief indulgence.

  He knew what Brennan would say. She’s using you for sex, reeling you in nice and slow until you’re mad for her and nothing more. That’s every man’s dream. Embrace it. It wasn’t quite his dream, particularly. His dream was freedom. His dream was choosing his own destiny. A thought came to him. Haviland’s eyes opened slowly, as if opening them too quickly would cause the idea to evaporate. Suddenly, he knew why she intrigued him. She’d not been selected for him by someone else. He’d chosen her. She was his choice alone.

  * * *

  Jul
ian Anjou chose to remain near the long windows in the main foyer of the Leodegrance hôtel while he waited for Alyssandra to return. He schooled his anger, focusing instead on the green expanse of the back garden. Perhaps a nobler man would contain his emotions better, but he was not that man. He was a man who had pulled himself up the social ladder rung by painstaking rung with the talent of his sword. He might look like a gentleman on the outside after years of cultivation, but inside he was a scrapper from the streets and a desperate one at that.

  So close and yet so far as the expression went. He had free access to the elegant, generations-old hôtel of the noble Leodegrances, he worked side by side with the vicomte himself. His own mother had been a washerwoman. She would have been beside herself with her son’s success. But it was not enough for him. He understood how fragile his elevated status was, how precarious. He was not permanently bound to Antoine Leodegrance in any way and yet all his own status rested on Antoine’s. Should the salle fail, should Antoine be exposed, Antoine would survive it in some fashion, reduced though it might be. But he would not. No one would care where he landed. Fencing instructors without references were cheaply come by.

  Behind him he could hear the front door open and Alyssandra’s voice as she passed her pelisse to a waiting footman. He turned from the window and watched her face pale when she saw him, but she did not try to evade him or his reason for being there.

  ‘He will be gone in six weeks, what harm can come of it? I’ll never see him again,’ she said baldly, her dark eyes meeting his in challenge. She joined him at the window, unafraid. She was far too bold. If he was Antoine, he would have taken a strap to her and demanded obedience. This latest adventure of hers could ruin them all and for what? For a roll in the grass with an Englishman? For momentary pleasure? There were far safer ways to achieve those ends.

  Julian exhaled, letting his mind clear. Anger would not endear him to her and that’s what he needed— endearment, and if not that, at least tolerance. ‘When I suggested we use feminine wiles to keep him from asking questions, I was not suggesting we use yours.’