Don't Tempt Me

by Sylvia Day

“He is an English spy!” she argued. “What would he gain from wedding a French woman connected to a family who resides in Poland?”

  “Perhaps he wishes to enjoy the rest of his days in comfort.”

  Lynette snorted.

  “There are things you do not know, Lynette.”

  “Yes, Maman. I never forget that. I am reminded every day, when something else is said that everyone else seems to understand except me.”

  “Events of the past should remain in the past.”

  “That is ridiculous. I am not a child.”

  Marguerite pointed an accusing finger. “What is ridiculous is that I have allowed myself to be browbeaten into behavior I knew was ill conceived and it has led to this end. You have taken advantage of my grief. I missed your smiles and the brightness of your eyes. It affected my judgment and you exploited that.”

  “The brightness is back,” Solange interjected in a murmur.

  “Courtesy of a charlatan!”

  “He is not a charlatan,” Lynette defended in as calm a tone as she could manage.

  “Reconsider the facts,” Marguerite snapped. “This man—one of little consequence, whose presence in France has been compromised—eyes a lovely and obviously wealthy woman at a licentious gathering. He approaches her, removes her mask, kisses her . . . I know he kissed you, Lynette. Do not lie to me!”

  Lynette flushed and swallowed her intended rebuttal.

  “He whispers her name,” her mother continued, “and the girl—naïvely lost in her first seduction—hears what she wants to hear. ‘Lynette’ becomes ‘Lysette.’ Later, a well-acted and dashing rescue fuels her misguided infatuation and she follows him. She tells him just enough information for him to effect a brilliant scheme to win her trust and the opportunity to bed her and access her funds.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Lynette muttered, crossing her arms. “That is a fantastical tale.”

  Marguerite laughed without humor. “As fantastical as the story of a woman who might be your dead sister? A woman you cannot see with your own eyes because she is an assassin? Of all things, Lynette. An assassin?”

  Said in that light, the whole story did sound remarkably improbable. But then, her mother had never spoken at length with Simon Quinn.

  “You do not understand,” she said. “If you would only meet him.”

  “Never,” Marguerite spat. “I am done with this excursion into madness. As are you. I forbid you to see him again. If you disobey me, you will deeply regret doing so. I promise you that.”

  Lynette leaped to her feet, her palms dampening. “Give him time—”

  “For what?” Her mother began to pace, occasionally glaring at Solange, who sat meekly at a small table sipping tea. “For him to continue raising doubts in you about your family? Creating a rift between you and those who love you so that only he remains for you to lean upon? Or perhaps we should wait until you are fat with his bastard child, so there can be no doubt that you are ruined?”

  “You insult me without cause,” Lynette said, hiding her rising panic behind cool dignity. “He asked me to stay away from him. He told me to leave him be, to put as much distance as possible between us.”

  “A clever tactic to win your trust. Do you not see?” her mother asked, holding both hands out to her. “By making you pursue the connection rather than the reverse, he creates the appearance of innocence.”

  Marguerite moved to Solange. “Help me,” she begged.

  Solange sighed and set down her cup. “There are men such as your maman describes, chérie.”

  “But you do not think Simon Quinn is one of them,” she countered.

  “Frankly, I do not know. I have never formally met the man.”

  “Regardless,” Marguerite said, her shoulders squaring. “Your father is due to arrive in a few days and I will turn this matter over to him. In the interim, you will not leave this house for any reason.”

  “Perhaps he will listen to reason!”

  Her mother’s blue eyes took on a steely cast. “Perhaps he will wed you to a stern man who will manage your waywardness properly.”

  “Maman!” Lynette’s heart stopped, then raced madly. Her grand-mère had done the same to her mother. While her parents were cordial, there was no passion between them. No fire. Theirs was a cold marriage and Lynette violently eschewed such a fate for herself. “You could have threatened anything but that,” she said bitterly, “and I might have heeded you.”

  Marguerite stiffened and her arms crossed. “Enough. Not another word. Go to your room and calm yourself.”

  “I am not a child! You cannot prevent me from discovering the truth about this woman.”

  “Do not think to gainsay me. I will not tolerate these dramatics.”

  Lynette’s eyes stung, then tears overflowed. Marguerite flinched, but did not relent.

  “Go now.”

  Turning on her heel, Lynette stormed from the room.

  “I wish I could have seen his face,” Eddington said, laughing with such abandon that he was forced to put his wine goblet back on the dining table. “I so enjoy watching you brawl.”

  Simon spoke around a bite of veal. “There was nothing to see. One moment, he was standing. The next, he was on the floor.”

  “Until the rest of the assembly joined in.”

  “Well,” Simon shrugged, “that is the way such things are done.”

  Eddington gestured for a servant to take his plate. “What were you doing there?”

  “Spoiling for a fight, of course,” Simon said dryly. He noted the earl’s studiously casual deportment across the dining table and was not fooled by it. “Something about extortion puts me in the mood.”

  The corner of Eddington’s mouth twitched.

  There was a soft scratching at the door. Simon called out and the butler entered.

  “Excuse me, my lord.” He glanced at Simon. “Sir, you have a visitor.”

  Immediately, Simon’s gut tightened with a volatile mixture of concern and anticipation. He did not ask who it was due to the earl’s presence. He simply nodded and pushed back from the table.

  “If you will excuse me, my lord.”

  “Of course.”

  Simon felt Eddington’s gaze on him until the door shut on his retreating back. He glanced at his butler.

  “Blonde and beautiful, sir,” the servant said in answer to the unasked question.

  Sweat dotted Simon’s brow. He breathed shallowly, lamenting the fact that he had only to think of Lynette and his body responded with ravenous ferocity. If only he had the means to go away. For her sake.

  Inhaling deeply, he crossed the threshold of the lower parlor and paused, noting the vivid blue of Lynette’s gown. She stood with her back to him, her fingertips caressing a lovely China vase displayed on a wooden pedestal. But she was not relaxed. Her shoulders were tight and the air around her vibrated with tension.

  “Lynette,” he said softly, infernally glad to see her, “you should not have come.”

  She turned and he realized his mistake.

  “Mr. Quinn.” The voice was low and throaty, yet under-laced with steel.

  He bowed. “Vicomtess de Grenier.”

  Gesturing for her to be seated, he glanced back out the door and nodded to his butler to bring refreshments. As the servant hurried away to inform the housekeeper, Simon sat opposite the vicomtess and contemplated her openly.

  He was in agreement with the sentiment that the mother could pass for a sibling. Their coloring—pale blond hair and blue eyes—was identical. In addition, the vicomtess’s beauty remained unmarred by lines and her figure was as svelte and sweetly curved as Lynette’s.

  “You are very handsome,” she said, studying him with narrowed eyes. “I can see the appeal.”

  Simon’s mouth curved on one side. “Thank you. I can see whom your daughter favors. You are both the loveliest women I have ever seen.”

  “What of the assassin?” she asked coldly. “I assume she is lovely, too?”


  “Yes, of course.” He settled more comfortably, admiring the vicomtess’s fire, which she had passed on to her daughter.

  “Of course.” Her smile was tight. “What do you want?”

  He arched a brow. “Cut straight to the point, I see.”

  Her bare fingers tangled in her lap, the knuckles adorned with various precious gems of impressive size. Small diamond clips glittered in her hair and a sapphire hatpin secured her chapeau to her head.

  The woman had come prepared to dazzle him with her wealth. He was impressed with her, but also deeply insulted. The latter emotion made him laugh. He had survived these many years by selling whatever someone would buy, including his body. It was a fine time to develop scruples.

  “I want for nothing,” he said.

  “You want my daughter,” she refuted, “or the money at her disposal.”

  “I don’t want her money.”

  She snorted. “Do not tell me it’s love. I can only stomach so much.”

  “No,” he agreed, “it isn’t love. But I do want her and I am cad enough to have her if presented with the opportunity, which is why I have asked her to stay away.”

  “How honorable of you,” she sneered, reminding him briefly of Lysette. Her blue eyes took on a brittle cast and the lush curve of her lips twisted with distaste.

  “So pleased you approve,” he drawled, laying his arm along the back of the settee, knowing the overt familiarity would prick her already considerable temper. He, too, was growing angrier by the moment. It was all well and good to call him a selfish libertine when the label fit. It did not sit well when he was attempting to be self-sacrificing.

  “Why choose my daughter?” she asked. “You could have any woman you want. A wealthy widow, perhaps? Or are they not malleable enough?”

  Simon smiled without humor. “I know you find it difficult, if not impossible, to believe, but I am not fortune hunting. I admire your daughter. She displays the same strength of conviction that you show in coming here. She is also lovely and I am a healthy man. I cannot help but notice her physical charms. However, beyond that, I have no ulterior motive. She seeks me out, not the reverse. If she did not come to me, I would not go to her.”

  Her jaw tightened.

  “My lady.” Simon straightened. “It would be best if you leave Paris. I cannot stress that point strongly enough. The woman who so closely resembles your daughter is enmeshed in dangerous affairs. It would be deeply unfortunate if the two women were to be confused for one another.”

  “This woman you call Lysette,” the vicomtess hissed.

  “Lysette Rousseau, yes.” He shrugged. “I did not give her that name, so if you do not like it, do not upbraid me.”

  The vicomtess paled and Simon took note.

  “Is the name familiar to you?” he queried, setting his forearms on his thighs. “Any information you can share that would shed light on this matter would be greatly appreciated.”

  “What concerns my family does not concern you!” She stood, a diversionary tactic designed to draw attention away from her distress. “You say my daughter seeks you out. Let us remove you, then. Allow me to send you on holiday.”

  Simon rose with her. “No.”

  “Come now, surely there is somewhere you should like to visit. Spain? Perhaps return to England?”

  “Poland?” he bit out, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fisting them. His knuckles, sore and bruised from the tavern brawl the night before, protested. The pain focused him and reined in his growing temper.

  “How about an extended holiday? One that lasts the duration of your life, hmm?” The vicomtess’s shoulders were pulled back, her chin lifted, her smile innocuous. A mixture of charm and determination. So like Lynette.

  The woman did not realize it, but the deeper glimpse into Lynette’s life only made him want her more. The vicomte was a fortunate man to have such a wife. Lynette’s future spouse would be equally blessed.

  The thought deflated him, draining his anger and resentment away and leaving only weary resignation behind.

  “Name your price,” she urged.

  Simon crossed his arms. “You assume I am inexpensive.”

  Triumph lit her eyes. “To afford this?” She gestured around the room with a wide sweep of her arm. “I am a woman, Mr. Quinn. I am ever aware of price and affordability. Your departure will cost me a fortune, I know.”

  His stomach churned and a bitter taste coated his tongue. To accept money to part with Lynette made him ill, but there was no denying the plan’s merit. If the vicomtess was willing to provide him with even half of what Eddington had confiscated, he could live comfortably for the rest of his days. He would be free of any encumbrance. He could pack his belongings, or leave them behind, and start anew elsewhere.

  Lynette would be safe from his desires and the means he provided for her to explore her curiosity about Lysette.

  Simon growled low in his throat, hating Eddington for putting him in the position of needing money to begin with. Because of the earl’s machinations, he was trapped here, in proximity to a woman he could not resist, yet could not have.

  Unless he accepted the vicomtess’s offer.

  He exhaled harshly, suddenly exhausted by the events of the last few days. “I need time to think.”

  She seemed prepared to argue, then simply nodded. “I will send a messenger over in the morning. Will that suit you?”

  “No, it does not suit me.” Simon glared at her, knowing she was only trying to protect her daughter, but detesting the fact that he was the hazard. “You believe it is concern for my welfare that goads me to even consider your insulting offer. But it is, in truth, concern for Lynette and the fear that if I do not take myself far away, she will cross paths with Lysette Rousseau.”

  “And fall victim to ruination by your hands.”

  “Certainly,” he agreed, seeing no need to mince words while having a conversation such as this one.

  “Pity you will not use your own funds to travel.”

  “Yes.” His jaw clenched. “A pity.”

  Marguerite descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look at the home behind her, shaken by her meeting with the debonair Simon Quinn.

  The man was dangerous.

  She had not seen him well enough in the Orlinda garden. The air had been filled with smoke and her concern had been for Lynette and taking her to safety. In the clear view of a well-lit and tastefully decorated parlor, he had been breathtaking, his coloring of ink-black hair and brilliant blue eyes jolting to a woman’s equanimity.

  Over the years, she had met many men. Rarely had she crossed paths with one possessed of the same voluptuary’s appeal as Saint-Martin. They boasted more than mere physical beauty as a lure; they looked at women with their senses, making her feel as if she were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. Their favor did not waver nor wander. They focused on her with knowing eyes, making her wonder if such attention to detail would carry into the bedroom.

  Some women were immune to such confident sexuality. Marguerite was not one of them and Lynette was so like her.

  Sighing, she gave her hand to the footman and climbed into her coach. She had once been certain that Lynette would marry young. Like Marguerite, she adored men and was sensual by nature. But the similarities between them were even more pronounced than Marguerite had first realized.

  Just as Marguerite had once postponed the selection of a spouse until her mother had chosen for her, Lynette also did not seem inclined to pick. For years, she had thought her daughter was simply enjoying herself and felt no haste. Now she suspected Lynette had been searching for her own Saint-Martin. A man who would sweep her away and satisfy the cravings no lady should admit to having.

  Unsettled, she placed her hand atop her corseted stomach. She knew Lynette well. By rashly threatening an arranged marriage to tame her daughter, she had incited a war of wills. Lynette was too headstrong, passionate, and staunchly independent to a
ccept the will of another without a fight.

  If she had been thinking clearly instead of in a panic, Marguerite would never have suggested such a thing. Now Lynette would rebel; she knew that like she knew the dawn followed the night. The only way to keep her daughter safe was to remove temptation. So she had dealt with Quinn immediately before Lynette had a chance to act.

  But now that she had set her plan in motion, she required the money. She could not access de Grenier funds in sufficient quantity before morning.

  There was only one person she could turn to with such a request, but meeting with him would require stealth, calculation, and more strength than she was certain she possessed.

  “My lady?” the footman queried. “The direction?”

  Marguerite took a shaky inhalation. “Take us home.”

  Chapter 11

  Lynette impatiently waited two hours after her mother returned from her outing before sneaking out.

  It was not uncommon for the vicomtess to take some time away after a row. Lynette had inherited the same wanderlust when aggravated, so she knew the feeling well. Sadly, she was not allowed the freedom tonight. Her only recourse was to pace the length of her room and think endlessly of Simon. No matter how it appeared, she believed him and she needed to see him, needed to warn him that her family may react in disturbing ways. She would not see him harmed in any fashion due to her.

  And so it was that when the hour turned sufficiently late and the odds that her mother would attempt to speak with her diminished greatly, Lynette set in motion her plan to leave.

  She stuffed pillows under her counterpane and topped the body-shaped form with one of her wigs. The ruse would not bear close inspection, but a quick peak from the doorway would give the impression that she was abed and sleeping.

  Shielded by a cloak and hood, she exited to the rear garden, then out to the alley. There a stableboy waited, a young man named Piotr who had been with her family for years. She had always been kind to him, bringing him sweets and treats when possible, deliberately cultivating a bit of favoritism that had enabled her frequent bouts of mischief at home. Tonight he provided her with a pair of his breeches, a man’s cloak, and a tricorn. She changed in an empty stall in the stable, then met him outside.