Don't Tempt Me

by Sylvia Day

  “Was?” His hands moved—one cupping her nape, the other banding her waist.

  Lysette stared up at him, afraid to breathe. “I am not a good person. I have done things—”

  “I do not care.” Edward studied her, his gaze burning. “What concerns me is how you are with me from this moment onward. You must decide, Lysette: Will you trust me to care for you, as I have since I met you, or will you send me away?”

  Lysette swallowed hard. “I want to trust you.”

  “That is a beginning, I suppose.”

  His fingers kneaded into the tense muscles of her neck, driving her mad. Her brain fought to stay frightened, urging her to flee. But her body, fickle thing, was melting into his touch. The feel of his hard, sinewy frame against her was not unpleasant.

  “I have never trusted anyone,” she confessed.

  “Ever?”

  Her smile was wry. “As long as I can remember. Would you like to hear the tale of my life? It is lamentably short but true.”

  Edward kissed the tip of her nose. “I should relish the opportunity to listen to whatever truths you have to tell me. I would, however, be grateful if you would return to bed and drink some beef tea.”

  “As you wish.” Her smile wavered, shaken by gratitude at the care he displayed for her well-being.

  With his hand at her lower back, he walked her to the bed.

  To her surprise, she gave him the lead without reticence or fear for hidden intentions. The half-smile that curved the stern lines of his mouth made the concession worth it.

  Marguerite was abed and nearly asleep when a raised masculine voice in the adjoining boudoir of her bedroom alerted her. She sat up, tossed back the covers, and fetched her robe from where it was draped over the foot of the bed. Rushing to the door, she pulled it open and found herself faced with her husband.

  De Grenier was travel dusty and obviously weary, yet his handsome face lit when he saw her. Celie, her maid, stood behind him, holding his cane and hat.

  “I reached Paris tonight,” he said, “and found your note waiting for me. I came straightaway.”

  “You may go,” Marguerite said to the maid, linking her arm with de Grenier’s and leading him into the bedroom.

  She shut the door behind them, briefly noting the disgruntled frown on the servant’s face. Celie always looked displeased when de Grenier was with Marguerite. Since the maid had been with her since her affair with Saint-Martin, she suspected it was simply a case of liking one master more so than the other.

  “Why are you here in Paris?” he asked, moving to the grate and holding his hands out to the banked fire.

  “There is so much that I have to tell you,” she said urgently. “So much has transpired since you and I last spoke.”

  Their marriage was a distant one, with de Grenier gone from their house more often than he was there. Even when he was home, he was often occupied in his study, working on diplomatic matters between France and Poland. But it was her fault, as well. With her heart engaged elsewhere, she had never given herself to him as she should have.

  “Perhaps we should retire to our own home,” he suggested.

  “That would take hours and I cannot wait that long. As it is, I thought I might go mad before you arrived.”

  Nodding, de Grenier shrugged out of his coat, baring broad shoulders encased in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He was younger than Saint-Martin by a decade, his body in its prime and beautifully maintained, his dark hair unmarred by gray. Women admired and coveted him, fawned over him, yet he was most often too distracted to take note of their interest.

  He sank into a slipper chair and removed his heels. “You have my undivided attention, madame.”

  Nodding, Marguerite linked her hands behind her back and began to relate the events of the past sennight. She paced with agitation, but her words were spoken clearly. The entire affair was too important to say anything incorrectly.

  “And you believe this man? This Quinn?” he asked when she finished. “You saw Lysette’s body with your own eyes, Marguerite. How can this woman be our daughter?”

  “I do not know. I confess, I am completely confused.”

  “What do you want me to do?” He stood and approached her, taking her hands in his. His gaze was clear and direct, capped by a slight frown.

  “What do you think of Quinn’s tale of L’Esprit?” she asked. “Do you think it has merit?”

  He exhaled, then shook his head. “Are you asking me if I think Saint-Martin is responsible? I’ve no notion. There are too many unanswered questions. What happened to the original L’Esprit? How involved is Desjardins?”

  “I detest that man,” she hissed. “It frightens me how deeply I wish him ill.”

  Pressing his lips to her forehead, he said, “I will visit Quinn tomorrow and judge his sincerity for myself.”

  “Thank you.” Marguerite looked up at him and felt deep gratitude. Through every tragedy of her life, he had been available to her, offering support and commiseration.

  One of his hands slipped from her shoulders and cupped her unfettered breast. She inhaled sharply, startled by the abruptness of his advance. His thumb brushed across her nipple, then circled it, expertly bringing it to a hard and aching point.

  “It is late,” he murmured, watching her reactions with heavy-lidded eyes. “Let us retire here. On the morrow, I will take you and Lynette home, and resolve this dilemma.”

  She nodded. As always, Philippe came to mind unbidden and her stomach knotted. Marguerite pushed the inevitable feelings of guilt and betrayal aside with effort and took her husband to her bed.

  Lysette kicked snow off her boots before rushing through the front door of her home and racing up the stairs.

  Once again, Lynette had grabbed her lighter muff, only to discover that it was cold enough to warrant using the fur-lined one. As often as she complained about how cold the Polish winter was, one would think she would never leave the house without being properly attired.

  But that was Lynette, and Lysette loved her. Lynette was so vibrant and carefree, so daring. Men flocked around her and admired her beauty. Although they were twins, men did not do the same to her. And her sister was not one to complain about her lack of forethought. Lynette had acted as if nothing was wrong, but Lysette had noted her shivering and commented on it.

  Today, they had gone on an outing with their mother to admire the beauty of the Countess Fedosz’s winter garden. It was a small party, made up of local families bored by entrapment caused by the lengthy snowfall. Presently everyone was strolling through the various paths, admiring how the ice and snow clung to bare branches shaped especially to look better in winter than they did with leaves.

  Running down the gallery, she entered Lynette’s boudoir and retrieved her sister’s muff, then she hurried back down the hall.

  She was passing her mother’s room when she tripped, and a quick glance down confirmed that the laces on one of her boots had come undone, despite being wet.

  Lysette kneeled on the runner, setting the muff down on the floor while she retied her boot. In the silence created by her lack of movement, voices were heard—masculine and feminine—coming from her mother’s room, the door of which stood slightly ajar.

  Who was talking? And why were they talking in the vicomtess’s bedchamber?

  Pushing to her feet with the muff in hand, Lysette stepped closer. She peeked through the slender crack between the doorjamb and the door, stilling with shock when her eyes found the couple inside.

  His hand was at her throat, his mouth speaking harshly in her ear, his buttocks visibly clenching and releasing through his breeches as he thrust himself into her against the wall.

  Celie’s eyes were wide beneath her servant’s cap, her nostrils flared with fear, her gasps punctuated with pleas for forgiveness.

  “I need to see every missive that leaves this house,” he growled. “You know this.”

  “I am sorry,” she whimpered. “I have not failed you before no
w.”

  “One failure is too much.”

  The slick sounds of sexual congress blended with panting breaths and Celie’s sobbing. The scene so horrified Lysette she thought she might faint. Instead she covered her mouth and backed up slowly, fighting a feeling of nausea so intense she thought she might cast up her accounts in the hallway.

  Her back hit something solid. She jumped and cried out behind her hand.

  “You should not have seen that,” growled a masculine voice in her ear.

  Pain—sharp and biting—split her skull. The hallway spun, then tumbled into darkness.

  Lysette woke with a cry, her body shuddering with remembered fear and horror.

  “Lysette.” Edward rose from his seat before the fire, his jacket gone, his reddened eyes telling her he had fallen asleep as well. “Another nightmare?”

  “Mon Dieu . . .” she breathed, lifting a hand to her racing heart. She had never been gladder to see anyone than she was to see Edward. “Bless you for being here.”

  “I will always be here,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and pouring her a glass of water. “I stayed tonight because I thought you might sleep restlessly after telling me your story.”

  “It seems I have more to tell,” she whispered, accepting the glass with gratitude.

  He nodded grimly. “I am listening.”

  Simon was awake before dawn. Although he had slept only a handful of hours, he did not suffer from fatigue. He was alert and primed, so much so that he went to his study and began to plan in depth, knowing he needed a lure and a worthy trap. He was so occupied by the task that the hours passed swiftly, a circumstance he noted only when his butler announced a caller and presented the visitor’s card to Simon.

  His brows rose and he glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven. “Show him in.”

  Setting his quill aside, Simon waited. When a tall, dark form filled his doorway, he stood and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. James.”

  “Mr. Quinn.” Edward James’s returning grip was strong and steady, as Simon supposed the man himself was.

  “An unexpected visit, although not unwelcome.” Simon gestured to the seat across from him, eyeing Edward James carefully. “To what or whom do I owe this honor?”

  His visitor was dressed somberly in dark brown, his garments well kept, his cravat neat, his heels polished. Unremarkable, really, aside from the obvious fastidiousness.

  “First,” James said curtly, “you should know that you will never hear a word about Franklin’s business from me. Ever. Neither will Desjardins, so both of you will have to find another woman to torment and bully.”

  Leaning back, Simon crossed his arms and bit back a smile. “I see.”

  “No, you do not,” James muttered, scowling. “But you will.”

  “Good God!” Simon grinned. “Another threat. I must be doing something correctly.”

  “You may find this amusing, Mr. Quinn, however—”

  “I have to find some humor in this,” Simon interjected, his smile fading. “I have a great deal at risk, more than I believe I could bear to lose.”

  James’s gaze narrowed considerably.

  “I hope you are circumspect in your association with Madame Marchant,” Simon said.

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau,” James corrected, “or whatever in hell her surname truly is. And I am always circumspect, Mr. Quinn. I know everything about her, as little as she can share. Every sordid, heartbreaking detail. I cannot condone the many wrongs she has done, but I can collect the necessity of some of it and the feelings of helplessness and melancholy that inspired the rest.”

  James lifted his chin. “But do not mistake my sympathy for weakness. I am not the sort of man who loses his head over a woman. Regardless of my affection for her, you will not find my emotions altering my ability to react to jeopardy and subterfuge.”

  “Admirable.”

  “She claims you hope to extricate her from this morass.”

  Simon nodded. “I do.”

  “I am here to assist you.”

  There was a slight rapping on the open door. Simon glanced up and saw Eddington eyeing James with an assessing glance.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the earl greeted, entering with a decided flourish.

  James stood. Simon remained seated, although he did make the necessary introductions.

  “Forgive my intrusion. I am off to the tailor’s this morn,” his lordship drawled, fluffing his jabot with a careless, bejeweled hand. “I saw a waistcoat yesterday that was nothing short of divine and knew I must have it immediately. Would either of you care to join me?”

  “No, my lord,” Simon said, biting back a smile.

  “No, thank you, my lord,” James said, scowling.

  “Pity that,” Eddington said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye and studying James from head to toe. “Ah well. Good day, gentlemen.”

  There was a brief silence after his lordship had departed, then James muttered, “I imagine that foppish guise fools most.”

  “Most, yes.” Simon stared out the empty doorway, thinking.

  “Why do you have that look on your face?”

  Simon’s gaze moved back to James. “What look?”

  “As if you have discovered something new.”

  “I was simply thinking that appearances can be deceiving. It is something we could use to our advantage, considering we have two women who are identical to one another.”

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau is too ill.”

  “I know.” Simon’s fingers drummed atop the papers on his desk. “But very few of us know that. You, me, Desjardins . . . That is all.”

  “You did not inform her family?”

  “No. Someone wanted her dead and has yet to learn that she is alive due to Desjardins’s hiding of her. Perhaps it is time to relieve L’Esprit of his misconception.”

  “She had a dream. Last night.” James crossed his arms. “We’ve no notion of whether it is simply a figment of her mind or an actual recollection that is incomplete.”

  “Anything at all, at this point, would be an improvement over what we have.”

  “I agree. She witnessed a man abusing a maid for failing to intercept all of the vicomtess’s outgoing posts.”

  “Did she recognize him?”

  “No. Unfortunately, she saw him only from behind. Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered . . . Could be anyone.”

  “But there is one man we know of who enjoys wounding women,” Simon pointed out.

  “Depardue.” The sharp edge to James’s voice betrayed a wealth of ill-will.

  “Exactly. And I have suspected that—”

  Another rap to the door silenced Simon and he met his butler’s gaze.

  “Another caller, sir,” the servant said.

  Simon accepted the card handed to him on a silver salver and read it, then glanced at James. “Prepare yourself, James,” he said.

  James nodded, his posture altering to one more rigid.

  “Inform his lordship that I have a visitor,” Simon said, standing, “but he is welcome to join us.”

  A few moments later, a tall and comely man entered the room. Dressed modestly but elegantly in rich green velvet, the dark-haired man who approached Simon’s desk unwittingly confirmed a few of Simon’s suspicions. Curious as to whether the astute James would also latch on, Simon looked forward to the coming introductions.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Simon said.

  “Mr. Quinn.”

  “My lord, may I present Mr. Edward James to you? He is acquainted with your daughter, Lysette. Mr. James, this is the Vicomte de Grenier.”

  Simon watched James’s face closely but furtively, wondering if the man had been aware of the vast difference between his station and the one Lysette occupied. To his credit, James showed no outward sign of any of his thoughts as he greeted de Grenier.

  The two men sat, filling the two seats that faced Simon’s desk.

  “You may speak freely in front
of Mr. James, my lord,” Simon said.

  “As you can imagine, the vicomtess is deeply disturbed by your visit yesterday,” the vicomte said grimly. “I am here to arrange a meeting with this woman you claim is our daughter and to discuss your thoughts on this matter of L’Esprit.”

  “Perhaps you will share what you know, my lord?” Simon asked. “Have you had any correspondence from L’Esprit?”

  “No. However, I was with the vicomtess when she received a missive bearing that name. It arrived the afternoon Saint-Martin was attacked and left for dead, so I comprehend the danger.”

  “Apparently, some of Lysette’s memory may be returning.”

  “Oh?” The vicomte appeared to weigh the news a moment. “I am relieved to hear that, as memories of events known only to Lysette will strengthen your argument regarding her identity.”

  “Did you see the body identified as Lysette’s?” Simon asked.

  “No. Sadly. I wish I could have taken that gruesome burden from the shoulders of my wife, but I was in Paris. I returned a sennight after the event had occurred.”

  “Were there any other women in the area who went missing during that time?” James asked.

  “I have no idea, Mr. James,” the vicomte replied. “In truth, I did not pay any attention to surrounding activities for months following. My wife was nearly destroyed by our loss, my remaining daughter was deeply grieving and altered by guilt. Apparently, Lysette was running an errand for her when the accident happened.”

  “Fetching a muff, perhaps?” James asked with narrowed gaze.

  “Yes.” De Grenier’s frame tensed and he glanced with wide eyes at Simon. “It is Lysette, is it not? How else would you know that?”

  “Yes, it is she.”

  The vicomte sat back, his shoulders rising as if a great weight had been removed. “The return of Lysette would restore my family to the happiness we once knew, at least in part. Does she remember what happened to her?”

  “Not entirely.” James did not look away from the vicomte, but Simon sensed he was searching for clues on how to proceed.