Читать книгу Rake Most Likely To Rebel - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 13

Chapter Six

‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.

‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland North. Alyssandra buttered a piece of bread with unnecessary fierceness. ‘It was just a kiss, Antoine.’ Had he forgotten she’d once been highly sought after before their fortunes had changed?

‘Why? This is not what we’d talked about. You were supposed to talk to him, not kiss him.’ Antoine fought to keep his voice from rising. ‘It’s not just a kiss! Who knows what he’ll be thinking now.’

‘It hardly matters what he thinks. He’ll only be here long enough for you to make some money on him and that’s all that matters to you and Julian,’ Alyssandra shot back uncharitably. How dare he ask her to play this double masquerade and then question her execution of it.

‘Yes, plenty of money; money from lessons, money from the tournament when I wager on him. Money for the salle when people see the kind of fencer we can turn out. That money keeps you in this fine house, keeps you in gowns like the one you wore last night,’ Antoine retorted sharply.

She supposed she deserved that. It was an unfair shot on her part. Money always made Antoine prickly. He was acutely aware of the limits of his ability to provide for them. There was always enough, but just enough. She bit her tongue against the temptation to remind him just how much of that money she helped earn. He would not appreciate it and she already had one black mark against her this morning.

‘Since he truly is only here a short while there’s really no harm in it, is there?’ Alyssandra soothed. She sensed there was something else bothering him. She felt terrible. Guilt niggled at her for causing her brother angst. She wanted to believe there was no harm in last night’s kiss, that she could indulge herself just a little. At times she felt that she had become a recluse, too, along with Antoine.

Before his accident, she used to go out to all nature of entertainments. She used to dance, ride in the parks and the woods outside town, shop with her friends—many of whom had long since married and had children. Now, she seldom went out at all. When she did it was only in the evenings after the work at the salle was done.

At first, she’d stayed in because she felt guilty about dancing and riding when Antoine, who’d loved those activities, could no longer do them. They’d been things the two of them had done together and it seemed disloyal to her twin to enjoy them without him. In the early days after his accident, there had been nursing to occupy her. Then, there simply hadn’t been time. Antoine had needed her at the salle and at home. Any attempts at maintaining her old social life had eventually faded, replaced by other needs.

‘We have to be careful,’ Antoine said. ‘A conversation is one thing, but a kiss might have him sniffing around even more than he would have otherwise and that’s hardly solving the problem.’

Alyssandra knew too well how fragile their masquerade was, how lucky they were it had lasted this long and how little it would take to see it all undone. Everything was done covertly. They kept only the most loyal of staff. No one could see Antoine leaving the house or entering the salle, carried by his manservant. No one could come to the house. Antoine conducted all his business in writing or at the salle where he had Julian and her to act as his legs.

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 pierced 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.