Читать книгу Surrender The Heart - Nina Beaumont - Страница 9

He was even taller than Ariane had imagined, his shoulders uncommonly, almost indecorously broad. His severely elegant evening clothes were perfectly tailored, but that only seemed to call attention to the aura of wild-ness that clung to him. Certainly he did not look even remotely like the idle young men she had met in the past week.

Ariane stared at him, hearing neither the babble of pleasantries as her parents greeted Roger de Monnier nor the shocked gasp in the box adjacent to theirs.

“May I present my friend, Christopher Blanchard.” Although it pained his Gallic sensibilities, Roger said the name as Chris had told him it was pronounced in America. “He comes from America.”

“You are an American? How interesting.” Marguerite de Valmont smiled vapidly. “We had a visitor from America recently. Where was the gentleman from, chéri?” She looked up at her husband.

“Where was he from?” Valmont passed the question on to his daughter.

“Virginia, papa.”

“Ah, yes,” Valmont said. “A very pleasant gentleman. He purchased several of our horses. He rubbed his hands lightly as he remembered. “Une bonne affaire. An excellent deal.”

Yes, Ariane thought with a touch of acrimony, it had been an excellent deal. But only because she had spent the week haggling with this very pleasant gentleman over one card game after another.

“And where are you from?”

Pierre de Valmont’s voice had the interrogative tone typical of fathers of unmarried daughters, reminding Chris of Roger’s words. It occurred to him that in California, a question like that would be more likely to elicit a challenge to a fight than an answer, but his voice showed no trace of irritation when he spoke.

“I’ve moved around a great deal, but I’ve lived in California for a number of years now.”

California? The image of desert. and ocean and hot sun was so real that Ariane could almost feel the heat on her bared shoulders. Was it the hot sun which had made his hair that fabulous color, which had bronzed his skin? The men of Provence, where she had spent most of her life, were a handsome lot, but she had never seen a man of such pagan beauty. Suddenly painfully aware that she had been staring, she looked away.

“Are you in Paris on business or pleasure?” Valmont inquired.

“I have interests here that require looking after. But I am certain that being in Paris will also be a pleasure.”

Valmont nodded, marginally relieved. After all, a man who had business interests in France was most likely not a complete barbarian, even if his shoulder-length hair and insolent eyes made him look like a Viking intent on plunder.

His gaze drifted to his daughter and he swore to himself. It was the very devil to guard the virtue of a daughter—especially when the daughter had more intelligence and energy than was good for her. Too bad her intelligence had not extended to choosing a husband from one of the many perfectly acceptable sons of the other landowners.

Well, he thought, he was going to make sure that she had a husband before they left Paris. A husband who would give her the sons to inherit the fortune he had built. With a sigh, he returned to his duties as host.

Ariane held herself aloof from the conversation, irritated at the way her parents were quizzing this man. The American was not very loquacious, she remarked, responding to questions in faultless French, but volunteering no additional information. Paradoxically, she found his reticence annoying, although she deplored those self-important mentions about lineage or wealth that most other men made.

“We are looking forward to seeing you at our ball.” Roger turned to Ariane. “My sister Justine has spoken of little else since she made your acquaintance the other evening.”

“And I am looking forward to seeing her.” And she-truly was wanting to see again the young girl who was everything that she was not—tall and willowy, with hair the color of pitch, and perfectly at ease in the whirl of balls, carriage rides and flirtation.

He was watching her, Ariane thought, as she kept up the stream of polite chatter. She could feel it as surely as if he were touching her. He was challenging her again, just as he had before. Only this time, she understood that he was challenging her to look at him because he knew perfectly well that she was avoiding it.

She was being rude, she knew, but that thought disturbed her less than the thought that he might think her a coward. Or worse, that he was laughing at her.

Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him. His eyes, which were the clear, cool green of a mountain stream, held a faint amusement that had her forgetting her unsureness, her embarrassment in the face of the surge of annoyance.

He knows just how attractive he is, she thought with an instinctive understanding that went far beyond her experience. He is so aware of the power of his charm that he expects all women to fall at his feet. But despite her irritation, she found that she could not remove herself completely from his allure.

“What do you think of all this, Monsieur Blan-chard?” She made a small circular gesture with her fan. “How does it compare to California?”

“Paris is Paris, of course,” he said smoothly, “but people, in essence, are the same everywhere.”

“Do you really think so?”

The sharp inquiry in her tone pleased him far more than docile agreement would have. “You don’t?”

“Actually, no.” Her eyes moved over him boldly, as if her uneasiness of a few moments ago had never been. “I somehow doubt that you are anything like anyone I have met in Paris.” Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug. “Or elsewhere for that matter.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He grinned, making it perfectly clear that he considered it the former.

Unable to resist, she grinned back. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made up my mind.”

Helpless, Valmont watched Ariane flirt with the large, handsome American. She was truly impossible, he thought. He had never seen her quite as animated with other, more suitable men.

“Shall we have some champagne now?” Valmont signaled to the waiting footman to fill the champagne flutes.

“To a pleasant stay in Paris for all of you.” Roger de Monnier raised his glass. “And a long one.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Chris said, his eyes not moving from Ariane’s face.

Ariane lifted her glass and sipped, watching the American over the rim of her flute. His eyes of that unusual transparent green were lit with male interest. In the past week she had been the recipient of enough such looks to be able to identify it. But while she had easily shrugged off the interest of all those insipid, dull young men, she suddenly found herself unwilling to look away from this man’s eyes, which held heat and challenge and that maddening trace of amusement.

Chris watched her, waiting for her to flutter the golden-tipped eyelashes that fringed her fabulous eyes, which were the rich color of amethysts, or send him a flirtatious smile, or hide coquettishly behind her fan. But she did none of those things. Instead she kept watching him, her eyes and mouth serious, as if she were measuring him. It occurred to him that he had never seen a woman with such a capacity for stillness before.

“And you, comtesse? Are you looking forward to it?”

His voice was soft and insinuating and, despite her lack of experience, Ariane recognized the ripple of excitement that traveled down her spine for what it was. She smiled, for the first time in weeks feeling no rancor that her parents had dragged her off to Paris.

“Yes,” she said, “I am.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

A melodious gong sounded, signaling the end of intermission, and Chris stood and bowed over the hand she held out to him.

“The first waltz tomorrow night,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears. “The first and the last.”

“I’ll have to check my dance card.” She tipped up her chin. “I don’t know if they’re still free.”

“The first and the last waltz, comtesse.” His smile was very white and very wicked in his bronzed face. “Some things are not negotiable.”

Ariane felt her pulse skitter as he held her eyes for a long moment before he turned toward her parents.

“I thank you for your hospitality.” Chris bowed over Marguerite de Valmont’s hand.

As he turned away, his gaze brushed over the woman staring at him from the adjacent box. And all the old, ugly memories came flooding over him.

“What insolence,” Ariane said to no one in particular when the box door had closed behind the two men. Shrugging with a not quite successful attempt at nonchalance, she turned back toward the audience. “But at least he’s not boring.”

“Really, Ariane,” Valmont said, “I fail to understand you.”

“Don’t worry, papa,” Ariane said without looking at her father. She knew just what kind of face he was making. “I’m not planning to marry the man.”

“Good God,” Valmont sputtered. “I hope not. Not when you have men like the Duc de Santerre dancing attendance on you.”

Chris sat staring into a glass of brandy he had yet to touch.

Nothing had changed, he realized. The moment he had seen Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux in the box, he had been catapulted back in time.

He had stood, his small, sweaty hand in his father’s larger one, looking up with longing at the tall, fair-haired woman who resembled his father so strongly. She had smelled like some kind of flower and he had desperately wanted her to stroke his cheek with her soft hands, just like maman had always done before she had gone away to live among the angels.

But she had not touched him. She had not even really looked at him.

“I don’t know what you could be thinking of to subject me to the presence of your filthy, little bastard,” she’d said. “Really, Charles, apparently living among those savages in America has made you forget good manners completely.”

He remembered the sharp sound of her voice as if it had been yesterday. And he remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he had tried to understand why she looked at him with such disgust.

And he discovered that now, twenty years later, the memory still hurt.

“May I abduct your daughter?” Justine de Monnier’s chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as she floated up to the Valmonts in a fussy gown of pink satin and cream-colored lace. Barely waiting for the Valmonts’ reply, she tucked Ariane’s arm into hers and strolled off.

“I’m going to tell you who everyone is.” With a coquettish smile Justine acknowledged a greeting from one young man and then another without missing a beat.

Her eyes amused, Ariane’s eyebrows curved upward. “Is the ball going to last a week then?” Justine’s words should have irritated her, she thought, since she cared nothing about who “everyone” was, but somehow the younger girl’s enthusiasm was infectious.

Justine’s laughter chimed. “Only the ones who are someone, of course,” she clarified.

“That’s good to hear, but couldn’t we sneak into the game room instead?”

“That would be very naughty of us.” Justine giggled. “It’s frowned upon for unmarried young women, you know.”

“I know.” Ariane sighed at the thought that even this diversion was closed to her. At least on those rare occasions when she had found herself at some festivity at home, she had seldom had a problem finding a lively card game—if worst came to worst, in the stables.

“Oh!”

Ariane heard the soft gasp and glanced at Justine, who had snapped open her fan with an elegant flick of her wrist and was fluttering it daintily. Ariane wondered how many hours in front of a mirror it had taken the girl to achieve such perfection. Justine’s eyes had become as round as coins and Ariane automatically followed the direction of her gaze.

When she found her own gaze trapped by Christopher Blanchard’s eyes, she felt like a fly that had inadvertently walked into a honey pot. She told herself that the small flicker in the pit of her stomach was not excitement but dismay.

“Do you see that man with Roger?” Justine’s voice was just short of reverent. “The one staring at us so shamelessly.” Her breath caught in an excited little hiccup. “Oh, mon Dieu.” She pressed her hand against her bosom. “Where did Roger find him and who is he?”

“I don’t know where your brother found him, but his name is Christopher Blanchard and he’s an American.”

He was still looking at her as if challenging her to be the first one to look away, so she stared back, unwilling to lose this small battle.

Justine’s fan went suddenly still and dropped several inches, revealing her Cupid’s bow mouth, which was slightly open in surprise. “You know who he is?” She moved closer and gave Ariane’s arm a small pinch under the cover of her fan. “You’re staring.”

“I know.” Annoyance stirring, Ariane did not move except to raise her chin another notch. “It’s a contest.”

Her face remained composed, but her eyes grew turbulent. Her fingers on her lace and ivory fan tightened, but she did not notice. But she was very aware that the blood had begun to rush in her veins as quickly as a river swollen with the spring rains.

His image had floated through her dreams last night, but the reality of the man, so large and bronzed, so very male, had her heart drumming. It is nothing remarkable, she assured herself. It is no different from the way your heartbeat picks up the moment before you take up a hand of cards when the stakes are high. At the moment, the fatal precision of her observation escaped her.

A moment later her view was obstructed by the pudgy figure of the young Duc de Santerre.

“I am enchanted to see you here tonight, comtesse.” His beatific smile had his almost colorless eyes disappearing into the folds of soft, pink flesh. “May I have the honor of dancing the first waltz with you?”

“I’m sorry, monsieur le duc. I am promised.” Her father’s instructions forgotten, the words slipped out as if they had a will of their own. Because she felt sorry for him, she gave him an especially warm smile. “One of the others perhaps?” she said rashly, regretting her words the moment they were said.

The young duke’s eyes disappeared again as, delighted at his good fortune, he watched Ariane write his name on her dance card. He opened his mouth to say something, but he saw that she had raised her head and was looking across the ballroom. He hovered over her a moment longer before he understood that he had been dismissed.

Her eyes trapped in the American’s gaze again, Ariane barely noticed as Santerre drifted off. He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment, and she saw that his eyes were amused and knowing.

Damn him. He knows that you saved the first waltz for him. You should have given it to Santerre.

Why cut off your nose to spite your face? Santerre’s conversation would put an insomniac to sleep and he’ll step on your toes besides.

And the American? What will he do to you?

As if to answer her question he moved then, striding across the ballroom toward her with a singleness of purpose that had the clusters of chatting people parting to let him pass. She stiffened her spine against the flutter in the pit of her stomach, admitting to the uneasiness, but not to the excitement.

She was truly lovely, Chris thought. She was tiny, her soft curves just on the verge of lush. And her skin! He had once seen pearls of that same color—a translucent milky white with just a blush of pink.

Her white gown, adorned only by tiny bunches of silk violets the exact color of her eyes, was almost severe in comparison to the creations decorated with lace and ruffles worn by the other women. And she stood very still, even when she was speaking, as if all that was going on around her concerned her not at all.

Her beauty was delicate, but there was nothing fragile about it. And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior, he thought. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.

“Bonsoir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”

“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”

“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”

“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all.”

“And to what then do I owe your—” he paused “—unusual acquiescence?”

Ariane knew that he was trying to provoke her and, determined not to be bested, she decided to answer him in kind.

“To the fact that your conversation is more amusing the Santerre’s.” She let her eyes move over him in a casual but thorough sweep. “And you look as if you will exhibit a certain grace on the dance floor.”

Justine let out a small, shocked gasp, but Ariane did not hear it as her own breath caught when Chris threw back his head and laughed. This was not a polite society laugh or a mocking chuckle, but a rich sound of amusement that was as physical as a touch. People around them stared, but Ariane did not notice, for she was fascinated by his laughter and by the way it made the bronzed skin of his throat ripple.

His mouth was still curved in a smile when his eyes returned to hers. “I am enchanted.”

It took some effort, but she managed to pull away from his magnetism.

“By what?” She frowned, bristling less at his words than at the amusement in his eyes.

Chris watched, fascinated, as her fabulous eyes iced over, even as they retained a heated flicker of anger.

“How do you do that?” he demanded softly, forgetting completely that she had asked him a question.

“Do what? What are you talking about?” Her brisk, impatient tone softened as she saw that the amusement in his eyes had fled and been replaced by heat. How could eyes of that cool green color carry such intense heat? she wondered.

“How do you make your eyes go as cold as an arctic night and yet the fire is still there?” He curled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides.

She stilled at the sound of his voice—low and yet somehow urgent. A shiver glided over her skin as if he had touched her. For a moment, she merely looked at him, unable to speak. Then forcibly shaking off the feeling, she tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her stormy eyes challenged him and Chris felt the blood begin to pound in his veins. Had he ever Wanted a woman so quickly, so urgently? Yes, she was lovely, he thought, but it was not just her beauty that lured him. Far more, it was her spirit—and the unbridled passion he sensed within her. He pulled in a deep breath and managed a casual smile. “I’ll explain it to you some other time.”

“Monsieur Blanchard—” Ariane drew herself up to her full height and cursed silently that she did not even reach the American’s shoulders. “I do not believe there will be some other time.”

“Oh, on the contrary.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “I promise you there will be.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“Not a threat. Even uncivilized Americans do not threaten beautiful young women.” He smiled. “It’s a promise.”

He wanted to lock her in a room and make love to her until she was out of his system, Chris thought, feeling his body tighten. It occurred to him that one did not need a great deal of imagination to construe a desire that strong as a threat.

“I have had quite enough of your promises, Monsieur Blanchard. And your demands.” She started to turn away. “You will excuse me.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the musicians began to play the lilting introduction to a Strauss waltz.

“I believe this is my dance, comtesse.”