Seduced by the Scoundrel Page 19

  She was so lost in painful thought that when he appeared in front of her in the flesh she gasped.

  ‘Am I startling you again, Miss Heydon? I do apologise.’ Luc stood there, elegant and groomed, a thousand miles from the piratical figure who had hauled her naked from the beach on St Helen’s. But that man was still there with the dangerous fire in those deep grey eyes, the jut of that arrogant nose, the set of the determined chin. And the lean figure, all hard-toned muscle and long bones that made her mouth dry with desire when she looked at him. Those were the same.

  And so was the mouth that could thin into a hard line of anger or curve into a smile that made her want to follow him into sin and back, that could bark orders in one breath and breathe promises of those sins with another.

  ‘I was momentarily distracted, Count,’ Averil said. She got to her feet without a stumble by focusing every ounce of concentration on her deportment. I stand just so, my hands like this, my back straight and shoulders down. Head up. Fan and reticule—both under control. Chin up. Smile. Put out my hand to him …

  She thought she was succeeding admirably until they took their places for the quadrille. ‘What is wrong, Averil?’

  ‘A headache, that is all.’ The smile became brighter.

  ‘You no more have a headache than I have. Is it your thoughts that are painful?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘It is not such an easy thing as I thought it would be, to travel so many miles and to learn to live with strangers on such terms of intimacy.’

  ‘Do you think Bradon will become easier with acquaintance?’

  ‘He is not a man who finds it easy to give expression to his feelings,’ Averil said, choosing her words with care.

  ‘If he has any,’ Luc countered.

  There was a slight confusion in a far corner of the dance floor. A young lady had fainted, it seemed. Partners relaxed and began to talk quietly to each other while chaperones bustled about.

  ‘His reactions so far do argue a lack of trust,’ Averil said. ‘But then, he knows as little about me as I do of him.’

  ‘It is not simply a question of trust.’ Luc frowned. ‘There is a practical expediency about it that I do not like—it does not seem to matter to him whether you told the truth or not, merely whether there would be consequences if you had not. I could understand him deciding that he would not marry you because you had been compromised, but this is having his cake and eating it, too.’

  ‘I suppose any man might be concerned about such consequences,’ Averil murmured. ‘You would, surely, if it was a question of the charming young lady in sea-green?’

  He looked across the room. ‘Mademoiselle de la Falaise? Perhaps I would.’

  Indeed you would. ‘Is she the one?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said again. ‘She is very lovely, very well bred. Her mother is a distant cousin on my father’s side. Her father’s estates are in Normandy also.’

  ‘Perfect.’ It was true, what they said: the heart did break and you could feel it, a hard, sickening pain like the crack of a bone splintering.

  ‘Time will tell. I do not know if there is any depth or spirit under the elegant little tricks and she does not know me at all. And her father is suspicious of the half-breed naval captain. He, too, wants to return to France, to take his place back at court, to be what he once was. He must choose his sons-in-law with care. Am I French enough for him? Where do my loyalties lie? Am I a dangerous constitutionalist like my father? He wonders about those things.’

  ‘Do you wonder? You sound very French now,’ Averil said. Her lips felt numb, but she kept smiling.

  ‘Really?’ Luc’s voice was sombre. He added something half under his breath and she strained to catch it as the band struck up again and couples straightened up and resumed their positions. I wish I knew where I belonged, what I was. Had he really said that? But he seemed so assured, so certain about his desire to return to France.

  ‘Oh, yes. Your intonation has changed, there is the faintest accent. It is most attractive,’ she added lightly, testing her own composure by being a trifle daring.

  ‘And you,’ Luc said as he took her hand and the first steps of the dance brought them almost breast to breast. The dark mood seemed to have fled as fast as it had arrived. ‘You are even more lovely than you were on my desert island, ma sirène.’

  She could translate that: my mermaid. ‘You should not flirt with me while you are courting Mademoiselle de la Falaise.’ And that was all it was, flirtation. It came so easily to him, so hard to her. Or perhaps the difference was simply that her feelings were engaged and his were not.

  ‘I do not know how to flirt with you, Averil,’ he said as the dance parted them for a wide circle. As they came back together he was frowning. ‘With you, I can speak only the truth, it seems.’

  ‘Then you should not speak such truths,’ she said and looked up into his eyes. His expression changed, sharpened, and too late she realised that she had done nothing to shield her own. What had he seen in her face, in her gaze?

  ‘Averil, leave him. It is not too late.’

  She was silent. The other couples were too close, her heart was beating too hard to find breath for words. When, minutes later, the music stopped and with it the end of the first dance, she stepped off the floor and into one of the little striped tents that were scattered around the room.

  ‘Leave him? For what? My ruin, if you are still asking me to be your mistress.’

  ‘Come to me. I will deal honestly with you, Averil.’

  She sat down in a swirl of peach silk and gauze and he stayed on his feet facing her, sombre. Anyone looking in would think, perhaps, that they had intruded on a proposal. And that, of course, was just what it had been. A dishonourable proposal.

  ‘Then let us be entirely honest, shall we? You seek a bride, quite coolly, as though you select the right horse for your carriage.’ She paused to get her breathing under control. She must not let him see how this affected her. ‘You chose one who will restore the part of you that is not French because, somehow, your identity is compromised by your English blood. You want me, for reasons I will not explore here, and so, just as coolly, you offer me my ruin. Because I am a merchant’s daughter, and English, and therefore fit for nothing else. You call Bradon cold and practical. Have you looked in the mirror? That description fits you just as well, I think.’

  ‘You want to marry me?’ Luc asked, looking at her as though he had never seen her before.

  ‘I think,’ Averil said, finding her anger and with it breath to continue, ‘that you should remove yourself before I forget that I am a lady—insofar as a daughter of trade can be, of course—and throw one of these flower arrangements over your arrogant, smug male person.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Luc turned on his heel and walked away, not because he feared a bouquet being thrown at his head, but because he was so strongly tempted to turn Miss Averil Heydon over his knee and … Or, strangle her. Or shake some sense into her. But it was he who needed sense knocking into. What had he said? That had almost been a proposal.

  Louise de la Falaise saw him from across the room and made a pretty little gesturing motion with her fan. He bowed and walked on. She was very lovely and intelligent, too, as far as he could tell, with her every move and word being supervised by her mama. He should desire her, but he did not, even though she was probably the woman he would propose to. He desired one woman only and she was impossible.

  Averil was English. His father had married an Englishwoman and their only child had never known where he belonged, where his loyalties lay, which identity was his. When the time had come to make a decision and take a stand, he had not had the strength to stand up to his mother and to remain in France with his father. The fact that he was just a boy made no difference. If he had stayed, he supposed that now he would be long cold in his grave.

  But he had made his choice, he lived and now he had made a decision: as his father’s son he could make no other. He ha
d lands and responsibilities to resume and to hand on to a son who would at least be three-quarters French.

  Averil was … impossible. The scandal if she left Bradon would be shocking; he could not believe the man would take the loss of such a dowry lying down. She was wrong for him, as wrong as a dangerous drug would be. And he must not compromise her. Bradon had accepted her, she had accepted Bradon for what he was. It would be the action of a blackguard to seduce her away now.

  There was Bradon now, talking to a striking brunette. He felt a wave of dislike run through him. The man bristled proprietarily when he saw Averil with another man, but he made no move to touch her except to take her arm formally. His eyes did not follow her with anything in them except a cool assessment. He did not even desire her person, it seemed.

  Luc stopped, then swung back, apologising to the officer he almost flattened with the suddenness of his movement. He passed a footman with a tray and lifted two glasses from it as he went. Averil was still sitting in the gay little tent, just as he had left her, her face calm, her hands folded decorously in her lap, her eyes blank.

  She looked up as his shadow fell at her feet and went a little pale, but she made no move to throw the arrangement of hothouse lilies on the table beside her as she had threatened.

  ‘Here.’ He thrust the glass into her hand and drained his own. ‘Does he make love to you?’ He sounded like a jealous fool. He did not care.

  ‘Bradon?’ Averil looked at the glass as though she had never seen one before. ‘No.’

  ‘Does he kiss you? Caress you?’

  ‘No. He kissed my hand, once. He shows no affection and no desire. Why do you ask?’ She took a mouthful of the champagne, swallowed. ‘What possible business is it of yours what my betrothed does? Please do not tell me you are jealous of him—what right have you?’

  ‘I saved you on that beach and then made a decision that could have—may have—ruined you. I—’

  ‘Oh, so now you are going to tell me again that you feel responsible for me?’ Averil got to her feet in an inelegant scramble, tossed back the wine with a reckless hand and stood toe to toe with him, glaring up. ‘Well, you are not. I may have been innocent, but I was not addled—I am responsible for the decisions I made. And if you think I should be grateful to you—’

  ‘I think that you are just the right height for me to kiss,’ Luc said, ignoring the music and voices and laughter at his back, ignoring her anger. All he could see was her face, all he could smell was the fresh sweetness of her skin, all he could hear was his own blood pounding in his ears and the madness of a need he did not understand, that was so much more than lust, sweeping through him.

  ‘No.’ Averil stepped back and the pain deep in her eyes stopped him as abruptly as if she had slammed a door in his face. ‘No. I cannot bear this. It may all be about physical pleasure, the fun of the chase, for you. But it is not for me. For me it is a torment. I am not one of your sophisticated matrons or headstrong daughters of the aristocracy. I am a merchant’s daughter and I was not brought up for these games. I was brought up to keep my word and to respect and honour my husband.’

  ‘Averil, I am sorry—’ He would cut out his heart and lay it at her feet if that would help. It could not hurt any more than the pain in it now.

  ‘Oh, I do not blame you,’ she said bitterly. ‘You flirt and make love like a hound chases a rabbit—on instinct. If I had not been so weak, Bradon would still have cause for suspicion, but at least I would have a clear conscience and I would not have to be fighting the temptation to give in to you.’ She gave a little sob that turned the knife in his heart. ‘I would not have known what it was to be made love to as you made love to me, I would have known only him.’ Appalled, Luc reached for her. She batted his hands away. ‘Go. If you have any concern for me at all, any, go and leave me alone.’

  Hell. What had he done? She was right, she did not know how to deal with the likes of him and he had no idea how to deal with her, except in his bed. Her chin came up and he could see the effort it was costing her to stand there and confront him like this. His temper, for some reason never far below the surface these days, flared. He wanted to hurt someone, to share the pain that racked him.

  ‘Yes, I will go. As you say, Miss Heydon, I should not be toying with someone who does not understand the rules these games are played by.’ He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Your virtue has defeated me.’

  He knew he sounded ungracious, angry, sarcastic, all the things he had no right to feel. He expected her anger in return, was braced for tears. What he did not expect was for the well-behaved Miss Heydon to scoop up the vase of lilies and throw it at his head, just as she had threatened.

  Luc caught it before it hit him, but water and lilies went everywhere, showering his immaculate evening clothes. Averil gasped, then turned and slipped through the flap at the back of the little tent, leaving him to shake himself like a wet dog. Lily pollen stained his shirt front as he batted petals from his lapels and water ran down his nose and dripped to the floor.

  Behind him the flaps of the tent shifted. ‘Ah, there you are!’ said Mademoiselle de la Falaise in French. ‘It is our dance next, monsieur.’

  He turned and she stared, her mouth open. ‘Mon Dieu! What has occurred?’

  ‘I was unaccountably clumsy,’ he said. ‘I tripped. Obviously I cannot stay at the ball. You will excuse me. I regret greatly that I must forgo our dance.’

  ‘I also, but there is nothing to be done.’ She shrugged with rueful charm. ‘I must go and find a dry gentleman. Goodbye.’ Her lips were twitching as she turned and left.

  ‘Goodbye indeed,’ Luc muttered. That had done his dignity with the woman he was thinking of courting a great deal of good to be sure. Now what? He could hardly walk out on to the dance floor looking like this. Where had Averil got out? He investigated the back of the tent and found it opened out on to a corridor under the orchestra gallery and it was mercifully empty. Luc gritted his teeth and stalked off to the front door.

  ‘I thought you were engaged for the supper dance, my dear.’ Bradon appeared in front of Averil as she sat on a gilt chair in the furthest corner from the little striped tent.

  ‘I was. I gather Captain d’Aunay had an accident and had to leave.’

  ‘I trust he is not badly injured. If no one else has claimed you, perhaps you would care to dance with me.’ He held out his hand and Averil put hers into it.

  ‘Thank you, I would prefer that in any case.’ He smirked a little, she noticed. She fixed a bright smile on her own face. It was time to face the future as Lady Bradon and convince her betrothed that she was indeed the wife for him. After all, the man she loved was an unscrupulous scoundrel who lost his temper when thwarted. Andrew Bradon’s cool equanimity was positively soothing after that scene in the tent.

  She wondered what had come over her as she tried to feel remorseful for losing her temper so thoroughly and with such violence. What if she had hit him with the crystal vase?

  He deserved it, the angry little voice inside her said. Just fall out of love with him, that is all you need to do.

  Of course. Fall out of love. She smiled up at Bradon as they took their places. It was a matter of will-power. ‘Six days of our month have gone already, my lord,’ she said and saw his pupils widen. He was not as indifferent to her as she thought.

  ‘You are a formal little thing, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You should call me Bradon.’

  ‘Yes … Bradon.’ Was she supposed to have known that would be acceptable without being asked? No matter. Provided she made no major breach of etiquette he seemed to like putting her right. Being patronised was just something else she must add to her list of things to become accustomed to. Somehow it no longer seemed of importance, she was so unhappy. The pain could not stay this acute for ever, Averil told herself as she stumbled and Bradon steadied her. When it became a dull ache then she would manage better.

  ‘I am so looking forward to Almack’s,’ she s
aid.

  ‘Ah, yes, Mama has secured you vouchers. She will explain the rules to you—there is no need to be nervous about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Averil said and he frowned.

  ‘You should be. Pay great attention to what Mama tells you—making a good impression at Almack’s is vital.’

  ‘Yes, Bradon,’ she said meekly and told herself he was only concerned that she was not embarrassed.

  Resolutions were all very well, Averil realised at one in the morning as she sat up in bed and lit a candle. She should have gone to sleep half an hour ago when she climbed into bed, but her eyes, hot and heavy, would not stay closed and her mind would not settle.

  I love him and I cannot have him. I should not want him. I must learn to forget him. How long would it take? If only she could marry Bradon now, or in a few days’ time. Then perhaps her foolish heart would give up, because then being with Luc would be an impossibility.

  But it would be another two weeks before the arrival of her courses convinced his mother that there was no danger of her carrying another man’s child. Then there would be all the necessary preparations to be made, her drowned trousseau to replace, arrangements to be made. Another month at least.

  Averil tossed and turned and finally gave up. The soft pile of the carpet cradled her feet in luxury as she slid out of the high bed, reminding her of her new circumstances. She would go down to the library and find a book, or a fashion journal or something to distract her mind until she could sleep.

  The house was quiet as she padded downstairs in bare feet. Her ghostly reflection in her white robe made her jump as she came face to face with a mirror on the first landing and her heart was still thudding as she walked across the hall to the library door.

  The fire was burning low in the grate, but candles were still lit and she found the pile of journals on a side table easily enough. Fashion and frivolity to distract her or something serious, sermons perhaps, to make her concentrate?