pretty in a macabre manner.
“Go away,” she whispered.
Monsieur Hawkes leaned in and delivered a wicked grin. “Make me.”
He stroked a curl of hair along her neck, so she swatted his hand none too lightly.
“Ouch. Do it again?” He snickered.
Viviane’s blood rose at the challenge. A gentleman would walk away. A rogue would have kissed her by now.
“You may like the vintage of my blood, Viviane.”
She bristled at his use of her name. It was too personal. He invaded her comfort. “I wager it is a less desirable vintage than I am accustomed to, Monsieur Hawkes.”
“Yes, I am to understand you city types sneer at the country appellations.”
“Only because they are so uncivilized and illmannered.”
“Are we still talking about blood, or have you turned to my person?”
“It is all the same.”
“Of course. You are the aristocracy.”
“You do not claim the same?”
“I am a humble provincial at your beckoning, Mademoiselle LaMourette. Ask me to slay all the rats in the city and I shall.”
She could not prevent a chuckle. “If but you could.”
Moonlight filtered between the nearby rooftops, gleaming on the harsh planes of his square jaw. Dark eyes glittered with the stars she could not see for the clouds. His thick, long hair was dashed with a gray streak as wide as two fingers. So wild.
He could have her if he but swept her into his arms and carried her inside. And then she would receive the satisfaction she craved this night.
He placed a hand above her shoulder on the wall. “Rumor tells you require a new patron?”
“My patron was Henri Chevalier,” she said tightly. Anger spilled over the tender wanting. “Constantine believes a wolf killed Henri and his wife in cold blood.”
Rhys shifted against her, leaning in closer. “Not all wolves are vicious.”
“What do you care for the wolves?”
“I mark no man my enemy, no matter his breed. As Rousseau says, ‘All men are created equally.’”
Henri had once quoted the same. She’d thought him a revolutionary. And she had admired him for his bold, independent thinking.
Her anger subsided as she looked over her rescuer’s face. Square jaw and bold nose. Not outwardly handsome, yet indicative of a warrior, and strong, powerful men always attracted her. Desire again scurried to the surface, reducing her need to put up the offensive. Rhys was attractive, more so for his teasing gentleness.
“Thank you for the rescue.” And then she leaned in to kiss him.
A connection, two mouths meeting in the night. Testing. Taking measure. Wondering. She kept it chaste; his lips were soft and yet firm, willing to give her her way. This kiss was hers to direct, and while she fought with the insanity of it, she was proud of her independent heart. It never led her too far astray.
Tonight her heart took what she craved. Flesh to flesh. Sharing of body heat. A sample of pleasure she could either pursue or flee.
How she wanted to pull him to her, crush her breasts against his chest, and dive into the deepest of intimacies. But no, this simple moment must be savored. This first kiss, not at all awkward for their mouths met as if destined, she would remember always.
Breaking the kiss, she leaned back, but Rhys followed her, forehead to forehead.
“You surprise me, LaMourette. I thought my presence offended you.”
Indeed, she surprised herself.
“Regarde moi,” he said.
No, she would not look at him. Could not. Her bold heart grew trepid.
“It was nothing more than a thank-you kiss, Monsieur Hawkes. Lost in a moment of relief.” She exhaled resolutely. “I assure you, now I’ve gained my senses, I will ask you to leave.”
“I am honored to have earned your kiss, even if in a moment of nonsensical folly. Good eve, LaMourette. Until we next meet.” He glanced upward. “Full moon in less than a week. What is it Shakespeare wrote? Well met by moonlight?”
“I believe it was ill met by moonlight.”
“Ah? Well then, forget I said that. Meeting you has been beyond a pleasure. Au revoir.”
She lifted her chin and did not look until he’d broached the cross street and his silhouette filled the alley. Broad-shouldered and solid. He was built like a peasant who worked the fields. Not refined. Brusque. And such a swaggering walk. Nowhere near the aristocratic elegance she was accustomed to.
Viviane swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. The taste of him did not offend. And the smell of him, so much a part of this mortal realm, crept into her pores and fixed itself there. Complex, yet simple. Dark. Sure of himself.
Yet she could not abandon the ill ease something about the man was very wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU SAY SHE WAS WAITING for William Montfalcon to return to her?”
Orlando nodded fervently. “He’d told her he was bringing money, so they could be together.”
Having returned from his nightly visit to the brothel, Orlando’s ginger hair was mussed and his shirt untucked from his breeches. But he wore a smile like a badge of triumph.
“Her name is Annabelle,” Orlando said.
“Just Annabelle?”
“Yes, just.” A wider, more pleased grin had never graced the boy’s face.
Ah, the afterglow of a night well spent.
Settling in for the morning, Rhys sat on a stool at the end of the bed, stripping his stockings off before the porcelain ewer filled with boiling water. “How did this topic come up while you two were …?”
“I asked her if she ever thought to stop and leave the world behind.”
“Interesting conversation.”
“We did more than shake the bed.” The boy plopped onto a chair, one arm draping the back, a leg dangling over an arm.
Rhys recalled the drunken high of after sex, and felt a nudge of jealousy. Kissing—or rather, receiving—LaMourette’s kiss tonight had only increased his frustration.
“I am a gentleman, Rhys. You taught me to treat a woman with dignity.”
