she had the feeling that ‘years of practice’ referred to far more than pouring champagne.
‘Pour champagne for women in carriages often, do you?’ she teased, sipping carefully from her glass.
Haviland laughed and had the good grace to look slightly abashed. ‘I am hoist by my own petard, as the expression goes. Can I just answer “maybe” and leave it at that?’
‘Absolutely. A gentleman with a bit of mystery to him is far more intriguing than an open book.’ She smiled and risked clinking her glass against his—a difficult manoeuvre to accomplish in a moving carriage without spilling. She liked him this way; more relaxed, less intimidating than he was at the salle. It was the way he behaved around the men in the members’ salon. She’d seen him in there on occasion working with others. He was a natural leader even in casual circumstances. It was how he’d been the day he’d come on her errands, as if a mask had been stripped away. When he was with Julian and even with ‘her brother’ he was different. In those lessons, he exuded a formality, an intensity that was as magnetic as his casual charm. She wondered which persona he’d bring to the bedroom.
‘As is mystery in a woman, up to a point.’ His eyes held hers, blue and intense over the rim of his glass. Mon Dieu, those eyes of his could sell a line. ‘I think the mystery lures a man in, but after a while, he wants to know more and that desire for knowledge outweighs the desire for mystery.’ That was the urbane rake in him delivering a practised line for certain—a remark designed to compliment and pursue, to bring a woman into his circle of sophistication.
Even knowing it, she couldn’t stop a thrill of excitement from racing down her back. Still, she would not be an easy conquest. She might have agreed to this assignation and they both might be fully aware of the evening’s intended conclusion, but she didn’t have to be a quivering blancmange just because he was handsome and silver-tongued beyond reason.
Haviland looked out the window. ‘Pont Neuf. Right on schedule. I thought we could take a walk. It’s still just early enough in the evening to be safe out.’
Alyssandra laughed. It was only ten o’clock, early by Parisian standards. ‘The streets aren’t truly dangerous until after midnight. Surely, London streets are no different.’
Haviland jumped down to set the steps. He reached out a hand to help her down. ‘They’re wider though. For such a modern city, Paris has the narrowest of streets. I think a medieval merchant could walk through town and find the city unchanged in many regards.’
‘I think that’s true of most European cities.’ Alyssandra stepped down onto the pavement. ‘You will find Florence much the same.’ She thought she detected the fleetest of grimaces. In the gaslight, it was difficult to be sure. It might have been a trick of shadow and light. ‘You are going on to Italy, are you not?’
He smiled, and she felt sure the grimace had been nothing more than shadows. ‘It is one of my greatest wishes.’ He tucked her hand through his arm and signalled the driver to meet them on the other side of the bridge. They began to stroll, joining other couples taking the evening air. She had not been out like this for years and it was intoxicating; to be out with this man, in this place. The Seine was dark below them, smooth and still, the gaslights lining the stone vestibules of the bridge, casting a kind light on everything around them.
‘I meant it, a few minutes ago, about trading mystery for knowledge.’ His voice was low, weaving privacy about them even in public. ‘Tell me about yourself, Alyssandra. Have you always lived in Paris?’
‘The Leodegrances have a country home in Fontainebleau. We were raised there, but we’ve lived primarily in Paris since I was eighteen.’ No need to mention that living in town allowed them to close up the country house and economise. The beautiful home in Fontainebleau was too big to keep open for just two people. It was enough of a financial commitment to live in the family hôtel.
‘The salle d’armes occupies a great deal of your brother’s time, but what about you? What do you do all day?’
‘It might surprise you, but my days aren’t much different than yours.’ She offered him a coy smile and stepped into one of the vestibules, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. She didn’t want to lie to him, but she wasn’t above distracting him when questions became more akin to an interrogation.
‘You might be surprised what I spend my days doing.’ His words were husky. His eyes darkened, his gaze falling on her mouth. ‘I think about doing this.’ His mouth took hers in a firm press of a kiss, and then another one. ‘And this,’ he whispered against her mouth. His hands fell to her waist, drawing her against him, his touch low and intimate on her hips where his thumbs imprinted themselves through the thin chiffon of her gown.
In the distance, she could the hear strains of a roving musician’s violin. Haviland heard it, too. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured against her throat. He began to move in a slow circle of a dance, his hands still at her hips, his lips still at her neck, her ear, her lips. She moved, too, her arms lifting about his neck, her body swaying with his. This was like no ballroom waltz or indeed like any dance she’d ever experienced. This was intimate and close. This was bodies pressed together, the hard planes of him against the soft curves of her. This was two people falling into each other. She could drink in the whole of him; she could taste the lingering fruity tang of champagne in his mouth, smell the spice and vanilla of his soap, feel the power of him where their bodies met. Her fingers dug into the depths of his dark hair, her body hungry for every inch of him.
This was precisely what she’d wanted when she’d issued her invitation: to forget who she was for a while and a man who could help her do it. Tonight was for her, not to talk about Antoine, or the salle, not to think ahead to the next day’s lessons. It was just to enjoy, to feel alive again.
The music ebbed as the violinist passed into the street beyond the bridge. Their dance ended. She rested her head against the wool of his jacket, reluctant to step back just yet. Here on the bridge, surrounded by strangers who were too wrapped up in their own lives, their own romances, she was anonymous. She could do as she pleased in a way Antoine Leodegrance’s sister never could.
‘I know a place we can go.’ Haviland’s voice was low at her ear, whispering temptation.
‘Yes.’ Her own response was not more than a whisper of its own. She hoped it wasn’t far. They crossed the remainder of the bridge in silence, hands interlaced, his grip firm and warm, her body awake, every nerve on edge, alert and raw to even the slightest sensations. She needed satisfaction.
In the carriage, they drank the rest of the champagne. The ride was short. The carriage came to a rolling halt and his eyes met hers over the empty glasses, the intensity of his gaze proof he was as primed for this as she, his eyes two intense blue flames, his body taut with wanting. It was flattering in a primal sense to be desired by such a man.
Haviland handed her out and she looked up at the building in question. It was an elegant building in a prestigious neighbourhood. ‘Your place?’ she asked quietly. Only a man for whom prices were no object could afford quarters like these.
Inside matched her expectations—expensive carpets, airy rooms in a city that was cramped for space. Behind her, Haviland lit a lamp. ‘This is the common area, my room is this way.’ She liked the feel of his hand at her back, confident and strong, as they made their way down the hall. He pushed a door open revealing a room dominated by a tall four-poster bed with carved pillars and dressed in pale-green damask linens. French doors on the side led out to a small garden.
Haviland left her for a moment to shut the door and
