his Continental counterparts. French nobles and Italian contes were thick on the ground and notoriously light in the pockets. In short, Haviland was the stuff of mothers’ dreams. Even French mamans.
Who wouldn’t jump, nay, who wouldn’t leap at the chance to marry their daughters to such prestige and such security? There were those who would leap for much less than an offer of marriage. Alyssandra reminded herself she wasn’t here for purely selfish reasons. It was what her brother needed. Her presence here tonight was professional. She had to remain objective just as if she were facing him from behind a fencing mask. There was no room behind the mask for carnal thoughts and there was no room for them now, although that didn’t seem to be stopping them from trying to intrude.
She’d heard the women talking behind their fans all night. ‘With a body like that, he cannot help but be extraordinary in bed,’ one woman had remarked. Another had commented, ‘I just want to look at him, preferably naked.’ Alyssandra could understand the sentiment. He was gorgeously made, lean hipped and broad shouldered. She had studied that physique from behind peepholes for weeks now in anonymity. She had seen that body up close today during their exercise and it had been positively scintillating. It was in part responsible for the more feminine side of her wanting to risk the encounter tonight. She wanted to test the electricity between them. Would it happen again or was the spark between them limited to the fencing floor?
Around her, women whispered, watching his approach with interest and perhaps hope, from behind their fans. His stride was purposeful, confident, his gaze locked on her, making his destination clear to those who hoped otherwise. Alyssandra raised her chin just a fraction, enjoying a moment of defiant victory. The Englishman was coming for her.
Alyssandra lowered her fan and met his gaze with equal strength. She let the rush of excitement over meeting him as herself fill her, let him take her hand and bend over it with eyes that never left hers. He would never look at her incarnation of Antoine Leodegrance the way he was looking at her, all banked fire and desire in those blue eyes. His lips brushed her gloved knuckles. Even that briefest of touches sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. The connection she’d sensed today at the salle was still there.
‘Mademoiselle, enchanté. I must apologise for my boldness. I could not wait for a proper introduction. May I present myself? I am Viscount Amersham.’
She’d known all of his names, of course. It was on his application at the club although he preferred to go by his given name there. Therein lay her advantage. He was meeting a stranger. But she was not. She knew him, whereas, there was nothing to connect her to Antoine save her name, and that would be revealed when and if she chose.
She let a little smile play across her lips, her eyes flirting coolly, her body trying to ignore the hot spark that passed between them upon contact. ‘I know who you are.’ She gestured to the groups gathered around them with her closed fan. ‘Everyone knows. You’ve become quite the celebrity.’ She rose and retrieved her hand, breaking the electric connection. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
‘What reputation would that be?’ He arched a dark brow.
She gave a laugh and spread her fan again, enjoying having the upper hand for the moment. ‘Are you fishing for a compliment, monsieur le vicomte? I don’t think vanity becomes you. I think you know very well what sort of reputation.’
‘Touché.’ He grinned, showing even white teeth in that kissable mouth of his. It was every bit as delectable up close as it was from the distance of the viewing room or from behind a mask. His blue eyes danced, his gaze taking in all she had to offer. She was acutely alert to the skim of his eyes roaming over the slender length of her neck, how they’d dropped discreetly to the low sweep of her décolletage. His attraction to her was not in doubt.
Electric awareness crackled between them, broken only by their hostess signalling the end of the intermission—a critical moment that would define the direction of the evening and perhaps even their association. Allowing him to go back to his seat would suggest at worst she did not return his level of interest or, at the very least, she had not been serious when she’d summoned him. She must act quickly. She had done the summoning; the next move was hers. She had to be one to establish the purpose of having called him to her.
Alyssandra placed a hand on his arm, braving the physical pull of him. Men had crossed rooms for her before. Tonight, she had even encouraged such a response, knowing how well she looked in the gentian blue and the careful upsweep of her hair, both of which showed the silhouette of her body and the profile of her face to advantage. Would it be enough? ‘Some of the others will go to the card rooms instead of returning to their seats. Perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the gardens? I have been here before, if you’re interested.’ He was a sophisticated man. He would hear the entendre in her words and the invitation, just as he was aware she would see the silent interest he communicated with his eyes.
‘I have heard much about the beauty of the French gardens. I would be delighted to see one in person if you could be spared?’
Alyssandra smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
He allowed her to step slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd finding their seats, his hand confident of its reception, as if it belonged there. She could hear his voice, low and familiar at her ear. ‘It will be mine as well, I am certain of it.’ She recognised, too, what this was; the touch, the words, the very closeness of him. His body was advertising its skills in his touch, in his bid for familiarity. These were the opening moves to a seduction and it would be up to her just how far they would go. Suffice it to say, it was much harder to be professionally objective just now.
There was nothing wrong per se with the garden. It was inherently respectable with its paper lanterns and exotic-shaped shrubs. The incipient lure to wickedness was Alyssandra’s construction entirely. She knew very well they’d not come out here to be respectable, or even to see the topiaries, although the famed shrubs did make a good ruse for the reality: They’d come outside to test the waters of their attraction in the way sophisticated men and women do who are not necessarily looking for attachment but something more fleeting: momentary pleasure, momentary escape.
While she understood the allure escape held for her, she was hard pressed to imagine the allure of escape for a man like Haviland North, whose life was already perfect. And yet what did she know of him? He was here after all, wasn’t he? In Paris, hundreds of miles and a body of water way from home. The Tour itself was an escape of sorts and those on it escapees. It often stood to contrary reason that the more perfect something looked on the outside, the more rotten it was on the inside. What imperfections might the handsome viscount have, hidden away behind those blue eyes? It did make a girl wonder what he might be running from, and there was nothing sexier than a man shrouded in intrigue.
It was part of her mission to peel away those perfect outer layers and get to those imperfections beneath. Of course, she wouldn’t peel all those layers tonight. That took time and trust. Tonight was about establishing the latter. ‘Do you see the shrub shaped as a dog?’ She pointed to the shape near a fountain. ‘It was modelled after Madame Aguillard’s favourite hunting hound. The fountain itself is made from marble imported from Italy.’
‘Very impressive.’ North said, walking beside her, his hand always at her back, offering a physical reminder of his presence.
‘Very expensive, if you ask me,’ Alyssandra shot back. It had always struck her as foolish to have imported the marble at extra
