locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’
* * *
Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?
This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.
‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.
‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.
‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’
Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.
Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.
‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’
‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.
‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.
Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’
‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’
But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.
‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’
Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride came in. Had she’d been told to do those things or had they been part of the natural chemistry at work between them? Which all came back to the initial question: Had she known him before he’d said his name?
She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.
‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.
‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’
A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?
‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.
‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland
