I was.’ Something hot and dangerous sparked between them. At some point in their exchange they’d turned towards one another, neither of them looking out over the expanse of garden any longer. The space between them was negligible. If she drew a deep enough breath, her breasts would brush the front of his dinner jacket. This was where she had to be careful. The line was so very close, so very easy to cross. If she crossed it, she’d have to be cautious—what was work, what was pleasure?
For him it was always work. She would do best to remember it because she’d forgotten once to her detriment. This hot détente could not last. She glanced over his shoulder into the drawing room. ‘Shall we go in?’
Channing turned his head to catch the scene through the doors. ‘Ah, is it bedtime already?’
‘What a rather clumsy segue for you. Usually you are more...’ She waved a hand to indicate she was looking for a word.
‘Suave? Debonair?’ Channing supplied.
‘Subtle.’ She raised her brows, sensing her chance to even the playing field. He’d come out here looking to clarify their situation. She’d give him some clarity, then. ‘Since we’re not being subtle at the moment, let me remind you, I’m paying you for protection. I’m not paying you for sex.’ She gave him a knowing look and ran her gaze down the length of him in provocative suggestion. ‘I’ve had that from you before for free.’
‘I would remind you, nothing is free, comtesse. Bonne nuit.’ Channing bowed smartly over her hand and was gone.
Chapter Four
Had she done it on purpose; turned the conversation from business to an exchange of wits that fell somewhere into a grey area between flirtation and warning? Channing wondered as he undressed for bed. Such techniques might have distracted other men, but she’d have to try harder than that to distract him.
He knew better than anyone that she saw everything as a strategic seduction. Conversations, people, all were delicious games to be played and won. Such knowledge kept his own guard up. Only a foolish man would assume the comtesse needed anyone. He was far from a fool these days. He wasn’t the soft-hearted young man she’d encountered in Paris. She’d have to do a far sight better than flutter a fan and stroke a wine goblet if she meant to distract him.
Channing stretched out on the bed, revelling in the novelty of being alone. Maybe it was worth coming to the house party simply to have his own bed. Well, almost worth it. Alina made things tricky. He had a careful line to walk with her. Yes, he was here to honour Amery’s contract and that technically put her in charge. But, no, he would not blindly do her bidding if he questioned the legitimacy of her motives and he was questioning them.
On the most obvious front, something wasn’t right. This house party didn’t fit her profile, the one she’d worked so hard to cultivate since returning from France. Seymour didn’t fit her circles either. After listening to him talk over port, Channing didn’t care for the oily bastard one bit. Whatever business Alina had with him, it was no good. Both those items added up to trouble.
Alina had to be cautious here. Her image among society was not pristine. There were still those in London who took the conditions of her husband’s death and the accusations that followed quite seriously. She might have gained some respectability in certain circles, but one false step on her part and that thin cloak of respectability would be stripped away. If that happened, there would be no second chances, no benefit of the doubt extended to her another time. It made Channing wonder what she wanted from Seymour to justify such a risk.
Wondering was bad, Channing scolded himself. It led to curiosity and curiosity led to evil things when it came to the comtesse. He’d learned in Paris during their brief affair that she knew how to use a man and how willing a man could become to being used. He would not let curiosity make him that vulnerable to her again. He told himself, he was only wondering about her circumstances now out of a sense of self-protection. He hoped that was the truth. It was no wonder Amery had felt out of his depth. This was an assignment that pitted one master against another. She might be good at these games, but he was good, too. Damn good.
* * *
She’d been very good the prior night. Alina stretched in the morning sun as it fell across the wide expanse of her bed. She was still revelling in her little victory of last evening. Her strategy had worked divinely. A flirtation at dinner and then later on the veranda had neatly deflected Channing away from further enquiries about her business with Seymour.
It had been work of a sort, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been energising. Flirting with Channing was invigorating, perhaps because it was dangerous. He would not hesitate to strike back, perhaps because it was a challenge. Channing embodied a healthy amount of resistance to her charms and that was novel in itself. He wasn’t overcome with her looks or her wit. Not like Parkhurst’s scion who was so obviously infatuated he might as well just offer her carte blanche on the back of a calling card and let her run roughshod over him. She was not interested.
Alina rolled over and yanked on the bell pull next to her bed. There would be more of the same kind of work to do today. Yesterday had just been the beginning. An easily obtained gentleman held no appeal for her. Perhaps that was why Channing’s parting comment, Nothing is for free, still lingered in her thoughts. She wasn’t even sure what he’d meant by that, but it had been enough to keep her thinking about it, keep her thoughts going back to a certain moment, to a time she wanted to remember as much as she wanted to forget it. Still, she could make use of it.
The comment was the perfect launching point for the next level of her distraction game. She wanted Channing to be so busy sparring with her, pursuing her, he’d not be watching her transactions with Seymour. At least that was what she told herself. Her choice of gambit had nothing to do with a pair of disarmingly blue eyes and a ready smile set amid the perfect planes of elongated squared cheekbones and a length of straight aristocratic breeding.
Her maid, Celeste, was prompt, bearing with her a tray of morning chocolate. Celeste had been with her since her disastrous marriage to the French comte and was arguably the best thing she’d taken away from her time abroad. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ she sang out, always cheery, as she set the tray on a table by the window and turned to the wardrobe. ‘There’s a ride planned for this morning, madame. There’s to be two groups, one for casual riders and one for the more advanced group.’
‘I’ll need the blue habit with the jaunty little hat. We’ll put my hair up in that twist you do so well, Celeste.’ Alina got out of bed and went to sit beside the tray, her thoughts already starting to work: what to wear, what to say, where to ride, how to subtly create the right impression to draw Seymour in.
Celeste tossed a knowing smile over her shoulder. ‘Oui, the young blond lord will like that. He likes to look at your neck.’
Alina sipped her chocolate. ‘It’s not for him. It’s for Seymour.’
Celeste made a pouting moue as she laid out the riding habit. ‘I like the young lord better.’
‘This is business, Celeste.’ Alina said sternly. She’d decided last night after the veranda she could no longer wait for Channing to procure an introduction to Seymour. It wasn’t that she doubted Channing’s ability to get the introduction. He would get it and he’d have it by the end of the day. But he would make her pay for it with questions and enquiries. He’d want to know what she intended to do with the introduction and she had no intention of telling him. If he knew, he’d want to get involved. ‘Which group is Seymour riding with?’
‘The
