The very thought of having caused him such pain when he already had so much to bear made her chest tight. She’d not thought in those terms last night—indeed, she’d hardly thought at all in Haviland’s arms. She rose and went to Antoine, kneeling at his side and taking his hands in hers, tears in her eyes. ‘I will not leave you. I promise. You mustn’t worry about that, never again.’
Antoine placed a hand on her head. ‘I know it’s hard and I know it’s unfair to ask you to stay,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what it costs you. You could be out dancing every night. What would become of me without you? I am afraid I’m too scared to find out, but perhaps I won’t always be. Maybe some day I’ll find the courage to let you go.’
She shook her head in denial. ‘You must never worry. You are my brother—’ Hurried footsteps interrupted her. The butler stepped into the room. She rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘What is it, Renaud?’
The butler drew himself up, trying with great effort not to look disturbed. ‘There is a gentleman downstairs. He is asking to see you. He has given me his card.’ The butler handed it to her, hiding a very French sneer of disdain. ‘He’s English.’
Her initial reaction was one of relief. No one was asking to see Antoine. People had stopped asking to see Antoine years ago at home. The story about facial scars had worked well in keeping people away. But the sight of the name on the card put a knot in her stomach that curled right around her buttered toast. She passed the card silently to her brother. Antoine had been right. It hadn’t been just a kiss. The kiss had become an invitation to seek her out and he had. Haviland North was here, in a home that hadn’t seen a visitor in three years.
‘You’d better go down.’ Antoine handed the card back to her.
‘Take him for a walk through the back garden or over to the Luxembourg Gardens. That will look civil enough.’ What he meant was ‘normal’ enough and it would get North out of the house, away from any telltale sign of Antoine’s incapacity.
Antoine glanced at Renaud. ‘Did he say anything about the nature of his business?’
‘No, he did not.’
But Alyssandra knew. She had no illusions as to why he had come. He was here to make her accountable for last night.
* * *
‘You played me false last night.’ Haviland announced the intent of his visit the moment she stepped into the drawing room. This was not a social call and he would not treat it as such by dressing it up as one, nor would he allow her to escape the reckoning he’d come for. It would be too easy to forget his agenda in those deep-brown eyes, too easy instead to remember those lips on his, the press of her body against his.
He’d come as early as he dared in hopes that morning light would mitigate his memories of the midnight garden and show them to be just that—fantasies exaggerated by the lateness of the hour and his desire for distraction. He’d also come early simply because he wanted the situation resolved. Resolution would determine his next course of action.
He might have come earlier if finding the house had been easier. No one at the salle had been eager to give up the address, directing him only to the sixth arondissement. No one, not even Julian Anjou, had refused him outright, of course. They’d said instead in the indirect way of the French, ‘The master does not receive anyone.’ Haviland had been forced to rely on general directions from merchants and shopkeepers who recognised his description of Alyssandra and eventually made his way.
Alyssandra gestured to a small cluster of furniture set before the wide mantel of the fireplace. ‘Please, monsieur le vicomte, have a seat.’ He grimaced as she returned to formality as she had at the last in the garden. ‘Shall I call for tea or perhaps you’d prefer something more substantial? Have you eaten?’ The formality and now this. It was a deft reprimand regarding the hour of his call.
Haviland shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was sit and eat. He understood her strategy. If he was determined to not make this a social call, she was determined to do the opposite. A social call required a different set of rules, polite ones. He was intent on something a little more blunt, a little more direct.
She sat and arranged her skirts, the unhurried movements calling attention to the elegant slimness of her hands, the delicate bones of her wrists. Haviland could not help but follow her motions with his eyes. She was in no rush to answer his accusation and her sense of calmness rather took the wind out of his bold claim. He’d expected the passionate woman of last night to leap to her own defence and deny him. He’d expected her to engage him in a heated argument at his charges of duplicity. She did neither.
She arched a dark brow in cool enquiry as he sat. ‘You are disappointed? Perhaps you thought to make some drama of this?’
‘I do not appreciate being toyed with,’ Haviland said tersely. ‘You did not tell me who you were.’
She dropped her lashes and looked down at her hands as she had last night and, like last night, she was only playing at being penitent. ‘I did not think it mattered so much at the time. We understood one another, I thought.’
Inside the drawing room perhaps they had understood one another. They had made eye contact, she’d given him tacit approval to approach, to flirt. At that point, a name had not been of issue. ‘It mattered a great deal in the garden,’ Haviland answered, his eyes resolutely fixed on her face, watching for some reaction, any reaction that might give her away, daring her to lift those deep-brown eyes to his. She was far too serene for his tastes. He wanted her agitated. She’d kept him up all night, damn it.
She did lift her gaze, a worldly half smile on her lips to match the hint of condescension in her eyes. ‘Then I kissed you and apparently that changes everything for an Englishman. Are all of you so chivalrous? Tell me you’ve not come to propose marriage to atone for your great sin.’
‘I am not in the habit of kissing women whom I do not know. That makes me particular, not chivalrous,’ Haviland corrected. She was mocking him and he didn’t care for it, although he recognised it was an offensive move of some sort, a protective strategy, something to put him on the defensive much like a reprise in fencing after an attack has failed. He recognised, too, that she would not be much help in supplying the answers he wanted without his asking directly. ‘Are you his wife?’
She made him wait for it, studying him with her eyes, letting precious seconds pass before she uttered the words, ‘No, I’m his sister.’
Haviland felt the tension inside him ease. One mystery solved, but another remained. He asked his second question, the one that mattered more in the larger sense. The first question had been for his private pride. ‘You knew who I was last night the moment you heard my name. Why did you pretend otherwise?’
‘You promised me sanctuary in exchange for my secret.’ She stood and pierced him with narrow-eyed speculation. How had he lost the upper hand? She had played him and now, somehow, he was the one in violation.
‘Is this how an Englishman keeps his word? By interrogating a lady?’ Her retort was a powerful dismissal. Manners dictated that he should rise, too, but he knew where that would lead if he didn’t change the direction of this conversation. It would lead to farewell and he had not yet got what he came for. Her manoeuvre had been skilfully done. She’d put his own leave-taking into motion, taking control of the interaction out of his domain.
Haviland rose. He was skilful, too. He wasn’t
