Andrea Penrose - The Cocoa Conspiracy

The seat suddenly shifted, a rasp of leather and wool rippling through the swirling shadows as her husband turned and braced an arm on the squabs. “Yes, I know that cold logic dictates that we proceed on a certain course. But at the moment I am not talking about reason, I am talking about emotion.”

Arianna didn’t quite dare meet his gaze. She remained in awe of his ability to be so in command of his feelings. Calm, controlled . And yet his voice seemed to crackle with an intensity that made her feel a little uncertain.

A little uneasy.

“Arianna, look at me.”

Reluctantly, she raised her chin a notch. When she had first met him, her immediate impression had been that his eyes were an opaque, impenetrable shade of charcoal black. She had, however, quickly seen that she was wrong. The depths of their chocolate brown hue reflected a range of subtle nuances, from dark brewed coffee and molten toffee to fire-flecked amber at moments like now, when his passions were aroused.

“Danger lies all around us, coiled like a serpent,” he said slowly. “And ready to strike without warning.”

“I’m always on guard,” she assured him.

His expression softened, in a way that defied description. “I know that. And I’m not sure whether I take comfort in the fact, or whether it makes me want to gnash my teeth and howl at the moon.”

“The moon is playing hide-and-seek,” she quipped, indicating the silvery scudding of clouds just visible through the window glass.

“So are you,” he said softly. “Always dancing in and out of black velvet shadows. Sometimes it feels you are as far away as Venus or the North Star.”

“Sandro, I . . .” Arianna hesitated. “I have learned from experience to be careful. Sentiment . . . can make one weak,” she whispered.

“It can also make you strong.” He closed his hand over hers and held it for a heartbeat before slowly releasing his hold. “So much is unknown and unresolved about this mission. But be assured of one thing: I will never, ever allow any harm to come to you.”

A rash, reckless promise. Nobody could make such absurd assurances.

And yet the words sent her heart skittering against her ribs.

Thud, thud, thud. To her ears, the sound seemed as loud as gunpowder explosions.

Saybrook was silent for a moment longer and then reached up and framed her face between his hands. “Earlier this year, a friend recited one of Byron’s new unpublished poems to me. I committed it to memory because it reminds me of you.”

Arianna heard his soft intake of breath. “She walks in beauty, like the night; Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright.”

Dark and bright. She sat very still, mesmerized by the glimmer of sparks swirling in the shadows of his lashes.

“That is indescribably lovely,” she stammered.

“Yes, isn’t it?” His kiss, though swift, took her breath away.

Reaching up, she twined her fingers in his long hair, savoring for a fleeting instant the silky softness against her skin.

“I love you.” The whisper, like the embrace, was like a quicksilver sear of heat, imprinting itself on her skin. On her heart. On the terrible tangle of nameless fears that dwelled deep, deep inside her.

Just as quickly it was gone.

“Never forget that.” Pulling back, he added, “I shall see you later,” and then disappeared out the door before the carriage had rolled to a halt.

Moonlight played over the empty spot on the seat.

Arianna chafed at her arms, but strangely enough, her bare skin did not feel chilled by the night air.

Perhaps because as Sandro said, I am more a creature of the Moon than of the Sun.

But much as it was tempting to linger alone in thought, she reminded herself that she must slide into her third—or was it fourth?—skin and make ready to act out her role for the evening.

An aristocratic wife, bored with the tedium of married life. A jaded lady, tempted to play naughty games.

Drawing on her gloves, like a warrior of old donning his gauntlets for battle, she assumed a martial frame of mind.

Mano a mano. Saybrook had learned that Rochemont would definitely be there tonight, so the upcoming encounter promised to be a cerebral fight with the enemy. One on one, stripped down to the bare-bones clash of will against will.

The comte would observe that she had come alone to the ball. Her mission was to keep him occupied until midnight. Feint and parry, that was all. But if given an opening, she was determined to seize the offensive and see if she could maneuver him into making yet another mistake.

One that would leave more than a mere scratch on his diabolically perfect face.

Snapping her fan open and shut in rhythm with the melody of the pianoforte, Arianna sidled up to one of the colonnaded archways of the Redoutensaal—the main ballroom of the Hofburg Palace.

“Why, Lord Rochemont, where have you been? Is it true that you have been unwell?” The sonata, a prelude to the upcoming set of dances, played softly over the smooth marble, its notes muffled by the swirl of silks and satins. “Or have you been deliberately avoiding me?”

The comte turned as she tapped the sticks lightly against his sleeve. He was wearing his customary smug smile—along with a pair of dove gray gloves that did not fit quite as smoothly as usual. “I was kept abed . . .” he answered, allowing a fraction of a pause before adding, “by a slight indisposition and not some more interesting companion.”

She arched a brow at the provocative comment. “La, how boring.”

“Boring, indeed.” High overhead, the massive crystal chandelier blazed with a hard-edged brilliance, the creamy white candles catching the pearly glow of his smile.

The smile of an angel, the soul of a serpent. The palace was filled with glittering illusions, Arianna reminded herself. Medals hiding cowardice, gems masking poverty, crowns covering betrayals.

Ah, but I too am wearing false colors.

Light gilded the curl of his lashes, Rochemont leaned closer and offered her arm. “I find myself in need of physical stimulation after such a prolonged period of inactivity. Come, partner me in a dance.”

The pianoforte had given way to the flourishing sounds of the violins. A waltz had begun, and already the vast expanse of polished parquet was crowded with couples spinning through the steps. Skirts flaring, baubles flashing, they lit up the ballroom with jewel-tone flashes of color.

The comte shifted his hand on the small of her back, pulling her a touch closer than was proper. After glancing around the room, he asked, “Is your husband here tonight ?”

“No,” replied Arianna. “He has decided that such entertainments are too frivolous for his liking.”

Through his glove, she felt a pulse of heat. “And you do not share his sentiments?”

Pursing a pout, Arianna released a sulky sigh. “I find that his scholarly obsession has become”—dropping her voice, she whispered—“exceedingly boring.”

The caress of her breath against his cheek provoked a flash of teeth. “So the bloom is off the rose of marriage?”

“Let’s not talk of marriage,” said Arianna, casting a casual glance at the sumptuous surroundings. Slowly, slowly—to lead him in circles was a carefully choreographed strategy, but she knew she must not rush her steps. “Oh, look. Is that the Duchess of Sagan standing by the punch bowl? What a magnificent gown.”

Rochemont waggled a lecherous grin. “I daresay her bevy of admirers are not admiring the stitching or the silk.” His glove dipped down to the swell of Arianna’s hip. “The man holding her glass is Prince von Windischgratz. It’s said he’s replaced Metternich as her latest lover.”