Bronwyn Scott - Rebellious Rakes

‘I would know you anywhere.’ It was a lie, of course. She fooled him enough times in the practice room. In there, he had no idea who was behind the mesh mask. He grinned and she could make out the remnants of his split lip, but just barely.

She reached out her fingertip to it. ‘Ouch!’ Haviland scolded, jerking his head back.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Only when people touch it.’ He laughed and then turned serious. ‘Am I to understand your brother remains unaware?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t serve Julian’s purposes to bring yesterday to Antoine’s attention.’

Haviland nodded. ‘I figured as much. Still, I don’t like secrecy or the idea that we have to sneak around. It seems deceptive. Perhaps I could call on him and formally ask permission to take you driving in the park or to escort you to these sorts of gatherings.’

Her stomach clenched. This was hardly deceptive. She could only imagine how he would feel about the deception. If he ever found out. Another thought came to her. ‘I think the sooner you can accept the fact that my brother will not meet with you, the sooner we can move forward.’

‘We’re back to that again?’ Haviland’s eyes darkened, his body stiffening. ‘You insult my honour to imply I am using you for an entrée.’ His mouth came down close to her ear, the harshness of his voice roughly erotic. ‘You know damn well I wanted you before I knew your name.’

‘How do I know that hasn’t changed?’

‘ You sent me the invitation.’ He growled, his teeth nipping the lobe of her ear, sending a delicious trill down her spine. ‘Now it’s my turn. There’s a carriage parked at the kerb, pulled by two matched greys. If you believe me, get in. The driver knows where to go. He will wait only fifteen minutes.’

Her throat went dry at the implication. One choice and everything would change.

Chapter Eleven

Get in the carriage. Don’t get in the carriage. It was somewhat amazing how one simple decision could set in motion a series of significant events. But she’d been making ‘simple’ decisions about Haviland North since she met him: going to Madame Aguillard’s musicale, unfurling her fan, taking a walk in the gardens. All were simple decisions and all had led to this moment of choice. Would she make one more simple decision that would move her forward on this path?

Her feet registered the decision before her mind. She was already moving towards the entrance before she fully realised the import of the decision. What she meant to do was reckless. She’d had a lover before, but not an affaire . She and Etienne had been together two years. They’d meant to marry. They would have, too, if not for Antoine’s accident. An affaire was terminal. There would be an end—such a liaison began with that assumption in mind. It was the end that contained the risk. How would it end? With her heart still intact? With Haviland angry and knowledgeable of the deception that had been perpetrated on him? With Haviland happily naive to the drama around him and moving on to his summer in Switzerland?

Alyssandra came up short at the top of the steps leading down to the kerb, partygoers moving about her as people entered and exited the mansion. The carriage was there, an expensive, shiny black-lacquered vehicle complete with glass windows and lanterns. Two greys pranced in their traces, eager to be off. Seeing tangible proof made the decision real. Twenty more feet and there’d be no turning back.

The decision might be reckless, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been thought out. Being with Haviland would mean far more to her than it would to him. He would go on to be with other women, she would be one of many to him if she wasn’t already. A man like him must have women begging for his attentions. But she would live on this for ever. The coachman pulled out a watch to check the time, and she felt a surge of urgency. He was getting impatient. Had fifteen minutes passed already? What if she missed the carriage?

Then she would miss it—her one chance to date at experiencing true, unbridled, physical passion. She didn’t hold out much hope there’d be other opportunities. Tonight had been Haviland’s gauntlet thrown down. There would be no more arguing over trust and motives. If she did not take the carriage, he would not ask again. All would be settled between them whether she liked that settlement or not. Haviland North was not a man to be toyed with. Nor was he a man who tolerated having his word challenged.

Alyssandra hurried down the steps. It was time to be reckless. What had caution ever done for her anyway? The coachman nodded at her approach. A footman waiting at the kerb lowered the steps and helped her in. It all seemed so disturbingly normal when she felt as if the phrase ‘I’m off to a clandestine rendezvous’ was scrawled across her forehead.

The interior of the carriage bore out its external luxury with plush grey-velvet seats and matching draperies held back with maroon ties. But the carriage was disappointingly empty. Haviland was not inside. She supposed discretion demanded he be picked up at a separate destination a distance away from the venue, but she was disappointed all the same. Now that she’d decided to take his invitation, she wanted that invitation to begin right now.

She didn’t have to wait long. The carriage pulled over three streets later to pick up Haviland, who managed to look urbane and quite comfortable with these arrangements as if he had assignations all the time. For all she knew, he probably did. He certainly could , anyway.

Haviland took the rear-facing seat across from her and gave the signal to move on, a rap of his walking stick on the carriage ceiling. He reached under the seat and drew out a thick lap robe of luxurious fur. ‘Are you cold?’ He settled the blanket across her knees. The warmth felt good and helped to quiet her nerves. Spring evenings and pending anticipation had their own special brand of chilliness.

‘I thought we would drive for a while and enjoy the evening. Then, I have some place I would like to show you.’ Haviland reached under the seat and pulled out a basket this time. ‘I have champagne and if we drink it now, it should still be cold.’

His dexterity was nothing short of amazing. He managed to pop the cork and pour two glasses without spilling while the carriage moved over the rough cobblestones of the Paris streets. ‘Years of practice.’ He handed her a glass with a wink, and she had the feeling that ‘years of practice’ referred to far more than pouring champagne.

‘Pour champagne for women in carriages often, do you?’ she teased, sipping carefully from her glass.

Haviland laughed and had the good grace to look slightly abashed. ‘I am hoist by my own petard, as the expression goes. Can I just answer “maybe” and leave it at that?’

‘Absolutely. A gentleman with a bit of mystery to him is far more intriguing than an open book.’ She smiled and risked clinking her glass against his—a difficult manoeuvre to accomplish in a moving carriage without spilling. She liked him this way; more relaxed, less intimidating than he was at the salle . It was the way he behaved around the men in the members’ salon. She’d seen him in there on occasion working with others. He was a natural leader even in casual circumstances. It was how he’d been the day he’d come on her errands, as if a mask had been stripped away. When he was with Julian and even with ‘her brother’ he was different. In those lessons, he exuded a formality, an intensity that was as magnetic as his casual charm. She wondered which persona he’d bring to the bedroom.

‘As is mystery in a woman, up to a point.’ His eyes held hers, blue and intense over the rim of his glass. Mon Dieu , those eyes of his could sell a line. ‘I think the mystery lures a man in, but after a while, he wants to know more and that desire for knowledge outweighs the desire for mystery.’ That was the urbane rake in him delivering a practised line for certain—a remark designed to compliment and pursue, to bring a woman into his circle of sophistication.