Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

She refused to be amused, even though the catchy tunes of the Offenbach operetta tempted her to tap her foot and the antics of the very human Greek gods frolicking around on the stage were hilarious. Instead, she let her gaze wander around the audience.

The theater, charming despite its overabundance of gilt decorations and red velvet, was full and the lights had been only partly dimmed in deference to the fact that the audience itself was as much part of the entertainment as what took place on the stage. The ladies, either alone or in the company of parents, chaperons or, since this was Paris, after all, lovers, occupied the boxes. The men, who were either unattached or pretending to be so, were in the stalls. She might be the only one whose mood was not in tune with the gaiety that seemed to pervade the theater like the opulent scent of a sensual perfume, Ariane noted sullenly, but she was certainly not the only one whose attention was elsewhere than on the stage.

Smiles, flutters of fans, flirtatious looks flew back and forth with dizzying speed. It was just like a horse fair back home, she thought with a sniff. Men came from all around the area with their horses, the manes and tails braided with bright-colored ribbons, hoping to attract a rich buyer. The only difference here was that the price for a wife who was blue-blooded and rich or for a beautiful, accomplished mistress was infinitely higher—for the buyer and the seller both.

The thought that she was no different from them all did not improve her mood one bit. Her father had dragged her to Paris to make a broodmare out of her, she thought grimly. All her father cared about were male heirs for the Valmont fortune.

So, here she was on display, her fair hair carefully coiffed and wearing a highly fashionable and extravagantly expensive gown of pale lavender silk. The thought alone of just how much the haughty Parisian dressmaker, who had descended on their chateau with her army of seamstresses for a whole month, had cost, soured Ariane’s mood still further.

She had tried to point out to papa that they would be far better off if they used the money for repairs on the stables. But he had merely given a disparaging wave and reminded her that they had plenty of money. She had not bothered to mention that the only reason they did was that she spent her time diplomatically circumventing every decision he made about how the estate was to be run.

Tucking her chin into the palm of one hand, she looked down at the stalls. The men, she decided, were as given to smiles and flirtatious glances as the women. Her eyebrows, which were shades darker than her golden hair, curved upward in a discreetly derisive gesture.

They all seemed to be wearing either elegant black and white evening dress or uniforms decorated with such quantities of gold braid that she was sure they would not have been out of place on a stage. Their sideburns were lavishly curled, their mustaches raffishly twirled, and they all looked as if they had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. How could her father possibly expect her to choose a husband from such a sorry collection of fops, she asked herself irritably—even if she had been disposed to want a husband at all?

Suddenly her gaze stumbled and came to an abrupt stop.

It was his hair that caught her attention first. The tawny mane with just a touch of curl brushed his shoulders in contradiction of every fashionable dictate, making him look like a lion in the middle of so many motley tomcats. And the color! It was streaked in a dozen different shades of blond—from the color of pale, sun-bleached wheat to a deep honey color. Although she was not aware of it, her fingers curled with the unconscious desire to touch it.

Her gaze followed the straight, clear lines of his profile, which reminded her of faces she had seen on Roman coins. She had always wondered what a profile like that looked like from the front.

As if he had divined her thought, he turned slightly and looked up directly at her. Not even thinking to look away or disguise her perusal behind her fan, she kept her gaze on his face, wishing that she could see the color of his eyes.

Ariane did not know it, but her eyes lost that studiously bored look, the corners of her mouth tipped up in the barest hint of a smile and her stiffly held shoulders softened enough for her mother to slant her a look.

Comtesse Marguerite de Valmont saw the expression on her daughter’s face change and smiled. Leaning back in her gilt and red velvet chair, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. It would be all right after all, she thought, and turned her attention toward her husband.

The Greek gods capering on the stage coaxed an absent half smile onto Christopher Blanchard’s mouth, but most of his attention was on the people in the audience. He’d lived in too many places where your chances for survival rose in proportion to your ability to judge precisely and instantaneously the people you were dealing with. And from his own childhood experiences in Paris twenty years ago he knew all too well that Parisian society could be quite as deadly as any gold town in California, if perhaps more subtly so. And yet, he thought, it was this very Parisian society that his father had pined for all his life.

Chris had been in Paris a week, long enough to acquire an exquisitely tailored wardrobe and to comprehend that the main motor of Parisian society was the pursuit of pleasure, money and power.

He had also ascertained that Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux, his father’s sister, still lived in the same severe mansion that he remembered all too well. And he had discovered that the money from the sale of the gold mine, which he and his father had jointly owned, had gone to buy shares floated by an investment bank that belonged to his half brother.

His roving gaze paused as it brushed a woman attractive in the way of a full-blown rose. She was leaning against the balustrade of her box, her crossed arms beneath her breasts unapologetically emphasizing her creamy bosom. Meeting his gaze, she plucked a flower from the bouquet that lay in front of her and slid it over her mouth in flagrant invitation.

“Suzette Lavalier is one of the most expensive courtesans in Paris,” his neighbor murmured. “But rumor has it that her skill is worth every franc and more.”

“Actually my taste runs to women who have not been sampled by half the male population.” Chris grinned at Roger de Monnier. He felt comfortable in the younger man’s company although their acquaintance was only a few days old. “I’m not nearly old enough to need a woman’s skill.” His grin grew just a shade wicked. “And besides, I like to think that I have skill enough for both of us.”

“I’m certain you won’t have a problem finding what you want.” He smiled back at Chris, wondering if there was some way he could duplicate the American’s not-quite-civilized aura that seemed to attract so many inviting female stares. “Paris has something for every taste.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

As they both turned back to face the stage, Chris felt a tingle at the back of his neck. He tipped his head up and to the side and unerringly homed in on the eyes watching him.

The eyes were dark, although he could not quite discern the color at that distance. They belonged to a face with the tiny, perfect features of a porcelain doll. Yet there was strength there beneath the delicate beauty—even a touch of imperiousness. She might look like a soft Aphrodite who would come easily to a man’s bed, but he suspected that she was a proud Athena instead. She would fight surrender, he mused, but if conquered, she would give delight beyond measure. And right now she was looking at him with undisguised interest.

He felt the jolt right down to the pit of his belly. A jolt that spread a heat not unlike the fire of whiskey on an empty stomach.