Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

His gaze drifted down to her mouth. The corners tilted upward in the merest hint of a smile as she continued to look at him with an openness and a concentration that another man might have found either unnerving or ill-bred. Chris, on the other hand, found himself inordinately pleased and decided to answer in kind. Instead of the discreet bow that convention would have demanded of him, he tilted his head back in a gesture that was more a challenge than a decorous greeting.

He watched the young woman’s mouth turn serious again. Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes narrowed slightly, but she still did not look away. No, she kept watching him, and under her gaze, he felt the heat in his belly spread. Well, well, he thought as his mouth curved, perhaps his stay in Paris would bring him a few new, pleasant memories to replace the old, ugly ones.

Ariane watched the stranger tip back his head. She was not well-versed in the games men and women engaged in, but she understood a challenge better than most. Although she frowned, wondering just what it was that he was challenging her to and why, she was distracted by the sheer, untamed beauty of the man. The movement of his head had his incredible mane of hair rippling back so that it caught the light and she found herself wondering—consciously this time—what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.

When she saw his mouth tilt upward in a smile that managed to be both boyishly charming and insolent, the horrible thought that he had read her mind had her stiffening. Still, pride would not allow her to look away.

“Roger, do you know the girl up there?” Chris did not shift his gaze away from her face as he spoke. “The golden-haired one in the lavender gown.”

Roger de Monnier leaned forward, and recognizing the young woman, lowered his head in a well-mannered bow.

“That is Ariane de Valmont. Comtesse Ariane de Val-mont. She and her parents have come to Paris for the season,” he said. “She’s older than most of the debutantes, apparently. God knows why her parents kept her buried in the country for so long. No hint of scandal though,” he hastened to add. “Would you like me to present you?”

Roger felt a flicker of regret. He had been rather taken with the young countess himself, but now, seeing the way she and his new friend were staring at each other, he had no illusions about his chances with her.

“I would like that.” Chris sent his friend a quick smile before his gaze returned to the young woman.

“Chris?”

“Mmm?”

“She is a young lady of good family.” Roger gnawed at his lower lip, not quite sure how to phrase what he wanted to say without insulting his friend. “And this is not—” he coughed discreetly “—the American West”.

Slowly Chris turned to face him fully and Roger almost recoiled at the way his pale green eyes had cooled. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry, mon ami. I may be an uncivilized American in your eyes, but my parents were easily the equals of anyone here tonight and more. I know what conduct your society demands—” he paused and raised a tawny eyebrow “—on the surface.”

“I meant no insult.”

Chris relaxed and smiled. “Then I will not take it as one.”

In unison, both men turned back to the stage where the singers had arranged themselves for the finale of the act.

Damn, Chris swore at himself. Why had he let Mon-nier’s words get to him like that? He had been so certain that he no longer cared what they thought of him. Wasn’t that why he had come here? To put all those old ghosts to rest? To exorcise all the old memories?

All these years he had told himself that none of them mattered any longer. Now he realized that he had been lying to himself. The memories still hurt. He still cared.

Applause surged up in a wave as the curtain came down, but most of the audience was already engaged in orchestrating the intermission.

Ariane had carefully kept her gaze on the stage for the past minutes. Now, as the audience began to chat and move around, she allowed her eyes to drift back over the stalls. The blond man’s seat was empty and she suppressed the sting of disappointment, assuring herself that she cared nothing about his whereabouts.

“I think I’ll go visit Justine de Monnier in her box,” she said, turning toward her mother. But she saw that her mother was not listening to her. Instead, she was looking up her husband with undisguised adoration, hanging on to every word of whatever it was he was saying to her.

Shrugging, she rose, but before she could move away from her chair, her father shot her a displeased look.

“Sit down, Ariane,” Pierre de Valmont said. “I’ve told you that one stays in one’s box at intermission to receive visitors.”

“If everyone stays in their box, then who are the visitors?” she asked with a feigned artlessness.

“Don’t be impudent. Now s—”

A knock at the door to their box interrupted him.

“You see,” the Comte de Valmont said, pleased, his irritation with his daughter forgotten.

Ariane returned to her chair with a huff. “If it’s that pudgy little duke with the pig’s eyes,” she retorted,

“Will be polite,” her father finished firmly and invited the visitors to enter.

As the man with the mane of tawny hair stepped into the box, Ariane’s mouth went dry.

He was even taller than Ariane had imagined, his shoulders uncommonly, almost indecorously broad. His severely elegant evening clothes were perfectly tailored, but that only seemed to call attention to the aura of wild-ness that clung to him. Certainly he did not look even remotely like the idle young men she had met in the past week.

Ariane stared at him, hearing neither the babble of pleasantries as her parents greeted Roger de Monnier nor the shocked gasp in the box adjacent to theirs.

“May I present my friend, Christopher Blanchard.” Although it pained his Gallic sensibilities, Roger said the name as Chris had told him it was pronounced in America. “He comes from America.”

“You are an American? How interesting.” Marguerite de Valmont smiled vapidly. “We had a visitor from America recently. Where was the gentleman from, chéri?” She looked up at her husband.

“Where was he from?” Valmont passed the question on to his daughter.

“Virginia, papa.”

“Ah, yes,” Valmont said. “A very pleasant gentleman. He purchased several of our horses. He rubbed his hands lightly as he remembered. “ Une bonne affaire. An excellent deal.”

Yes, Ariane thought with a touch of acrimony, it had been an excellent deal. But only because she had spent the week haggling with this very pleasant gentleman over one card game after another.

“And where are you from?”

Pierre de Valmont’s voice had the interrogative tone typical of fathers of unmarried daughters, reminding Chris of Roger’s words. It occurred to him that in California, a question like that would be more likely to elicit a challenge to a fight than an answer, but his voice showed no trace of irritation when he spoke.

“I’ve moved around a great deal, but I’ve lived in California for a number of years now.”

California? The image of desert. and ocean and hot sun was so real that Ariane could almost feel the heat on her bared shoulders. Was it the hot sun which had made his hair that fabulous color, which had bronzed his skin? The men of Provence, where she had spent most of her life, were a handsome lot, but she had never seen a man of such pagan beauty. Suddenly painfully aware that she had been staring, she looked away.

“Are you in Paris on business or pleasure?” Valmont inquired.