Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

He remembered the sharp sound of her voice as if it had been yesterday. And he remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he had tried to understand why she looked at him with such disgust.

And he discovered that now, twenty years later, the memory still hurt.

“May I abduct your daughter?” Justine de Monnier’s chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as she floated up to the Valmonts in a fussy gown of pink satin and cream-colored lace. Barely waiting for the Valmonts’ reply, she tucked Ariane’s arm into hers and strolled off.

“I’m going to tell you who everyone is.” With a coquettish smile Justine acknowledged a greeting from one young man and then another without missing a beat.

Her eyes amused, Ariane’s eyebrows curved upward. “Is the ball going to last a week then?” Justine’s words should have irritated her, she thought, since she cared nothing about who “everyone” was, but somehow the younger girl’s enthusiasm was infectious.

Justine’s laughter chimed. “Only the ones who are someone, of course,” she clarified.

“That’s good to hear, but couldn’t we sneak into the game room instead?”

“That would be very naughty of us.” Justine giggled. “It’s frowned upon for unmarried young women, you know.”

“I know.” Ariane sighed at the thought that even this diversion was closed to her. At least on those rare occasions when she had found herself at some festivity at home, she had seldom had a problem finding a lively card game—if worst came to worst, in the stables.

“Oh!”

Ariane heard the soft gasp and glanced at Justine, who had snapped open her fan with an elegant flick of her wrist and was fluttering it daintily. Ariane wondered how many hours in front of a mirror it had taken the girl to achieve such perfection. Justine’s eyes had become as round as coins and Ariane automatically followed the direction of her gaze.

When she found her own gaze trapped by Christopher Blanchard’s eyes, she felt like a fly that had inadvertently walked into a honey pot. She told herself that the small flicker in the pit of her stomach was not excitement but dismay.

“Do you see that man with Roger?” Justine’s voice was just short of reverent. “The one staring at us so shamelessly.” Her breath caught in an excited little hiccup. “Oh, mon Dieu.” She pressed her hand against her bosom. “Where did Roger find him and who is he?”

“I don’t know where your brother found him, but his name is Christopher Blanchard and he’s an American.”

He was still looking at her as if challenging her to be the first one to look away, so she stared back, unwilling to lose this small battle.

Justine’s fan went suddenly still and dropped several inches, revealing her Cupid’s bow mouth, which was slightly open in surprise. “You know who he is?” She moved closer and gave Ariane’s arm a small pinch under the cover of her fan. “You’re staring.”

“I know.” Annoyance stirring, Ariane did not move except to raise her chin another notch. “It’s a contest.”

Her face remained composed, but her eyes grew turbulent. Her fingers on her lace and ivory fan tightened, but she did not notice. But she was very aware that the blood had begun to rush in her veins as quickly as a river swollen with the spring rains.

His image had floated through her dreams last night, but the reality of the man, so large and bronzed, so very male, had her heart drumming. It is nothing remarkable, she assured herself. It is no different from the way your heartbeat picks up the moment before you take up a hand of cards when the stakes are high. At the moment, the fatal precision of her observation escaped her.

A moment later her view was obstructed by the pudgy figure of the young Duc de Santerre.

“I am enchanted to see you here tonight, comtesse.” His beatific smile had his almost colorless eyes disappearing into the folds of soft, pink flesh. “May I have the honor of dancing the first waltz with you?”

“I’m sorry, monsieur le duc. I am promised.” Her father’s instructions forgotten, the words slipped out as if they had a will of their own. Because she felt sorry for him, she gave him an especially warm smile. “One of the others perhaps?” she said rashly, regretting her words the moment they were said.

The young duke’s eyes disappeared again as, delighted at his good fortune, he watched Ariane write his name on her dance card. He opened his mouth to say something, but he saw that she had raised her head and was looking across the ballroom. He hovered over her a moment longer before he understood that he had been dismissed.

Her eyes trapped in the American’s gaze again, Ariane barely noticed as Santerre drifted off. He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment, and she saw that his eyes were amused and knowing.

Damn him. He knows that you saved the first waltz for him. You should have given it to Santerre.

Why cut off your nose to spite your face? Santerre’s conversation would put an insomniac to sleep and he’ll step on your toes besides.

And the American? What will he do to you?

As if to answer her question he moved then, striding across the ballroom toward her with a singleness of purpose that had the clusters of chatting people parting to let him pass. She stiffened her spine against the flutter in the pit of her stomach, admitting to the uneasiness, but not to the excitement.

She was truly lovely, Chris thought. She was tiny, her soft curves just on the verge of lush. And her skin! He had once seen pearls of that same color—a translucent milky white with just a blush of pink.

Her white gown, adorned only by tiny bunches of silk violets the exact color of her eyes, was almost severe in comparison to the creations decorated with lace and ruffles worn by the other women. And she stood very still, even when she was speaking, as if all that was going on around her concerned her not at all.

Her beauty was delicate, but there was nothing fragile about it. And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior, he thought. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.

“Bonsoir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”

“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”

“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”

“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all.”

“And to what then do I owe your—” he paused “—unusual acquiescence?”

Ariane knew that he was trying to provoke her and, determined not to be bested, she decided to answer him in kind.

“To the fact that your conversation is more amusing the Santerre’s.” She let her eyes move over him in a casual but thorough sweep. “And you look as if you will exhibit a certain grace on the dance floor.”

Justine let out a small, shocked gasp, but Ariane did not hear it as her own breath caught when Chris threw back his head and laughed. This was not a polite society laugh or a mocking chuckle, but a rich sound of amusement that was as physical as a touch. People around them stared, but Ariane did not notice, for she was fascinated by his laughter and by the way it made the bronzed skin of his throat ripple.

His mouth was still curved in a smile when his eyes returned to hers. “I am enchanted.”