Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

Chris watched Ariane from the edge of the dance floor, as he had been doing all evening. When her dance partner bent down and whispered something into her ear, he clenched his fists at his sides. When she lifted her face toward the baby-faced young man, revealing her radiant smile, he barely managed to prevent himself from barging onto the dance floor.

Pulling in a deep breath, he cursed himself for a fool. Perhaps it had been simply too long since he had had a woman, he thought Perhaps he should take Roger’s advice and see what Suzette Lavalier or one of her colleagues had to offer.

“What’s the matter, Chris? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

“Of course, I am.” Forcing himself to relax, he turned toward Roger. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re scowling like the very devil.” He grinned despite his misgivings. He had seen the direction of Chris’s gaze.

Shrugging, Chris said nothing, but his eyes returned to the dance floor.

“I have a message for you. From Ariane de Valmont.”

“Indeed?” His heartbeat leaped at Roger’s words, but his indifferent tone gave no hint of his sudden turmoil. If her message was to cancel the dance she had promised him, he swore to himself, she was in for a surprise.

“She would like your company during the next intermission between sets.”

“What does she want?”

“I am not her confidant.” He gnawed at his lip, wondering if he should dare Chris’s anger again.

“Don’t worry, Roger,” Chris said, feeling his friend’s discomfort. “You’ve done your duty and you can believe me when I tell you that I have never forced my attentions on a woman.”

“The question of force never entered my mind.” Roger smiled ruefully. “Ariane de Valmont is an inexperienced young woman, unused to society. She is no match for a man like you—”

Chris shot him a black look.

“A man like you—” Roger continued unperturbed “—who draws female stares as a magnet draws pins. A man who has enough charm to talk his way into any bed.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted?” Chris’s brows took on a mocking curve. Then he glanced across the ballroom, where Ariane stood surrounded by several young men while her parents looked on proudly.

“Don’t worry, Roger. I think the young Comtesse de Valmont can take care of herself just fine.”

“I got your message,” Chris said when he collected Ariane after the set had ended. He touched her elbow and soft flesh made his cool restraint disintegrate. “If you are going to tell me that you’ve decided to get rid of me after all, don’t.”

Ariane stopped in the middle of a movement, her eyebrows rising at the vehemence of his tone. “And if I was?”

“I shall—”

“More threats, Monsieur Blanchard?”

Chris understood desire. He understood how to gratify it and how to keep it in check. But he was appalled at the unfamiliar, turbulent feelings that were racing through him. Even more, he was appalled at how effortlessly they eluded the control he had honed so carefully. He gave Ariane a searching look. Her mouth and her eyes were serious, but there had been a definite smile in her voice. The unreasoning sense of relief he felt at that unnerved him still further.

“No.” He softened the curt answer with a smile. “No threats.”

“Good.” Ariane’s nod was all coolness and composure, but as the unexpected heat curled through her, unfamiliar and a little frightening, she looked away from his charming, lopsided smile.

He was altogether too beautiful, too charming, too virile, she thought. And much too sure of himself. How many women had fallen victim to him? she wondered. Did he, like Don Juan, need a servant to keep a list of his myriad conquests? Well, she was forewarned, she told herself. She would use him for her purpose, but she would not succumb. to that charm he dispensed so fac-ilely.

“What do you want from me then?”

Ariane’s gaze skidded up at his directness. “For the moment, your company.”

“My name is on your dance card. So impatient?” His lifted eyebrows insinuated more.

“Are you trying very hard to be disagreeable?” she demanded.

“No. I just don’t believe in wasting time nor in beating around the bush.” He paused. “Well?”

“Presently.” Ariane lifted her hand in a gesture that requested patience. “I am not beating around the bush,” she explained not quite truthfully. “I merely do things in my own good time.”

She was hedging and she knew it. But now that he was standing next to her—so large, so handsome, so utterly male—she found that her stomach was quivering. And what had seemed so reasonable, so expedient just a little while ago was suddenly madness.

“Agreed.” Apparently the young countess did not intend to send him to the devil, so Chris reined in his impatience. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he directed their steps toward one of the rooms off the main ballroom, where light refreshments were being served.

As they strolled by, a door opened and several footmen carrying huge trays full of empty bottles emerged. The door remained open, revealing a room hazy with smoke, quiet but for the sound of hushed voices, the occasional slap of cards and the gradually slowing clack of the ball on the roulette wheel.

Chris slowed his steps to match Ariane’s. When he heard her wistful sigh, he could not resist a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re a gambler.”

“I don’t mind a good game of cards.” She grimaced inwardly at her prim tone and the lukewarm understatement.

“So the countess has a weakness for games of chance.” He laughed, pleased.

“No, cards,” Ariane corrected as they began to walk again. “I cannot abide games of chance.”

“That’s a very fine line you are drawing.”

“Not at all.” She warmed to the subject, forgetting that young, unmarried countesses did not gamble. And if they did, they certainly did not talk about it. “Cards require skill. In games of chance you are completely dependent on what luck may deal you.”

“Don’t you believe in luck?” Chris had had too many close brushes with disaster not to. Besides, the blood that ran in his veins was half-Russian, so he came by his belief in the vagaries of fortune honestly.

“Of course I do. Only fools believe solely in their own abilities.” She grinned. “On the other hand, only fools depend on their luck to help them every time.”

“Lovely, charming, witty, a gambler and a philosopher to boot. Unbelievable.” He shook his head. “Now are you going to tell me why you wanted to speak to me?” he said, his impatience getting the better of him.

Ariane took a deep breath. She supposed it was as good a time as any.

“Are you looking for a wife, Monsieur Blanchard?” She met his eyes and held them.

Struck dumb for a moment, Chris only stared at her. There was no facetiousness or coquetry in her eyes. Instead they held only a mild inquiry, as if she were asking a shopkeeper about the relative merits of two bolts of cloth.

“No, actually I am not,” he replied, wondering what her game was. She continued to look at him with her eyes of that startling violet color so that he felt compelled to elaborate. “I have no need for an heiress, nor does a man of my station need to make a dynastic marriage.”

“There are other reasons to choose a wife.”

He slanted her a look, not certain if she was flirting or being outrageous, but her gaze still appeared to hold no more than polite interest.

“Pledging my heart forever holds no appeal for me. In fact, I find the thought of my happiness being dependent on another person quite appalling.”

The memory of his father, prostrate with grief at his mother’s death, nudged him. Chris had no intention of ever opening himself up to that kind of vulnerability. Ever.