Christian Seaton: Duke Of Danger. Кэрол Мортимер

him for a late supper. She did not know him, nor did she seem the type of young lady who would sneak out of her aunt’s home in the middle of the night with the intention of dining alone with a gentleman. Even without her eagle-eyed aunt acting as her protector.

      That look of innocence, and the tears that had shone in those huge blue eyes earlier when Lisette had told him she had ‘nowhere else to go’, could all be an act, of course. Nothing more than the clever machinations of an innocent-looking whore in search of a rich protector. Christian was sure he would not be the first gentleman to fall for such an act.

      Yet there had been a sincerity to Lisette Duprée. An indication, perhaps, that her innocence might be genuine.

      And Christian could just be the biggest fool in Paris for giving that young woman so much as a second thought. Indeed, Helene Rousseau’s warning earlier, in regard to his staying away from her niece, might all be part of the ruse to pique and hold his interest, rather than the opposite.

      There was also that disturbing moment to consider when Helene Rousseau had initially spoken to him in English. A test, perhaps, to see if he would respond in kind? Or possibly because she already knew he was not the Comte de Saint-Cloud?

      If that was the case, then Christian’s presence in Paris was a complete waste of time, and he would learn nothing. Except perhaps to feel the sharp end of a blade piercing his back when he least expected it.

      Even more reason for Christian to concentrate on the meeting now taking place within the tavern, and the identity of the people present.

      Rather than, as he had been doing, imagining how Lisette would look as she lay in her bed...

      Would she be dressed demurely in a night-rail, or did she sleep naked?

      Would her breasts be tipped by rosy nipples or darker plum-coloured ones?

      And would the silky thatch between her thighs be as vibrant a red as the curls—?

      ‘Monsieur le Comte...?’

      It would be an understatement, considering the direction of his thoughts, to say that Christian was startled to hear the sound of Lisette’s soft and huskily enquiring voice beside him.

      Startled and not a little annoyed with himself for being so distracted by thoughts of this beautiful young woman that he had not even noticed her leaving the tavern, let alone approaching him. Such inattentiveness could easily get a man killed.

      Christian gathered his thoughts as he turned to face her, approving of the fact that she at least wore dark clothing, as he did, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her bonnet, hiding the brightness of her hair. ‘I am gratified to see you have changed your mind about joining me for supper, mademoiselle,’ he answered her flirtatiously.

      ‘We cannot stay here, where we might be seen at any moment, monsieur,’ she came back urgently.

      ‘No, of course not,’ Christian readily accepted as he took a firm hold of her arm. He might now have to abandon his interest in the identity of the people who had so recently entered the tavern so surreptitiously but he had the next best thing: Helene Rousseau’s niece. ‘My carriage is waiting for us—’

      ‘Oh, no, monsieur, I cannot come with you. I wished only to—’

      ‘Hush!’ Christian warned sharply as he pulled her into his arms and pressed her back into the shadows of the doorway, having noticed that several cloaked figures were now leaving the tavern.

      ‘Monsieur!’ Lisette protested indignantly.

      ‘Hush—’

      ‘Monsieur, I must protest—’

      Christian could think of only one way he might prevent Lisette from alerting others to their presence here with her verbal indignation at his manhandling of her.

      He took it.

      Lisette’s protests died in her throat, to be replaced by surprise and then pleasure, as the Comte took masterful possession of her lips with his own.

      She had never been kissed before, nor had she ever dreamed that her first kiss would be with such a man as the handsome Comte de Saint-Cloud.

      That he was an expert in such things came as no surprise to her; he was at least a dozen years her senior, and there was about him an air of ease and sophistication that spoke of his knowledge of women.

      Even knowing that, Lisette was immediately lost to everything but the wonder of Christian Beaumont’s mouth on hers. His arms were firm about her as he held her against the hardness of his body, and the warmth of his tongue dared a caress across her lips to part them and deepen the kiss.

      Heart pounding, Lisette’s hands moved to cling to the folds of his evening cloak, as she felt herself completely overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through her body: excitement and pleasure. The latter manifested itself in the tightening of the bodice of her gown, as if her breasts were swelling, the rosy tips tingling, and there was an unfamiliar but not unpleasant warmth blossoming between her thighs.

      It was singularly the most wonderful experience of her short lifetime, beyond any imagining, beyond—

      The Comte brought the kiss to an abrupt end as he lifted his mouth from hers. ‘Do not speak, Lisette,’ he warned softly against her ear. ‘Whatever happens, do not speak.’

       Whatever happens...?

      Lisette felt too dazed still to understand what he meant by that. What did he imagine was going to happen? A kiss was a kiss, but anything more than that was unthinkable. And if the Comte thought— If he imagined for one moment—

      ‘Feel like sharing, mon ami?’

      ‘For the price I paid for her? Non.’ The Comte turned his head to answer the intruder with a dismissive laugh, at the same time as the bulk of his body managed to keep Lisette shielded from any gaze that might try to pry any further into the doorway. ‘I intend to take my money’s worth and more!’

      ‘Bon chance!’ another man called out laughingly as the two continued on their way.

      Lisette’s face paled as she listened to the exchange between the three men, shocked by the earthiness of the conversation but also realising the Comte must have been protecting her from the attentions of the other men when he pushed her into the doorway.

      At the same time she felt disappointed to realise that the Comte had kissed her for the same reason. It was a little humiliating to realise how much she had enjoyed the kiss when, to the Comte, it had only been a means of silencing her.

      She pushed determinedly against the muscled chest pinning her in the doorway. ‘I believe we are alone again now, monsieur. You may release me,’ she instructed sharply as she failed to shift him by so much as an inch.

      Christian had no desire to ‘release’ Lisette. Indeed, the opposite. He wanted to kiss her again, this time without the distraction of the approach of the two gentlemen he had noted leaving the tavern; Helene Rousseau’s meeting was obviously over for tonight. Which meant that more of the co-conspirators would shortly be leaving the tavern too.

      ‘We need to leave here, Lisette.’

      ‘I came only to warn you—’

      ‘Warn me?’ Christian questioned sharply as he stepped back slightly to look down at her. Not that he could see very much; the streets were dark, and the doorway even darker.

      ‘My—Helene did not take kindly to your attentions to me earlier this evening, monsieur—’

      ‘Christian. Call me Christian,’ he instructed shortly, having duly noted Lisette’s slight hesitation after ‘my’.

      ‘It is not permissible—’

      ‘I just kissed you, Lisette,’ he drawled. ‘I believe that now makes many things between the two of us “permissible”.’

      She