The Champion. Heather Grothaus

he cried, reaching a spindly arm after the departing man.

      “Stop it, I said!” Simone felt the heat of her flush to her hairline.

      Her brother finally pulled himself together enough to stand, wiping at his cheeks with the backs of both hands. “Ah, Sister—that was wonderful! You forgot yourself so that you spoke English!”

      Simone cringed. That the guests assumed she spoke only French was her single defense among the enemies. Should their hosts find out her deception, her chances for a profitable match would dwindle against their bruised pride.

      “If you would cease goading me so, mayhap I would not forget myself,” she snipped. A groan of dread escaped her as Armand limped toward her. “Now, do be good—here comes Papa and that Halbrook man.”

      “Simone.” Her father towered over her, but Simone could not help but notice how much more of her view of the hall had been blocked by the Baron of Crane’s muscular form. “You are enjoying yourself?”

      “Oui, Papa.”

      Lord Halbrook hovered on the perimeter of Armand’s presence, casting grandfatherly smiles in Simone’s direction, and she gave an inward shudder.

      “Bon. Lord Halbrook and I would find a more private area to discuss…ah, a business matter.” Armand’s emphasis on his last words caused Simone’s heart to skip a beat and her eyes to fly involuntarily to the round noble at her father’s side.

      Armand’s nod was nearly imperceptible, and his mouth twisted into an awkward smile. “Are you able to entertain yourself if we leave you for a time?”

      “Of course.” Simone dropped her gaze as her father moved away in his hitching gait, Halbrook waddling along after him. She barely acknowledged the man’s stumbling “Mademoiselle” in parting.

      “Simone’s getting married, Simone’s getting married,” Didier sang, skipping circles around her stool.

      “’Twould seem so,” Simone sighed. And while the thought of becoming the wife of an aged, pot-bellied dwarf of a man did not please her in the least, she knew she would comply.

      “Oh, Didier,” she said quietly, not bothering to shield her mouth. “If only Maman were still alive. We would be at home in France and I would, by now, be Charles’s wife.”

      “Charles never cared for me,” Didier said, his tone more subdued now as he sat at Simone’s feet and rested his small head against her leg.

      Simone ached to brush her hand over Didier’s springy curls but, displayed as she was, she knew she could not. “Charles did care for you, Didier, he merely did not know what to do with you. There were not many children at the Beauville estate.”

      She caught sight of the Baron of Crane snaking toward her once more, a chalice in each hand and that private, sleepy smile across his face. Her stomach fluttered. Perhaps it was only Armand’s recent disclosure of Halbrook’s intent to offer for her, but the sight of Nicholas FitzTodd sparked a myriad of forbidden images to singe and sparkle through her mind.

      Thoughts of pressing her body against his solid form, of letting him touch her lips with his own. To have one perfect moment within strong, muscled arms, refusing to think further than his next kiss, his next touch, his next scandalous whisper in her ear.

      “Sister, you’re trembling,” Didier said before looking up and spying the baron’s approach. A sly grin split his face, displaying proudly the gap where he’d lost a tooth more than a year ago. Simone was not charmed by his impish good looks, however, and sent him a withering warning glare.

      “Lady du Roche,” the baron said as he handed her a cup. “Perhaps you would care to take some air? It has grown rather close in here, do you not agree?”

      Simone caught the sparkle of wicked intentions in those hopelessly blue eyes over the rim of her chalice, and a reckless abandon pulled at her—a nearly frantic desire to steal away with him, if only for a moment or two. Simone had heard tales of men of the baron’s ilk, knew that he wanted nothing more than to seduce her. She also knew that any impropriety on her part could bring Armand’s plans to see her wed crashing down.

      But visions of a future with the pudgy Halbrook loomed in her mind and, suddenly, Simone simply did not care. This could very well be her first, her last, her only chance to experience passion. To make memories of one night’s folly to sustain her through her lot as a bartered bride. And the baron’s smile was too tempting by half.

      Didier’s urgent whisper of “Go on, Sister” seemed to echo in her own heart’s rapid tattoo, and she rose from the stool on trembling legs.

      “There is naught I would enjoy more.”

      Chapter 2

      Nick’s heart thudded in anticipation as he steered the diminutive Lady du Roche through the mazelike passages. He’d been correct at guessing her size—her complicated coif barely topped his shoulder as she glided along silently beside him. His mind filled with the possibilities of how their differences in size would play out within the confines of a bed.

      He guided her through a gilded doorway and across a sparsely furnished chamber to a set of double doors. A private balcony lay beyond, sheltered on three sides from the brunt of the night’s brisk breeze. Lady du Roche left Nick’s side to stand at the carved stone railing and gaze across the night-soaked gardens below, her chalice gripped tightly in both hands.

      And so the hunt begins. Nick grinned in the shadows as he shrugged out of his cloak and moved to stand behind the shapely woman.

      “Are you chilled?” he asked softly, swirling his cloak about her.

      She glanced at him over her shoulder and pulled his cloak closed with one hand, her cool flesh just grazing the insides of his palms. “Merci.”

      The warm scent of musky lavender wafted up from the delicate curve of her neck, and Nicholas moved away a step. The combination of her heady fragrance and the sight of her enveloped in his cloak was prompting his baser instincts, and Nick knew it was necessary to cool his urges if he was to woo the lady properly. He could not lift her onto the railing and disappear beneath her skirts, where the scent of lavender would surely be—

      He took a deep gulp of the cold air and sent her a friendly smile. “You did not seem to be enjoying the celebration as I imagine most ladies do,” he offered, attempting to set her at ease with light conversation.

      Lady du Roche shrugged and sipped from her chalice before speaking. “What is to be enjoyed? Dancing with fat old men whom I hold no liking for while they grope me to determine my worth as a brood mare? ’Tis barbaric.”

      Nick’s eyebrows rose. Such fire! He never would have guessed from her cool exterior. “The rumors are true, then?”

      Her head swung to face him, green eyes flashing in the dim light of the balcony. “Of what rumors do you speak?”

      “’Tis said you come to London to find a husband,” Nick explained, wondering at her hostility.

      “Oh.” Lady du Roche visibly relaxed and then looked away from him again. “Oui. ’Twould seem that search is nearly at its end—even now, my father makes arrangements with my future husband.”

      “Halbrook?” Nick asked, remembering the aging lord whom he’d seen speaking to the lady’s father. “He has grandchildren older than you!”

      “But he is very wealthy,” Lady du Roche sighed. “And that is the only criterion on which there seems to be no compromise.”

      “Have you an affection for him?”

      Nick was surprised at her laugh—clear and bubbling, like water tumbling over rocks. “Nay, my lord. I have learned that affection plays no part in this business of marriage.” She glanced at him again. “If I were in love with him, why would I be here with you now?”

      Her words were painfully honest and brought