London's Most Wanted Rake. Bronwyn Scott

and yet more vulnerable than she understood. There was a joie de vivre in her laugh, a magic in her wide smile, an exhilaration in the lightest of her touches. He’d never met a woman like her who could captivate a room so effortlessly by simply walking into it, who could captivate him, a man who had known so many women in his time and who could have any woman.

      And yet you remember everything about her. You remember the first time she looked at you from across a Parisian salon, how she smells, how she freezes a man with a glance and how she stokes him with one as well. Channing blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, knowing full well the night was a lost cause. He was going to dream of Paris until the sun came up.

      * * *

      The comtesse might be genuine. Roland Seymour yawned sleepily from his discreet post in the hall. Perhaps she was truly alone. There’d been no questionable entrances or exits from her room since he’d taken up his position shortly after one in the morning. To have come sooner would have aroused suspicion. The house had not yet settled. He didn’t think he’d missed anything though; the comtesse’s maid had only left a few minutes ago, suggesting to him that there was no man inside her room. He’d give it another hour and then take himself to bed. No one would be showing up at three only to have to be out by five before the house servants started their rounds.

      He intended to enjoy his brief association with the comtesse. She was everything a Continental woman should be, elegant and refined, sensual and passionate. He’d seen the tenacity with which she’d played a simple card game, perhaps an indicator of what awaited a man who garnered her favours. And yet, she was a woman and that meant she had limitations, limitations which she had freely admitted to him during their stroll. The business of running estates weighed on her. He fully expected she’d come forward with a more specific request for help tomorrow. Hopefully, she was in her room right now contemplating the wisdom of taking his offer. If not, he’d gently push that direction. He was fully confident he would know her situation by tea time.

      Of course, he knew a little of her situation even now. She was a widow of two years according to the rumours circulating the house party. But rumour also suggested the marriage had been bad and the husband’s death somewhat suspect. What could one expect when one married a Frenchman? Still, there were those at the house party who were less generous in their thoughts: Why marry a Frenchman in the first place?

      He’d listened to the gossip because it proved that she was alone. Even at the party there were no staunch allies for her, no one she could turn to with real problems. He would make himself that man. If he could bed her all the better. Women gave up all kinds of secrets in bed.