Rebellious Rakes. Bronwyn Scott

the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’

      ‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.

      Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.

      He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.

      ‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.

      Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’

      ‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.

      ‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.

      ‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.

      Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.

      What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.

      Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.

      Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’

      That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.

      ‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.

      ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.

      ‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard about it in London. It’s entirely plausible he’s become a bit reclusive as a result. It’s not as if Anjou’s explanations about the scars don’t make sense,’ Haviland argued. Perhaps Nolan was right. He just needed to stop brooding. When Archer pressed him to see a conspiracy, he simply couldn’t come up with a motive for such efforts. Perhaps that was what Archer intended all along; to make him see the foolishness of his notions. A silent look of comprehension passed between them.

      Archer smiled in confirmation. Haviland had read him aright. Archer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Put it to bed, old friend, and have some fun. You need a distraction. Perhaps I could get our hostess to introduce you to one. There’s several pretty ones here tonight.’

      The crowd around them ebbed, affording Haviland a glimpse across the room. Archer shifted to the right to deposit his empty glass on a passing tray and there she was—a distraction to end all distractions. She must have come late. He would have noticed her earlier otherwise. She was the sort of woman who could command a man’s attention without doing a thing. She was proving it right now, simply standing against a wall and stealing his breath along with any ability to formulate coherent thought.

      ‘Archer, don’t move. I think I’ve found my distraction.’ She was a stunning brunette in an evening gown of crinkled taffeta the shade of gentian blue. The gown was plain by French standards, unadorned with ruffles or embroidered hems, yet the plainness lent itself to an understated elegance, as did the exquisite tailoring. For all its lack of affectations, this was not a poor woman’s gown and no one would mistake the wearer for a peasant.

      ‘I take it it’s not a masked man?’ Archer raised an interested eyebrow, but remained obediently frozen.

      ‘Hardly.’ Haviland inclined his head in the smallest of gestures for Archer to follow his gaze. ‘Turn your head slowly and remember I saw her first.’ He did see her, the woman beyond the dress. When he looked at her, he saw the confidence of her carriage, the delicate beauty of her very bone structure that declared her a woman of high birth. There was strength, too, in that delicacy. This was no retiring wallflower and yet she was alone.

      Archer smirked. ‘What are you thinking?’

      Haviland gave him a wry grin that spoke volumes. ‘I’m thinking I’m looking at Plan B.’ One last affaire, one last opportunity to drink from passion’s cup before settling into his marriage. He might not have chosen Christina Everly, but neither had she chosen him. He would not shame her with infidelities after they wed, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their union. Until then, however, a gentleman need feel no such restraint, especially if travelling abroad.

      The woman in question looked their direction, catching his stare, the slight raise of his eyebrow. She answered his silent enquiry with the flick of her wrist, her fan opening in a sophisticated gesture that covered just the bottom of her face. Haviland’s gaze dropped to her hands. She held the fan in her left, and Haviland smiled at the discreet sign to approach. Negotiations complete. Beside him, Archer let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Now, that’s a woman to cross a room for.’

      ‘I doubt men stop there,’ Haviland said under his breath. They’d cross mountains, even oceans for her. She was the sort of woman who could wreck a lesser man, one given to baser instincts and spontaneity. Thank goodness he wasn’t such a man. ‘Here, hold this for me.’ Haviland handed his flute to Archer.

      ‘Why? Do you think you’ll be back for it?’

      Haviland chuckled. ‘With luck, no’, and then he crossed the room.

      * * *

      Alyssandra felt a little tremor of anxious anticipation skate down her spine, so strong was her awareness of him. His eyes were on her, piercing and intense, demanding she meet his gaze as he approached, demanding she be aware of him. But it was too late to back out of this exquisite deception. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d orchestrated her evening around in the hopes of it happening.

      She’d not known with certainty that he’d be here, but she’d known it was highly possible. The odds had favoured her. Madame Aguillard’s soirée in the seventh arondissement was a coveted invitation and the Englishman and his