Regency Surrender: Passion And Rebellion. Louise Allen

know I don’t look as though I am a good prospect,’ he said, indicating the scruffy clothes he was wearing. ‘But honestly, I am not as hard up as these clothes suggest. They are practical for when I am working, that is all. I get covered in dust and charcoal, and...but never mind that. The point is, you could do better than him.’

      ‘You...you said that before,’ she replied. And she’d been simultaneously flattered and insulted by his assumptions about what sort of woman he thought she was. Well, she might be flattered, but she wasn’t going to melt at the feet of a man who kept on delivering his flattery wrapped up in insults.

      ‘You have the unmitigated gall to stand there and criticise both my morals, and my taste, without knowing the first thing about my circumstances. And then have the cheek to say you think you are a better prospect for me?’

      That hadn’t come out quite right. What she had meant to say was that Monsieur Le Brun was not, and had never been, her protector and that, even if she did need one, she would most certainly be far choosier about the man in question.

      ‘Try me,’ he grated. Then, before she had time to draw breath to make her retort, which would have been good and acidic, putting him neatly in his place, he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. Hard. Full on the lips.

      She froze, shocked into indignant immobility. But only for a moment. Because, amazingly, hard on the heels of her indignation came a wave of such sheer pleasure it made her want to purr.

      Oh, but it had been so long since any man had kissed her. Since this man, her first and only love, had kissed her. And that time it had been nothing like this. Back then, his kisses had been almost chaste. Tentative. As though he hadn’t wanted to frighten her.

      But just as she was starting to wonder if he was trying to punish her with the force of his kiss, his mouth gentled. He slid his hands down her arms and round her waist, tugging her closer to him. And she could no longer see why it was so important not to melt against him, into him. She’d never experienced anything so seductive as the feel of his mouth against hers, his arms tugging her close, the heat of his entire body pressed all along the length of hers. He kissed like a man now, she realised. That was the difference. He was an experienced man, not an untried boy.

      But the most seductive thing about his kiss was his eagerness. The intensity of his yearning for her flowed off him in waves, making him shake with it. It was his passion, not his skill, which was so very irresistible. Because it made her feel so desirable.

      When, too soon, he pulled back, she opened her eyes, stunned to discover that she’d shut them.

      ‘You see?’

      What? What was she supposed to see? She hadn’t been aware of anything but him, for the entire duration of that embrace. An entire troop of Cossacks could have invaded the shop and she didn’t think she would have noticed.

      ‘You still want me.’

      Her pleasure dimmed. Was he just trying to prove something by harking back to their shared past? And if so, what?

      ‘Why deny yourself, Amethyst? Come to me.’

      Why deny yourself? He was talking as though taking a lover was nothing more significant than purchasing a bauble to decorate her hair.

      When it clearly wasn’t. Not even for him. He was standing there, shaking with the force of wanting her.

      It was flattering. But she wasn’t that kind of woman.

      She shook her head.

      His face hardened. ‘What are you afraid of? What hold does that man have over you? Tell me.’

      ‘He doesn’t have any hold over me,’ she said indignantly.

      ‘Then prove it.’

      ‘I do not have to prove anything to you.’

      ‘So, I repeat, what is holding you back?’

      ‘Can you not think of anything?’ Like the fact she might have some morals, for instance?

      A look of complete exasperation flitted across his face.

      ‘Explain it to me.’

      She glanced over his shoulder towards the door. At any moment Fenella might come in, looking for her, worrying about what was keeping her.

      His face softened. ‘I forgot. The little girl. Very well. Make an excuse to get away from the others and meet me somewhere where we can talk. And you can tell me exactly why you are reluctant to yield to the passion that is burning between us.’

      Talk. She supposed she could agree to that. And, oh, but she did want to see him again. Hear him say such things again. It was almost like the dream she’d had on her first night here, where he’d grovelled at her feet for a chance to kiss her and to beg her forgiveness for the way he’d treated her.

      ‘We are planning to visit the Louvre,’ she said. ‘I could easily break away from the others...’

      ‘I go there as often as I can,’ he said. ‘Can you arrange to be there tomorrow?’

      ‘Yes.’ Easily. ‘Then I will be waiting for you.’

      He seized her by the shoulders, kissed her again, then turned and strode out of the shop.

      She raised one trembling hand to her lips. What had she done? Agreed to meet him and let him attempt to talk her into having an affair with him, that’s what.

      She was shaking so much she needed something to lean on for support. Tottering to the counter, she laid both palms on it and took a deep breath. When the contents of the shop eventually swam back into view, she noted the proprietor pushing the comb, now nestled in a little box lined with silk, across the counter towards her.

      She glared at him.

      He promptly reduced the price by a further two francs.

      With the pragmatism of the typical Parisian, he was continuing to haggle as though there was nothing untoward about men storming into his shop, grabbing potential customers, kissing them until their knees turned to jelly and then storming out again.

      All of a sudden she felt like laughing.

      ‘I shall take it,’ she breathed. It would always remind her of this day, this moment. And the kiss that had tumbled her back to the kind of breathless wonder she’d felt as a girl, whenever he’d stolen a kiss from her in some secluded nook.

      She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But every time she tucked it into her hair, the fire of the gems sparkling from the darkness of their setting would always remind her of the sparks that had flared from this brief moment of twisted, thwarted passion. And she would remember how desirable he’d made her feel.

      * * *

      Amethyst woke the next morning with a smile on her face. Somewhere in this city, Harcourt was stomping around in fury at the erroneous belief she was a kept woman and wishing he was the one to have her in keeping. For the first time in ten years, she felt as though she was an attractive woman—in one man’s eyes at least. And since she didn’t much care what any other man thought about her, it was enough to make her feel like skipping down the Boulevard, hand in hand with Sophie, laughing with sheer joy.

      ‘Where do you plan to take us today, Monsieur Le Brun?’ she asked with bated breath when he came to report to her, after breakfast. ‘I hear the Louvre is well worth a visit.’

      ‘I can arrange for a viewing of the works of art for you, madame, of course,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, but you promised to take me to see the animals in the menagerie,’ cried Sophie.

      ‘We can go another day,’ put in Fenella hastily, ever the peacemaker.

      ‘No, no,’ said Amethyst, making a play of looking out of the windows. ‘The weather may not favour a trip out of doors another day. You must take Sophie to see the animals. Especially since she seems to feel you have given