The Helen Bianchin And The Regency Scoundrels And Scandals Collections. Louise Allen

heaven, the woman was persistent!

      ‘It would be so—’ Camille paused fractionally ‘—pleasant,’ she stated, ‘if you were to include me as a guest, socially.’ She gave an expressive smile. ‘My aunt, her friends…’ She trailed off, and her slender shoulders lifted in a typical Gallic gesture. ‘We have different interests, comprendez-vous?’

      Hardly surprising, considering Camille’s sole interest appeared to be Miguel!

      ‘How long will you be staying?’ Hannah asked, hoping the visit would be extremely short!

      The Frenchwoman lifted an expressive hand, then let it fall. ‘I have no immediate plans. A few weeks, several. Who is to say?’

      ‘I am sure Graziella has made arrangements to entertain you,’ Miguel drawled, and received a sultry smile.

      ‘One must hope you are also included in such…’ she trailed deliberately ‘…arrangements.’

      Not if I can help it, Hannah decided as she endeavoured to subdue her anger.

      Miguel took Hannah’s empty cup and placed it with his own onto a nearby side-table. His expression was polite as he caught hold of his wife’s hand and inclined his head towards Camille.

      ‘If you’ll excuse us?’

      ‘You are leaving? It is so early,’ the Frenchwoman protested.

      ‘Goodnight,’ Miguel bade smoothly, only to discover Camille didn’t give up easily.

      ‘You must both be my guests at dinner. Together with Graziella and Enrico, my aunt.’ She paused, and offered a sweet smile. ‘Miguel, you must bring Esteban.’ She cast Miguel a deliberately seductive look. ‘We shall make a date, yes?’

      ‘We’ll check our social diary and get back to you,’ Hannah intimated smoothly, aware this was one engagement she had no intention of keeping.

      Camille’s expression didn’t change, but Hannah glimpsed a brief malevolent gleam in those dark eyes, and felt the beginnings of unease.

      Cynical bantering on occasion was part of the game a number of people played, for it formed amusing repartee. But instinct warned Hannah the Frenchwoman played by no one’s rules but her own.

      ‘Nothing to say, querida?’ Miguel drawled as he eased the Jaguar out from the driveway.

      She turned towards him, saw the beam of oncoming headlights cast angles and planes to his strong-boned features, and endeavoured to inject amusement into her tone.

      ‘You expect me to condone Camille’s blatant behaviour?’

      ‘I could almost imagine you are jealous.’

      He was amused, damn him!

      ‘Am I supposed to answer that?’ she demanded coolly.

      He spared her a quick glance, caught the fiery blue glare aimed in his direction, then returned his attention to the road.

      ‘It might be interesting to hear you try,’ he declared indolently, and she burst into angry speech.

      ‘What would you have me say?’ Her fingers clenched over the clasp of her evening purse. ‘That I objected to the way Camille monopolised your attention? And flirted outrageously.’ She drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. ‘Dammit, she has designs on you! Anyone would have had to be blind not to notice it!’

      ‘Should I be flattered?’

      ‘Are you?’ She held her breath waiting for his reply.

      ‘No,’ Miguel declared with unruffled ease.

      ‘Hold that thought,’ Hannah said darkly.

      ‘Why, amante?’ he teased mercilessly as he gained the main street. ‘What would you do if I succumbed to her charms?’

      ‘Commit grievous bodily harm.’ And die a little, she added silently. ‘Then divorce you.’

      He cast her a sombre glance. ‘Extreme measures.’

      ‘What would you do if I showed an interest in another man?’ Hannah retorted, unable to resist taunting, ‘Turn the cheek and look the other way?’

      ‘I’d kill you.’ His voice held a dangerous softness that sent shivers feathering a path down her spine.

      ‘Wonderful,’ she remarked facetiously. ‘A few hours in Camille’s company, and we’re not only arguing, we’re threatening divorce and murder.’

      The Frenchwoman was a witch, Miguel acknowledged grimly, and, unless he was mistaken, a very dangerous one.

      ‘While we’re on this particular subject,’ Hannah continued, ‘what importance do you place on Camille’s deliberate mention of my bête noir?’

      ‘Luc Dubois?’

      ‘That’s the one,’ she conceded.

      ‘Do you still retain an interest in him?’

      ‘No,’ Hannah declared vehemently. Even now she found it difficult to accept the Frenchman had penetrated her guard. She, who could tag a man’s superficial charm in an instant, aware his main interest was her family’s wealth, not her. Except Luc had been incredibly patient, known which buttons to push, and when. She’d fallen into his arms like a peach ripe for the picking.

      ‘So sure, Hannah?’ Miguel pursued silkily.

      How could he ask that, when Luc didn’t even begin to compare with the man who was now her husband?

      ‘Yes.’ She turned towards him. ‘You have my word.’

      ‘Gracias.’

      ‘Such is the recipe for a happy marriage.’

      ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, mi mujer,’ Miguel drawled.

      ‘Ah, but I love this honesty we share. It is très bonne, don’t you agree?’

      ‘I can think of a more apt description.’

      It didn’t take long to reach their tree-lined street and traverse the driveway. Minutes later she followed Miguel indoors.

      ‘Get the credit slips from your briefcase,’ he instructed as they reached the foyer. At her puzzled look, he elaborated, ‘The client who ran up debt all over town. I’ll take care of it.’

      ‘No, you won’t,’ she said emphatically. ‘I can do it myself.’

      ‘Why?’ he queried steadily. ‘When I can do it so much more easily?’

      She flung him a baleful glare. ‘Because I’m independent.’

      ‘And stubborn,’ Miguel added.

      ‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘Self-sufficient.’

      ‘Tenacious.’

      ‘That, too,’ she admitted, then allowed, ‘If I have a problem, I promise I’ll call on you.’

      It would have to suffice, Miguel conceded. ‘Are we going to stand here bandying words, or do we go to bed?’

      She felt inclined to deny him. To turn her back and ascend the stairs alone. Yet to deny him was to deny herself. And she needed the reassurance of his touch, the possession of her body. To feel, in the darkness of the night, that she meant more to him than just part of his life as a convenient wife. To pretend for a while that the marriage was real, and what they shared was special, not just very good sex.

      ‘Oh, bed,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely.’

      ‘Minx,’ he declared. ‘What if I’m tired?’

      ‘Are you?’ she asked seriously, then wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I wouldn’t think of overtaxing your strength.’

      He laughed, and the sound curled round her nerve-ends as