Surrender to a Stranger (23 page)

“Of course not,” replied Sir Edward agreeably as he stopped and took a step back from Jacqueline. “Jacqueline, may I present Viscount Preston. Lord Preston, this lovely young lady is the daughter of a dear friend, and my honored house guest, Lady Jacklyn de Lambert.”

“I am most humbly at your service, Lady Jacklyn,” declared Viscount Preston as he swept into a courtly bow. He was colorfully dressed in a scarlet satin frock coat over an elaborately embroidered gold waistcoat, which on closer inspection depicted a crowded hunting scene. His blond hair had been set in two rows of neat curls at the sides of his head and very lightly dusted with powder, as had become fashionable in place of wigs in England. He stepped forward and boldly took Jacqueline into his arms. “Shall we?”

“Mais, oui,”
stammered Jacqueline, desperately wishing Sir Edward had not turned her over into the arms of a stranger.

“So you are the mysterious French aristocrat everyone is talking about,” remarked her partner as he began to lead her gracefully around the floor. “Tell me, for I am most curious, however did you manage to escape France at such a frightfully dangerous time?”

“It was…
diffiçile,”
replied Jacqueline evasively, not particularly wanting to discuss the details of her escape with this stranger.

He smiled at her as if her response had been terribly clever. “I am sure it is a most exciting tale,” he prodded.

“Non,”
she countered. “Not really.”

“Come now, Lady Jacklyn,” he persisted. “They say you were incarcerated in one of the foulest prisons of Paris, and that you were practically on your way to the scaffold when the Black Prince himself intervened, and stole you right out from under those murdering Frenchies’ noses. Is that true?”

Jacqueline did not know which she found more upsetting, the treatment of her imprisonment and near death as idle ballroom chatter, or the fact that the gossipmongers of England seemed to have been entertaining each other with the story of her escape. What she did know was that any information she revealed, no matter how trivial, could potentially jeopardize Armand’s future missions, and that was a risk she simply would not tolerate. She looked up at her handsome partner, knitted her eyebrows together, and shook her head in confusion.

“Je regrette, Monsieur, mais mon anglais n’est pas très bon, et je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites,”
she murmured apologetically, claiming that her English was poor and she did not understand him. She hoped he would cease his questioning.

Viscount Preston stared at her blankly. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“She said she is terribly sorry, but she just remembered she promised this dance to me,” said a low, firm voice.

Jacqueline looked up over Viscount Preston’s shoulder to see Armand towering behind him, and her breath caught in her throat.

He seemed so much larger than she remembered. He was magnificently dressed in the simplest of costumes—a superbly tailored black frock coat over a white waistcoat and tightly fitted white breeches. No ruffles, no brocade, no fancy embroidery, just a crisply tied cravat and the unmistakable bearing of a man who wears elegant clothes with ease, as if it meant no more to him to be dressed for a ball than to be dressed in the rags of a peasant farmer. His hair was unpowdered and tied back with a length of black ribbon, and the soft, flickering light of the ballroom kept playing over the copper and gold highlights in it. His blue green eyes bore straight into hers, searching, demanding, assessing, ignoring Viscount Preston, ignoring everyone and everything around them, and for one brief moment everything stopped, and there was only the two of them, standing alone in an enormous ballroom amid the faint strains of some faraway music. She felt a wonderful sense of relief, as if for the first time in weeks some terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders, yet at the same time she was overwhelmed with an inexplicable sensation of wariness and fear.

It was Armand who broke the spell. The corners of his mouth suddenly lifted into a faintly mocking smile, and he politely tilted his head toward her. “Forgive me for cutting in, Mademoiselle de Lambert,” he apologized, his voice anything but apologetic, “but I do believe this is our dance.”

Her heart was racing and she could not imagine why, but the velvety low sound of his voice reminded her they were not alone. She glanced over at Viscount Preston, who was glaring at Armand with barely disguised contempt.

“St. James, I must admit I never expected to see you here. Tell me, what is the occasion?” he drawled. “Too close to Christmas to sit at home alone? Or did your wine cellar run dry?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Armand lifted his gaze from Jacqueline to look at him. “Strange, Preston, but I was not aware that my social life was any of your concern.” His tone was pleasant, his expression utterly indifferent, but somehow Jacqueline could sense the fury awakening beneath his calm exterior. There was a barely controlled tension between the two men, a palpable dislike that went far deeper than the awkwardness of the present moment.

“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur,
but I did promise this particular dance to Monsieur St. James,” Jacqueline burst out prettily, raising her hand to her throat and giving a light, silvery laugh. “I hope you do not mind?” She gazed up at Preston as if his feelings were the most important thing to her in the world, and was amazed at how easily she did so. It had been a long time since she had called upon her mannered feminine charm, but if that was what was required to calm the burning hostility between these two men, then so be it.

Viscount Preston pulled his eyes away from Armand and looked at Jacqueline in surprise, as if he was just noticing that she was there. The contempt in his expression instantly melted into a handsome smile, and he gallantly bowed and raised her hand to his lips.

“I am wounded, of course, Lady Jacklyn, but if you promise me another dance, I shall be sure to recover, just so I can feel you in my arms again.” He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, lingering over the pale skin just a second longer than was appropriate.

“But of course,” Jacqueline replied graciously, giggling at his outrageous remark. “I shall look forward to it.” She lowered her lashes slightly.

Viscount Preston smiled at her and then turned to give Armand a curt nod before taking his leave.

“If you would prefer, I could forfeit our dance and bring him back to you,” offered Armand with a scowl.

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Jacqueline in French. “I would sooner dance ‘La Marseillaise’ stark naked in front of Robespierre than be forced to endure another moment with that ridiculous, prying peacock who is unsuccessfully masquerading as a man,” she declared vehemently.

Armand stared at her a moment in surprise. And then he did something he had not done in a long time. He threw back his head and began to laugh.

He had not really expected to find her here. Although he did not generally attend these parties, he heard all about them when his sister, Madeleine, came to visit. She had told him the Harringtons were making all the usual rounds, but without their mysterious French guest in tow, which Madeleine found rather strange. Normally the French aristocrats who escaped to England were anxious to get out and begin a new social life. But Jacqueline’s absence from parties did not surprise Armand in the least. He knew she did not want to make friends or create ties to this place. Even when she had finally accepted the fact that she could not escape him and that she would be going to England, he knew she had not completely abandoned her plan to return to France and have her revenge on Nicolas Bourdon.

“Monsieur St. James, I believe people are staring at us,” remarked Jacqueline in exasperation.

Armand smiled. “I believe you are correct,” he agreed, speaking to her in French. “But until your charade in front of Preston, Mademoiselle, I was not aware you were so skilled in the art of pretense. You know I have always thought you to be a perfectly dreadful liar. I can see now that my assessment was entirely inaccurate.”

She looked at him in confusion for a moment, her brow creased in a delicate frown, as if she was trying to decide whether or not his remark should be taken as an insult or a compliment.

She was far, far more beautiful than he had remembered. Her honey-blond hair had been artfully arranged into a bouquet of soft curls that shimmered gold in the glow of the candlelight. The gown she wore was black silk, a stark contrast to the gay colors that filled the ballroom. If she had thought to avoid attracting attention by wearing such a somber color, then she had failed miserably, for the striking simplicity of her attire only served to accentuate her beauty. The gown was cut low, exposing the pale swell of her breasts and the graceful round of her shoulders. The fitted bodice emphasized her slender form, and he was relieved to see she had started to fill out a little in the weeks since he last saw her. She wore no jewelry, but the bodice and hem of the gown was studded with shimmering jet stones, which glittered and sparkled in the light of the ballroom like a symphony of brilliant black diamonds. She studied him with her huge gray eyes, and he was reminded of the color of the sea at dawn, deep and mysterious and unfathomable.

He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close against him.

“Monsieur St. James, you are holding me entirely too close,” protested Jacqueline.

“Perhaps,” he agreed with a shrug. “But let us show them we can still enjoy ourselves, Mademoiselle, and really give them something to talk about.”

Before Jacqueline could ask him what he meant by that, he began to move her in time to the music, effortlessly gliding her around as if they were the only couple on the crowded dance floor.

“Are you enjoying your stay with the Harringtons?” he asked.

“Sir Edward and Lady Harrington have been most kind,” replied Jacqueline. “And of course, I am very grateful to be reunited with my sisters.”

He nodded with satisfaction. Evidently she had started to settle in and accept her new life, as he had hoped she would. “Has Séraphine started to speak?”

“No,” she answered unhappily. “I spend time with her each day, but she does not seem to want to talk. She lets Suzanne do her talking for her.”

Armand considered this for a moment. “Perhaps you should separate them,” he suggested. “Force her to speak for herself.”

Jacqueline shook her head. “I have thought about that, but I believe it would only make Séraphine withdraw even further. She is angry with me, angry for sending her away, angry for not being able to protect my father and Antoine. Separating her from Suzanne would do nothing to soothe that anger.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Why should she blame you for what happened to your father and brother?”

Jacqueline sighed. “When I sent Suzanne and Séraphine away, I promised them I would bring them back, that everything would be all right, and that we would all be together again. Obviously I did not keep that promise. First she learns her father has been executed, and then I return, but without Antoine. I think in her mind, she believes I betrayed her. Suzanne has been the one constant through all of this tragedy. If I take Suzanne away from her, it would only hurt her more, and I cannot bear to do that.” Her voice was tight with guilt and despair.

“Give her time, Mademoiselle,” suggested Armand gently. “She is only six. You both have many years ahead of you for healing and forgetting.”

Jacqueline looked away. She did not have many years ahead of her. If Armand agreed to her request, she might not have more than a few weeks ahead of her. She swallowed. She had to speak to him alone before he returned her to Sir Edward and Lady Harrington.

“Monsieur St. James, I have a proposition to make to you,” she began hesitantly.

He looked down at her, his curiosity evident. “Really?”

“But I do not wish to discuss it here in this crowded ballroom,” she added quickly. “Do you think there is somewhere we can go where we might find a moment of privacy?”

His lips curved into a smile. He had no idea what she wanted to discuss with him, but the thought of being alone with her appealed to him immensely. “I think that can be arranged, Mademoiselle.”

He pulled her even closer against him and began to dance with her toward the far corner of the ballroom, still moving in time with the music so it was not apparent to anyone that they were in fact leaving the floor. When they reached the corner he spun her behind an enormous Christmas tree, then took her arm and escorted her through a doorway that led off to a corridor.

They traveled down the hallway unnoticed, and Armand stopped when they reached the entrance to the library. He motioned for Jacqueline to go in ahead of him, then followed her and closed the door.

“So, Mademoiselle, what is this proposition you wish to put to me?” he asked, his voice slightly amused.

Jacqueline walked over to stand in front of the fireplace. “Is there something to drink in here?” She needed to fortify her nerves before she put her proposal to him.

Armand looked about and saw a silver tray filled with crystal decanters on a table against the wall. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” he offered as he walked over to it.

“Brandy,” she replied quickly.

He looked at her with amusement. “This must be difficult for you.” He lifted a decanter, splashed some of its amber liquid into a crystal glass, and walked over to her. “Here.”

She gratefully accepted the glass. “Aren’t you having some?”

“No.”

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a hearty gulp. The liquid burned a path down her throat and warmed her chest, strengthening her sense of purpose. “Have you heard any news of the situation in France?” she asked suddenly.

He watched her as she clutched the glass to her bosom, wondering what it was she sought from him. Whatever it was, she obviously required more time to work up to asking him. He shrugged his shoulders and seated himself on the sofa in front of the fireplace, stretching his long legs out before him. He stared thoughtfully into the flames. “The revolutionary government has started to close the churches in and around Paris, in the name of the philosophy of Reason, which will soon be the only acceptable religion,” he began, his voice low and serious. “Informing on one’s fellowman continues to be a patriotic duty, and as a result the prisons of Paris are exploding with over seven thousand men, women, and children, who exist in nightmarish conditions as they await trial. The Tribunal and the guillotine cannot chop heads fast enough to keep up. Yet despite the arrests and executions of all these so-called enemies, the people continue to starve and inflation continues to soar.”