Surrender to a Stranger (26 page)

“I have had the servants prepare a small supper for us in the drawing room,” he said as he led her down the hallway and threw open two enormous doors.

Jacqueline followed him into the room, where a huge fire had succeeded in warming the air to a point where it almost seemed cozy. A small oval table with two striped silk chairs was set in front of the fireplace, and the table had been laid with an exquisite selection of the finest china, crystal, and silver warming dishes. The delicious scent of roasted chicken and wine gravy filled her nose, and Jacqueline remembered that in her nervous anticipation of this evening she had not been able to eat all day.

“The meal is somewhat simple, but in the interests of privacy I thought it best to have the servants lay out the food in advance, and then I gave them the night off,” Armand explained as he walked over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Mademoiselle?”

She stared at him in confusion, moved by his obvious thoughtfulness in ordering a meal but sparing her the need to face his staff and therefore run the risk of gossip. Despite his desire to have her, he did not seek to humiliate her. But to sit down and share a meal with him was not part of their arrangement, and somehow it made the meeting too intimate, too friendly, as if she was giving herself to him of her own choice, which she most certainly was not. Not that he was about to brutally force himself upon her, the way Nicolas had that terrible night in her cell. No, whatever one wished to call their encounter, it would certainly not be rape. But by giving her the ultimatum he had offered, trading her chastity for François-Louis’s life, he had basically given her no choice, and in her mind that was almost the same as rape. She had had no other option but to accept. Hadn’t she?

“Mademoiselle?”

He regarded her with one eyebrow raised questioningly. Despite her nervousness, she could not help but notice how devastatingly handsome he looked this evening. His black fitted jacket clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin, and his tight, cream-colored breeches left no doubt that his legs were solidly sculpted from lean, hard muscle. His gold-and-copper hair had been neatly tied back with a length of black ribbon, and his ruggedly chiseled jaw was freshly shaven. He seemed perfectly at ease amid his elegant surroundings, as at home as he appeared when he was Citizen Julien and hunched over in the foul darkness of her cell, or when he was captain of
The Angélique
and standing with his legs braced apart on the deck, watching the pitching and rolling of the ocean. He really was an extraordinary man, she noted, taking no pleasure in the observation. He was able to change and adapt to his surroundings with the ease of a chameleon, switching languages, accents, and mannerisms as quickly and effortlessly as he changed costumes. It intrigued her, this ability to become what he was not, to act out a role and manage to convince everyone, including her, that he was what he appeared to be. There was so much about him she did not know. Not that she wanted to know, she reminded herself fiercely. Theirs was a business relationship and nothing more. He had rescued her from certain death on the guillotine, not because he cared in the least what happened to her, but simply because he had been hired to do so. And she was here now, not because she wanted to share an intimate dinner with him, but because she wanted to save François-Louis’s life. And to do so she had agreed to sleep with him. The whole arrangement suddenly struck her as thoroughly base and common, and she shuddered.

“Mademoiselle,” he repeated softly, somewhat disturbed by her obvious reluctance even to come near him, “come and sit down.”

“I am not hungry,” Jacqueline declared vehemently, as if he had just offered her a plate of poison. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “I ate before I came here.”

As if in protest to that outrageous lie, her stomach selected that exact moment to growl a hopelessly loud and most undignified soliloquy, causing a scarlet blush to race to her cheeks. Armand looked at her with amusement. “Perhaps you did not quite satisfy your appetite,” he suggested pleasantly. He reached over and lifted one of the silver lids, pausing to inhale the savory aroma that wafted up from the oval dish. “I must admit, roasted chicken marinated in wine cream is a particular favorite of mine,” he murmured appreciatively. “What else do we have here?” He began to lift the lids off other dishes, quickly taking stock of the small feast that had been prepared for them. “Veal roast in pastry, partridge, poached eggs in broth, vegetables in butter sauce, and to finish, a selection of pastries, cheeses, and fruit preserves.” He raised his eyes to her. “It is perhaps a simple meal, but one which I think you will not find distasteful,” he assured her.

Jacqueline was certain she would not find it distasteful at all, for it looked and smelled absolutely wonderful, but she reminded herself firmly that she was not here to eat, and she wanted this entire ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible. “Monsieur St. James, you are quite aware I did not come here to dine with you, I came here to—” At that point she suffered a sudden embarrassing loss of words. She paused and looked at him helplessly.

Armand resisted the urge to laugh. “Yes?” he prodded, as if he was sincerely trying to be helpful.

Sensing that he was enjoying her discomfort immensely, she sent him a withering look of irritation. She would not allow him to make her feel more nervous or uncomfortable than she already did. “What I mean to say,” she began, her tone slow and dignified, “is that this evening is a business arrangement and nothing more. If it is agreeable to you, I would prefer to get the matter over and done with.”

He regarded her with a look of surprise. “Mademoiselle, please forgive me for being so completely and utterly thoughtless,” he apologized. He replaced the lid on the serving dish and hastily moved out from behind the chair. “I did not realize you were so anxious to lie naked in my arms. I am, of course, flattered and delighted by your enthusiasm, and since our agreement is that you will be mine for the night, the sooner we begin, the longer I will have to slowly search out the unexplored secrets of your enchanting body.” He flashed her a dazzling smile and graciously offered her his arm. “Shall we adjourn upstairs to my bedroom?”

His words washed over her grim sense of purpose like an icy gush of water. The night. Dear God. She had agreed to share his bed for one night. How could she have been so stupid? Somehow when he had named his price she had thought it meant one quick encounter, which could probably be accomplished in a matter of minutes, or certainly no longer than an hour. She had not intended to cooperate with him any more than was absolutely necessary to get the act done, and even planned to keep as much of her clothes on as possible. But here he was, blithely talking about her lying naked in his arms and exploring the secrets of her body. She felt certain she was going to be sick. Or faint. Or both.

“Mademoiselle, are you all right? You look terribly pale….” His voice filtered through her thoughts, low and slightly amused.

“I…I think perhaps I will have something to eat after all,” stammered Jacqueline as she released herself from his arm and began to retreat hastily toward the table. “I just realized how absolutely famished I am.”

Armand suppressed his urge to laugh and followed her back to the table. “As you wish,” he replied as he seated her. “Perhaps a little wine will restore the color to your cheeks.” He lifted the wine bottle and filled her glass with ruby liquid.

It suddenly occurred to her that if she could see to it he drank enough, he might pass out as soon as he lay down on his bed. Then all she would have to do was remove his clothes and cover him with some blankets. When he awoke he would not be able to remember what had happened, but she would leave him a note saying now that she had upheld her end of the bargain, she fully expected him to do the same. François-Louis would be saved, and her virtue would remain intact. It was a perfect plan. She smiled.

Armand placed the bottle back on the table and took his seat.

“Are you not having any wine?” Jacqueline asked sweetly.

“No,” he replied. “I am not.”

Her smile vanished. “Why not?”

He lifted the cover off a serving dish. “Because, Mademoiselle, I do not drink. Chicken?” he offered as he picked up her plate.

“What do you mean, you don’t drink?” she demanded in confusion.

“Alcoholic beverages,” he clarified. He served a portion of chicken onto her plate. “Veal?”

She nodded as she contemplated this information. Perhaps he was stricken with some physical ailment. Given his solid physique and general look of complete good health, she thought it unlikely he suffered from a stomach disorder, but if that was not the case, she simply could not imagine why he should not drink. She knew her curiosity was rude, but she could not restrain herself from asking. “Why don’t you drink alcoholic beverages?”

Armand casually shrugged his shoulders and concentrated his attention on heaping more veal onto her plate. “Because I choose not to,” he answered simply. “Partridge?”

It was clear this was an uncomfortable subject for him, which made her all the more curious. She thought back to their journey out of France, thinking surely there must have been at least one occasion when she had seen him take a glass of wine. She recalled that when he had his coughing fit in her cell, she asked the jailer to bring him some wine, but Armand had quickly interrupted and insisted upon water. During their long ride to the coast he had always drunk from a bottle of clear liquid, which she had assumed was a stronger form of alcohol than the wine she consumed. She realized now it must have been water. Even the other night at the Fleetwoods’ ball, there had not been the faintest scent or taste of alcohol on him when he kissed her. In her experience, men like her father and François-Louis loved the taste of a fine wine or a good brandy. Even she preferred wine over water with her meals. To not drink alcohol was, quite simply, most unusual. She stared at him in amazement.

Armand looked up to see her staring at him and felt ridiculously self-conscious. “You needn’t look at me as if I had just grown a second head,” he snapped irritably as he handed her the plate.

“I am sorry,” she apologized. “It is just that I have never met a man who did not drink alcohol.” Embarrassed by her behavior, she lowered her gaze to her food.

He served his own plate and the two of them began to eat in awkward silence. Armand cursed himself for losing his temper. It was not her fault for being curious. It was only natural. But the reason he had decided never to drink again was still excruciatingly painful, and he did not like to be reminded of it. Yet how could he possibly expect Jacqueline to know something like that? He watched her from across the table as she picked nervously at her food.

There was no denying it. She was exceptionally, hauntingly beautiful. Although she had tried her best to present herself as unattractive by dressing in a matronly gown that might have been better suited to a funeral, the modest simplicity of the garment could not begin to play down her beauty. Her glossy blond hair had been swept up into a soft chignon that rested against the nape of her neck, but because it still lacked the required length to keep such a style firmly in place, small tendrils had worked their way loose and were falling in soft curls against her temples. Her skin was as luminous as white silk, giving her a pale, almost fragile quality, which he knew was totally at odds with the strength that dwelled within her. She continued to pick silently at the mountain of food he had inadvertently piled onto her plate, her smoky-gray eyes hidden below a dark sweep of lashes. He permitted himself the pleasure of just looking at her, drinking in her appearance and her delicate little mannerisms like a man who has never seen a beautiful woman before. It had been a long time since he had shared an intimate dinner with a woman. It had also been a long time since a woman had stirred the feelings of desire Jacqueline had awakened in him. He studied her as she continued to give all her attention to her plate, so obviously ill at ease. Suddenly he wanted very much to make her feel more relaxed. He knew she did not want to be here. He had not forced her, but he had used her betrothed’s safety as a commodity, knowing full well she had nothing with which to barter except herself. But he had not expected her to accept his terms, and somehow the fact that she had infuriated him. It was clear she must care for her marquis a great deal, and this realization startled and annoyed him. He reminded himself that when she kissed him back the other night she had been using him, trying to seduce him into rescuing her so-called friend. Suggesting she sleep with him in return for his services was merely the logical conclusion of what she had already started. And although it was wrong, he wanted her. He was not so certain, however, that she wanted him. If in the end she decided she could not go through with it, he would not force her. Whatever was to happen between them this evening, he did not intend for it to be an unpleasant ordeal for her. She had been through enough ordeals to last a lifetime.

“I used to drink to excess,” he began in a low voice, trying to break through the wall of silence that had risen between them. “I thought it was amusing. And since no one other than myself was lifting the glass to my lips, I assured myself I was in control.”

His voice was taut, not apologetic, but not proud either. His willingness to talk about it seemed to be a kind of peace offering. Slowly Jacqueline lifted her gaze from her food to look at him.

“I felt as though I was invincible,” he continued, meeting her gaze calmly. “After all, I had just about everything a young man could desire. My father had left me a considerable amount of money, and I made sure I was sober at least often enough to manage my investments. At first it was easy. Then, when I started to get drunk more often than I was sober, I made some extremely foolish business decisions and lost a lot of money. Rather than see it as a sign I was losing control of myself, somehow that struck me as funny.”

“Why would you think losing money was funny?” asked Jacqueline, who could not imagine such a thing.