Susan Carroll (4 page)

"
Enchante
, madam." His voice was low
and seductive, steel sheathed in velvet.

Phaedra saw no sign that he even recognized
her name. Yet he must, since he had obviously felt it his duty to
keep her in exile from London.

"I trust my name is not unknown to you,
monsieur." What had come over her? Her speech held none of the
haughtiness she had rehearsed during the coach ride from Bath.

Brushing aside the lace at his wrist, the
marquis produced an enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket,
flicking it open with a careless gesture. Phaedra watched him, her
eyes riveted on every graceful movement. As he raised a pinch to
one finely chiseled nostril, his mouth tipped into a slight
frown.

"Grantham? Now, where have I heard ... Ah,
yes." He snapped the snuffbox closed, his eyes returning to
Phaedra. He studied her with cold assessment. "You are Ewan
Grantham's--er, how do you English put it-Lord Ewan Grantham's
relict?"

The words broke the spell of his fascination
as effectively as a slap in the face. A surge of heat rushed
through her. How dare he treat her as if her entire life and being
were summed up by her marriage to Ewan?

"No, my lord," she snapped. "That is not how
I would put it at all. I think perhaps you might know me better as
Sawyer Weylin's granddaughter from Bath."

"Indeed?" he asked, his attention wandering
past her to the ballroom.

"I trust you have no difficulty in recalling
his name. It would seem that my grandfather sets great store by
your advice. A fact I find most astonishing."

"It always pleases me to be a source of
astonishment to a lady."

He favored her with a brief nod, the king
dismissing a peasant girl. "Your pardon, madame. Another recent
acquaintance beckons me," He walked away, leaving her speechless
with anger.

Muriel snickered behind her fan. "Oh, lud,
Phaedra. How very disappointing. I had expected something a little
more spectacular. After all, you are passably pretty. I vow the
marquis took more notice of Sophie Grandisant, in spite of her
prominent front teeth. "

"I have not done with him yet," Phaedra
said.

Never had she encountered the likes of such
arrogance-not even in those dreadful days of her marriage, when
Ewan Grantham had held his untutored bride up to ridicule before
all his fashionable friends. She had learned a great deal since the
time when one snub would have sent her, teary-eyed, to cower in
some corner. She had learned enough to be able to teach the marquis
that she was not so easily ignored. With quick strides, Phaedra
placed herself directly in Varnais's path.

“My lord," she said. "I came here tonight
expressly to meet you."

He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from
his waistcoat. "How flattering."

Phaedra became aware of more than one head
turning in their direction. She longed to draw the marquis off into
some secluded nook to conduct this conversation, but Lady
Porterfield's ballroom offered no such place. Lowering her voice,
she said, "They are now forming sets for the minuet."

"Do I understand you to be asking me to
dance, my lady?"

"Yes, I am," she replied doggedly. She must
be mad! This was beyond the pale, even for the untamed Phaedra
Grantham. She had the satisfaction of at last obtaining a reaction
from Armande de LeCroix.

"How very-" She thought she detected a slight
quiver of amusement in that smooth voice, but he went on, "How very
original your English customs are, my lady. I had no idea."

Once more Phaedra became aware of the dozens
of eyes trained upon her. Dear God, where would she find a hole
large enough to crawl into if he refused?

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Ah
bien
, how could I maintain my honor as a Frenchman if I
refused such a request from a beautiful woman?"

With that he offered her his hand. A
blood-red ruby ring set in heavy gold contrasted with the bronzed
strength of his fingers. She placed her own within his grasp,
bracing herself for the chill. To her astonishment, the hand
gripping hers was warm, sending a current rushing through her that
made the heat of the ballroom seem as nothing. As he led her onto
the floor, the buzz of voices threatened to drown out the music;
but to Phaedra, all sound faded into insignificance. She felt as if
she were alone with this enigmatic stranger, who made her pulse
race with but a touch.

As the opening strains of the minuet sounded
through the ballroom, Phaedra gave herself a mental shake. The rest
of society, the fops, the silly chits like Muriel Porterfield,
might be content to stand in awe of this man. But Phaedra was
determined to find out exactly who this marquis was, what sort of
mischief he might be brewing with her grandfather. He was a far cry
from the elderly busybody she had expected. So why the devil had he
advised against her return to London?

Gliding toward his lordship, her skirts
rustling against his legs, she tried to penetrate what lay behind
the mask. But his eyes were so hypnotic and piercing that she
averted her gaze in confusion. She regarded his shoe buckles, the
firm-muscled calves encased in white silk stockings, the
tight-fitting knee breeches that clung so well to his lean
hips.

"Well, what think you, madame?" His soft
voice startled her.

"Of what, my lord?"

"Of the buttons on my waistcoat. I told the
tailor they would never do."

"Buttons?" she repeated, wrenching her eyes
away from their admiring perusal of his masculine form. "I-no, my
lord, I see nothing wrong with your-your buttons."

"But I affirm that there is. If they so hold
a lady's attention that she never looks up to afford me one glimpse
of her beautiful eyes, then I think my tailor has greatly
erred."

Flushing, Phaedra looked up at once. Was he
mocking her? She could tell nothing from the dry tones in which he
spoke.

"That is better."

"I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to seem
rude." Her apology was swept away as they were separated by the
movement of the dance.

Why did he never smile? His lips were set,
immovable, but at least his eyes did not look so cold as she'd
first seen them. Or was it all a trick of the candlelight?

When they came together again, she said, "I
was not staring at you, but merely watching my steps. It has been a
while since I danced the minuet."

Even as she spoke, Phaedra winced in pained
remembrance. The crowded assembly room, Ewan's foot hooking around
her ankle, tripping her into the line of dancers. "Your pardon,"
Ewan had called out as he had hauled her up from the floor. "But I
fear my wife tries to gallop through every dance as if it were an
Irish jig." Then as always, the cruel, cutting laughter.

Phaedra became aware of a strong hand at her
waist, another clasping her palm. With a start, she came back to
the present, realizing that she had almost blundered into the next
set, but Armande discreetly guided her back into position.

"There, you see," she said, feeling her
cheeks burn. "I did try to warn you. As my husband was wont to say,
I am not plagued by an overabundance of grace."

"If there was grace found wanting, my lady,
it would not be any fault of yours, but your partner's."

His lips came startlingly close to her ear
until she felt the warmth of his breath. How could any voice so
deep, so undeniably masculine, be also soft and caressing? She
wondered if he could feel the tremor that passed through her and
hailed with relief the next pattern of the dance that separated
them.

What was she doing? she wondered as she
circled the room. She had not informed him as she had planned, that
she could do without his interference in her life. She had not
asked him even one question. Now Armande had her by the hand again,
pulling her close, outwardly maintaining all the formality, the
ritual of the dance, while his fingers teased the sensitive hollow
of her palm.

"My lord," she said, trying to bring her
disordered wits together, "I fear I have a complaint to lodge
against you."

He spoke as if he had not heard her, his
voice pensive. "How sad you appeared a moment ago, my lady, so far
away. As if some unhappy memory had risen to haunt you."

Phaedra nearly snatched her hand away. What
sort of man was this, that he could read her innermost thoughts?
She began to regret greatly that she had removed her own mask. The
marquis had her at a decided disadvantage.

"My grandfather, my lord," she said, firmly
steering him toward the one topic she wished to discuss. "You have
been at great pains to convince him I should remain in Bath.
Why?"

"Now that I have seen you, I almost regret my
advice." The look which accompanied these words made her pulse
skip, made her nearly forget he had evaded her question.

"Only almost?" she challenged.

"I naturally assumed you would wish to live
in seclusion, to be alone with your grief. According to your
grandpere
, it was your own idea to remove to Bath,
n'est-ce pas
?"

Phaedra could not deny this. The trip to Bath
had been her doing. After Ewan's accident, she had desperately
needed some time alone, not to grieve, but to reconsider her future
prospects away from the presence of her domineering grandfather.
But that had always been a temporary measure. She now coldly
informed the marquis, "I never intended to be banished to Bath for
the rest of my life. I have had more than enough time to recover
from my husband's death."

"And yet your widowhood is most recent." The
unfathomable blue eyes skimmed over her gown, lingering for the
briefest moment upon the creamy swell of breast exposed by her
decolletage.

Phaedra stiffened, mustering all her
defenses. Did he, too, look to criticize her for abandoning her
widow's weeds? What right had he to judge her? He understood no
better than anyone else the six years of subtle hell that she had
endured. When Ewan died, her tears had been tears of relief rather
than sorrow.

"Yes, my widowhood is recent. Too recent to
suit me. Ewan should have been in his grave a long time ago." She
looked at Armande to gauge the effect of her bitter words.

His eyes widened a moment before resuming
their normal hooded expression. "There is no sadness at all in your
heart for his death? Not one regret?"

“No!"

"But I understand your husband was a most-"
He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word, "A most
estimable man. Young, handsome, and intelligent."

Phaedra was so weary of this eulogizing of
Ewan Grantham. So charming, so handsome. Such a tragedy that he
should perish so young, in such a gruesome riding accident. Now
that he was dead, society would make him a saint, casting herself
into the role of black-hearted villainess who had not shed one tear
for that ‘estimable’ man. Even this cold, emotionless marquis took
Ewan's part. It was so unjust, for Lord Varnais did not know the
truth of her life with Ewan. But if he wished to be as ignorant as
the others, to perceive her as shallow and heartless, who was she
to disappoint him?

As they went down the dance, Phaedra said,
"Now that you mention it, I do have one regret. Ewan died in the
autumn, and I was obliged to wear black for the Christmas holidays.
I do so loathe black. It is not at all my color."

"I would have thought black most becoming to
you. Such a foil for that magnificent, fiery hair. "

Now she was certain that he mocked her. "La,
sir, but you Frenchmen are smooth-tongued rascals. Are all those in
your family so clever? I have never heard the name de LeCroix
before. Where are you from?"

"France, my lady. It is where most Frenchmen
are from."

"Have you been in London long?"

"Scarcely long enough."

Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. The man was
a master of evasion.

"It is a perilous time for you to be enjoying
yourself in London, my lord, is it not? Our two countries are
drawing so close to a declaration of war. It is expected any day
that your king will side with the American colonists, championing
them in their quest for freedom."

"That is a strange phrase to spring from the
lips of an English lady. I suspect you have been reading too much
of that-what is the name of that rogue- Robin Goodfellow?"

"Yes, I have heard a little of his writings.”
Phaedra's eyes swept down and she pretended to concentrate on her
steps. "But many others have been discussing the likelihood of war
between England and France. What is your opinion?"

Armande shrugged as he took her hand to
circle her around him. "The prospect interests me not. I am not a
soldier."

A diplomat then? Phaedra wondered. No, the
marquis seemed far too uncompromising for such a role. Maybe he had
been drawn to London by business interests. But none that he would
disclose.

Each gambit that she flung out met with
little success. The marquis fielded her questions with polite
boredom until Phaedra seethed with frustration. She flattered
herself that she could set any man talking, but never in her life
had she encountered anyone as icily reserved as Varnais. His very
reticence excited both her curiosity and her suspicions. If the man
possessed no interest in politics or business affairs, then what
did he have in common with Sawyer Weylin?

"I was wondering," she said. "Have you known
my grandfather for long? When did you first become acquainted?"

She felt a sudden tension in the fingers
touching hers. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he replied tersely,
"At a coffeehouse in Fleet Street. And now, my lady, I believe our
dance has ended."

To her intense disappointment, Phaedra saw
that this was true. The last notes of the music had died away and
she knew little more about Armande than when she had first stood up
with him. As she sank into the final curtsy, he bowed over her
hand, raising her fingertips to graze them with his lips.