Francis Grose
Next Day
Mariana picked her lone way across a crushed granite path flanked on each side by towering rows of horse-chestnut trees. The wind breezing through the high canopy, sending fall leaves spiraling in graceful pirouettes to the ground, called to mind a carefree midday stroll down Little Spruisty Folly’s long, undulant drive.
Reality was anything other than carefree. She suppressed the groan that longed to be set free on the breeze. Last night—what had she done?
She took a deep, steadying breath. Focus was required for the matter at hand: hertête-à-têtewith the Comte de Villefranche.
But focus was impossible. She’d even arrived at the sprawling Jardin du Luxembourg half an hour early, hoping to clear her mind of the one thought that kept spiraling round and round. What had she done . . .with Nick?
Conflicting feelings of elation, desire, and panic charged through her in a competitive rush, each making a compelling case for primacy.
How the same he was from ten years ago. Howdifferent.
His intensity. His engagement. His . . . hardness. A hot flush crept up to the tips of her ears. He’d always been a hard man. But, now, he was . . .harder.
She must be pink all over by now.
She’d opened Pandora’s box. Now all of life’s pleasures were available to her. So, too, were its pains. What had she done? What did she still want to do?
Shameless.Hedonistic. No other words better described it.
Her eyes drifted shut, and a sensory memory pushed forward. His capable fingers clutching her hips . . . the press of his unrelenting body against her forgiving flesh . . . sharp stabs of his breath on her nape . . . Her foot caught an exposed root, and she stumbled, her eyes flying open.
It might be better if she didn’t close her eyes for the time being, possibly ever. If she kept moving, she might be able to outrun her shameless, hedonistic self.
As troubling as her utter capitulation to her desire was, something else disturbed her more. It was the utter confusion of him. One moment they were making love like their lives depended on it, the next, he was telling her that she was ready to seduce Villefranche.
Nick was forever drawing her in and forever pushing her away. She’d convinced herself that all the emotional flotsam from their shipwreck of a marriage had risen to the surface years ago, but apparently not. All it took was five days in Paris to jar more wreckage loose. There seemed to be an endless supply of it.
She gave herself a mental shake. She was decidedly unfocused for a woman presently engaged in a spy mission.Spy mission—whateverthatwas. Espionage was a terribly ambiguous business.
Just as she emerged from the tree-lined path, a pair of gentlemen caught the edge of her vision. She side-stepped off the path and slipped behind a thick horse-chestnut, her heart beating an unrelenting tattoo. She poked her head around the trunk, committing what felt like her first true act as a spy.
Silhouetted against the backlight of a stone archway stood Villefranche, engaged in conversation with another man. She could act the innocent and “happen upon” the pair, but the close positioning of their bodies implied a discussion private, even covert.
Furthermore, another problem occurred to her: she recognized the other man. Even though his distant profile revealed a clean-shaven jaw, she knew him for the bearded croupier from the poker game. This was the same man whom Nick trusted with his life.
Villefranche glanced from side to side, but not far enough to spot her, and held out a thin, flat packet. The croupier efficiently pocketed it and strode away in the opposite direction, shoulders hunched, head down.
Villefranche pivoted in her direction. Mariana ducked back and tried to think. The crunch of his booted heels grew louder as he fast approached. She had approximately three seconds.Think. She willed herself to do just that, and an idea came to her. It had worked once, why not again?
Braced against the rough tree trunk, she counted one . . . two . . . three . . . before rushing forward and literally happening upon him. As their bodies collided, her reticule skittered across the path. Like the gallant he was, Villefranche sprang into action and retrieved her bag.
“Madame, I believe”—His eyes widened with shock—“Lady Nicholas? Are you injured?”
“Oh,non, Comte,” Mariana replied as she retrieved her bag from his slack hands. “I am quite sound.”
“It was my understanding that we would meet at the Medici Fountain half an hour hence.”
“Sometimes I enjoy a contemplative stroll in a garden.” It was Nick who had told her that for a lie to be believable, it must be threaded with truth.
“You are unaccompanied by your lady’s maid?” Villefranche asked, prim shock made evident by his raised eyebrows.
“She succumbed to a sudden fever this morning and was unable to escort me,” she replied. Hortense was, in fact, in perfect health and had protested most vociferously against Mariana venturing to the garden without her. “I am so looking forward to my first view of the Medici Fountain. I’ve heard it’s glorious. Do you know the way?”
“Of course, it will be my pleasure to show you.”
