Of course, she wasn’t certain she did either, not when the entirety of his attention was focused on her as if the outside world had ceased to exist. She might have experienced a wobble in her knee.
It was only when he came within three feet of her and showed no sign of stopping that she realized his intent. In the next moment, she was enveloped in his strong embrace. Her upturned chin nestled into the crook of his neck, she had no choice but to breathe him in. He smelled delicious.
“Play along,” came a duo of words, low and hot, whispered into the cup of her ear. The touch of his velvety lips sent goose bumps skittering across her skin.
Once at a lecture, she’d learned the scientific word for goose bumps: piloerection. The audience had collectively gasped, ladies’ fans fluttering in outrage. She’d been delighted at the time. At the moment, however, she wasn’t.
Piloerection. A blush flared at the suggestive nature of it.
Nick’s arms released her as suddenly as they had embraced her, but he kept her close by, pulling her hand through the crook of his arm. She’d been thoroughly claimed. An unruly part of her thrilled to the treatment, while another part of her, the one accustomed to opposing him, bristled.
“My love,” he began, supercilious popinjay on full display. “I received your thoughtful note that I would find you here, and—voilà!—here you are.”
“Here I am,” she replied, at once bemused and intrigued. “And hereyouare.”
What was he playing at? Wasn’t he supposed to be missing, presumed dead to the operators in his world of shadows and intrigue?
“I see you’ve had no problem finding a young gallant to escort you through the wilds of Paris,” he said with a winking, vacuous irony the English fop played so well.
A watchful Villefranche remained silent.
Fussy French custom dictated that an introduction could be made only if both parties agreed to it. Clearly, these two men working so assiduously against one another had never been formally introduced.
Mariana swept an arm toward Villefranche. “Lucien Capet, Comte de Villefranche”—She decided to leave out the ritual naming of forebears—“may I introduce my husband”—The word nearly stuck in her throat—“Lord Nicholas Asquith, to you?”
The two men bowed and wordlessly assessed one another. Nick was the first to speak. “In my absence, I must thank you for being of such attentiveservice”—Twin scarlet blushes pinked Villefranche’s cheeks at the clear innuendo—“to my wife.”
“It was assumed,” Villefranche returned in a tone that could only be described as belligerent, “you fled Paris when word reached you that your wife had arrived.”
A shocked laugh escaped Mariana at Villefranche’s bluntness. She wouldn’t have suspected him capable of it.
“On the contrary,” Nick returned smoothly, bringing Mariana’s gloved hand to his mouth for a quick brush of his lips. She didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “I returned as fast as my horses would ride when I received news of her arrival. We are ever at cross purposes, it seems.”
He gazed upon her lovingly, as if his entire world depended on her . . .
She caught herself. A less experienced woman might mistake that look for the genuine article, but not her. This was a farce. She mustn’t forget.
“In uncertain times such as these in Paris,” Nick continued, “one cannot be too careful, to be sure.”
“In uncertain times such as these?” Villefranche repeated. “France has enjoyed peace these last nine years. I can assure you that your wife is perfectly safe in our city.”
“Of course, my good sir,” Nick returned. He angled his body toward Mariana. “To be young and idealistic again.”
“Ah, yes,” she purred, “he isyoung, isn’t he?” There would be no mistaking the womanly appreciation in her voice. Nick’s eyes narrowed and held hers for a long second. She’d hit her mark.
He shifted his attention back to Villefranche. “My dear sir, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I simply refer to the uncertainty regarding the king’s health.”
“There is nothing uncertain about his health,” Villefranche snapped. “The man is dying.”
“That should bode well for your family,non?”
“Have you met the heir Charles, the Duc d’Artois?” Villefranche asked, fire in his voice.
“I have. The man is a—” Nick paused as if searching for the correct word.
“Popinjay, as you English say,” Villefranche supplied.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, and the blithe smile fell from his lips. The air turned deadly serious. “This rogue operation to assassinate Charles will never succeed. Have you any idea who you’re dealing with?”
