To forget one man, one could seduce another. Nick himself had given her a few lessons toward that end.
Like a domino tipping over, the perfect candidate for her seduction fell into place: Captain Nylander.
What was Helene’s description of him? A tall drink of Viking water.
Her own? The path not pursued.
Well, it was her prerogative to pursue that path now.
Captain Nylander was gorgeous and discreet, and he’d given her his address in Calais. She could be there within the day.
But she knew the answer must beno. The man clearly had a code of honor regarding women, and she wouldn’t take advantage of it.
She needed someone else, someone who couldn’t threaten her emotionally and vice versa. She needed . . . the Comte de Villefranche.
She couldn’t stand the man, which made him perfect. And she’d already put in the effort with him. Furthermore, he wasn’t exactly repulsive.
With Villefranche, the sexual act would be a cold and sterile affair. She would walk away from him completely unscathed. That was the most important consideration.
Villefranche would do.
Tonight’s soirée would provide the opportunity she needed. Never mind that Nick would certainly find out.Thatwasn’t her motivation. Of course, it wasn’t. Through the haze of her cold fury, she saw that she would be doing this for herself. She needed this to forget Nick, to break her bond with him.
She should have taken a lover years ago. Never mind that Nick had never taken one. He should have. They each should have. It was the only way to protect their hearts from each other.
The past was done. A new future opened itself to her. It was a future she would embark upon tonight. She should feel optimistic.
And if she didn’t? If the future stretching before her felt as bleak as the tundra of her cold fury?
Well, there would be more lovers.
Chapter 22
Kiss mine A-se: An offer, as Fielding observes, very frequently made, but never, as he could learn, literally accepted.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
“I do not deal in politics. I am a mere woman,” Mariana said.
A passing tray of champagne floated within reach, and she snatched a glass. She took a rather deep sip, one that could be characterized as a gulp, and attempted to ignore the persistent little Frenchman hovering at her side.
He’d been there since she’d stepped foot inside the Capet family’s soirée, set inside their private Palais-Royal garden. Within this exclusive preserve, the principles ofLiberté!Egalité!Fraternité! didn’t exist. This opulent garden, replete with flowing champagne, sparkling gems of every hue, and coldly sophisticated smiles, was reserved solely for the pleasure of the reestablished aristocracy.
“But, Madame, you deal in politics for that very reason,” the man insisted with an exhausting earnestness. “Everything about a woman is political. And this school you speak of, The Progress School—”
“The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds,” she supplied for him, unable to keep a weary note out of her voice.
“Exactement,” he exclaimed, his arm gesticulating theatrically up into the air. “Theese ees politics. Education ees politics.”
The man’s protuberant eyes snagged on the line of her décolletage, and he went mute. Mariana cleared her throat, startling his eyes upward. Politics certainly didn’t render a man sexless.
“To base a school on the precepts ofÉmileby our own Rousseau is political,” he resumed, inching closer and creating an intimate space ripe with breath that must have partaken of raw onion and garlic. “Such boldness only proves that you are, indeed, a rare Englishwoman.”
Mariana took an instinctive step backward in subtle rebuff. She had two men on her mind, and this little toad wasn’t one of them. Her gaze swept the garden for the hundredth time tonight. Nothing.
“Your eyes,” began the little toad, “they shine with the clear light of a flawless diamond.”
