“Yes,” he replied simply.
Forcing herself to rein in her escalating emotions, shepoured two glasses of brandy, proud her hands didn’t shake despite her pounding heart. She crossed the thick carpet to hand him his glass.
Mark raised the brandy in the air in a silent salute. “I see you’re still unconventional.”
“I see you’re still preoccupied with your work.” She turned on her heel to take a seat on the settee across from him again.
He took a seat next to her on the settee, then leaned down and braced his forearms on both knees, holding the glass between his legs. “Will you do it?” He searched her eyes, the slightest hint of vulnerability in his. His voice didn’t contain a trace of wheedle, not a hint of coaxing. He didn’t need it. The man radiated charm from his smallest finger, and God help him, he knew it.
Nicole narrowed her eyes on him. The damnable man was more handsome today than he had been ten years ago. He was still fit, muscled, and tall. He was still broad-shouldered and his dark hair and eyes still smoldered with arrogance and intelligence. His nose looked slightly different, however. It had been perfectly straight. Now it was a bit crooked, as if it had been broken a time or two. Unfortunately, that small imperfection made him even more handsome. Not only that, but his blasted lips were still firmly molded. A thought she’d had about exactly no other man’s lips before or since. She shook her head, trying to clear it of thoughts of both his handsomeness and his lips.
Would she do it?Merde.He was an arrogant son of a bitch striding back into her life after all these years demanding that she play along for his sake. What in the hell did she owe him? Nothing. However, therewassomething she wanted in return. Something only he could give her. This seemed like theperfectopportunity to get it.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, undulating her fingers along the side of her glass, and arching one brow in his direction. “On one condition.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Damn her. Nicole had refused to tell him what her condition was before she’d dismissed him to go upstairs and prepare for her blasted dinner party. Mark was still sitting in her drawing room with his half-full glass of brandy, contemplating their exchange. She was obviously enjoying this, his being at her mercy. He couldn’t blame her. He’d enjoy it too if he was in her shoes. Or boots, as the case may be. Another vision of her striding to the sideboard in those skintight breeches shot through his brain, making his own breeches uncomfortably tight. Bloody hell. He hadn’t come here to lust after the damnable woman. He’d come here to ask her for a favor. One he had every reason to believe she’d refuse.
She’d told him to come back tomorrow afternoon. She would tell him her condition then. She hadn’t offered to allow him to stay here tonight. He would have refused at any rate. He’d rented a room in town at theinn, not having any idea what sort of welcome (if any) he’d get. He’d half expected to be nursing his wounds from her sharp tongue right now and perhaps even be on his way back to England empty-handed. The fact that she hadn’t said no was already a small victory.
However, her one condition sounded ominous. He clenched his jaw. What could she possibly want from him? To stay away from her after he secured the position? He already had. She knew that wouldn’t be an issue. To increase her allowance? The woman was richer than most women in England and France. She hadn’t touched the money he’d provided for her. She was hardly hurting for income.
The only other thing he could think of was… divorce. It was something he’d never allowed himself to contemplate. Something that would bring shame and scandal upon both of them. Something he had assumed was unnecessary. They both went about their lives perfectly happily. A divorce seemed superfluous. Perhaps Nicole was in love. Perhaps she wanted to marry thecomte. If that were the case, a divorce might well be what she was after. Mark’s stomach gave a sickened jolt at the image of Nicole lying in bed with thecomte,her glorious red hair splayed across the pillows, her gorgeous face tensed with pleasure… That was a damned uncomfortable thought.
Mark tightened his fist. Yes, he could well punch the bloodycomtein the face. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see if he could still lay a man flat with one punch like he had in his youth.
Mark took another fortifying swig of brandy and concentrated on the matter at hand. Nicole must realizethat if he needed a wife in order to become the Secretary of the Home Office, a divorce would only bring censure. He couldn’t possibly hope to retain the position with that sort of scandal hanging over his head. Perhaps she meant to ask him for a divorce after he was established, and her condition would be his promise that he would grant it when the time came.
Mark scrubbed his free hand through his hair and groaned. It was no use guessing what she might want. Women rarely made sense to him and Nicole less so than all others. He would simply have to see what she said on the morrow.
But he wasn’t about to wait around the inn all evening alone and stew on it.
A footman walked past the open drawing room door, and Mark called to the lad. Mark pulled open his coat and plucked a large French bill from his inside pocket. He waved it over his head between two fingers. “Do you know where Madame is off to tonight?” he asked in flawless French.
The footman shook his head. “I don’t,Monsieur,but I can find out from Madame’s maid.”
Mark nodded. “Do that and be quick about it. There’s something for the maid, too, if she can provide the correct directions.”
The footman scurried off and Mark leaned back against his seat and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He took another swig of brandy. It slid slowly down his throat, burning away his lingering concerns over a possible divorce.
He took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be difficult to gain entrée to a dinner party or soiree or wherever Nicole wasoff to tonight. Since the wars had ended, the French loved to invite colorful Englishmen to their parties. Mark would have the perfect opportunity to watch Nicole and hercomte.
CHAPTER SIX
That arrogant bastard was here. At the Duc de Frontenac’s soiree.Nicole stood in a small, discreet circle of friends in a corner of theduc’s huge drawing room, while Mark boldly occupied the center of the room. He held court in a circle of French girls who were vying for his attention as if he were royalty. He wore dark black superfine and a white starched shirtfront and startlingly white cravat with a black coat and tight black breeches. He looked good too, blast him. Nicole had missed the simple elegance of the English attire. France was a lovely country and prided itself on its couture, but she’d begun to tire of the lacy sleeves and overly embroidered colorful coats the men here wore. Mark stood out like a black panther in a sea of peacocks. He always had.
***
She’d met him at her grandmother’s house. Grandmama was throwing a ball. She’d invited a group of soldierswho were just back from the war in Spain. Nicole had been twenty years old, beginning to wilt on the shelf, having been out for two Seasons. Mother and Grandmama were both set on her finding a husband that Season. So she was freshly coiffed and begowned, and set out in Society like a prize pig at a fair. But she was bored. Endlessly, hopelessly bored. Balls and parties were not her sort of thing. She preferred active pursuits like riding her horse and racing her male cousins through the fields. She’d always had far too much energy for the activities encouraged of proper young ladies. Embroidery and playing the pianoforte? Dreadfully dull. Those pursuits required one to sit in one spot forfartoo long. Not to mention that she questioned preciselywhyanyone would want to do so. What purpose did such activities serve?
Nicole had always longed to do somethinguseful,and she finally had found just the thing. She had a secret. One Mama and Grandmama knew nothing about. In fact, if either of those ladies learned what she’d been up to of late, they’d no doubt have a pair of conniptions. Nicole had recently secured a new, if unofficial, position with the Bow Street Runners.
She’d been planning it for weeks after surreptitiously reading the runners’ advertisements in the paper. The elite group of lawmen operated out of a building connected to the magistrate’s office on Bow Street and they used the London papers to spread word about the criminals they were looking for. Knowing that, as a woman, she would not be taken seriously unless she proved herself, Nicole had gone on a private mission to help the runners.
Dressed in breeches and a boy’s shirt (purchased on the sly from one of the footmen), just last week she’d chased down two criminals known to rob ladies on Bond Street. If there was an area of town she was familiar with, it was Bond Street, the fashionable shopping district frequented by members of theton. Honestly, the two thieves stuck out like sore thumbs in the crush on Bond Street. It hadn’t been difficult to find them. They’d knocked over Miss Winnie Simmons and stolen her reticule, then run down the street to the arcade. Nicole knew of a shortcut to the large, covered shopping area. She ran behind the stores and mews and cut off the two, halting them at the end of a pistol she’d borrowed from her father’s collection. She’d delivered the thieves and the stolen reticule to Bow Street with dirt on her breeches, a rip in her sleeve, and a huge smile on her face. She’d never been happier nor felt more useful.
That night at Grandmama’s ball, she’d been hiding behind a potted palm, hoping to avoid dancing with the Marquess of Tinsley, whom both her mother and her grandmama were eyeing as her most prized potential suitor. The boredom finally broke her and Nicole wandered over to the refreshment table to see if she might be able to surreptitiously pour a bit of wine in the punch bowl, like she had last time. Wine always made punch taste better and it certainly made such dull evenings easier to withstand.
