But she’d underestimated Mark. She’d forgotten for a moment how used to getting his way he was. He wasn’t about to not follow her out tonight. He’d want to see what she was up to. See what company she kept. Try to guess at what her one condition might be so he would have the upper hand in tomorrow’s negotiations.
Henri returned with a glass of champagne and presented it to her with a flourish. She couldn’t help but think that Mark would never present anything with a flourish. The man was not a flourisher.
“Merci beaucoup,”she replied, gracing thecomtewith her most flattering smile. Frenchmen so loved to be flattered. Mark didn’t need to be flattered. His own arrogance outweighed anyone’s flattery.
She took a long sip of champagne, trying not to let her gaze travel yet again to her husband in his arresting black evening attire, the pretty French girls in pastels hovering near him like beautiful butterflies.
She couldn’t help herself. Within moments she was glancing across the room at him again. She narrowed her eyes. Yes, he was here for a reason. He wanted to guess her condition. Too bad for him it would be the absolute last thing he would ever guess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mark kept his most charming smile glued to his face. The smile he used when he was at a party surrounded by women lavishing him with attention. He smiled and nodded and even winked at one or two of them, the boldest ones. But he didn’t enjoy their simpering company, and while to all appearances it looked as if he was paying attention to each of them and enjoying himself, his senses were fully attuned to what was happening across the room… with Nicole.
She’d traded the snug breeches for a dazzling ball gown of sapphire blue. The bodice hugged her generous bosom and fell in graceful folds down her long legs. She looked… magnificent. But then she always had. The two of them had had a score of problems, but attraction had never been one of them. He would be lying, however, if he didn’t admit he preferred her in breeches.
The damnedcomtewas hovering near her, his thinhand sometimes darting out to touch her arm. Mark growled under his breath. He’d done his research on thecomtethis afternoon. The man came from a dull if reputable family. He owned a nearby estate that was mostly supported by the lavender trade. He was rich but not indecently so, and he’d been hanging after Nicole for the last two years.
Mark took another sip of his champagne (damn, he wished it was a brandy) and replied in fluent French to something one of the cheekier young ladies had said to him. The French were much bolder than the English. They said and did things that would be considered scandalous attonevents in London. It was one of the things he appreciated about this country. One of the few things.
Another covert glance showed her laughing at something thecomtehad said and lifting her graceful white-gloved hand to her forehead to expertly swipe away a red curl that had come loose from her coiffure. Mark narrowed his eyes on the couple. What he hadn’t been able to discern in his research this afternoon was whether Nicole was infatuated with thecomte. For that, there was only one way to tell and he was engaged in it at the moment… watching them together.
“Mesdemoiselles, you must scatter,” came a musical voice from behind him. “You are behaving like a hive of bees. No doubt the general is afraid you may sting him.”
Mark turned his head to see a lovely blond woman in her early thirties waving her hands at the young ladies surrounding him. The ladies lifted their colorful skirts, frowned, and gave him reluctant looks as they flew away to the four corners of the room, leaving him alone with the blond woman.
“May I refill your glass?” she asked him, still speaking in what was clearly her native language. She wore a flowing golden gown with rubies at her throat. Her sharp blue eyes seemed to miss nothing.
“I’d prefer something stronger if you have it?” He afforded her his infamous grin.
“Oui,but Nicole was right, youarecharming,” she said with a sly smile.
She snapped her fingers and a footman rushed over. She ordered Mark a brandy and turned back to him while the footman hurried off to fetch the drink.
“Nicole told you I’m charming?” he asked, somewhat surprised by the news, but grinning nevertheless. He’d never met a compliment he didn’t like.
“Oui,très charmant.”She held out her hand to him. “I am theDuchesse de Frontenac. I believe you met my husband.”
Ah, so she was his hostess. Yes, he had met her husband earlier tonight in the man’s study. He’d asked for a few minutes of theduc’s time, which had resulted (as he’d hoped) in an invitation to tonight’s party.
Mark took her hand and executed a deep bow over it. “My pleasure, entirely,Madame la Duchesse.Thank you for graciously inviting me into your home.”
Her tinkling laughter followed. “You invited yourself according to my husband, but I must say I’m pleased. I’ve been eager to meet you for quite some time.”
Mark hid his smile behind his champagne glass. The French were forthright. He appreciated that. No doubt that was why Nicole liked it here. He downed the rest of the contents of his glass just before the footman returned and replaced it with a filled brandy snifter.
“Quite some time?” he echoed belatedly, letting the words linger.
“But of course. Your wife has told me a great deal about you. Nicole and I have been friends for an age.”
It surprised him to know Nicole had confided in someone. A Frenchwoman at that. Obviously theduchessewas someone who could be trusted. He still had issues of trust when it came to the French. “I’m certain her words were flattering,” he replied with an edge of irony in his voice.
“Someof them were flattering,” theduchessereplied, taking a dainty sip of her champagne.
“And the ones that weren’t?” he ventured, arching a brow.
“Numerous,” she said simply, with the barest hint of a shrug.
“I see.” His smile widened to a full-out grin. “How long has Nicole lived here?”
