Author: Anne Stuart

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why don’t you put that pistol away. I’d take it from you, and you’d let me, but then we’d simply have to go through the rigmarole of getting it back to you. Set it down, poppet. You know you don’t want to shoot me.”

“You’re wrong. There’s nothing I’d like more than to pull this trigger,” she said, her voice uncompromising.

He laughed. “I do concede that part of you would like nothing better than to put a very large hole in me. But I hold that the rest of you would much rather have me in one piece.”

“I don’t want you at all.”

“Now, that, my precious, is a lie.” He took the pistol from her hand, uncocked it and set it down on the parquet floor very carefully. He hadn’t thought she’d had it properly primed. He really shouldn’t underestimate her.

She said nothing.

Now that she was no longer clutching a gun, her hands lay in her lap, and he picked one up, letting his thumb rub against the inside of her wrist, letting his long fingers slide around hers. She tried to curl it into a fist but he stopped her, and she didn’t fight him.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, and he could have told her that was a mistake. One needed to be wary around a member of the Heavenly Host when he wanted something. She pulled her hand free, and he let her, and she leaned back against the chaise, surveying him out of those deliciously practical eyes.

“I think, my lord, that you haven’t thought this through. For some bizarre reason you decided you wanted someone innocent and untried in your bed. Perhaps you have the French disease and think a virgin would cure it. Perhaps the novelty of it, after so many whores, was irresistible. But I’m not the woman you want. I’m not innocent, I’m not inexperienced, I’m not a virgin.”

Poor darling. Virginity be damned, he didn’t know when he’d met a more innocent female. It almost, almost made him feel guilty.

“You’ll give me leave to doubt you,” he said, not doubting her for a moment. “The fact that you’ve freely said this twice now makes me think you’re lying to distract me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Prove it,” he said. “You’ve made a devil’s bargain, Scheherazade. Tell me the story of your love affairs, and perhaps I might let you go.”

He could practically see her mind working as she balanced her options. The truth, or an elaborate fantasy? He waited patiently, entirely at ease.

“My first lover was my sister’s music teacher,” she said after a moment. “We were still living in Faubourg Saint-Martin—my mother had several generous friends and we were…happy. He was my age, seventeen, and quite beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes and the most gentle touch. He loved me,” she said simply.

“And what was this paragon’s name?”

“Pascal de Florent,” she said without hesitation, and for a moment he almost believed her.

“Move over.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to tell me all about this and I want to be comfortable. This chaise is big enough for the two of us, unless you’d rather we retire to the bed. No? Then move over.”

She hesitated, but clearly he’d managed to still her fears. She moved over, and he slid up beside her.

“Ouch!” she said. “Do you have to wear so many blasted jewels?”

“Of course not, my dove.” He unfastened the diamond-studded buttons of his coat and pulled it off. He’d chosen one of his less severely tailored coats for the evening, wanting to be certain he could divest himself of it without help. He dumped it on the floor, smiling faintly as he thought of what his valet might say.

He leaned back again, very close to her. “Shall we continue?” he said.

She turned to look at him. Even in the candlelight he could see her quite clearly, the gold flecks in her rebellious brown eyes. He wondered if they ever softened.

She leaned back beside him, their shoulders touching. She tried to move away, but there was no place for her to go. “Well, then there was one of my mother’s young admirers…”

“Not so fast, my precious. You’re telling me a story. The adventures of an impure maid. I want to hear about it. Did you fall in love with the music teacher?”

“Of…of course.” She paused. “He was beautiful and he was very kind.”

Not the words to describe a lover, he thought. “So. Tell me about it. Where did you manage your assignations?”

This should be fairly easy for her. He had no doubt the music teacher had existed, that he was beautiful and very kind. No doubt that she’d spent hours fantasizing about him. No doubt that he’d never touched her.

“My bedroom at first. He would sneak in there after he finished with his lessons.”

“How did it feel, precious? Did it hurt?”

She turned and gave him a look of real dislike. “Of course it did. But that doesn’t matter when true love exists.”

“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “So he deflowered you on your bed, and it was tender and beautiful. And painful. How many times did you do it?”

Her brow was wrinkled. “Once.”

“Once the first time, or only once with the music teacher?”

He could practically feel her annoyance. Unfortunately her body was pressed up against his, and no matter how she tried to keep her distance the warmth of his leg against hers, the feel of his body next to hers, even through the many layers of petticoats and cloth, was loosening some of her tension.

“Many, many times,” she said between gritted teeth. “We did it in my bedroom, in the music room, in…”

“Where in the music room?”

She looked at him with real dislike. “Underneath the pianoforte. On top of the pianoforte. Unfortunately Nanny Maude caught us, and my mother dismissed the piano teacher, and I never saw him again.”

“Very tragic,” he murmured. “But I’m encouraged by your inventiveness. Who came next?”

“There was an actor at the Comédie-Française. His name was Pierre duClos and he was quite beautiful—with dark hair and an angelic smile.”

He was enjoying himself immensely. Scheherazade was doing an excellent job with her stories. Which were just that—stories. “Apparently you favor beautiful men. How fortunate for me.”

She looked at him. “You don’t suffer from an excess of self-doubt, do you?”

“Why should I? It’s a waste of time. You and I both know I’m exquisite.” He flicked his flowing lace cuff. “My valet puts a great deal of effort into making me look glorious—it would distress him greatly if he somehow had failed. Perhaps I should get rid of him.”

“He hasn’t failed,” Elinor said in a disgruntled voice. “You’re very beautiful. So much so that you put everyone around you to shame, like a strutting peacock surrounded by little brown hens.”

“Do you see yourself as a little brown hen, my sweet?”

“Thinking of me that way might be a very grave mistake,” she said, appearing unmoved.

He leaned back against the side of the chaise and smiled at her. “I seldom make mistakes, precious. And I haven’t underestimated you since the moment I first saw you. I know just how dangerous you are.”

“Then why don’t you let me go?”

“Let you go? I wasn’t aware that I was imprisoning you. Exactly where was it that you wanted to go?”

She bit her lip, which annoyed him. He wanted to be the one biting her lip. “Perhaps you could be kind enough to offer me shelter at the château?”

“I could most certainly do that,” he said gravely. “I can have Charles drive you out there first thing in the morning.”

“You can?” She actually looked hopeful. He almost hated to dash that hope.

“It doesn’t do to underestimate me either. You may go, and Charles will bring your sister back in your place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a bastard, you know. A heartless, manipulative monster.”

“Oh, surely that’s too harsh. I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t even say I’m a bad man. I’m just not a very good one.” He picked up one of her cool, limp hands and brought it to his lips before she jerked it away. He kept his grip on it, letting her drop it into the covers, but his fingers were like steel, unbreakable.

She took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm herself, and he could almost imagine her counting to ten to try to settle her temper. It was simply too bad for her that he liked arousing her ire. He liked the thought of arousing everything about her, and intended to do just that. Slowly but surely.

“So tell me about this handsome actor of yours. I have seen him onstage. He is indeed very pretty, though his performance was at best mediocre. How did you happen to form a liaison with him?”

“Easily. I sent him a note praising his acting ability and suggested we meet. And we did.”

“And what did you do?”

She looked at him calmly. “Fuck,” she said.

He laughed softly. “I wasn’t aware that you even knew that word, my darling.”

“I spent time in the stables.”

“And exactly which positions did you prefer?”

He could see the momentary blankness in her eyes, and he hid his smile. “Er…anything he fancied. I was very amenable.”

“I’m most certain you were,” he said in a soothing voice. “And who after him? The assembled court of King Louis?”

Her warm brown eyes could glare at him, but they could never grow as cold as he knew his could. “You don’t believe me?” she demanded, clearly affronted.

“Oh, I imagine there’s a grain of truth in your intricate tales. You most likely had a crush on your sister’s music tutor, perhaps shared a kiss or two. As for duClos, he quite adamantly prefers the company of men.”