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through her as she nipped his lip, and he growled low in his throat, his arm pressing her to the hard contours of him. She moved against his hips, challenging him, knowing full well this bordered on madness. Desire was rising between them, hot and heady.
‘You are bold for an Englishman.’ She sucked at his earlobe until she elicited another growl of arousal.
‘Is that a problem?’ he whispered hoarsely against her throat, his lips nuzzling the column of her neck, his hands moving over her rib cage, warm and sure. A hand closed decadently over a breast, a thumb offering a circling caress over the fabric of her nipple. It was both a siren song and a swan’s song. This had to end.
‘It is if I have to go and I do.’ She summoned the shreds of her resolve. If she didn’t pull away, she’d end up half-naked in the garden, her dress around her waist and his hands on her breasts. The only layers that would end up being peeled would be hers and that would hardly bring him back for more.
Alyssandra stepped away, smoothing her skirts, taking a formal tone designed to cool anyone’s growing ardour. ‘It has been a most enjoyable evening, monsieur le vicomte.’
‘Perhaps you might call me Haviland,’ he offered abruptly as if the use of his title offended him. She thought she understood. After such an intimacy he wanted to be a man, not a title. It was not so different from the reason she was reluctant to give him her own name.
‘Bon nuit, then, Haviland.’ She dropped a little curtsy in a flirty farewell. Maybe she would escape this encounter unexposed after all.
She turned to go. His hand closed on her arm. ‘Not so fast, my lady of mystery.’ His voice held a tone of authority beneath the seduction. ‘While we’ve had some pleasure tonight, one pleasure yet eludes me. Might I have your name?’
She did not mistake it for a request that could be denied or flirted away. How would Haviland North, Viscount Amersham, a man used to power and obedience, feel about her name now? Would he be angry? Would he feel betrayed or used? She dropped her eyes, assuming a demure, penitent posture. ‘May I tell you a secret?’
‘Absolutely. I love secrets.’ His voice was a sensual whisper close to her ear, but she did not miss the firmness in it. His tolerance had limits.
‘I must beg your forgiveness. I fear I have had you at a disadvantage.’ She looked up beneath her lashes, gauging his reaction.
‘Ah, so it’s absolution you’re seeking.’ His eyes narrowed in assessment.
‘Not absolution, sanctuary. If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.’ She let her eyes dance, building the mystery so that he would promise her anything to hear her secret.
He leaned close, a smile on his lips. She could smell the clean scent of linen and sandalwood soap on him, ‘Sanctuary it is, then. Tell me your secret.’ Good, curiosity had got the better of him. She hoped bad judgement hadn’t got the better of her.
She locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’
* * *
Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?
This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.
‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.
‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.
‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’
Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.
Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.
‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’
‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.
‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.
Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’
‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’
But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.
‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’
Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride