Winter's Touch
Page 46

He glanced around the crowded room until he spotted her walking with Lady Juliette. He should certainly not chance making eye contact with her, but God help him, he couldn’t seem to look away. The lady was lovely and had exquisite taste—both traits Nick admired even in his enemies.
“Glad to see you could finally join us.” The Duc de Béarn stepped up next to Nick, his ink black hair and dark eyes contrasting starkly with Nick’s angelic features. Both were now leisurely watching the others of their class choose partners for a country-dance.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Nick smiled genuinely, then continued with a knit brow. “Although, if I remember correctly, you threatened to pitch my finest cravats and boots in a heap and set them aflame in full view of all of Paris if I somehow managed to overlook this affair. You said it was important.”
“It is. You will thank me one day.”
“I doubt it,” Nick replied frankly. “I had to kill to arrive at a decent hour. Though, better him than you, should you feel compelled to ruin my boots.” He smiled, but the truth in his jest sat uneasily with him. Unlike many of his fellow agents, he did not enjoy killing. Nor did he enjoy failing.
Béarn smiled, glancing toward the hostess. “Just look at her.”
Nick allowed his gaze to drift back to Lady Dumonte, making a full sweep of her figure. “May I assume, Your Grace, it is Lady Dumonte’s ambition and persistence you are admiring rather than her grace and beauty?”
The duke chuckled and sipped his drink. “Assume what you please.”
With an appreciative grunt, Nick forced himself to look away. If she knew how to show an ounce of warmth, the woman would be devastating. Thankfully, she was reputed for two things: the ice that ran in her veins and her indomitable nature, neither of which Nick found overly attractive.
“If it is the latter, every other man in this room already is. If it is the former, I agree with you. She could become a nun and go straight to Hades if she so chose.”
“If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Lady Dumonte,” Béarn agreed.
“A bit lonely, though, even for the sake of spite. Living as a nun, knowing the most handsome gentlemen—us—will never be known to her. Intimately, I mean.” Nick shook his head with a wicked grin, “I refuse to believe anyone would have the resolve.”
Béarn smiled. “You are one of the finest men I know, Pembridge, but if you are a gentleman, I am a saint.”
“In that case, Your Grace, I insist you find better company immediately,” Nick said. “Truthfully, I don’t give a fig what the woman does as long as she leaves us harmless cads to ravish the maidens in peace. It is becoming increasingly arduous for a rake to keep up an honestly wicked reputation in Paris, of all places. What a tangle.”
“All of Paris loves her; otherwise, they would never allow such a thing. Anyway, when was the last time you ravished anyone, Pembridge?” Béarn asked with one dark brow raised. “I have not seen you with any feminine distraction in weeks. Even whilst you are far from Lady Dumonte’s sight.”
“A gentleman never tells.”
Béarn gestured to Nick with his glass. “Yes, but you are no gentleman.”
“Then I must be a scoundrel, and you cannot trust a word I say.”
“I shan’t get a straight answer from you, shall I?” Béarn asked with a side-glance.
“Afraid not, old chap,” Nick answered with a grin.
“I shall assume you are finally marrying, then,” Béarn said casually as he sipped his drink.
“That’s a depressing subject to bring up.” Nick’s brow knit as he shuddered. Then he brightened. “But since you did bring it up, when are you marrying that Juliette girl?”
“I shall marry Lady Dumonte if I remarry at all. Not only is she very dear to me, but our marriage would be an advantageous match, both politically and socially.”
“But you love Juliette and have these many years. All the years I have known you, at least. You wouldn’t let a little thing like the scandal of marrying an orphan girl without family or dowry and the resulting death of your political career get in the way of eternal happiness, now would you?” Nick asked innocently. “You ought to at least tell her how you feel, you know. I suspect she believes you in love with Lady Dumonte. She smiles brighter when she is near you, but it changes when Lady Dumonte is there. It becomes… sad.”
“I have a duty to my office, Pembridge. I am a duke.”
“Pity,” Nick muttered as he swirled the champagne in his glass. “The girl is a peach.”
Béarn did not reply, and Nick knew better than to push the subject too far. He had made that mistake once before, and ended up in a friendly bout of fisticuffs that Béarn had sworn was merely for exercise. Nick had left with a black eye and busted lip. Instead, both men turned their attention back to the crowd.
At that moment, Lady Dumonte turned their way and inclined her head in polite acknowledgement. Surely, that nod was directed solely at His Grace. Nick had barely made her acquaintance since arriving in Paris five years ago, and he would very much like to keep it that way.
With that in mind, he faced Béarn and only watched the lady from his peripheral.
As expected, the duke dipped his chin in reply, eliciting a slight half smile from the lady. That small show of emotion was the most anyone had gotten from her since her husband had died eight years ago.
Nick chanced an appreciative glance once the ladies turned to converse with other guests. Gad, the woman was exquisite. She must know precisely how the gown fell over her figure, selecting just the right fabric to complement her subtle curves. It took far too much effort for Nick to tear his eyes from Lady Dumonte’s rather well-formed derrière.
“My, we are living dangerously tonight. Non, mon ami?” Béarn turned up an amused brow.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You receive a most coveted invitation, one that can solidify or destroy one’s social status in Paris, and you slight the hostess. I cannot begin to comprehend your logic unless you pine for social death.”
Nick donned a confident smile. “Our hostess was acknowledging a French duke, not a rakish English earl. She would not dare. I may ravish her in this very ballroom.”
Béarn smiled at Nick’s absurdity before shaking his head. “I would certainly know if those eyes rested on me. As a Frenchman, I would be remiss not to notice such attentions. Alas, her eyes never met mine. Pity.”
Strange, he could have sworn she had acknowledged the duke. His smile faded.
It was getting far too easy to offend these days.
“I don’t suppose the lady would accept a note of apology in the morning?” Nick asked.
“Not likely.”
“She could ruin everything, Béarn,” he muttered. “We’re so close.”
“Ridiculous. I am sure you have faced worse.”
“This is not a bout of fisticuffs where there are rules kept between gentlemen.” After a pause for thought, he added, “And I doubt you would allow me to handle her as I would those who are not gentlemen.”
Nick nodded at Béarn’s disapproving scowl.
“No, I thought not. In a row, you know you will take a hit, taste some blood, but you do not expect to be kicked whilst you are down with ballroom slippers. Ladies have an unfair advantage. They are not kept to the same code of honor as gentlemen.”