Page 9 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“Yes, I have heard a little of his writings.” Phaedra’s eyes swept down and she pretended to concentrate on her steps. “But many others have been discussing the likelihood of war between England and France. What is your opinion?”
Armande shrugged as he took her hand to circle her around him. “The prospect interests me not. I am not a soldier.”
A diplomat then? Phaedra wondered. No, the marquis seemed far too uncompromising for such a role. Maybe he had been drawn to London by business interests. But none that he would disclose.
Each gambit that she flung out met with little success. The marquis fielded her questions with polite boredom until Phaedra seethed with frustration. She flattered herself that she could set any man talking, but never in her life had she encountered anyone as icily reserved as Varnais. His very reticence excited both her curiosity and her suspicions. If theman possessed no interest in politics or business affairs, then what did he have in common with Sawyer Weylin?
“I was wondering,” she said. “Have you known my grandfather for long? When did you first become acquainted?”
She felt a sudden tension in the fingers touching hers. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he replied tersely, “At a coffeehouse in Fleet Street. And now, my lady, I believe our dance has ended.”
To her intense disappointment, Phaedra saw that this was true. The last notes of the music had died away and she knew little more about Armande than when she had first stood up with him. As she sank into the final curtsy, he bowed over her hand, raising her fingertips to graze them with his lips.
Phaedra was seized by an impulse she could not have explained, not even to herself. Her fingers shot upward, tugging at the strings above the marquis’s ear which held his mask in place. The tie came undone, the mask fluttering to the floor.
His lordship straightened, anger flashing in his eyes. The anger passed quickly, leaving a cold stare in its wake. Phaedra’s breath caught in her throat at her first full view of Armande’s face. He was more handsome than she had supposed, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His brows were dark slashes above those ice-blue eyes. But never had she seen any man’s face so dispassionate. He might well have still been wearing a mask.
“I am sorry,” she said, “I fear my curiosity got the better of me.”
He said nothing, bending to retrieve the mask. As he did so, his coat shifted, revealing a silver hilt of a rapier that nestled beside the silk-shot folds of his pale blue waistcoat.
Why had she not noticed the slender sheath before? A tiny gasp escaped Phaedra as she stared at the hilt devoid of all ornament, a stark bit of steel wrought for lethal service, not fashion.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” With slow deliberation, Armande refastened the mask about his face.
“I was but noticing your sword. So few gentlemen wear them nowadays, especially not to a ball.”
“The streets of your fair city are teeming with danger for the unwary. I wear the sword.for protection. It also provides an excellent deterrent for the overly curious.”
Was that meant to be a warning to her? Phaedra arched her neck and stared defiantly up at him. “Yes, I daresay curiosity could be a nuisance to a man who had something to hide.”
Before she could prevent it, he cupped her chin firmly between his long, powerful fingers. There was nowhere else for her to look except into the hypnotic depths of those eyes peering at her through the slits of the mask.
“Your grandfather described you to me as a young woman with an excessively inquisitive nature. It would have been far better if you had taken my advice and remained in Bath. But now that you are here, I suspect you are intelligent enough to understand me when I say how very much I dislike anyone trying to interfere with my affairs.”
Phaedra struck his hand aside. “As much as I dislike anyone interfering with mine! So monsieur, I strongly advise you to keep your opinions about widows to yourself and stay away from my grandfather. Otherwise I might be obliged to-to?—”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“To find some way to be rid of you,” she said,
For the first time that evening, Armande smiled, a smile nowise reflected in the dangerous depths of his eyes.
“How amusing,” he drawled, in a voice silken with menace. “I was thinking exactly the same thing about you.”
Three
Phaedra stared at the playing cards in her hand. Her eyes, bleary from lack of sleep, refused to focus, and the morning breeze drifting through the open window did nothing to clear her groggy senses. The library at Blackheath Hall, her grandfather’s house, was a small, narrow room set at the back of the second floor. Sawyer Weylin could not see wasting any of his grander apartments upon a set of rubbishy books. The closely packed volumes that lined every available inch of wall space exuded a strong odor of leather and dust. Even though it was but the first of June and the hour not advanced past ten, the air was humid and stuffy. The summer promised to be a hellish one.
Aye, it would be hellish indeed if she continued to be afflicted with such dreams as had tormented her last night. Every time she had closed her eyes, Phaedra had found herself back in Lady Porterfield’s ballroom, circling through the steps of the dance with a silver-masked stranger. Sometimes she would wrench away the mask to see a grinning death’s head. But other visions were worse. She would see Armande de LeCroix, his blue eyes glinting with the intensity of a candle flame, his seductivewhisper ensnaring her in a silken web. His mouth had sought hers, hot and moist.
It was fortunate, Phaedra thought, that she had been able to force herself awake. No lady would have such wicked dreams- which were all the more disconcerting because the man was her avowed enemy, Varnais. Ewan had always told her that she was possessed of a harlot’s nature.
“Are you going to play that jack, my girl?” A good-humored male voice with an Irish lilt broke into her reflections. “You might be better advised to lay down your queen.”
With a start, Phaedra realized she was holding her hand too low.
Leaning across the mahogany card table, her cousin Gilly unabashedly perused her cards. She raised them and directed a half-embarrassed glance at the young man sprawling in the slender-legged Chippendale chair, which looked too fragile to bear the weight of his lanky frame. How much of her shameful thoughts had her cousin read upon her face?
