Page 41 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
“But I will.”
He winced. “I will come with you.”
“That is unnecessary.”
He clutched her hands. “I will not let you go alone.”
“I do not invite you.”
He traced the arch of her cheek with a fingertip. “But you trust me and you should want me for this—and for more. I am your best shadow, my darling. I promise you no one will hurt you ever again.”
Chapter Nine
She loved hisresponse. She hated it. Now, as they waited for Gaspard to send her the address of the scullery maid, Tate was everywhere Viv went! To parties, the theater, cafés, even her modiste appointments. Tate Cantrell lived like a genie in her mind with memories of his gallantry and his regard of her and her family—and she could not cast him out.
Tate also invited himself to her afternoon receptions. He was one of the dashing British envoys in Lord Ashley’s group. But there was also the added familiarity he presented. Somehow, someone had remembered that he had once lived with her family in the country. The news spread in the gossip sheets. A few ladies, enamored of his irresistible good looks, asked about him. Often. Was he of good stock? Rich? Well regarded in Britain?
Oui, he was all of that. And when he came and filled her small salon with his beguiling wit, Viv was filled with pride. She kept him at arm’s length. She wished him not too discerning, not too close, yet not too appealing to any other ladies.
But many weeks now into her theatrical engagement, she felt enough ease with thebeau mondethat she could pretend a few of them were her friends. She lured them with Charmaine’s airs, and the sham seemed easy. Too easy. The most important of these fraudulent friendships was to Cyprien Montagne. Tate did not attend all of those parties where Cyprien was, but when he did not, he awaited her in his hired carriage outside MontagneHouse. Still he would comment on Cyprien’s interest in her. Plus he looked tired.
“You do not sleep well, do you?” she asked him a few evenings later when he appeared after the theater at a musicale hosted by Julie Récamier. Tate wore stark black and white tonight. The somber color gave rich contrast to his sun-kissed hair and rich complexion, but did nothing for the dark circles around his eyes. She longed to kiss them closed and let him rest.
“I cannot rest when your life is at risk.” His magnificent jade eyes said he worried—and he craved her.
She longed to satisfy his hunger but did not trust her burgeoning desire for him. She need only look at him and want to unwind his cravat and slide off his frock coat. Imagining his long, muscular perfection naked on creamy sheets was becoming her most favorite fantasy.
She understood the anguish in his eyes and on his lips. It mirrored her own. She yearned to kiss him and make his heart light. But that would mean she’d give up a part of herself, and eventually, she’d disclose her plan and ruin it. Yet, growing so much closer to him by the day, she felt herself distancing herself from her hunger for vengeance.
Instead, tonight, she availed herself of the buffet, a cracker withfoie grashere, a small serving of soufflé there.
He followed.
She knew he wanted news of the address for the scullery maid.
“I have not had word from Gaspard on the address we want.” If she had learned it, she would have tried more earnestly to find the apothecary in Place des Vosges. But she could not escape Tate’s devotion to tracking her every move, and she did not want him to piece together what she planned. He would not be proud of her. But then, of course, she was not proud of herself.
“I assumed that was true,” he said as he took a few offerings from the elaborate feast.
She picked up an empty flute and allowed a two-foot-tall cherub, carved in ice, to pour from his ice chalice a lemonade. She took a sip, noting how two ladies put their heads together to admire her dashing Englishman.
But notmine, is he?
“Don’t you have work to do of your own?”
He noted the two who looked his way and turned to give Viv a true smile of satisfaction. “I do try. Even here with the banker whom the first consul loves most, I find the man does not wish to speak with me as often.”
“A shame,” she said, and meant it.
“Truly, for money is a valuable asset, more delightful in peace than war. It is what I contribute to the friendship, but sadly, I cannot win if I am not permitted.”
Viv admired him, his expertise, his dedication, his devotion to his cause—even his trying to save her. But Bonaparte’s vehemence killed Tate’s ability to balance the pound with the franc. She put a hand to his sleeve. “Some good intentions are ruined by others.”
He covered her hand with his warm one. “Are yours?”
His perception riveted her. He knew her too well.
She’d allow him to learn more about her, too. “Yes. My good intention was to come to Paris and learn what happened to my sister. I have allowed all my past heartaches and grievances to rise to the fore. I learn I have little stomach for vengeance. I fear that makes me a coward.”
