Don't Tempt Me

“But . . .” Her eyes widened. “What of Depardue’s associates? You know it is not wise for me to be too visible!”



“It will be a brief sojourn, and visibility is not our aim. We want him to pursue you, not find you easily.”



“He will not enjoy such a gathering,” she pointed out, “if your study of him is correct.”



As Lysette shook out her skirts, she tried to imagine the understated James enjoying the shocking revelry of an Orlinda party and failed. She also searched inwardly for any feelings of guilt and found only determination. James was her last impediment to freedom. Desjardins had promised her emancipation, if she could succeed in gaining information about Franklin through his secretary.



“No, he will be uncomfortable, as you will be.” Desjardins smiled. “You will suggest departing and James—already enamored with you from your meeting this morning—will arrange to take you away. That will begin a series of shared memories that will build the foundation of your romance.”



“Or so you hope.”



“Trust me.” The comte kissed her on the temple and gave her a gentle push. “I will join you in a few moments.”



Straightening her shoulders and steeling her resolve, Lysette looked both ways, then weaved through the carts traversing the busy thoroughfare. Her focus narrowed, a huntress closing in for the kill. Because of this preoccupation with her quarry, she did not notice the Irishman who lounged insolently within the recessed entryway of a nearby merchant.



But then, Simon Quinn had spent the entirety of his life perfecting the art of fading into shadows. It was a skill that had saved his life many times.



“Poor bastard,” Simon muttered, commiserating with the unfortunate Mr. James.



He watched Lysette assume a casual stance before a shop window, then he straightened. From his vantage, he’d heard enough to begin a hunt of his own.



Tugging down his tricorn, he passed Desjardins’s unmarked equipage and set off toward the Baroness Orlinda’s residence. Months ago, he’d met the lovely baroness while playing a game of cards and they had struck up a flirtation. She would be pleased to learn that he had returned to France.



And he would be pleased to attend her ball.



Through a storefront reflection, Lysette watched Mr. James approach. He appeared distracted—his head was bent and his lips moved as if he spoke to himself. Beneath one arm, he carried a wrapped bundle. He raised his other hand to adjust his spectacles for a better fit.



She waited until he was nearly behind her, then she stepped back abruptly, placing herself directly in his path. He hit her with the force of a falling bag of rice, hard and impossible to withstand. She cried out in surprise, stumbling, nearly falling. Distantly, she heard him curse under his breath, then she was snatched close with such speed and strength that she lost her breath.



“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” he asked, startling her anew with the sound of his voice. It was deep and slightly rumbling.



Clinging to his sinewy forearms, Lysette lifted a hand to straighten her skewed hat and found herself gazing raptly up into his face.



He was scowling, and glancing up and down the street. Still, his profile arrested her. His jaw was square and strong, his skin kissed by the sun. The knot of his cravat was simple, yet perfect.



To add to her already overwhelming astonishment, James seemed completely unaffected by their public embrace. Truly, he appeared to have forgotten she was there. He stepped back and released her, bringing her attention to the fact that he had dropped his purchases in order to catch her.



Lysette sensed that the time when she could capture his attention was nearly at an end. She acted on instinct, reaching out and sliding her hand between his coat and waistcoat, her palm pressing firmly over his heart.



“Forgive me,” she breathed. “I am so clumsy.”



James’s hand caught her wrist in a lightning-quick movement, his head swiveling to face her, revealing astonished brown eyes behind his brass-rimmed spectacles. She could see the moment when he became aware of her as an individual woman, rather than merely an anonymous intrusion into his path.



As she gazed into his luxuriously lashed eyes, Lysette realized how hard he felt beneath her hand. She gave a tentative squeeze and a dark rumble vibrated beneath her touch.



“I was not minding my direction,” he said, pulling her hand away. He lifted it to his lips and kissed the back. “Edward James.”



“Corinne Marchant.” She smiled and he flushed slightly, the crest of his cheekbones darkening with high color.



That response soothed her jangled nerves slightly.



“It is a pleasure to meet you,” James said. “Although I would have preferred to introduce myself in a more refined manner.”



In any other instance, she would have flirted more heavily; perhaps she would have said the collision was worth it in order to meet him. But Mr. James was not the type of man women lured in that manner. He was too . . . intense for such play. He was also lacking the very qualities that enticed women to try and win a man’s regard. He was in trade and he was not handsome.



So she backed up to a more appropriate distance and busied herself with resettling her hat back into its former jaunty angle. “I am a featherhead to have been so absorbed in a pair of shoes.”



His gaze narrowed on her, then he turned his head to look at the slippers she referenced. Pale pink and studded with diamonds, the cost for such detailed craftsmanship was unquestionable.



“No one would notice such extravagance when worn by a woman so lovely as you,” he said gruffly. “They would not be looking at your feet.”



Lysette smiled. The compliment was difficult for him to voice, which made it all the more charming. “Thank you.”



She was not sure why he did not move away. His eyes were not lit with the masculine appreciation she was accustomed to seeing. Instead he examined her, as if she were an anomaly he wished to classify. His dropped package rested at his feet, but he seemed in no hurry to reclaim it. Pedestrians brushed past them as they completed their errands, yet he seemed not to be aware of any of them.



Afraid that her unabashed perusal of him was causing the suspicion, she tilted her head and said, “I hope the rest of your afternoon is less eventful.”



James bowed slightly. “And yours as well.”



They parted. As she walked away, she did not feel him looking after her. Curious, and hoping that if he sighted her glancing back at him, it would spark interest, she paused and turned. Edward James was striding away briskly.



Shrugging, she continued on to Desjardins’s carriage to wait.



Chapter 6



The Baroness Orlinda was infamous for the scope and grandeur of her bawdy gatherings. Still, Simon was fairly certain that tonight’s mythological theme would be difficult to surpass in sheer audacity and imagination.



The large ballroom was littered with potted trees and bushes to re-create the feeling of being in a forest. The four sets of French doors leading out to the balcony were thrown wide, allowing the evening breeze and the splashing sounds of the massive courtyard fountain to waft in. Sheer blue panels were draped between select pillars, simulating an afternoon sky and providing clever shielding for the occasional hidden chaise. Even the servants were dressed to enhance the mood, their bodies draped in white linen and their heads crowned with rings of leaves. The air was redolent with the scent of exotic candles and filled with the flirtatious laughter of reveling guests.



Simon found the whole affair highly diverting, yet he did not partake. He was not one to enjoy providing voyeuristic entertainment and his fouled mood from the morning continued into the evening. The sensation of being a puppet on Eddington’s strings was not a pleasant one. More than ever, Simon wanted to start anew and find a calling that soothed his restless spirit.



Perhaps his age was wearing on him. Where once he’d found his livelihood and its lack of structure to be liberating, now he found it stifling. He had no home, no roots, no family. He could do nothing about the latter things, but he could purchase a home. Ireland called to him, as it did to all her sons. If he reclaimed his wealth and rid himself of Eddington, he could return to her verdant shores and establish the roots denied him by his parentage.



A sharp trill of feminine laughter drew his gaze to a draped alcove where two women watched an amorous couple make use of a convenient chaise. From there his gaze roamed in a slow sweep of the ballroom, searching for Lysette, Desjardins, or the unfortunate Mr. James. The riot of colors on display was distracting, as was the creativity displayed in the masks most guests wore. It was odd that such a small shield could create the feeling of anonymity, but there was no denying that it did. Many of the guests in attendance would show much more restraint were they to expose their faces to view. And censure.



As he looked toward the main entrance to the ballroom, Simon stilled. An angel peaked out from behind a large fern, her pearlescent gown glimmering with the glow of blazing candlelight.



Watching him.



She stiffened when he spotted her, then side-stepped into full view. A silent challenge.



You may have found me, her pose said, but I am not ashamed to be caught staring.



Simon grinned.



Lysette.



Unwigged, her golden tresses were instantly recognizable, as were the enticing curves of her figure.



Then he frowned, confused.



She was . . . different; he could sense that straightaway. There was an air of expectation about her, a vibrating excitement that he detected from across the room. He had seen her become enlivened by only two things: death and drama. And truly, that had been more akin to morbid glee.



Then there was the mask she wore . . .



Crimson. Vibrant. He would never have chosen that color for her. In the months they had spent together, she had worn either pastels or dark colors. Lysette did not like to attract attention, a wise predilection when one’s livelihood consisted of secrets and lies.



Intrigued, Simon moved to a nearby pillar and leaned his shoulder against it. He smiled. She froze. He imagined her breath caught, a guess reinforced when her lips parted on a gasp. Her reaction and the subtle alteration of her stance were further curiosities.