Don't Tempt Me

“How honorable of you,” she sneered, reminding him briefly of Lysette. Her blue eyes took on a brittle cast and the lush curve of her lips twisted with distaste.



“So pleased you approve,” he drawled, laying his arm along the back of the settee, knowing the overt familiarity would prick her already considerable temper. He, too, was growing angrier by the moment. It was all well and good to call him a selfish libertine when the label fit. It did not sit well when he was attempting to be self-sacrificing.



“Why choose my daughter?” she asked. “You could have any woman you want. A wealthy widow, perhaps? Or are they not malleable enough?”



Simon smiled without humor. “I know you find it difficult, if not impossible, to believe, but I am not fortune hunting. I admire your daughter. She displays the same strength of conviction that you show in coming here. She is also lovely and I am a healthy man. I cannot help but notice her physical charms. However, beyond that, I have no ulterior motive. She seeks me out, not the reverse. If she did not come to me, I would not go to her.”



Her jaw tightened.



“My lady.” Simon straightened. “It would be best if you leave Paris. I cannot stress that point strongly enough. The woman who so closely resembles your daughter is enmeshed in dangerous affairs. It would be deeply unfortunate if the two women were to be confused for one another.”



“This woman you call Lysette,” the vicomtess hissed.



“Lysette Rousseau, yes.” He shrugged. “I did not give her that name, so if you do not like it, do not upbraid me.”



The vicomtess paled and Simon took note.



“Is the name familiar to you?” he queried, setting his forearms on his thighs. “Any information you can share that would shed light on this matter would be greatly appreciated.”



“What concerns my family does not concern you!” She stood, a diversionary tactic designed to draw attention away from her distress. “You say my daughter seeks you out. Let us remove you, then. Allow me to send you on holiday.”



Simon rose with her. “No.”



“Come now, surely there is somewhere you should like to visit. Spain? Perhaps return to England?”



“Poland?” he bit out, linking his hands behind his back to keep from fisting them. His knuckles, sore and bruised from the tavern brawl the night before, protested. The pain focused him and reined in his growing temper.



“How about an extended holiday? One that lasts the duration of your life, hmm?” The vicomtess’s shoulders were pulled back, her chin lifted, her smile innocuous. A mixture of charm and determination. So like Lynette.



The woman did not realize it, but the deeper glimpse into Lynette’s life only made him want her more. The vicomte was a fortunate man to have such a wife. Lynette’s future spouse would be equally blessed.



The thought deflated him, draining his anger and resentment away and leaving only weary resignation behind.



“Name your price,” she urged.



Simon crossed his arms. “You assume I am inexpensive.”



Triumph lit her eyes. “To afford this?” She gestured around the room with a wide sweep of her arm. “I am a woman, Mr. Quinn. I am ever aware of price and affordability. Your departure will cost me a fortune, I know.”



His stomach churned and a bitter taste coated his tongue. To accept money to part with Lynette made him ill, but there was no denying the plan’s merit. If the vicomtess was willing to provide him with even half of what Eddington had confiscated, he could live comfortably for the rest of his days. He would be free of any encumbrance. He could pack his belongings, or leave them behind, and start anew elsewhere.



Lynette would be safe from his desires and the means he provided for her to explore her curiosity about Lysette.



Simon growled low in his throat, hating Eddington for putting him in the position of needing money to begin with. Because of the earl’s machinations, he was trapped here, in proximity to a woman he could not resist, yet could not have.



Unless he accepted the vicomtess’s offer.



He exhaled harshly, suddenly exhausted by the events of the last few days. “I need time to think.”



She seemed prepared to argue, then simply nodded. “I will send a messenger over in the morning. Will that suit you?”



“No, it does not suit me.” Simon glared at her, knowing she was only trying to protect her daughter, but detesting the fact that he was the hazard. “You believe it is concern for my welfare that goads me to even consider your insulting offer. But it is, in truth, concern for Lynette and the fear that if I do not take myself far away, she will cross paths with Lysette Rousseau.”



“And fall victim to ruination by your hands.”



“Certainly,” he agreed, seeing no need to mince words while having a conversation such as this one.



“Pity you will not use your own funds to travel.”



“Yes.” His jaw clenched. “A pity.”



Marguerite descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look at the home behind her, shaken by her meeting with the debonair Simon Quinn.



The man was dangerous.



She had not seen him well enough in the Orlinda garden. The air had been filled with smoke and her concern had been for Lynette and taking her to safety. In the clear view of a well-lit and tastefully decorated parlor, he had been breathtaking, his coloring of ink-black hair and brilliant blue eyes jolting to a woman’s equanimity.



Over the years, she had met many men. Rarely had she crossed paths with one possessed of the same voluptuary’s appeal as Saint-Martin. They boasted more than mere physical beauty as a lure; they looked at women with their senses, making her feel as if she were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. Their favor did not waver nor wander. They focused on her with knowing eyes, making her wonder if such attention to detail would carry into the bedroom.



Some women were immune to such confident sexuality. Marguerite was not one of them and Lynette was so like her.



Sighing, she gave her hand to the footman and climbed into her coach. She had once been certain that Lynette would marry young. Like Marguerite, she adored men and was sensual by nature. But the similarities between them were even more pronounced than Marguerite had first realized.



Just as Marguerite had once postponed the selection of a spouse until her mother had chosen for her, Lynette also did not seem inclined to pick. For years, she had thought her daughter was simply enjoying herself and felt no haste. Now she suspected Lynette had been searching for her own Saint-Martin. A man who would sweep her away and satisfy the cravings no lady should admit to having.



Unsettled, she placed her hand atop her corseted stomach. She knew Lynette well. By rashly threatening an arranged marriage to tame her daughter, she had incited a war of wills. Lynette was too headstrong, passionate, and staunchly independent to accept the will of another without a fight.



If she had been thinking clearly instead of in a panic, Marguerite would never have suggested such a thing. Now Lynette would rebel; she knew that like she knew the dawn followed the night. The only way to keep her daughter safe was to remove temptation. So she had dealt with Quinn immediately before Lynette had a chance to act.



But now that she had set her plan in motion, she required the money. She could not access de Grenier funds in sufficient quantity before morning.



There was only one person she could turn to with such a request, but meeting with him would require stealth, calculation, and more strength than she was certain she possessed.



“My lady?” the footman queried. “The direction?”



Marguerite took a shaky inhalation. “Take us home.”



Chapter 11



Lynette impatiently waited two hours after her mother returned from her outing before sneaking out.



It was not uncommon for the vicomtess to take some time away after a row. Lynette had inherited the same wanderlust when aggravated, so she knew the feeling well. Sadly, she was not allowed the freedom tonight. Her only recourse was to pace the length of her room and think endlessly of Simon. No matter how it appeared, she believed him and she needed to see him, needed to warn him that her family may react in disturbing ways. She would not see him harmed in any fashion due to her.



And so it was that when the hour turned sufficiently late and the odds that her mother would attempt to speak with her diminished greatly, Lynette set in motion her plan to leave.



She stuffed pillows under her counterpane and topped the body-shaped form with one of her wigs. The ruse would not bear close inspection, but a quick peak from the doorway would give the impression that she was abed and sleeping.



Shielded by a cloak and hood, she exited to the rear garden, then out to the alley. There a stableboy waited, a young man named Piotr who had been with her family for years. She had always been kind to him, bringing him sweets and treats when possible, deliberately cultivating a bit of favoritism that had enabled her frequent bouts of mischief at home. Tonight he provided her with a pair of his breeches, a man’s cloak, and a tricorn. She changed in an empty stall in the stable, then met him outside.



He handed her the reins of a saddled horse, then mounted another to accompany her, as he always did. He had been trained to use a pistol with precision, as most of the male servants in the de Grenier household were. Simon’s admonishment to avoid confusion with Lysette Rousseau was foremost in her mind. To the casual observer, they were two young men riding alone.



The horses’ hooves clopped rhythmically along the street, lulling her into a semidreamy state. The night was dark, the moon half hidden by clouds. The breeze was slightly chilly and it slipped through the arm slits in her cloak, cooling her heated skin.



Would Simon be at home? Or would he be out? Perhaps he was not alone . . .



What would she say if he was entertaining someone when she arrived? A woman.



Lynette inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her posture while riding—head and shoulders bent low to hide her features—only added to her sense of falling off a cliff. She was not a woman to cower in the face of anything, yet she was afraid now.