Lord of Desire

He reached for her hands then. Drawing her near, he gently pressed her fingers to his lips. "Do you realize how very much I love you, coquine?"

"Gervase . . ." Alysson started to protest. The desire in his eyes disturbed her, and so did his declaration. She was fearless about most things, but avowals of love had the power to disquiet her, arousing painful memories she would sooner forget. She'd learned from bitter experience to be wary of hucksters and fortune hunters who plied her with sweet words.

Gervase was no fortune hunter, certainly; she was convinced he truly loved her. But she couldn't understand what he saw in her. She wasn't a beauty, admittedly, and her independent nature was hardly a quality a man looked for in a wife. Indeed, she had grave doubts that she could ever make Gervase a good wife.

He was still looking at her ardently, Alysson realized. Still gazing at her with that hot desire that made her feel flustered and unworthy of his adoration. "Gervase . . ." Alysson said uncomfortably. "You promised to give me time . . ."

He sighed softly. "I suppose I am in good company. Honoré tells me you once refhsed the hand of a rajah."

Relieved that Gervase didn't mean to insist on an answer, she let her mouth curve ruefully. "That isn't quite what happened. A rajah once offered to purchase me as his third wife. Uncle Oliver was inclined to haggle over the price, but I didn't relish being relegated to third place."

Gervase's answering smile warmed her. "No, you, my shameless minx, would insist on being first. And as usual you would get your way. No doubt when we are married, you will be able to wrap me around your finger as you do your uncles. Alysson . . ." His voice dropped to a gentle murmur as slowly he drew her into his arms. "Will you kiss me so that I may endure the coming weeks without you?"

She couldn't deny such an earnest plea. Mutely she nodded, wishing with all her heart that she could respond to Gervase the way he wished her to.

At her acquiescence, he tightened his arms around her and bent his head. His lips were warm and loving—but careful, exhibiting the self-restraint expected of a gentleman toward a young lady. His consideration, rather than flattering her, though, left Alysson with a vague sense of frustration. She longed for Gervase to embrace her more purposefully, to sweep her off her feet, to inspire in her the kind of passion and desire that the poets raved about. But it had never happened. Gervase's kisses were always persuasive and skilled, but she felt no thrill in his arms, no rush of excitement that set her heart to pounding, no spark of fire between them. Instead, his caresses always left her feeling somehow . . . disappointed.

Like now. There seemed to be something vital missing in his kiss. Her own lips parted in anticipation as she felt his tongue slowly delve into her mouth, but Gervase's gentle coaxing roused in her only a nameless, unfulfilled longing. His accomplished embrace kindled in her nothing more than a feeling of sadness . . . that he wasn't the man she wished him to be. That she wasn't the woman he needed and deserved.

Gervase seemed to be satisfied with her response, though, for when finally he raised his head, it was to gaze longingly at her. "Go quickly, my love," he said in a husky whisper. "Make your journey short, so that we may be married as soon as you return."

Alysson started to protest, but Gervase silenced her by pressing his fingers to her mouth.

Finally releasing her then, he stepped back. "Do you mean to stay here for the rest of the evening? My guests will soon miss you."

"A moment longer only."

"Very well, but only a moment, or you might catch a chill."

Alysson refrained from responding that she had never caught a chill in her life. Instead, she watched silently as Gervase went back inside the house.

Turning then, she gazed down at the shadowed garden. Her conversation with Gervase and his kiss afterward had only renewed her restlessness. Anxious again for the morning to come, Alysson descended the long flight of stone steps into the garden and began wandering along the torch- lit path.

She had only taken a few steps, though, when she came to a startled halt; a gentleman in evening clothes stood there in the shadows, one shoulder negligently propped against the thick trunk of a palm tree. Her hand flew to her throat, while she barely managed to stifle a gasp.

He made no move toward her as he spoke in a low voice, in fluent French. "Pardon me for frightening you, mademoiselle."

Alysson willed her heart to settle down as she peered at him in the dim light. His face was half-hidden by the dancing shadows so she couldn't make out his features, but he didn't appear dangerous. He was a tall, lean man, a striking figure in black evening attire. Imposing perhaps, but not frightening.

"Did no one ever tell you," he continued in French as she stared at him, "that it does a young lady's reputation no good to be seen unchaperoned in a darkened garden, kissing a man?"

His tone was amused, yet with a curt edge that sounded almost like scorn. It took her aback.

Hot with embarrassment over being caught kissing Gervase, Alysson couldn't help the blush that rose to her cheeks. To think that this stranger had been watching her . . . "Did no one ever tell you, m'sieur," she retorted with irritation, "that it is impolite to eavesdrop on an intimate conversation? You should have made yourself known at once."

"You gave me no opportunity."

That was such a patent falsehood that Alysson didn't deign to reply. Grasping the fan dangling from her wrist, she flicked it open, using the rapid feminine movement to show her displeasure. "I trust you were pleasantly diverted," she said finally, the sweetness of her tone scarcely veiling her own scorn.

"Oh, indeed. It was quite . . . entertaining."

She thought the darkness fortunate, for it hid her heightening color. Vexed by her unaccustomed discomposure— and unwilling to allow this provoking stranger to prolong the moment any longer—Alysson gave him her back as she prepared to follow a different path.

"Have no fear, mademoiselle," he murmured. "Your reputation is safe with me."

The soft mockery in his voice set her nerves on edge. She whirled again to face him. She couldn't see how her reputation or her conduct was any of his business. Not that she had much of a reputation to lose. She'd been called eccentric, scandalous, wild, even fast by stalwart arbiters of society—more critical judges than this presumptuous Frenchman. She should have grown inured to such comments by now, yet this time she was piqued into defending herself.

"In certain circumstances," Alysson said with exaggerated civility, "I believe the young lady may be excused. When she is engaged to be married, for instance. If the gentleman she is kissing is her fianc6, there can be no harm in sharing a simple display of affection."