She smiled and glided around the desk, leaned back against it as he eased his chair back.
“You asked me why I was in the garden at the convent all those years ago, yet you never told me what you were doing there.”
“Falling from the wall.”
“After leaving Collette Marchand’s chamber.”
“Ah, yes—the inestimable Collette.” He smiled in reminiscence.
One black brow haughtily rose. “Well?”
“It was a wager, mignonne.”
“A wager?”
“You will remember that in the days I haunted Paris, I was much younger, and rather wilder.”
“The younger I will allow, but what was the subject of this wager that you needed to brave the convent’s walls?”
“I had to procure a particular earring, one of some uniqueness, from Mlle Marchand by the end of that week.”
“But she was due to leave two days later—in fact, she left the next day itself, after your visit.”
“Indeed—that was part of the challenge.”
“So you won?”
“Of course.”
“And what did you gain by winning?”
He smiled. “What else but a triumph? And, even better, one over a French noble.”
She humphed dismissively, yet her gaze was strangely distant. “Did you spend many years haunting Paris?”
“Eight, nine—all while you still wore pigtails.”
Hmm. She didn’t say it, but she thought it—he could see it in her face, could see the clouds gathering, darkening her eyes.
Did the letters have something to do with his past exploits in France? He couldn’t remember crossing swords with any of the Daurents.
He watched her for a moment longer, watched her struggle with her demon. She’d grown so used to being in his presence that when she wasn’t focused on him, aware of him, her mask slipped and he saw more. Saw enough to make him reach for her hand. “Mignonne—”
She started; she’d forgotten he was there. For a fleeting instant he glimpsed . . . horror, terror, but hanging over all a profound and pervasive sadness. Before he could react, she reassembled her mask and smiled—too brightly, too brittlely.
He tightened his grip on her hand, expecting her to rise and try to flee.
With barely a pause for thought, she trumped his ace. Pushing away from the desk, she slid onto his lap. “Eh, bien—if you have finished your work . . .”
His body reacted instantly; the soft, warm, distinctly feminine weight settling so trustingly, so confidently, had his demons slavering. While he struggled to rein them in, she freed her hand, turned his face to hers.
Set her lips to his.
She kissed him longingly, lingeringly—with a deep yearning that he knew was unfeigned because he felt it, too.
He’d given his word he would not manipulate her; as she drew him deeper into the kiss, into the pleasure of her mouth, he realized he would have been wise to demand a corresponding reassurance.
His arms closed around her; moments later his hand sought her breast.