Don't Tempt Me (Georgian 4)

“She used to be quite flirtatious, oui?”

“Very much so, but no longer. She is altered. I used to worry about her future; she seemed unable to be serious about anything. Now she is far too solemn about everything.”

“I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose the person with whom you have spent the entirety of your life. A person who is identical to you. Perhaps, in truth, a piece of her is forever lost.”

Hot tears leaked out from beneath Marguerite’s closed lids. “I cannot lose both of my children. I can’t bear it.”

“Mon amie . . .”

Marguerite heard the goblet come to rest on a table, then the rustle of satin as her friend crossed the space between them to join her. She sank gratefully into the offered embrace, finding comfort in the physical closeness. She had been lonely for so long. The birth of her daughters had damaged her womb and prevented future conception. Her barren state had created a rift in her marriage that grew wider with every passing year.

“You are still deeply grieving. Is it any wonder that Lynette is also restrained by mourning?” Solange’s delicate hand smoothed over Marguerite’s unbound hair. “One of you must return to the land of the living, so that the other may follow.”

“How can it be me?” Marguerite asked, wiping at her tears. “I ceased living long ago.”

“You’ve returned to Paris. It is a start.”

But it was not an easy one. Marguerite had been content in Poland, despite the gulf between her and de Grenier. There were no specters there, no temptations, no regrets. There were many things to haunt her here.

Straightening to a seated position, she reached for her friend’s abandoned glass and downed the expensive contents in one desperate swallow. She inhaled deeply, relishing the sudden warmth brought by the burn of alcohol in her gut, then she glanced over her shoulder. “Tell me how.”

“A party.” Solange’s pretty features transformed with a mischievous smile. The combination of a French mother and Italian father had given her an exotic attractiveness that made her much sought after. “It is no tame affair, I must tell you. Baroness Orlinda revels in bawdy, scandalous parties.”

“I cannot take my daughter to an orgy!” Marguerite protested with wide eyes.

“Mon Dieu.” Solange laughed her girlish giggle. “It is not so bawdy as that!”

“I do not believe you. Regardless, we cannot allow our presence in Paris to become known. It is too hazardous.”

“After all these years, you are still afraid?”

“If you had seen the horror of that day, you would never forget.”

“Do you love him still?”

“Everything I have done from that day to this one has been because of my love for Philippe.”

Marguerite rose, her gaze roaming along the length of the room’s red damask-covered walls. It was a space designed to startle and titillate with its gilded accents and exotic candle scents. Oddly, it relaxed Marguerite to occupy it. There was no artifice here. The purpose and appeal were clear, just as it was with Solange.

Marguerite collected the empty glass and moved over to the console, where several decanters waited.

“I think he still pines for you,” Solange said.

Pausing midpour, Marguerite watched her hand shake violently, an outward sign of the inward jolt the news brought her. “What kind of woman would that make me,” she asked quietly, “if I wished that were true?”

“An honest one.”

Marguerite exhaled audibly, then continued to refill the glass. “I am a married woman. I respect my vows and my husband. It is why de Grenier must not learn of our visit. He has sacrificed a great deal for me. I will not have him concerned that I cuckold him with a former lover.”

“I understand. That is why I suggested the baroness’s gathering, which, I assure you, is no more shocking than this boudoir. I doubt there will be many of your former acquaintances in attendance. You can assume another name and wear a mask as added protection.”

“That still does not address the impropriety of taking my innocent daughter to a gathering of licentious revelry!” Marguerite returned Solange’s goblet to her, then set her hands on her hips.

“She is numb with grief and has been for two years. Do you imagine jaunts to museums will wake her?” Solange held up a jewel-encrusted hand to halt any further protest. “Why don’t you ask her if she would like to attend?”

“Ridiculous!”

“Is it? If she says no, then nothing is lost. If she says yes, does that not imply that some of the Lynette of old still dwells in her? Would that not be worth one night of impropriety?”

Marguerite shook her head.

“Sleep on it,” Solange suggested. “You may feel differently when rested.”

“Saner, perhaps.”

“Sanity, as defined by Society, is overrated, non?”

For a moment, Marguerite contemplated arguing further, then she turned about and poured herself a drink instead.

Chapter 5

“Mr. Quinn.”

A cool, tentative hand touched Simon’s shoulder. Years of living under duress had made his valet’s stealthy approach into the bedchamber impossible to overlook, but exhaustion kept Simon prone on the bed and unmoving.

He opened one eye and met the frown-capped gaze of the servant. The man was blushing. Most likely because of the woman lying beside Simon. With his head turned away, Simon could not be certain, but he would not be surprised if the lovely brunette was baring more of her lush body in slumber than she ever would while awake.

“You have a caller, Mr. Quinn.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“Bloody hell.” He closed his eye, but he was fully aware now. He was not a man people visited to discuss inanities. “Unless they are ablaze or otherwise mortally wounded, tell whoever it is to return at a decent hour.”

“I attempted to. He responded by moving a large quantity of trunks into one of the guest bedrooms.”

Simon’s eyelids lifted, as did his head. “Beg your pardon?”

“The Earl of Eddington has taken up residence here. He claims you would have it no other way.”

“Eddington? What in hell is he doing in Paris?”

Careful not to wake his companion, Simon extricated himself from the mass of tangled bedclothes. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and waited for the spinning room to settle. A night of hard drinking and harder sex had left him with only an hour or two of sleep.

The valet shook his head, his gaze darting over Simon’s shoulder.

Twisting at the waist, Simon glanced at his companion and found her sprawled lewdly in the very position she had been in when he last dismounted from her—legs spread wide with her fingers curled into the linens.

Apparently, he was not the only one exhausted.

He stood and caught up the counterpane, which had slipped off the end of the bed to puddle atop the carved wooden chest at the foot.

“I need a bath,” he said as he covered the woman.

“I will see to it.” The valet bowed and asked, “What should I tell his lordship?”

Simon straightened. “Tell him it’s damned early and my mood suits my lack of sleep. He has been forewarned.”

The servant choked and scurried from the room.

An hour later, bathed and dressed in a sapphire silk robe, Simon left his suite of rooms and descended the staircase to the foyer.

The early morning light streamed in through the decorative window above the front door, glimmering through the crystal chandelier to cast rainbow light upon the parquet floor. His hair was damp and his bare feet chilled despite the Aubusson runner that lined the stairs. The minor discomfiture kept him alert, which was the intent. Eddington was not a friend. There was no reason for the earl to decide to visit unannounced and uninvited so soon after Simon had left his employ.

Leastwise, no welcome reason.

Simon heard the sound of silverware making contact

with china at the same moment a footman bowed to him and gestured toward the dining room.

“My lord,” Simon greeted as he entered.

The earl looked at him and smiled. “Good morning, Quinn.”

“Is it?” Simon moved to the walnut buffet, where covered salvers kept food warm. He briefly wondered what the cook had thought of the menu request. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed morning fare, as he usually began with the midday meal. “I am not often awake at this time, so I’ve no notion of what constitutes a ‘good’ morning or not.”

Eddington smiled and resumed eating, supremely casual and confident as if he owned the house he dined in. Like most members of the peerage, he assumed his surroundings were his to control.