Don't Tempt Me (Georgian 4)

Lynette bit her lower lip and nodded, her chest tight with an emotion akin to grief.

Simon cupped her face with both hands and pressed a far-too-swift kiss to her trembling mouth. “Thank you.” His hands shook as he held her, then he backed away. “Go inside now.”

With dragging steps, she headed toward the stables, where her clothes waited. She glanced back at him once and found him staring after her, hands behind his back. Her vision blurred with tears and she looked away, departing the alley with silent sobs.

It was a painful crick in his neck that pulled Edward from the depths of dreamless sleep into waking. He groaned and straightened, discovering that he had slept for hours sitting up in Corinne’s bed. He straightened away from the headboard, rolling his shoulders, glancing to the side to see where she had gone to.

She lay curled atop a pillow on the far side of the bed, watching him with eyes so ravaged by illness they looked bruised.

He stilled, wary. “Good morning.”

“Are you drunk?” she whispered.

A smile threatened, but he restrained it. “I am afraid that smell is you. You were feverish and we needed to cool you.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have been asking myself that question for three days.”

“Three days?” she gasped, clearly horrified.

Leaving the bed, Edward stretched his arms wide and glanced at the clock. He would have to leave for work shortly and, perhaps, not be allowed to return.

He reached for the pitcher and glass on the nightstand, and poured a small ration. Rounding the bed to the other side, he deliberately moved without haste so as not to aggravate the high tension he sensed in her. She rolled with him, facing him.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

Corinne blinked slowly, wearily. “I think so.”

“If you require assistance, you have only to ask.”

She struggled to a seated position on her own. “Where are the Fouches?”

“Most likely preparing for the day. They are old,” he pointed out.

“Thierry is not.”

“Madame Fouche was disinclined to have him tend to you.”

Holding out her hand, she accepted the glass. She looked like a child in the big bed, so small and delicate. “But she had no objection to you?”

“Her age gave her little choice, and in the end, she felt a lover would be more acceptable to you than her son.”

Corinne choked on her first swallow and he thumped her carefully on the back.

“A lie, of course,” he pointed out, in case she thought more had happened to her while ill than she knew.

“You are impossibly arrogant,” she gasped.

“Yes, that is true.” He straightened. “I must prepare for work now. Would you allow me to visit you tomorrow in the evening?”

She stared at him.

He waited, knowing that he would think of her all night.

However, tonight would best be spent in study of Quinn, a mystery that niggled at him relentlessly over the last two nights. Tomorrow he was free of any duty and he could catch up on missed sleep, enabling him to return to Corinne refreshed and perhaps armed with more information. It also gave her time to rebuild her strength. He knew she felt vulnerable now, which would only make her ill at ease and defensive. One wrong move could ruin everything.

A knock came to the door, and shortly after, Madame Fouche bustled in, huffing from the journey up the narrow servants’ staircase. She paused upon seeing Corinne awake and curtsied. “Good morning, Madame Marchant.”

Corinne frowned. “Good morning.”

She still did not respond to Edward’s question and he reluctantly took that as an answer in the negative.

“She will need plenty of fluids,” he said to the housekeeper. “Beef tea and vegetable stock, both salted lightly. Lots of water.”

“Yes, sir.”

Edward held out his hand to Corinne and she placed hers within it. The skin was paper-thin and lined with thin blue veins. So fragile, yet she was so strong in other ways. He kissed the back and withdrew.

He would pursue her anew when she was fully recovered. This would not be the end.

“Where are your spectacles?” she asked.

“They were crushed the night of the fire.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “You saved me.”

“Actually, you were well on your way to saving yourself. I simply caught you.”

“And tended me for three days. Thank you.”

He bowed, released her hand, and turned away.

“I anticipate your visit tomorrow,” she said in barely a whisper.

Edward’s steps faltered slightly, but he gave no other outward sign of his relief. He could not appear eager, not with a woman so frightened of overt male interest.

“Until then,” was all he said, but he was smiling as he departed.

Desjardins was whistling as he entered his study shortly after breaking the fast. It was unfortunate that James had chosen to search the wrong side of the Orlinda manse first, which had led to Lysette being exposed to danger longer than he would have liked. However, the physician assured him she would survive without long-term damage and James was so smitten already that he had spent the last three nights tending to her himself.

But then such fortuitous events were the usual for him. His life had always been a charmed one. Take, for instance, the Fouches. While he regretted providing Lysette with such elderly and subsequently dubious help, he could afford no better without arousing undue suspicion in his wife. Comtess Desjardins was a beautiful woman, far too lovely for a man of his unremarkable appearance, but regardless, she loved him, as he loved her, and she would not allow him mistresses or even temporary dalliances. Keeping Lysette was one of his marriage’s enduring secrets, as were his less savory deeds performed with the goal of increasing their social stature.

Now it appeared the age of the Fouches was a blessing in disguise, providing James the excuse to act heroically once again.

The comte had j

ust taken his seat behind his desk when a knock came to the open door. He smiled at the waiting butler and said, “Send him in.”

He knew the man’s identity already, as his arrival was scheduled and perfectly timed.

A moment later Thierry entered, smiling. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Yes, it is.”

His returning smile was sincere, his affection for the man bolstered by over two decades of loyal service. Thierry had filled many roles over the years, from courier to footman. His present guise as the Fouches’ son allowed him to stay apprised of the developing relationship between Lysette and James. Despite their years, the Fouches had no difficulty in assimilating new roles quickly, even becoming the parents of a grown man overnight.

“How is Lysette?” the comte asked.

“She woke this morning.”

“Lovely news.”

“She is tired and weak, of course,” Thierry said, “but seems well enough.”

Desjardins leaned back, his legs stretched out before him. “Any word on what she and James intend from this point?”

“James will return tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?”

“No, not that I blame the man. Mademoiselle Rousseau is not an easy woman to care for while unconscious, courtesy of Depardue and his men.”

“Damn the man.”

He would never forget his first sight of her, cowering and abused, ruthlessly shared among a coarse lot of men until little of her spirit remained. But again, it was another fortunate event for him, because acquiring Lysette had given him a valuable tool he would not have had otherwise, both in her loyalty and her identity. Only time would tell if he would ever have to use the latter, but it was there, if he should need it.

“I will see her this evening, then,” the comte said. “Tell her to expect me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Thierry straightened and leaned forward, setting a missive on the edge of the desk with a now familiar and much hated black seal on the reverse. “I was handed this on the way here.”

Thierry had become nearly the only bearer of the L’Esprit orders of late, but then Thierry was one of few whom Desjardins saw on a regular basis.