Bride for a Night

Pausing to smooth her expression into one of pleasant anticipation, Sophia stepped into Jacques’s private chambers, her heart missing a painful beat at the sight of him leaning against the windowsill, a half-empty glass of brandy in his slender hands.

He appeared remarkably suited to the lavish gold-and-ivory room with his elegant beauty and his slender body attired in a brocade robe. In truth, she had always wondered if he had more noble blood running through him than he wished to admit. He looked far more like an aristocrat than a peasant.

It was a suspicion she was careful to keep to herself. He would find nothing amusing in the notion there was blue blood running through his veins.

Especially tonight, she ruefully acknowledged, noting the tense set of his shoulders and his grim expression.

She faltered momentarily. She had sought out Jacques to demand explanations.

But did she truly desire to hear what he might say?

The cowardly part of her was not at all certain she was prepared to discover the truth. Not if it were destined to crush her stupid heart.

But she had not survived for thirty years by being a coward. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to cross past the gilt beechwood chairs and the oval parquetry table inset with Sevres porcelain that was placed near the white marble fireplace. She had nearly reached the scrolled rosewood desk that groaned beneath the maps, stacks of waiting messages, journals and scribbled notes when Jacques sensed her presence and whirled to regard her with a scowl.

Sophia kept her smile intact as she came to a smooth halt. “Am I intruding?”

Just for a heartbeat an emotion perilously close to regret touched his handsome face, as if she had reminded him of something he preferred to forget. Then, with his usual charm, he stepped forward to lift her fingers to his lips.

“Sophia, you are a vision of loveliness as always,” he murmured, speaking in French with a hint of an English accent that always sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine. “Is that a new dressing gown?”

“Oui. I discovered a very talented modiste in Paris while I counted the days until your return to France.” She deliberately lowered her voice to a sensuous invitation. “I have been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to reveal my treasures.”

“The treasure is not to be found in silks or satins. It is you, ma belle.” His dark gaze ran an appreciative survey down her body. “You would be breathtaking in a sackcloth.”

“A treasure that is easily forgotten, it would seem.”

She instantly regretted her impetuous words as he released her hand and took a step backward, his expression guarded.

Sacré bleu. What was the matter with her? She had once been a master of such games.

“Ah, you have come to chastise me for having neglected you,” he accused.

“I would hope I am not so foolish as to chastise my lover. There is no more certain means to tarnish a man’s affection.” She sought to keep her tone teasing. “I will admit, however, that I am curious as to what has kept you so occupied that you cannot spare so much as an hour to spend in my company.”

“Forgive me, ma belle.” He waved a hand toward the nearby desk. “I fear that I had no notion that organizing a handful of spies could be so time-consuming.”

“So your distraction has nothing to do with your English guests?”

A surge of anger hardened his features. “Of course it does. The black plague—”

“Black plague?” she interrupted in confusion.

“More properly known as the Earl of Ashcombe,” he grimly clarified, “has not only had the audacity to trespass into my home, but he has ruined a perfect opportunity for our soldiers to strike a mortal blow against our enemies.” He clenched his hands. “To make matters worse, he has exposed my associate in the Home Office who was providing a vital source of information. It will take me months to undo the damage he has wrought.”

“Ah, I see. A black plague, indeed,” she readily agreed, her gaze lingering on the tight line of his jaw. Was his resentment caused by the Earl’s destruction of his secret arrangements or Ashcombe’s attempt to rescue his young bride? “What will you do with him?”

Jacques shrugged. “I am in the process of composing a letter to the dowager countess demanding a ransom for the return of her son. I do not doubt that she will be eager to share a large portion of her vast fortune to ensure the earl’s safety.”

She stroked a dark curl that she had deliberately left to lay against the swel

l of her ivory bosom.

“What of his wife?”

Jacques visibly stiffened. “Talia?”

“Oui.”