Little Red Writing (2 page)

Now that Anne was closer, he could better appreciate the womanly details of her form. No doubt about it, both far and near, she was comely in the extreme. Her gown, though not as costly as the others in the room, accentuated her curves in the most delectable way. With the discerning eye of a libertine, he took note of her creamy skin, the slight blush to her cheeks, and the rise and fall of her breasts, her breathing a bit too quick, belying her mask of composure.

Under the unruffled façade she was discomposed. And it was because of him.

There had definitely been a mutual attraction. He’d seen it in her eyes. If used correctly, it could be a delicious advantage. He wasn’t above using whatever means necessary to uncover the identity of the anonymous author who wrote under the nom de plume, Gilbert Leduc.

“She is beautiful,” Thomas murmured. “I don’t know about you, Nicolas, but I’d rather fuck a woman who looks like that, than arrest her.”

“You’ll not touch her.”
Dieu
, that sounded absurdly possessive.

Thomas chuckled. “So you’ve set your sights on Anne,
le Loup
? Poor woman. She doesn’t stand a chance. Curious, why her? Why not one of the other two sisters?” He gave a nod in their general direction. Both were on the opposite side of the room, engrossed in conversation. “They’re comely, too.”

Indeed. All three sisters had the same beautiful fiery-colored hair. Henriette de Pierpont was the eldest and the only one to marry. Widowed four years, she was attractive in her own right. As was the youngest, Mademoiselle Camille de Vignon.

But there was something about Anne . . .

“We’re here to discover which sister is the author of the pen portraits and bring her before His Majesty. As ordered. Whichever will confess to the truth is the one I’m interested in,” Nicolas said. Those who were patrons of the arts and had enough coin couldn’t collect unsanctioned books fast enough.

Nicolas had uncovered the underground press that was printing the illegal volumes of short stories. He and Thomas had spent weeks surreptitiously watching the Parisian publisher, observing the comings and goings at his print shop, and following messenger boys until Nicolas was finally led to the home of the Comtesse de Cottineau—and the three authors who resided there.

Everyone was talking about the anonymously written stories. Everyone had a strong opinion on what should be done about the author. The women praised the writer. The men, especially those who were the subject of ridicule in the published tales, clamored for justice.

Pen portraits were nothing new. Many writers used real people—mostly members of the upper class—as characters in their books. Names were changed, but the author always made it easy to identify the person being portrayed by the fictitious character. Characters that were always written with a flattering slant. However, the author of
these
pen portraits did just the opposite. This author maligned and mocked men. Important men. Powerful men. Mercilessly. It was out of control.

Anne stepped away from the women and continued on, getting nearer, her lovely dark eyes still searching for him. Unable to spot him.

His lips twitched as he held back his smile.
That’s it
.
Come closer, pretty rabbit.

It had taken some doing, but he’d managed to get the Comtesse de Cottineau out of her home, sending the old crone far away under false pretenses. He despised the woman. Had held nothing but contempt for her his entire life, and with her out of the hôtel, nothing stood between him and the three redheaded females.

He was focused. Ready.

The trap was set.

*****

He wasn’t there. At the back corner of the room, Anne turned to face the crowd. She scanned the Great Room but couldn’t locate the mysterious gentleman anywhere.

“Pardon, mademoiselle.”

She jumped at the sound of the male voice behind her and spun around.

Vincent, the majordomo, gave a short bow. “Your pardon. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Tall, thin, his hair completely white, Vincent always had the same expressionless look upon his face. A longtime loyal servant to the Comtesse, he’d been unnerving to Anne from the time she and her sisters moved in last spring. She could never decipher his emotions or what he was thinking.

“That’s all right, Vincent.”

“Mademoiselle, the Comte de Gamory and the Comte de Lambelle are here.”

“Oh?”

“They have requested a private moment. They’re in the Mercury drawing room. Monsieur de Lambelle has asked to see your sisters as well. Mademoiselle Camille de Vignon has already excused herself and is presently there.”

Anne frowned. “Vincent, we cannot all excuse ourselves and disappear. What about the Comtesse’s guests? Who are these men?” She’d never heard of them.

“Nicolas de Savignac, Comte de Lambelle, is related to the Comtesse, mademoiselle.”

She raised her brows. Her patroness? “
He is?
”

“Yes, mademoiselle. He is her grandson and wishes to speak to you.”

Anne opened the door to the Mercury drawing room and stepped inside. Her heart lurched.

The mysterious man.

He was seated across from Camille with another gentleman to his left. The moment those gray eyes touched upon her, his tactile gaze sent a rush of heat low in her belly.

Get hold of yourself
. She wasn’t easily rattled, but
he
was rattling her in the most shocking
ways. It defied logic. He was a perfect stranger. Yet there was nothing logical about it.

It was all physical.

Anne took in a fortifying breath before she approached.

He rose to his full height and moved toward her, pure masculine grace in motion, getting closer with each wild beat of her heart. By the time he stood before her, he wore the same half-smile on his handsome face as before.

Tilting her chin, Anne gazed up at him. Good Lord. He was even more devastating to behold up close.

“This is my sister, Anne de Vignon,” Camille said, having approached without Anne noticing. She was too busy being ridiculously entranced by the tall attractive man before her. “Anne, this is the Comte de Lambelle—Nicolas de Savignac. He is our dear Comtesse’s grandson.”

Dear God,
he
was the grandson?

His smile broadened. Taking her hand—one she hadn’t yet offered, her arms still dangling foolishly at her sides—he pressed his warm lips against it. Tiny tingles shot up her arm and rippled down her spine.

“
Enchanté
,” he said, his voice rich and seductive.

Stop staring
.
Where are your manners
?
Say something
.

“A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. This man was dangerous, his appeal far too compelling. Her every instinct warned her to stay far away.

“Please, no titles or formality are necessary. Call me Nicolas. May I call you Anne?”

She glanced at her younger sister Camille and caught the sobering sight of her smitten expression. Camille’s regard was directed at the other gentleman in the room. Clearly her sister was behaving as uncharacteristically as she was.

She prayed
she
didn’t look like that.

Returning her attention to the Comtesse’s grandson, she responded, “Anne would be fine.” Only because she was trying to be gracious toward her patroness’s kin did she cede to his request, though permitting such familiarity made her uneasy.

Pleased by her answer, Nicolas’s smile grew. He gestured to the gentleman beside him—a man of similar age yet slighter build. “Allow me to introduce my cousin Thomas, Comte de Gamory.”

Anne’s greeting of the Comte de Gamory—or rather “Thomas” as he preferred—was much better.

“Forgive our intrusion into your get-together. I had no idea there would be so many guests present,” Nicolas said, his smile slowly diminishing on his face. Then, lowering his chin, briefly he shook his head. When his gray eyes met hers once more, they looked saddened. “This is yet another example of how little I know my own grandmother, I fear. I had no idea she had weekly salons—a fact Camille was kind enough to relay.”

Their patroness was a strong-willed woman, the center of attention at any gathering. Never afraid of voicing her opinion. But when it came to personal matters, such as family, she’d been silent. The Comtesse had never mentioned grandchildren and only once indicated she’d had any children at all. A son and a daughter. There were obvious familial strains in the Comtesse’s family.

“I understand from your sister that the Comtesse isn’t here.” Nicolas’s expression was rueful.

“Yes, that’s true,” Anne regretted having to say. “She’s been called away. A letter arrived from her sister last week. She’s gone to see her.”

“We did inquire if there was anything amiss,” Camille added. “But she wouldn’t say one way or the other.”

Nicolas looked at his cousin and, with a sigh, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “How very disappointing. We’ve missed her. I had so hoped to surprise her.”

Thomas nodded, looking not quite as aggrieved. “Indeed, cousin. I know how much you have wanted to make amends with your grandmother.”

“
His
grandmother?” Anne asked. “Is she not yours as well?”

Thomas’s eyes widened and all that escaped his lips was, “
Ah
 . . . well—”

“No,” Nicolas interjected. “Thomas is my cousin from my father’s side. My late mother was the Comtesse’s daughter. Thomas is as dear to me as a brother. In fact, I lost my brother not long ago. It was then that I decided I needed to make changes in my life. One of which is trying to forge a relationship with a grandmother who has been all but a stranger to me.”

“Yes, yes. That’s true,” Thomas concurred with a nod.

Nicolas de Savignac had had his share of unfortunate losses. The notion tugged at Anne’s heart. “I see. My condolences, Monsieur de—”

“Nicolas, please,” he amended.

“
Nicolas
 . . . my condolences for the loss of your mother and brother. And to you, too, Thomas—for the loss of your cousin and aunt.”

“My condolences, as well—to both of you.” Camille said, her brown eyes mirroring the sympathy in her tone.

“Thank you, my ladies. We appreciate your kindness.” Nicolas looked at his cousin. “Don’t we, Thomas?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Indeed, we do.”

“I’m equally sorry to hear of your estrangement with your grandmother,” Anne said. “We have been living with her for a year and find her to be a most delightful spirited lady who has a great passion for the arts.”

“That, too, is something I was unaware of, Anne,” Nicolas said.

She liked the way he said her name. She liked it too much. Why, when he uttered it, did it have such a heated effect on her senses?

“Camille tells us that you are both writers. I had no idea my grandmother had such lovely, fascinating ladies living in her home.” Nicolas’s sensual half-smile returned.

Thomas offered a smile as well. “Yes. Having you ladies here, of all places, was definitely a . . . surprise.”

“A good surprise, I hope,” Camille remarked shamelessly, ignoring the look of disapproval Anne discreetly flashed her. These men were of rank, and—albeit estranged—nonetheless relations of their patroness. Two very strong reasons not to flirt—no matter how innocently done. Camille knew better. She knew to be cautious around men in the noble class. Knew what some of them were capable of.

“A most delightful surprise, Camille,” Nicolas assured.

Anne had to admit, the man’s manners were polished and he was charming in the extreme. Not to mention that his proximity had every nerve ending in her body humming with awareness.

More reasons to keep a distance.

“Our other sister, Henriette, is a writer as well,” Camille said, her approval of Nicolas’s response evident by her jubilant expression. “She has penned some wonderful stories.”

Anne glanced at the door. “Henriette must be caught up in conversation. We really must return to the Comtesse’s guests. Her Salon means a great deal to her, so much so that she didn’t want to cancel it in her absence. My apologies for Henriette—”

Nicolas raised a hand. “No need to apologize. Thomas and I arrived quite unexpectedly.”

“Please, join us,” Camille said. “We’ll introduce you to your grandmother’s friends.”

“That is very gracious of you, Camille,” Nicolas said. “In fact, I wish to learn as much as I can about my grandmother, but our trip from Varise was a lengthy one. We’re terribly exhausted. I hope you understand if we decline?”

Anne was more than a tad relieved, needing space between her and the far-too-attractive Nicolas de Savignac. “Of course. I’ll ask Vincent to show you to your rooms, where you can rest and refresh yourselves.” The faster she left the room, the sooner her pulse would return to normal.

“Will you be staying awhile?” Anne disliked the hopeful tone in Camille’s voice and immediately worried about the answer.

“Having come all this way,” Nicolas responded, “I don’t wish to leave without seeing my grandmother. I’ve heard her sister is a robust woman in both health and form. I have a feeling the Comtesse will return soon enough. Until then, Thomas and I will be staying, and I shall anxiously await her arrival.” He smiled.

Anne’s stomach dropped.

He could be here
weeks
. Oh, this was bad. Very bad. Especially since she found the notion as appealing as it was disquieting.

His light-colored eyes moved to Anne as he said, “There will be plenty of time to get to know each other.”

*****

Nicolas listened to the retreating footsteps of the two Vignon sisters from behind the drawing room’s closed doors. Only when he could no longer hear the sound of heels clicking against marble did he grin, saunter over to a chair and drop into it.

“Nicolas,” Thomas said, dragging a chair over to him and sitting down. “You are in the wrong profession, my friend. You should take to the stage. That was quite a performance you gave.”

Still smiling, Nicolas propped his boots on a nearby settee and linked his fingers behind his head. “It worked, didn’t it? We have their sympathy. Moreover, we have unfettered access to the hôtel and the lovely authors who live in it.”