Lyon (11 page)

“What is it?”

His eyes turned furtive. “I'll tell you only this for now. That it's likely Satyr and his brothers are Europe's best hope for combating the phylloxera. He has admitted they're putting all their resources to work toward finding a cure. However, they cannot be allowed to succeed.”

“But why not?” she exclaimed.

“The time isn't right to talk of that. By coming here, I only meant to inform you that I'll be away today, but I'll expect all to be in readiness for your departure to Satyr's hotel this afternoon when I return to escort you there.”

Worry spiraled through her as she searched his eyes. He expected her to do whatever she had to in order to aid his devious plans, whatever they might be. To become a Trojan horse when she went to Lyon's hotel, bringing him trouble.

She was jarred from her thoughts in an instant, when Valmont shifted, laying his head at her breast as though he were a child and she his mother. Her muscles quivered in rejection.

“My
maman
died in childbirth. Did you know?” he murmured.

“Everyone knew the circumstances of your family. You were our livelihood. That of the entire village,” she answered brittlely.

He was quiet for a moment, then his hand moved, smoothing over her belly in flat circles. “Have you ever wanted children? A girl like young Fleur to suckle at your breast, or a son?”

His touch went higher over her figure, then gently curved around her breast. A forefinger found her nipple through her chemise.

She caught his hand, but not his eyes. “
Non,
” she whispered, staring at the far wall.

For a suspended moment, he did nothing. She sensed his frustration, felt its hard length at her hip, but at last he only gave her breast a quick squeeze and withdrew to stand beside the bed.

“Get some sleep. Tonight will be a busy one for you. I expect you to do your job well with Satyr. But not too well. I'm certain you know what I mean.”

“
Oui,
” she said in a small voice. She turned her back to him and heard him move away.

“You know I love you,
ma chèrie
,” he said from the doorway. “You do, don't you?”

She had believed him once. Her mistake. “
Oui,
” she said automatically.

The door opened and shut. After a moment, she peeked over her shoulder. He'd gone. The fact that he didn't see any need to lock her in was humiliating. He knew she was too much the coward to leave.

She stirred from the bed and went to the basin at her washstand. With trembling hands, she reached under her chemise and sponged his touch away.

If she hadn't let herself become such a mouse, she would take Fleur tonight and run. Leave Paris behind. But contemplations along those lines were ludicrous for one who could scarcely force herself to cross a bridge or gaze upon a river, much less flee across the countryside.

And once Valmont poisoned Fleur with his lies, would she be willing to run with her? Even if they fled, where would they be safe? Worries continued to chase around her mind with no finish line in sight as she slipped back into bed.

After a time, she rose again and took another weak dose from her vial. She'd spent the past three years in a living coma, calmly accepting and repenting. But tonight she felt herself beginning to hurtle toward some momentous, terrifying change the outside world was intent on thrusting upon her. She pulled the window shut, in an unconscious effort to keep it at bay. Eventually, she slept.

Sometime later, daybreak arrived outside her window. The masculine giant who—unknown to her—had guarded it from a distance throughout the night, stood from his bench. Stretching, he gazed toward the sunrise-pink river.

Then, he turned and loped his way through the winding streets of Île de la Cité, where he passed only the occasional straggler. Once on the adjoining island of Île Saint-Louis, he headed toward his lodgings, where he would sleep the day away.

And await Juliette.

T
he polished gilt knocker had tapped only once when the paneled door opened under Juliette's hand and Lyon appeared. His massive body stood blocking the late afternoon light from the windows behind him, casting his features in shadow. Though, actually, he lounged more than stood, with one muscular forearm braced high against the doorframe.

His gaze swept her approvingly as he took in her appearance. On her part, she was disappointed to see that he was every bit as handsome as she recalled. Same brawny, rugged body. Same devilish amber eyes. Same charming smile. However, she was in no mood to appreciate his physical attractions.

Less than one hour ago in her boudoir, her maid had seasoned and dressed her like a prize turkey. Now she was to serve herself up to this man along with a meal in hopes of wooing him into giving her what Valmont wanted of him. But she had arrived here with an agenda of her own as well.

“Welcome,” he rumbled in a voice that stroked her nerve endings. “I'm glad you've come.”

“You left me with little choice in the matter,” she said tartly.

He stepped closer and she took an involuntary step back. But he only reached out to relieve her of her basket. “You could've refused me, but I had the distinct impression it was your guardian you were loath to refuse.”

He was right, of course. Even now, M. Valmont and his coachman awaited her return, outside in a carriage. After dropping her off, they'd planned to station themselves close by at a vantage point that afforded a clear view of the hotel. Usually, Valmont remained at home when he sent her on these sporadic jaunts. That he had come along tonight and now twiddled his thumbs nearby said much about how important her work here was to him. Or about how little he trusted her with this man.

“Your kitchen and dining rooms?” she asked, ignoring Lyon's comment as her gaze searched the apartment beyond him.

Belatedly, he seemed to notice the trio of servants that had accompanied her.

“Through here,” he directed, motioning for them all to follow him inside. His rooms included a small kitchen for residents of means, and that was where he led them.

Her entourage paraded behind them bearing cooking utensils, bowls, woven baskets, and one domed silver tray. They lingered to help her unwrap and unveil, taking all but a few of the dishes with them so that she would be able to carry what remained when she departed. With any luck, that would be within the hour.

She scarcely paid Lyon any attention while she issued instructions and arranged her things on the counters to her liking. Once their duties had been executed, the servants bustled off and left her to perform hers. No one commented on the impropriety of a young mademoiselle tarrying in a hotel in the company of a worldly gentleman. It was tacitly understood by all what the entirety of her performance tonight would include.

Deep inside the bag of toiletries she'd brought was a leather godemiche and a syringe, both wrapped in clean linen. A bottle containing a contraceptive douche of astringent alum, hemlock bark, and raspberry leaf was secreted there as well.

Only she knew the complete truth of what went on at these tête-à-tête dinners. And she'd never yet reached the point of having to employ either the leather or the syringe. But every time she prepared yet another meal for an unfamiliar gentleman, she also prepared the antidote and equipment to prevent a child, and brought them with her to his lodgings. Just in case.

Once the last of the minions had gone, Lyon closed the door on them and rejoined her in the kitchen. When he didn't speak, she turned to find him poking among the things she'd brought.

“How long will all this take?” he asked, giving the whisk in his hand a perplexed look.

“Is there some rush?” she asked, removing the cheesecloth covering the butter and egg so that she could complete the sauce Béarnaise.

He glanced toward the window and her eyes followed his. The sun was low, less than two hours from dipping itself in the Seine.

“I admit I'm surprised you actually brought the makings of a dinner,” he said obliquely.

“It's what was promised,” she said, pretending for the moment that she wasn't aware of what else he no doubt expected of her. “I know it's early, but the time was an arrangement you specifically made. I hope you're hungry?”

A corner of his mouth turned up in secret amusement, as he studied one of her more unusual basters. “Oh, I am.”

“All will be ready within a half hour,” she informed him, deciding to assume he referred to their meal. “Would you care to assist me?”

He surveyed the scatter of utensils and foodstuffs doubtfully. “What's left to be done? Everything already looks and smells delicious.”

“I spent the day preparing things, and now it merely requires a last minute dousing of sauces and sprinkles. A bit of cutting, dicing. Here, tie this on, and I'll set you to chopping,” she suggested.

He took the oversized square of white linen from her and secured it over his clothes. “I'll warn you I'm somewhat clumsy among delicate objects,” he said, eyeing the herbs and vegetables that languished in fragile bowls.

“Nothing here is precious,” she said, quickly instructing him on the handling of tarragon and chervil. As she worked nearby, she observed him begin the unaccustomed tasks she'd assigned, finding him charming in his determination to get it right. She began to relax slightly under the familiar routine of preparing a repast and the fact that he hadn't immediately pressured her into his bedroom.

In view of his reputed wealth, his manner of dress continued to surprise her. He hadn't made any attempt to impress her tonight with flamboyant satins, but instead was as informally attired as he'd been last night, with the exception of the addition of a fawn-colored coat. It was impeccable but plain and she wondered if it was, in fact, his small way of trying to impress her. From time to time he shifted his massive shoulders within its fabric as though a tailored jacket were too great a prison for his well-muscled form. For a moment she forgot herself and smiled at him, her eyes full of sympathy.

Noting her gaze, he grinned at her, eyes twinkling. “Does domesticity suit me?”

“
Oui.
You are quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes upon,” she informed him.

He looked taken aback. “
Grazie.
”

He might doubt her sincerity, but she meant it. She had spoken compliments to many men at this juncture, but more often than not, they were lies. Not so, this time.

Besides, it mattered little what she said to him. He'd have forgotten her words and everything about their time together by morning. She would make sure of it.

He cleared his throat and turned to a collection of wine bottles on the sideboard. “I've procured some of my family's Sangiovese, vintage 1820, from the hotel's sommelier. A true Tuscan wine. Will you take some before dinner?”

“If you wish,” she said, hearing the pride for his family's accomplishments that was evident in his voice. Watching him from under her lashes, she continued to put the finishing touches on the meal he'd paid an astounding sum to Valmont to enjoy. Such a price was nothing to this man, she'd been told.

“Tell me,” she said once he'd poured and set the stemmed glass beside her. “What will you do upon your return home? I know your family makes wine, but what is your specific role in the operation?”

“Are these your questions or your guardian's?” he enquired.

“Mine, for now. But be warned I have brought his with me as well.”

His smile flashed and he toasted her glass. “Warning noted. In answer to your question, I'm in charge of much of the work during the fallow season. Once the harvest finishes, old vine stock must be removed. We cover the remaining vines' feet with soil to protect against frost. Later, there's the dormant pruning. And the first racking of new wine is traditionally done in January on the last day of the moon's waxing.”

“Why then?” she interrupted. “There's no such tradition in France.”

“It's a family ritual,” he said, a bit too casually. His gaze flicked briefly to the window, then back to her. “As is the planning for the winter and spring auctions. Another task that falls to me this year, only because my brothers and I alternate in the obligation.”

“The Valmont family held an auction each spring. When I was a girl…” She faltered.

“When you were a girl?” he prompted.

“Nothing of consequence. I only…I helped in the kitchens during several of the auctions. A lavish dinner was prepared for buyers who came from all over Europe.”

“It's the same for us. An elaborate dinner. Then we introduce the wine; there are tastings, social discourse. There is much talking around our true purpose, which is of course to sell our wine. A successful event is more crucial to the success of orders for it than you might imagine.”

His eyes went to the window again. He was looking at the sky, she realized. It was turning pink with the beginnings of a sunset.

“Why do you keep glancing outside?” she was driven to enquire.

An odd, significant look came and went in his eyes. But he only tossed back a drink, then said, “Tonight is to be a full moon.”

“And?”

“And I suppose I'm becoming…anxious…to get on with our evening.” His voice had turned low and velvet. As it had been in the Pompeii room at Valmont's. As it had been when he'd caressed and kissed her skin. As it would be again if she only could allow herself to give him what he expected of her once dinner was complete.

She looked away, wishing it were possible. Knowing it wasn't.

“Then you'll be pleased to know I pronounce our dinner ready,” she told him softly, lifting a platter and hoping he didn't notice how her hand trembled. “You may lead the way to your table, monsieur.”

Together, they carried the plates and bowls to the table, and she began naming the various dishes she'd chosen to serve. “First we have the crostini and white bean soup with escargot.” She lifted the covers from each as she spoke, and their mingled aromas began to infuse the air. “Then the poultry in Béarnaise, and fruit. And later, dessert.”

“Ah! To dessert!” He toasted the concept, then seated her and sat himself next to her at the head of the intimate table. Neither of them remarked on the fact that no dessert course was displayed.

As she watched him eat, relief began to fill her. He was taking her food. Food she'd prepared with her own hands. It was the first step in felling him.

However, his appetite for cuisine proved limited as was hers. He replenished their wine, and they quickly settled into a contemplation of one another and their drinks.

“You know much about the inner workings of my family, yet I know little of yours,” he told her.

Juliette sat back, relaxed by the knowledge that, within minutes, he would begin to feel the effects of having eaten her meal. The food had contained no secret ingredient. And it would have no unusual impact upon her whatsoever. However, though she'd never known why, all that was pertinent in initiating its magic toward another individual was the fact that she in particular had been the one to prepare and serve it.

She gestured expansively with the hand that held her glass. “Ask me what you will. I'm an open book.” It mattered not what questions he posed, for he would soon forget her replies.

He sat back, too, appearing somewhat suspicious at her willingness to talk. “Who were your parents?”

She smiled at him. “Madame Fouche. A plump, merry woman who taught me to cook and whose husband beat her when the whim took him.”

“He wasn't your father?”

“
Non,
and the madame wasn't my birth mother. I was a foundling, born in this very city.” With a nod of her chin, she indicated the spires of the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés, visible in the distance from his window. “But my family is a dismal subject. Introduce another.”

His eyes were sharp on her for a moment as his fingers stroked the stem of his glass. Then he spoke again. “Very well. I wonder at this odd arrangement you have with your guardian. The taking of bids for the offer of a meal and your hire. Most of your lofty status have long-term lovers.”

“Lovers.” She set her glass aside and folded her forearms on the table to gaze at him through lowered lashes. “Are you hoping to be my lover, Monsieur Satyr?”

His eyes filled with masculine speculation, but he didn't rush matters and only leisurely swirled his wine, studying her. “That and perhaps more.”

“More? What more do you imagine you might be to me?” she goaded sweetly.

“Your protector.”

A stab of longing shot down her spine, swiftly replaced by a spurt of anger. She lifted her glass and analyzed his features over its rim. “In my experience, men don't protect women. They put them in jeopardy.”

“Are we speaking of M. Valmont?”

She took a drink. “I don't necessarily speak of a physical jeopardy. I've heard the stories about you and your brothers.”