Surrender to a Stranger (28 page)

Armand appeared to consider that piece of information before asking, “What color is his hair?”

“Why—I am not certain,” she stammered. “I mean, he is always wearing a wig—he has several very beautiful ones,” she added, as if in his defense. “I have not had the occasion of seeing him without one.”

The idea that she had never seen him without his wig pleased Armand immensely.

“He has rather lovely eyes,” began Jacqueline again.

“What color are they?”

“They are blue,” she answered, this time with only the slightest hesitation. At least she was fairly certain they were blue.

“Pale blue or deep blue?” Armand prodded, sensing her uncertainty and taking satisfaction from it.

Jacqueline thought for a moment. “His eyes are a strikingly deep blue,” she finally announced with conviction.

“Unlikely,” he informed her. “If they were that striking, you would have remembered immediately.”

She gave him a disgruntled look. “Monsieur St. James, do you presume to tell me what my betrothed looks like when you have never met the man?” she demanded irritably.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice only slightly contrite. “Please go on. What more can you tell me of him?”

Jacqueline considered for a moment, astounded at her own lack of memory for François-Louis. It had been so long since she had given him any real thought, she was having trouble forming a picture of him in her mind. “Well, unlike you, he absolutely loves beautiful clothes—”

“I beg your pardon?” He looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

Jacqueline felt herself color slightly with embarrassment. “What I mean is that he loves clothes that are, well, colorful and highly decorated—”

“The dress code of the French aristocracy,” Armand interrupted, his voice heavily sarcastic.

“Well, yes,” admitted Jacqueline, “although since the revolution the fashions have changed. Nobles have generally been dressing in more simple fashions for fear of being harassed, but François-Louis loves fashion and simply could not bring himself to dress without ruffles.”

“It is good to live by certain principles,” remarked Armand dryly. “Strange,” he mused, “but I don’t remember seeing him in the courtroom. Did he decide to sacrifice his ideals and dress down for the occasion?”

“No,” she replied. “He was not there.”

Armand stared at her in disbelief. “His betrothed was about to be sentenced to death and he was not there? Why the hell not?”

Jacqueline sighed. “Other than in matters of dress, François-Louis has always erred on the side of caution. That is why he never wrote or came to see me after my arrest, and that is why he was not in the courtroom the day of my trial. He would have seen it as too risky.”

“I see,” said Armand, disliking the man more by the minute. “He did nothing to help you when you were in trouble, yet he expects you to save him now that he is in exactly the same position.”

“He expects nothing of the kind!” protested Jacqueline. “He merely sent me a letter informing me of his arrest and bidding me good-bye, which is entirely appropriate when one’s betrothed is about to be executed.”

“Really?” he drawled out. “How touching. Tell me, Mademoiselle, did you send him a letter from your cell saying good-bye?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Why not?”

Jacqueline hesitated. She was not sure why she had not written François-Louis from her cell. Perhaps because there were too many other things on her mind at the time. After all, she had been concerned about her brother. And her sisters. And furious about how the revolution had destroyed her family and her life. Quite simply, François-Louis had not been at the forefront of her thoughts. But she did not want to give that reason to Armand. To do so would be to suggest that his life was not important to her, and that might make him reconsider their agreement. “I did not write him because I thought to do so might make him suspect,” she lied.

“Where is the letter he wrote to you?” he demanded.

“It is in my cloak—I brought it in case you wanted to see it.”

“Later.” He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, was the marquis your choice, or your father’s?”

“He was my father’s choice,” admitted Jacqueline.

“And were you happy with his choice?”

She hesitated for only the barest of seconds. “Of course I was.”

The pause had been slight, but he noticed it all the same. He leaned back in his chair and tried to make his voice sound casual. “So you are in love with this man?”

Jacqueline sighed. “In January of this year, Nicolas Bourdon went to my father and asked for my hand in marriage. Louis the Sixteenth had just been guillotined, the monarchy was abolished, and the old order that went with it seemed to have been virtually destroyed. After several years of acting as my father’s friend and financial adviser, I suppose Nicolas felt that he was finally on equal ground with him, and therefore had the right to make an offer for his daughter.”

“But your father did not see it that way,” interjected Armand.

“No. And neither did I. Nicolas had been a friend of my father’s since 1788, the year before the revolution began. I was only fifteen when he began to visit us, and I always felt uncomfortable around him. I don’t know why, exactly. It was just a feeling I had, a feeling that somehow he was not what he appeared to be. He was always extremely polite, and my father enjoyed his company because he was well-read and had challenging ideas about liberty and the rights of man, and what the new social order would bring. He was also a successful investor, and my father was most anxious to learn how to manage his money, especially after feudalism was abolished and we were no longer permitted to collect taxes, which for centuries had been our sole source of income. Like many nobles, my father was not in agreement with that decree, but he could see the ideals of the time were riding on a crest of enthusiasm, and he had no choice but to accept it. He was, however, concerned about how our family wealth was to survive, and realized he had to act quickly to get his money working for him.

“Nicolas came to the château often to advise my father, not as an employee, but as a friend. He would stay for days at a time, but I only saw him during meals, or if he was out walking in the grounds. Somehow I always felt he was watching me, looking at me as if I was something he wanted. I tried to tell myself it was ridiculous, but at the same time I was careful to avoid being alone with him. Sometimes I would accidentally meet his gaze from across the table, and the intensity of his eyes would send chills down my spine. He looked as if”—she shuddered—“as if he wanted to
devour
me.”

Armand watched her in silence for a moment as she idly picked at her food. He could well understand how a man like Bourdon could want her with such overwhelming intensity. “And finally he decided to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

She nodded. “I suppose he felt the timing was right, and there was no need to wait any longer. I had just turned nineteen, and my father had not yet arranged a husband for me, because I was needed at home to look after Suzanne and Séraphine. Nicolas thought he was the perfect choice. He considered himself a family friend, my father liked him, and since he did not have a château of his own, he was more than willing to move in and live at the Château de Lambert.”

“But your father turned him down, because he was untitled and therefore common.”

“No doubt that was part of it,” Jacqueline admitted. “Like most nobles, my father felt the philosophy of equality among men was an ideal, a utopia to be strived for over the next hundred years, not an instant reality to be rammed down our throats and forced into our lives. Although we had given up our titles and our coats of arms, you cannot erase centuries of tradition and a deep-rooted way of life with one simple decree. My father liked Nicolas and respected his abilities, but he did not feel he was an appropriate choice for me. And I was perfectly happy with his decision, because I did not like Nicolas.”

“What did Nicolas do when your father rejected him?”

“At first he seemed to take it very well,” Jacqueline reflected. “He remained financial adviser to my father, and continued to visit the château. But his bold offer had startled my father, who suddenly realized I was no longer a child, and that other men might soon start to offer for me. And so he quickly negotiated a match with François-Louis, who was the Marquis de Biret. François-Louis was from an excellent family, he was relatively young and healthy, and most important to my father, his estate was not far from the Château de Lambert, so I would be able to visit often.”

“Did you know him very well?”

“No,” admitted Jacqueline. “I had met him a few times at various balls, but there was nothing between us other than friendship.”

Despite his conviction that he did not care, he had to ask the next question. “Tell me, Mademoiselle,” he began slowly, “if I save him and bring him back to England, will you honor your betrothal to him?”

His question took her by surprise. In truth, she had not really thought about her betrothal to François-Louis. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was going to return to France and kill Nicolas. Since she did not think she would be able to escape after that and return to England, her betrothal to François-Louis was not really an issue. But she did not want Armand to suspect her intentions. If he did, she knew he would do everything in his power to stop her, which might mean warning Sir Edward, who could easily arrange to have her watched constantly. It was best Armand think she was starting to accept her new life here.

“He is my father’s choice,” she began hesitantly. “He is French, and Catholic, and titled. He is from my world. If we married we would undoubtedly get along well. Besides, how could I not respect my father’s wishes?” It was not an outright yes, but it was very close.

“Indeed.” It was the answer he had expected, yet it annoyed him all the same. What the hell had he hoped she would say? And what the hell did it matter whether she married this fop or not? It was not his affair. The only thing that mattered at this moment, he reminded himself firmly, was that she was his for the night. He abruptly rose from his chair. “I believe it is time we retired upstairs.”

His change of manner was sudden and disturbing. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “So soon?” she asked, her voice thin and strained. “I thought I might have another glass of wine.” She was stalling, but she needed more time to prepare herself.

“I have wine upstairs,” he informed her brusquely. He could see she was reluctant to go with him, and that made him feel even more loathsome. After more than a year of celibacy, he was practically forcing a nervous, inexperienced virgin into his bed. What the hell was the matter with him? “Mademoiselle, do you wish to change your mind?” he demanded abruptly. If she did, he would permit it. He was not at all sure he wanted to save this man anyway. He sounded like a spineless fop, and Armand was not convinced he wanted to risk his life to bring him back for Jacqueline to marry.

She looked at him, her gray eyes wide with hope. “If I do not go to bed with you, will you save François-Louis anyway?” she asked, her voice soft and imploring.

“No,” he answered curtly. He felt like a bastard for saying it. “I will not.”

She hesitated. He was offering her one last chance to back out of their agreement. She could simply thank him for dinner, get her cloak, and leave. Since everyone in the Harrington household believed she had gone to bed early, she could easily sneak back into the house and no one other than the carriage driver would ever know she had been here. She would wake up tomorrow as untouched as when she had awakened today.

With the knowledge that because she had failed to uphold her part of the bargain, François-Louis was going to die.

She bit her lip in confusion. It was probably not so terrible to make love with a man. From her rather limited understanding, Armand would use her body to gain pleasure for himself. She thought back to Nicolas roughly forcing her against the wall of her cell and she shuddered. Once it was over she would never have to do it again. And since she had no intention of marrying François-Louis before she returned to France to kill Nicolas, the loss of her virginity was really not an issue. She lifted her gaze to Armand. His expression was perfectly neutral, as if it was of no interest to him whether she decided to go through with it or not. Whatever his reason for proposing this sordid agreement, it was obviously not out of some uncontrollable need to have her. That suited her fine. Perhaps that meant the entire ordeal would be over that much faster.

She lifted her chin and willed her voice to be steady. “Let us go upstairs.”

Armand released the breath he had been holding and went around to pull out her chair. He offered her his arm and together they silently walked out of the drawing room. His heart was hammering against his chest as they slowly mounted the stairs to the second floor. By the time they stood in front of the door to his bedroom, he felt as awkward and nervous as a schoolboy. This is ridiculous, he told himself firmly. Get hold of yourself. He opened the door.

Jacqueline stepped into the room, which was warm and lit by the soft glow of a dying fire. She stood in the center of the room and nervously clasped her hands, quickly taking in the dark, masculine furnishings that were so reflective of Armand’s taste. A thick, intricately woven Persian carpet of dark burgundy stretched warmly across the floor. In one corner stood a heavy chest of drawers, in another a desk, both simply carved and without a single ornament or paper cluttering their polished surfaces. She was vaguely aware that Armand had gone over to the fire and was adding more wood. She lifted her eyes to the bed. It was magnificently carved from the darkest, glossiest mahogany. She thought it must have been made for Armand, for it was longer and wider than any bed she had ever seen. She swallowed.

“Would you care for some brandy?”

She tore her gaze from the bed to nod vaguely and watch Armand fill a glass with amber liquid.

He poured her drink slowly, trying to think of some way to calm her. He wished he could have a drink also. He quickly shoved that thought aside and took the glass to her.