A Proposition For The Comte

But Antonia had not finished with all her questions. ‘I have heard you have bought a house in Sussex, my lord, and a very fine one by all accounts.’

‘Indeed. I was down south for a few weeks last year and purchased it on a whim.’

A whim?

The Comte de Beaumont did not look like a man who ever acted upon whims. Light and fancy things, whims. When he saw Violet smile at such a musing his eyes darkened.

‘Would you like to dance, Lady Addington? I think I can just about remember the steps of the quadrille.’

She could not refuse under such close perusal, though Antonia did not look pleased at all.

Within a moment he had shepherded her on to the floor, the touch of his good arm burning into her back. When they stood to face each other she was lost for words.

‘Thank you.’ His voice was low and quiet.

For the lie? For the dance? For not calling in at the Home Office and telling them her story in detail? For standing there and pretending she did not know him? For rescuing him from certain death on a frozen night?

‘You are welcome.’

Here was not the place for more with the cream of the ton present, as their love of gossip and scandal could ruin him. Violet wondered if de Beaumont held a knife in his pocket even under the lights and among the rustle of silk. She decided that he must.

‘You have made quite an impression in society since arriving in England, Comte de Beaumont. Everyone is talking of you and you have not been here long.’

‘A daunting thing that, Lady Addington, given our circumstances.’

‘I received your note.’ She whispered this, just in case.

‘And I meant every word on it.’

She felt the tightening of his fingers against her hand, a small and hidden communication. Barely there.

‘Why?’

Suddenly she no longer wanted to be so careful. If he had murdered a man the other week he was not someone she should encourage. But then again if he hadn’t...

‘When someone saves your life there is a debt owed.’

‘And when someone takes a life it is just the same.’

‘Touché,’ he whispered as the dance pulled them apart into the arms of others.

When he returned she felt a giddy sense of place, but firmly squashed it down as his arms linked with her own.

‘Do you try to make yourself unattractive, Lady Addington?’

She nearly missed her step.

‘The turban does not suit you. Neither does the gown.’

The shock of such an unexpected and personal remark ran through her unchecked. ‘My dressmaker would be distraught.’

‘How old is the woman?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The female who fashions your garments? What is her age?’

Violet frowned, thinking of how hard she had worked all week to modify her ancient gown with her lady’s maid to make it presentable. She had never been offered a budget for clothing when she had been married and now even making ends meet was hard. Harland’s heavy gambling had all but ruined them, the town house the only thing as his widow she had been able to save unencumbered. There had certainly not been enough left for a refurbishment or for new gowns.

‘I think you should hardly be—’

He interrupted her.

‘Tell her to find a dark blue velvet and to slash down both the neckline and the sleeves. More is not always better,’ he added and she saw a definite twinkle in his eyes.

‘The Parisian love of decadence might not suit the British mentality.’

‘And you think the Puritan look does? Look around you. Others show much more than an inch of skin. You are still a woman beneath the heavy serge and one with gentle curves. I felt them when you helped me up from the frozen street.’

‘A gentleman does not mention such things, sir.’

‘Yet it seems to me you need to hear them, my lady. You are hiding yourself and I am wondering why?’

This sort of conversation was one she was unpractised at, though the tone of it was exhilarating.

‘Is every young lord in Paris tutored in this art of shallow flattery?’

‘I wasn’t at school in France.’

‘Oh.’ She was surprised by his answer.

‘I went to Eton and then on to Oxford. A proper English upbringing with all my manners minded.’

‘But then you left. You went home again?’

‘Home,’ he repeated, ‘is often not where one expects it to be.’

‘You talk in riddles, my lord, and I comprehend that your dancing style is so much more proficient than my own. Do not ask me to stand up with you again because I shall refuse.’

‘Because you would worry about the opinions of those around you?’

‘Oh, indeed I would, sir. If you do not realise that, then you fail to know me at all.’

‘A disappointing honesty.’

‘And there are so many more of them.’

‘Violet.’