London, England
Late March 1860
It had been four long months since he’d been with a woman; probably a year since he’d touched a woman whose name he remembered. Tonight, though, he intended to seek out companionship regardless of the circumstance. He needed a toss between the sheets as he hadn’t needed one in ages. Unfortunately, the circumstance to overcome was his very small selection of gently bred ladies flirting with discretion, snickering with intimidation, and prancing before him in a rainbow of richly colored gowns as they celebrated his distant cousin Beatrice’s coming out. A typical party he felt obligated to attend, one of the Season’s first, and not a great feminine offering for his trouble, to be sure.
The utter absence of female attention in his life of late was indeed a pathetic record, especially for him—Samson Carlisle, the most distinguished, roguish, scandalous fourth Duke of Durham. Or so he’d been told. What would his fellow noble rakes think if they knew of his recent lack of preoccupation with the gentle sex? He had his infamous reputation to uphold. Of course, nobody really knew him as they thought they did. Not even his closest friends. Yet he needed it to be that way.
Standing against a tall marble pillar of swirling bronze and gold, on the opposite side of the room of the elegant grand staircase, Sam steadily sipped a rather sour whiskey as he eyed the debacle on the dance floor before him. From his vantage point he could see most of the ballroom while still remaining relatively unobtrusive. He hated parties. He despised anything that drew attention to him, really, and nearly always being the highest ranking individual at any social function, not to mention one of the wealthiest, he tended to be the one person toward whom most people chose to gravitate. Sometimes it was obvious, sometimes not. Gentlemen wanted to discuss business propositions, young innocents giggled and begged for his interest with their eyes, married ladies flirted coyly, sometimes shrewdly offering their own invitations, which he refused, every one. The greatest lesson he’d learned in his thirty-four years was to never, under any circumstance, trust a married woman. Such faith in hidden, experienced charms would ultimately ruin a man. As it had nearly ruined him.
Groaning within, Sam had to wonder why his mind always wandered to his past at times like this. Considering lifelong struggles he couldn’t change did nothing but agitate his mind and body, on many levels. And an obvious agitation at a carefree event such as this wouldn’t help him seduce a woman, which was ultimately his only goal for tonight. He swiftly needed a change of attitude or he’d be riding home alone.
“Alone again, eh?”
That wry comment, echoing his thoughts, came from Colin Ramsey, his longtime friend, occasional competitor where women were concerned, and the only man at the party who fairly equaled him in rank. Aside from that, there were no two men more opposite in every regard in all of England.
“And you’re not, I’ve noticed,” Sam replied snidely without looking at him. “I think you’ve been with every lady here tonight.”
Colin chuckled. “I’m certain you mean only on the dance floor?”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally. Then yes, I’ve danced with nearly every lady here tonight.” He grunted. “My feet hurt.”
“Try soaking them,” Sam muttered.
“Ah,” Colin remarked immediately. “That’s what you do after a long night of waltzing?”
Sam fought the urge to snort. “Yes, that’s what I do after a long night of waltzing.”
Colin laughed again, glancing over his surroundings as he lifted his hand to take another full swallow of his drink. “You waltzing. On a frosty day in Hades,” he added over the rim of his tumbler.
Sam ignored that and sipped his whiskey, noting how Lady Swan’s daughter, Edna, didn’t look at all like a beautiful, elegant bird, especially in the low-cut chiffon gown of pastel pink that exposed her thick neck. Then again, Edna, who stole glances in his direction and smiled prettily at him as she twirled with Lord Somebody-or-Other, wasn’t all that unattractive. Sometimes in the future he might consider her a prospective wife, for she came from a good line, had a satisfactory face, and the general good health and roundness of hips to bear children easily. Producing an heir was really all his duty required, anyway. But in the last analysis, standard Englishwomen were one and the same to him, a blur of dainty expression, fair skin, and brown hair, and most of them bored him. He supposed at some point soon he would have to choose somebody to be his duchess, before he died of one malady or another and his wealth and assets became his brother’s. He would marry an angel of death before he allowed that to happen. But probably not sweet, rather ordinary Edna, and not anytime soon.
“She fancies you, you know,” Colin said, interrupting his thoughts.
Sam looked down at his friend, who stood only an inch or two shorter than his own extraordinary six feet three inches. Colin, who dressed only in expensive finery—tonight black and white silk—continued to gaze out across the dance floor, appearing totally at ease, as he always did under the scrutiny of the ton’s roving eye. Sam almost voiced his disgust, for as long as he could remember he’d felt a certain mix of jealousy and admiration for Colin’s easy charm, his confident, relaxed nature and intuition where ladies were concerned. In comparison, he had never had an easy moment with a woman in his life.
“She fancies my money,” he corrected.
“An obstacle of which you should be deeply proud,” Colin retorted.
He said nothing to that.
“Yet you don’t fancy her in the least I suppose,” his friend added.
“Not in the least.”
Colin took another drink from his glass. “I know her family has you on their short list of eligibles and she’s got a handsome dowry—”
“What are you, her mother’s bloody matchmaker?” He tipped his head in Edna Swan’s direction. “You’re not married; you court her.”
“I don’t need her dowry, either,” Colin replied nonchalantly.
Again, Sam had no comment, nor did his friend expect a rebuttal. They’d been bantering back and forth about nothing whatsoever for years, which Sam found appealing in their friendship.
“Holy God, did you see that?”
Sam started, surprised by Colin’s exclamation of shock. He gazed to his friend again to find the man staring across the ballroom toward the grand staircase, a landing just above the crowd designed to expose ladies in finery and mothers on the outlook.
“See what?” he asked, annoyed.
Colin grinned crookedly. “An angel in brilliant gold.”
Sam focused on the stairs of marble, noticing only two ordinary girls in pink as they stepped onto the dance floor and into a whirl of pastel skirts. Nothing as unfashionable as gold. Or was gold in fashion these days? “I take it you saw a lady you want to marry?”
“Yes.”
Such a blunt affirmation made him blink. His brows rose as he repeated, “Yes? You do know, don’t you, that the word marriage implies a lifetime commitment, something you’ve thus far been loath to sample.”
Colin ignored that fact completely, still mesmerized by the now-missing woman of his momentary blinding infatuation. “She’s magnificent, but I lost her after she descended the staircase.”
Sam grunted in satisfaction. “Pity. You’ll likely never see her again.”
Colin laughed. “Oh, I intend to see her again. It’s only proper that we be introduced before the wedding, don’t you think?”
It was, apparently a rhetorical question on his part, as Colin handed his empty tumbler to a nearby footman and walked away, quickly disappearing into the crowd.
“She’s probably already married,” Sam mumbled to himself, an affirmation of sorts that made him feel better. The most beautiful women, the most desirable women both in and out of bed, were always married. That judgment, over the years, had marred him. And on occasion saved him.
A pity indeed.
“Your grace?”
Sam turned his attention to his right to note with a trace of irritation that the Lady Ramona Greenfield had planted her statuesque figure beside him, a smile of genuine pleasure crossing her wide, thin lips.
“Lady Ramona, how are you this evening?” he asked appropriately, trying to keep a marked hesitation from his voice. There could only be one reason she’d sought him out this night.
“Your grace,” she repeated, curtsying once as he took her hand and raised it to his lips, “I have some interesting news for you.”
Sam sighed. The woman positively lived for matchmaking. “News?” was all he offered in response.
“More like an unusual opportunity, I suppose.” She patted down stray, graying hair on the side of her head in feigned hesitation. “An introduction, more precisely, if I may be so bold. Although I must say this introduction may be a bit…unconventional.”
The word “unconventional” made him frown fractionally. He had assumed such intrusion by Lady Ramona was in no doubt regarding Miss Edna Swan, and yet he couldn’t imagine the shy, unassuming girl asking Lady Ramona to arrange an introduction. “Please go on,” was all he could think of to say, his interest scratched.
The woman shifted from one foot to the other, gently pulling at the lace handkerchief wrapped loosely through her fingers. “Well, your grace, it seems there is a…” She leaned toward him and fairly mouthed, “Frenchwoman—who would like to make your acquaintance.”
His body went perfectly still. For a second Sam felt his gut clench, his hand tighten around his tumbler of its own accord.
A Frenchwoman. How utterly uncanny considering his past—and beyond his patience, his time. There was nobody else on earth he would refuse with more gratification.
Giving Lady Ramona what he thought was his most charming smile, he replied with a slight nod, “I must thank you for the opportunity, but I don’t think an introduction at this time would be appropriate, madam.”
Such a response was rude; he knew that the moment her lips parted in a trifle gasp. And yet in his position she’d never question it, or repeat it in better circles.
But to his surprise, Lady Ramona didn’t budge. Her face grew pink with discomfort and she fidgeted in her stays, but she remained determined in stance.
“Begging your pardon, your grace,” she said, her voice lowered as she leaned toward him, “but this Frenchwoman is…different. She’s quite insistent, and she is of exceptional quality, if I may say so.”
He supposed at this point she had to say so. But such a description piqued his interest, as she knew it would. His brows rose. “Indeed.”
Lady Ramona stood back again, smiling with satisfaction, relishing in the effect of her persuasion. “Yes, your grace. She asked for you by name.”
Now that ensured an introduction. Sam changed his mind suddenly, deciding that meeting a Frenchwoman of “exceptional quality”—whatever that meant—would at the very least be an enticing addition to what had so far been a rather banal party.
After handing his half-empty tumbler to a passing footman, he smiled wryly and gave the lady a slight bow. “Then it would be my pleasure to meet her and be formally introduced.”
Lady Ramona paused for only a second or two, her confidence obviously returned to her with the raising of her chin. She looked on the verge of adding something when another heavyset woman Sam didn’t know interrupted them both, whispered in her ear, and scurried off.
Lady Ramona gave him one more slight curtsy. “If you will remain here, your grace, I shall be back momentarily.”
“Then naturally I’ll stay rooted to the spot in high anticipation,” he replied.
For a moment she didn’t know whether he meant that sarcastically and if she should respond, then obviously decided against comment. With a rather unsure smile, she turned and left him, disappearing into the crowd.
Sam rubbed his tired eyes, his impatience returning. His goal for tonight was to find a woman to seduce, not to become disenchanted and turned completely impotent by meeting a Frenchwoman, someone he’d dislike on principle and would never consider bedding no matter how sexually attractive she might be. With it would come too many painful memories of a past he longed to forget. Sometimes living up to his title proved so very fatiguing, no doubt furthering his continued bad luck where women were concerned. He needed to get this so-called meeting he’d reluctantly agreed to done quickly, then make the necessary excuses and take his leave in search of a more tempting venue.
Then he saw the angel in gold. No, not an angel as Colin had described, for she was surely the same creature his friend had seen earlier, but an exotic goddess of rare beauty and haunting blue eyes.
It had to be the glint of her shimmering gown that impressed him first, drawing immediate attention to her tall, shapely form, as it was certainly designed to do. The rich fabric sparkled in candlelight, beckoning him to gaze upon her outlined figure of stunning distinction—long, slender legs that rose to gently rounded hips, a narrowed waist and lifted breasts that would fill a man’s hands—and then to a face that could only be described as one of pure, godly perfection.
He stared, enthralled, and for a timeless moment the vision rendered him dumbstruck.
She must have sensed his distraction, his surprise at the flawlessness of her beauty, for such women always could. Suddenly, as she neared him, one corner of her full, pink lips lifted into a knowing, wry, pleasure-filled smile. Of course she would offer him an amazing self-assurance, even defiance. She was French, after all. An intoxicating enchantress who used her assets. And she certainly had assets—of which he wanted no part.
Regaining his coolness, he clasped his hands behind his back, then purposely straightened his shoulders and stiffened, putting an invisible barrier between them. She stopped directly in front of him, next to Lady Ramona, who fairly preened with delight, all eyes in the vicinity focused on the three of them.
Sam mistrusted her immediately for no real reason he could define, and smelled her—pure vanilla and spice—the instant Lady Ramona began her introduction.
“My lord duke,” the matchmaking busybody piped in gleefully above the din of the orchestra, “may I introduce the Lady Olivia Shea, formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris. Lady Olivia, his grace, the Duke of Durham.”
“Your grace,” she murmured, with a curtsy, extending her gloved hand.
Her voice matched her appearance, an unusual, husky mix of sensuality, drama, and intrigue, carrying only a trace of an accent from her lips to his ears.
Sam reached out and wrapped his fingers around hers, tightening his grasp just enough to let her know that he’d be nothing to play with, that he remained the stronger of the two in this little rendezvous the Lady Olivia Shea had planned.
Aside from a slight narrowing of her eyes, she didn’t appear to notice his attempt at superiority. Her skin felt warm beneath the satin of her gloves.
The music drew to a stop as he murmured, “Lady Olivia, I’m enchanted.”
Lady Ramona clasped her palms together in front of her bosom. “Well, then, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”
He didn’t look at her but offered her a nod. Lady Olivia said, “Thank you ever so, Lady Ramona.”
The older woman hesitated, then cleared her throat to remind Sam that he still held to the beauty’s fingers. A social faux pas under any circumstance, and naturally a matron at the ball would take it upon herself to save his reputation. He almost laughed at the thought, but instead released the Frenchwoman’s hand as he should have seconds earlier. With that, Lady Ramona curtsied quickly and turned her attention to the crowd, waving to some other poor soul.
The music started up again, this time a waltz he didn’t recognize. He certainly hoped Lady Olivia didn’t expect him to ask her to dance. He loathed dancing. But at this point he wasn’t even sure what to say to her.
She continued to stare at him, intently, as her hands clutched a gold and ivory fan at her waist. Then she leaned toward him, her smile deepening as she whispered haughtily, “No more running, my darling. You can no longer escape me. I’ve found you.”
She’d found him? Frenchwomen were certainly bold in their propositions. He remembered that from experience, and a certain coldness enveloped him.
Sam smirked and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that sort of overture from a lady before,” he drawled.
For the first time since their eyes had met, the Lady Olivia seemed uncertain. She blinked, straightening a bit as her smile faded. Then she raised her chin again in a measure of defiance.
“Why do you continue to play games with me?” she asked with more annoyance than confidence. “Can you not even acknowledge me? Is the crowd truly that important to your stellar reputation? You don’t even look surprised.”
It was Sam’s turn to feel confused, though he did his best not to show it. “Surprised? I assure you, Lady Olivia, formerly of Elmsboro now of Paris, that very little about the French surprises me anymore.” He lowered his voice and dropped his head slightly closer to hers. “And as for playing games, I gave that up long ago.”
Her cheeks pinkened under the candlelight; her stunning blue eyes sparkled with a glint of ire. Sam didn’t even know what the hell they were talking about, but what really irritated him was his desire to continue the conversation. He supposed he just liked looking at her.
“You’ve ruined me,” she breathed, her voice and body suddenly hard with fierce anger.
Now he understood what they were talking about, and it enraged him. He fisted his hands in his pockets, careful not to draw attention to the two of them any more than she did just by being in the ballroom.
In an icy tenor he replied, “If you think to extort money from me by such a claim, I give you fair warning that no matter the boldness of your assertions, you will lose. My reputation is already floundered, my beautiful lady, and I have enough money to fight you to your grave.”
She wanted to hit him. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her gaze traveled up and down his rigid body looking for the best place to strike, in the tightness of every muscle in her body. But she’d never do it here in front of society’s elite, for she was far too refined. In some very strange manner, Sam found the entire thought a bit arousing, which thoroughly confounded him.
“Well, isn’t this surprising?”
Sam jerked his head back, noticing that Colin stood at his side again, another drink in hand as he glanced from one of them to the other. Lady Olivia took a step back in apparent shock as well, flustered, it seemed, as she opened her fan and began swishing it in front of her breasts.
“You are truly the fairest of them all tonight,” Colin said with a bow to her. “How on earth did I escape this introduction?”
Lady Olivia attempted a smile, curtsying briefly. “Good sir.”
He reached for one of her hands and gently kissed the gloved fingers. “I am Colin Ramsey of Newark, though I see you’ve met my friend first. How the angels must be weeping.”
She shifted her glance from one to the other, and Sam noted that she looked as unsettled by the interruption as he was, unsure what to do or say.
Sam suddenly felt confined, uncomfortable and hot in the muggy ballroom, wishing he could simply turn and walk away. But she had entered his very ordered realm of boredom with accusations and threats that disturbed him. His entire evening had shifted for the worse, and Colin was as charming as ever in his ignorance.
“Lady Olivia Shea,” he fairly barked in introduction, “formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris.”
Colin tossed him a confused glance, then gazed back to the goddess in gold.
“So do you count yourself a Frenchwoman or an Englishwoman?” he asked.
“I am both,” she offered, giving him a more genuine smile. “My late father was English, my late mother was from Paris.” She pinched her lips together and shot Sam a seething look. “My husband is English.”
God. A married Frenchwoman claiming he’d ruined her. Then again, maybe she would forget she’d accused him of improprieties after meeting Colin, London’s most eligible gentleman of charm. Fat chance, that, with his luck.
“Husband?” Colin slapped his chest with his palm. “You wound me, dear lady.”
Sam shifted from one foot to the other, his impatience growing, wishing he could tell Colin to get over it and go away.
Lady Olivia, however, had the decency to blush at his friend’s ridiculous feigned infatuation. Or so it seemed to him. Maybe her heightened color was a product of the heat.
“Is your husband here tonight?” Colin continued jovially. “I would like to meet the man whose good fortune is so obviously beyond mine.”
The Frenchwoman actually giggled—a melodious sound that rang in his ears of true innocence and joy. It totally unnerved him.
Then, in an instant of time, the Lady Olivia sighed and turned her attention back to him as she gave him a solid stare, her shy demeanor changing to one of pure smugness.
“Indeed, sir,” she said without pause, grinning pretentiously, her gaze focused and intense. “This is my husband. Did he not tell you of me? I am married to Edmund.”
It took hours, he thought, for her imperious and brazen announcement to invade his well-ordered, calculating mind; hours, it seemed, for him to comprehend the words she spoke and the central meaning behind them; hours for him to realize that in the slice of a second, this Frenchwoman of “exceptional quality” who stood before him had changed the course of his life.
Edmund. She thought he was Edmund.
The heat of the ballroom became thick and oppressive; the music a blaring cacophony. Expression controlled, he tightened his jaw, determined to remain composed even as his nostrils flared and his heart thudded suddenly from a dark, burning, surfacing rage.
She thought he was Edmund. She claimed to know the brother who nearly bankrupted him socially, stole the woman he loved, then left the country ten years ago, never to return.
This Frenchwoman had married Edmund. Or so she said.
Jesus.
She must have noticed his reaction, or perhaps rather his inaction to her bold affirmation, for at that moment she took a measured step back, watching him closely as her lips thinned.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you, my darling?” she asked haughtily, her shoulders rigid with indignation. “Did you think I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to look? Or perhaps you just assumed I’d no longer have the funds to leave France after taking them from me so surreptitiously.”
If Sam had been nonplussed by her beauty at first glance, he was veritably speechless now. There were so many questions rumbling through his mind. So many answers he would now be forced to obtain, answers that he really didn’t want to know, least of all relating to her personally. But as his head began to clear, as his heartbeat began to slow, he realized that this woman was the key to finding Edmund, to finally learning what his nefarious brother had done when he’d left all those years ago.
Thankfully, Colin remained quiet, obviously understanding the shock and probably just as confused by the lady’s pronouncements as he was. Yet he kept the slightest crooked grin on his mouth, no doubt enjoying this crazy turn of events, this spectacle, watching them both as he sipped his whiskey.
Sam ran his fingers through his hair, choosing abruptly, and without much malicious intent, he decided, to play the game subtly, if not dastardly. He would deal with the deception later. Right now he wanted her in the palm of his hand, so to speak.
“You seem to have found me just fine, Olivia,” he drawled, planting a wry smile on his mouth as he used her given name easily.
Colin chuckled. “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…”
Sam cast him a fast, silent warning. Then noting that nobody in their immediate surroundings appeared to be the least bit interested in their discussion, he reached out and clasped the Frenchwoman’s arm.
“Dance with me,” he whispered.
Her mouth dropped open a little at his daring, but she shut it again and smiled without humor. “I don’t think so. I am here to confront you, Edmund, not to dance—”
“Confront me dancing, then,” he interjected, pulling her against him before she could offer another protest.
She definitely didn’t want to dance. Her body remained tight with anger, her cheeks flushed by either the warmth of the room or continued indignation, he couldn’t be sure which.
Drawing her toward the center of the floor, he guided her into a steady rhythm, blending into the crowd that seemed to part for them. He supposed they made an appealing couple, both tall and dark, her clear, fair skin and blue, blue eyes contrasted by her nearly black hair and shimmering golden gown. No, he was quite sure it was simply her they stared at. He looked like an English nobleman; she looked…fabulous. The Lady Olivia Shea was undoubtedly the loveliest woman at the ball this night, possibly the loveliest woman he had encountered in years. And she knew him as Edmund. A profoundly uncomfortable turn of events, on every conceivable level.
“I see you’ve practiced,” she said with some impudence and an obvious irritation at being forced to waltz with him.
I see my brother hasn’t lost his touch for choosing sharp-tongued goddesses.
“What else is a man of my position to do, my darling Olivia?” he asked in reply, with all sincerity, observing that she danced quite well and followed his lead perfectly.
“Indeed. I didn’t know you were a man of such a grand one, your grace,” she fairly spat. “How convenient for you that you kept such intriguing information from me.”
Sam tried not to smile. God, she was dazzling. “You didn’t ask.”
She almost gasped. “You’re despicable.”
He did smile at that. He couldn’t help himself. “I’ve actually been called worse, but never by anyone quite so beautiful.”
Such a softly spoken admittance—whether honest or facetious—seemed to captivate her, if only for a second, as her brow crinkled and she appeared at a loss for words. Then she lowered her gaze and scanned others in their vicinity.
Seething, she repeated, “I didn’t come here to dance.”
His lids narrowed as he smirked. “So you said. And yet you’re marvelous at it. I could dance with you all evening.”
Again she appeared to hesitate, failing faintly in her stride, her expression exposing a trace of confusion. Then she shook herself, blinking quickly and finding her pace once more.
Looking back into his eyes, she tightly clasped his shoulder with her gloved hand and glared at him directly. “Why are you doing this? I don’t want you, your title, your name. And I especially don’t want you to speak romantic words to me, as we both know they mean nothing. They never have.”
He didn’t respond to that, only watched her.
The music came to a halt and they slowed to a standstill.
Swiftly, she stepped away from him as if scorched by his very presence.
Once more glaring at him, chin raised, her fingers clutching her delicate fan at her breasts, she murmured, “I want my money returned to me, Edmund. And then I want our marriage annulled. The humiliation ends here, or so help me, by all that is holy, I will ruin you.”
Although he did not take her threat seriously, he felt strangely troubled by her disclosure. Still, he wasn’t all that surprised by it. If in fact this woman had known Edmund, everything she’d said tonight could very well be the truth. The Edmund he remembered would have readily ruined a young woman, would have easily taken her fortune and disappeared, even married her for it beforehand. Such had always been his very conniving nature. Yet at this point Sam had no information about anything regarding his long-lost brother, and for all he knew, this Frenchwoman could be part of some plot to extort money from him—with Edmund’s help or without him. Just a mere knowledge of his and his brother’s sordid past could be used against them for a prize, and Lady Olivia Shea, formerly of Elmsboro, now of Paris, possessed the smarts to do it. He’d learned that much in the last ten minutes.
For now he couldn’t trust her, or any words she spoke from her beautiful, luscious pink lips. That was certain. But she was the first person in years to claim a recent, intimate relationship with Edmund, and such vital information, to him, was a value greater than a trunk filled with diamonds.
The music started again and the two of them edged toward the pillar to avoid the masses twirling in dance. Colin remained where he’d been standing, though he now laughed jovially as he spoke and flirted with three adoring ladies. Nothing ever changed—except that at this party Sam had the attention of the stunning Lady Olivia.
“Very well,” he maintained matter-of-factly, his hands clasped behind him as he gazed into her eyes. “Since I have no desire to be ruined, I shall do my part.” He paused, then teased, “If you do yours, Olivia.”
She blinked. “My part? I have no part in this scheme.”
He lifted his brows in innocence. “No? Then I’ll take it upon myself to find one for you.”
She was completely flustered now, her cheeks rosy again. He obviously infuriated her, and Sam wondered if his brother had done the same, feeling an odd satisfaction at the notion.
“My only concern is the House of Nivan, and you know it,” she whispered a shade above the music. “Aside from that, there is nothing between us, you cowardly man.”
Sam almost felt wounded. He had no idea what she meant by her “House of Nivan” comment, but if not for the fact that she assumed he was Edmund, her statement would have stung deeply.
Someone from the dance floor bumped into her, shoving her dangerously close to him. She didn’t seem to notice or care; her penetrating gaze never wavered.
“Get your finances in order,” she continued carefully, “and remember one thing…”
“Which one thing is that?” he asked softly.
She grabbed his arm boldly, clinging to him for support. “You’ll never have this again.”
Then on tiptoe, in the midst of a gathering of hundreds, she reached up and gently placed her warm lips on his, lingering there for the briefest few seconds before quickly trailing her tongue across his top lip and pulling away from him.
Sam swallowed, his body charged, his mind a sudden whirl of awareness, none of it good.
She toyed with him, using the expertise of the French, now smiling knowingly up to his face, her eyes gleaming with self-satisfied mischief.
He never moved, never acknowledged her action.
“You have one week, my darling husband, before I tell the world what you did to me.”
With a lift of her skirts, the Lady Olivia Shea turned her back on him and disappeared into the crowd.
Sam stood rigidly still, ignoring the laugh from Colin, ignoring the stares of the appalled, one thought penetrating above all others:
With her lies danger…