DANGEROUS DUKES

Rakes about town

Carole Mortimer introduces London’s most delectable dukes in her latest Mills & Boon® Historical mini-series. But don’t be fooled by their charm, because beneath their lazy smiles they’re deliciously sexy—and highly dangerous!

Read about all the daring exploits of these dangerous dukes in:

Marcus Wilding: Duke of Pleasure Available as a Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBook

Zachary Black: Duke of Debauchery

Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire

Rufus Drake: Duke of Wickedness Available as a Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBook

Griffin Stone: Duke of Decadence

And now …

Christian Seaton: Duke of Danger

Author Note

It’s so sad to think that I’ve written the final book in the Dangerous Dukes mini-series. I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them.

Christian Seaton: Duke of Danger is obviously Christian’s unique love story, as he meets and falls in love with an outspoken Frenchwoman, Lisette Duprée, but there will be lots of secrets and intrigue along the way!

I also couldn’t write this final book in the series without bringing back all the other Dangerous Dukes and telling you of their lives now with their own wonderful heroines.

Enjoy!

Christian Seaton: Duke of Danger

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROLE MORTIMER was born and lives in the UK. She is married to Peter and they have six sons. She has been writing for Mills & Boon since 1978, and is the author of almost 200 books. She writes for both the Mills & Boon® Historical and Modern™ lines. Carole is a USA TODAY bestselling author, and in 2012 was recognised by Queen Elizabeth II for her ‘outstanding contribution to literature’.

Visit Carole at carolemortimer.co.uk or on Facebook.

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To Peter, as always.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

August 1815, Paris, France

‘Touch one hair upon her head, monsieur, and you are destined to meet your maker sooner than you might wish!’

It took every ounce of his indomitable will for Christian Seaton, Fifteenth Duke of Sutherland, not to react or turn to face the person who had just spoken softly behind him.

Not because he was disturbed by the threat itself; his reputation as one of the finest shots in England was not exaggerated, and few gentlemen could best him with the sword either.

Nor was he concerned by the barrel of the small pistol he currently felt pressed against the top of his spine through his clothing.

Or that the person making the threat was a woman who, judging by her voice, was a woman of mature years.

It was the fact that the threat had been spoken in accented English which caused him such inner unease...

As an agent for the English Crown, Christian had arrived secretly in Paris from England by boat just two nights ago and, as had been planned, he had immediately taken up residence as the Comte de Saint-Cloud—an old and extinct title of his mother’s French family—in one of the grander houses situated alongside the Seine.

Since his arrival Christian had been careful not to speak any other language but French, which he could claim to speak like a native, once again courtesy of his maternal grandmère.

He had been especially careful to maintain that facade in the Fleur de Lis, a noisy and crowded tavern situated in one of the less salubrious areas of Paris.

That he was now being addressed in English brought into question whether this pretence in his identity had somehow been compromised.

He continued to maintain his comfortable slouch at a corner table of the noisy tavern as he answered the woman in French. ‘Would you care to repeat your comment, madame?’ he replied fluently in that language. ‘I understand English a little, but I am afraid I do not speak it at all.’

‘No?’

‘Non.’ Christian calmly answered the scornful taunt, although that feeling of unease continued to prickle inside him. ‘I am the Comte de Saint-Cloud—at your service, madame.’

There was the briefest of pauses, as if the woman were considering challenging him on that claim. ‘My mistake, Comte,’ she finally murmured, before repeating her earlier warning in French.

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘In that case, I confess I have no idea which “she” you are referring to.’

A loud hmph sounded behind him. ‘Do not play games with me, Comte,’ the woman growled. ‘You have had eyes for no one but Lisette since the moment you arrived.’

Lisette...

So that was the name of the beautiful young woman serving the tables situated on the other side of this crowded and noisy room.

Oh, yes, Christian knew exactly which ‘she’ this woman was referring to. Which of the serving wenches he had been unable to take his eyes off of for more than a minute or two since he had entered the tavern an hour ago.

And he was not alone in that interest, having noticed that several other well-dressed gentlemen in the room were also watching the young woman, if less openly than he.

The reason for those gentlemen’s slyness now become apparent to Christian—obviously they knew better than to openly show their admiration for the red-haired beauty, for fear of having a pistol pressed against their own spine.

He gave another glance across the tavern to where the young woman had been kept busy all evening serving drinks to the raucous patrons. She was unlike any other tavern wench Christian had ever seen—tiny and slender, with pretty red curls, hidden for the main part beneath a black lace cap, she was also dressed more conservatively than the other serving wenches, in a long-sleeved and high-necked black gown.

A mourning gown...?

Whatever her reason for wearing black, it did not detract in the slightest from the girl’s ethereal beauty. Rather it seemed to emphasise it; her hands and neck were slender, her heart-shaped face as pale and smooth as alabaster and dominated by huge long-lashed blue eyes.

She had also, Christian had observed with satisfaction, managed to neatly and cheerfully avoid any of the slyly groping male hands that had tried to take advantage of her as she placed jugs of ale down on the tables.

Unfortunately, Christian had not seen her until after he was already seated, his own table being served by a buxom and flirtatious brunette, and so preventing him from as yet finding opportunity to speak to the lovely Lisette.

A situation which Christian had intended changing before the night was over; a dalliance with one of the Fleur de Lis’ serving wenches would be the perfect means by which he might visit this tavern often, without the regularity of those visits being remarked upon.

He gave a lazy shrug now, again without turning to look at the woman behind him. ‘All of the ladies working here are very pretty, madame.’ Once again he continued the conversation in French.

‘But you have eyes for only one,’ the woman rasped in the same language.

‘Surely a gentleman is allowed to look, madame?’

‘One such as you does not just look for long,’ she said scornfully.

Christian was every inch the gentleman, known amongst English society for his charm and evenness of temper; indeed, he had long and deliberately nurtured that belief. But that was not to say that he did not have a temper, because he most certainly did; he simply chose to reveal it only to those who were deserving of it and on the occasions when it was most warranted.

But whether the French Comte de Saint-Cloud or the English Duke of Sutherland, he was obviously a gentleman, and this woman’s insults and overfamiliarity were deserving of such a set-down. ‘I take exception to your remark, madame.’ Christian’s tone was icy-cold, something that those who knew him well would have known to beware of.

Whatever the woman standing behind him knew of him, she obviously did not know the nature of him at all.

At least it was to be hoped that she did not...

‘One has only to look at the way you are dressed, at you, to know you are nothing but a rake and a libertine. Coureur!’ she added disgustedly.

While it might be safer for this woman to believe Christian was a rake, and the ‘womaniser’ she had just spat at him, than for her to have any doubts as to his identity as the Comte de Saint-Cloud, he still took exception to the insult. ‘On what grounds do you base such an accusation, madame?’ His tone had grown even chillier.

‘On the grounds that you have been undressing my...niece with your eyes for this past hour, monsieur!’ she came back disgustedly.

Her niece?

The beautiful girl, Lisette, was the niece of the woman standing behind him with a pistol pressed against his spine? Surely that claim did not make sense unless—

Unless...?

Very aware of that pistol at his back, Christian carefully sat forward, his movements measured as he turned just as slowly to face his accuser. His brows rose slightly as he instantly recognised her as being none other than Helene Rousseau, the owner of this Parisian tavern.

The very same woman who was both the reason for his clandestine visit to Paris and for his presence in the Fleur de Lis tavern this evening.

Helene Rousseau was the older sister of André Rousseau, the man known to have been a French spy during the year he had spent in England as tutor to a young English gentleman.

A year during which André Rousseau had also gathered together a ring of treasonous co-conspirators amongst the servants of the English aristocracy, as well as some high-ranking members of that society itself. Their aim had been to assassinate England’s Prince Regent, as well as the other heads of the Alliance, and so throw those countries into a state of chaos and confusion, allowing Napoleon, newly escaped from his incarceration on Elba, to march triumphantly back into Paris unopposed.

Christian had been one of the agents for the Crown who had managed to foil that assassination plot on Prinny. But not before André Rousseau lay dead in the street outside this very tavern, killed by the hand of one of Christian’s closest friends.

Christian was in Paris now because it was suspected that Rousseau’s sister had taken over as head of that resistance movement following the death of her brother. That she and her cohorts were still determined to undermine the English government, whilst working with those co-conspirators in England, by fair means or foul—and their methods had been very foul indeed—to find a way of releasing the Corsican upstart for a second time.

Indeed Christian, and several of his friends, had only days ago prevented news of the date and destination of Napoleon’s second incarceration from being revealed, when it was believed that a second attempt would have been made to effect the Corsican’s escape.

Nowhere in Christian’s information on Helene Rousseau had there ever been mention of her having a niece.

The same young and beautiful woman whom Christian had been admiring for this past hour or more...

A young and beautiful woman who wore black because she was in mourning for her dead father, the French spy André Rousseau? As far as Christian was aware, Helene Rousseau had no other siblings.

His eyes narrowed on the Frenchwoman. Also dressed in black out of respect for her dead brother? ‘I apologise if I have caused you any offence, madame.’ He gave a courtly bow as he stood up. ‘I assure you I meant none.’

Helene Rousseau was a woman of about forty, tall and voluptuous where her niece was tiny and slender, and the older woman had only a touch of red in her blonde hair; surely Christian could be forgiven for not having previously made the connection between an aunt and niece who were so different in appearance?

Especially as there had never been any information of André Rousseau having a daughter.

Hard blue eyes looked up at him scornfully as the female owner of the tavern continued to hold the small pistol at a level with his broad chest. ‘A man such as you would not be in such a lowly tavern as this one, monsieur, if you were not looking to corrupt one of my girls.’

Christian raised a blond brow. ‘Surely it is for those “girls” to decide for themselves as to whether or not they would see my attentions as corruption...or pleasure?’

‘Not if your choice is to be Lisette.’ Helene Rousseau looked at him with all the challenging hauteur of a duchess.

Christian bit back his impatience with this woman’s temerity, knowing it would not serve his purpose to antagonise her further; his intention this evening, to be taken for just another gentleman bent on pleasure, had instead incurred this woman’s notice as well as her wrath. Both of them he would rather have avoided at this stage of his mission. ‘I have given my apology if I have caused you any offence—’

‘I believe Claude wishes your presence in the kitchen, Helene,’ a huskily soft voice interrupted them.

A huskily soft voice that, Christian discovered when his gaze moved to Helene Rousseau’s side, belonged to none other than the beautiful Lisette herself...

* * *

Lisette had noticed the handsome gentleman with the lavender-coloured eyes the moment he entered the tavern earlier this evening; indeed, he was the sort of gentleman of whom any woman would take note.

He was exceedingly tall, with tousled overlong blond hair. The perfect fit of his black superfine coat over broad and muscled shoulders must surely be the work of the best tailors in Paris. As were the pantaloons tailored to his long and muscled legs. His black Hessians were so highly polished Lisette was sure she would be able to see her face in them if she cared to look.

But it was the hard masculine beauty of the man’s face which drew the eye; a smooth, high brow, sharply etched cheekbones, his nose long and aristocratic, and a sensual and decadent mouth that was not too thin and yet not too full either, above a surprisingly hard and uncompromising jaw.

The man’s most arresting feature by far was his eyes—Lisette did not believe she had ever seen eyes of such an unusual shade of lavender before—fringed by thick and curling lashes.

Eyes which she had sensed watching her this past hour, even as she went about the business of serving the many and increasingly inebriated customers...

The tavern was unusually crowded this evening, which was the only reason Helene had asked for Lisette’s help; usually the older woman did not allow her anywhere near the men who patronised this bawdy tavern.

Lisette had not initially noticed Helene approaching or speaking with the lavender-eyed gentleman; it was only when she could no longer feel the intensity of his gaze upon her that she had glanced across the room and seen the two in conversation. Even across the width of the tavern Lisette had been able to sense the tension of that conversation, her eyes widening in alarm as the gentleman moved and she saw that Helene held a pistol in her hand, and that pistol was pointed at the gentleman’s chest.

Quite what that gentleman had done to warrant such attention Lisette had no idea. As far as she was aware, he had not behaved in a rowdy or licentious manner, but remained quietly seated at his table without engaging with any of the tavern’s other customers. Nor had he been overfamiliar with Brigitte on the occasions she had served him with one of the tavern’s better wines.

‘I am Christian Beaumont, the Comte de Saint-Cloud, at your service, mademoiselle.’ That gentleman now gave her a polite bow.

Just as if Helene were not still pointing a gun at the broad elegance of his chest!

‘Lisette Duprée.’ She gave an abrupt curtsy, unable, now that she was standing so close to the gentleman, to look away from the intensity of that beautiful lavender gaze.

Christian repressed his smile of satisfaction at Helene Rousseau herself having effectively made the formal introductions possible. A formality that would allow him to more easily approach and speak to the lovely Lisette in future.

His gaze narrowed as he turned to look at the older woman. ‘Please do not let us delay you any further when you are so obviously needed in the kitchen, madame.’

Helene Rousseau’s mouth tightened even as she deftly stowed the pistol away in the folds of her gown. ‘You will remember all that I have said to you tonight, my lord.’ It was a warning, not a question.

Christian had every intention of remembering each and every word this woman spoke to him. Of dissecting it. Analysing it. In readiness for the report he would eventually take back with him to England.

And if it should transpire that Helene Rousseau was indeed behind the recent kidnapping of an innocent child, and the abduction and ill treatment of an equally innocent young lady, in order to try to blackmail information from the English government in the former, and repress information in the latter, then he feared there could be only one outcome to Helene Rousseau’s future.

An outcome that would result in the lovely Lisette being in mourning for both her aunt and her father.

‘I assure you, madame, my memory is impeccable,’ Christian answered Helene Rousseau softly.

The older woman gave him a long and warning stare before turning to Lisette, the hardness of her features softening slightly as she looked at the younger woman. ‘You must not linger here, Lisette, when there are customers needing to be served.’

‘As you say, Helene.’ Lisette’s dark auburn lashes were lowered demurely as her aunt gave Christian one last warning glance before departing with a swish of her skirts. In the direction of the kitchen, it was to be hoped.

Christian found it curious that the younger woman addressed the older one by her first name rather than as her tante. Adding to the mystery of this relationship, that no amount of watching and spying on both André Rousseau before the man’s death, and Helene Rousseau in the months since, had managed to discover, let alone explain.

‘Would you care to sit down and join me, mademoiselle?’ Christian held back one of the chairs at his table.

Lisette eyed him curiously. ‘I am at work, Comte, not leisure.’ And she would not have frequented a tavern such as this one even if she were.

Until just a few months ago, Lisette had lived all of her nineteen years in the French countryside, far away from any city, let alone Paris. It had been a shock for her to suddenly find herself living in such a place as this tavern, after the death of the couple she had believed to be her parents.

Believed to be her parents...

The truth of the matter had only emerged on the day of their funeral, when a carriage had arrived at their farm late that afternoon and a tall and haughty blonde woman had stepped down, a look of complete disdain on her face as she stepped carefully across the farmyard to the house.

Learning that this woman was actually her mother had been even more of a shock to Lisette than losing the couple she had believed to be her parents.

Helene Rousseau claimed Lisette had been fostered with the Duprées since she was a very young baby, and that they had been sent money every month for her upkeep.

Having never so much as set eyes on this woman before that day, Lisette had been disinclined to believe her at first. Although she could think of no reason why anyone would want to make such a false claim; Lisette was not rich, and even the Duprées’ farm had been left to their nephew rather than Lisette.

The reason for which had become obvious with the arrival of Helene Rousseau.

The older woman had clearly been prepared for Lisette’s disbelief and had brought letters with her that she had received every month from the Duprées, in relation to Lisette’s health and well-being.

It was the non-appearance of this month’s letter that had alerted Helene Rousseau to the fact that something was amiss on the Duprée farm; enquiries had informed her that both of the Duprées had died when a tree had fallen during a storm and landed on that part of the farmhouse where the Duprées’ bedchamber was situated.

Lisette had only needed to read three of those letters sent by the Duprées to Helene Rousseau to know that the older woman was telling the truth; Lisette was indeed the other woman’s illegitimate daughter.

What had followed still seemed like something of a dream to Lisette—or perhaps it might better be described as a nightmare?

Her belongings had all been quickly packed into a trunk—Helene Rousseau had disdained the idea of spending so much as a single night at the farm—after which Lisette had been bundled into the coach with the other woman before then travelling through the night to Paris.

If Helene Rousseau had found the sight and sounds of the farmyard unacceptable, then Lisette had been rendered numb by the noise and dirt of Paris as the carriage drove through the early morning streets.

Tradesmen were already about, hawking their wares amongst the people lying drunk in shop doors and alleyways, several overpainted and scantily dressed ladies slinking off into those same alleyways as the carriage passed by them.

The tavern Helene Rousseau owned and ran had been even more of a shock, situated as it was in one of the poorer areas of the city, with patrons to match.

It had been no hardship at all for Lisette to remain apart from such surroundings. To keep mainly in the bedchamber assigned to her by Helene—even all these weeks later Lisette could not think of the older woman as anything more than the woman who had given birth to her before then abandoning her for the next nineteen years. As far as Lisette was concerned, sending money for her daughter’s upkeep did not equate to love on Helene Rousseau’s part, only a sense of responsibility; the other woman had made no attempt in all of those years to actually see or speak with her daughter.

Given a choice, Lisette would not have travelled to Paris with Helene Rousseau at all. But she did not have a choice. How could she, when she had no money of her own, her foster parents were both dead and their nephew had made it clear that she could not continue to live on the farm once he had moved there with his wife and large family?

But within days of arriving in Paris, Lisette had come to hate it with a vengeance. It was smelly and dirty, and the people she occasionally met out in the streets or the tavern were not much better. And Helene Rousseau proved to be a cold and distant woman with whom Lisette had nothing in common but her birth.

There was also deep unrest still amongst the Parisian people, who had first had a king, then an emperor, then a king again, and then again an emperor, only for that emperor to then once again be deposed and their king returned to them.

Such things had not affected Lisette when she’d lived on the farm with the Duprées. There they had only been concerned with caring for the animals, and the setting of and then bringing in of the harvest each year.

But political intrigues seemed to abound in Paris, with neighbour speaking out against neighbour, often with dire consequences.

Lisette also strongly suspected there were meetings held in one of the private rooms above the tavern, in which that political unrest was avidly and passionately discussed. Meetings over which Helene Rousseau presided...

‘Then perhaps you might meet with me outside and join me for a late supper at my home when you have finished your work for the night...?’

Lisette’s eyes widened in shock as she looked up at the handsome gentleman who did not seem as if he should be in such a place as this lowly tavern at all, let alone asking one of the serving women if she would meet him for supper.

No doubt he was one of those gentlemen the Duprées had warned her of when she’d reached her sixteenth birthday and had shown signs of developing a womanly figure. Gentlemen who gave not a care if they disgraced an innocent, before continuing merrily on their way.

‘I am afraid that will not be possible, Monsieur la Comte—’ She broke off as the lavender-eyed Comte stepped forward to prevent her from leaving. ‘I must return to my work, monsieur,’ she insisted firmly.

Christian found that he had no wish for Lisette to return to her work. Indeed, he discovered he was not favourably inclined to this young and beautiful woman working in this tavern at all.

It was a lowly, bawdy place, where he had just observed a man thrusting his hand down the low-cut bodice of a barmaid’s gown, before popping that breast out completely so that he might fondle and suckle a rosy nipple. Where in another shadowy corner of the tavern he could see another couple, the woman’s skirts pushed up to her waist, the man’s breeches unfastened, as the two of them actually fornicated in front of all who cared to watch.

Christian, for all his previous sins, most certainly did not care to view so unpleasant a sight.

Indeed, he had begun to find the whole atmosphere of this tavern to be overly lewd and oppressive.

And this delicate woman certainly did not belong in such a place, no matter what her biological connection to the patroness might be.

He curled his fingers lightly about the slenderness of Lisette’s arm. ‘I will be waiting outside in my carriage for you to join me from midnight onwards—’

‘I cannot, monsieur.’ Her eyes had filled with alarm. ‘Tonight or any other night.’

‘I mean you no harm, Lisette.’ Christian sighed his frustration with her obvious distrust. ‘You must know that you do not belong here?’

Tears now swam in those exquisite blue eyes. ‘I have nowhere else to go, monsieur.’

Rescuing an obvious damsel in distress was not part of Christian’s mission. Indeed, his superiors in government would say it was the opposite of his purpose here. Most especially when that damsel was the niece of the woman—and quite possibly the daughter of the rabble-rouser André Rousseau?—he had come here to observe.

He released her arm reluctantly. ‘I will be waiting outside for you in my carriage from midnight anyway, just in case you should change your mind...’

‘I cannot, monsieur.’ She cast a furtive glance towards the kitchen as the door swung open and Helene Rousseau strode back into the noisy tavern, her shrewd eyes narrowing as she saw Christian and Lisette were still standing together in conversation. ‘I must go.’ Lisette stepped hastily away from him. ‘For your own sake, monsieur, I advise you do not come here again,’ she added in a whisper.

Christian considered that warning some minutes later as he sat in his carriage on the way back to his house beside the Seine, and he could come to only one conclusion.

That the lovely Lisette was frightened of her aunt...

Chapter Two

Lisette went about the rest of her work in a daze following the Comte’s departure just minutes after their conversation came to an abrupt end.

In response to her warning, she hoped.

Although he had not appeared to be the sort of gentleman who would frighten easily.

As she was frightened.

The Comte de Saint-Cloud was perfectly correct in his concern for her well-being here, with the drunkards and bawds. Much as Helene might try to protect her.

But what else did the Comte have to offer her, besides supper and no doubt a seduction within his home; he might be wealthier and more highly born than the usual patrons of the Fleur de Lis, but he was no more to be trusted than the other men who came here, who would all willingly throw up her skirts and take her innocence, given the opportunity and the chance to escape from Helene’s sharp-eyed gaze.

The Comte might do it more gracefully, and no doubt in pleasanter surroundings, but he would still take what Lisette did not wish to give. Before walking away unconcernedly to rejoin others of his class and forgetting completely the young woman whom he had seduced. And ruined.

The fact that he had frequented such a tavern as this at all was suspect. And surely indication of his intention to find a woman he might take to bed for the night, before having one of his servants show her the door in the morning, when he had no further use for her?

Lisette knew that could be the only possible reason for such a fine and titled gentleman to so much as enter a lowly tavern such as this one.

And yet for just a few moments, a minute perhaps, something had burgeoned inside her chest—a temptation to accept his offer of joining him for a late supper—in the hope that he might offer to take her away from this lowly place, which she hated to her very soul.

* * *

‘You might as well stop mooning over the Comte,’ Helene sneered several hours later, after having thrown out the last of her drunken customers into the alleyway at the back of the tavern, before locking the door behind her. ‘He will not be returning here.’

Lisette looked at the older woman searchingly, easily noting the satisfaction in Helene’s expression. ‘How can you be so sure...?’

Hard blue eyes flashed a warning. ‘You will not question me as to my...methods, Lisette.’

Her alarm deepened. ‘I am sure Monsieur le Comte meant no harm when he spoke to me earlier.’

‘I believe it is past time you retired to your bedchamber, Lisette,’ Helene dismissed. ‘You have been most helpful this evening, but I do not think we will repeat the experience.’

‘But—’

‘Go to bed now, Lisette.’ The older woman snapped her impatience as a knock now sounded softly on the closed back door of the tavern.

Lisette bit back her next comment, that discreet knock on the door warning her that this was one of those nights when Helene was to have another of her meetings.

Clandestine meetings, with men—and women?—who either did not want to be seen frequenting the tavern or openly associating with Helene Rousseau. Or perhaps both? The Fleur de Lis and its customers were certainly not for the faint-hearted, or those members of society who should not even know such a woman as Helene Rousseau existed, let alone be calling upon her in the dark of night.

None of which helped to dispel Lisette’s concerns for the welfare of the Comte de Saint-Cloud.

She had learned these past weeks that Helene was a powerful woman in these shadowed alleyways of Paris, with a knowledge of most, if not all, of the thieves and murderers that frequented them. It would be the simplest thing in the world for the older woman to request the assistance—after silver had exchanged hands, of course—of any one of those cut-throats in her desire to ensure the Comte de Saint-Cloud did not return.

Could not return.

‘Certainly, Helene.’ She made a curtsy before taking a lit candle and hurrying up the stairs to her bedchamber, only to then pace the small room restlessly as she tried to decide what she should do next.

She really could not allow the Comte de Saint-Cloud to come to harm just because he had dared to speak with her.

She had heard the murmur of voices in the hallway outside some minutes ago, followed by a door closing, which meant that Helene would now be kept occupied with her late night callers. If Lisette was very quiet, she could move softly along the hallway and down the stairs, leave a window open downstairs at the back of the tavern ready for her to climb into upon her return, and then—

And then what?

The Comte had said his house was situated by the river, but just the thought of being out alone at night in Paris was enough to cause a quiver of fear to run the length of Lisette’s spine. These streets were unsafe for a lone woman in the daytime; at night she would be an easy target for much more than the thieves and bawds.

And the Comte de Saint-Cloud?

Her thoughts always came back to him, and the look of determination on Helene’s face when she had said he would not be returning to the tavern. Such certainty of purpose could surely mean only one thing? Nor did Lisette make the mistake of underestimating Helene’s ability to carry through with that purpose; many of the men who frequented the tavern, hard and callous men, were obviously in awe of the Fleur de Lis’ patroness.

Lisette could not bear to think of the handsome Comte’s lavender-coloured eyes closing forever.

Just as she could not continue to stay here in her bedchamber, acting the coward, when even now Helene’s cut-throats might be closing in for the kill.

Lisette’s spine straightened with a resolve she could not allow to waver as she pulled on her black bonnet and gathered up her black cloak—mourning clothes for the uncle she had never met—before quietly opening the door to her bedchamber and peering out to ensure that the hallway was empty. Assured it was so, she quietly slipped from the room and down the stairs. With any luck she would be able to find and visit the Comte’s home, issue a warning and return to the tavern before Helene was any the wiser.

If not...

Lisette did not care to think of what might happen if she was too late to warn Monsieur le Comte.

Or of Helene’s fury if Lisette did not return to the tavern before her absence was discovered.

* * *

Christian stood in the shadows of a doorway, a safe enough distance from the Fleur de Lis, but close enough that he was able to see the dozen or so gentlemen and two ladies, who had entered through the back door of that establishment during the past half an hour.

He was under no illusions as to the reason for their clandestine visit, knew that he must have stumbled upon one of the secret meetings of Helene Rousseau and her co-conspirators.

Stumbled, because Helene Rousseau was not the reason Christian had come back to the tavern tonight.

He had returned briefly to his house by the Seine after leaving the tavern earlier, going inside to his bedchamber so that he might change into dark clothing, before going out again. He had ordered his groom to wait with the carriage several streets away from the Fleur de Lis, before wrapping his dark cloak about him to move stealthily through the pungent and filthy alleyways to the doorway across and down the street from the tavern.

The tavern was in darkness apart from a single candle burning in one of the bedchambers above, which, from the slightness of the silhouette of a person he could see pacing back and forth past the curtained window, might possibly be the bedchamber of the lovely Lisette.

When even that candle was extinguished just minutes later, the tavern was left in complete darkness.

And Christian with a feeling of disappointment.

It had been too much to hope for, of course, that Lisette would change her mind and join him for a late supper. She did not know him, nor did she seem the type of young lady who would sneak out of her aunt’s home in the middle of the night with the intention of dining alone with a gentleman. Even without her eagle-eyed aunt acting as her protector.

That look of innocence, and the tears that had shone in those huge blue eyes earlier when Lisette had told him she had ‘nowhere else to go’, could all be an act, of course. Nothing more than the clever machinations of an innocent-looking whore in search of a rich protector. Christian was sure he would not be the first gentleman to fall for such an act.

Yet there had been a sincerity to Lisette Duprée. An indication, perhaps, that her innocence might be genuine.

And Christian could just be the biggest fool in Paris for giving that young woman so much as a second thought. Indeed, Helene Rousseau’s warning earlier, in regard to his staying away from her niece, might all be part of the ruse to pique and hold his interest, rather than the opposite.

There was also that disturbing moment to consider when Helene Rousseau had initially spoken to him in English. A test, perhaps, to see if he would respond in kind? Or possibly because she already knew he was not the Comte de Saint-Cloud?

If that was the case, then Christian’s presence in Paris was a complete waste of time, and he would learn nothing. Except perhaps to feel the sharp end of a blade piercing his back when he least expected it.

Even more reason for Christian to concentrate on the meeting now taking place within the tavern, and the identity of the people present.

Rather than, as he had been doing, imagining how Lisette would look as she lay in her bed...

Would she be dressed demurely in a night-rail, or did she sleep naked?

Would her breasts be tipped by rosy nipples or darker plum-coloured ones?

And would the silky thatch between her thighs be as vibrant a red as the curls—?

‘Monsieur le Comte...?’

It would be an understatement, considering the direction of his thoughts, to say that Christian was startled to hear the sound of Lisette’s soft and huskily enquiring voice beside him.

Startled and not a little annoyed with himself for being so distracted by thoughts of this beautiful young woman that he had not even noticed her leaving the tavern, let alone approaching him. Such inattentiveness could easily get a man killed.

Christian gathered his thoughts as he turned to face her, approving of the fact that she at least wore dark clothing, as he did, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her bonnet, hiding the brightness of her hair. ‘I am gratified to see you have changed your mind about joining me for supper, mademoiselle,’ he answered her flirtatiously.

‘We cannot stay here, where we might be seen at any moment, monsieur,’ she came back urgently.

‘No, of course not,’ Christian readily accepted as he took a firm hold of her arm. He might now have to abandon his interest in the identity of the people who had so recently entered the tavern so surreptitiously but he had the next best thing: Helene Rousseau’s niece. ‘My carriage is waiting for us—’

‘Oh, no, monsieur, I cannot come with you. I wished only to—’

‘Hush!’ Christian warned sharply as he pulled her into his arms and pressed her back into the shadows of the doorway, having noticed that several cloaked figures were now leaving the tavern.

‘Monsieur!’ Lisette protested indignantly.

‘Hush—’

‘Monsieur, I must protest—’

Christian could think of only one way he might prevent Lisette from alerting others to their presence here with her verbal indignation at his manhandling of her.

He took it.

Lisette’s protests died in her throat, to be replaced by surprise and then pleasure, as the Comte took masterful possession of her lips with his own.

She had never been kissed before, nor had she ever dreamed that her first kiss would be with such a man as the handsome Comte de Saint-Cloud.

That he was an expert in such things came as no surprise to her; he was at least a dozen years her senior, and there was about him an air of ease and sophistication that spoke of his knowledge of women.

Even knowing that, Lisette was immediately lost to everything but the wonder of Christian Beaumont’s mouth on hers. His arms were firm about her as he held her against the hardness of his body, and the warmth of his tongue dared a caress across her lips to part them and deepen the kiss.

Heart pounding, Lisette’s hands moved to cling to the folds of his evening cloak, as she felt herself completely overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through her body: excitement and pleasure. The latter manifested itself in the tightening of the bodice of her gown, as if her breasts were swelling, the rosy tips tingling, and there was an unfamiliar but not unpleasant warmth blossoming between her thighs.

It was singularly the most wonderful experience of her short lifetime, beyond any imagining, beyond—

The Comte brought the kiss to an abrupt end as he lifted his mouth from hers. ‘Do not speak, Lisette,’ he warned softly against her ear. ‘Whatever happens, do not speak.’

Whatever happens...?

Lisette felt too dazed still to understand what he meant by that. What did he imagine was going to happen? A kiss was a kiss, but anything more than that was unthinkable. And if the Comte thought— If he imagined for one moment—

‘Feel like sharing, mon ami?’

‘For the price I paid for her? Non.’ The Comte turned his head to answer the intruder with a dismissive laugh, at the same time as the bulk of his body managed to keep Lisette shielded from any gaze that might try to pry any further into the doorway. ‘I intend to take my money’s worth and more!’

‘Bon chance!’ another man called out laughingly as the two continued on their way.

Lisette’s face paled as she listened to the exchange between the three men, shocked by the earthiness of the conversation but also realising the Comte must have been protecting her from the attentions of the other men when he pushed her into the doorway.

At the same time she felt disappointed to realise that the Comte had kissed her for the same reason. It was a little humiliating to realise how much she had enjoyed the kiss when, to the Comte, it had only been a means of silencing her.

She pushed determinedly against the muscled chest pinning her in the doorway. ‘I believe we are alone again now, monsieur. You may release me,’ she instructed sharply as she failed to shift him by so much as an inch.

Christian had no desire to ‘release’ Lisette. Indeed, the opposite. He wanted to kiss her again, this time without the distraction of the approach of the two gentlemen he had noted leaving the tavern; Helene Rousseau’s meeting was obviously over for tonight. Which meant that more of the co-conspirators would shortly be leaving the tavern too.

‘We need to leave here, Lisette.’

‘I came only to warn you—’

‘Warn me?’ Christian questioned sharply as he stepped back slightly to look down at her. Not that he could see very much; the streets were dark, and the doorway even darker.

‘My—Helene did not take kindly to your attentions to me earlier this evening, monsieur—’

‘Christian. Call me Christian,’ he instructed shortly, having duly noted Lisette’s slight hesitation after ‘my’.

‘It is not permissible—’

‘I just kissed you, Lisette,’ he drawled. ‘I believe that now makes many things between the two of us “permissible”.’

She drew in a soft gasp. ‘It is ungentlemanly of you to talk of such things.’

Christian wanted to do more than talk about them; the throb of his arousal told him he wanted to kiss Lisette again, and keep on kissing every inch of her as he made full and pleasurable love to her. Which, given their circumstances, was beyond reckless of him.

Not only were they in a precarious position out here where they might be seen together, but also he still did not know whether Lisette was all that she appeared to be, or if she was working in cahoots with her aunt. Until he did know he would be wise to treat her, and anything she said to him, with suspicion.

Which would be easier for him to do if only she did not have those deep blue eyes he wanted to drown in, and those soft and delectable lips he wished to kiss and keep on kissing...

‘We cannot stay here, Lisette.’ Christian took a firm hold of her arm to pull her along at his side as he stepped out of the doorway and began to walk quickly away from the tavern. ‘My carriage is but a short distance away. We will talk again once we are inside and well away from prying eyes and ears.’

‘Please—I must return to the tavern before I am missed,’ Lisette protested as she almost had to run to keep up with the Comte’s much longer strides or risk falling over onto the dirty cobbles beneath her feet.

The Comte either did not hear her or chose to ignore her as he continued to stride purposefully, and knowledgeably, down several alleyways Lisette had not even known were there, despite having lived in Paris for some weeks now.

A carriage waited in the shadows of one of the streets, and it was towards this vehicle that the Comte now guided her as a groom jumped quickly down to hold the door open for them both to get inside.

Lisette held back from entering the carriage. ‘It is impossible for me to go with you, monsieur— Umph!’ The rest of Lisette’s protest was cut off as the Comte de Saint-Cloud unceremoniously picked her up in his arms and deposited her inside the carriage before tersely instructing the groom to move on as he joined her and the door was firmly closed behind him.

A lantern lit the inside of the heavily curtained carriage—which was perhaps the reason Lisette had not been able to see the light before now?—allowing her to appreciate the plushness of the interior.

And the man now seated opposite her...

His hair shone like burnished gold in the lamplight, those lavender eyes narrowed in a face that was far too handsome for any woman’s comfort. Especially so, when he had kissed that woman a short time ago and she was now alone with him in his carriage.

‘You take liberties, monsieur.’ Lisette glared across at the Comte as she now straightened her bonnet from where it had been knocked askew when he had picked her up and thrust her inside the carriage.

Some of the Comte’s tension seemed to ease and he relaxed back against the upholstery as the carriage began to move forward. ‘You are the one who came looking for me, Lisette, remember.’

She did remember. And she now regretted it. For surely this man had demonstrated in the past few minutes that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Even against such men as Helene might send to accost him? Yes, Lisette believed that might be the case.

That air of easy charm he had affected in the tavern earlier this evening had now been replaced by a narrow-eyed watchfulness. Which Lisette sensed could be as dangerous as Helene’s implied threats against him had been such a short time ago. Leading Lisette to believe she had wasted her time, and put herself in danger of incurring Helene’s wrath, by leaving the tavern to seek out and warn such a self-assured gentleman.

Her chin rose. ‘You were the one waiting outside the tavern in the hope I might join you.’

Christian could hardly argue with the logic of that comment. Unless he also wished to confess to Lisette that she had not been his only reason for skulking about in that doorway tonight.

As he still had no idea yet whether she was the innocent she seemed or an accomplished actress, he would be wiser to allow her to continue with her assumption that his intentions were dishonourable.

Especially as he was unsure if that might not be the case...

Her kiss had seemed to lack experience, but that could have been part of an act. Innocence was not a trait that usually appealed to him in a woman, but it had succeeded in arousing him in Lisette’s case.

He was still aroused.

He shifted slightly forward on his seat so that his arousal was not noticeable. ‘Are you sorry that I did?’ he prompted softly as he took both her gloved hands in his much larger ones and continued to act the roué Comte de Saint-Cloud.

She blinked long lashes over those huge blue eyes. ‘I—’ she moistened plump lips ‘—I came only to warn you, mon—Christian,’ she corrected huskily as he gave her a reproving smile.

Christian forced himself not to tense at her comment. ‘To warn me of what, mon ange?’

It had been so long since anyone had spoken to Lisette with such gentleness, such kindness, that she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

Helene had provided her with all the necessary comforts—a home, a bed, clothes to wear—but there was no softness in the woman who claimed to have given birth to her. Helene possessed none of the Duprée warmth and easy affection. Indeed, Lisette found it difficult to believe that the older woman could ever have felt passionately enough about a man to have made a child with him.

Until this moment, when the Comte spoke to her so gently, she had been battling so valiantly to adapt to her new life that she had not realised how much she had missed the warmth of another human being.

Even one as dangerously attractive as the Comte de Saint-Cloud.

And he was dangerous. He had flirted with her earlier. Invited her to supper at his home—and goodness knew what else he intended. And he had kissed her a short time ago. A kiss such as Lisette had never imagined receiving from any man. A kiss that had warmed her from her head to her toes, and caused sensations within her body she had never felt before, nor could explain.

She straightened determinedly. ‘I came to warn you that Helene is most displeased by the attentions you showed me tonight. So displeased that I believe she might mean to ask some of her...friends to cause you actual physical harm.’

There, she had now done what she intended to do, and given this man fair warning. It was now up to the Comte whether or not he acted upon that warning.

‘If you would stop the carriage now?’ Lisette requested. ‘I believe I might be able to walk back to the tavern from here.’ Although she could not say she relished the idea; Helene had warned her that pickpockets—and worse—lurked upon these streets after dark, in search of the unwary and the drink-sodden, and they did not return to their lairs until daybreak. The thought of being accosted by such people as she walked back to the tavern was enough to cause her to tremble.

Christian suspected that there was more about him that ‘displeased’ Helene Rousseau than his overt flirtation with her young niece.

As for his allowing Lisette to depart his carriage now... ‘We will return to my home first, where we can sit and talk in warmth and comfort—’

‘Oh, but—’

‘If you still wish to return home afterwards—’ he talked over what he knew was going to be Lisette’s protest ‘—I will bring you back in my carriage.’

‘There is no “if” about it, monsieur,’ she assured him firmly. ‘Nor do I wish to go to your home; an unmarried lady does not enter the house of an unmarried gentleman without causing severe damage to her reputation.’

The fact that Lisette currently lived in a lowly tavern with a woman such as Helene Rousseau was surely already damage enough to her reputation?

As if aware of his thoughts, a blush now appeared in Lisette’s cheeks. ‘I did not always live in a tavern, monsieur,’ she informed him stiffly. ‘Until just two months ago I lived on a farm in the country with my...with relatives.’

Very curious...

Although it would explain why there had never been any mention of Lisette in the reports made by other agents for the Crown, in connection to Helene or André Rousseau.

‘I, for one, am grateful that your aunt brought you to live with her in Paris,’ he drawled.

‘My aunt?’ Lisette repeated sharply.

‘Mademoiselle Rousseau,’ Christian supplied slowly even as he looked at Lisette searchingly; she seemed surprised—shocked?—by his knowledge of her relationship to the older woman. ‘She explained your connection to me earlier this evening,’ he added gently.

Lisette moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes, of course...my aunt,’ she rallied slightly, even tried to smile a little.

Christian was not fooled for a moment by Lisette’s attempt to cover her confusion.

He just had no idea as to the reason for that confusion...

Chapter Three

Lisette was so taken aback by the Comte de Saint-Cloud’s comment regarding her relationship to Helene that she could think of nothing more to add to the conversation.

Of course she accepted that it would have been awkward for Helene to suddenly produce a fully grown daughter.

But surely no more awkward than it was for that fully grown daughter to suddenly discover that the couple she had thought were her parents were not even related to her, and that instead the cold and haughty Helene Rousseau was actually her mother?

Even so, Lisette had not realised until now that Helene had not publicly claimed her as her daughter at all, but instead only as her niece.

She was not sure how she felt about that.

‘Lisette...?’

She had been so deeply in thought that she had not realised the carriage had come to a halt, and that a groom now stood beside the open door waiting for her and the Comte to alight.

Which must mean, whilst she had been lost in thought, they had arrived at the Comte de Saint-Cloud’s home.

She gave a firm shake of her head. ‘I wish to return to the tavern now, monsieur.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because...well, because—’

‘What so urgently awaits you there, Lisette, that you cannot spare a few minutes to sit and share a glass of wine with me?’ the Comte teased softly.

It was not her time that concerned Lisette, but her reputation.

At the same time she felt slightly rebellious after learning that Helene chose to claim her only as her niece—that relationship implying she was the daughter of a man, Helene’s brother André, who was now dead.

Also, Lisette did not think that the Comte had taken her at all seriously when she had tried to warn him of the possible danger he was in from Helene Rousseau.

‘Very well, monsieur, but a few minutes only.’ She nodded as she moved forward to step down from the carriage onto the cobbled street, her eyes widening as she looked up at the huge and imposing four-storey house before her. The Comte de Saint-Cloud’s Paris home?

Lisette had never seen such a grand house as this, let alone been inside one. She only did so now because the Comte, having ordered the coachman to wait, now took a firm hold of her arm to walk up the steps to the huge front door now being held open by a man dressed in full livery.

The candlelit and cavernous entrance hall took her breath away, with its pale blue walls with gold-inlaid panels, ornate statues and the wide and sweeping staircase to the gallery, a huge crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling above.

Lisette felt small, and totally insignificant, amongst such grandeur.

‘Brandy and wine in the library, François,’ Christian instructed as he handed his coat and cloak to the other man before picking up a candelabrum to light their way through the entrance hall, on his way to the only room in the house he could tolerate for any length of time. The previous owner had possessed an air for the dramatic and ornate in regard to decor, one that did not suit Christian’s more elegantly subdued tastes at all.

He could see at a glance that their surroundings had made Lisette shrink back into herself, her face appearing very pale beneath the rim of her black bonnet. Or perhaps that was through nerves at her own temerity in entering the home of a single gentleman? Whichever of those things it was, Christian did not enjoy seeing her so discomfited.

‘Sit down in a chair by the fire,’ he bade lightly once they had entered the book-lined library, the warmth of a fire crackling in the grate. Hopefully, the heat would bring some colour back into Lisette’s cheeks.

‘Just for a moment.’ Lisette looked so tiny, defenceless, as she sat in the huge wingback armchair, her feet barely touching the ground as she held her gloved hands out towards the flames.

‘Merci, François, that will be all for tonight.’ Christian continued to watch Lisette as he spoke to the other man distractedly, the butler placing the silver tray with the drinks on down onto a side table before departing.

Christian still wondered if Lisette’s air of innocence, her reluctance to enter the house with him, could all be an act for his benefit, as he turned his attention to pouring the brandy and wine into two glasses. There was only one way to find out.

But first...

‘Your wine, Lisette.’ He held the crystal glass out to her.

‘Merci.’

Christian gave a rueful smile as she took care for her gloved fingers not to come into contact with his own as she took the glass from him. ‘What shall we drink to?’ he mused. ‘Our continued...friendship, perhaps?’

Lisette felt slightly disconcerted by the Comte’s close proximity as he made no effort to step away from where she sat after handing her the glass of wine.

He was just so—overpoweringly immediate in these more intimate surroundings. Seemed so much bigger, more imposing even than he had been in the tavern earlier or in his carriage on the journey here.

His shoulders were so wide—and dependable?—his chest and arms muscled beneath the fine cut of his coat, as if he spent much of his time pursuing the gentlemanly sports, such as fencing and swordplay, rather than in the drinking salons, and taverns such as the Fleur de Lis.

His fashionably overlong hair shone a pure gold in the candlelight and was rakishly tousled. As for the effect of those long-lashed lavender-coloured eyes in that harshly handsome and lightly tanned face; Lisette truly had never seen such beautiful eyes before, on a man or a woman.

She was very aware that the two of them were very much alone here now that he had dismissed his manservant for the night.

Her gaze dropped from meeting that mesmerising lavender one. ‘We can drink only to the present, Comte.’

‘The present,’ he echoed as he gave a mocking inclination of his head before taking a sip of his brandy, ‘is very much to my liking,’ he added gruffly.

A blush warmed Lisette’s cheeks even as she took a sip of her red wine. It was a very good red wine, not at all like the rough vintage Helene served at the tavern. And further emphasising the fact that the Comte de Saint-Cloud inhabited a very different world from the one in which Lisette currently found herself. Even as the daughter of the Duprées she would have been completely out of her element with a man such as this one.

She carefully placed her glass down on the small table beside the chair. ‘I do not believe you took my warning seriously earlier, Comte.’ She looked up at him earnestly. ‘My...my aunt has many associates who are not particularly pleasant, and who I believe would slit your throat for the price of a few pennies if asked to do so.’

‘And has your aunt asked them to do so?’ Christian arched mocking brows, again noting Lisette’s slight hesitation when stating that Helene Rousseau was her aunt. But if not the girl’s aunt, then who or what was she to Lisette?

Her madam, perhaps, with Lisette as the innocent prize to be won?

That explanation would certainly be in accordance with Lisette’s behaviour tonight. The ‘helpless innocent’ come to warn him of danger was the sort of behaviour designed to tighten the net about an infatuated victim.

Or Lisette could simply have been sent here to him this evening in order to confirm or deny, by whatever means necessary, Helene Rousseau’s suspicions regarding him.

‘I believe she has, yes,’ Lisette answered him worriedly.

‘And why do you think that?’ Christian moved to sit in the chair opposite her, his posture one of outward relaxation and unconcern; inwardly it was a different matter.

The title of Comte de Saint-Cloud might be his own to use if he so wished, but nevertheless he was alone in a country that was not his own and amongst people he could not trust.

Not even the lovely Lisette.

Perhaps especially the lovely Lisette.

‘She assured me earlier that I would not be seeing you at the tavern again after this evening.’ Lisette frowned.

Christian raised his brows. ‘That was very...precipitate of her.’

‘I believe it was because she already has plans afoot to ensure you are unable to return, monsieur,’ Lisette pressed urgently.

‘Christian.’

She gave him an impatient glance. ‘What does it matter in what manner I address you, if you are not alive to hear it?’

Christian gave a lazy smile. ‘I am not that easy to kill, lovely Lisette. Besides,’ he continued lightly as she would have protested, ‘I am alive here and now, and we are together, which is all that is important, is it not?’

‘No, it most certainly is not all that is important!’ She eyed him exasperatedly.

‘I find your concern for me most charming, Lisette,’ he drawled flirtatiously. ‘But you really need not concern yourself on my account—’

‘How can I not concern myself?’ She rose agitatedly to her feet. ‘When I am the reason you are in danger?’

Christian sincerely doubted that; he was becoming more and more convinced by the moment that Helene Rousseau did suspect him and his reason for being in Paris. To a degree where it was no longer safe for him to continue to remain here posing as the Comte de Saint-Cloud?

That would be a pity, considering all the work and planning that had gone into establishing that identity before his arrival in France.

It also meant that tonight might be the only time he had left in Paris.

A night he might spend with Lisette?

He placed his brandy glass down on the side table before rising lazily to his feet. ‘I am sure you would feel more comfortable if you were to remove your bonnet and cloak.’

‘I do not wish to feel more comfortable—’

‘Of course you do.’ Christian crossed the distance that separated them before unfastening her bonnet himself and removing it, ignoring her efforts to stop him as he then untied the cloak at her throat before placing them both down on the armchair and turning back to her. ‘Much better,’ he noted with satisfaction as he took both of her gloved hands in one of his.

He did not particularly care for the plain black gown Lisette was wearing, would much rather see her in bright colours that would flatter rather than detract from her delicate complexion. But her hair gleamed like copper in the firelight, and the warmth of the fire had indeed brought back a little of the colour to her cheeks.

She looked slightly bewildered at his deft removal of her bonnet and cloak. ‘I told you I cannot stay above a minute or two—’

‘You really must not distress yourself, my dear Lisette,’ Christian soothed softly. ‘As I have said, we have tonight together...’ He held her now startled gaze as he slowly lowered his head towards her.

Lisette’s head began to spin as she knew this completely compelling man, Christian Beaumont, Comte de Saint-Cloud, was about to kiss her again.

She couldn’t move, was held completely mesmerised by those lavender eyes gazing down into her own as the Comte’s lips brushed gently against hers.

Her hands were still held captive in his much larger one as his other arm moved about her waist and pulled her in tightly against him. Instantly making Lisette aware of his strength and the hardness of his muscled chest.

Until tonight she had never been kissed before, but she was sure that if she had it would not have made her feel the way that Christian’s kisses did: as if she were floating on air and Christian’s arm about her waist was the only thing keeping her feet on the ground.

Her life had been so miserable since coming to Paris, everything strange and uncomfortable to her, and this—being held by Christian, being kissed by him—was so overwhelmingly pleasurable after so many weeks of unhappiness and uncertainty and feeling that she no longer belonged anywhere.

For this moment, for here and for now, surely she could just forget all of that and enjoy being in this man’s arms.

Lisette pulled her hands free of his to glide them up the length of his muscled chest before resting them on his shoulders, as she stood on tiptoe and returned the kiss. Not expertly, she was sure, but she hoped that what she lacked in experience she more than made up for in her obvious enjoyment and enthusiasm.

Better—much, much better, Christian acknowledged with inner satisfaction as he deepened the kiss by running his tongue lightly, questioningly, along the line of Lisette’s closed lips. He felt her brief hesitation before those softly pouting lips parted, allowing him access as his tongue now glided inside the moist and welcoming heat of her mouth.

He groaned softly as he felt the stroke of her tongue along his, hesitant at first and then more assuredly. His body instantly responded to the intimacy, engorging, and lengthening impatiently inside his pantaloons.

Christian pressed his body intimately into Lisette’s as he kissed her harder, deeper. Hearing her responding groan as his tongue now explored the sweetness of her mouth, at the same time as his hands moved restlessly up and down the length of her spine.

His fingers brushed against the tiny buttons fastening the back of her gown, and he continued to kiss her as he unfastened enough of those buttons to slip one of his hands inside and touch the softness of her bare skin.

She felt like silk beneath his fingertips. Warm, soft silk that seemed to heat to the touch of his caressing hands.

It was not enough. Christian needed to see all of her. To touch her. To caress and pleasure her—

‘No!’ Lisette had wrenched her mouth away from Christian’s to protest, eyes wide as she stared up at him in what looked like a mixture of fascination and shock.

The first emotion Christian could understand; he was experienced enough to know when a woman found pleasure in his kisses. And he had no doubt Lisette had enjoyed their kisses as much as he had.

The shock appeared to have occurred because he had unfastened her gown and touched her bared skin...

Her dilated pupils, and the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed deeply, told him that Lisette’s shock was completely genuine.

Not a whore, then.

The mystery that surrounded this young woman deepened every second they were together.

She pushed determinedly against his chest now in an effort to escape his imprisoning arms. ‘You must release me, Christian. Please!’ Her eyes met his in appeal when her efforts to free herself proved unsuccessful.

He looked down at her searchingly. ‘You did not enjoy being kissed?’

‘No! Well. Yes.’ A blush heated her cheeks. ‘Of course I enjoyed being kissed—’

‘Then why have you stopped me?’

Why had she stopped him?

For the same reason she knew that she could not remain here alone in this room with this man a moment longer.

Because she had enjoyed his kisses too much. Had wanted his hands upon her bared flesh too much.

Because she had wanted so much more than just his kisses.

For just a brief time, a few moments, Lisette had wanted to lose herself in Christian’s kisses and caresses, to forget the unhappiness of these past months, along with the uncertainty of no longer knowing who or what she was.

For this time, here with Christian, she had wanted to just be herself. The Lisette Duprée who had been loved and cherished by the couple she had believed were her parents, and not the illegitimate daughter of a woman who seemed to care nothing for her, who owned and ran a lowly Parisian tavern frequented by criminals and whores.

That same woman who Lisette now knew had not even claimed her as being her daughter.

Except it really would not do.

The brief pleasure Lisette might know in Christian Beaumont’s arms would not, could not, drive away the otherwise unhappiness of her life for more than a few minutes, at the most hours.

Whereas the reality of the life she now led would last for her lifetime.

‘I have to go.’ She avoided meeting Christian’s gaze as she stepped away from him. ‘I must return to the tavern before I am missed—’

‘Perhaps you have already been missed...?’

Her heart leaped apprehensively in her chest. ‘Do not say that, Christian, even in jest.’

Christian frowned. He saw how pale her face was in the firelight. ‘Do you fear retribution from your aunt?’

‘No.’ Her gaze avoided meeting his. ‘No, of course I do not.’

Her denial came too quickly for Christian’s liking. ‘Come away with me, Lisette.’ The offer was completely spontaneous and as much of a surprise to Christian as it appeared to be to Lisette. ‘We could go to my country estate—’ the Saint-Cloud family still had one somewhere in Brittany ‘—or...the war is over now and I have relatives in England. I could take you there if you would rather leave France altogether?’

‘Leave France?’ she echoed faintly, as if the idea both thrilled and terrified her.

Christian regretted his offer as soon as the words left his mouth. The idea of taking Lisette back to England with him was ridiculous; what would he possibly do with the niece of Helene Rousseau once they were back in England?

For one thing, once in England, Lisette would quickly realise that he was not Christian Beaumont, the Comte de Saint-Cloud, at all, but in actual fact Christian Seaton, the Duke of Sutherland.

But perhaps, as he suspected in regard to her aunt, Lisette already knew that, and returning to England with him had been her plan all along?

Admittedly, she had looked shocked at the idea, but Christian still had no proof, either way, whether Lisette was all that she seemed to be.

Indeed, he was more unsure than ever as to what she seemed.

The niece Helene Rousseau claimed her to be? A description which had seemed to startle Lisette when he’d called her such earlier.

Or something else completely?

No doubt Lord Aubrey Maystone, his immediate superior in his work for the Crown, would be more than happy to have the niece of Helene Rousseau in his clutches, after the kidnapping of his young grandson.

What might happen to Lisette once Christian had delivered her into the older man’s hands did not bear thinking about; Christian’s first loyalty might be to the Crown, but he had no evidence that Lisette was guilty of anything, other than the misfortune of being related to Helene Rousseau. Which would make her an innocent pawn, as Aubrey Maystone’s grandson had been.

It was not a risk Christian was willing to take.

‘A ridiculous idea, is it not, when I have only just arrived in Paris and there is still so much for me to enjoy?’ he dismissed lightly.

Lisette blinked at the Comte’s about-turn when, just for a moment, a brief euphoric moment, she had dreamed of escaping Paris, the tavern and her association with Helene Rousseau. To leave France completely and begin again somewhere new, where no one knew her or the shameful secret of her birth she carried with her every moment of every day.

But the Comte was perfectly correct; it would not do, and it was ridiculous of her to have even contemplated the possibility.

She frowned up at him. ‘It is your intention to remain in Paris, even after the things I have told you?’

The Comte gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I thank you for your concern, of course. But I am sure your worries are unfounded and Madame Rousseau will have forgotten all about my flirtation with you by tomorrow.’

Lisette wished she could feel as confident of that. Unfortunately, she could not.

But she had done what she intended tonight, and if the Comte would not take her warning seriously, then there was nothing more she could do. ‘If I might prevail upon your generosity for the use of your carriage to take me back to the Fleur de Lis?’ She really could not bear the thought of travelling back by foot along the streets to the tavern.

‘But of course.’ The Comte gave a charming bow. ‘I will accompany you, of course—’

‘I would rather you did not.’ Lisette replaced and retied her bonnet before reaching for her cloak. ‘I will instruct your coachman to stop a street or two away from the tavern and make my own way back from there.’

Christian scowled his displeasure. ‘That is too dangerous—’

‘Nevertheless, it is what I shall do,’ she stated determinedly.

Not what she ‘intended’ to do, Christian noted with wry amusement, but what she would do. Lisette Duprée might be young in years, but she had a very determined and definite mind of her own.

No more so than he, admittedly, and if she thought he really intended to allow her to walk the Paris streets alone at this time of night, even for a short distance, then she was mistaken.

‘It is far too early for me to retire as yet,’ he informed her airily. ‘I can see you safely returned to the tavern on my way to other entertainments.’

Lisette looked up from refastening her cloak. ‘You are going out again...?’

‘But of course.’ The Comte waved a hand unconcernedly. ‘The gaming hells and...other clubs will only now be becoming interesting.’

Of course they would, Lisette acknowledged heavily. And no doubt the Comte would be luckier with the ladies in those clubs, as well as the cards, now that she had refused to entertain him for the rest of the night.

She had behaved the fool, she realised. A stupid, naive fool, to have believed for one moment that the Comte had any more than a passing interest in her—an interest that had obviously ‘passed’ now that she had made it clear she did not intend to spend the night here with him.

She raised her chin. ‘I am ready to leave now.’

Christian knew by the stiffness of Lisette’s demeanour that he had thoroughly succeeded in alienating her when he’d informed her that he intended to go out again. As had been his intention. His mission in Paris had been clear: to watch Helene Rousseau and make note of the comings and goings of the Fleur de Lis.

It had occurred to him earlier to use an interest in one of the tavern’s serving girls to enable him to observe Helene Rousseau and the movements of her co-conspirators. Unfortunately, his choice of Lisette as the focus for that interest seemed only to have antagonised the older woman, so bringing more attention to himself.

Helene Rousseau’s threats towards him, because of the interest he had shown in Lisette, now meant that his time in Paris was in all probability limited, if he did not want to end up dead in a filthy alley one night.

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