Nicole Jordan (6 page)

As she expected, the scene was set for seduction. One wall was partially concealed by a crimson brocade curtain, but Julienne could see an alcove in the shadows, with a bed large enough for two.

Heat spread through her at the thought of sharing that bed with Dare.

The majordomo seated her at the table and then withdrew, to her regret. To her further discomfort, Dare took the chair beside her rather than opposite her.

“I must warn you,” Julienne remarked lightly as he inspected the variety of wines on the table. “You are laboring under a misapprehension. Despite whatever machinations you have planned for tonight, you will not succeed.”

His smile came easily. “I never anticipate failure before I have even begun.”

Julienne felt a spark of dismay flare inside her at his smooth response. The facile charm was automatic, effortless, and highly potent. Dare still had the power to affect her without the least effort. She wondered how she would endure an entire evening in his company, with him so near and so clearly set on prevailing.

His tone remained teasing as he poured a glass of wine. “I think it poor-spirited of you,
chérie,
not to give me a fighting chance. Or perhaps merely fainthearted. You are afraid I will win.”

“Hardly.” Julienne managed a laugh. “I am more afraid I will do you an injury when you continue to persecute me.”

“Try this vintage,” he suggested. “It comes from Languedoc.”

Where her late father’s estates had been before his execution, she thought, wincing. Julienne did as she was bid, however, and found the wine delicious.

“The food here is excellent,” Dare said, observing her approving expression. “You will appreciate it. The chef is Parisian.” At her surprised glance, he added, “Did you think I would forget your fondness for French cuisine?”

She returned a smile that was faintly taunting. “Truthfully, I don’t think of you at all.”

“I cannot say the same of you,” he replied lazily.

He leaned back in his chair, exhibiting his usual elegant grace, but Julienne found it difficult to show the same casual ease. She was too conscious of Dare. His gilded hair glimmered in the candlelight, its soft, thick waves threaded riotously with gold and flaxen. Worse, she kept seeing images of her fingers gliding through it, and images of his fingers reciprocating.

Involuntarily she glanced down at his hands, which held a wine goblet, almost caressing the stem, and an inexplicable yearning filled her. She could almost feel those warm, deft hands on her skin….

“It has been a long time,” he murmured, startling her with his perceptiveness.

“Not long enough for my tastes,” she rejoined, feigning nonchalance yet glad that the dimness of the room concealed her flush.

She was even more relieved when a discreet knock on the door heralded the entrance of supper, served by two footmen. There were several courses: clear partridge soup with truffles, braised ham, trout in tomato and garlic sauce, peas, creamed artichoke hearts, sweetbreads, prawns, fricassee of veal with Madeira sauce, and finally preserved cherries and plum pudding.

Every dish was delectable, but Julienne barely tasted any of them. Her attention kept straying to her companion…those arresting green eyes, the well-shaped, sensual mouth….

Don’t think about his mouth,
she ordered herself.
Don’t think about those firm, warm lips that made you shiver with passion.
The seductive lips that had given and had taken so much pleasure. That wicked, heart-stopping smile that could lure a woman’s soul from her body.

That smile had always been Dare’s greatest asset. Or perhaps it was his remarkable way of looking at a woman. He focused such thrilling intensity on his target that she felt incredibly desirable.

As he was doing now, Julienne realized. He was watching her as if engrossed, despite;the presence of the two footmen. She managed to bear his scrutiny until he dismissed the servers at the conclusion of the meal, leaving her alone with him.

“Did no one ever tell you it is ill-mannered to stare?” she asked, invoking a cool smile.

He grinned, his bearing relaxed. “Can I help but be fascinated by someone of your dazzling beauty? You intoxicate me.”

“No doubt because the wine has gone to your head.”

He measured her in a slow, exacting way, obviously determined to tear holes in the thin façade of her composure. “So what you have been doing with yourself all these years, mademoiselle?”

Her smile slipped, and she took a sip of wine, reluctant to answer. “I would rather you address me as Miss Laurent. I prefer not to call attention to the fact that I am French.”

“Very well…darling.” Amusement laced the edge of his voice, but his tone remained curious. “Your trace of an accent is no longer noticeable. Is that by design?”

“Yes,” Julienne admitted. “It wasn’t healthy for my acting career. The English consider themselves far superior to anyone of French origin and dislike any reminders of our differences.”

“Our dislike of the French might have something to do with their despot who is bent on world domination,” Dare said blandly.

She could have pointed out that many of her compatriots detested Napoleon Bonaparte far more than the British did, but she didn’t intend to debate the issue with Dare.

Steepling his long fingers, he continued to watch her with that disconcerting gaze, although he changed the subject. “Tell me…are you sharing your bed with any of those puppies who were panting at your skirts tonight?”

Julienne drew a sharp breath at the boldness of the question. “That, I believe, is none of your concern.”

“I simply want to know who my competition is. It is hard to tell whom you prefer most from among all the fops and swells surrounding you. From what I’ve observed, I would guess Riddingham. Is he my chief rival?”

Julienne allowed her lips to curve drolly and refused to reply.

“I should think you would prefer a real man to warm your bed,” Dare remarked. “But if I recall correctly, you are not overly particular about your bed partners.” The sudden caustic note in his voice suggested censure.

Calling on all her willpower, Julienne affected an expression of detachment and arched an eyebrow. “I find it incredible that the most profligate libertine in London would presume to judge
my
choices. From all reports, you have never been discriminating about the lovers you amuse yourself with. Or how many you have, for that matter.”

“Oh, no, I am exceedingly discriminating. At least I am now. There was a time after you….” His gaze remained fixed on her, slowly shredding her nerves. “After you, Jewel, I didn’t much care who I bedded. I was only intent in burying my pain in pleasures of the flesh.”

She didn’t respond to that admission, either, Dare noted. “It took me a long while to get over your cruelty,
chérie.
”

Some emotion flickered in her eyes, something vulnerable and too fleeting for him to identify. Then she lowered her gaze, her lashes dark against her ivory skin.

“In fact, I could say that you were the one who set me on my path to wickedness.”

Julienne lifted her chin at that, her expression skeptical. “You can hardly blame me for your licentiousness. You were a rake long before we met.”

“But you were not so chaste yourself, I’ll warrant. And I expect you’ve indulged in a liaison or two since then.”

“One or two,” she said evenly. “But I know precisely how many lovers I have had. I’m certain you cannot make the same claim, Lord Wolverton.”

“Once you called me Dare.”

“Once I called you a great many things.” That siren’s smile flickered on her lips. “I can think of a few choice appellations just now. Reprobate, hedonist, libertine.”

Dare affected a grimace. “One thing definitely has changed. Your claws have grown sharper.”

“Perhaps. But I will need sharp claws if I hope to defend myself against you.”

He frowned slightly. “I suspect I’m the one who will have to defend himself. If memory serves, the last time I encountered you, you were welcoming the caresses of another man. Behind my back, I might add. While leading me to believe that I was your heart’s desire.” His mouth curled. “Oh, but I
was
your desire, as long as I was heir to a fortune.”

Hearing his bitterness, Julienne stared down into her wineglass. Dare believed she was an accomplished liar. That she could make love to him so passionately one moment and then betray him the next with his rival.

A tightness constricted her throat. She’d had a compelling reason to lie all those years ago. She had thought she had no choice. But she didn’t deserve Dare’s hatred. She had suffered more than he knew. Perhaps if he understood what she had endured, he wouldn’t be so eager for revenge….

She lifted her gaze to Dare’s, and their eyes locked, the dark past vibrating between them. Pain lashed through her at the cold expression on his face, and Julienne realized the futility of pleading with him for forgiveness.

Perhaps if he had simply asked her for the truth, if two hours ago he hadn’t publicly demonstrated his utter desire to humiliate her, she might have risked reopening those savage wounds.

But there was no point now in trying to justify her long-ago actions. It no longer mattered what Dare thought of her. She couldn’t undo the devastation, the loss—for either of them. And the truth could have unwanted consequences. No doubt Dare would feel pity for her. And guilt. He might even feel obliged to make amends.

She couldn’t allow herself to become tangled up with Dare again, certainly not on those terms. That kind of pain would destroy her. It had taken her years to get beyond the past, and now she only wanted to forget.

No, Julienne concluded, it would be better if Dare continued to believe she had betrayed him. That she had never loved him. She wouldn’t protest her innocence, despite his barbs about her being cruel and mercenary.

Instead she would play his game, assume the role he had assigned her. She would keep her responses light and pretend that he no longer had the power to hurt her.

It was an effort to smile, but Julienne managed it with careless elegance, all the while thinking that she had never appreciated her abilities as an actress so much.

“You may think what you choose,” she said, “but I have long since forgotten that unpleasant episode. I have no intention of discussing it.”

Dare felt a stab of annoyance at her dismissal, but he decided that harping on the subject would only make him seem a spoiled child. “How did you happen to become an actress?” he asked instead.

“Some of us are required to work for a living, my lord.”

“You couldn’t persuade Ivers to keep you?”

A fleeting look of desolation entered her eyes, but that momentary fragility faded as quickly as it had come. “He offered,” she responded without inflection, “but I chose not to accept.”

Dare wondered if Julienne was telling the truth—if she had refused the earl’s offer because his pockets weren’t overly full—or if Ivers had abandoned her because their scheme for gaining the Wolverton fortune had failed. “He couldn’t provide you enough compensation?”

Her faint laugh held little mirth. “Indeed, he couldn’t. His gaming debts had severly depleted his purse. And I needed a reliable income to support my mother. Her illness grew worse as summer ended.”

“What of your shop? Didn’t that produce an adequate enough income?” Dare asked, remembering their familiar arguments that summer.

Julienne had claimed that the millinery was her sole means of income and that until their marriage was settled, she couldn’t afford to neglect it. Dare had offered to purchase the shop and turn it over to her clerk so she wouldn’t be obliged to earn her living, but Julienne had refused, saying she wouldn’t take his charity or become his kept mistress—which was why they had gone to such lengths to keep their trysts private. Later, he’d realized she had simply been holding out until she could secure his entire fortune.

When her reply came, however, it surprised him.

“The business did not fare well after…” Julienne lifted her gaze almost defiantly. “Your grandfather made several unfounded allegations against me. I left Kent to avoid the scandal and turned the shop over to our clerk.”

Dare’s frown deepened as he thought back to those wretched weeks after Julienne’s betrayal. He hadn’t known what happened to her. He hadn’t wanted to know. He’d left Kent immediately and had never again returned to Whitstable. Nor had he ever set foot in Wolverton Hall until his grandfather was dead and buried.

But he shouldn’t be feeling this sharp prick of guilt now. Julienne had brought her troubles on herself with her duplicity and lies.

“And your mother?” he asked at length.

“She died several years ago.” Julienne’s eyes shadowed in sad remembrance. “I wanted her to live with me in York, but
Maman
wouldn’t hear of moving elsewhere. She disliked leaving all her friends.”

Dare nodded, remembering the close-knit community of French émigrés in Whitstable. When the Laurents had fled the terror of the guillotine, they’d settled on the northeastern shore of Kent, near the bustling resort towns of Marsgate and Ramsgate, where they could enjoy the company of other exiled French nobles.

“She refused,” Julienne added softly, “to be driven from her home once again.”

As she had been during the Revolution,
Dare completed the thought. An unexpected wave of tenderness took him by surprise, but he drew back from it abruptly, wary of leaving himself too vulnerable.

“I am sorry,” he said with cursory politeness.

Julienne’s gaze searched his face, holding an edge of doubt. “Thank you.”

He reached for his wineglass and drained the last swallows. “I wasn’t sorry when my grandfather died, though. The old bastard held on until just last year.”

Julienne looked abruptly away, but not before Dare saw the hot glitter in her eyes. It was raw, naked hatred, he realized.

He hadn’t expected her to share his venomous sentiments toward the late marquess. But perhaps she blamed his grandfather for ruining her life. It was certainly true that if not for the old man’s threat to disinherit him, Julienne’s future might have turned out very differently. His own as well, Dare reflected. He would have wed her, never suspecting her true nature until it was too late.