No Regrets (25 page)

   Then her note arrived, and he'd been imagining her with the slimy frog ever since.

   Hell. This was all his fault. He should never have married her in the first place. He liked her too well. But since he had, then he should have made sure she was up to snuff. How could he have guessed she'd fall into such a coil? She'd seemed perfectly fine with Cedric and Tisha to guide her.

   Guilt twisted like a knife in his gut. He'd been too busy with his own affairs to make sure. "It's too late, Charlie."

   "Rivers is there too."

   Lucas snapped his head up and groaned. "Cedric? That's all right, then. He'll keep an eye on her."

   "Tisha thinks there's more to this than meets the eye."

   His head pounded with the effort to understand. "What do you mean?"

   "Why didn't Cedric put a stop to this damn race? He was there."

   "He tried."

   "Are you sure?"

   He wasn't sure of anything. His wife had left him, and no doubt everyone would think he deserved it after his past mistress had led her into such fast behavior. "I wasn't there. If I had been, it wouldn't have happened."

   Charlie nodded. "Right. It's high time you were there."

   "Blast you, Charlie. And blast Tisha. She doesn't know what she's talking about." He'd made a mess of the whole marriage thing from the beginning. He wasn't cut out for it.

   Charlie gave him a discerning look. "Get to Paris, man."

   Perhaps he ought to make sure she really did want a divorce. And why hadn't Cedric informed him where Caro had gone?

   Lucas nodded slowly, careful not to set the room spinning again. "I'll think about it."

   Charlie slapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. By the way, that investment you put me in the way of came up trumps. Thanks. I doubled my blunt."

   Lucas nodded dully. Then he must also have made a fortune. His father, who had instructed him to sell on Cedric's advice, must have lost a huge sum. A brief pang of sorrow surprised him.

   None of that mattered. He had to decide what to do about Caro. He wanted his wife back, he realized. And to win her back, he needed to show her he was every bit as good as some smarmy Frenchman. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

   And if he couldn't have her back, he needed to set things to rights.

Caro's aunt, Madame Honoré Valeron, a septuagenarian of generous proportions who clung to the powdered wigs and hooped skirts of her youth, presided over her usual Wednesday afternoon salon reclined on a chaise by the hearth. Caro glanced around the baroque drawing room. As on the previous five occasions, the room burst at the seams with elegant Paris society, and the conversation ebbed and flowed on the fascinating topic of French politics.

   Seated on a gilt chair at the foot of her aunt's chaise, Caro leaned forward to catch the words of the Marquis du Bouvoir over the buzz of conversation and clink of coffee cups. Attired in the glittering blue uniform of the Guarde Royale, he was one of the many officers who made up the company.

   "But how can I hold up my head, if I do not secure one dance with the incomparable
Mademoiselle l'Anglaise
?" the marquis asked with a flash of white smile beneath his dark moustache.

   Caro frowned at the handsome olive-skinned noble and shook her head in mock disapproval. "You make me sound like a dessert."

   He waggled his brows. "A exceedingly delicious one."

   "Enough of your flattery, sir. I will grant you the last waltz of the evening."

   Aunt Honoré flicked her ostrich fan in their direction. "Monsieur, take your argument and my niece elsewhere. How can I hear the Prince de Tallyrand above your nonsense?"

   The pale elderly man murmuring in her aunt's ear raised his piercing gaze, and Caro suppressed a wriggle. She wasn't sure what was worse, the way he seemed to see right through her skimpy gown or the knowledge that he had played an influential role in every French government since the Revolution. Her aunt seemed to dote on him.

   Glad of the excuse to escape Talleyrand's unnerving observation, Caro relinquished her coffee cup to a lackey. The marquis led her through the press of fashionable ladies and gentlemen and the colorful uniforms of every army in Europe to the window overlooking the rue de Lille.

   "You are an incorrigible tease, and I adore you," the marquis said, his hazel eyes gazing into hers.

   She laughed. "You, monsieur le marquis, are an outrageous flirt."

   He grinned as if she had paid him a compliment. "What else am I to do, since your Chevalier has stolen a march on the rest of us poor mortals?"

   Unwelcome warmth washed over her. "We are cousins, nothing more."

   "Come now, mademoiselle, your aunt makes no secret of his intentions."

   "And that is why you feel free to practice your wiles on me," she flashed back.

   He gave her a knowing glance. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And how prettily she blushes."

   Her color had nothing to do with her relationship with François. She should never have agreed to hide her married state from her aunt, even if it did mean admitting she had left London in disgrace.

   Being caught in the web of lies concocted by Cedric after he learned of her arrangement with Lucas weighed far more heavily on her conscience than the truth. Cedric meant well, but it left her with the uneasy sensation that her skin didn't quite fit her new persona.

   The marquis lifted his quizzing glass and inspected the room. "Speaking of your admirer, where are the elegant Chevalier and his so–very-English friend?"

   She didn't want to think about where François had gone. "They have gone out of town on business, I believe."

   "Ah,
oui
, champagne." He kissed his fingertips. "The nectar of the gods, and the best of it comes from Chateau Valeron."

   He glanced idly around the room, his quizzing glass dangling from his fingers. "And here Lord Audley brings yet another Englishman to our salons. Paris becomes more British than London."

   She raised a brow. "In the face of such disapproval, perhaps I should depart immediately."

   A droll expression of horror crossed his face. "Pardon me. It is not the so charming ladies of whom I speak,
je vous assure.
" He swept a languid hand to the room in general. "It is the foreign soldiers billeted in our homes and the businessmen from every country in Europe, the vultures in black suits, to whom I object. The city is under siege, and French treasures flood across the Channel like blood from a wound."

   She'd heard the complaints before. The British ambassador purchased vast quantities of priceless books and furniture, Wellington collected Boulle cabinets and empire tables, and Sir Charles Long harvested paintings for the Prince Regent to hang in Carleton House. She had no consolation to offer.

   He narrowed his eyes. "This one looks like a nobleman."

   She turned to observe the object of his displeasure.

   A strange little jolt in her heart stopped her breath and quickened her pulse. The dark-haired man with his back to her topped the stern Lord Audley by half a head, and they were the tallest men in the room. Could it be Lucas?

   She peered through her usual blur. A wave of disappointment emptied her chest. The man's carefully ordered black hair barely brushed his collar. She turned away.

   "Why the sad expression, mademoiselle?" the marquis asked. "Were you expecting someone?"

   When would it stop? Each time she glimpsed a dark-haired man of above-average height, her heart took flight like a bird, only to crash to earth when she realized he wasn't Lucas. Why her heart hoped to see him in Paris when she had sent him to Scotland, she couldn't imagine.

   She forced a smile. "How could I possibly look for someone else, when I am in your company?" She raised a brow. "Provided we do not discuss politics."

   "
Touché
, mademoiselle."

   "Mademoiselle Torrington, du Bouvoir." Audley's distinctive gravelly voice came from behind her.

   Thank goodness Tisha had not introduced them when he last visited London. She turned to greet him. "Lord Audley, how pleasant to see you again." They had met at a British Embassy soirée the previous week.

   The marquis bowed. "You ruin our
tête-a-tête
, milor' Audley. Don't follow in your Lord Stuart's footsteps, if you please. Leave the single ladies to us bachelors."

   Audley bowed, his expression impassive, despite the overt reference to the British ambassador's penchant for Parisian courtesans. "With pleasure, monsieur le marquis."

   Du Bouvoir lifted his quizzing glass. "And whom do you bring with you today? Another of King George's parliamentarians to advise us how to run our Chamber of Deputies?"

   The imposing figure beside Audley swam into focus. Lucas?

   The room receded, leaving only his face in her vision. It was as if her thoughts had conjured him up, and something had gone wrong with the spell. In a black superfine coat, pearl-gray waistcoat, and intricate starched white cravat, he looked wickedly elegant and utterly different—sterner, more formal. And he'd cut his beautiful hair.

   A patter of nerves skipped through her stomach, her lungs straining for air in the overheated room. Had he come here to find her? Would he now expose her for a fraud? She flashed hot and then cold.

   "Allow me to present Lord Foxhaven," Lord Audley said.

   She managed a smile through stiff lips. "Lord Foxhaven, welcome to Paris." Her voice sounded hoarse.

   He executed a swift, graceful bow and a bone-melting smile. "
Enchanté,
Mademoiselle Torrington."

   "Mademoiselle Torrington came to us from London, Foxhaven," Audley said calmly. "Had you not stayed in the country in pursuit of other matters, you might have met her in London."

   "An omission I deeply regret," Lucas murmured. His gaze fell to the neckline of her gown and lingered for a moment.

   Warmth unfurled deep in her stomach as her body recalled the delight of his touch, the feel of his hands and his lips on the décolletage now daringly bared to the world.

   Instead, she plied her fan with vigor, aware of the silence, of eyes watching her, unable to utter a word for the turmoil in her head.

   "Are you well, mademoiselle?" the marquis asked, all gentle concern.

   "It does seem a trifle warm in here," she managed.

   "Allow me to let in some air." He strode to the window and wrestled with the casement.

   "Excuse me," Audley said. "I see Monsieur Jeunesse. I have been trying to reach him for days." He sauntered away.

   Caro resisted the urge to call him back, to use him as a shield against whatever Lucas might throw at her. She braced herself for the onslaught.

   With an eye to the marquis, Lucas drew closer. The scent of his sandalwood cologne touched her senses with a painful familiarity. A slow, lazy smile curved his lips, and his raking glance flared with what looked like appreciation. "You look beautiful, Caro. Stunning."

   She suppressed a gasp as her toes curled inside her satin slippers. Beautiful? Did he mean it? And the heat in his gaze. He never looked at her that way in company.

   Hiding her face with her fan and wishing it were large enough to cover her bosom, she whispered, "Why are you here?"

   He grimaced a little, whether because of her lack of response to what he had said or because of impatience, she couldn't be sure. "I heard from Audley you were here and using your maiden name."

   "Impossible. He doesn't know who I am."

   "Apparently, Tisha pointed you out in Hyde Park."

   On the day of her disgrace. He didn't say the words, but they hung awkwardly in the air between them.

   Caro darted a glance at the granite-faced attaché talking to the Monsieur Jeunesse along with his wife and their willowy daughter, Belle. Audley had disguised his knowledge well.

   Belle Jeunesse shot Lucas an avid glance. Caro turned, expecting to find him ogling the dusky maiden's undeniable charms. Instead, he seemed not to have noticed. "Why did you come?" she asked.

   "Does it matter why?"

   Having thrown open the casement, the marquis rejoined them. He glanced from one to the other, his imposing moustache stiff with suspicion. "What is the question?"

   Her mind went blank. She couldn't think for the tension sparking the air.

   "I asked Mademoiselle Torrington if she would do me the honor of driving out with me tomorrow," Lucas drawled, arrogance in every word.

   The thought of being alone with him made her heart beat faster.

   The marquis visibly bristled. "I had intended to ask the lady to drive with me in the morning." He fingered the hilt of his dress sword. "You are forward, milor', on so short an acquaintance."

   A muscle flickered in Lucas's jaw, and his lips thinned.

   Caro's heart drummed a warning. Although tall for a Frenchman, the marquis was no match for the towering Lucas. She steeled herself to step between them.