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“Indulge me for a moment, mademoiselle,” he continued, taking on the tone of a trusted counselor. “I have helped many a friend escape an undesirable marriage. What if you were to tell your parents that you have fallen in love with someone else? Would that not make them reconsider the match?”
She shook her head. “Such a lie would never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is one of only two unmarried gentlemen in my acquaintance. And I have even less desire to marry the other.”
“There
is a third option,” he whispered, giving her a sidelong look. “You could always say you were corrupted by a mysterious stranger. Someone with a reputation black enough to deter his parents’ interest in you as a prospective bride.” Leaning back, he quirked a brow.
“But I would be ruined!”
“Sciocchezze!” he scoffed. “There would be a little scandal, just enough to rid you of your unwanted bridegroom. Then, next year you can return to court and find someone more to your liking. I can assure you that such a tiny incident will be nothing to a man in love. Especially when he discovers your innocence on your wedding night.”
A furious blush stole into her cheeks, making her eyes appear even greener. “And I suppose you’re offering to be the scapegoat?” she asked, eyeing him dubiously.
“I’ve played the sacrificial lamb countless times,” he whispered, his grin widening.
“And when my parents go to the king to force you to marry me, what then?” she retorted, laughter in her voice. “Will you go to the slaughter on behalf of a woman you do not even know?”
“Mademoiselle, you underestimate my skills at evasion,” he said in a wounded tone. “You see, I am not a citizen of France. No one here can force me to marry unless it is my wish to do so.”
“Ah, so you would jilt me?” she said, eyes lighting with merriment. “I would simply be another of the unfortunate women left crying in your wake. Another casualty of your charm.”
Unruffled by her sarcasm, Alessandro accepted the backhanded compliment with aplomb. “Not to seem immodest, but I have done this before with great success. My monstrous reputation can be used to your advantage, if you will allow me to help you.”
Mélisande considered the shameless seducer beside her. She had no illusions regarding his motives—but his idea was inspiring. Had she been a Frenchwoman facing an untenable marriage to another Frenchman, she would have leapt at his offer. But as she was returning to England soon, it was not a feasible solution.
She opened her mouth, fully intending to thank Lord Orsini for his “kind” offer and then politely excuse herself. Maman was looking for her, and...
Maman. Anger sat in her chest like a burning-hot coal. Papa wasn’t to blame. After all, he’d only been kind enough to give both his name and love to another man’s get. He probably wants to marry me off to David as quickly as possible to protect me and make certain no one finds out I’m a...
She couldn’t even think the word without her throat tightening.
Something stirred within Mélisande then, a recklessness born of hurt and rage. The circumstances of her birth, her impending marriage, all the pain she felt now—everything was her mother’s fault.
And here she was, alone with a man whose very name represented everything her mother wanted her to stay away from.
The sun shone on Orsini’s hair, infusing it with warm russet lights. His brown eyes gleamed, full of the promise of pleasures she could only begin to imagine—and probably several she couldn’t.
With a shock, Mélisande realized she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to take her in his arms again, hold her as he’d done when she’d knocked him to the ground, and kiss her.
She’d never been kissed before, not really. David didn’t count. She’d been only ten years old at the time, and it had been on a dare. And it had been disgusting.
Kissing this man would be quite different.
A wild, feverish heat ignited in Mélisande’s belly. Somehow, her desire must have communicated itself to the man beside her, for his warm, brown eyes deepened to nearly black and, only a moment later, he leaned in and captured her mouth.
She flinched at the initial contact but did not retreat. She couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to—her body simply would not allow it. She knew she ought to have delivered a stinging slap in reward for his presumption, but instead, she reveled in the turbulent sensations raging through her as her lips clung to his.
Her eyes drifted shut as his hands rose, one to clasp her waist, the other to lightly caress the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh rose all over her body, and she sighed into his mouth, softening, melting into him.
Every nerve in her body was alive, drowning in an ocean of touch, smell, and taste. He felt so wonderfully solid against her, all lean muscle beneath his clothes. His kiss was infused with the sweet, heady flavor of brandy, and the clean scent of soap and leather clung to his warm skin. Her hands began to roam, first clutching his shoulders, then traveling up to twine about his neck, where her fingers curled into his soft, dark hair.
He tasted her as though savoring a sweet, and she responded instinctively by grazing the corner of his mouth with her tongue. At that delicate, hesitant touch, he shuddered and pressed his palm hard into the curve of her spine, deepening the contact.
The only coherent thought left in Mélisande’s mind was: more.
