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Following her movement, Valentine shifted, eyes perusing the crowd again, always on the hunt for that flash of silver. Had enough time passed for him to take his leave? He still couldn’t see any sign of Bronwyn, and the dancing had started up again. A quadrille this time with every color in the rainbowexceptsilver.
“Have you seen your niece?” he asked.
Her head cocked to the side as she tapped her lips with her fan. “Oh yes, but not for some time. Monsieur de Tremblay, that naughty opportunist, escorted her out on the terrace after the waltz for some air, or whatever it is these young devils do to court a lady.” She patted his arm, even as an unholy force nearly drove his body to the doors in question, and laughed at him. “Best not wait too long, Your Grace, or your prize will be snatched out from under you by a much wilier competitor.”
Frowning, he opened his mouth and shut it. Blast it, she’d distracted him on purpose, hadn’t she? Had Bronwyn said something to her aunt? Confided that she was running from a feared pursuer? Or was the Comtesse de Valois simply making mischief because she was bored and peeved that he’d come to her ball without an invitation?
“Excuse me, please,” he bit out.
Fisting his hands, he marched through the throng, nearly pushing people over in his haste. Cool air filled his lungs, but brought no reprieve as there was no sign of them on the terrace either!
And then he saw her.
Sitting on one of the marble benches with Lord Tremblay, much too close for comfort. Another young lady sat on her left, which gave him the barest modicum of relief, although not enough to deflate the instant surge of possessiveness. A pair of crystal-sharp eyes lifted to meet his as if she’d sensed his presence.
“Your Grace, is something amiss?” her soft voice called out, tinged with amusement. “You look rather tense. Surely you’re not still vexed about the mix-up with Monsieur de Tremblay. There’ll be other waltzes this evening.”
Tremblay—that lily-pated maggot—leaned in to whisper something in her ear that made her blush and smile, and then lifted her knuckles to his lips for a leisurely kiss. Valentine’s spine locked, a growl catching in his throat.
With a sweet grin to the marquis, Bronwyn rose and strolled over to him where he leaned against the stone balustrade leading down into the gardens. Her familiar perfume wafted upward as she stopped within arm’s reach and peered up at him, blue eyes gleaming silver with reflected moonlight. “What’s the matter, Your Grace?”
“You ran,” he demanded in a low voice. “Why?”
“You would have done the same.” That jewel-bright stare dropped to the gardens. “We both know what you think of me and what you intended. I will go back to London on my terms.”
“I can arrest you right now.”
She had the audacity to laugh. “Restrain me and put me in handcuffs? In front of all these good people? You and I both know that you respect my brother too much for that. No, Your Grace. You can hover as much as you like, but if you think you will catch me unaware and alone, then think again.”
Deuce it, he wanted to devour the bravado from her lips. Ferry her down into the shadows of the garden and repeat their encounter in the woods until the only sounds coming from her mouth were whimpers and moans for more.
“And what if you’re in danger?”
That bare shoulder lifted, drawing his eyes to the tantalizing slope of creamy skin as she scoffed. “You can’t have it both ways, Your Grace. Either I’m a terrible danger to all and sundry, and must be taken into custody, or I’m a damsel in need of your strength and manly protection.”
Valentine stared at her, so close and yet infinitely beyond his reach at the moment for precisely the reason she’d stated. Arresting her in public would cause no end of scandal. For the moment, his hands were tied. “You can’t hide forever, my lady Kestrel. At the end of all of this, you will be in handcuffs, I promise you.”
Husky laughter that shot straight to his groin drifted from her as she returned to her friends. “So you say, Your Grace, so you say.”
Sixteen
The dratted man waseverywhere.
And Bronwyn meant every single place she went in Paris, she was acutely aware of his presence, as if he were waiting for her to slip up so he could arrest her like a thief in the night. Of course, she could be imagining things, but Thornbury wasn’t a man who would leave anything to chance. Which was why Bronwyn was never alone. Poor Monsieur de Tremblay was becoming a crutch as her preferred escort, but the friendly marquis didn’t seem to mind the designation.
“I shall have to be extra careful,” he’d told her once during an afternoon stroll through the Tuileries. “Or I will lose this rather dissolute heart to you.”
Bronwyn had patted his arm. “One cannot fall in love in less than a week, Monsieur le Marquis.”
“I assure you,Ican,” he’d replied with a feigned swoon. “You should marry me and put me out of my misery.”
The question, jokingly plied as it had been, had jarred her. Why shouldn’t she marry someone like the marquis? He was diverting and charming, quite intelligent when he chose to be, and underneath the layers of fashionable dandy, he hid quite a sensitive soul.
Because he’s in love with someone else.
Because he’s not a sultry-as-sin duke who wants to put you in restraints…as you desperately want him to.
Her knees had gone weak, causing her to stumble.
