Dangerous Desires (Hearts of Rebellion Series, Book 3)

Dangerous Desires

Hearts of Rebellion Series

Book Three

by

Louise Clark

DANGEROUS DESIRES

Reviews & Accolades

...an action packed journey with an exciting pair of lovers... all the history without losing focus on the romance.

~Romantic Times

Nicholas is one of a kind. He will sweep you off your feet.

~Affaire de Coeur

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www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-775-3

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Copyright © 1993, 2015 by Louise Clark. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Dedication

To Bob and Dorothy Clark,

and to Robert Forrest Clark Donaldson.

The past and the future.

My love to you all.

Chapter 1

An ensemble consisting of two violins, one viola, a cello and two woodwinds struck up one of Mr. Mozart's delightful minuets. As the small orchestra played a few warm-up bars to entice the chattering guests onto the dance floor, Stephanie de la Riviére fanned herself languidly. The month was February and the weather outside the London mansion was a dreary mixture of ice and rain, but inside the protection of the building's walls, the crowded ballroom was warm from the crush of heated bodies and the flames of the hundreds of candles that made the room nearly as bright as day.

Stephanie had a vague suspicion that she had promised this dance to one of the many gentlemen she had met this evening, but she couldn't for the life of her remember which. Ah well, sooner or later he would appear to claim her hand. Until then, she would take this welcome opportunity to pause and draw a deep breath.

Her slanting dark eyes scanned the room. Stephanie was born a Frenchwoman and she could not resist comparing the leaf-green satin open robe she was wearing with the gowns of the other women at the ball. She was pleased to note that her underskirt, figured in a classical motif, was far more elegant than any other, and the full overskirt, caught up behind in a pouf, was in the first fashion. The bodice, though low cut, was not so low as to be indecorous. Moreover, the fine Italian gauze handkerchief draped around her neck and tucked into her bodice added a nice touch of propriety, while hinting seductively at the silken skin that lay beneath.

A rueful smile curled her thin, firm lips. How easy it was to look at the well-bred aristocrats around her and pretend that the months had rolled back to her days of living at the court of King Louis the Sixteenth! Then, life had been gossip, gowns and parties for an unmarried girl of good family. Even the violence of the revolution had intruded only rarely on the glittering social scene.

Resolutely, Stephanie moved her head in a dismissive gesture that set the thick fall of curling hair at her nape tumbling over one slim shoulder. The dark walnut locks were lightly powdered, for this was a formal evening. Surprisingly, the pure white powder only served to enhance the exotic coloring of a true brunette. Her clear, dark eyes saw more than the surface of this splendid event, and she was aware that to compare this evening's ball and the fashionable elite attending it with parties and people she remembered from her life in France was to fall into a trap. Although there were many similarities—from the elegant setting to the fine clothes and rich glitter of jewels—the differences were embedded deep beneath the extravagant facade. These English aristocrats did not face unthinkable changes in their lives, for they were secure in the power their positions provided. Their understanding of the turmoil in France was vague, and they felt pitifully little sympathy for the dispossessed nobility who had fled to London to escape the leveling reforms of the National Assembly.

Stephanie plied her fan, hiding her expression behind the fragile silk and ivory. She tried not to think of the upheavals that were currently destroying her beloved France, for the thoughts were especially unsuitable at such a time. Stephanie knew that she ought to be enjoying the party that her godmother, Madeleine, Dowager Countess of Wroxton, had arranged to introduce her to London society, but she could not eliminate the sense of being isolated, at one with neither the émigrés nor the English nobility.

Madeleine, who had been born in France, did her best to minimize these feelings. But when she married, she had come to England by choice, not necessity, and over the years she had replaced many of her French characteristics with English ones. Even Madeleine's speech had lost the charming accent that marked Stephanie's and pointed out her origins every time she opened her mouth. As Countess of Wroxton, Madeleine had become part of the small, select group that made up the cream of English society. To all intents and purposes, she was English, as Stephanie was not. Yet, Stephanie did not consider herself to be a true émigré either. She often found herself disagreeing with many of their ultraconservative opinions and was scornful of the flimsy plots they devised to return the aristocracy to its rightful place at the apex of French society.

The orchestra had launched into the dance, and Stephanie's partner still had not shown himself. Relieved, she continued her casual scan of the ballroom, deliberately directing her thoughts away from the dark brooding ones that made her forget that the party was being given in her honor. As the sweet music flowed over her, she concentrated on her surroundings.

The ballroom was decorated, as was all of Wroxton House, in the clean lines of the classical style that the English loved so well. Tall columns, such as the one she was standing beside, supported a ceiling adorned with delightful frescoes in which nymphs teased gods and goddesses, while mere mortals enjoyed bucolic picnics, their pleasures mirroring the playful cavorting of the ancient deities.

Large as it was, the ballroom was filled to capacity, for English society had turned out en masse in response to the invitations sent by Madeleine. A terrible crush, Stephanie had heard one plump matron call it, which meant the Dowager could count the ball a huge success.

Stephanie had almost decided to abandon her spot by the pink marble column when she felt a light tap on her arm.

A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle! said a light, lispy voice in French.

She stiffened, suddenly remembering who her partner was to be. The shiver of dislike she had felt when her hand had rested in his after she had agreed to dance with him repeated itself, despite the lightness of his touch. She made play with her delicate silk fan, hiding her revulsion. Monsieur de St. Luc, whatever do you mean?

The Vicomte de St. Luc, a French dandy of great self-importance and little tolerance for those who did not have the sense to acknowledge it, puffed out his chest. We were to have had this dance together, Mademoiselle. His tone was aggrieved. His language continued to be French. Hers was English.

Mockery made Stephanie's dark eyes dance with mischief. The Vicomte thought himself the epitome of French elegance. He was clad tonight in a coat of cherry-and-white taffeta. The broad stripes bent absurdly, as his chest swelled with emotion, teasing Stephanie's sense of humor into life. One of the lesser French nobility, St. Luc had discovered that his departure from France in the summer of l789 had given him more status in the small, contained émigré community in London than he had ever possessed in his homeland. The influence he wielded had clearly gone straight to his overinflated ego.

As a daughter of one of France's oldest and most respected families, Stephanie was not in the least intimidated by the paltry Vicomte de St. Luc. To prick his self-esteem a trifle was too tempting to resist.

This dance, Monsieur? She raised her arched brows. Surely you jest?

I do not, Mademoiselle, he retorted, his vanity clearly suffering.

Stephanie swept him a scornful glance, from the top of his powdered wig, with its small neat curls and short pigtail, to the diamond buckles of his gleaming black pumps. St. Luc was a short, slight man with sharp features that reminded Stephanie irresistibly of a ferret. I find it amazing that you would admit to claiming my hand for this dance, then not have the gentlemanly manners to arrive in good time to escort me onto the dance floor.

Her direct attack unnerved the Vicomte, and he began to sputter. But, Mademoiselle, I was unavoidably detained, you understand, by the Duchesse.

Stephanie was not interested in whom he was supposed to have captivated with his charms. Indeed, sir. Perhaps, then, you would like to return to her.

Sweeping a deep curtsy, she added, "You must excuse me. I see a new guest has arrived and I must attend my Tante Madeleine and greet him."

The Vicomte glanced toward the tall double doors of the ballroom. He noticed the gentleman standing there and sniffed contemptuously. These English! They have no concept of decorum. Imagine arriving at a ball with one's hair unpowdered and—he raised the quizzing glass that dangled from a black ribbon around his neck—if I am not mistaken, dressed in traveling costume. To emphasize his disapproval, he waved his hand in a languid expression of distaste.

Stephanie ignored St. Luc's outburst. Her eyes were fixed on the gentleman standing just inside the doorway. From her position across the room, she could see that he was tall, well-set and that he carried himself with the easy bearing of a man whose confidence was bone deep. As the Vicomte had pointed out, he was wearing a dark suit, austerely cut, which fit his muscular form perfectly. A caped greatcoat, damp from the sleet outside, fell negligently from his broad shoulders. In one long-fingered hand he held a pair of gloves with which he flicked his other palm. The little movement was the only sign of what might have been dismay at the attention he was receiving.

For Stephanie's eyes were not the only ones drawn to the handsome figure in the doorway. Not far away she heard a woman's voice say excitedly, Why, it is the Earl! What is he doing in town?

The Earl? Stephanie thought. Could this be her dear aunt Madeleine's nephew by marriage, the tenth Earl of Wroxton? But if so, why had the man arrived from his country estate this night, of all nights? Tante Madeleine had written him weeks ago, when she began planning for the ball, telling him the time and the date and asking him if he would be kind enough to attend. He had not deemed her request to be of sufficient importance to answer himself; instead, he had sent curt regrets through his secretary.

Stephanie's fine lips thinned to a hard line as her dark eyes began to sparkle dangerously. The Earl had turned up, causing gossip and speculation and embarrassing Tante Madeleine. Such inconsiderate treatment was not to be borne.

At that moment, Madeleine looked around, caught sight of Stephanie and gestured imperiously for her to join them.

Mademoiselle, a new dance begins. Will you delight me with your presence? the Vicomte asked, not at all pleased that Stephanie's attention was riveted on the new arrival.

"Pardon? Oh. Monsieur, I am sorry. My Godmama beckons me. If you will excuse me?" She swept away without hearing what he replied.

As Stephanie crossed the room, Madeleine said something to the Earl, causing his vivid blue eyes to focus on Stephanie. She tilted her head in a challenging way, at odds with the demure grace of her movements. Surprise flickered in his expression; then amusement warmed the cool blue of his eyes. Stephanie's chin lifted in annoyance. So, he thought her one of the simpering English misses easily quailed by a look from attractive masculine eyes, did he? He would find that Stephanie de la Riviére's courage had been tempered at a different forge. No weakness would be found in her mettle.

My dear, the countess said as Stephanie neared. The somber elegance of her rich chocolate-brown robe and figured tan underskirt contrasted pleasingly with the lively green of Stephanie's apparel. I am delighted to have this opportunity to introduce you to my late husband's nephew, Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton. Nicholas, my goddaughter, Stephanie de la Riviére. Madeleine's bright hazel eyes flickered back and forth as she observed the two young people. She had once been a beautiful woman; indeed, her fine bone structure made her heart-shaped face still lovely, even though she had seen more than fifty years. You will remember, Nicholas, that I wrote you of Stephanie's arrival from France last October.

Stephanie sank into a deep curtsy. "Enchanté, monsieur," she murmured, deliberately locking her defiant gaze with the Earl's.

Nicholas caught her hand as she rose, bowing gracefully and raising it to his lips. His eyes never left hers, even as his lips brushed her soft skin. At his touch, her stomach knotted and her heart beat a little faster. The amused tolerance in his eyes hardened into an emotion that darkened the clear blue. Stephanie was reminded of storm clouds and all the passions of nature unleashed.

I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle de la Riviére. His voice was deep, quiet, supremely masculine. A shiver of inner excitement added sparkle to Stephanie's dark eyes. Without guile, she studied the man before her.

For a country gentleman, he was amazingly current in his appearance. His thick black hair was cropped short in the front and on the sides, a style that had only just begun to come into fashion in France before she left. According to style, the back was longer and either allowed to fall free or tied with a ribbon, as the earl's was. There was the hint of a curl in his luxuriant locks, and Stephanie imagined running her fingers through the strong, clean mane. Heat suddenly flushed her skin.

Quickly, she dragged her thoughts and gaze away, avoiding the dangerous effects of his deep-set blue eyes that dominated a long, narrow face. Unfortunately, her gaze landed on his faintly smiling mouth. His lips were full and sensual, yet at the same time, they were held firmly, implying strength and a certain toughness of character. Stephanie's breath caught as unmaidenly thoughts filled her mind.

She raised her eyes to his once more, deliberately playing with danger. "En bien, Monsieur. Perhaps if you had thought to arrive at Tante Madeleine's ball a trifle earlier, we might have had the opportunity for more than a polite greeting."

The storm clouds in his eyes darkened. I come and go as I please, Mademoiselle.

Stephanie unfurled her fan, once more in control of her errant emotions since battle had been joined. I can see that, Monsieur. I am always amazed at the careless manners espoused by English country squires.

If Lord Wroxton had been a French aristocrat, he would have taken up the challenge she offered with her insulting remark and countered with a sharply honed rejoinder. But the Earl was not French. Instead of taking offense at her deliberate diminution of his status, he laughed. Mademoiselle, I stand corrected and offer humble apologies. My only excuse is that I forgot the date and, having arrived, I could hardly retreat to my chamber without greeting my dear aunt. He raised one straight black brow. Now could I?

Perhaps the gage had been accepted after all, given the challenge in his final sentence. Stephanie lifted her chin and smiled sweetly. Your thoughtfulness speaks volumes, Monsieur.

The amusement in the Earl's eyes deepened. Turning to the Countess, he said softly, I congratulate you on your companion, Aunt Madeleine. Such a fierce nature tied up in a delightfully feminine package.

Stephanie's eyes flashed. "Vraiment, milord, you step too far!"

The taunt in his eyes warmed into a caress. Danger in all its forms intrigues me, Mademoiselle, and the challenge you offer is too tempting to resist.

Madeleine decided that it was time to separate the Earl and her goddaughter. Unlike Stephanie, she had noticed shadows of weariness and some deeper fatigue in his eyes. Moreover, he looked thinner than the last time she had seen him. She wondered if he had been ill, and thought to hide it from his affectionate family.

But it was a question that could wait until the next day. For the moment, she was well-satisfied with the sparks that were flying between Stephanie and Lord Wroxton. The time had come to bring them out of the small world for two they had created so easily. People would soon notice the intensity between them, and it would not do for tongues to start wagging too soon. Much as I, and I am sure, Mademoiselle de la Riviére, would like to stay and enjoy your company, Nicholas, we have a duty to our guests. Come, Stephanie.

Milord. Stephanie managed to make her curtsy a polite insult.

Wroxton said softly, almost under his breath, "À bientôt, Mademoiselle." His French accent was perfect.

* * *

The melodious scratchings of the orchestra echoed through the quiet halls of the big house as Nicholas made his way to the imposing third-floor bedroom that was always kept in readiness for his return. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and he stood before it as he slowly shrugged the caped driving coat from his shoulders. He absently tossed the garment onto one end of the damask-covered daybed, angled to catch the warmth of the fire. Weariness filled his body as the tension that had sustained him drained away. It had been damned bad luck that he should reach London on the very night his aunt had decided to hold a ball. It had been even worse luck that she had invited half of London society.

And who the devil was Mademoiselle de la Riviére? And why was she apparently living in his house? He thought rather grimly that when he saw his brother-in-law, Gideon, Lord Broughton, the next day, he would have several very pointed questions to ask.

As quickly as it had come, his ill temper disappeared. The crossing from France had been worse than usual, and he was a poor sailor at the best of times. All that had sustained him had been the prospect of a quiet evening in the serenity and security of his home. It had been a shock to find his house filled with people upon his arrival.

He carelessly tossed the dark coat he was wearing onto the daybed atop the overcoat. Then, with a sigh, he cast himself onto the other end of the couch and stretched his booted feet onto the discarded garments. Leaning his dark head back against the cushions, he closed his eyes as he enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire.

He had just drifted off to sleep when the cautious squeak of an unoiled hinge alerted him that someone was attempting to gain entry to his chamber. His reflexes, honed to a sharp edge, sprang into play. He was on his feet with one lithe movement that had him facing the intruder in a defensive pose, even as he reached for the sword that was no longer at his side.

Baines, the butler, who had grown gray-haired in service to the Prescott family, took a startled step back. My lord? he said dubiously.

The adrenaline rush faded, leaving Nicholas drained. He wiped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his fine lawn shirt. It's all right, Baines. I was deep asleep when you came in and I was startled. That's all.

I am sorry then, my lord, that I disturbed you. He peered short-sightedly at the Earl's hard, handsome features. If you will permit me, my lord, he said, with the familiarity of an old and trusted retainer, you do not look your usual healthy self. I have brought you up a decanter of brandy. A quick glance around the room made his eyes widen. My lord, your coat!

Nicholas glanced without interest at the garments on the daybed. His boots had been muddy and had left stains on the fabric. It doesn't matter. I no longer have any use for them. Discard them.

Baines gathered up the clothes and bowed. Shall I send up a footman to help you remove your boots, my lord?

Yes. And heat some water. I want a bath.

Immediately, my lord.

When he was alone, Nicholas poured himself a snifter of the excellent brandy and swiftly drank it down. He had better get hold of himself, or people were going to be asking questions he did not want to answer.

He had poured a second brandy and was sipping it slowly when a footman arrived to remove his close-fitting boots. The manservant was soon followed by others, carrying a bathtub and buckets of hot water. Nicholas waited until he was alone once more, and had taken the precaution of locking his bedroom door, before stripping off his shirt and breeches and stepping into the hot, soothing water. He wanted no questions about the livid red scar that made a jagged track along his rib cage.

The sense of security and the brandy combined to ease his jangled nerves. His thoughts began to drift lazily, and he found the image of Stephanie de la Riviére forming in his mind's eye. And a very pleasant image it was. His mouth curled in a smile of pure male appreciation.

Stephanie de la Riviére was not what could be called a classic beauty, though her features were lovely. There was too much animation and spirit in her expression for picture perfection. She was, however, extremely alluring. Slanting, almond-shaped eyes dominated her heart-shaped face. Her nose was small and straight, but that had not kept her from looking down it in a most imperious manner as she let fly her verbal arrows. Her chin was sharp, and prominent enough to indicate a stubborn, provocative nature, but her straight, well-formed lips begged to be kissed. He had watched them tremble at certain moments during their short meeting and knew that her response matched his own.

Though her hair had been powdered, her brows were dark and he guessed that she had the rich brunette coloring of a true Frenchwoman. He smiled, shifting lazily in the bath as he sipped his brandy with thoughtful enjoyment. He had never found the cold beauty of fair women appealing.

But no matter how attractive Stephanie de la Riviére was, the sparkling challenge in her dark eyes told him she would be more than a handful for any male to manage. Their short meeting had alerted him that she was likely to be as self-centered and high-handed as the rest of her nationality and class.

Nicholas took another swallow of the brandy and reminded himself that many members of the French aristocracy believed passionately in the reforms brought about by the revolution. It was the aristocracy who had given birth to the revolution when they had forced the calling of the Estates General in 1789. However, those who had fled France resented the changes made by the new rulers of their country, and were bitter about the loss of their former power. These were the émigrés of London—complainers who preferred to bray their slights to the world rather than actively seek to right them. Being a man for whom deeds were more important than words, Nicholas had nothing but contempt for these French exiles.

Still, he mused, his mind retreating from thoughts of the strife-filled land he had so recently left, Stephanie de la Riviére was beautiful and spirited, and she was apparently living in his house. Her presence would make his short visit to London interesting.

Draining the brandy and pouring another, he sank deeper into the tub with a contented sigh. The lady had the look of someone who took life very seriously. He would have to tease her a bit to see what sparks he could set flying.

He chuckled to himself. He had been on English soil for little more than a day and already he was catapulting himself into danger. A pleasant sort of danger, though, and one that he could enjoy with the knowledge that it was only temporary.

He remained in the tub, thinking lazy, pleasurable thoughts of Stephanie until the water began to cool and the brandy was gone. Setting the snifter down, he completed his ablutions, then stepped from the tub. Tomorrow he would visit his brother-in-law Gideon, the man who had convinced him that his presence among the counterrevolutionaries in the French provinces would provide England with vital influence and information and, at the same time, allow Nicholas to make the contribution to his country that he believed his rank required of him.

If Gideon had any more dangerous assignments in France for him, Nicholas thought, as he tumbled onto the huge canopied bed, they would have to wait for a month or two. He intended to stay a few days in London, recovering his strength and visiting some old friends; then he was heading to Wroxton Hall, the family seat, far away in the fastness of the Welsh border country. There he hoped to recapture the sense of balance that his brush with death amid strangers in a foreign country had wrested from him.

For now, he was home and glad of it. For the first time in many, many nights, he would be able to sleep without fear of being disturbed. Home, he thought, as he drifted off, was a very soothing place.

* * *

I think the morning after a ball is even more enjoyable than the ball itself, Madeleine observed, as she inspected the breakfast selections laid out on the impressive Queen Anne sideboard. The strain of smiling and being pleasant, even as one wonders if the servants are laying the supper properly, or if there is sufficient champagne for the hordes of guests who have decided to grace your ball rather than Lady Whoever's, always gives me indigestion.

Already seated in her place beside Madeleine at the long mahogany table, Stephanie laughed. "You know that you were delighted by the attendance last night, chère Tante Madeleine."

The Countess made her choices by airily waving a finger in the direction of each, then sat at the end of the imposing table, which could easily seat thirty or more, while a footman made haste to fill her plate. We did have the cream of society enjoying our hospitality, she noted with satisfaction, as she draped a linen napkin over the blue-gray tabby of her gown. But I am more pleased for your sake, Stephanie, than my own. Your launch into English society was a tremendous success. I must confess that I was extremely worried that you would become trapped in the constricted world of the émigré community here in London, and that would never do.

The lighthearted smile faded from Stephanie's face. "Tante Madeleine, I am an émigré, she protested sadly. Unlike you, I did not come to England because I chose to. I am here because my dear Papa feared for my safety in France and sent me away! She looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. The gaily decorated muslin of her chemise gown, brightly patterned with flowers in greens and pinks, mocked her somber mood. Raising her eyes, she said forcefully, The émigrés here in London plot and scheme to bring about the downfall of the revolution and to restore the King's rights and powers. Is that so bad?"

The Marquis de Mont Royale sent you here to begin a new life, Stephanie, Madeleine said gently, her hazel eyes dark with concern. He would be shocked if he thought you were involved in the Byzantine plots that swirl about the émigré community.

Stephanie's soft lips twisted in a grimace of self-disgust. "I know, Tante Madeleine. But I cannot cut myself off from my past, as Papa thinks I should! Every time I read a newspaper, or hear a bit of gossip about the events in France, I worry about him and how he is faring! She pushed her plate away, her breakfast untasted. While I am here in England, eating fine meals and worrying about nothing more than the gown I am to wear for my next party, she said, her voice rising and her eyes sparkling angrily, the odious revolutionaries seek to destroy the King!"

Stephanie's bitter pronouncement hung in the quiet air as Nicholas sauntered into the elegant dining room. The words confirmed his thoughts of the previous evening. Absurdly disappointed, he couldn't resist interjecting, I doubt Louis needs the aid of revolutionaries, no matter how zealous they are, to arrange his destruction. He is quite capable of doing so all by himself.

Outraged, Stephanie's eyes blazed dark fire. Bah! What would you, milord, know of France and her problems?

Nicholas waved away the footman's help and served himself from the ample stock of food on the sideboard. Settling into a seat opposite Stephanie, he raised one black brow in mild disdain. A great deal, he remarked. And I would estimate that my judgment is a good deal sounder than yours—or that of your émigré friends.

He made the last sound like a rather nasty disease.

Stephanie bridled. "En bien! For a man who wastes his time languishing in the country, you certainly have a high opinion of your own importance. Perhaps, Monsieur le Comte, you should bestir yourself to share some of that voluminous knowledge with the poor benighted souls who attempt to govern this country!"

Nicholas almost laughed. Stephanie de la Riviére, controlled and contained by the social mores, was a comely woman. With her passions aroused, her eyes spitting fire, and her fine features animated with spirited intelligence, she far surpassed mere beauty. It is not my country that is in the throes of destroying its monarch. He paused, then observed, Although, I must own, old King George and his brood of willful brats rival Louis of France in their inability to endear themselves to their subjects.

Though she would have liked to have retorted that King Louis was beloved of his people, Stephanie was too honest to blurt out such an untruth, even in the heat of anger. It is not the role of kings to endear themselves, as you put it, to the people. They rule the nations they reign over and no one should gainsay that!

"Perhaps in