‘That is most certainly true—no man does!’
‘Exactly. Averil, listen to me. He does not need to know about any of this.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, he does. This is the man I have promised to marry. I intend to spend the rest of my life with him and I will, God willing, bear his children. I cannot be anything less than honest with him just because I do not know him.’
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her round so he could see her face in the moonlight. ‘You will tell him that I found you naked, that I nursed you for days, that you slept with me in my bed?’
‘Certainly.’ If he did not know her so well he would have missed the slight shake in her voice. ‘It is only right that he knows that I am not quite what he expects me to be. But I am contracted. My father gave his word—’
‘You are not a shipload of tea that has been bought and paid for, damn it!’ He shook the rigid shoulders under his hands. ‘Forget this merchant’s obsession with contracts and use some sense. He will reject you out of hand if you tell him all this.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said, cool as spring water. ‘I have a very large dowry and I hope he is able to see beyond his male prejudices and recognise the truth when he hears it. Will you let go of me, please?’
He kept his hands right where they were. ‘You know he wants you for your money and yet you will humiliate yourself by confessing all this to him? You talk about a lifetime together, children—do you think he thinks about these things?’
‘I am sure he thinks about children. This is, whatever you say, a business deal, a partnership with the succession a major factor. Don’t tell me that the marriage you are considering will be anything else—a love match, perhaps? You will buy a French bloodline to ally with yours. Would you want your wife to come to you with lies on her tongue?’
She shifted in his grip but he held tight to the slender shoulders. ‘Of course I would, if there was nothing serious to confess and if by speaking she ruined everything! Every marriage must contain secrets—and that way lies peace and coexistence. An arranged marriage is not some emotional entanglement.’ That was what he wanted. That was safe. No one could hurt your heart and your soul when neither of you cared deeply. He took another deep breath and tried to convince her.
‘You are a virgin, you are not carrying my child, I am never going to see you again once you leave this island. It is over, finished. Why ruin the rest of your life for nothing?’
‘Honour?’ Her tone made him flinch.
‘A woman’s honour lies in her chastity. You are a virgin.’ She gave a little sob that was not grief. Anger, perhaps, or frustration. ‘If you insist on this course then I must come with you. Bradon will want to call me out. That is a matter of honour.’
He must have jerked her closer without realising. His senses were flooded with the scent of her, the familiar Averil-scent of her skin mingling with the soap she had bathed with and the musk of excited, angry female. His body stirred into instant arousal.
‘I have no intention of telling him who you are. This mission will remain secret, I assume? I cannot imagine that they will want it trumpeted that an admiral’s cousin has been involved in treason and was thwarted by a Frenchman. Do you think I want you swaggering in, provoking a duel? What if you are killed?’
‘I would not be the one killed. And I do not swagger.’
‘Ha!’ She tossed her head. ‘And if you kill my betrothed? Do you think that a duel could be kept secret? You will ruin me—for what? Your honour. Not mine.’
‘Damn it, Averil.’ What she said was the truth. If she insisted on doing this insane thing then he must stand aside and allow her to do it, at whatever cost to his own honour. ‘What will you do if he rejects you?’
‘I do not know.’ She stared at him, her face black and white and silver in the moonlight. He saw her bite her lip and a tremor ran through her, a vibration of fear under his hands. Then she collected herself. ‘He won’t. He wouldn’t.’
‘He might, he very well might. And then you will be ruined. Think of the scandal. Where will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was that shiver again. Her brave front was just that—underneath she knew the dangers of what she was intending to do. ‘I suppose … I could always go home again.’
‘Or you could become my mistress.’ Even as he said it, Luc knew it was what he was hoping for. He wanted her and if Bradon rejected her the choices before her were few.
She could travel back to India, a perilous three-month voyage with the shame of her story following her; she could seek, without support, to find herself a less fastidious husband or she could join the demi-reps.
‘Your mistress?’ For a moment she did not seem to understand, then her whole body went rigid with indignation. ‘Why, you … you bastard! You don’t think I am good enough to marry, but you would keep me for your pleasure!’ She wrenched round, fighting his grip. ‘Let me go—’
Luc shifted his grip, afraid of hurting her, too aroused to release her. She thudded against his chest and he held her with one hand splayed on her back, the other in her hair, and kissed her.
He told himself it was to stop her creating a scene and bringing the others out into the garden. That degree of rational thought lasted long enough for him to open his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue between her tight lips as though he thrust himself into her virgin body. It was wrong, it was gloriously right, it was heaven. She tasted of wine and fruit and woman and he lost himself, drowning in her, until she twisted, jerking her knee up. If it were not for her hampering skirts she would have had him, square in the groin. As it was, her knee hit him with painful force on the thigh and he tore his mouth free.
‘How could you?’ she said, her voice as shaky as his legs had become. Luc took an unobtrusive grip on the statue base beside him and opened his mouth to apologise. Then he saw her face in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but it was not the face of a fearful woman, a woman who had been assaulted. It was the face of a woman in the throes of passion and uncertainty. There was longing and fear and excitement; she was as affected by that kiss as he was.
‘You value honesty and truth,’ Luc said, ignoring her question. If he was right her words had been aimed as much at herself as at him. ‘Tell me that you did not want me to kiss you. Tell me that you do not want to be my lover. Make me believe you.’
‘You arrogant devil,’ she whispered.
‘Go on, tell me. Surely that is much easier than confessing what happened on St Martin’s to Bradon?’