English midst?” Under her breath she added, “And one who has lost much of his accent in a matter of weeks.”
“I have lived in England since I was ten years in 1792.”
Except for the ten years he’d spent on the continent with Napoleon.
Ah, the lies, the games, the need for nightly repentance that never assuaged his burden of guilt.
“How fortunate you were to keep your head attached to your neck and away from the guillotine.” Lady Gale tilted her head. As though a curl, like many of the guests smiling around them, believed her words flirtatious, it slipped from its moorings and brushed her cheek.
Christien wondered if he could keep his head around her. He raised his hand, nearly brushing that curl aside. He pictured himself lifting it to his lips, inhaling its honey-citrus fragrance, testing its silkiness against his cheek.
He shoved his hand into his coat pocket. “My family was most fortunate to keep our heads. And now I am even more fortunate that we have a mutual friend who has so graciously allowed me to make your acquaintance.”
“Indeed.” Lang’s letter crunched in her hand, mangled beyond recognition. “A friend of my husband’s, I presume?”
“ Biensur. ” At the sibilant French word, a few ladies waved their fans more vigorously.
Madame Gale gripped hers as though she would smack him with it or she wished it were a truncheon instead. “I suppose I need to introduce you to my guests.”
“I would be most grateful. London is a lonely place without friends.” He offered what he hoped was a charming smile.
She blinked, and a hint of pink rose in her cheeks, testimony to the fact that she was not as indifferent to him as she pretended.
His smile broadened. “And perhaps a drive in the park afterward? It is a fine day for the end of March in this cold country.”
“Yes, it’s likely raining in Tavistock, don’t you think? Or have you never been to Tavistock?” As though discussing the weather under normal social conditions, she took his arm and nudged him forward.
He resisted the urge to cover her fingers with his and press them against his forearm, reassure her that her family would come to no harm through her actions or his. At least he would do his best to keep them all safe—by beginning with pretending that her comment about rain in Tavistock hadn’t been uttered.
“Monsieur Lang has told me of the beauty of the Bainbridge ladies,” he said. “Having met you, I believed him.”
“Flattery will serve you nothing here, monsieur. Though my youngest sister is quite a beauty, she is barely out of the schoolroom. She isn’t here. Cassandra is on the settee at the far end of the room, speaking with her fiancé and a friend. Mama is here.” She made these announcements in a breathless rush and stopped a yard from a lovely middle-aged lady with silver-gilt curls and a gentle smile. “Lady Jersey, Mama, this is Monsieur le comte de Meuse.”
Lady Jersey, one of the scions of Society. Tres bien. A step in the right direction. She was famous for her flirtatious ways. Even as he bowed over her extended hand, he caught the flutter of her lashes and felt the pressure of her fingers.
“An émigré?” she asked, holding his gaze too long.
“ Oui , madame. My family lives in Shropshire.” Conveniently far from London.
“What has kept you from us for so long?” Lady Bainbridge inquired. “And how do you know him, my dear?” she asked her eldest daughter.
“I have been serving my country,” Christien responded automatically. At a start of movement beside him, he added, “My adopted country, n’est-ce pas? ”
“His service is how I met him.” Lady Gale took half a step away from him. “I see that Lady Melby is leaving. I should say goodbye.”
Before Christien thought of a way to hold her beside him, she slipped away to a wispy lady old enough to be his great-grandmother.
“Are you a military man, monsieur?” Lady Jersey asked.
“An attaché to the foreign
“I have lived in England since I was ten years in 1792.”
Except for the ten years he’d spent on the continent with Napoleon.
Ah, the lies, the games, the need for nightly repentance that never assuaged his burden of guilt.
“How fortunate you were to keep your head attached to your neck and away from the guillotine.” Lady Gale tilted her head. As though a curl, like many of the guests smiling around them, believed her words flirtatious, it slipped from its moorings and brushed her cheek.
Christien wondered if he could keep his head around her. He raised his hand, nearly brushing that curl aside. He pictured himself lifting it to his lips, inhaling its honey-citrus fragrance, testing its silkiness against his cheek.
He shoved his hand into his coat pocket. “My family was most fortunate to keep our heads. And now I am even more fortunate that we have a mutual friend who has so graciously allowed me to make your acquaintance.”
“Indeed.” Lang’s letter crunched in her hand, mangled beyond recognition. “A friend of my husband’s, I presume?”
“ Biensur. ” At the sibilant French word, a few ladies waved their fans more vigorously.
Madame Gale gripped hers as though she would smack him with it or she wished it were a truncheon instead. “I suppose I need to introduce you to my guests.”
“I would be most grateful. London is a lonely place without friends.” He offered what he hoped was a charming smile.
She blinked, and a hint of pink rose in her cheeks, testimony to the fact that she was not as indifferent to him as she pretended.
His smile broadened. “And perhaps a drive in the park afterward? It is a fine day for the end of March in this cold country.”
“Yes, it’s likely raining in Tavistock, don’t you think? Or have you never been to Tavistock?” As though discussing the weather under normal social conditions, she took his arm and nudged him forward.
He resisted the urge to cover her fingers with his and press them against his forearm, reassure her that her family would come to no harm through her actions or his. At least he would do his best to keep them all safe—by beginning with pretending that her comment about rain in Tavistock hadn’t been uttered.
“Monsieur Lang has told me of the beauty of the Bainbridge ladies,” he said. “Having met you, I believed him.”
“Flattery will serve you nothing here, monsieur. Though my youngest sister is quite a beauty, she is barely out of the schoolroom. She isn’t here. Cassandra is on the settee at the far end of the room, speaking with her fiancé and a friend. Mama is here.” She made these announcements in a breathless rush and stopped a yard from a lovely middle-aged lady with silver-gilt curls and a gentle smile. “Lady Jersey, Mama, this is Monsieur le comte de Meuse.”
Lady Jersey, one of the scions of Society. Tres bien. A step in the right direction. She was famous for her flirtatious ways. Even as he bowed over her extended hand, he caught the flutter of her lashes and felt the pressure of her fingers.
“An émigré?” she asked, holding his gaze too long.
“ Oui , madame. My family lives in Shropshire.” Conveniently far from London.
“What has kept you from us for so long?” Lady Bainbridge inquired. “And how do you know him, my dear?” she asked her eldest daughter.
“I have been serving my country,” Christien responded automatically. At a start of movement beside him, he added, “My adopted country, n’est-ce pas? ”
“His service is how I met him.” Lady Gale took half a step away from him. “I see that Lady Melby is leaving. I should say goodbye.”
Before Christien thought of a way to hold her beside him, she slipped away to a wispy lady old enough to be his great-grandmother.
“Are you a military man, monsieur?” Lady Jersey asked.
“An attaché to the foreign
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