Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake Page A

ask what passes between you, chère. I knew this Sasha, as you call him in the Russian way of pet names, danced attendance upon you in Paris while I was there, but had not realized matters were serious between you.”
    â€œNor are they except in his mind.” Ariadne sighed.
    â€œWhy not, pray? Rumor in Paris was that he is a cousin to the czar, in spite of having a French mother.”
    â€œSo he is, though he left St. Petersburg under a cloud. I don’t know the details, but it seems to have been too close an association with those involved in a failed coup or some such thing. His exile is a great grief to him, especially being parted from his family. As for our first meeting, he appointed himself my cavaliere servante . This was while Jean Marc was ill, you know, and quite had my husband’s approval since he was unable to take me about and preferred I have some protection. Sasha has never stepped over the line and always executed the duties of his role most faithfully.”
    â€œWhich is why you hesitate to wound him, I suppose.” Maurelle’s wise gaze reflected her understanding of the usefulness to a married lady of such an admirer. Quite accepted in European capitals, so-called servant cavaliers put in an appearance on visiting days, acted as escort on shopping excursions or outings to the theater or a soiree when the husband was indisposed or disinclined, made themselves the bearers of their lady’s cloak, gloves or fan, and regularly presented such trifles as books, flowers and bonbons. Though the pose was one of selfless devotion, not unlike that of the knights of the ancient Court of Love, the gentleman’s attachment was only half serious in most cases, serving as a convenient shield against the wiles of nubile females and their matchmaking mamans. While a love affair sometimes developed, dread of la scandale was usually enough to assure a mere platonic attachment.
    â€œHe was there when I needed a friend,” Ariadne answered in wry agreement.
    â€œI do see the difficulty. But you may have one even more pressing now.”
    â€œMeaning?” Her attention was caught by the unaccustomed seriousness of Maurelle’s voice. Motherly concern was not usually her friend’s style.
    â€œMonsieur Blackford did me the honor of calling this morning.”
    Ariadne felt as if someone had yanked her corset’s strings so it squeezed her chest. “And?”
    â€œYou seem to have aroused his interest, something not easily done. Are you sure you know what you are about?”
    â€œHe was asking questions?”
    â€œQuite pointed ones,” Maurelle agreed, and went on to give examples. “I accused him of being infatuated but he avoided an answer.”
    â€œSo I should hope!”
    Even as she spoke, Ariadne recalled with searing vividness the few minutes when the Englishman had removed his coat and waistcoat in front of her while a smile hovered at one corner of his beautifully molded mouth. His dexterous fingers had slipped the studs from his shirt, leaving the strong column of his neck exposed at the front, along with the barest hint of dark gold chest hair. He had known she watched and minded not at all, as if he thought her a woman of experience who might be entertained.
    It made her temper rise merely to think of it. How dare he assume such a thing? And the way he had disarmed her, with a mere flick of his wrist? Infuriating.
    Nonetheless, she had been transfixed for a long moment, stunned into immobility by the perfection of line and form and intimation of raw power to be found in a man’s body. Her husband had never undressed in front of her but always came to her bedchamber in darkness. Whether it was to save her blushes or because he knew his illness was wasting his muscles and virility she had no idea. The result was a great deal less experience with such scenes than Monsieur Blackford might suppose.
    She was not the kind of woman to be