Cerise DeLand's Blog, page 3

Would you impersonate another to solve a crime against your family? IMPOSTER is getting 5 STAR reviews!

He’s the last man she wants to see.

But he’s the only man who sees right through her.

Haunted by their past, they’re desperate to save their future together…if they can.

He’s the last man Viv wants to see. 

Vivienne de Massé goes to Paris impersonating her oldest sister, the infamous Drury Lane actress, Charmaine Massey. Viv has a reason…and a plan to avenge the capture and death of their other sister during the Terror. Only one man can stop her.

Tate Cantrell is the only man who sees right through her.

Tate Cantrell bursts into her dressing room one night in Paris, and calls Viv’s bluff. He reminds Viv she plays a role—and a dangerous game she cannot win alone.

He declares she needs him. She always has. Indeed, he’s spent the last decade helping the émigré Massé family—and falling in love with charming Viv. Now the Earl of Appleby, Tate works as a spy for Scarlett Hawthorne’s network on the Continent. He alone has the means and the connections to help her….if she’ll let him. 

Haunted by their past, they’re desperate to save their future together… If they can survive those who would destroy them.

Excerpt, All rights Reserved, Lord Appleby’s Gorgeous Imposter, Cerise DeLand 2024.

Viv halted her mount. The sight before her brought tears to her eyes. Cringing, she caught her breath at sight of the huge, vacant plot where, according to witnesses, her father had been marched up a platform, hauled to Mademoiselle Machine Horrible, and murdered in the middle of the square. 

“Come away, my dear.”

She sniffed back her tears, caught and yet not surprised by the sound of the bass voice in her earshot. Tate Cantrell again. Was he her personal Paris plague? She chanced sight of him. So broad-shouldered, muscular, and bold, he presented that vibrant mix of flashing blue-green eyes and sugared cinnamon hair that made her mouth water. As if she weren’t in his thrall already, he added to the drama of his presence in a magnificent mahogany-brown riding habit. “I should expect you everywhere I go now, is that right?”

His eyes danced. But of course, said his look. “I know you well.”

Indeed. “Too well. You cannot annoy me into conducting a conversation with you.”

He gave a laugh. “Then I shall annoy you enough to protect you.”

Once she would have kissed his cheek for that. Now, congenial as his promise was, that irritated her. She ground her teeth and urged her horse back toward Pont Neuf. “I have enough protection.”

Tate rode beside her, easy as if he’d been invited. “He does look the part. I hope you pay him well.” 

“Ba! Look at him, monsieur.” 

She nodded toward her groom. Older, gruff with a day’s growth of beard and a bulbous nose long disfigured by too many brawls, Fortin flashed his black eyes at Tate. Then, with suave menace and a hand to the butt of his pistol at his side, he said, “Monsieur, if you please.”

“I assure you, sir,” Tate cooed in the sweetest French as he raised both gloved hands, “I am a friend and I mean no harm.”

Viv sniffed the air.

Her guard grimaced. “The lady does not want you, monsieur.”

Tate checked her eyes. “I believe she does. In fact, he always has.”

BUY LINK: https://books2read.com/u/3JBdJe

Travel with me to Fontainebleau and learn about Napoleon's 1st abdication!

Travels with CeriseFontainebleau, Grand Courtyard of Main entrance

Travel is a wonderful way to do historical research for novels. Time-consuming, it is an intriguing way to put drama into your day...as you eat and drink you way around your chosen paths!

My biggest kicks come from standing in the very spots that others infinitely more interesting than I have stood. Reflecting on how they must have felt at certain points in their lives—or seeing what has become of those places long after they have passed sends ripples of ennui down my spine. (Here you see my pictures from this memorable day in this lovely palace!)

Closeup of front steps of Fontainebleau

Here you see the grand staircase of Fontainebleau outside. Why is this an interesting view? Well! Not only was this the main entrance to the palace during the Ancien Regime, but also one used by Napoleon and his coterie. On these very steps, Napoleon emerged from the palais in April 1814. The previous night he had attempted suicide, swallowing a poison which proved ineffective. I wish I had a picture of his bedroom where he slept and the room where he signed his abdication from imperial power. Alas, the ones I took were terribly out of focus! It's what comes of being too enraptured and soaking up the scenery instead of tending to the camera!

Napoleon signing abdication papers in Fontainebleau, April 1814

Greeting many of his generals and troops who were gathered in the courtyard below (see next picture), he bid them farewell. He boarded a coach, escorted by a small French retinue and a few Englishmen to assure his departure, and left for Elba. He arrived there May 30, 1814.

The Golden Courtyard where Napoleon's troops would have heard his farewell in April 1814 before he departed for Elba. Here you have the view Napoleon had as he addressed his troops.

To read a fast-paced romance about two lovers who must escape Napoleon’s return, do read BECAUSE OF YOU!

Love does not advertise. Love is not proud.

But when a young woman has nothing left but pride, she places an ad and hopes for a husband to treasure.
BUY LINK: https://books2read.com/u/mvN8eq

My 360 degree vid of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette in St. Denis! Have you seen this?

 

More than 7000 people have watched this video of mine which I took in the basilica of St. Denis in Montmartre years ago.

This duet stands on the ground floor of this marvelous church, which contains the bodies and crypts of all the kings and queens of France. 

Louis and Marie are gorgeous figures. Serene and at prayer. Their remains lie in the crypt beneath the ground floor. If you go, do follow it down. There, the two are buried beneath black granite along with the remains of many who died during the Terror. 

Ah, the file is too big.  Please go watch it on my YOUTUBE channel here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCba82P_Q1kUrJUVVW0CwJmw/featured

Do subscribe to see all my videos!

A nibble of LORD APPLEBY'S GORGEOUS IMPOSTER! Debuts 12/27! Not your average ballroom Regency!

Part of my historically accurate SCARLETT AFFAIRS series, IMPOSTER debuts this Friday.

This is not your average Regency ballroom romance, but a fast-paced drama of action and suspense. 

Here, a young woman is determined to solve the mystery of her missing and abducted sister...and what she learns demands new courage...and the help of a devoted man whom once she wanted and could not have.

BUY LINK: https://amzn.to/3Ag8tKA

Travels with Cerise to NAPOLEON'S PARIS and his love of...actresses! LOL!

What others do affects us—sometimes—greatly. I cannot deny that life has gotten in the way of some of my own objectives. A few times, with disastrous consequences I could not alter.

And while in romance we like to solve all our heroes and hoeroines’ problems, occasionally we cannot. 

What is historically accurate in IMPOSTER includes the fact that Bonaparte did invite actresses to his bed—and he did keep them waiting. One, he kept out in his other office for so long, she left! An actress with whom he did have a liaison was the young Madame George who did open in Paris in Phaedra in February 16, 1803.

Another tidbit of history in IMPOSTER is the fact that often what occurred outside the theater was often celebrated inside! (See the excerpt from a London newspaper, 1805)

I hope you join me for LORD APPLEBY’S GORGEOUS IMPOSTER when Tate Cantrell, Lord Appleby, risks his life to help the woman he loves exact revenge on those who destroyed her family.

BUY LINK: https://amzn.to/3Ag8tKA

Would you ever impersonate another? One lady does...to shocking consequences! Video and excerpt! LORD APPLEBY'S GORGEOUS IMPOSTER!

To learn who really destroyed her family, Vivienne Massey will do anything...even impersonate her sister...and deny herself the man she has always loved!

He’s the last man Viv wants to see. 

Vivienne de Massé goes to Paris impersonating her oldest sister, the infamous Drury Lane actress, Charmaine Massey. Viv has a reason…and a plan to avenge the capture and death of their other sister during the Terror. Only one man can stop her.

Tate Cantrell is the only man who sees right through her.

Tate Cantrell bursts into her dressing room one night in Paris, and calls Viv’s bluff. He reminds Viv she plays a role—and a dangerous game she cannot win alone.

He declares she needs him. She always has. Indeed, he’s spent the last decade helping the émigré Massé family—and falling in love with charming Viv. Now the Earl of Appleby, Tate works as a spy for Scarlett Hawthorne’s network on the Continent. He alone has the means and the connections to help her….if she’ll let him. 

Haunted by their past, they’re desperate to save their future together… If they can survive those who would destroy them.

BUY LINK: https://amzn.to/3Ag8tKA

A NIBBLE! YES!

Copyright 2024, Cerise Deland. All rights reserved.

“Mademoiselle de Massé!”

She made haste to her dressing room, a crowd of men on her heels. As she strode, she tore off her gloves and her cape, dropping them in her maid’s outstretched hands.

“Mademoiselle de Massé!”

“My wig,” she said like a curse, and worked the ugly thing off and into Alice’s care. Her own hair fell free, locks of it falling around her shoulders and freeing her of the ruse she had agreed to and hated.

“Mademoiselle!” The chorus of men clamoring at her dressing room door was gratifying but frightening. 

She skirted around them. “Let me by. Let me by.”

A few were gentlemen. They stepped aside. But crowds meant chaos. Terror. She’d had enough of that in her life. Enough. Enough!

She stepped into her dressing room, and they followed. 

She spun to her maid. “Close the door, Alice. Admit one gentleman at a time.” The woman was tall and sturdy, able to fight off hordes of men. Even those three who attacked us along the road near Rouen were discouraged by her.

And I was useless. Brandishing a pistol that shook in my grip.

She put a hand to her throat. The memory of the robbery outside Rouen made her angry. Her blood ran cold when anyone ran after her or called for her. But these men were praising her.

She swallowed. Do not be a ninny. The play had gone well. The applause was thunderous. The bouquets were so numerous that she could not leave the stage. The manager had to come help her walk away. 

Now she had to react. Smile. Greet her public. 

Mon Dieu, I hate crowds.

Alice had trouble closing the door. She kept telling those assembled to take their feet from the threshold, but they did not do it. They pushed and insisted. A few shouted.

“Miss! Miss, I cannot—!” Alice appealed to her.

“Mademoiselle!”

She stilled at the sound of one rich male voice. 

No, no. I am dreaming.

But he called again—and his was a deep bass unlike any other man’s. Dark as fine Cabernet wine. Hard as iron. Unforgettable. 

“Mademoiselle Charmaine de Massé?”

Insistent. A question with a touch of English accent on her family name. It should be pronounced “Massey.” 

“Mademoiselle! Vivienne!”

No. Who would call for Viv? Not here. Not tonight.

“Vivienne!”

No, surely…

She craned her neck.

Tate!

She whirled away from the throng, a hand to her forehead, her smile dead on her lips.

It could not be Tate Cantrell! Why would he be here? Was he not in some tiny German town?

“Vivi.”

Tate. He’s come to the play. Here in Paris.

She turned slowly back. She always faced the inevitable, didn’t she?

Her eyes flitted over the crowd that filled her dressing room doorway.

It was Tate. He stood inches above the fray. Everywhere he went, he’d always brought color, action, relief, and succor. In the profuse candlelight of her drab dressing room, he illuminated the shabby grays of the décor. He moved relentlessly forward through the crowd toward her, determined, focused, so handsome she gulped back the urge to cry. But it was her Tate.

The irrepressible Tate had always brought brilliance to her life. From his wavy whiskey hair to his large blue-green eyes and the sharp arch of his ruddy cheeks, he was a delicious man to look upon. To talk to him, to see him smile, to make him grin was the ambition of many a girl. All tried. Few succeeded. I was one of them. But his gaze implied only friendship. Never more. 

This was Tate. Her friend. Her best friend. Tate. Her tension dissolved. He was near, and that always meant that she was saved from…

No ! I am not saved. Not redeemed.

She snapped aside. Focused on the man right before her. Forced a smile to him. A tall, dark fellow in impeccable silks with his knee out, his hand toward her, like a courtier from her father’s entourage. A man out of time, yet in this one, he struck a pose that shot her to the past, her childhood. A supplicant to her father. A man bent on seduction of her mother…or her oldest sister, the flirt. 

She blinked. This man in front of her now simply wished to make himself known to her. To capture the latest Paris sensation and take her home.

Another man of similar fashion maneuvered the first away. He sought to gain advantage. “Mademoiselle de Massé,” he murmured, pronouncing her family name as it should be in this country of her birth, not like the English bastardization of it. 

The way we were known after the fall. And ever after. When we were taken in by the English who sought to ease our pain of loss. The English. The Cantrells.

“Oui, oui, I am happy to accept your cards,” she told each man in turn. All handsome devils. Outfitted in their finest to impress her. But then, hope was eternal—and always perilous.

She knew her callers’ expectations, their assumption that they might offer her supper after her performance, wine, the allure of their apartments, a kiss, later a dalliance, perhaps? And in time, a more permanent relationship?

Alice caught her eye from across the room. Yes, it was time.

Alice bent and disappeared to open the little basket that was Louis’s wicker cage. The little dog burst out, yipping above the din of the appreciative male audience and nipping at a few ankles of those who did not move as quickly as they should. Louis, smart fellow, claimed what distance she could not as readily.

I like my space. She smiled at the next man who inched his way forward and lifted her hand to his lips. He had a flat face and a funny, tiny nose and nibbled at her hand…like a rabbit.

She snapped to attention. Whoever this man was, she wanted no part of him. She could do much here in Paris. Act. Pretend. Deceive.

Yet she was incapable of some things.

“Know thyself.” That was her mother quoting the Greek maxim.

I do. And entertaining men who can never appeal to me physically will not aid me in my goal. 

“Mademoiselle de Massé.”

Tate.

She surrendered. She had to. He stood right before her and she could not help herself—she stared at him. Her heart sank to her knees. She had not thought that her skills as an actress would be tested so soon in this city. Nor did she imagine that this man, above all others, would be the one to call her to task. 

Had he not been in the little German margravate of Baden? Before she left London six days ago, that was what she’d read in a gossip sheet. Tate, the charming Earl of Appleby, had always gadded about Europe. She had read the scandal sheets in London that told of so many British abroad. She’d believed what she’d read and thought her way clear of him. For she knew that if Tate Cantrell were in Paris when she was, he’d meddle in her plans. And that, she could not tolerate. 

“Bon soir, mademoiselle.” He took her hand, pressed his warm mouth to her flesh, and made her belly quiver. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte.” She inclined her head. She knew him—she could let the gossips spread that fact. After all, she’d spent the last decade in his country, on his lands, in a cottage on his manor grounds. One fact she would not now acknowledge publicly was how their relationship had once been more than that of friends. So she lied and said, “How lovely to see you here this evening.”

He looked up at her through those thick, caramel-colored lashes of his, and his jade-green gaze warmed and challenged. “How I have missed you.”

Of all the compliments he could have given, he chose the one that churned her anger at him. She had missed him all her life. Loving him, wanting him, watching him come and go, accepting finally that he would never be hers. She licked her lips. “I am honored.”

“Are you? I am undone. I thought I had buried in my heart how bewitching you are,” he said in the mellow voice that could melt her like a candle. “I was wrong. One glimpse, even so far from the stage, and I knew—”

“Excusez-moi, monsieur.” She put her other hand atop his and squeezed. He spoke French and so did she, but she could not have anyone overhear what he might say. “Do not—”

“Hurt you?” He turned to English. His large eyes turned mellow and reassuring, his soothing expression taking her back to the weeks when they fled the mobs and he had saved them all from disaster. Mama, her sister, even Beau had been the beneficiaries of his courage and his kindness. “Never, mademoiselle. I simply must talk with you in private.”

“Not here. Not now.” She had to collect her responses. Were there not scripts for occasions when you confronted by surprise the love of your life?

“Then later. Where do you lodge?”

“Please. Do not press me.”

“I must. I will. You know I will not rest until—”

“Yes. Yes, that I do know.”

“When?”

When had God created a man so beautiful that to look at him blinded a woman to all else in the world? He seemed broader of shoulder, sturdier of muscle than when last she’d beheld him. His hair—that cinnamon blond the English defiled by calling ginger—fell over his broad brow. The lines fanning from his eyes told of the years he bore, the years they had been apart when she had yearned for him—all in vain.

She wanted to ask him truly how he was, where he’d been, why he was here in Paris. But she dared not. Whatever his reason to be in Paris, it was not her business. She was here not to meet him or enjoy his company, but to conduct her own affairs. Conversely, what she did was none of his affair.

“When? When will you see me?” He leaned closer. That cologne that distinguished him all his adult life—that grassy mix of German vervain and orange—washed over her and took her breath. He kissed her wrist, far from the place where the rabbit had put his lips, and with two fingers to her chin, Tate raised her face. In English, he whispered, “It must be soon.”

“Monsieur.” She gave him her mask of polite refusal. “Please, do nothing rash.”

“Never, mademoiselle. Not to you.”

She snatched back her hand. “I have an engagement for which I must prepare.” That was in French, loud enough for others to hear.

“Skip it.”

“Impossible,” she told him, and at Tate’s heels, her little dog proclaimed loud and long how he needed Tate’s affections now.

She bent to pick up the dog. Louis had not nipped Tate’s heels. Of course not. Animals never attacked those they loved.

“Bonjour, Louis,” Tate whispered, and put his large hand to the head of her hairy little mutt. If Tate were a harsh man or an angry one, he could take her little dog’s head and crush it in his fingers like so much paper.

But Louis—remembering the man whom he had loved above all other males—nuzzled into the fond embrace of big, bold, sappy Tate Cantrell, now the Earl of Appleby, the man who had given Louis to her as a pup and who had given her, her mother, and her half-sister Charmaine a cottage, income, beds to sleep in…and hope to live on.

“Surely…mademoiselle,” he began, obviously avoiding use of her given name in this crowd, dwindling though it was. “Surely you agree about the need to talk.”

She shook back her long, pale curls that flowed over her shoulders. Then she gave him her most impervious stare. She had to convince him to stay away from her. To never reveal, never voice her worst fears and say her name. “Monsieur, I am very busy. As you can see. And I am tired.”

He scoffed, his hand still caressing her sweet Louis. The dog was a traitor to cuddle Tate like a long-lost father. “A few minutes tonight.”

She needed to prepare what to say to him. So much for being a good actress. “I must ask you to leave.”

“Make me go.”

She swallowed her anxiety that he would make a scene and ruin her entire plan. 

“Alice!” 

The maid stepped forward. She was nearly as tall as Tate. He noticed with a smirk.

“Go with this gentleman to the wig closet”—she lowered her voice even though she spoke English to her—“and give him my address.”

The first man who had paid her attentions must have overheard and understood, because he raised a hand and stepped forward.

She put up one staying hand. “Un moment, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.”

“I won’t be put off.” Tate bit off the words.

She set her eyes on him with all the power that her older sister would have used on an adversary. But her tone was soft, as she did not wish to be overheard by any of these flaneurs. “You are not. Alice will give you my address. Come day after tomorrow.”

“Tonight.”

“No. I am committed. Sunday, monsieur, or not at all.”

He bowed, but his eyes gave no quarter. “What time?” 

Persistent cuss. “Alice will send it.”

“Tell me now—”

She huffed. “Do not make a scene here, Tate.”

His eyes flared wide at mention of his given name. 

Her gaze fell to his appealing, full lips. Oui, I recall too well their luscious feel. “Please. Leave me. I have an engagement. Alice, take this gentleman out and lead the others as well.”

Tate clutched her hand once more. “I am thrilled to have found you.”

His delight could never temper the fact that he had discovered her. Now she had to stop him from doing her any more harm.

“You may call upon me day after tomorrow, monsieur. At two o’clock.” She smiled perfunctorily at him, then threw an apologetic look to the other men who’d been eager to have their time with her.

Tate set his jaw. “I do not breathe until then.”

She caught her own breath. How could he so unravel her fine coil of good intentions in a few stirring words? 

“Louis,” Tate crooned to the dog, “I will see you again very soon. Take good care of your mistress.”

Wiggling in discontent, the dog whimpered as Tate put him back to her arms.

Viv set her jaw and called forth all her determination to complete this plan of hers with speed. Tate could ruin every detail. “Avoir, monsieur.”

BUY LINK: https://amzn.to/3Ag8tKA

Fabulous reviews of RAMSEY by those who love the spice, the action, adventure and the historical accuracy!

“A breathtaking plot.”

“…a mixture of fact and fiction woven so cleverly together, it made a book that was hard to put down.”

“…very well thought out book, well researched and cleverly written.”

“…they make an incredibly well-suited pair - that is if they can live long enough to enjoy a future together.”

“…captures the readers attention from the first sentence to the very last period.”

“…loved the mix between fact & fiction in this very well researched book.”

“Ram is a protective cinnamon roll hero and Amber a strong heroine who is willing to sacrifice her happiness for the good of others.”

BUY LINK: https://books2read.com/u/brddrE

Today's Historical tidbit from LORD RAMSEY'S RED HEADED RUIN!

https://books2read.com/u/brddrE

 You know I love to weave in great historical detail and couch my stories in the goodies that your history teacher never offered you!

Here's a goodie: In RAMSEY, just as in ALIBI, a character who is a former courtesan and mistress of the old Duc D'Orleans, still lives and because she was imprisoned with Josephine in Carmes, she remains her friend.

She calls herself an adoptive mother to Amber, our heroine in RUIN, and she calls herself the aunt of the heroine in ALIBI, Augustine, but who is she really?

An Englishwoman of rather dubious repute was indeed the mistress of the Prince Regent who then had her married off to a sickly fellow. Our lady "disappeared" for a few months, then went to Paris. There, she was introduced and recommended to the old Duc d"Orleans. There she remained with him and when he was carted off to the guillotine, the lady was sent to Carmes.

True story.

Have any idea of her real name? Your guesses can go in comments!

https://books2read.com/u/brddrE

October's delights! Wonderful historicals!

A few great books to read while getting cozy in the new crisp weather!

Every type of sexy historicals from Vikings to Dukes, comedy and suspense and even road trips.

Try them out today and even find a new-to-you author!

My featured book is WILD LILY, Book 1 in a family saga about Killian Hanniford's trip to the Continent in 1875 and his attempt to marry off everyone in the family.

https://books.bookfunnel.com/steamyhistoricaloct24/7q1uze4ugs 

Nibble! Nibble of my new cherry and yummy pix of Lord RAMSEY!

BUY LINK:    https://books2read.com/u/brddrE

It’s dangerous to be an honest woman. 

Torture to be the man who loves her.

Amber St. Antoine flees Paris—and her role to spy on Bonaparte.

Ramsey must find her and keep her safe.

But the lady objects.

Stubborn, defiant and stunningly beautiful, Amber accepts Ram’s protection…even as she refuses to leave France.

What’s a man to do, if he’s determined to save her from herself…and is foiled at every turn?

Is he a fool to believe that love conquers all?

Excerpt, LORD RAMSEY’S RED-HEADED RUIN, Copyright, 2024, Cerise Deland.

“Scarlett Hawthorne definitely knows you,” Ramsey conformed with a shrug of indifference. “She showed me a watercolor portrait of you. A fine one.”

Whose painting could that have been? Only Augustine. For years, her best friend Augustine had refined her art by redoing Amber’s portrait in ink or pencil or watercolor over again and again. “I know you best,” Gus had often said when Amber complained. “It gives me joy.”

However, the gentleman before her was not joyful. He frowned at the door slats. “That portrait is how I have been able to track you in and out of town the past few days. Even in your men’s attire, to say nothing of your numerous changes of public carriages, hired coachmen—and haylofts.”

“I tracked you today,” she blurted at him as a ripple of despair shot through her. 

“I know. A double play, eh?”

This man trailed her. Were there others? More whom she had not noticed? Were they from Scarlett or from Vaillancourt? What had she not seen? Who else was out there plotting her capture?

Her bravado was for naught. She clutched her arms around her middle. If she had had more space in this cramped closet, she would have doubled in distress.

“Come out, Madame,” her captor murmured with sweet appeal. “I long to meet you face to face. I have admired your courage.”

“And my stupidity to allow you to corner me?”

He waved a hand. “Curiosity was bound to snare you.”

That was true. “You allowed me just enough of you to lead me on.”

“Ah, well. Essential to one who wishes to meet you.”

“But sir, I have no desire to meet you.”

“You will.”

Did he toy with her? Rather carefree, wasn’t he? Yet his discovery of her was so dire a challenge to her. “Huh! You think very highly of yourself.”

“I think very highly of you, Madame. You are quick, nimble, thoughtful in your escapade. Add to that, you are lovely from afar. I can only imagine how stunning you are closer.”

She snorted. “I am no imbécile who will welcome your compliments or your protection in exchange for my obedience.”

His jaw, square and blunt as it was, went rigid with his displeasure. His pale eyes grew eerie. “Madame, you test my good nature. I do not want you servile. I am here on a mission. You are my quest. I have found you, and now you will do me the courtesy of appearing without further ado. This delay grows tiresome. We have much to say, more to plan.” He extended one hand toward the closet and waggled his fingers at her. “Come out, I say.”

Out, she had to go. With a huff and a shake of her skirts, she emerged into the golden candlelight of his presence.

She stood, toe to toe with him. But that was all that matched. Her breasts came to his ribcage. Her chin was level to his throat. Her gaze took in his mouth, generous and strong. His own eyes, in the fuller light now afforded her, could have sent her to her knees. How could a man possess such an erotic gaze of Nordic blue with long brown lashes so sweeping she could envy them herself?

“Yes,” he pronounced the word in a long low draw that had her sensing his bass voice down through her stomach to her loins, “I see one reason why Vaillancourt pursues you. T’is not simply your hair. The red does claim the eye, burn the mind. It is your demeanor.”

“Far from it!”

The fellow shot up a hand to make her pause. “You are rare.”

“Not at all.” How unique, she dare not say.

“I disagree. No freckles. No blemishes. No girlish whimsy. No frailty of bone or eye or gumption.” He grinned, broad and nigh unto evil in his praise of her. 

Praise. Hunh. She would have no more of this. She spun to one side and strode toward his sideboard. “Have you whisky in that decanter?”

“I’m surprised you did not pour yourself a draught.”

She flashed him a withering gaze. “That would have been poor manners. Besides, I was not here long enough to sample it. I do gather you clocked how long I’ve been here.”

“Upstairs?” He fished his watch from his waistcoat pocket and noted the time with a swift dash of humor. “Eight minutes. Perhaps not long enough for your particular taste.”

She availed herself of the decanter and one earthen cup. A strong dose of spirits would be just what she needed to endure this inquisition. She downed it and the warmth sank through her limbs. With her cup empty but still in hand, she spread her skirts and sat upon the edge of his firm wide bed. The sumptuous fell off it had her spine easing. She smiled in relief but killed the expression for this man would not need to know how she desired the comfort of his bed. “Now that you have me, what do you propose to do with me?”

“I hoped you would readily see the value of my company.” He offered her a brilliant sample of his most pleasant bow.

“Fit for the Tuileries, you certainly are.” She lifted her cup in fake homage.

“I’m thrilled you see it that way,” he said with sarcasm. “But we both know you do not wish to return. Frankly, I don’t blame you. I have been there and I did not find the court’s questionable charms amusing.”

She snorted. “Touché. So then, regale me with your solution.”

“We travel together.” He said it with such finality that it left little room for her objections.

“You are presumptuous.”

With a theatrical sigh, he turned on his heel and claimed the only good chair in the room.“I am prudent.”

Whatever she might think, he would argue against. From his commanding position near the door, he watched her like a king on his throne. At his leisure, so easy in his skin, he ran his large blue eyes over her as if she were a diamond to regard, measure and seize. She was no man’s. But she tipped her head and said, “Do enlighten me.”

“You are in a precarious situation. A woman alone. Fleeing not merely one man, albeit one who is the second most capable of detaining anyone in the country, but eluding his entire cadre of underlings. You have limited resources. Money goes only so far for so long, then you must return home to Reims or to Paris to get more. Under disguise and in the dead of night, too. That carries dangers of discovery. Alternately, you could try to live France and go to the coast, Britain, or south to Spain or one of the Italian states. But they are far and require a long journey, perilous and hot. Going to one of the German duchies on the Rhine is not a good idea, either. They, after all, are beholden to Vienna.”

“Not for long, from what I hear.”

“Right you are. For once they are officially aligned with France, you cannot find succor there. Plus, one thing more.” He lifted a finger. “You do not speak any German.”

She sat taller. “You have done quite a bit of research about my background.”

He smiled. It was perfunctory. “I have.”

“So then you offer me your presence, your protection, and your funds. I am shocked, sir. Do you not offer me, as well, your prayers?”

“If you wish.” Humor warmed the cool self-confidence in his gaze.

“I have no need of them.”

“Because you are on the right side of your quest?”

She nodded.

He gave her the sharp regard of a predator about to attack prey. “Never in this country or in any other on this green earth, did being right assure one of victory.”

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